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l





A R M A D A L E.
Q\ Nouel.
BY WILKIE COLLINS,
AUTHOR OF
“No NAME,” “THE WOMAN IN WHITE,” “QUEEN OF HEARTS,” “ANTONINA,”
ETC., ETC.
W IT H I L L US T R AT I O N s.
* NEW YOR K :
HAR PER & B R OTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
F R A N K LIN S QUAR. E.
1866.





$23,
C & 7a-
/84 &
C 0 N T E M T. S.
BOOK I.
PAGE
I.-THE TRAVELERs...................................................................................... 9
II.—THE SoLID SIDE OF THE Scotch CHARACTER.............................................. 11
III.—THE WRECK OF THE TIMBER SHIP.............................................. - - - - - 14
BOOK II.
I.-THE MYSTERY of OzIAs MIDw1NTER.......................................................... 29
II.-THE MAN REVEALED................................................................................ 46
III.—DAY AND NIGHT ......... - - - 56
IV.—THE SHADow OF THE PAST........ 63
V--THE SHADow OF THE FUTURE-.................................................................. 71
BOOK III.
** I.-LURKING MISCHIEF ................................................. - ... 78
* II.—ALLAN As A LANDED GENTLEMAN........ --- 84
> III.—THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY..... - - - 90
~ IV.-THE MARCH of Events........................................................................... 96
* V.-MoTHER OLDERSHAw ON HER GUARD......................................................... 104
VI.-MIDw1NTER IN Disguise........................................................................... 108
* VII-Tire Plot thickess................................................................................ 112
- VIII.-THE NoHFoLK BROADs................................................‘............................ 119
* IX-Fate of CHANCE .................................................................................... 126
X--THE HoUSE-MAID's FACE ........................................................................ 131
* XI.—Miss Gwilt AMosc THE QUICKSANDs......................................................... 138
& XII.—THE CLOUDING OF THE SKY........... * * * * *-* - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 143
* XIII.-Exit...................................................................................................... 145
**
BOOK IV.
I.-MRs. MILRoy......................................................................................... 151
II.—THE MAN Is Found.....................................
III.—THE BRINK OF DiscoverY........ * * * * * * * * * * * *
IV.—ALLAN AT BAY................
V.-PEDGIFT's REMEDY .................................................. - - - - - - - - - - - - 174
VL-Pepair's Postscript............................................................................ . 179
VII-THE MARTYRbow of Miss Gwilt.............................................................. 182
'VIII.-SHE COMES BETWEEN THEM ....................................................................... 189
IX.-SHE KNows the TRUTH........................................................................... 193
X.—Miss Gwilt's DIARY...................... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 204
XI.—LovE AND Law...... ~~~~~~~ .... 218
* XII.—A SCANDAL AT THE STATION .................................................................... 222
XIII.—As Old MAN's HEART............................................................................. 227
XIV.—Miss Gwilt's DIARY ............................................................................. 234
XV.—THE WEDDING-DAY ................................................................................. 248


viii CONTENTS.
BOOK W. s
CIfAPTER PAGE
I.-Miss Gwilt's DIARY................................................................................ 262
II.-THE DIARY CONTINUED............................................................................. 267
III-THE DIARY ENDED.................................................................................. 277
BOOK THE LAST.
I.—AT THE STATION............ . 294
II.-IN THE HoUSE............................................................................ ............. 296
III.-THE PURPLE.FLASK................................................................................. 300
EPILOGUE.
I.-NEws FROM NoRFolk .............................................................................. 317
II.-MIDWINTER............................................................................................. 319
*
w
- |


A R M A
D A L E.
B O OK I.
CHAPTER I.
T H E T R A V E L E R S.
IT was the opening of the season of eighteen
hundred and thirty-two, at the Baths of WILD-
B.AD. -
The evening shadows were beginning to gath-
er over the quiet little German town, and the
diligence was expected every minute. Before
the door of the principal inn, waiting the arrival
of the first visitors of the year, were assembled
the three notable personages of Wildbad, ac-
companied by their wives—the mayor, repre-
senting the inhabitants; the doctor, represent-
ing the waters; the landlord, representing his
own establishment. Beyond this select circle,
grouped snugly about the trim little square in
front of the inn, appeared the towns-people in
general, mixed here and there with the coun-
try-people in their quaint German costume, plac-
idly expectant of the diligence—the men in short
black jackets, tight black breeches, and three-
cornered beaver hats; the women with their
long light hair hanging in one thickly-plaited
tail behind them, and the waists of their short
woolen gowns inserted modestly in the region
of their shoulder-blades. Round the outer edge
of the assemblage thus formed, flying detach-
A
ments of plump white-headed children careered
in perpetual motion; while, mysteriously apart
from the rest of the inhabitants, the musicians
of the Baths stood collected in one lost corner,
waiting the appearance of the first visitors to
play the first tune of the season in the form of
a serenade. The light of a May evening was
still bright on the tops of the great wooded hills,
watching high over the town on the right hand
and the left; and the cool breeze that comes be-
fore sunset came keenly fragrant here with the
balsamic odor of the firs of the Black Forest.
“Mr. Landlord,” said the mayor's wife (giv-
ing the landlord his title), “have you any for-
eign guests coming on this first day of the sea-
son 2"
“Madam Mayoress,” replied the landlord (re-
turning the compliment), “I have two. They
have written—the one by the hand of his serv-
ant, the other by his own hand apparently—to
order their rooms; and they are from England
both, as I think by their names. If you ask me
to pronounce those names my tongue hesitates;
if you ask me to spell them, here they are letter
by letter, first and second in their order as they
come. First, a high-born stranger (by title Mis-
ter), who introduces himself in eight letters—
A, r, m, a, d, a, l, e—and comes ill in his own
carriage. Second, a high-born stranger (by
title Mister also), who introduces himself in four
letters—N, e, a, l—and comes ill in the diligence.
His excellency of the eight letters writes to me
(by his servant) in French; his excellency of
the four letters writes to me in German. The
rooms of both are ready. I know no more.”
“Perhaps,” suggested the mayor's wife, “Mr.
Doctor has heard from one or both of these il-
lustrious strangers?”
“From one only, Madam Mayoress; but not.
strictly speaking, from the person himself. I
have received a medical report of his excellency
of the eight letters, and his case seems a bad
one. God help him!”
“The diligence!” cried a child from the out-
skirts of the crowd.
The musicians seized their instruments, and
silence fell on the whole community. From far
away in the windings of the forest gorge the ring
of horses' bells came faintly clear through the
evening stillness. Which carriage was approach-
ing—the private carriage with Mr. Armadale, or
the public carriage with Mr. Neal?
“Play, my friends!” cried the mayor to the
*


10
ARMADALE.
musicians. “Public or private, here are the
first sick people of the season. Let them find us
cheerful.”
The band played a lively dance tune, and the
children in the square footed it merrily to the
music. At the same moment their elders near
the inn door drew aside, and diselosed the first
shadow of gloom that fell over the gayety and
beauty of the scene. Through the opening made
on either hand a little procession of stout coun-
try girls advanced, each drawing after her an
empty chair on wheels; each in waiting (and
knitting while she waited) for the paralyzed
wretches who came helpless by hundreds then
—who come helpless by thousands now-to the
waters of Wildbad for relief.
While the band played, while the children
danced, while the buzz of many talkers deepen-
ed, while the strong young nurses of the coming
cripples knitted imperturbably, a woman's insa-
tiable curiosity about other women asserted itself
in the mayor's wife. She drew the landlady
aside, and whispered a question to her on the
spot.
“A word more, ma'am,” said the mayor's
wife, “about the two strangers from England.
Are their letters explicit? Have they got any
ladies with them P”
“The one by the diligence—no,” replied the
landlady. “But the one by the private car-
riage—yes. He comes with a child; he comes
with a nurse; and,” concluded the landlady,
skillfully keeping the main point of interest till
the last, “he comes with a Wife.”
The mayoress brightened; the doctoress (as-
sisting at the conference) brightened; the land-
lady nodded significantly. In the minds of all
three the same thought started into life at the
same moment—“We shall see the Fashions !”
In a minute more there was a sudden move-
ment in the crowd; and a chorus of voices pro-
claimed that the travelers were at hand.
By this time the coming vehicle was in sight,
and all further doubt was at an end. It was
the diligence that now approached by the long
street leading into the square — the diligence
(in a dazzling new coat of yellow paint) that de-
livered the first visitors of the season at the inn
door. Of the ten travelers released from the
middle compartment and the back compartment
of the carriage—all from various parts of Ger-
many—three were lifted out helpless, and were
placed in the chairs on wheels to be drawn to
their lodgings in the town. The front con-
partment contained two passengers only—Mr.
Neal and his traveling servant. With an arm
on either side to assist him, the stranger (whose
malady appeared to be locally confined to a
lameness in one of his feet) succeeded in de-
scending the steps of the carriage easily enough.
While he steadied himself on the pavement by
the help of his stick—looking not over-patiently
toward the musicians who were serenading him
with the waltz in Der Freischutz—his personal
appearance rather damped the enthusiasm of
the friendly little circle assembled to welcome
him. He was a lean, tall, serious, middle-aged
man, with a cold gray eye and a long upper
lip, with overhanging eyebrows and high cheek-
bones; a man who looked what he was—every
inch a Scotchman.
“Where is the proprietor of this hotel?” he
asked, speaking in the German language, with
a fluent readiness of expression, and an icy cold-
ness of manner. “Fetch the doctor,” he con-
tinued, when the landlord had presented him-
self, “I want to see him immediately.”
“I am here already, Sir,” said the doctor,
advancing from the circle of friends, “and my
services are entirely at your disposal.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Neal, looking at the
doctor as the rest of us look at a dog when we
have whistled and the dog has come. “I shall
be glad to consult you to-morrow morning, at
ten o'clock, about my own case. I only want
to trouble you now with a message which I have
undertaken to deliver. We overtook a travel-
ing carriage on the road here, with a gentleman
in it—an Englishman, I believe—who appeared
to be seriously ill. A lady who was with him
begged me to see you immediately on my arrival,
and to secure your professional assistance in re-
moving the patient from the carriage. Their
courier has met with an accident, and has been
left behind on the road—and they are obliged
to travel very slowly. If you are here in an
hour you will be here in time to receive them.
That is the message. Who is this gentleman
who appears to be anxious to speak to me?
The mayor? If you wish to see my passport,
Sir, my servant will show it to you. No. You
wish to welcome me to the place, and to offer
your services? I am infinitely flattered. If
you have any authority to shorten the perform-
ances of your town band, you would be doing
me a kindness to exert it. My nerves are irri-
table, and I dislike music. Where is the land-
lord? No; I want to see my rooms. I don't
want your arm; I can get up stairs with the help
of my stick. Mr. Mayor and Mr. Doctor, we
need not detain one another any longer. I wish
you good-night.” -
Both mayor and doctor looked after the
Scotchman as he limped up stairs, and shook
their heads together in mute disapproval of him.
The ladies, as usual, went a step farther, and
expressed their opinions openly in the plainest
words. The case under consideration (so far as
they were concerned) was the scandalous case of
a man who had passed them over entirely with-
out notice. Mrs. Mayor could only attribute .
such an outrage to the native ferocity of a Sav-
age. Mrs. Doctor took a stronger view still,
and considered it as proceeding from the inbred
brutality of a Hog. -
The hour of waiting for the traveling carriage
wore on, and the creeping night stole up the hill-
sides softly. One by one the stars appeared,
and the first lights twinkled in the windows of
the inn. As the darkness came the last idlers
deserted the square; as the darkness came the
mighty silence of the Forest above flowed in on


ARMADALE.
11
the valley, and strangely and suddenly hushed
the lonely little town.
The hour of waiting wore out, and the figure
of the doctor, walking backward and forward
anxiously, was still the only living figure left in
the square. Five minutes, ten minutes, twen-
ty minutes, were counted out by the doctor's
watch before the first sound came through the
night silence to warn him of the approaching
carriage. Slowly it emerged into the square, at
the walking pace of the horses, and drew up, as
a hearse might have drawn up, at the door of
the inn.
“Is the doctor here?” asked a woman's voice,
speaking out of the darkness of the carriage in
the French language.
“I am here, madam,” replied the doctor,
taking a light from the landlord's hand and
opening the carriage door.
The first face that the light fell on was the
face of the lady who had just spoken—a young,
darkly-beautiful woman, with the tears standing
thick and bright in her eager black eyes. The
second face revealed was the face of a shriveled
old negress, sitting opposite the lady on the back
seat. The third was the face of a little sleeping
child, in the negress's lap. With a quick ges-
ture of impatience the lady signed to the nurse
to leave the carriage first with the child. “Pray
take them out of the way,” she said to the land-
lady; “pray take them to their room.” She
got out herself when her request had been com-
plied with. Then the light fell clear for the
first time on the farther side of the carriage, and
the fourth traveler was disclosed to view.
He lay helpless on a mattress supported by a
stretcher; his hair long and disordered under a
black skull-cap; his eyes wide open, rolling to
and fro ceaselessly anxious; the rest of his face
as void of all expression of the character within
him, and the thought within him, as if he had
been dead. There was no looking at him now,
and guessing what he might once have been.
The leaden blank of his face met every question
as to his age, his rank, his temper, and his looks
which that face might once have answered, in
impenetrable silence. Nothing spoke for him
now but the shock that had struck him with the
death-in-life of Paralysis. The doctor's eye
questioned his lower limbs, and Death-in-Life
answered, I am here. The doctor's eye, rising
attentively by way of his hands and arms, ques-
tioned upward and upward to the muscles round
his mouth, and Death-in-Life answered, I am
coming.
In the face of a calamity so unsparing and so
dreadful there was nothing to be said. The
silent sympathy of help was all that could be
offered to the woman who stood weeping at the
carriage door.
As they bore him on his bed across the hall
of the hotel his wandering eyes encountered the
face of his wife. They rested on her for a mo-
ment; and, in that moment, he spoke.
“The child?” he said in English, with a slow,
thick, laboring articulation.
“The child is safe up stairs,” she answered,
faintly. -
“My desk?"
“It is in my hands. Look! I won't trust it
to any body; I am taking care of it for you my-
self.”
He closed his eyes for the first time after that
answer, and said no more. Tenderly and skill-
fully he was carried up the stairs, with his wife
on one side of him, and the doctor (ominous-
ly silent) on the other. The landlord and the
servants following, saw the door of his room
open and close on him; heard the lady burst
out crying hysterically as soon as she was alone
with the doctor and the sick man; saw the doc-
tor come out, half an hour later, with his rud-
dy face a shade paler than usual; pressed him
eagerly for information, and received but one
answer to all their inquiries, “Wait till I have
seen him to-morrow. Ask me nothing to-night.”
They all knew the doctor's ways, and they au-
gured ill when he left them hurriedly with that
reply. *
So the two first English visitors of the year
came to the Baths of Wildbad, in the season of
eighteen hundred and thirty-two.
-e-
CHAPTER II.
THE SOLID SIDE OF THE SCOTCH CHARACTER.
AT ten o'clock the next morning, Mr. Neal–
waiting for the medical visit which he had him-
self appointed for that hour—looked at his watch,
and discovered to his amazement that he was
waiting in vain. It was close on eleven when
the door opened at last, and the doctor entered
the room.
“I appointed ten o'clock for your visit,” said
Mr. Neal. “In my country a medical man is
a punctual man.”
“In my country,” returned the doctor, with-
out the least ill-humor, “a medical man is ex-
actly like other men—he is at the mercy of ac-
cidents. Pray grant me your pardon, Sir, for
being so long after my time; I have been de-
tained by a very distressing case—the case of
Mr. Armadale, whose traveling carriage you
passed on the road yesterday.”
Mr. Neal looked at his medical attendant
with a sour surprise. There was a latent anx-
iety in the doctor's eye, a latent pre-occupation
in the doctor's manner, which he was at a loss
to account for. For a moment the two faces
confronted each other silently, in marked na-
tional contrast—the Scotchman's, long and lean,
hard and regular; the German's, plump and
florid, soft and shapeless. One face looked as
if it had never been young; the other, as if it
would never grow old.
“Might I venture to remind you,” said Mr.
Neal, “that the case now under consideration
is MY case, and not Mr. Armadale's 7”
“Certainly,” replied the doctor, still vacillat-
ing between the case he had come to see and


12
ARMADALE.
the case he had just left. “You appear to be
suffering from lameness—let me look at your
foot.”
Mr. Neal's malady, however serious it might
be in his own estimation, was of no extraordi-
nary importance in a medical point of view.
He was suffering from a rheumatic affection of
the ankle-joint. The necessary questions were
asked and answered, and the necessary baths
were prescribed. In ten minutes the consulta-
tion was at an end, and the patient was waiting,
in significant silence, for the medical adviser to
take his leave.
“I can not conceal from myself,” said the
doctor, rising, and hesitating a little, “that I
am intruding on you. But I am compelled to
beg your indulgence, if I return to the subject
of Mr. Armadale.”
“May I ask what compels you?”
“The duty which I owe as a Christian,” an-
swered the doctor, “to a dying man.”
Mr. Neal started. Those who touched his
sense of religious duty touched the quickest
sense in his nature. “You have established
your claim on my attention,” he said, gravely.
“My time is yours.”
“I will not abuse your kindness,” replied the
doctor, resuming his chair. “I will be as short
as I can. Mr. Armadale's case is briefly this:
He has passed the greater part of his life in the
West Indies—a wild life and a vicious life, by
his own confession. Shortly after his marriage
—now some three years since—the first symp-
toms of an approaching paralytic affection be-
gan to show themselves, and his medical ad-
visers ordered him away to try the climate of
Europe. Since leaving the West Indies he has
lived principally in Italy, with no benefit to his
health. From Italy, before the last seizure at-
tacked him, he removed to Switzerland, and
from Switzerland he has been sent to this place.
So much I know from his doctor's report; the
rest I can tell you from my own personal expe-
rience. Mr. Armadale has been sent to Wild-
bad too late: he is virtually a dead man. The
paralysis is fast spreading upward, and disease
of the lower part of the spine has already taken
place. He can still move his hands a little,
but he can hold nothing in his fingers. He can
still articulate, but he may wake speechless to-
morrow or next day. If I give him a week
more to live, I give him what I honestly be-
lieve to be the utmost length of his span. At
his own request I told him—as carefully and as
tenderly as I could—what I have just told you.
The result was very distressing; the violence
of the patient's agitation was a violence which
I despair of describing to you. I took the lib-
erty of asking him whether his affairs were un-
settled. Nothing of the sort. His will is in
the hands of his executor in London, and he
leaves his wife and child well provided for. My
next question succeeded better; it hit the mark:
“Have you something on your mind to do before
He gave a manity which the question seemed to imply.
you die, which is not done yet?’
could have said it, Yes. “Can I help you?”
‘Yes. I have something to write that I must
write. Can you make me hold a pen?" He
might as well have asked me if I could perform
a miracle. I could only say, No. ‘If I dic-
tate the words, he went on, “can you write
what I tell you to write?" Once more I could
only say, No. I understand a little English,
but I can neither speak it nor write it. . Mr.
Armadale understands French when it is spoken
(as I speak it to him) slowly, but he can not ex-
press himself in that language; and of German
he is totally ignorant. In this difficulty I said,
what any one else in my situation would have
said, ‘Why ask me? there is Mrs. Armadale at
your service in the next room. Before I could
get up from my chair to fetch her he stopped
me—not by words, but by a look of horror,
which fixed me by main force of astonishment
in my place. ‘Surely, I said, ‘your wife is
the fittest person to write for you as you de-
sire?’ ‘The last person under heaven!' he an-
swered. “What!' I said, ‘you ask me, a for-
eigner and a stranger, to write words at your
dictation which you keep a secret from your
wife!' Conceive my astonishment when he an-
swered me, without a moment's hesitation, ‘Yes!'
I sat lost; I sat silent. ‘If you can't write En-
glish, he said, ‘find somebody who can.' I
tried to remonstrate. He burst into a dreadful
moaning cry—a dumb entreaty, like the en-
treaty of a dog. ‘Hush ! hush! I said; “I will
find somebody.” “To-day!” he broke out, ‘be-
fore my speech fails me, like my hand.’ ‘To-
day, in an hour's time. He shut his eyes; he
quieted himself instantly. “While I am wait-
ing for you, he said, “let me see my little boy.’
He had shown no tenderness when he spoke of
his wife, but I saw the tears on his cheeks when
he asked for his child. My profession, Sir, has
not made me so hard a man as you might think;
and my doctor's heart was as heavy when I went
out to fetch the child as if I had not been a doc-
tor at all. I am afraid you think this rather
weak on my part?”
The doctor looked appealingly at Mr. Neal.
He might as well have looked at a rock in the
Black Forest. Mr. Neal entirely declined to
be drawn by any doctor in Christendom out of
the regions of plain fact.
“Go on,” he said. “I presume you have
not told me all that you have to tell me yet?”
“Surely you understand my object in com-
ing here now?” returned the other.
“Your object is plain enough—at last. You
invite me to connect myself blindfold with a
matter which is in the last degree suspicious, so
far. I decline giving you any answer until I
know more than I know now. Did you think
it necessary to inform this man's wife of what
had passed between you, and to ask her for an
explanation?”
“Of course I thought it necessary,” said the
doctor, indignant at the reflection on his hu-
great gasp of relief, which said, as no words “If ever I saw a woman fond of her husband,


ARMADALE. 13
and sorry for her husband, it is this unhappy gave me. I waited at the door—hours—I don't
Mrs. Armadale. As soon as we were left alone know how long. On a sudden the pen stopped,
together I sat down by her side and I took her and I heard no more. I whispered through the
hand in mine. Why not? I am an ugly old man, keyhole softly; I said I was cold and weary with
and I may allow myself such liberties as these.” waiting; I said, Oh, my love, let me in Not
“Excuse me,” said the impenetrable Scotch- even the cruel pen answered me now: silence
man. “I beg to suggest that you are losing answered me. With all the strength of my
the thread of the narrative.” miserable hands I beat at the door. The serv-
“Nothing more likely,” returned the doctor, ants came up and broke it in. We were too
recovering his good-humor. “It is in the hab- late; the harm was done. Over that fatal let-
it of my nation to be perpetually losing the ter the stroke had struck him—over that fatal
thread, and it is evidently in the habit of yours, letter we found him, paralyzed as you see him
Sir, to be perpetually finding it. . What an ex- now. Those words which he wants you to write
ample here of the order of the universe, and the are the words he would have written himself
everlasting fitness of things!” if the stroke had spared him till the morning,
“Will you oblige me, once for all, by con- From that time to this there has been a blank
fining yourself to the facts?” persisted Mr. place left in the letter, and it is that blank place
Neal, frowning impatiently. “May I inquire, which he has just asked you to fill up. In those
for my own information, whether Mrs. Arma- words Mrs. Armadale spoke to me; in those
dale could tell you what it is her husband wish- words you have the sum and substance of all
es me to write, and why it is that he refuses to the information I can give. Say, if you please,
let her write for him?” Sir, have I kept the thread at last? Have I
“There is my thread found—and thank you shown you the necessity which brings me here
for finding it,” said the doctor. “You shall from your countryman's death-bed?”
hear what Mrs. Armadale had to tell me in “Thus far,” said Mr. Neal, “you merely
Mrs. Armadale's own words. ‘The cause that show me that you are exciting yourself. This
now shuts me out of his confidence, she said, is too serious a matter to be treated as you are
‘is, I firmly believe, the same cause that has treating it now. You have involved Me in the
always shut me out of his heart. I am the wife business, and I insist on seeing my way plainly.
he has wedded, but I am not the woman he Don't raise your hands; your hands are not a
loves. I knew when he married me that an- part of the question. If I am to be concerned
other man had won from him the woman he in the completion of this mysterious letter, it is
loved. I thought I could make him forget her. only an act of justifiable prudence on my part
I hoped when I married him; I hoped again to inquire what the letter is about. Mrs. Ar-
when I bore him a son. Need I tell you the madale appears to have favored you with an
end of my hopes? you have seen it for yourself. infinite number of domestic particulars—in re-
(Wait, Sir, I entreat you! I have not lost the turn, I presume, for your polite attention in
thread again; I am following it inch by inch.) taking her by the hand. May I ask what she
‘Is this all you know? I asked. “All I knew, could tell you about her husband's letter, so far
she said, “till a short time since. It was when as her husband has written it?”
we were in Switzerland, and when his illness “Mrs. Armadale could tell me nothing,” re-
was nearly at its worst, that news came to him plied the doctor, with a sudden formality in his
by accident of that other woman who has been manner which showed that his forbearance was
the shadow and the poison of my life-news at last failing him. “Before she was composed
that she (like me) had borne her husband a son. enough to think of the letter her husband had
On the instant of his making that discovery—a asked for it, and had caused it to be locked up
trifling discovery, if ever there was one yet—a in his desk. She knows that he has since, time
mortal fear seized on him: not for me, not for after time, tried to finish it, and that, time after
himself; a fear for his own child. The same time, the pen has dropped from his fingers. She
day (without a word to me) he sent for the doc- knows, when all other hope of his restoration
tor. I was mean, wicked, what you please—I was at an end, that his medical advisers encour-
listened at the door. I heard him say: I have aged him to hope in the famous waters of this
something to tell my son, when my son grows old place. And last, she knows how that hope has
enough to understand me. Shall I live to tell it? | ended, for she knows what I told her husband
The doctor would say nothing certain. The this morning.”
same night (still without a word to me) he lock- The frown which had been gathering latterly
ed himself into his room. What would any wo- on Mr. Neal's face deepened and darkened. He
man, treated as I was, have done in my place? | looked at the doctor as if the doctor had per-
She would have done as I did—she would have sonally offended him.
listened again. I heard him say to himself: “The more I think of the position you are
I shall not live to tell it: I must write it before asking me to take,” he said, “the less I like it.
I die. I heard his pen scrape, scrape, scrape Can you undertake to say positively that Mr.
over the paper—I heard him groaning and sob- Armadale is in his right mind?”
bing as he wrote—I implored him for God's sake “Yes; as positively as words can say it.”
to let me in. The cruel pen went scrape, scrape, “Does his wife sanction your coming here to
scrape; the cruel pen was all the answer he request my interference?”


14
ARMADALE.
“His wife sends me to you, the only En-ltered unannounced; and when they looked into
glishman in Wildbad, to write for your dying
countryman what he can not write for himself,
and what no one in this place but you can write
for him.” -
That answer drove Mr. Neal back to the last
inch of ground left him to stand on. Even on
that inch the Scotchman resisted still.
“Wait a little,” he said. “You put it strong-
ly; let us be quite sure you put it correctly as
well. Let us be quite sure there is nobody to
take this responsibility but myself. There is a
mayor in Wildbad, to begin with; a man who
possesses an official character to justify his in-
terference.”
“A man of a thousand,” said the doctor.
“With one fault—he knows no language but
his own.”
“There is an English legation at Stuttgart,”
persisted Mr. Neal. - -
“And there are miles on miles of the Forest
between this and Stuttgart,” rejoined the doc-
tor. “If we sent this moment we could get no
help from the legation before to-morrow; and
it is as likely as not, in the state of this dying
man's articulation, that to-morrow may find him
speechless. I don't know whether his last wish-
es are wishes harmless to his child and to others,
or wishes hurtful to his child and to others;
but I do know that they must be fulfilled at once
or never, and that you are the only man who
can help him.”
That open declaration brought the discussion
to a close. It fixed Mr. Neal fast between the
two alternatives of saying Yes, and committing
an act of imprudence—or of saying No, and
committing an act of inhumanity. There was
a silence of some minutes. The Scotchman
steadily reflected; and the German steadily
watched him.
The responsibility of saying the next words
rested on Mr. Neal, and, in course of time, Mr.
Neal took it. He rose from his chair, with a
sullen sense of injury lowering on his heavy eye-
brows, and working sourly in the lines at the
corners of his mouth.
“My position is forced on me,” he said.
have no choice but to accept it.”
The doctor's impulsive nature rose in revolt
against the merciless brevity and gracelessness
of that reply. “I wish to God,” he broke out,
fervently, “I knew English enough to take
your place at Mr. Armadale's bedside 1"
“Bating your taking the name of the Al-
mighty in vain,” answered the Scotchman, “I
entirely agree with you. I wish you did.”
Without another word on either side they left
the room together—the doctor leading the way.
“I
-
CHAPTER III.
ThE WRECK OF THE TIMBER 8h IP,
No one answered the doctor's knock when he
and his companion reached the ante-chamber
door of Mr. Armadale's apartments. They en-
| looked at his sour companion anxiously.
the sitting-room the sitting-room was empty.
“I must see Mrs. Armadale,” said Mr. Neal.
“I decline acting in the matter unless Mrs.
Armadale authorizes my interference with her
own lips.”
“Mrs. Armadale is probably with her hus-
band,” replied the doctor. He approached a
door at the inner end of the sitting-room while
he spoke—hesitated—and, turning round again,
* * I
am afraid I spoke a little harshly, Sir, when we
were leaving your room,” he said. “I beg your
pardon for it, with all my heart. Before this
poor afflicted lady comes in, will you—will you
excuse my asking your utmost gentleness and
consideration for her?”
“No, Sir,” retorted the other, harshly, “I
won't excuse you. What right have I given
you to think me wanting in gentleness and con-
sideration toward any body?”
The doctor saw it was useless. “I beg your
pardon again,” he said, resignedly, and left the
unapproachable stranger to himself.
Mr. Neal walked to the window, and stood
there, with his eyes mechanically fixed on the
prospect, composing his mind for the coming in-
terview.
It was mid-day; the sun shone bright and
warm ; and all the little world of Wildbad was
alive and merry in the genial spring-time. Now
and again heavy wagons, with black-faced cart-
ers in charge, rolled by the window, bearing
their precious lading of charcoal from the For-
est. Now and again, hurled over the headlong
current of the stream that runs through the
town, great lengths of timber loosely strung to-
gether in interminable series—with the booted
raftsmen, pole in hand, poised watchful at ei-
ther end—shot swift and serpent-like past the
houses on their course to the distant Rhine.
High and steep above the gabled wooden build-
ings on the river bank, the great hill-sides, crest-
ed black with firs, shone to the shining heavens
in a glory of lustrous green. In and out, where
the forest foot-paths wound from the grass through
the trees, from the trees over the grass, the bright
spring dresses of women and children on the
search for wild-flowers, traveled to and fro in
the lofty distance like spots of moving light.
Below, on the walk by the stream side, the
booths of the little bazar that had opened punc-
tually with the opening season, showed all their
glittering trinkets, and fluttered in the balmy
air their splendor of many-colored flags. Long-
ingly, here, the children looked at the show;
patiently the sun-burnt lasses plied their knit-
ting as they paced the walk; courteously the
passing towns-people, by fours and fives, and the
passing visitors, by ones and twos, greeted each
other, hat in hand; and slowly, slowly, the
crippled and helpless in their chairs on wheels,
came out in the cheerful noontide with the rest,
and took their share of the blessed light that
cheers, of the blessed sun that shines for all.
On this scene the Scotchman looked, with


ARMADALE.
15
eyes that never noted its beauty, with a mind
far away from every lesson that it taught. One
by one he meditated the words he should say
when the wife came in. One by one he pon-
dered over the conditions he might impose, be-
fore he took the pen in hand at the husband's
bedside.
“Mrs. Armadale is here,” said the doctor's
voice, interposing suddenly between his reflec-
tions and himself.
He turned on the instant, and saw before him,
with the pure mid-day light shining full on her,
a woman of the mixed blood of the European
and the African race, with the northern deli-
cacy in the shape of her face, and the southern
richness in its color—a woman in the prime of
her beauty, who moved with an inbred grace,
who looked with an inbred fascination, whose
large, languid, black eyes rested on him grate-
fully, whose little dusky hand offered itself to
him, in mute expression of her thanks, with the
welcome that is given to the coming of a friend.
For the first time in his life the Scotchman was
taken by surprise. Every self-preservative word
that he had been meditating but an instant since
dropped out of his memory. His thrice-impen-
etrable armor of habitual suspicion, habitual
self-discipline, and habitual reserve, which had
never fallen from him in a woman's presence be-
fore, fell from him in this woman's presence,
and brought him to his knees a conquered man.
He took the hand she offered him, and bowed
over it his first honest homage to the sex, in
silence. - -
She hesitated on her side. The quick femi-
nine perception which, in happier circumstances,
would have pounced on the secret of his embar-
rassment in an instant, failed her now. She at-
tributed his strange reception of her to pride, to
reluctance—to any cause but the unexpected rev-
elation of her own beauty. “I have no words
to thank you,” she said, faintly, trying to pro-
pitiate him. “I should only distress you if I
tried to speak.” Her lip began to tremble, she
drew back a little, and turned away her head in
silence.
The doctor, who had been standing apart,
quietly observant in a corner, advanced before
Mr. Neal could interfere, and led Mrs. Arma-
dale to a chair. “Don't be afraid of him,”
whispered the good man, patting her gently on
the shoulder. “He was hard as iron in my
hands, but I think, by the look of him, he will
be soft as wax in yours. Say the words I told
you to say, and let us take him to your husband's
room before those sharp wits of his have time to
recover themselves.”
She roused her sinking resolution, and ad-
vanced half-way to the window to meet Mr. Neal.
“My kind friend, the doctor, has told me, Sir,
that your only hesitation in coming here is a
hesitation on my account,” she said, her head
drooping a little, and her rich color fading away
while she spoke. “I am deeply grateful, but I
entreat you not to think of me. What my hus-
band wishes—” Her voice faltered; she wait-
ed resolutely, and recovered herself. “What
my husband wishes in his last moments, I wish
too.” *
This time Mr. Neal was composed enough to
answer her. In low, earnest tones he entreated
her to say no more. “I was only anxious to
show you every consideration,” he said. “I am
only anxious now to spare you every distress.”
As he spoke something like a glow of color rose
slowly on his sallow face. Her eyes were look-
ing at him, softly attentive—and he thought
guiltily of his meditations at the window before
'she came in.
The doctor saw his opportunity. He opened
the door that led into Mr. Armadale's room, and
stood by it, waiting silently. Mrs. Armadale
entered first. In a minute more the door was
closed again, and Mr. Neal stood committed to
the responsibility that had been forced on him—
committed beyond recall.
The room was decorated in the gaudy conti-
nental fashion; and the warm sunlight was shin-
ing in joyously. Cupids and flowers were paint-
ed on the ceiling; bright ribbons looped up the
white window curtains; a smart gilt clock tick-
ed on a velvet-covered mantle-piece; mirrors
gleamed on the walls, and flowers in all the col-
ors of the rainbow speckled the carpet. In the
midst of the finery, and the glitter, and the light,
lay the paralyzed man, with his wandering eyes,
and his lifeless lower face—his head propped
high with many pillows; his helpless hands laid
out over the bed-clothes like the hands of a
corpse. By the bed-head stood, grim and old
and silent, the shriveled black murse; and on
the counterpane, between his father's outspread
hands, lay the child, in his little white frock,
absorbed in the enjoyment of a new toy. When
the door opened, and Mrs. Armadale led the
way in, the boy was tossing his plaything—a
soldier on horseback—backward and forward
over the helpless hands on either side of him;
and the father's wandering eyes were following
the toy to and fro with a stealthy and ceaseless
vigilance—a vigilance as of a wild animal, ter-
rible to see. -
The moment Mr. Neal appeared in the door-
way those restless eyes stopped, looked up, and
fastened on the stranger with a fierce eagerness
of inquiry. Slowly the motionless lips strug-
gled into movement. With thick, hesitating
articulation, they put the question which the
eyes asked mutely, into words.
“Are you the man?”
Mr. Neal advanced to the bedside; Mrs. Ar-
madale drawing back from it as he approached,
and waiting with the doctor at the farther end of
the room. The child looked up, toy in hand, as
the stranger came near—opened his bright brown
eyes wide in momentary astonishment—and then
went on with his game.
“I have been made acquainted with your sad
situation, Sir,” said Mr. Neal. “And I have
come here to place my services at your disposal;
services which no one but myself—as your med-
ical attendant informs me—is in a position to


16
ARMADALE. -
render you in this strange place. My name is
Neal. I am a Writer to the Signet in Edin-
burgh; and I"may presume to say for myself
that any confidence you wish to place in me will
be confidence not improperly bestowed.”
The eyes of the beautiful wife were not con-
fusing him now. He spoke to the helpless hus-
band quietly and seriously, without his custom-
ary harshness, and with a grave compassion in
his manner which presented him at his best.
The sight of the death-bed had steadied him.
“You wish me to write something for you?”
he resumed, after waiting for a reply, and wait-
ing in vain.
“Yes!” said the dying man, with the all-
mastering impatience which his tongue was pow-
erless to express glittering angrily in his eyes.
“My hand is gone, and my speech is going.
Write l"
Before there was time to speak again, Mr.
Neal heard the rustling of a woman's dress, and
the quick creaking of castors on the carpet be-
hind him. Mrs. Armadale was moving the
writing-table across the room to the foot of the
bed. If he was to set up those safeguards of his
own devising that were to bear him harmless
through all results to come, now was the time,
or never. He kept his back turned on Mrs.
Armadale, and put his precautionary question
at once in the plainest terms.
“May I ask, Sir, before I take the pen in
, , hand, what it is you wish me to write?”
The angry eyes of the paralyzed man glittered
brighter and brighter. His lips opened and
closed again. He made no reply.
Mr. Neal tried another precautionary question,
in a new direction.
“When I have written what you wish me to
write,” he asked, “what is to be done with it?”
This time the answer came :
“Seal it up in my presence, and post it to
my Ex—”
His laboring articulation suddenly stopped,
and he looked piteously in the questioner's face
for the next word.
“Do you mean your Executor?”
“Yes.” -
“It is a letter, I suppose, that I am to post?”
There was no answer. “May I ask if it is a
letter altering your will?”
“Nothing of the sort.” -
Mr. Neal considered a little. The mystery
was thickening. The one way out of it, so far,
was the way traced faintly through that strange
story of the unfinished letter which the doctor
had repeated to him in Mrs. Armadale's words.
The nearer he approached his unknown re-
sponsibility, the more ominous it seemed of
something serious to come. Should he risk an-
other question before he pledged himself irrev-
ocably? As the doubt crossed his mind he felt
Mrs. Armadale's silk dress touch him on the
side farthest from her husband. Her delicate
dark hand was laid gently on his arm; her full
deep African eyes looked at him in submissive
entreaty. “My husband is very anxious,” she
whispered. “Will you quiet his anxiety, Sir,
by taking your place at the writing-table?”
It was from her lips that the request came—
from the lips of the person who had the best
right to hesitate; the wife who was excluded
from the secret! Most men in Mr. Neal's posi-
tion would have given up all their safeguards on
the spot. The Scotchman gave them all up but
one.
“I will write what you wish me to write,” he
said, addressing Mr. Armadale. “I will seal it
in your presence; and I will post it to your Ex-
ecutor myself. But, in engaging to do this, I
must beg you to remember that I am acting en-
tirely in the dark; and I must ask you to ex-
cuse me if I reserve my own entire freedom of
action, when your wishes in relation to the writ-
ing and the posting of the letter have been ful-
filled.”
“Do you give me your promise?”
“If you want my promise, Sir, I will give it
—subject to the condition I have just named.”
“Take your condition, and keep your prom-
ise. My desk,” he added, looking at his wife
for the first time.
She crossed the room eagerly to fetch the desk
from a chair in a corner. Returning with it,
she made a passing sign to the negress, who still
stood, grim and silent, in the place that she had
occupied from the first. The woman advanced,
obedient to the sign, to take the child from the
bed. At the instant when she touched him the
father's eyes—fixed previously on the desk–
turned on her with the stealthy quickness of a
cat. “No !” he said. “No!” echoed the fresh
voice of the boy, still charmed with his play-
thing, and still liking his place on the bed. The
negress left the room, and the child, in high
triumph, trotted his toy-soldier up and down on
the bed-clothes that lay rumpled over his fa-
ther's breast. His mother's lovely face con-
tracted with a pang of jealousy as she looked at
him.
“Shall I open your desk?” she asked, push-
ing back the child's plaything sharply while she
spoke. An answering look from her husband
guided her hand to the place under his pillow
where the key was hidden. She opened the
desk, and disclosed inside some small sheets of
manuscript pinned together. “These?” she in-
quired, producing them.
“Yes,” he said. “You can go now.”
The Scotchman sitting at the writing-table,
the doctor stirring a stimulant mixture in a cor-
ner, looked at each other with an anxiety in
both their faces which they could neither of
them control. The words that banished the wife
from the room were spoken. The moment had
Come.
“You can go now,” said Mr. Armadale, for
the second time.
She looked at the child, established comforta-
bly on the bed, and an ashy paleness spread
slowly over her face. She looked at the fatal
letter which was a sealed secret to her; and a
torture of jealous suspicion—suspicion of that


