“I cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak of this beautiful appearance, nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and fear, I went again and again to the same spot that I might see her. She always came, and often in the storm and plashing rain, that never seemed to touch or to annoy her, looked sweetly at me, and silently passed on; and though she was so near to me, that once the wind lifted those light straying locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet I never could move or speak to her. I fell ill; and when I recovered, my mother closely questioned me of the tall lady, of whom, in the height of my fever, I had so often spoken.
“I cannot tell you what a weight was taken off my spirits when I learnt that this was no apparition, but a most lovely woman; not young, though she had kept her young looks,—for the grief which had broken her heart seemed to have spared her beauty.
“When the rebel troops were retreating after their total defeat, a young officer, in that very wood I was so fond of, unable any longer to endure the anguish of his wounds, sunk from his horse, and laid himself down to die. He was found there by the daughter of Sir Henry Robinson, and conveyed by a trusty domestic to her father’s mansion. Sir Henry was a loyalist; but the officer’s desperate condition excited his compassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a brave man could not misunderstand. Sir Henry’s daughter with many tears pleaded for him, and promised that he should be carefully and secretly attended. And well she kept that promise,—for she waited upon him (her mother being long dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched for the first opening of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked brightly and gratefully upon his young nurse. You may fancy, better than I can tell you, as he slowly recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and low-voiced singing, and gentle playing on the lute; and how many fresh flowers were brought to one whose wounded limbs would not bear him to gather them for himself; and how calmly the days glided on in the blessedness of returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully enjoined him. I will pass by this, to speak of one day, which, brighter and pleasanter than others, did not seem more bright or more lovely than the looks of the young maiden, as she gaily spoke of ‘a little festival, which (though it must bear an unworthier name) she meant really to give, in honour of her guest’s recovery;’—‘and it is time, lady,’ said he, ‘for that guest, so tended and so honoured, to tell you his whole story, and speak to you of one who will help him to thank you—may I ask you, fair lady, to write a little note for me, which, even in these times of danger I may find some means to forward?’ To his mother, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps and a lighter heart she seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade him dictate: but, when he said ‘My Dear Wife,’ and lifted up his eyes to be asked for more, he saw before him a pale statue, that gave him one look of utter despair, and fell (for he had no power to help her) heavily at his feet. Those eyes never truly reflected the pure soul again, or answered by answering looks the fond inquiries of her poor old father. She lived to be as I saw her,—sweet, and gentle, and delicate always, but reason returned no more. She visited, ’till the day of her death, the spot where she first saw that young soldier, and dressed herself in the very clothes he said so well became her.”
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“In walking through a street in London, I saw a crowd of men women and children hooting and laughing at a woman, who, looking neither to the right-hand nor to the left, passed through the midst of them in perfect silence; upon approaching her, I saw that all this derision was caused by her dress, which, equally unsuited to the weather and her apparent rank in life, was from head to foot entirely white,—her bonnet, her shawl, her very shoes were white; and though all that she wore seemed of the coarsest materials, her dress was perfectly clean. As I walked past her, I looked stedfastly in her face. She was thin and pale, of a pleasing countenance, and totally unmoved by the clamour around her. I have since learnt her story:—The young man to whom she was betrothed died on the bridal-day, when she and her companions were dressed to go to church: she lost her senses,—and has ever since, to use her own words, been ‘expecting her bridegroom.’ Neither insult or privation of any kind can induce her to change the colour of her dress; she is alike insensible of her bereavement by death, or of the lapse of time,—‘she is dressed for the bridal, and the bridegroom is at hand.’”
Such is the nature of Woman’s Love—continuing in imagination, when reality is no more:
“As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,
Who dressed her in her buried lover’s clothes,
And o’er the smooth spring in the mountain’s cleft
Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune