“What a place! How can human beings be found willing to spend their lives here?” thought to himself, with a shudder at the bare idea, a young man seated in a rattling Wareborough fly, whose driver, notwithstanding constantly recurring risk of collision, was doing his best to keep his tired horse up to its usual speed. “Where in the world is the fellow taking me to?” was his next reflection. “It seems to me I have been hours in this wretched shandry-dan.”
Just as he was about putting his head out of the window to shout inquiries or directions to the driver, the fly stopped. The gentleman jumped out, then stood still, bewildered.
“Where is the house?” he exclaimed. “Is this Barnwood Terrace? I see no houses at all.”
“There’s a gate, sir, just by where you’re standing,” replied the man. “You’ve some little way to walk up the path. Can’t drive up to the door. There’s three houses together, and Mr Dalrymple’s is the middle one. I’ll run up to the door and ring, sir.”
He was preparing to descend, but the young man stopped him. “Never mind, stay where you are, I’ll find my way. Come for me about eleven or half-past. You stand near our place, don’t you? Yes. All right then.”
He fumbled away for some time at what he discovered by feeling, to be an iron railing, before he succeeded in finding anything like a gate. He came upon it at last suddenly: it was open. The path fortunately was straight, and the light of a gas-lamp glimmering feebly through the fog showed him, in time to prevent his tumbling against it, a flight of five or six stone steps to be ascended before he could ring the front-door bell of Number 2, Barnwood Terrace. It showed him something more. Some one was there before him. On the top step stood a figure, waiting apparently for admission. It was a human being, but that was about all he could discern as he cautiously mounted the steps; then as he drew nearer, it gradually assumed to him through the exaggerating, distorting medium of the fog the dimensions of an unnaturally tall, curiously shrouded woman. It remained perfectly motionless, whether the face was turned towards him or not he could not tell. Now he was quite close to it, standing on the same step, yet it gave not the slightest sign of having perceived his approach. The young man began to think it rather odd—who could it be? A woman, apparently, standing there alone waiting—was she a beggar? No, even through the fog he could distinguish nothing crouching or cringing in the attitude, the figure stood erect and firm, the shrouding drapery seemed to fall in rich and ample folds. The new-comer felt extremely puzzled. Then suddenly he resolved to end his perplexity.
“Have you rung?” he asked, courteously. The figure moved a little, but seemed to hesitate to answer. “Shall I ring?” he repeated, “or have you done so already?”
“I have rung, but perhaps not loudly enough.”
“I think you had better ring again, for I have been waiting here some minutes,” came the reply at last in low, clear, refined tones.
“A lady! How very strange for her to be standing here alone in the dark—what a queer place Wareborough must be,” thought the young man; but he said nothing more, and almost before his vigorous pull at the bell could have taken effect, the door was thrown open, revealing a brightly lighted, crimson carpeted hall, and two or three servants in unexceptionable attire.