ARMADALE.
17
other woman who had been the shadow and the
poison of her life—wrung her to the heart.
After moving a few steps from the bedside she
stopped and came back again. Armed with
the double courage of her love and her despair
she pressed her lips on her dying husband's
cheek, and pleaded with him for the last time.
Her burning tears dropped on his face as she
whispered to him, “Oh, Allan, think how I
have loved you! think how hard I have tried to
make you happy! think how soon I shall lose
you! Oh, my own love! don't, don't send me
away!”
The words pleaded for her; the kiss pleaded
for her; the recollection of the love that had
been given to him, and never returned, touched
the heart of the fast-sinking man as nothing had
touched it since the day of his marriage. A
heavy sigh broke from him. He looked at her,
and hesitated.
“Let me stay,” she whispered, pressing her
face closer to his.
“It will only distress you,” he whispered back.
“Nothing distresses me but being sent away
from you !”
He waited.
and waited too.
“If I let you stay a little—?”
“Yes! yes!”
“Will you go when I tell you?”
* I will.”
“On your oath?”
The fetters that bound his tongue seemed to
be loosened for a moment in the great outburst
of anxiety which forced that question to his lips.
He spoke those startling words as he had spoken
no words yet. *
“On my oath !” she repeated, and, dropping
on her knees at the bedside, passionately kissed
his hand. The two strangers in the room turn-
ed their heads away by common consent. In
the silence that followed, the one sound stirring
was the small sound of the child's toy as he
moved it hither and thither on the bed.
The doctor was the first who broke the spell
of stillness which had fallen on all the persons
present. He approached the patient and ex-
amined him anxiously. Mrs. Armadale rose
from her knees, and, first waiting for her hus-
band's permission, carried the sheets of manu-
script which she had taken out of the desk to
the table at which Mr. Neal was waiting. Flush-
ed and eager, more beautiful than ever in the
vehement agitation which still possessed her,
she stooped over him as she put the letter into
his hands, and, seizing on the means to her end
with a woman's headlong self-abandonment to
her own impulses, whispered to him: “Read it
out from the beginning. I must and will hear
it!” Her eyes flashed their burning light into
his; her breath beat on his cheek. Before he
could answer, before he could think, she was
back with her husband. In an instant she had
spoken, and in that instant her beauty had bent
the Scotchman to her will. Frowning in re-
luctant acknowledgment of his own inability to
She saw that he was thinking,
resist her, he turned over the leaves of the let-
ter, looked at the blank place where the pen
had dropped from the writer's hand and had
left a blot on the paper, turned back again to
the beginning, and said the words, in the wife's
interest, which the wife herself had put into his
lips.
“Perhaps, Sir, you may wish to make some
corrections,” he began, with all his attention
apparently fixed on the letter, and with every
outward appearance of letting his sour temper
again get the better of him. “Shall I read over
to you what you have already written?”
Mrs. Armadale sitting at the bed-head on one
side, and the doctor with his fingers on the pa-
tient's pulse sitting on the other, waited with
widely different anxieties for the answer to Mr.
Neal's question. Mr. Armadale's eyes turned
searchingly from his child to his wife.
“You will hear it?” he said. Her breath
came and went quickly; her hand stole up and
took his; she bowed her head in silence. Her
husband paused, taking secret counsel with his
thoughts, and keeping his eyes fixed on his wife.
At last he decided, and gave the answer. “Read
it,” he said. “And stop when I tell you.”
It was close on one o'clock, and the bell was
ringing which summoned the visitors to their
early dinner at the inn. The quick beat of
footsteps and the gathering hum of voices out-
side penetrated gayly into the room as Mr.
Neal spread the manuscript before him on the
table and read the opening sentences in these
words:
“I address this letter to my son, when my
son is of an age to understand it. Having lost
all hope of living to see my boy grow up to
manhood, I have no choice but to write here
what I would fain have said to him at a future
time with my own lips.
“I have three objects in writing. First, to
reveal the circumstances which attended the
marriage of an English lady of my acquaint-
ance in the island of Madeira. Secondly, to
throw the true light on the death of her hus-
l and a short time afterward on board the French
timber ship, La Grace de Dieu. Thirdly, to
warn my son of a danger that lies in wait for
him—a danger that will rise from his father's
grave, when the earth has closed over his father's
ashes.
“The story of the English lady's marriage
begins with my inheriting the great Armadale
property and my taking the fatal Armadale
natine.
“I am the only surviving son of the late
Mathew Wrentmore, of Barbadoes. I was born
on our family estate in that island; and I lost
my father when I was still a child. My mother
was blindly fond of me: she denied me nothing;
she let me live as I pleased. My boyhood and
youth were passed in idleness and self-indul-
gence, among people—slaves and half-castes
mostly—to whom my will was law. I doubt
if there is a gentleman of my birth and station


18
ARMADALE.
in all England as ignorant as I am at this mo-
ment. I doubt if there was ever a young man
in this world whose passions were left so entire-
ly without control of any kind as mine were in
those early days.
“My mother had a woman's romantic objec-
tion to my father's homely Christian name. I
was christened Allan, after the name of a wealthy
cousin of my father's, the late Allan Armadale,
who possessed estates in our neighborhood, the
largest and the most productive in the island,
and who consented to be my godfather by proxy.
Mr. Armadale had never seen his West Indian
property. He lived in England; and, after
sending me the customary godfather's present,
he held no further communication with my pa-
rents for years afterward. I was just twenty-one
before we heard again from Mr. Armadale. On
that occasion my mother received a letter from
him asking if I was still alive, and offering no
less (if I was) than to make me the heir to his
West Indian property. -
“This piece of good fortune fell to me entire-
ly through the misconduct of Mr. Armadale's
son and only child. The young man had dis-
graced himself beyond all redemption; had left
his home an outlaw; and had been thereupon
renounced by his father at once and forever.
Having no other near male relative to succeed
him, Mr. Armadale thought of his cousin's son,
and his own godson; and he offered the West
Indian estate to me and my heirs after me on
one condition—that I and my heirs should take
his name. The proposal was gratefully accept-
ed, and the proper legal measures were adopted
for changing my name in the colony and in the
mother-country. By the next mail information
reached Mr. Armadale that his condition had
been complied with. The return mail brought
news from the lawyers. The will had been al-
tered in my favor, and in a week afterward the
death of my benefactor had made me the largest
proprietor and the richest man in Barbadoes.
“This was the first event in the chain. The
second event followed it six weeks afterward.
“At that time there happened to be a vacan-
cy in the clerk's office on the estate, and there
came to fill it a young man about my own age,
who had recently arrived in the island. He
announced himself by the name of Fergus In-
gleby. My impulses governed me in every
thing; I knew no law but the law of my own
caprice; and I took a fancy to the stranger the
moment I set eyes on him. He had the man-
ners of a gentleman, and he possessed the most
attractive social qualities which, in my small
experience, I had ever met with. When I heard
that the written references to character which
he had brought with him were pronounced to
be unsatisfactory I interfered, and insisted that
he should have the place. My will was law,
and he had it.
“My mother disliked and distrusted Ingleby
from the first. When she found the intimacy
between us rapidly ripening; when she found
me admitting this inferior to the closest com-
panionship and confidence—(I had lived with
my inferiors all my life, and I liked it)—she
made effort after effort to part us, and failed in
one and all. Driven to her last resources she
resolved to try the one chance left—the chance
of persuading me to take a voyage which I had
often thought of a voyage to England.
“Before she spoke to me on the subject she
resolved to interest me in the idea of seeing En-
gland, as I had never been interested yet. She
wrote to an old friend and an old admirer of
hers, the late Stephen Blanchard, of Thorpe-
Ambrose, in Norfolk—a gentleman of landed
estate, and a widower with a grown-up family.
After-discoveries informed me that she must
have alluded to their former attachment (which
was checked, I believe, by the parents on either
side); and that, in asking Mr. Blanchard's wel-
come for her son when he came to England,
she made inquiries about his daughter, which
hinted at the chance of a marriage uniting the
two families, if the young lady and I met and
liked one another. We were equally matched
in every respect, and my mother's recollection
of her girlish attachment to Mr. Blanchard
made the prospect of my marrying her old ad-
mirer's daughter the brightest and happiest pros-
pect that her eyes could see. Of all this I knew
nothing until Mr. Blanchard's answer arrived at
Barbadoes. Then my mother showed me the
letter, and put the temptation which was to sep-
arate me from Fergus Ingleby openly in my way.
“Mr. Blanchard's letter was dated from the
island of Madeira. He was out of health, and
he had been ordered there by the doctors to try
the climate. His daughter was with him. After
heartily reciprocating all my mother's hopes and
wishes he proposed (if I intended leaving Bar-
badoes shortly) that I should take Madeira on
my way to England and pay him a visit at his
temporary residence in the island. If this could
not be, he mentioned the time at which he ex-
pected to be back in England, when I might be
sure of finding a welcome at his own house of
Thorpe-Ambrose. In conclusion he apologized
for not writing at greater length; explaining that
his sight was affected, and that he had disobeyed
the doctor's orders by yielding to the temptation
of writing to his old friend with his own hand.
“Kindly as it was expressed the letter itself
might have had little influence on me. But
there was something else besides the letter;
there was inclosed in it a miniature portrait of
Miss Blanchard. At the back of the portrait
her father had written half-jestingly, half-ten-
derly, ‘I can't ask my daughter to spare my
eyes as usual, without telling her of your in-
quiries and putting a young lady's diffidence to
the blush. So I send her in effigy (without her
knowledge) to answer for herself. It is a good
likeness of a good girl. If she likes your son-
and if I like him, which I am sure I shall—we
may yet live, my good friend, to see our chil-
dren what we might once have been ourselves—
man and wife.’ My mother gave me the mini-
ature with the letter. The portrait at once


ARMADALE.
19
struck me—I can't say why, I can't say how—
as nothing of the kind had ever struck me before.
“Harder intellects than mine might have at-
tributed the extraordinary impression produced
on me to the disordered condition of my mind
at that time; to the weariness of my own base
pleasures which had been gaining on me for
months past; to the undefined longing which
that weariness implied for newer interests and
fresher hopes than any that had possessed me
yet. I attempted no such sober self-examina-
tion as this: I believed in destiny then; I be-
lieve in destiny now. It was enough for me to
know—as I did know—that the first sense I had
ever felt of something better in my nature than
my animal-self was roused by that girl's face
looking at me from her picture, as no woman's
face had ever looked at me yet. In those ten-
der eyes—in the chance of making that gentle
creature my wife—I saw my destiny written.
The portrait which had come into my hands so
strangely and so unexpectedly was the silent
messenger of happiness close at hand, sent to
warn, to encourage, to rouse me before it was
too late. I put the miniature under my pillow
at night; I looked at it again the next morn-
ing. My conviction of the day before remained
as strong as ever; my superstition (if you please
to call it so) pointed out to me irresistibly the
way on which I should go. There was a ship
in port which was to sail for England in a fort-
night, touching at Madeira. In that ship I took
my passage.”
Thus far the reader had advanced with no in-
terruption to disturb him. But at the last words
the tones of another voice, low and broken,
mingled with his own.
“Was she a fair woman?” asked the voice,
** or dark like me?”
Mr. Neal paused and looked up. The doctor
was still at the bed-head, with his fingers me-
chanically on the patient's pulse. The child,
missing his mid-day sleep, was beginning to
play languidly with his new toy. The father's
eyes were watching him with a rapt and cease-
less attention. But one great change was visi-
ble in the listeners since the narrative had be-
gun. Mrs. Armadale had dropped her hold of
her husband's hand, and sat with her face steadi-
ly turned away from him. The hot African
blood burned red in her dusky cheeks as she ob-
stinately repeated the question, “Was she a fair
woman—or dark like me?”
“Fair,” said her husband, without looking at
her.
Her hands, lying clasped together in her lap,
wrung each other hard—she said no more. Mr.
Neal's overhanging eyebrows lowered ominous-
ly as he returned to the narrative. He had
incurred his own severe displeasure—he had
caught himself in the act of secretly pitying her.
“I have said”—the letter proceeded—“that
Ingleby was admitted to my closest confidence.
by his evident surprise and mortification when
' heard that I was going away. In my own
justification I showed him the letter and the
likeness, and told him the truth. His interest
in the portrait seemed to be hardly inferior to
my own. He asked me about Miss Blanchard's
family and Miss Blanchard's fortune with the
sympathy of a true friend; and he strengthened
| my regard for him, and my belief in him, by
| putting himself out of the question, and by gen-
erously encouraging me to persist in my new
| purpose. When we parted I was in high health
and spirits. Before we met again the next day
I was suddenly struck by an illness which threat-
ened both my reason and my life.
“I have no proof against Ingleby. There
was more than one woman on the island whom
I had wronged beyond all forgiveness, and whose
| vengeance might well have reached me at that
time. I can accuse nobody. I can only say that
my life was saved by my old black nurse; and
that the woman afterward acknowledged having
used the known negro-antidote to a known ne-"
gro-poison in those parts. When my first days
of convalescence came, the ship in which my
passage had been taken had long since sailed.
When I asked for Ingleby he was gone. Proofs
of his unpardonable misconduct in his situation
were placed before me, which not even my par-
tiality for him could resist. He had been turned
out of the office in the first days of my illness,
and nothing more was known of him but that
he had left the island.
“All through my sufferings the portrait had
been under my pillow. All through my con-
valescence it was my one consolation when I
remembered the past, and my one encourage-
ment when I thought of the future. No words
can describe the hold that first fancy had now
taken of me—with time and solitude and suffer-
ing to help it. My mother, with all her inter-
est in the match, was startled by the unexpected
success of her own project. She had written to
tell Mr. Blanchard of my illness, but had re-
ceived no reply. She now offered to write again,
if I would promise not to leave her before my
recovery was complete. My impatience ac-
knowledged no restraint. Another ship in port
gave me another chance of leaving for Madeira.
Another examination of Mr. Blanchard's letter
of invitation assured me that I should find him
still in the island, if I seized my opportunity on
the spot. In defiance of my mother's entreaties
I insisted on taking my passage in the second
ship—and this time, when the ship sailed, I was
on board.
“The change did me good; the sea air made
a man of me again. After an unusually rapid
voyage I found myself at the end of my pilgrim-
age. On a fine still evening which I can never
forget, I stood alone on the shore, with her like-
ness in my bosom, and saw the white walls of
the house where I knew that she lived.
“I strolled round the outer limits of the
| grounds to compose myself before I went in.
I was sorry to leave him; and I was distressed Venturing through a gate and a shrubbery, I


ARMADALE.
looked into the garden, and saw a lady there,
loitering alone on the lawn. She turned her
face toward me—and I beheld the original of my
portrait, the fulfillment of my dream! It is use-
less, and worse than useless, to write of it now.
Let me only say that every promise which the
likeness had made to my fancy the living woman
kept to my eyes, in the moment when they first
looked on her. Let me say this—and no more.
“I was too violently agitated to trust myself
in her presence. I drew back, undiscovered;
and making my way to the front door of the
house, asked for her father first. Mr. Blanchard
had retired to his room, and could see nobody.
Upon that I took courage, and asked for Miss
Blanchard. The servant smiled. “My young
lady is not Miss Blanchard any longer, Sir, he
said. “She is married.” Those words would
have struck some men, in my position, to the
earth. They fired my hot blood, and I seized


ARMADALE.
21
the servant by the throat, in a frenzy of rage. position was a serious one.
“It's a lie,” I broke out, speaking to him as if
he had been one of the slaves on my own estate.
“It's the truth,' said the man, struggling with
me; ‘her husband is in the house at this mo-
ment.” “Who is he, you scoundrel?” The serv-
ant answered by repeating my own name, to my
own face: “Allan Armadale.”
“You can now guess the truth. Fergus In-
gleby was the outlawed son, whose name and
whose inheritance I had taken. And Fergus
Ingleby was even with me for depriving him of
his birth-right.
“Some account of the manner in which the
deception had been carried out is necessary to
explain—I don't say to justify—the share I took
in the events that followed my arrival at Madeira.
“By Ingleby's own confession he had come
to Barbadoes—knowing of his father's death and
of my succession to the estates—with the settled
purpose of plundering and injuring me. My
rash confidence put such an opportunity into his
hands as he could never have hoped for. He
had waited to possess himself of the letter which
my mother wrote to Mr. Blanchard at the out-
set of my illness—had then caused his own dis-
missal from his situation—and had sailed for
Madeira in the very ship that was to have sailed
with me. Arrived at the island, he had waited
again till the vessel was away once more on her
voyage, and had then presented himself at Mr.
Blanchard's—not in the assumed name by which
I shall continue to speak of him here—but in
the name which was as certainly his as mine,
“Allan Armadale.” The fraud at the outset pre-
sented few difficulties. He had only an ailing
old man (who had not seen my mother for half
a lifetime) and an innocent unsuspicious girl
(who had never seen her at all) to deal with;
and he had learned enough in my service to an-
swer the few questions that were put to him as
readily as I might have answered them myself.
His looks and manners, his winning ways with
women, his quickness and cunning, did the
rest. While I was still on my sick bed he had
won Miss Blanchard's affections. While I was
dreaming over the likeness in the first days of
my convalescence he had secured Mr Blanch-
ard's consent to the celebration of the marriage
before he and his daughter left the island.
“Thus far Mr. Blanchard's infirmity of sight
had helped the deception. He had been con-
tent to send messages to my mother, and to re-
ceive the messages which were duly invented in
return. But when the suitor was accepted, and
the wedding-day was appointed, he felt it due to
his old friend to write to her, asking her formal
consent, and inviting her to the marriage. He
could only complete part of the letter himself;
the rest was finished, under his dictation, by
Miss Blanchard. There was no chance of be-
ing beforehand with the post-office this time;
and Ingleby, sure of his place in the heart of his
victim, waylaid her as she came out of her fa-
If the letter was
posted, no resource would be left but to wait
and be parted forever, or to elope under circum-
stances which made detection almost a certain-
ty. The destination of any ship which took
them away would be known beforehand; and
the fast-sailing yacht in which Mr. Blanchard
had come to Madeira was waiting in the harbor
to take him back to England. The only other
alternative was to continue the deception by sup-
pressing the letter, and to confess the truth when
they were securely married. What arts of per-
suasion Ingleby used—what base advantage he
might previously have taken of her love and her
trust in him to degrade Miss Blanchard to his
own level—I can not say. He did degrade her.
The letter never went to its destination; and,
with the daughter's privity and consent, the fa-
ther's confidence was abused to the very last.
“The one precaution now left to take was to
fabricate the answer from my mother which Mr.
Blanchard expected, and which would arrive in
due course of post before the day appointed for
the marriage. Ingleby had my mother's stolen
letter with him; but he was without the imita-
tive dexterity which would have enabled him to
make use of it for a forgery of her handwriting.
Miss Blanchard, who had consented passively to
the deception, refused to take any active share
in the fraud practiced on her father. In this
difficulty Ingleby found an instrument ready to
his hand in an orphan girl of barely twelve years
old, a marvel of precocious ability, whom Miss
Blanchard had taken a romantic fancy to be-
friend, and whom she had brought away with
her from England to be trained as her maid.
That girl's wicked dexterity removed the one
serious obstacle left to the success of the fraud.
I saw the imitation of my mother's writing which
she had produced under Ingleby's instructions,
and (if the shameful truth must be told) with
her young mistress's knowledge—and I believe
I should have been deceived by it myself. I
saw the girl afterward—and my blood curdled at
the sight of her. If she is alive now, woe to the
people who trust her ! No creature more in-
nately deceitful and more innately pitiless ever
walked this earth.
“The forged letter paved the way securely
for the marriage; and when I reached the house
they were (as the servant had truly told me)
man and wife. My arrival on the scene simply
precipitated the confession which they had both
agreed to make. Ingleby's own lips shameless-
ly acknowledged the truth. He had nothing to
lose by speaking out—he was married, and his
wife's fortune was beyond her father's control.
I pass over all that followed—my interview with
the daughter, and my interview with the father
—to come to results. For two days the efforts
of the wife, and the efforts of the clergyman who
had celebrated the marriage, were successful in
keeping Ingleby and myself apart. On the third
day I set my trap more successfully, and I and
ther's room with the letter, and privately told the man who had mortally injured me met to-
her the truth.
She was still under age, and the gether alone, face to face.


