The Woman in Black Read online

  Also available in the Rediscovered Classics series

  Lodore, by Mary Shelley

  The World’s Desire, by H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang

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  This 2022 edition published by Union Square & Co., LLC

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  A Note on the Text: This book was first published in 1913 and reflects the attitudes of its time. Accordingly, editorial changes have been made to remove certain instances of prejudicial language, but for the most part this classic work is reproduced as originally published.

  ISBN 978-1-4549-4719-6 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022940613

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  Interior design by Gavin Motnyk

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  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  I. The Squire at the Front

  II. At Home Again

  III. The Squire Bored

  IV. Phyllis Brown

  V. A Strange Meeting

  VI. The Temptress

  VII. In Danger of Death

  VIII. The Boots’ Story

  IX. Enter Nurse Everest

  X. Carruthers and Nurse Everest

  XI. The Rev. Jabez Waldegrave’s Story

  XII. A Remarkable Story

  XIII. Mrs. Aubrey de Vere at Home

  XIV. In the Full Light of the Moon

  XV. The Temptress

  XVI. Father and Son

  XVII. Inspector Jones

  XVIII. Carruthers Visits the Woman in Black

  XIX. Inspector Jones Reads Mr. Waldegrave’s Story

  XX. Carruthers Returns to Tudor Hall

  XXI. Nurse Everest in London

  XXII. Inspector Jones’s Encounter with the Woman in Black

  XXIII. Illness of Jones

  XXIV. Escape of the Woman in Black

  XXV. Carruthers Wins and Loses the Magic Ring

  XXVI. Dated from Paris

  XXVII. A Bit of Lace

  XXVIII. A Mysterious Power

  XXIX. A Suicide at Monte Carlo

  XXX. Another Victim

  XXXI. The Fool and the Vampire

  XXXII. The Calf Slaughtered

  XXXIII. Nurse Everest Plays for Mr. Whiffles

  XXXIV. The Vampire Dies

  XXXV. Conclusion

  INTRODUCTION

  Sir Ashleigh Carruthers was the son of a country squire who lived in Midlandshire, where his family had resided for generations in a venerable pile that appeared to defy the ravages of time, and was called Tudor House. The death of his father had occurred some months after the son had reached his majority. He was a young man of active mind and restless body, and the prospect of the humdrum existence of a country gentleman, with its daily monotonous round of commonplace duties and the society of his bucolic neighbours, offered little attraction to him. His mother, who had died some years before her husband, had often expressed a wish that Ashleigh should marry early in life some lady of suitable age and position, and settle down. His father had expressed the same desire, and had gone so far as to call his son’s attention to certain families with daughters, with one of whom he might form an alliance in every way desirable; in fact, he was never tired of pointing out to his son the advantages and desirability of keeping up the family name.

  Ashleigh Carruthers was of a romantic and sanguine temperament, and felt a passionate desire to live a little for himself as well as for the family name; in short, he wanted to see and know something of the world and humanity, and to live a life outside the narrow surroundings which had cramped his existence for so many years. Nothing could be more repugnant to him than the idea of settling down before he had felt and known the bitter and sweet of life, like the ordinary cut-and-dried Philistine. Such a life might suit a mild young curate, brought up by a maiden aunt, who would be content to bury himself in the country and vegetate from youth to age, immersed in his parochial duties; but it would not do for a man of active mind and ardent aspirations like Carruthers.

  He chafed at the social restraints that were part and parcel of his position, and sighed for a life of travel and adventure, with its accompanying light and shadow of pleasure and pain; in fact, he considered anything would be better than the wearisome, deadly routine of his present existence, which seemed to him like that of a purring cat, on a thick hearth-rug, before a clear fire.

  He had not tasted the wonderful draught of life for which his soul thirsted, and yet his friends wanted him to commit the suicidal act of early marriage.

  But the reader, whom we want to take an interest in the character and career of our hero, has a right to be able to picture the man physically as well as mentally. Ashleigh Carruthers was six feet high, square and broad-shouldered, his nose was long and broad at the base, with large sensitive nostrils; his mouth was quite big enough, his lips straight, but full and rather prominent, his chin was square and pronounced, the jaw indicated determination and ready energy. His eyes were blue-grey, well set under straight, thick eyebrows; the complexion was sanguine; and the well-formed, compact head was covered by closely curling fair hair; the lower part of his face was finished off by a closely cut beard and full moustache. Ashleigh Carruthers was not a sentimental, poetical-looking man; but his appearance was full of virility, and, if we may use the term, masculinity; and underneath the fierceness and strength there were, to the keen observer, clear indications of tenderness and enthusiasm. He would be difficult to excite and subdue; but when warmed to real affection he would never change or cool. We must mention his voice: it was a fine baritone, full of manly vibrations, and admirably modulated; but, perhaps, the greatest charm of the man was his unconsciousness, and the entire absence of personal vanity.

