Yet I tore myself away, and went straight home to bed. Hardly to sleep, for such slumber as visited my eyes was troubled by strange imaginings. It would be incorrect to say that all night I dreamed of her, for most of my dreams took the shape of nightmare visitations; but I do not hesitate to affirm that they were caused by her. I had not been troubled by such things for years. If she was not the cause of them, what was?
I awoke at some most unseemly hour. Since sleep was evidently at an end I concluded that it might be as well to have done with what had been, for the first time for many nights, a bed of discomfort. So I arose and dressed. It was a fine morning. I could see that the sun was shining, even from my window. I concluded that I would put into execution a resolution which I had often formed, and as often broken, of going for a walk before breakfast. One is constantly being told—for the most part by people who know nothing about it—how beautiful London is in the early morning sun.
So soon as I was in Fleet Street I saw something which I had certainly not expected to see, at least, not there, just then—Miss Purvis. Fleet Street was deserted; she was the only living thing to be seen; the sight of her nearly took me off my feet. She had been in my thoughts. Her sudden, instant presence was like the miraculous materialisation of some telepathic vision. I felt as if I had heard her calling me, and had come.
She was distant some fifty yards, and was coming towards me. I was at once struck by the air of wildness which was about her. It moved me strangely. She was not attired for the street, having on neither hat nor bonnet, jacket or gloves. Her hair was in disorder. She looked as if she had been in some singular affray. My heart jumped so within my breast that I had, perforce, to stand as if I had been rooted to the ground. Conscience-stricken, I railed at myself for not having, last night, broken down the door, instead of lounging idly in the street. All the while, I knew that there was something wrong. I owned it now, though I had been reluctant to admit it then.
I think she saw me as soon as I saw her. At sight of me she broke into a little tremulous run, swaying from side to side, as if she was so weak that her feet were not entirely under her own control. It was pitiful to watch. Tearing myself from where I seemed to be rooted, I ran to her. I had reached her in less than half-a-dozen seconds. When I was close, stretching out her hands, she cried, in a faint little voice:—
“It’s you! it’s you! Oh, Mr. Paine!”
She did not throw herself into my arms, she had not so much strength; she sank into them, and was still. I saw that she had fainted.
I bore her to my rooms. It was the least that I could do. No one was in sight. And though, no doubt, some straggler might have soon appeared, I could not tell what kind of person it might prove to be. I could hardly keep her out there in the street awaiting the advent of some quite possibly undesirable stranger, even had I been willing, which I was not. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her to my chambers.
Not once did she move. She was limp as some lay figure. I laid her on the couch. So far as I could judge, at first she did not breathe. Then, all at once, she sighed; a tremblement seemed to go all over her. I expected her to open her eyes, and see me there. I felt as if I had been guilty of I knew not what, and feared to meet her accusatory glances. But instead she lay quite still, though I could see that her bosom rose and fell, moved by gentle respirations. My blood boiled as I wondered what could have made her cheek so white.
On a sudden her eyes unclosed. For some seconds she looked neither to the right nor left. She seemed to be considering the ceiling. Then, with a start, she turned and saw me.