ARMADALE.
23
“With the daybreak we saw the vessel, and band.
the timber ship it was. She lay wallowing in
the trough of the sea, her foremast and her main-
mast both gone—a water-logged wreck. The
yacht carried three boats; one amidships, and
two slung to davits on the quarters; and the
sailing-master seeing signs of the storm renew-
ing its fury before long, determined on lowering
the quarter-boats while the lull lasted. Few as
the people were on board the wreck, they were
too many for one boat, and the risk of trying
two boats at once was thought less, in the critical
state of the weather, than the risk of making
two separate trips from the yacht to the ship.
There might be time to make one trip in safety,
but no man could look at the heavens and say
there would be time enough for two.
“The boats were manned by volunteers from
the crew, I being in the second of the two.
When the first boat was got alongside of the
timber ship—a service of difficulty and danger
which no words can describe—all the men on
board made a rush to leave the wreck together.
If the boat had not been pulled off again before
the whole of them had crowded in, the lives of
all must have been sacrificed. As our boat ap-
proached the vessel in its turn, we arranged that
four of us should get on board—two (I being
one of them) to see to the safety of Mr. Blan-
chard's daughter, and two to beat back the cow-
ardly remnant of the crew, if they tried to crowd
in first. The other three—the coxswain and
two oarsmen—were left in the boat to keep her
from being crushed by the ship. What the
others saw when they first boarded La Grace de
Dieu, I don't know: what I saw was the woman
whom I had lost, the woman vilely stolen from
me, lying in a swoon on the deck. We lowered
her, insensible, into the boat. The remnant of
the crew—five in number—were compelled by
main force to follow her in an orderly manner,
one by one, and minute by minute, as the chance
offered for safely taking them in. I was the
last who left; and, at the next roll of the ship
toward us, the empty length of the deck, with-
out-a living creature on it from stem to stern,
told the boat's crew that their work was done.
With the louder and louder howling of the fast-
rising tempest to warn them, they rowed for
their lives back to the yacht.
“A succession of heavy squalls had brought
round the course of the new storm that was
coming from the south to the north; and the
sailing-master, watching his opportunity, had
wore the yacht, to be ready for it. Before the
last of our men had got on board again it burst
on us with the fury of a hurricane. Our boat
was swamped, but not a life was lost. Once
more we ran before it, due south, at the mercy
of the wind. I was on deck with the rest,
watching the one rag of sail we could venture to
set, and waiting to supply its place with another,
if it blew out of the bolt ropes, when the mate
came close to me, and shouted in my ear through
the thunder of the storm, “She has come to her
senses in the cabin, and has asked for her hus-
Where is he?” Not a man on board
knew. The yacht was searched from one end
to another without finding him. The men were
mustered in defiance of the weather—he was not
among them. The crews of the two boats were
questioned. All the first crew could say, was
that they had pulled away from the wreck when
the rush into their boat took place, and that
they knew nothing of who they let in or who
they kept out. All the second crew could say
was, that they had brought back to the yacht
every living soul left by the first boat on the deck
of the timber ship. There was no blaming any
body; but at the same time there was no re-
sisting the fact that the man was missing.
“All through that day the storm, raging un-
abatedly, never gave us even the shadow of a
chance of returning and searching the wreck.
The one hope for the yacht was to scud. To-
ward evening the gale, after having carried us
to the southward of Madeira, began at last to
break—the wind shifted again—and allowed us
to bear up for the island. Early thenext morn-
ing we got back into port. Mr. Blanchard and
his daughter were taken ashore; the sailing-
master accompanying them, and warning us
that he should have something to say on his re-
turn which would nearly concern the whole
Crew.
“We were mustered on deck and addressed
by the sailing-master as soon as he came on
board again. He had Mr. Blanchard's orders
to go back at once to the timber ship and to
search for the missing man. We were bound
to do this for his sake and for the sake of his
wife, whose reason was despaired of by the doc-
tors if something was not done to quiet her.
We might be almost sure of finding the vessel
still afloat, for her lading of timber would keep
her above water as long as her hull held togeth-
er. If the man was on board—living or dead—
he must be found and brought back. And if
the weather continued to moderate there was no
reason why the men, with proper assistance,
should not bring the ship back too, and (their
master being quite willing) earn their share of
the salvage with the officers of the yacht.
“Upon this the crew gave three cheers, and
set to work forthwith to get the schooner to sea
again. I was the only one of them who drew
back from the enterprise. I told them the
storm had upset me—I was ill, and wanted
rest. They all looked me in the face as I
passed through them on my way out of the
yacht, but not a man of them spoke to me.
“I waited through that day at a tavern on
the port for the first news from the wreck. It
was brought toward nightfall by one of the pilot
boats which had taken part in the enterprise for
saving the abandoned ship. La Grace de Dieu
had been discovered still floating, and the body
of Ingleby had been found on board drowned in
the cabin. At dawn the next morning the dead
man was brought back by the yacht; and on the
same day the funeral took place in the Protest-
ant cemetery.”


24
ARMADALE.
“Stop!” said the voice from the bed, before
the reader could turn to a new leaf and begin
the next paragraph.
There was a change in the room, and there
were changes in the audience since Mr. Neal
had last looked up from the narrative. A ray
of sunshine was crossing the death-bed; and the
child, overcome by drowsiness, lay peacefully
asleep in the golden light. The father's coun-
tenance had altered visibly. Forced into action
by the tortured mind, the muscles of the lower
face, which had never moved yet, were moving
distortedly now. Warned by the damps gath-
ering heavily on his forehead the doctor had
risen to revive the sinking man. On the other
side of the bed the wife's chair stood empty. At
the moment when her husband had interrupted
the reading she had drawn back behind the bed-
head out of his sight. Supporting herself against
the wall she stood there in hiding, her eyes fast-
ened in hungering suspense on the manuscript
in Mr. Neal's hand.
In a minute more the silence was broken
again by Mr. Armadale.
“Where is she?” he asked, looking angrily
at his wife's empty chair. The doctor pointed
to the place. She had no choice but to come
forward. She came slowly and stood before
him.
“You promised to go when I told you,” he
said. “Go now.”
Mr. Neal tried hard to control his hand as it
kept his place between the leaves of the manu-
script, but it trembled in spite of him. A sus-
picion which had been slowly forcing itself on
his mind while he was reading became a cer-
tainty when he heard those words. From one
revelation to another the letter had gone on un-
til it had now reached the brink of a last dis-
closure to come. At that brink the dying man
had predetermined to silence the reader's voice
before he had permitted his wife to hear the nar-
rative read. There was the secret which the
son was to know in after-years, and which the
mother was never to approach. From that res-
olution his wife's tenderest pleadings had never
moved him an inch—and now, from his own
lips, his wife knew it.
She made him no answer. She stood there
and looked at him; looked her last entreaty—
perhaps her last farewell. His eyes gave her
back no answering glance: they wandered from
her mercilessly to the sleeping boy. She turned
speechless from the bed. Without a look at the
child — without a word to the two strangers
breathlessly watching her—she kept the promise
she had given, and in dead silence left the room.
There was something in the manner of her
departure which shook the self-possession of
both the men who witnessed it. When the
door closed on her they recoiled instinctively
from advancing farther in the dark. The doc-
tor's reluctance was the first to express itself.
He attempted to obtain the patient's permission
to withdraw until the letter was completed. The
patient refused.
knowing he was there?
Mr. Neal spoke next at greater length and
to more serious purpose.
“The doctor is accustomed in his profes-
sion,” he began, “and I am accustomed in
mine, to have the secrets of others placed in our
keeping. But it is my duty, before we go far-
ther, to ask if you really understand the ex-
traordinary position which we now occupy to-
ward one another. You have just excluded Mrs.
Armadale, before our own eyes, from a place in
your confidence. And you are now offering that
same place to two men who are total strangers
to you.”
“Yes," said Mr. Armadale—“because you
are strangers.”
Few as the words were, the inference to be
drawn from them was not of a nature to set dis-
trust at rest. Mr. Neal put it plainly into words.
“You are in urgent need of my help and of
the doctor's help,” he said. “Am I to under-
stand (so long as you secure our assistance) that
the impression which the closing passages of this
letter may produce on us is a matter of indiffer-
ence to you?”
“Yes. I don't spare you.
myself. I do spare my wife.”
“You force me to a conclusion, Sir, which
is a very serious one,” said Mr. Neal. “If I
am to finish this letter under your dictation, I
must claim permission—having read aloud the
greater part of it already—to read aloud what
remains, in the hearing of this gentleman, as a
witness.”
“Read it.”
Gravely doubting, the doctor resumed his
chair. Gravely doubting, Mr. Neal turned the
leaf, and read the next words:
I don't spare
“There is more to tell before I can leave the
dead man to his rest. I have described the
finding of his body. But I have not described
the circumstances under which he met his death.
“He was known to have been on deck when
the yacht's boats were seen approaching the
wreck; and he was afterward missed in the
confusion caused by the panic of the crew. At
that time the water was five feet deep in the
cabin, and was rising fast. There was little
doubt of his having gone down into that water
of his own accord. The discovery of his wife's
jewel-box, close under him, on the floor, ex-
plained his presence in the cabin. He was
known to have seen help approaching, and it
was quite likely that he had thereupon gone be-
low to make an effort at saving the box. It was
less probable—though it might still have been
inferred—that his death was the result of some
accident in diving, which had for the moment
deprived him of his senses. But a discovery
made by the yacht's crew pointed straight to a
conclusion which struck the men, one and all,
with the same horror. When the course of their
search brought them to the cabin, they found
the scuttle bolted, and the door locked on the
outside. Had some one closed the cabin, not
Setting the panic-


ARMADALE. 25
stricken condition of the crew out of the ques- A distortion at the corners of his mouth, which
tion, there was no motive for closing the cabin had been barely noticeable when Mr. Neal en-
before leaving the wreck. But one other con- tered the room, was plainly visible now. His
clusion remained. Had some murderous hand slow articulation labored more and more pain-
purposely locked the man in, and left him to fully with every word he uttered. The position
drown as the water rose over him ? was emphatically a terrible one. After a mo-
“Yes. A murderous hand had locked him ment more of hesitation Mr. Neal made a last
in and left him to drown. That hand was mine.” attempt to withdraw from it.
“Now my eyes are open,” he said, sternly,
The Scotchman started up from the table; the “do you dare hold me to an engagement which
doctor shrank from the bedside. The two looked you forced on me blindfold?"
at the dying wretch, mastered by the same loath- “No,” answered Mr. Armadale. “I leave
ing, chilled by the same dread. He lay there, you to break your word.”
with his child's head on his breast; abandoned The look which accompanied that reply stung
by the sympathies of man, accursed by the jus- the Scotchman's pride to the quick. When he
tice of God—he lay there, in the isolation of spoke next, he spoke seated in his former place
Cain, and looked back at them. at the table.
At the moment when the two men rose to their “No man ever yet said of me that I broke my
feet the door leading into the next room was word,” he retorted, angrily; “and not even you
shaken heavily on the outer side, and a sound shall say it of me now. Mind this! If you
like the sound of a fall, striking dull on their hold me to my promise I hold you to my condi-
ears, silenced them both. Standing nearest to tion. I have reserved my freedom of action,
the door, the doctor opened it, passed through, and I warn you I will use it at my own sole dis-
and closed it instantly. Mr. Neal turned his cretion as soon as I am released from the sight
back on the bed, and waited the event in silence. of you.”
The sound, which had failed to awaken the child, “Remember he is dying,” pleaded the doc-
had failed also to attract the father's notice. His tor, gently.
own words had taken him far from all that was “Take your place, Sir,” said Mr. Neal, point-
passing at his death-bed. His helpless body ing to the empty chair. “What remains to be
was back on the wreck, and the ghost of his life-read I will only read in your hearing. What
less hand was turning the lock of the cabin door. remains to be written I will only write in your
A bell rang in the next room—eager voices presence. You brought me here. I have a
talked; hurried footsteps moved in it—an inter- right to insist—and I do insist—on your remain-
val passed, and the doctor returned. “Was she ing as a witness to the last.”
listening?” whispered Mr. Neal, in German. The doctor accepted his position without re-
“The women are restoring her,” the doctor | monstrance. Mr. Neal returned to the manu-
whispered back. “She has heard it all. In script, and read what remained of it uninter-
God's name, what are we to do next?” Before ruptedly to the end:
it was possible to reply Mr. Armadale spoke.
The doctor's return had roused him to a sense “Without a word in my own defense I have
of present things. acknowledged my guilt. Without a word in my
“Go on,” he said, as if nothing had hap- own defense I will reveal how the crime was
pened. committed.
“I refuse to meddle further with your infa- “No thought of him was in my mind when I
mous secret,” returned Mr. Neal. “You are a saw his wife insensible on the deck of the tim-
murderer on your own confession. If that let-ber ship. I did my part in lowering her safely
ter is to be finished, don't ask me to hold the pen into the boat. Then, and not till then, I felt
for you.” the thought of him coming back. In the confu-
“You gave me your promise,” was the reply, [sion that prevailed while the men of the yacht
spoken with the same immovable self-possession. were forcing the men of the ship to wait their
“You must write for me, or break your word." time I had an opportunity of searching for him
For the moment Mr. Neal was silenced. unobserved. I stepped back from the bulwark,
There the man lay—sheltered from the execra- not knowing whether he was away in the first
tion of his fellow-creatures under the shadow of boat, or whether he was still on board—I stepped
Death—beyond the reach of all human condem- back, and saw him mount the cabin stairs empty-
nation, beyond the dread of all mortal laws; handed, with the water dripping from him. Aft-
sensitive to nothing but his one last resolution er looking eagerly toward the boat (without no-
to finish the letter addressed to his son. ticing me), he saw there was time to spare before
Mr. Neal drew the doctor aside. “A word the crew were taken off. “Once more !” he said
with you,” he said, in German. “Do you per- to himself—and disappeared again, to make a
sist in asserting that he may be speechless be- last effort at recovering the jewel-box. The
fore we can send to Stuttgart?” devil at my elbow whispered, ‘Don’t shoot him
“Look at his lips,” said the doctor, “and like a man: drown him like a dog!'. He was
judge for yourself.” under water when I bolted the scuttle. But his
His lips answered for him: the reading of he'd rose to the surface before I could close the
the narrative had left its mark on them already. cabin door. I looked at him, and he looked at
B


26
ARMADALE.
me—and I locked the door in his face. The
next minute I was back among the last men left
on deck. The minute after it was too late to
repent. The storm was threatening us with de-
struction, and the boat's crew were pulling for
their lives from the ship.
“My son! I have pursued you from my grave
with a confession which my love might have
spared you. Read on, and you will know why.
“I will say nothing of my sufferings; I will
plead for no mercy to my memory. There is a
strange sinking at my heart, a strange trembling
in my hand, while I write these lines, which warns
me to hasten to the end. I left the island with-
out daring to look for the last time at the woman
whom I had lost so miserably, whom I had in-
jured so vilely. When I left the whole weight
of the suspicion roused by the manner of Ingle-
by's death rested on the crew of the French ves-
sel. No motive for the supposed murder could
be brought home to any of them—but they were
known to be, for the most part, outlawed ruf-
fians capable of any crime, and they were sus-
pected and examined accordingly. It was not
till afterward that I heard by accident of the
suspicion shifting round at last to me. The
widow alone recognized the vague description
given of the strange man who had made one of
the yacht's crew, and who had disappeared the
day afterward. The widow alone knew, from
that time forth, why her husband had been mur-
dered, and who had done the deed. When she
made that discovery a false report of my death
had been previously circulated in the island.
Perhaps I was indebted to the report for my im-
munity from all legal proceedings—perhaps (no
eye but Ingleby's having seen me lock the cabin
door) there was not evidence enough to justify
an inquiry—perhaps the widow shrank from the
disclosures which must have followed a public
charge against me, based on her own bare sus-
picion of the truth. However it might be, the
crime which I had committed unseen has re-
mained a crime unpunished from that time to
this.
“I left Madeira for the West Indies in dis-
guise. The first news that met me when the
ship touched at Barbadoes was the news of my
mother's death. I had no heart to return to the
old scenes. The prospect of living at home in
solitude, with the torment of my own guilty re-
membrances gnawing at me day and night, was
more than I had the courage to confront. With-
out landing, or discovering myself to any one on
shore, I went on as far as the ship would take
me—to the island of Trinidad.
“At that place I first saw your mother. It
was my duty to tell her the truth—and I treach-
erously kept my secret. It was my duty to spare
her the hopeless sacrifice of her freedom and her
happiness to such an existence as mine—and I
did her the injury of marrying her. If she is
alive when you read this, grant her the mercy
of still concealing the truth. The one atone-
ment I can make to her is to keep her unsus-
picious to the last of the man she has married.
Pity her, as I have pitied her. Let this letter
be a sacred confidence between father and son.
“The time when you were born was the time
when my health began to give way. Some
months afterward, in the first days of my re-
covery, you were brought to me, and I was told
that you had been christened during my illness.
Your mother had done as other loving mothers
do—she had christened her first-born by his fa-
ther's name. You, too, were Allan Armadale.
Even in that early time—even while I was hap-
pily ignorant of what I have discovered since—
my mind misgave me when I looked at you and
thought of that fatal name.
“As soon as I could be moved my presence
was required at my estates in Barbadoes. It
crossed my mind—wild as the idea may appear
to you-to renounce the condition which com-
pelled my son as well as myself to take the Ar-
madale name, or lose the succession to the Ar-
madale property. . But, even in those days, the
rumor of a contemplated emancipation of the
slaves—the emancipation which is now close at
hand—was spreading widely in the colony. No
man could tell how the value of West Indian
property might be affected if that threatened
change ever took place. No man could tell—
if I gave you back my own paternal name, and
left you without other provision in the future
than my own paternal estate—how you might
one day miss the broad Armadale acres, or to
what future penury I might be blindly condemn-
ing your mother and yourself. Mark how the
fatalities gathered one on the other! Mark
how your Christian name came to you, how
your surname held to you, in spite of me?
“My health had improved in my old home;
but it was for a time only. I sank again, and
the doctors ordered me to Europe. Avoiding
England (why, you may guess), I took my pas-
sage, with you and your mother, for France.
From France we passed into Italy. We lived
here; we lived there. It was useless. Death
had got me; and Death followed me, go where
I might. I bore it, for I had an alleviation to
turn to which I had not deserved. You may
shrink in horror from the very memory of me
now. In those days you comforted me. The
only warmth I still felt at my heart was the
warmth you brought to it. My last glimpses
of happiness in this world were the glimpses
given me by my infant son.
“We removed from Italy, and went next to
Lausanne—the place from which I am now writ-
ing to you. The post of this morning has brought
me news, later and fuller than any I had received
thus far, of the widow of the murdered man.
The letter lies before me while I write. It
comes from a friend of my early days, who has
seen her, and spoken to her—who has been the
first to inform her that the report of my death
in Madeira was false. He writes, at a loss to
account for the violent agitation which she
showed on hearing that I was still alive, that I
was married, and that I had an infant son. He
asks me if I can explain it. He speaks in