  When the days of mourning for his father’s death were over and Ashleigh had entered into possession, there were great speculations and greater expectations throughout the county as to which lady would fall the happy lot of ultimately becoming the mistress of Tudor Manor and the wife of the good-looking owner. Taking into consideration his family, his property, and his personal qualities, there was not in the county a better match than he.

  As a matter of course, invitations poured in from all sides, and many a matchmaking mamma had already, in imagination, secured him for her eldest unmarried darling. The young squire was, however, of a rather reserved nature, and preferred hunting to being hunted, and was soon set down as proud and unsociable because he did not care to be hail-fellow-well-met with every featureless nonentity to whom he had the bad luck to be neighbour. Ashleigh Carruthers had a heart, but he did not wear it on his sleeve. He held aloof from as many parties and public meetings as he decently could. This conduct did not and could not add to his popularity.

  At last, however, he got tired of his own company; and, then, to the delight and astonishment of all, accepted the invitations of his neighbours, and, as a change from solitude, enjoyed their society. He was always eagerly welcomed, and not being by temperament cold to the attractions of the opposite sex, he made himself a favourite without difficulty, and was soon described by those to whom he paid attention as the
most charming of men, possessed of perfect manners, an easy flow of amusing conversation, and an appearance so attractive as to be almost irresistible.

  So far all seemed to be progressing satisfactorily, and the hopes of many an anxious mother, with daughters to marry, appeared to have a good chance of realization; but as week followed week and month followed month and no proposal followed, a marked change was discernible in the attentions paid by the squire to the young ladies with whom he had flirted so easily and naturally, for Ashleigh, although young and inexperienced, had an instinctive knowledge of the world which made him perfectly aware of the witching wiles of astute mothers and the hardly less clever daughters, and drew back just at the critical moment when it was expected that the momentous question was ripe for utterance.

  The interested mothers had an informal meeting, at which was discussed the question of how this young squire, who so easily eluded all their most carefully elaborated plans, could be brought to the point.

  Ashleigh was master of that invaluable gift, a sense of humour; and saw through the subtle devices that were used for his capture, and was much amused by them. We are sorry to confess that he was hard enough even to take a malicious pleasure in paying extra attention to some girl he cared nothing for, in the presence of her mother and, very soon after, doing the same to another; but not one word of love and still less of marriage passed his lips.

  “This has gone too far,” said one elderly lady to another. “It is quite time he declared himself to someone.”

  “And he will have to do so, or I’ll know the reason why,” broke in a plethoric middle-aged man, the son of a prosperous butcher, who had overheard the remark and had himself a large family of daughters.

  “I call the squire’s conduct perfectly outrageous—yes, outrageous and dishonourable,” he added with emphasis, as he excitedly mopped his red face with a bandana handkerchief. These remarks were made at a county ball, and this worthy gentleman, a member of the borough council and an aspiring local magnate, had just emerged from the refreshment room.

  “Hush, my dear, not so loud!” whispered his equally plethoric and gaudily dressed wife, who sat fanning her red face next him. “He will hear you!”

  “So much the better,” blurted out her irresponsible husband. “I wish—” Then, however, the band striking up forte, drowned the rest of Mr. Blogg’s sentence, while Sir Ashleigh coolly advanced and claimed the hand of the prettiest of the ex-butcher’s daughters for the commencing waltz, carrying her off on his arm under the short but admirably coloured nose of her astonished and indignant father.

  “Consummate puppy!” muttered an invidious aspirant to the hand of pretty Miss Blogg, as he gazed ruefully at the pair. The ball was kept going with vigour till the small hours of the morning, and wound up with Sir Roger de Coverley.

  It is needless to descant on the sensation that the County Ball made in the dead-and-alive town of Little Fuddleton, or how for the next six months nothing was discussed but as to how Miss-so-and-so, the belle of the season, looked in her ball dress of white satin, trimmed with lace; or, old Mrs. Somebody-else in her quaint, old-fashioned gown.

  “Such a caution, my dear! and, then, that odious, always flirting and never proposing squire; but there, my dear, let us leave him to his own devices, for he evidently means nothing honourable.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be a marrying man,” meekly suggested the plain Miss Stubbs, who, poor girl, knew she had no chance of winning such a matrimonial prize as Sir Ashleigh, and could, therefore, afford to be charitable.

  “Nonsense about his not being a marrying man!” retorted her plainer mother. “All men who are worth anything are marrying men. He ought to be pre-eminently so in his position. More shame for him, then, if he isn’t a marrying man, that’s all I can say!”

  “But surely, mother, he is at liberty to remain unmarried, if he likes,” remarked her daughter, disinterestedly.

  “At liberty, do you say!” exclaimed Mrs. Stubbs. “Ah! that’s where it is. These men with their notions of liberty! Bah! a set of libertines, all of them!”

  With this summary judgment, which we respectfully offer for the consideration of all hard-hearted and obdurate bachelors, we take respectful leave of Mrs. Stubbs.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  CHAPTER I

  THE SQUIRE AT THE FRONT

  It was in the year 1900, towards the close of the Boer War in South Africa, when our troops had pitched their laager before ——— during one of the periods of wearisome inaction which were so trying to our men, that an officer in khaki sat at the opening of his tent, in the early morning, upon an empty biscuit box, his revolver by his side, and rifle and bandolier, containing cartridges, slung up inside.