ARMADALE.
27
terms of sympathy for her—a young and beau-
tiful woman, buried in the retirement of a fish-
ing village on the Devonshire coast; her father
dead; her family estranged from her, in merci-
less disapproval of her marriage. He writes
words which might have cut me to the heart
but for a closing passage in his letter, which
seized my whole attention the instant I came to
it, and which has forced from me the narrative
which these pages contain.
“I now know what never even entered my
mind as a suspicion till the letter reached me.
I now know that the widow of the man whose
death lies at my door has borne a posthumous
child. That child is a boy—a year older than
my own son. Secure in her belief in my death
his mother has done what my son's mother did:
she has christened her child by his father's
name. Again, in the second generation, there
are two Allan Armadales as there were in the
first. After working its deadly mischief with
the fathers the fatal resemblance of names has
descended to work its deadly mischief with the
Sons.
“Guiltless minds may see nothing thus far
but the result of a series of events which could
lead no other way. I—with that man's life to
answer for—I, going down into my grave, with
my crime unpunished and unatoned, see what
no guiltless minds can discern. I see danger
in the future, begotten of the danger in the past
—treachery that is the offspring of his treach-
ery, and crime that is the child of my crime.
Is the dread that now shakes me to the soul a
phantom raised by the superstition of a dying
man? I look into the Book which all Chris-
tendom venerates, and the Book tells me that
the sin of the father shall be visited on the child.
I look out into the world, and I see the living
witnesses round me to that terrible truth. I
see the vices which have contaminated the fa-
ther descending and contaminating the child;
I see the shame which has disgraced the father's
name descending and disgracing the child's. I
look in on myself—and I see My Crime ripen-
ing again for the future in the self-same circum-
stance which first sowed the seeds of it in the
past, and descending, in inherited contamina-
tion of Evil, from me to my son.”
At those lines the writing ended. There the
stroke had struck him, and the pen had dropped
from his hand.
He knew the place; he remembered the words.
At the instant when the reader's voice stopped
he looked eagerly at the doctor. “I have got
what comes next in my mind,” he said, with
slower and slower articulation. “Help me to
speak it.”
The doctor administered a stimulant, and
signed to Mr. Neal to give him time. After a
little delay the flame of the sinking spirit leap-
ed up in his eyes once more. Resolutely strug-
memory gave them back to him, one by one, in
these words:
“Despise my dying conviction if you will—
but grant me, I solemnly implore you, one last
request. My son : the only hope I have left
for you hangs on a Great Doubt—the doubt
whether we are, or are not, the masters of our
own destinies. It may be that mortal free-will
can conquer mortal fate; and that going, as we
all do, inevitably to death, we go inevitably to
nothing that is before death. If this be so, in-
deed, respect—though you respect nothing else
—the warning which I give you from my grave.
Never, to your dying day, let any living soul
approach you who is associated, directly or in-
directly, with the crime which your father has
committed. Avoid the widow of the man I
killed—if the widow still lives. Avoid the
maid whose wicked hand smoothed the way to
the marriage—if the maid is still in her service.
And more than all, avoid the man who bears
the same name as your own. Offend your best
benefactor, if that benefactor's influence has
connected you one with the other. Desert the
woman who loves you, if that woman is a link
between you and him. Hide yourself from him
under an assumed name. Put the mountains
and the seas between you. Be ungrateful; be
unforgiving; be all that is most repellant to
your own gentler nature rather than live under
the same roof and breathe the same air with
that man. Never let the two Allan Armadales
meet in this world; never, never, never!
“There lies the way by which you may escape
—if any way there be. Take it, if you prize
your own innocence and your own happiness,
through all your life to come!
“I have done. If I could have trusted any
weaker influence than the influence of this con-
fession to incline you to my will, I would have
spared you the disclosure which these pages con-
tain. You are lying on my breast, sleeping the
innocent sleep of a child, while a stranger's hand
writes these words for you as they fall from my
lips. Think what the strength of my convic-
tion must be, when I can find the courage, on
my death-bed, to darken all your young life at
its outset with the shadow of your father's crime.
Think—and be warned. Think—and forgive
me if you can.”
There it ended.
words to the son.
Inexorably faithful to his forced duty, Mr.
Neal laid aside the pen, and read over aloud the
lines he had just written. “Is there more to
add!” he asked, with his pitilessly steady voice.
There was no more to add.
Mr. Neal folded the manuscript, inclosed it in
a sheet of paper, and sealed it with Mr. Arma-
dale's own seal. “The address,” he said, with
his merciless business formality. “To Allan
Those were the father's last
gling with his failing speech, he summoned the Armadale, Junior,” he wrote, as the words were
Scotchman to take the pen; and pronounced dictated from the bed.
“Care of Godfrey Ham-
the closing sentences of the narrative, as his mick, Esq., Offices of Messrs. Hammick and


28
ARMADALF.
Ridge, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London.”
Hav-
The doctor bent his head gravely. “Put
ing written the address, he waited and consid- your question at once,” he repeated, “or you
ered for a moment.
this?” he asked.
“No! he is to give it to my son when my son
is of an age to understand it.”
“In that case,” pursued Mr. Neal, with all
his wits in remorseless working order, “I will
add a dated note to the address, repeating your
own words as you have just spoken them, and
explaining the circumstances under which my
handwriting appears on the document.” He
wrote the note in the briefest and plainest terms
—read it over aloud as he had read over what
went before-signed his name and address at the
end, and made the doctor sign next, as witness
of the proceedings, and as medical evidence of
the condition in which Mr. Armadale then lay.
This done, he placed the letter in a second in-
closure, sealed it as before, and directed it to
Mr. Hammick, with the superscription of “pri-
vate” added to the address.
“Do you insist on my posting this?" he ask-
ed, rising with the letter in his hand.
“Give him time to think,” said the doctor.
“For the child's sake give him time to think.
A minute may change him.”
“I will give him five minutes,” answered Mr.
Neal, placing his watch on the table, implacably
just to the very last.
They waited, both looking attentively at Mr.
Armadale. The signs of change which had
appeared in him already were multiplying fast.
The movement which continued mental agita-
tion had communicated to the muscles of his
face was beginning, under the same dangerous
influence, to spread downward. His once help-
less hands lay still no longer; they struggled
pitiably on the bed-clothes. At sight of that
warning token the doctor turned with a gesture
of alarm, and beckoned Mr. Neal to come nearer.
“Put the question at once,” he said; “if you
let the five minutes pass you may be too late.”
Mr. Neal approached the bed. He, too, no-
ticed the movement of the hands. “Is that a
bad sign?” he asked.
“Is your executor to open may be too late.”
Mr. Neal held the letter before the eyes of
the dying man. “Do you know what this is?”
“My letter.”
“Do you insist on my posting it?”
He mastered his failing speech for the last
time, and gave the answer.
“Yes!”
Mr. Neal moved to the door with the letter
in his hand. The German followed him a few
steps, opened his lips to plead for a longer delay,
met the Scotchman's inexorable eye, and drew
back again in silence. The door closed and
parted them without a word having passed on
either side.
The doctor went back to the bed, and whis-
pered to the sinking man, “Let me call him
back; there is time to stop him yet!” It was
useless. No answer came: nothing showed that
he heeded, or even heard. His eyes wandered
from the child, rested for a moment on his own
struggling hand, and looked up entreatingly in
the compassionate face that bent over him. The
doctor lifted the hand-paused—followed the fa-
ther's longing eyes back to the child—and, in-
terpreting his last wish, moved the hand gently
toward the boy's head. The hand touched it,
and trembled violently. In another instant the
trembling seized on the arm, and spread over
the whole upper part of the body. The face
turned from pale to red; from red to purple;
from purple to pale again. Then the toiling
hands lay still, and the shifting color changed
no more.
The window of the next room was open when
the doctor entered it from the death-chamber
with the child in his arms. He looked out as
he passed by, and saw Mr. Neal in the street
below, slowly returning to the inn.
“Where is the letter?” he asked.
Three words sufficed for the Scotchman's an-
SWer.
“In the post.”


ARMADALE.
B O O K. I. I.
CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERY OF OZLAS MIDWINTER.
ON a warm May night, in the year eighteen
hundred and fifty-one, the Reverend Decimus
Brock—at that time a visitor to the Isle of
Man—retired to his bedroom, at Castletown,
with a serious personal responsibility in close
pursuit of him, and with no distinct idea of the
means by which he might relieve himself from
the pressure of his present circumstances.
The clergyman had reached that mature pe-
riod of human life at which a sensible man learns
to decline (as often as his temper will let him)
all useless conflict with the tyranny of his own
troubles. Abandoning any further effort to
reach a decision in the emergency that now be-
set him, Mr. Brock sat down placidly in his
shirt-sleeves on the side of his bed, and applied
his mind to consider next, whether the emerg-
ency itself was as serious as he had hitherto
been inclined to think it. Following this new
way out of his perplexities, Mr. Brock found
himself unexpectedly traveling to the end in
view, by the least inspiriting of all human jour-
neys—a journey through the past years of his
own life.
One by one the events of those years—all
connected with the same little group of charac-
ters, and all more or less answerable for the anx-
|
|
ive series, on Mr. Brock's memory. The first
of the series took him back through a period of
fourteen years, to his own rectory on the Somer-
setshfire shores of the Bristol Channel, and clos-
eted him at a private interview with a lady who
had paid him a visit in the character of a total
stranger to the parson and the place.
The lady's complexion was fair, the lady's
figure was well-preserved; she was still a young
woman, and she looked even younger than her
age. There was a shade of melancholy in her
expression, and an under-tone of suffering in her
voice—enough in each case to indicate that she
had known trouble, but not enough to obtrude
that trouble on the notice of others. She brought
with her a fine fair-haired boy of eight years
old, whom she presented as her son, and who
was sent out of the way at the beginning of the
interview to amuse himself in the rectory gar-
den. Her card had preceded her entrance into
the study, and had announced her under the
name of “Mrs. Armadale.” Mr. Brock began
to feel interested in her before she had opened
her lips; and when the son had been dismissed
he waited with some anxiety to hear what the
mother had to say to him.
Mrs. Armfadale began by informing the rector
that she was a widow. Her husband had per-
ished by shipwreck, a short time after their
union, on the voyage from Madeira to Lisbon.
She had been brought to England after her af.
fliction under her father's protection; and her
child—a posthumous son—had been born on the
family estate in Norfolk. Her father's death,
shortly afterward had deprived her of her only
surviving parent, and had exposed her to neglect
and misconstruction on the part of her remaining
relatives (two brothers), which had estranged her
from them, she feared, for the rest of her days.
For some time past she had lived in the neigh-
boring county of Devonshire, devoting herself
to the education of her boy—who had now
reached an age at which he required other than
his mother's teaching. Leaving out of the ques-
tion her own unwillingness to part with him in
her solitary position, she was especially anxious
that he should not be thrown among strangers
by being sent to school. Her darling project
was to bring him up privately at home, and to
keep him, as he advanced in years, from all
contact with the temptations and the dangers
of the world. With these objects in view her
longer sojourn in her own locality (where the
services of the resident clergyman in the capaci-
ty of tutor were not obtainable) must come to
iety which was now intruding itself between the an end. She had made inquiries, had heard of
clergyman and his night's rest—rose, in progress- a house that would suit her in Mr. Brock's


30
ARMADALE.
neighborhood, and had also been told that Mr. Armadale, with no small difficulty, to let her
Brock himself had formerly been in the habit son have his way. At the period of that second
of taking pupils. Possessed of this information
she had ventured to present herself with refer-
ences that vouched for her respectability, but
without a formal introduction; and she had now
to ask whether (in the event of her residing in
the neighborhood) any terms that could be of-
fered would induce Mr. Brock to open his doors
once more to a pupil, and to allow that pupil to
be her son.
If Mrs. Armadale had been a woman of no
personal attractions, or if Mr. Brock had been
provided with an intrenchment to fight behind,
in the shape of a wife, it is probable that the
widow's journey might have been taken in vain.
As things really were, the rector examined the
references which were offered to him, and asked
time for consideration. When the time had ex-
pired he did what Mrs. Armadale wished him
to do—he offered his back to the burden, and
let the mother load him with the responsibility
of the son.
This was the first event of the series, the date
of it being the year eighteen hundred and thirty-
seven. Mr. Brock's memory, traveling forward
toward the present from that point, picked up
the second event in its turn, and stopped next
at the year eighteen hundred and forty-five.
The fishing village on the Somersetshire coast
was stili the scene, and the characters were once
again Mrs. Armadale and her son. Through the
eight years that had passed Mr. Brock's re-
sponsibility had rested on him lightly enough.
The boy had given his mother and his tutor but
little trouble. He was certainly slow over his
books, but more from a constitutional inability
to fix his attention on his tasks than from want
of capacity to understand them. His tempera-
ment, it could not be denied, was heedless to
the last degree: he acted recklessly on his first
impulses, and rushed blindfold at all his conclu-
sions. On the other hand, it was to be said in
his favor that his disposition was open as the
day; a more generous, affectionate, sweet-
tempered lad it would have been hard to find
any where. A certain quaint originality of
character, and a natural healthiness in all his
tastes, carried him free of most of the dangers
to which his mother's system of education inev-
itably exposed him. He had a thoroughly En-
glish love of the sea and of all that belongs to it;
and, as he grew in years, there was no luring
him away from the water-side, and no keeping
him out of the boat-builder's yard. In course
of time his mother caught him actually working
there, to her infinite annoyance and surprise, as
a volunteer. He acknowledged that his whole
future ambition was to have a yard of his own,
and that his one present object was to learn to
build a boat for himself. Wisely foreseeing that
such a pursuit as this for his leisure hours was
exactly what was wanted to reconcile the lad to
a position of isolation from companions of his
own rank and age, Mr. Brock prevailed on Mrs.
event in the clergyman's life with his pupil,
which is now to be related, young Armadale
had practiced long enough in the builder's yard
to have reached the summit of his wishes, by
laying with his own hands the keel of his own
boat.
Late on a certain summer day, not long after
Allan had completed his sixteenth year, Mr.
Brock left his pupil hard at work in the yard,
and went to spend the evening with Mrs. Arma-
dale, taking the Times newspaper with him in
his hand.
The years that had passed since they had first
met had long since regulated the lives of the
clergyman and his neighbor. The first ad-
vances which Mr. Brock's growing admiration
for the widow had led him to make, in the early
days of their intercourse, had been met, on her
side, by an appeal to his forbearance which had
closed his lips for the future. She had satis-
fied him, at once and forever, that the one place
in her heart which he could hope to occupy was
the place of a friend. He loved her well enough
to take what she would give him : friends they
became, and friends they remained from that
time forth. No jealous dread of another man's
succeeding where he had failed embittered the
clergyman's placid relations with the woman
whom he loved. Of the few resident gentlemen
in the neighborhood none were ever admitted by
Mrs. Armadale to more than the merest ac-
quaintance with her. Contentedly self-buried
in her country retreat, she was proof against
every social attraction that would have tempted
other women in her position and at her age.
Mr. Brock and his newspaper appearing with
monotonous regularity at her tea-table three
times a week told her all she knew, or cared to
know, of the great outer world which circled
round the narrow and changeless limits of her
daily life.
On the evening in question Mr. Brock took
the arm-chair in which he always sat, accepted
the one cup of tea which he always drank, and
opened the newspaper which he always read
aloud to Mrs. Armadale, who invariably list-
ened to him reclining on the same sofa, with
the same sort of needle-work everlastingly in her
hand.
“Bless my soul!” cried the rector, with his
voice in a new octave, and his eyes fixed in
astonishment on the first page of the news-
paper.
No such introduction to the evening readings
as this had ever happened before in all Mrs.
Armadale's experience as a listener. She look-
ed up from the sofa in a flutter of curiosity, and
besought her reverend friend to favor her with
an explanation.
“I can hardly believe my own eyes,” said
Mr. Brock. “Here is an advertisement, Mrs.
Armadale, addressed to your son.”
Without further preface he read the adver-
tisement, as follows:


ARMADALE.
31
IF THIS should meet the eye of ALLAN ARMADALE, he is
desired to communicate, either personally or by letter,
with Messrs. Hammick and Ridge (Lincoln's Inn Fields,
London), on business of importance which seriously con-
cerns him. Any one capable of informing Messrs. H. and
R. where the person herein advertised can be found, would
confer a favor by doing the same. To prevent mistakes,
it is further notified that the missing Allan Armadale is a
youth aged fifteen years, and that this advertisement is
inserted at the instance of his family and friends.
“Another family and other friends,” said
Mrs. Armadale. “The person whose name
appears in that advertisement is not my son.”
The tone in which she spoke surprised Mr.
Brock. The change in her face when he look-
ed up shocked him. Her delicate complexion
had faded away to a dull white; her eyes were
averted from her visitor with a strange mixture
of confusion and alarm; she looked an older
woman than she was by ten good years at least.
“The name is so very uncommon,” said Mr.
Brock, imagining he had offended her, and try-
ing to excuse himself. “It really seemed im-
possible there could be two persons—”
“There are two,” interposed Mrs. Armadale.
“Allan, as you know, is sixteen years old. If
you look back at the advertisement you will find
the missing person described as being only fif-
teen. Although he bears the same surname
and the same Christian name, he is, I thank
God, in no way whatever related to my son.
As long as I live it will be the object of my hopes
and prayers that Allan may never see him, may
never even hear of him. My kind friend, I
see I surprise you; will you bear with me if I
leave these strange circumstances unexplained?
There is past misfortune and misery in my early
life too painful for me to speak of even to you.
Will you help me to bear the remembrance of it
by never referring to this again? Will you do
even more—will you promise not to speak of it
to Allan, and not to let that newspaper fall in his
way?”
Mr. Brock gave the pledge required of him,
and considerately left her to herself.
The rector had been too long and too truly
attached to Mrs. Armadale to be capable of re-
garding her with any unworthy distrust. But it
would be idle to deny that he felt disappointed
by her want of confidence in him, and that he
looked inquisitively at the advertisement more
than once on his way back to his own house.
It was clear enough now that Mrs. Armadale's
motive for burying her son as well as herself in
the seclusion of a remote country village was
not so much to keep him under her own eye as
to keep him from discovery by his namesake.
Why did she dread the idea of their ever meet-
ing? Was it a dread for herself, or a dread for
her son? Mr. Brock's loyal belief in his friend
rejected any solution of the difficulty which point-
ed at some past misconduct of Mrs. Armadale's,
and which associated it with those painful re-
membrances to which she had alluded, or with
the estrangement from her brothers which had
now kept her parted for years from her relatives
and her home. That night he destroyed the
advertisement with his own hand; that night
he resolved that the subject should never be suf-
fered to enter his mind again. There was an-
other Allan Armadale about the world, a stranger
to his pupil's blood, and a vagabond advertised
in the public newspapers. So much accident
had revealed to him. More, for Mrs. Armadale's
sake, he had no wish to discover—and more he
would never seek to know.
This was the second in the series of events
which dated from the rector's connection with
Mrs. Armadale and her son. Mr. Brock's mem-
ory, traveling on nearer and nearer to present
circumstances, reached the third stage of its
journey through the by-gone time, and stopped
at the year eighteen hundred and fifty next.
The five years that had passed had made lit-
tle if any change in Allan's character. He had
simply developed (to use his tutor's own ex-
pression) from a boy of sixteen to a boy of
twenty-one. He was just as easy and open in
his disposition as ever; just as quaintly and in-
veterately good-humored; just as heedless in fol-
lowing his own impulses, lead him where they
might. His bias toward the sea had strength-
ened with his advance to the years of manhood.
From building a boat, he had now got on—with
two journeymen at work under him—to building
a decked vessel of five-and-thirty tons. Mr.
Brock had conscientiously tried to divert him
to higher aspirations; had taken him to Oxford
to see what college life was like; had taken him
to London to expand his mind by the spectacle
of the great metropolis. The change had di-
verted Allan, but \had not altered him in the
least. He was as impenetrably superior to all
worldly ambition as Diogenes himself. “Which
is best,” asked this unconscious philosopher, “to
find out the way to be happy for yourself, or to
let other people try if they can find it out for
you?” From that moment Mr. Brock permitted
his pupil's character to grow at its own rate of
development, and Allan went on uninterrupted-
ly with the work of his yacht.
Time, which had wrought so little change in
the son, had not passed harmless over the mo-
ther. Mrs. Armadale's health was breaking
fast. As her strength failed her temper altered
for the worse: she grew more and more fretful,
more and more subject to morbid fears and fan-
cies, more and more reluctant to leave her own
room. Since the appearance of the advertise-
ment, five years since, nothing had happened to
force her memory back to the painful associations
connected with her early life. No word more
on the forbidden topic had passed between the
rector and herself; no suspicion had ever been
raised in Allan's mind of the existence of his
namesake; and yet, without the shadow of a
reason for any special anxiety, Mrs. Armadale
had become of late years obstinately and fret-
fully uneasy on the subject of her son. At one
time she would congratulate herself on the fancy
for yacht-building and sailing which kept him
happy and occupied under her own eye. At


32
ARMADALE.
another she spoke with horror of his trusting
himself habitually to the treacherous ocean on
which her husband had met his death. Now
in one way, and now in another, she tried her
son's forbearance as she had never tried it in her
healthier and happier days. More than once
Mr. Brock dreaded a serious disagreement be-
tween them; but Allan's natural sweetness of
temper, fortified by his love for his mother, car-
Not
ried him triumphantly through all trials.
a hard-word or a harsh look ever escaped him in
her presence; he was unchangeably loving and
forbearing with her to the very last.
Such were the positions of the son, the mo-
ther, and the friend, when the next notable event
happened in the lives of the three. On a dreary
afternoon, early in the month of November, Mr.
Brock was disturbed over the composition of his
sermon by a visit from the landlord of the vil-
lage inn.
After making his introductory apologies the
landlord stated the urgent business on which he
had come to the rectory clearly enough. A few
hours since a young man had been brought to
the inn by some farm-laborers in the neighbor-
hood, who had found him wandering about one
of their master's fields, in a disordered state of
mind, which looked to their eyes like downright
madness. The landlord had given the poor
creature shelter while he sent for medical help;
and the doctor, on seeing him, had pronounced
that he was suffering from fever on the brain,
and that his removal to the nearest town at
which a hospital or a work-house infirmary could
be found to receive him would, in all probabili-
ty, be fatal to his chances of recovery. After
hearing this expression of opinion, and after ob-
serving for himself that the stranger's only lug-
gage consisted of a small carpet-bag which had
been found in the field near him, the landlord
had set off on the spot to consult the rector,
and to ask, in this serious emergency, what
course he was to take next.
Mr. Brock was the magistrate as well as the
clergyman of the district, and the course to be
taken, in the first instance, was to his mind
clear enough. He put on his hat and accom-
panied the landlord back to the inn.
At the inn-door they were joined by Allan,
who had heard the news through another chan-
nel, and who was waiting Mr. Brock's arrival
to follow in the magistrate's train, and to see
what the stranger was like. The village sur-
geon joined them at the same moment, and the
four went into the inn together.
They found the landlord's son on one side
and the hostler on the other, holding the man
down in his chair. Young, slim, and under-
sized, he was strong enough at that moment to
make it a matter of difficulty for the two to
master him. His tawny complexion, his large
bright brown eyes, his black mustaches and
beard, gave him something of a foreign look.
His dress was a little worn, but his linen was
clean. His dusky hands were wiry and nerv-
ous, and were lividly discolored in more places
than one by the scars of old wounds. The toes
of one of his feet, off which he had kicked the
shoe, grasped at the chair-rail through his stock-
ing, with the sensitive muscular action which
is only seen in those who have been accustomed
to go barefoot. In the frenzy that now pos-
sessed him it was impossible to notice, to any
useful purpose, more than this. After a whis-
pered consultation with Mr. Brock, the surgeon
personally superintended the patient's removal
to a quiet bedroom at the back of the house.
Shortly afterward his clothes and his carpet-bag
were sent down stairs, and were searched, on
the chance of finding a clew by which to com-
municate with his friends, in the magistrate's
presence.
The carpet-bag contained nothing but a
change of clothing and two books—the Plays
of Sophocles, in the original Greek, and the
“Faust” of Goethe, in the original German.
Both volumes were much worn by reading;
and on the fly-leaf of each were inscribed the
initials O. M. So much the bag revealed, and
110 more.
The clothes which the man wore when he
was discovered in the field were tried next. A
purse (containing a sovereign and a few shil-
lings), a pipe, a tobacco-pouch, a handkerchief,
and a little drinking-cup of horn, were produced
in succession. The next object, and the last,
was found crumpled up carelessly in the breast-
pocket of the coat. It was a written testimo-
nial to character, dated and signed, but without
any address. So far as this document could
tell it, the stranger's story was a sad one indeed.
He had apparently been employed for a short
time as usher at a school, and had been turned
adrift in the world at the outset of his illness,
from the fear that the fever might be infectious,
and that the prosperity of the establishment
might suffer accordingly. Not the slightest
imputation of any misbehavior in his employ-
ment rested on him. On the contrary, the
schoolmaster had great pleasure in testifying to
his capacity and his character, and in express-
ing a fervent hope that he might (under Provi-
dence) succeed in recovering his health in some-
body else's house.
The written testimonial which afforded this
glimpse at the man's story served one purpose
more—it connected him with the initials on the
books, and identified him to the magistrate and
the landlord under the strangely uncouth name
of Ozias Midwinter.
Mr. Brock laid aside the testimonial, suspect-
ing that the schoolmaster had purposely abstain-
ed from writing his address on it, with the view
of escaping all responsibility in the event of his
usher's death. In any case it was manifestly
useless, under existing circumstances, to think
of tracing the poor wretch's friends—if friends
he had. To the inn he had been brought, and,
as a matter of common humanity, at the inn he
must remain for the present. The difficulty
about expenses, if it came to the worst, might
possibly be met by charitable contributions from


ARMADALE.
33
the neighbors, or by a collection after a sermon
at church. Assuring the landlord that he would
consider this part of the question, and would let
him know the result, Mr. Brock quitted the inn,
without noticing for the moment that he had
left Allan there behind him.
Before he had got fifty yards from the house
his pupil overtook him. Allan had been most
uncharacteristically silent and serious all through
the search at the inn, but he had now recovered
his usual high spirits. A stranger would have
set him down as wanting in common feeling.
“This is a sad business,” said the rector.
“I really don't know what to do for the best
about that unfortunate man.”
“You may make your mind quite easy, Sir,”
said young Armadale, in his offhand way. “I
settled it all with the landlord a minute ago.”
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Brock, in the utmost
astonishment.
“I have merely given a few simple direc-
tions,” pursued Allan. “Our friend the usher
is to have every thing he requires, and is to be
treated like a prince; and when the doctor and
the landlord want their money they are to come
to me.”
“My dear Allan,” Mr. Brock gently remon-
strated. “When will you learn to think before
you act on those generous impulses of yours?
You are spending more money already on your
yacht-building than you can afford—”
“Only think! we laid the first planks of the
deck the day before yesterday,” said Allan, fly-
ing off to the new subject in his usual bird-wit-
ted way. “There's just enough of it done to
walk on, if you don't feel giddy. I'll help you
up the ladder, Mr. Brock, if you'll only come
and try.”
“Listen to me,” persisted the rector; “I’m
not talking about the yacht now. That is to
say, I am only referring to the yacht as an illus-
tration—”
“And a very pretty illustration too,” re-
marked the incorrigible Allan. “Find me a
smarter little vessel of her size in all England
and I'll give up yacht-building to-morrow.
Whereabouts were we in our conversation, Sir?
I'm rather afraid we have lost ourselves some-
how.”
‘‘I am rather afraid one of us is in the habit
of losing himself every time he opens his lips,”
retorted Mr. Brock. “Come, come, Allan, this
is serious. You have been rendering yourself
liable for expenses which you may not be able
to pay. Mind, I am far from blaming you for
your kind feeling toward this poor friendless
man—”
“Don’t be low-spirited about him, Sir. He'll
get over it—he'll be all right again in a week or
so. A capital fellow, I have not the least doubt!”
continued Allan, whose habit it was to believe
in every body and to despair of nothing. “Sup-
dinary name of his. Ozias Midwinter | Upon
my life, his father ought to be ashamed of him-
self.”
“Will you answer me one question before I
go in?” said the rector, stopping in despair at
his own gate. “This man's bill for lodging and
medical attendance may mount to twenty or
thirty pounds before he gets well again, if he
ever does get well. How are you to pay it?”
“What's that the Chancellor of the Excheq-
uer says when he finds himself in a mess with
his accounts, and doesn’t see his way out again?”
asked Allan. “He always tells his honorable
friend he's quite willing to leave a something or
other—”
“A margin?” suggested Mr. Brock.
“That's it,” said Allan. “I’m like the Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer. I’m quite willing to
leave a margin. The yacht (bless her heart!)
doesn't eat up every thing. If I'm short by a
pound or two, don't be afraid, Sir. There's no
pride about me. I'll go round with the hat, and
get the balance in the neighborhood. Deuce
take the pounds, shillings, and pence! I wish
they could all three get rid of themselves like
the Bedouin brothers at the show. Don't you
remember the Bedouin brothers, Mr. Brock?
‘Ali will take a lighted torch, and jump down
the throat of his brother Muli—Muli will take
a lighted torch, and jump down the throat of
his brother Hassan—and Hassan, taking a third
lighted torch, will conclude the performances by
jumping down his own throat, and leaving the
spectators in total darkness. Wonderfully good
that—what I call real wit, with a fine strong fla-
vor about it. Wait a minute! Where are we?
We have lost ourselves again. Oh, I remem-
ber—money. What I can't beat into my thick
head,” concluded Allan, quite unconscious that
he was preaching socialist doctrines to a clergy-
man, “is the meaning of the fuss that's made
about giving money away. Why can’t the peo-
ple who have got money to spare give it to the
people who haven't got money to spare, and
make things pleasant and comfortable all the
world over in that way? You're always telling
me to cultivate ideas, Mr. Brock. There's an
idea, and, upon my life, I don't think it's a bad
one.” *
Mr. Brock gave his pupil a good-humored
poke with the end of his stick. “Go back to
your yacht,” he said. “All the little discre-
tion you have got in that flighty head of yours
is left on board in your tool-chest. How that
lad will end,” pursued the rector when he was
left by himself, “is more than any human being
can say. I almost wish I had never taken the
responsibility of him on my shoulders.”
Three weeks passed before the stranger with
the uncouth name was pronounced to be at last
on the way to recovery. During this period
Allan had made regular inquiries at the inn,
pose you ask him to dinner when he gets well, and as soon as the sick man was allowed to see
Mr. Brock? I should like to find out (when we visitors Allan was the first who appeared at his
are all three snug and friendly together over our bedside. So far Mr. Brock's pupil had shown
wine, you know) how he came by that extraor- no more than a natural interest in one of the


34
ARMADALE.
few romantic circumstances which had varied
the monotony of the village life: he had com-
mitted no imprudence, and he had exposed him-
self to no blame. But as the days passed young
Armadale's visits to the inn began to lengthen
considerably, and the surgeon (a cautious elder-
ly man) gave the rector a private hint to bestir
himself. Mr. Brock acted on the hint imme-
diately, and discovered that Allan had followed
his usual impulses in his usual headlong way.
He had taken a violent fancy to the castaway
usher; and had invited Ozias Midwinter to re-
side permanently in the neighborhood, in the
new and interesting character of his bosom
friend.
Before Mr. Brock could make up his mind
how to act in this emergency he received a note
from Allan's mother, begging him to use his
privilege as an old friend, and to pay her a visit
in her room. He found Mrs. Armadale suffer-
ing under violent nervous agitation, caused en-
tirely by a recent interview with her son. Al-
lan had been sitting with her all the morning,
and had talked of nothing but his new friend.
The man with the horrible name (as poor Mrs.
Armadale described him) had questioned Allan
in a singularly inquisitive manner on the sub-
ject of himself and his family, but had kept his
own personal history entirely in the dark. At
some former period of his life he had been ac-
customed to the sea and to sailing. Allan had,
unfortunately, found this out, and a bond of un-
ion between them was formed on the spot. With
a merciless distrust of the stranger-simply be-
cause he was a stranger—which appeared rather
unreasonable to Mr. Brock, Mrs. Armadale be-
sought the rector to go to the inn without a mo-
ment's loss of time, and never to rest until he
had made the man give a proper account of
himself. “Find out every thing about his fa-
ther and mother!” she said, in her vehement,
female way. “Make sure before you leave him
that he is not a vagabond roaming the country
under an assumed name.”
“My dear lady,” remonstrated the rector,
obediently taking his hat, “whatever else we
may doubt, I really think we may feel sure
about the man's name! It is so remarkably
ugly that it must be genuine. No sane human
being would assume such a name as Ozias Mid-
mind began to give way. He had been employed
winter.”
“You may be quite right, and I may be quite
wrong; but pray go and see him,” persisted
Mrs. Armadale. “Go, and don't spare him,
Mr. Brock. How do we know that this illness
of his may not have been put on for a purpose?”
It was useless to reason with her. The whole
College of Physicians might have certified to the
man's illness, and, in her present frame of mind,
Mrs. Armadale would have disbelieved the Col-
iege, one and all, from the president downward.
Mr. Brock took the wise way out of the difficul-
ty—he said no more, and he set off for the inn
immediately.
Ozias Midwinter, recovering from brain-fe-
ver, was a startling object to contemplate on a
first view of him. His shaven head, tied up
roughly in an old yellow silk handkerchief; his
tawny, haggard cheeks; his bright brown eyes,
preternaturally large and wild; his tangled black
beard; his long, supple, sinewy fingers, wasted
by suffering till they looked like claws—all tend-
ed to discompose the rector at the outset of the
interview. When the first feeling of surprise
had worn off the impression that followed it was
not an agreeable one. Mr. Brock could not con-
ceal from himself that the stranger's manner was
against him. The general opinion has settled
that if a man is honest he is bound to assert it
by looking straight at his fellow-creatures when
he speaks to them. If this man was honest his
eyes showed a singular perversity in looking
away and denying it. Possibly they were af-
fected in some degree by a nervous restlessness
in his organization, which appeared to pervade
every fibre in his kan, lithe body. The rector's
healthy Anglo-Saxon flesh crept responsively at
every casual movement of the usher's supple
brown fingers, and every passing distortion of
the usher's haggard, yellow face. “God for-
give me !” thought Mr. Brock, with his mind
running on Allan and Allan's mother, “I wish
I could see my way to turning Ozias Midwinter
adrift in the world again!”
The conversation which ensued between the
two was a very guarded one. Mr. Brock felt
his way gently, and found himself, try where he
might, always kept politely, more or less, in the
dark. From first to last the man's real charac-
ter shrank back with a savage shyness from the
rector's touch. He started by an assertion which
it was impossible to look at him and believe—
he declared that he was only twenty years of age.
All he could be persuaded to say on the subject
of the school was, that the bare recollection of
it was horrible to him. He had only filled the
usher's situation for ten days when the first ap-
pearance of his illness caused his dismissal.
How he had reached the field in which he had
been found was more than he could say. He
remembered traveling a long distance by rail-
way, with a purpose (if he had a purpose) which
it was now impossible to recall, and then wan-
dering coastward on foot all through the day,
or all through the night—he was not sure which.
The sea kept running in his mind when his
on the sea as a lad. He had left it, and had
filled a situation at a bookseller's in a country
town. He had left the bookseller's and had
tried the school. Now the school had turned
him out he must try something else. It mat-
tered little what he tried—failure (for which no-
body was ever to blame but himself) was sure
to be the end of it sooner or later. Friends to
assist him, he had none to apply to; and as for
relations, he wished to be excused from speak-
ing of them. For all he knew they might be
dead, and for all they knew he might be dead.
That was a melancholy acknowledgment to make
at his time of life, there was no denying it. It
might tell against him in the opinions of others;