  Before him stretched a panorama of wild, hilly country, stony and treeless. He had just finished his breakfast of tinned meat and biscuit, washed down by a pannikin of coffee, while a servant, near at hand, tended the camp kettle. At some distance off, his horse was being groomed by his servant. Three other officers shared the tent with him, but at that moment they were on duty and he was alone. Sir Ashleigh Carruthers had been through some hard work, and the marks of anxiety and privation were visible on his countenance. The crows’ feet had begun to show in the corners of his eyes, and he was considerably thinner than when we first made his acquaintance as a young man who flirted, not wisely, but too well. But although the cheekbones stood out and the face was hollow and the bony structure of his frame more apparent, added dignity and energy were displayed in his countenance, which, to many observers, would increase the attraction of his appearance. All the latent resources of his nature had been developed; and there was a keenness of expression in his eyes, due to his position of danger from an apparently never sleeping enemy, which had brought to perfect ripeness all the natural vigour and determination of his name. He was now Captain Carruthers, VC, and had served his country from the opening of the war, had been engaged in many a tough encounter with the enemy, and bore the marks of his foes in severe wounds in the knee and shoulder, and lighter ones on various parts of his body. This life suited the active and daring spirit of Ashleigh Carruthers, and when this chapter opens, he was thoroughly bored at the long period of enforced inaction, and having nothing to do, his thoughts wandered to home. His home? Well, in name and long association it was so; but what had ever made it so in reality? He had no relations living except two married sisters, and a few distant members of his family who were all now dispersed. In fact, Carruthers was quite alone in the world. To make a real home there must, first of all, be love, friendship, family ties, and agreeable associations. He was only the temporary owner of an ancestral hall, a master of many acres, the possessor of a considerable fortune; but there was no one to share it with him and thus double its value.

  The one thing needful to all real happiness was wanting—true and devoted love. He felt himself far more at home on the wild, open veldt, with the stimulating dangers and privations of a soldier’s life, than in the drawing-rooms of his neighbours in the vicinity of Little Fuddleton, listening to their inane gossip and petty scandal. What would the fair girls he had flirted with say to him now? Would they recognise his bronzed and worn face and bony form?

  Whilst thus idly musing on the past, he absently took up a newspaper and carelessly scanned its columns, when an announcement met his eye that caused him to start with astonishment.

  “What is this?” he muttered, and then proceeded to read in a low tone:

  “May, the tenth, at the church of Holy Trinity, by the Rev. Samuel Tithnot, the Hon. Vincent Cholmondeley to Alice Sybil Marjoribanks, daughter of Sir William Marjoribanks, Bart., of Steepleton Hall, Midlandshire.”

  “Well, well,” he murmured. “There’s another good fellow taken in and done for. A better friend never lived. In fact, he is the only friend I ever had—and now he’s lost to me!”

  At that moment a letter was brought to Ashleigh by his servant. He took it, and, when the man had gone, exclaimed, “As I live,
here is a letter from the poor fellow! Let me see what he says.” He tore open the letter, and read as follows:

  Dear old friend Ashleigh—

  After so long and culpable silence on my part, I am really at a loss to begin, or know how to break to you the astounding news I have to impart.

  I usually like to plunge in medias res without any beating about the bush; but I fear, in the present case, that should this letter reach you when you are mounted, the shock might knock you off your horse. Therefore, prepare for a blow. Do you remember, my friend, in the good old days (or the bad old days) when we were two cynical bachelors, disgusted with life before either of us knew what it was, how we used to abuse the fair sex in good round terms as an altogether inferior set of beings, fit only to be locked in a harem, to loll on ottomans and feed on peaches all day? How we used to censure their frivolity, their feebleness, their fickleness, their inanity, their extravagance, their heartlessness and want of principle, until we left them without a single virtue while we vaunted ourselves lords of the creation, possessed of all the qualities which they so manifestly lacked?

  I repeat, do you remember all this conceited and arrogant nonsense, and also how we mutually resolved never to marry, deeming ourselves too precious to be thrown away on any woman? And yet—will you believe it—I, even I, your old college chum, the quondam railer and reviler of the sex in general, have at last, in my turn, but not without many a struggle—must I admit it?—succumbed to the seductive influence of one of the opposite sex, the fairest, the daintiest, the purest, the most lovable on the whole earth. Her voice is the softest music to my ears, her movements the most graceful and dignified. There is poetry in the very folds of her dress, as she sweeps across the room with that indescribably beautiful and undulating motion of hers, like some ethereal being who has descended from a higher sphere. Her eyes are deep as the blue of the ocean, her teeth like pearls gathered by the hands of mermaidens from its bottomless depths, her lips of pure coral, and her breath like the perfume of a garden of roses. Her feet—