ARMADALE.
35
and it did tell against him, no doubt, in the opin-
ion of the gentleman who was talking to him at
that moment.
These strange answers were given in a tone
and manner far removed from bitterness on the
one side, or from indifference on the other. Ozi-
as Midwinter at twenty spoke of his life as Ozias
Midwinter at seventy might have spoken, with
a long weariness of years on him which he had
learned to bear patiently.
Two circumstances pleaded strongly against
the distrust with which, in sheer perplexity of
mind, Mr. Brock blindly regarded him. He had
written to a savings-bank in a distant part of
England, had drawn his money, and had paid
the doctor and the landlord. A man of vulgar
mind, after acting in this manner, would have
treated his obligations lightly when he had set-
tled his bills, Ozias Midwinter spoke of his
obligations—and especially of his obligation to
Allan—with a fervor of thankfulness which it
was not surprising only, but absolutely painful
to witness. He showed a horrible sincerity of
astonishment at having been treated with com-
mon Christian kindness in a Christian land. He
spoke of Allan's having become answerable for
all the expenses of sheltering, nursing, and cur-
ing him, with a savage rapture of gratitude and
surprise, which burst out of him like a flash of
lightning. “So help me God!” cried the cast-
away usher, “I never met with the like of him;
I never heard of the like of him before !” In
the next instant the one glimpse of light which
the man had let in on his own passionate na-
ture was quenched again in darkness. His wan-
dering eyes, returning to their old trick, looked
uneasily away from Mr. Brock; and his voice
dropped back once more into its unnatural steadi-
ness and quietness of tone. “I beg your par-
don, Sir,” he said. “I have been used to be
hunted, and cheated, and starved. Every thing
else comes strange to me.” Half-attracted by
the man, half-repelled by him, Mr. Brock, on ris-
ing to take leave, impulsively offered his hand,
and then, with a sudden misgiving, confusedly
drew it back again. “You meant that kindly,
Sir,” said Ozias Midwinter, with his own hands
crossed resolutely behind him. “I don't com-
plain of your thinking better of it. A man who
can't give a proper account of himself is not a
man for a gentleman in your position to take by
the hand.”
Mr. Brock left the inn thoroughly puzzled.
Before returning to Mrs. Armadale he sent for
her son. The chances were that the guard had
been off the stranger's tongue when he spoke to
Allan; and with Allan's frankness, there was no
fear of his concealing any thing that had passed
between them from the rector's knowledge.
Here, again, Mr. Brock's diplomacy achieved
no useful results. Once started on the subject
of Ozias Midwinter, Allan rattled on about his
new friend in his usual easy, light-hearted way.
But he had really nothing of importance to tell
—for nothing of importance had been revealed
to him. They had talked about boat-building
|
and sailing by the hour together; and Allan
had got some valuable hints. They had dis-
cussed (with diagrams to assist them, and with
more valuable hints for Allan) the serious im-
pending question of the launch of the yacht.
On other occasions they had diverged to other
subjects—to more of them than Allan could re-
member on the spur of the moment. Had Mid-
winter said nothing about his relations in the
flow of all this friendly talk? Nothing, except
that they had not behaved well to him—hang
his relations! Was he at all sensitive on the
subject of his own odd name? Not the least in
the world; he had set the example, like a sens-
ible fellow, of laughing at it himself: deuce
take his name, it did very well when you were
used to it. What had Allan seen in him to
take such a fancy to? Allan had seen in him
what he didn't see in people in general. He
wasn't like all the other fellows in the neigh-
borhood. All the other fellows were cut out
on the same pattern. Every man of them was
equally healthy, muscular, loud, hard-headed,
clean-skinned, and rough; every man of them
drank the same draughts of beer, smoked the
same short pipes all day long, rode the best
horse, shot over the best dog, and put the best
bottle of wine in England on his table at night;
every man of them sponged himself every morn-
ing in the same sort of tub of cold water, and
bragged about it in frosty weather in the same
sort of way; every man of them thought getting
into debt a capital joke, and betting on horse-
races one of the most meritorious actions that a
human being can perform. They were no doubt
excellent fellows in their way; but the worst of
them was, they were all exactly alike. It was
a perfect godsend to meet with a man like Mid-
winter—a man who was not cut out on the regu-
lar local patterm, and whose way in the world
had the one great merit (in those parts) of being
a way of his own.
Leaving all remonstrances for a fitter oppor-
tunity the rector went back to Mrs. Armadale.
He could not disguise from himself that Allan's
mother was the person really answerable for
Allan's present indiscretion. If the lad had
seen a little less of the small gentry in the neigh-
borhood, and a little more of the great outside
world at home and abroad, the pleasure of cul-
tivating Ozias Midwinter's society might have
had fewer attractions for him.
Conscious of the unsatisfactory result of his
visit to the inn, Mr. Brock felt some anxiety
about the reception of his report when he found
himself once more in Mrs. Armadale's presence.
His forebodings were soon realized. Try as he
might to make the best of it, Mrs. Armadale
seized on the one suspicious fact of the usher's
silence about himself as justifying the strongest
measures that could be taken to separate him
from her son. If the rector refused to inter-
|fere, she declared her intention of writing to
Ozias Midwinter with her own hand. Remon-
strance irritated her to such a pitch that she as-
tounded Mr. Brock by reverting to the forbidden


ARMADALE.
THE TWO ARMADALES.
subject of five years since, and referring him to
the conversation which had passed between them
when the advertisement had been discovered in
the newspaper. She passionately declared that
the vagabond Armadale of that advertisement,
and the vagabond Midwinter at the village inn,
might, for all she knew to the contrary, be one
and the same. The rector vainly reiterated his
conviction that the name was the very last in the
world that any man (and a young man especial-
ly) would be likely to assume. Nothing quieted
Mrs. Armadale but absolute submission to her
will. Dreading the consequences if he still re-
sisted her in her feeble state of health, and fore-
boding a serious disagreement between the mo-
ther and son, if the mother interfered, Mr.
Brock undertook to see Midwinter again, and to
tell him plainly that he must give a proper ac-
count of himself, or that his intimacy with Al-
lan must cease. The two concessions which he


38
ARMADALE.
(feeling heartily ashamed of himself) he had gerous results. Finding his patient eagerly de-
afterward asked Midwinter's pardon. “I like
the poor fellow, and I won't give him up,” con-
cluded Allan, bringing his clenched fist down
with a thump on the rectory table. “Don’t be
afraid of my vexing my mother; I'll leave you
to speak to her, Mr. Brock, at your own time
and in your own way; and I'll just say this
much more by way of bringing the thing to an
end. Here is the address safe in my pocket-
book, and here am I, standing firm, for once, on
a resolution of my own. I'll give you and my
mother time to reconsider this; and when the
time is up, if my friend Midwinter doesn't come
to me, I'll go to my friend Midwinter!”
So the matter rested for the present; and
such was the result of turning the castaway
usher adrift in the world again.
A month passed, and brought in the new year
—'51. Overleaping that short lapse of time,
Mr. Brock paused, with a heavy heart, at the
next event; to his mind the one mournful, the
one memorable event of the series—Mrs. Arma-
dale's death.
The first warning of the affliction that was
near at hand had followed close on the usher's
departure in December, and had arisen out of a
circumstance which dwelt painfully on the rec-
tor's memory from that time forth.
But three days after Midwinter had left for
London Mr. Brock was accosted in the village
by a neatly-dressed woman, wearing a gown and
bonnet of black silk and a red Paisley shawl,
who was a total stranger to him, and who in-
quired the way to Mrs. Armadale's house. She
put the question without raising the thick black
veil that hung over her face. Mr. Brock, in
giving her the necessary directions, observed
that she was a remarkably elegant and graceful
woman, and looked after her as she bowed and
left him, wondering who Mrs. Armadale's visit-
or could possibly be.
A quarter of an hour later the lady, still veil-
ed as before, passed Mr. Brock again close to
the inn. She entered the house and spoke to
the landlady. Seeing the landlord shortly aft-
erward hurrying round to the stables, Mr. Brock
asked him if the lady was going away. Yes;
she had come from the railway in the omnibus,
but she was going back again more creditably
in a carriage of her own hiring, supplied by the
1nn.
The rector proceeded on his walk, rather sur-
prised to find his thoughts running inquisitively
on a woman who was a stranger to him. When
he got home again he found the village surgeon
waiting his return, with an urgent message from
Allan's mother. About an hour since the sur-
geon had been sent for in great haste to see Mrs.
Armadale. He had found her suffering from
an alarming nervous attack, brought on (as the
servants suspected) by an unexpected, and, pos-
sibly, an unwelcome visitor, who had called that
morning. The surgeon had done all that was
needful, and had no apprehension of any dan-
sirous, on recovering herself, to see Mr. Brock
immediately, he had thought it important to
humor her, and had readily undertaken to call
at the rectory with a message to that effect.
Looking at Mrs. Armadale with a far deeper
interest in her than the surgeon's interest, Mr.
Brock saw enough in her face, when it turned
toward him on his entering the room, to justify
instant and serious alarm. She allowed him no
opportunity of soothing her; she heeded none
of his inquiries. Answers to certain questions
of her own were what she wanted, and what she
was determined to have:-Had Mr. Brock seen
the woman who had presumed to visit her that
morning? Yes. Had Allan seen her? No:
Allan had been at work since breakfast, and
was at work still, in his yard by the water-side.
This latter reply appeared to quiet Mrs. Arma-
dale for the moment: she put her next ques-
tion—the most extraordinary question of the
three—more composedly. Did the rector think
Allan would object to leaving his vessel for the
present, and to accompanying his mother on a
journey to look out for a new house in some
other part of England? In the greatest amaze-
ment Mr. Brock asked what reason there could
possibly be for leaving her present residence.
Mrs. Armadale's reason, when she gave it, only
added to his surprise. The woman's first visit
might be followed by a second; and rather than
see her again, rather than run the risk of Allan's
seeing her and speaking to her, Mrs. Armadale
would leave England if necessary, and end her
days in a foreign land. Taking counsel of his
experience as a magistrate, Mr. Brock inquired
if the woman had come to ask for money. Yes:
respectably as she was dressed, she had described
herself as being “in distress;” had asked for
money, and had got it—but the money was of
no importance; the one thing needful was to
get away before the woman came again. More
and more surprised, Mr. Brock ventured on an-
other question. Was it long since Mrs. Arma-
dale and her visitor had last met? Yes; as
long as all Allan's lifetime—as long as one-and-
twenty years. t
At that reply the rector shifted his ground,
and took counsel next of his experience as a
friend.
“Is this person,” he asked, “connected in
any way with the painful remembrances of your
early life?”
“Yes, with the painful remembrance of the
time when I was married,” said Mrs. Armadale.
“She was associated, as a mere child, with a
circumstance which I must think of with shame
and sorrow to my dying day.”
Mr. Brock noticed the altered tone in which
his old friend spoke, and the unwillingness with
which she gave her answer.
“Can you tell me more about her without
referring to yourself?” he went on. “I am
sure I can protect you, if you will only help me
a little. Her name, for instance; you can tell
me her name 7”


ARMADALE. -
39
Mrs. Armadale shook her head. “The name
I knew her by,” she said, “would be of no use
to you. She has been married since then; she
told me so herself.” ,
“And without telling you her married name?”
“She refused to tell it.” -
“Do you know any thing of her friends?”
“Only of her friends when she was a child.
They called themselves her uncle and aunt.
They were low people, and they deserted her at
the school on my father's estate. We never
heard any more of them.”
“Did she remain under your father's care?”
“She remained under my care—that is to
say, she traveled with us. We were leaving
England just at that time for Madeira. I had
my father's leave to take her with me, and to
train the wretch to be my maid—”
At those words Mrs. Armadale stopped con-
fusedly. Mr. Brock tried gently to lead her on.
It was useless; she started up in violent agita-
tion, and walked excitedly backward and for-
ward in the room. -
“Don’t ask me any more!” she cried out, in
loud, angry tones. “I parted with her when
she was a girl of twelve years old. I never saw
her again, I never heard of her again, from that
time to this. I don't know how she has discov-
ered me, after all the years that have passed;
I only know that she has discovered me. She
will find her way to Allan next; she will poison
my son's mind against me. Help me to get
away from her! help me to take Allan away
before she comes back!”
The rector asked no more questions; it would
have been cruel to press her farther. The first
necessity was to compose her by promising com-
pliance with all that she desired. The second
was to induce her to see another medical man.
Mr. Brock contrived to reach his end harmlessly
in this latter case by reminding her that she
wanted strength to travel, and that her own
medical attendant might restore her all the
more speedily to herself if he were assisted by
the best professional advice. Having overcome
her habitual reluctance to seeing strangers by
this means, the rector at once went to Allan,
and, delicately concealing what Mrs. Armadale
had said at the interview, broke the news to him
that his mother was seriously ill. Allan would
hear of no messengers being sent for assistance:
he drove off on the spot to the railway, and tele-
graphed himself to Bristol for medical help.
On the next morning the help came, and Mr.
Brock's worst fears were confirmed. The vil-
lage surgeon had fatally misunderstood the case
from the first, and the time was past now at
which his errors of treatment might have been
set right. The shock of the previous morning
had completed the mischief. Mrs. Armadale's
days were numbered.
The son who dearly loved her, the old friend to
whom her life was precious, hoped vainly to the
last. In a month from the physician's visit all
hope was over; and Allan shed the first bitter
tears of his life at his mother's grave.
She had died more peacefully than Mr. Brock
had dared to hope; leaving all her little fortune
to her son, and committing him solemnly to
the care of her one friend on earth. The rec-
tor had entreated her to let him write and try to
reconcile her brothers with her before it was too
late. She had only answered sadly that it was
too late already. But one reference escaped her
in her last illness to those early sorrows which
had weighed heavily on all her after-life, and
which had passed thrice already, like shadows
of evil, between the rector and herself. Even
on her death-bed she had shrunk from letting
the light fall clearly on the story of the past.
She had looked at Allan kneeling by the bed-
side, and had whispered to Mr. Brock: “Nev-
er let his Namesake come near him! Never let
that Woman find him out !” No word more fell
from her that touched on the misfortunes which
had tried her in the past, or on the dangers
which she dreaded in the future. The secret
which she had kept from her son and from her
friend was a secret which she carried with her to
the grave.
When the last offices of affection and respect
had been performed, Mr. Brock felt it his duty,
as executor to the deceased lady, to write to
her brothers, and to give them information of
her death. Believing that he had to deal with
two men who would probably misinterpret his
motives if he left Allan's position unexplained,
he was careful to remind them that Mrs. Arma-
dale's son was well provided for, and that the
object of his letter was simply to communicate
the news of their sister's decease. The two let-
ters were dispatched toward the middle of Jan-
uary, and by return of post the answers were re-
ceived. The first which the rector opened was
written, not by the elder brother, but by the
elder brother's only son. The young man had
succeeded to the estates in Norfolk on his fa-
ther's death some little time since. He wrote
in a frank and friendly spirit, assuring Mr. Brock
that, however strongly his father might have been
prejudiced against Mrs. Armadale, the hostile
feeling had never extended to her son. For him-
self, he had only to add that he would be sin-
cerely happy to welcome his cousin to Thorpe-
Ambrose, whenever his cousin came that way.
The second letter was a far less agreeable re-
ply to receive than the first. The younger broth-
er was still alive, and still resolute neither to
forget nor forgive. He informed Mr. Brock
that his deceased sister's choice of a husband,
and her conduct to her father at the time of her
marriage, had made any relations of affection or
esteem impossible on his side from that time
forth. Holding the opinions he did, it would
be equally painful to his nephew and himself
if any personal intercourse took place between
them. He had adverted, as generally as pos-
sible, to the nature of the differences which had
kept him apart from his late sister, in order to
satisfy Mr. Brock's mind that a personal ac-
quaintance with young Mr. Armadale was, as a
matter of delicacy, quite out of the question,


40 *
ARMADALE.
and having done this, he would beg leave to
close the correspondence.
Mr. Brock wisely destroyed the second let-
ter on the spot, and, after showing Allan his
cousin's invitation, suggested that he should go
to Thorpe-Ambrose as soon as he felt fit to pre-
sent himself to strangers. Allan listened to the
advice patiently enough; but he declined to profit
by it. “I will shake hands with my cousin will-
ingly if I ever meet him,” he said; “but I will
visit no family and be a guest in no house in
which my mother has been badly treated.” Mr.
Brock remonstrated gently, and tried to put mat-
ters in their proper light. Even at that time—
even while he was still ignorant of events which
were then impending—Allan's strangely isolated
position in the world was a subject of serious
anxiety to his old friend and tutor. The pro-
posed visit to Thorpe-Ambrose opened the very
prospect of his making friends and connections
suited to him in rank and age which Mr. Brock
most desired to see—but Allan was not to be
persuaded; he was obstinate and unreasonable;
and the rector had no alternative but to drop the
subject.
One on another the weeks passed monoto-
nously; and Allan showed but little of the elas-
ticity of his age and character in bearing the af-
fliction that had made him motherless. He fin-
ished and launched his yacht; but his own jour-
neymen remarked that the work seemed to have
lost its interest for him. It was not natural to
the young man to brood over his solitude and his
grief as he was brooding now. As the spring
advanced, Mr. Brock began to feel uneasy about
the future if Allan was not roused at once by
change of scene. After much pondering the
rector decided on trying a trip to Paris, and on
extending the journey southward if his compan-
ion showed an interest in continental traveling.
Allan's reception of the proposal made atone-
ment for his obstimacy in refusing to cultivate
his cousin's acquaintance—he was willing to go
with Mr. Brock wherever Mr. Brock pleased.
The rector took him at his word, and in the
middle of March the two strangely assorted com-
panions left for London on their way to Paris.
Arrived in London, Mr. Brock found himself
unexpectedly face to face with a new anxiety.
The unwelcome subject of Ozias Midwinter,
which had been buried in peace since the begin-
ning of December, rose to the surface again,
and confronted the rector at the very outset of
his travels more unmanageably than ever.
Mr. Brock's position, in dealing with this dif-
ficult matter, had been hard enough to maintain
when he had first meddled with it. He now
found himself with no vantage-ground left to
stand on. Events had so ordered it, that the
difference of opinion between Allan and his
mother on the subject of the usher was entirely
disassociated with the agitation which had hast-
ened Mrs. Armadale's death. Allan's resolu-
tion to say no irritating words, and Mr. Brock's
reluctance to touch on a disagreeable topic,
had kept them both silent about Midwinter in
Mrs. Armadale's presence, during the three
days which had intervened between that persön's
departure and the appearance of the strange wo-
man in the village. In the period of suspense
and suffering that had followed no recurrence to
the subject of the usher had been possible, and
none had taken place. Free from all mental
disquietude on this score, Allan had stoutly
preserved his perverse interest in his new friend.
He had written to tell Midwinter of his afflic-
tion, and he now proposed (unless the rector
formally objected to it) paying a visit to his
friend before he started for Paris the next morn-
ing. What was Mr. Brock to do? There was
no denying that Midwinter's conduct had plead-
ed unanswerably against poor Mrs. Armadale's
unfounded distrust of him. If the rector, with
no convincing reason to allege against it, and
with no right to interfere but the right which
Allan's courtesy gave him, declined to sanction
the proposed visit, then farewell to all the old
sociability and confidence between tutor and
pupil on the contemplated tour. Environed by
difficulties, which might have been possibly
worsted by a less just and a less kind-hearted
man, Mr. Brock said a cautious word or two at
parting; and (with more confidence in Midwin-
ter's discretion and self-denial than he quite
liked to acknowledge even to himself) left Allan
free to take his own way.
After whiling away an hour, during the inter-
val of his pupil's absence, by a walk in the
streets, the rector returned to his hotel; and
finding the newspaper disengaged in the coffee-
room, sat down absently to look over it. His
eye, resting idly on the title-page, was startled
into instant attention by the very first advertise-
ment that it chanced to light on at the head of the
column. There was Allan's mysterious name-
sake again, figuring in capital letters, and asso-
ciated this time (in the character of a dead man)
with the offer of a pecuniary reward! Thus it
ran :
UPPOSED TO BE DEAD.—To parish clerks, sextons, -
and others. Twenty Pounds Reward will be paid to
any person who can produce evidence of the death of
ALLAN ARMADALE, only son of the late Allan Arma-
dale, of Barbadoes, and born in that island in the year
1830. Further particulars on application to Messrs. Ham-
mick and Ridge, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London.
Even Mr. Brock's essentially unimaginative
mind began to stagger superstitiously in the dark
as he laid the newspaper down again. Little
by little a vague suspicion took possession of
him that the whole series of events which had
followed the first appearance of Allan's name-
sake in the newspapers, six years since, were
held together by some mysterious connection,
and were tending steadily to some unimaginable
end. Without knowing why, he began to feel
uneasy at Allan's absence. Without knowing
why, he became impatient to get his pupil away
from England before any thing else happened
between night and morning.
In an hour more the rector was relieved of all
immediate anxiety by Allan's return to the hotel.
The young man was vexed and out of spirits.


ARMADALE.
41
He had discovered Midwinter's lodgings, but he
had failed to find Midwinter himself. The only
account his landlady could give of him was that
he had gone out at his customary time to get his
dinner at the nearest eating-house, and that he
had not returned, in accordance with his usual
regular habits, at his usual regular hour. Allan
had therefore gone to inquire at the eating-
house, and had found, on describing him, that
Midwinter was well known there. It was his
custom, on other days, to take a frugal dinner,
and to sit half an hour afterward reading the
newspaper. On this occasion, after dining, he
had taken up the paper as usual, had suddenly
thrown it aside again, and had gone, nobody
knew where, in a violent hurry. No further in-
formation being attainable, Allan had left a note
at the lodgings, giving his address at the hotel,
and begging Midwinter to come and say good-
by before his departure for Paris.
The evening passed, and Allan's invisible
friend never appeared. The morning came,
bringing no obstacles with it, and Mr. Brock
and his pupil left London. So far fortune had
declared herself at last on the rector's side.
Ozias Midwinter, after intrusively rising to the
surface, had conveniently dropped out of sight
again. What was to happen next?
Advancing once more, by three weeks only,
from past to present, Mr. Brock's memory took
up the next event on the seventh of April. To
all appearance the chain was now broken at
last. The new event had no recognizable con-
nection (either to his mind or to Allan's) with
any of the persons who had appeared, or any of
the circumstances that had happened, in the by-
gone time.
The travelers had as yet got no farther than
Paris. Allan's spirits had risen with the change;
and he had been made all the readier to enjoy
the novelty of the scene around him by receiving
a letter from Midwinter, containing news which
Mr. Brock himself acknowledged promised fair-
ly for the future. The ex-usher had been away
on business when Allan had called at his lodg-
ings, having been led by an accidental circum-
stance to open communications with his relatives
on that day. The result had taken him entirely
by surprise—it had unexpectedly secured to him
a little income of his own for the rest of his life.
His future plans, now that this piece of good
fortune had fallen to his share, were still unset-
tled. But if Allan wished to hear what he ulti-
mately decided on, his agent in London (whose
direction he inclosed) would receive communi-
cations for him, and would furnish Mr. Armadale
at all future times with his address.
On receipt of this letter Allan had seized the
pen in his usual headlong way and had insisted
on Midwinter's immediately joining Mr. Brock
and himself on their travels. The last days of
March passed and no answer to the proposal
was received. The first days of April came,
and on the seventh of the month there was a
letter for Allan at last on the breakfast-table.
C -
He snatched it up, looked at the address, and
threw the letter down again impatiently. The
handwriting was not Midwinter's. Allan fin-
ished his breakfast before he cared to read what
his correspondent had to say to him.
The meal over young Armadale lazily opened
the letter. He began it with an expression of
supreme indifference. He finished it with a
sudden leap out of his chair and a loud shout
of astonishment. Wondering, as he well might,
at this extraordinary outbreak, Mr. Brock took
up the letter, which Allan had tossed across the
table to him. Before he had come to the end
of it his hands dropped helplessly on his knees
and the blank bewilderment of his pupil's ex-
pression was accurately reflected on his own
face. -
If ever two men had good cause for bein
thrown completely off their balance Allan and
the rector were those two. The letter which
had struck them both with the same shock of
astonishment did, beyond all question, contain
an announcement which, on a first discovery of
it, was simply incredible. The news was from
Norfolk, and was to this effect. In little more
than one week's time death had mown down
no less than three lives in the family at Thorpe-
Ambrose—and Allan Armadale was at that mo-
ment heir to an estate of eight thousand a year !
A second perusal of the letter enabled the
rector and his companion to master the details
which had escaped them on a first reading. The
writer was the family lawyer at Thorpe-Am-
brose. After announcing to Allan the deaths
of his cousin Arthur, at the age of twenty-five;
of his uncle Henry, at the age of forty-eight;
and of his cousin John, at the age of twenty-one,
the lawyer proceeded to give a brief abstract of
the terms of the elder Mr. Blanchard's will.
The claims of male issue were, as is not unusual
in such cases, preferred to the claims of female
issue. Failing Arthur, and his issue male, the
estate was left to Henry and his issue male.
Failing them, it went to the issue male of Hen-
ry's sister; and, in default of such issue, to the
next heir male. As events had happened the
two young men, Arthur and John, had died un-
married, and Henry Blanchard had died, leav-
ing no surviving child but a daughter. Under
these circumstances, Allan was the next heir
male pointed at by the will, and was now le-
gally successor to the Thorpe-Ambrose estate.
Having made this extraordinary announcement,
the lawyer requested to be favored with Mr. Ar-
madale's instructions, and added, in conclusion,
that he would be happy to furnish any further
particulars that were desired.
It was useless to waste time in wondering at
an event which neither Allan nor his mother
had ever thought of as even remotely possible.
The only thing to be done was to go back to
England at once. The next day found the trav-
elers installed once more in their London hotel,
and the day after the affair was placed in the
proper professional hands. The inevitable cor-
responding and consulting ensued; and cne by


42
ARMADALE.
-
one the all-important particulars flowed in until he was too ill to attend the examination before
the measure of information was pronounced to
be full.
This was the strange story of the three deaths.
At the time when Mr. Brock had written to
Mrs. Armadale's relatives to announce the news
of her decease (that is to say, in the middle of
the month of January), the family at Thorpe-
Ambrose numbered five persons—Arthur Blan-
chard (in possession of the estate), living in the
great house with his mother; and Henry Blan-
chard, the uncle, living in the neighborhood, a
widower with two children, a son and a daugh-
ter. To cement the family connection still more
closely, Arthur Blanchard was engaged to be
married to his cousin. The wedding was to be
celebrated with great local rejoicings in the com-
ing summer when the young lady had completed
her twentieth year.
The month of February had brought changes
with it in the family position. Observing signs
of delicacy in the health of his son, Mr. Henry
Blanchard left Norfolk, taking the young man
with him, under medical advice, to try the cli-
mate of Italy. Early in the ensuing month of
March, Arthur Blanchard also left Thorpe-Am-
brose, for a few days only, on business which re-
quired his presence in London. The business
took him into the City. Annoyed by the end-
less impediments in the streets, he returned west-
ward by one of the river steamers; and, so re-
turning, met his death.
As the steamer left the wharf he noticed a
woman near him who had shown a singular hes-
itation in embarking, and who had been the last
of the passengers to take her place in the vessel.
She was neatly dressed in black silk, with a red
Paisley shawl over her shoulders, and she kept
her face hidden behind a thick veil. Arthur
Blanchard was struck by the rare grace and ele-
gance of her figure, and he felt a young man's
passing curiosity to see her face. She neither
lifted her veil nor turned her head his way. Aft-
er taking a few steps hesitatingly backward and
forward on the deck, she walked away on a sud-
den to the stern of the vessel. In a minute
more there was a cry of alarm from the man at
the helm, and the engines were stopped imme-
diately. The woman had thrown herself over-
board.
The passengers all rushed to the side of the
vessel to look. Arthur Blanchard alone, with-
out an instant's hesitation, jumped into the river.
He was an excellent swimmer, and he reached
the woman as she rose again to the surface after
sinking for the first time. Help was at hand,
and they were both brought safely ashore. The
woman was taken to the nearest police-station,
and was soon restored to her senses; her pre-
server giving his name and address, as usual in
such cases, to the inspector on duty, who wisely
recommended him to get into a warm bath, and
to send to his lodgings for dry clothes. Arthur
Blanchard, who had never known an hour's ill-
mess since he was a child, laughed at the cau-
tion, and went back in a cab. The next day
the magistrate.
a dead man.
The news of the calamity reached Henry
Blanchard and his son at Milan; and within
an hour of the time when they received it they
were on their way back to England. The snow
on the Alps had loosened earlier than usual that
year, and the passes were notoriously danger-
ous. The father and son, traveling in their
own carriage, were met on the mountain by the
mail returning, after sending the letters on by
hand. Warnings which would have produced
their effect under any ordinary circumstances
were now vainly addressed to the two English-
men. Their impatience to be at home again,
after the catastrophe which had befallen their
family, brooked no delay. Bribes lavishly of-
fered to the postillions tempted them to go on.
The carriage pursued its way, and was lost to
view in the mist. When it was seen again it
was disinterred from the bottom of a precipice-
the men, the horses, and the vehicle all crushed
together under the wreck and ruin of an ava-
lanche.
So the three lives were mown down by death.
So, in a clear sequence of events, a woman's
suicide-leap into a river had opened to Allan
Armadale the succession to the Thorpe-Am-
brose estates.
Who was the woman 7 The man who saved
her life never knew. The magistrate who re-
manded her, the chaplain who exhorted her, the
reporter who exhibited her in print—never knew.
It was recorded of her with surprise that, though
most respectably dressed, she had nevertheless
described herself as being “in distress.” She
had expressed the deepest contrition, but had
persisted in giving a name which was on the
face of it a false one; in telling a commonplace
story which was manifestly an invention; and
in refusing to the last to furnish any clew to her
friends. A lady connected with a charitable
institution (“interested by her extreme elegance
and beauty”) had volunteered to take charge of
her, and to bring her into a better frame of
mind. The first day's experience of the peni-
tent had been far from cheering, and the sec-
ond day's experience had been conclusive. She
had left the institution by stealth; and—though
the visiting clergyman, taking a special interest
in the case, had caused special efforts to be made
—all search after her from that time forth had
proved fruitless.
While this useless investigation (undertaken
at Allan's express desire) was in progress the
lawyer had settled the preliminary formalities
connected with the succession of the property.
All that remained was for the new master of
Thorpe-Ambrose to decide when he would per-
sonally establish himself on the estate of which
he was now the legal possessor.
Left necessarily to his own guidance in this
matter, Allan settled it for himself in his usual
hot-headed, generous way. He positively de-
clined to take possession until Mrs. Blanchard
A fortnight afterward he was


ARMADALE.
43
and her niece (who had been permitted, thus
far, as a matter of courtesy, to remain in their
old home) had recovered from the calamity that
had befallen them, and were fit to decide for
themselves what their future proceedings should
be. A private correspondence followed this res-
olution, comprehending, on Allan's side, unlim-
ited offers of every thing he had to give (in a
house which he had not yet seen); and, on the
ladies' side, a discreetly reluctant readiness to
profit by the young gentleman's generosity in
the matter of time. To the astonishment of
his legal advisers, Allan entered their office one
morning, accompanied by Mr. Brock, and an-
nounced, with perfect composure, that the la-
dies had been good enough to take his own ar-
rangements off his hands, and that, in deference
to their convenience, he meant to defer estab-
lishing himself at Thorpe-Ambrose till that day
two months. The lawyers stared at Allan,
and Allan, returning the compliment, stared at
the lawyers.
“What on earth are you wondering at, gen-
tlemen?” he inquired, with a boyish bewilder-
ment in his good-humored blue eyes. “Why
shouldn't I give the ladies their two months if
the ladies want them? Let the poor things take
their own time, and welcome. My rights? and
my position? Oh, pooh! pooh! I'm in no
hurry to be squire of the parish—it's not in my
way. What do I mean to do for the two months?
What I should have done any how, whether the
ladies had staid or not; I mean to go cruising
at sea. That's what I like! I've got a new
yacht at home in Somersetshire—a yacht of my
own building. And I'll tell you what, Sir,”
continued Allan, seizing the head partner by
the arm in the fervor of his friendly intentions,
“you look sadly in want of a holiday in the
fresh air, and you shall come along with me on
the trial-trip of my new vessel. And your part-
ners too, if they like. And the head clerk, who
is the best fellow I ever met with in my life.
Plenty of room—we'll all shake down together
on the floor, and we'll give Mr. Brock a rug on
the cabin table. Thorpe-Ambrose be hanged !
Do you mean to say if you had built a vessel
yourself (as I have) you would go to any estate in
the three kingdoms, while your own little beauty
was sitting like a duck on the water at home, and
waiting for you to try her? You legal gentle-
men are great hands at argument. What do you
think of that argument? I think it's unanswer-
able—and I’m off to Somersetshire to-morrow.”
With those words the new possessor of eight
thousand a year dashed into the head clerk's
office, and invited that functionary to a cruise
on the high seas, with a smack on the shoulder
which was heard distinctly by his masters in the
next room. The Firm looked in interrogative
wonder at Mr. Brock. A client who could see
a position among the landed gentry of England
waiting for him, without being in a hurry to
occupy it at the earliest possible opportunity,
was a client of whom they possessed no previous
experience.
-
“He must have been very oddly brought up,”
said the lawyers to the rector.
“Very oddly,” said the rector to the lawyers.
A last leap over one month more brought
Mr. Brock to the present time—to the bedroom
at Castletown, in which he was sitting thinking,
and to the anxiety which was obstinately intrud-
ing itself between him and his night's rest.
That anxiety was no unfamiliar enemy to the
rector's peace of mind. It had first found him
out in Somersetshire six months since, and it
had now followed him to the Isle of Man under
the inveterately-obtrusive form of Ozias Mid-
winter.
The change in Allan's future prospects had
worked no corresponding alteration in his per-
verse fancy for the castaway at the village inn.
In the midst of the consultations with the law-
yers he had found time to visit Midwinter; and
on the journey back with the rector there was
Allan's friend in the carriage, returning with
them to Somersetshire by Allan's own invitation.
The ex-usher's hair had grown again on his
shaven skull, and his dress showed the renovat-
ing influence of an accession of pecuniary means;
but in all other respects the man was unchanged.
He met Mr. Brock's distrust with the old un-
complaining resignation to it; he maintained
the same suspicious silence on the subject of his
relatives and his early life; he spoke of Allan's
kindness to him with the same undisciplined
fervor of gratitude and surprise. “I have done
what I could, Sir,” he said to Mr. Brock, while
Allan was asleep in the railway carriage. “I
have kept out of Mr. Armadale's way, and I
have not even answered his last letter to me.
More than that is more than I can do. I don't
ask you to consider my own feeling toward the
only human creature who has never suspected
and never ill-treated me. I can resist my own
feeling, but I can't resist the young gentleman
himself. There's not another like him in the
world. If we are to be parted again, it must be
his doing or yours—not mine. The dog's mas-
ter has whistled,” said this strange man, with a
momentary outburst of the hidden passion in
him, and a sudden springing of angry tears in
his wild brown eyes: “and it's hard, Sir, to
blame the dog when the dog comes.”
Once more Mr. Brock's humanity got the
better of Mr. Brock's caution. He determined
to wait, and see what the coming days of social
intercourse might bring forth.
The days passed; the yacht was rigged and
fitted for sea; a cruise was arranged to the
Welsh coast—and Midwinter the Secret was the
same Midwinter still. Confinement on board a
little vessel of five-and-thirty tons offered no
great attraction to a man of Mr. Brock's time
of life. But he sailed on the trial trip of the
yacht nevertheless, rather than trust Allan alone
with his new friend.
Would the close companionship of the three
on their cruise tempt the man into talking of
his own affairs? No; he was ready enough on


44
ARMADALE.
other subjects, especially if Allan led the way to
them. But not a word escaped him about him-
self. Mr. Brock tried him with questions about
his recent inheritance, and was answered as he
had been answered once already at the Somer-
setshire inn. It was a curious coincidence, Mid-
winter admitted, that Mr. Armadale's prospects
and his own prospects should both have unex-
pectedly changed for the better about the same
time. But there the resemblance ended. It
was no large fortune that had fallen into his lap,
though it was enough for his wants. It had not
reconciled him with his relations, for the money
had not come to him as a matter of kindness but
as a matter of right. As for the circumstance
which had led to his communicating with his
family it was not worth mentioning, seeing
that the temporary renewal of intercourse which
had followed had produced no friendly results.
Nothing had come of it but the money—and,
with the money, an anxiety which troubled him
sometimes, when he woke in the small hours of
the morning.
At those last words he became suddenly silent,
as if, for once, his well-guarded tongue had be-
trayed him. Mr. Brock seized the opportunity,
and bluntly asked him what the nature of the
anxiety might be. Did it relate to money?
No; it related to a Letter which had been wait-
ing for him for many years. Had he received
|just dropped a letter into the box. Remember-
ing what he had said on board the yacht, Mr.
Brock concluded that they had both taken the
same precaution, and had ordered their corre-
spondence to be forwarded to the same place.
Late the next day they set sail for the Isle
of Man. For a few hours all went well; but
sunset brought with it the signs of a coming
change. With the darkness the wind rose to a
gale; and the question whether Allan and his
journeymen had, or had not, built a stout sea-
boat was seriously tested for the first time. All
that night, after trying vainly to bear up for
Holyhead, the little vessel kept the sea, and
stood her trial bravely. The next morning
the Isle of Man was in view, and the yacht was
safe at Castletown. A survey by daylight of
hull and rigging showed that all the damage
done might be set right again in a week's time.
The cruising party had accordingly remained at
Castletown; Allan being occupied in superin-
tending the repairs, Mr. Brock in exploring the
neighborhood, and Midwinter in making daily
pilgrimages on foot, to Douglas and back, to in-
quire for letters.
The first of the cruising party who received a
letter was Allan. “More worries from those
everlasting lawyers,” was all he said, when he
had read the letter, and had crumpled it up in
his pocket. The rector's turn came next before
the letter? Not yet; it had been left under the week's sojourn at Castletown had expired.
charge of one of the partners in the firm which On the fifth day he found a letter from Somer-
had managed the business of his inheritance for setshire waiting for him at the hotel. It had
him; the partner had been absent from England; been brought there by Midwinter, and it con-
and the letter, locked up among his own private tained news which entirely overthrew all Mr.
papers, could not be got at till he returned. He Brock's holiday plans. The clergyman who
was expected back toward the latter part of that had undertaken to do duty for him in his ab-
present May, and if Midwinter could be sure 'sence had been unexpectedly summoned home
where the cruise would take them to at the close again; and Mr. Brock had no choice (the day
of the month, he thought he would write and of the week being Friday) but to cross the next
have the letter forwarded. Had he any family
reasons to be anxious about it? None that he
knew of ; he was curious to see what had been
waiting for him for many years, and that was
all. So he answered the rector's questions, with
his tawny face turned away over the low bulwark
of the yacht, and his fishing-line dragging in his
supple brown hands.
Favored by wind and weather, the little ves-
sel had done wonders on her trial-trip. Before
the period fixed for the duration of the cruise
had half expired the yacht was as high up on
the Welsh coast as Holyhead; and Allan, eager
for adventure in unknown regions, had declared
boldly for an extension of the voyage northward
to the Isle of Man. Having ascertained from
reliable authority that the weather really prom-
ised well for a cruise in that quarter, and that,
in the event of any unforeseen necessity for re-
turn, the railway was accessible by the steamer
from Douglas to Liverpool, Mr. Brock agreed
to his pupil's proposal. By that night's post he
wrote to Allan's lawyers and to his own rectory,
indicating Douglas in the Isle of Man as the
next address to which letters might be forwarded.
At the post-office he met Midwinter, who had
morning from Douglas to Liverpool, and get
back by railway on Saturday night in time for
Sunday's service.
Having read his letter, and resigned himself
to his altered circumstances as patiently as he
might, the rector passed next to a question that
pressed for serious consideration in its turn. Bur-
dened with his heavy responsibility toward Al-
lan, and conscious of his own undiminished dis-
trust of Allan's new friend, how was he to act
in the emergency that now beset him toward the
two young men who had been his companions
on the cruise?
Mr. Brock had first asked himself that awk-
ward question the Friday afternoon; and he
was still trying, vainly, to answer it, alone in
his own room, at one o'clock on the Saturday
morning. It was then only the end of May,
and the residence of the ladies at Thorpe-Am-
brose (unless they chose to shorten it of their
own accord) would not expire till the middle
of June. Even if the repairs of the yacht had
been completed (which was not the case), there
was no possible pretense for hurrying Allan back
to Somersetshire. But one other alternative re-
mained—to leave him where he was. In other


ARMADALE.
45
words, to leave him, at the turning-point of his
life, under the sole influence of a man whom
he had first met with as a castaway at a village
"inn, and who was still, to all practical purposes,
a total stranger to him.
In despair of obtaining any better means of
enlightenment to guide his decision, Mr. Brock
reverted to the impression which Midwinter had
produced on his own mind in the familiarity of
the cruise.
Young as he was the ex-usher had evidently
lived a wild and varied life. He had seen and
observed more than most of men of twice his
age; his talk showed a strange mixture of sense
and absurdity—of vehement earnestness at one
time, and fantastic humor at another. He
could speak of books like a man who had really
enjoyed them; he could take his turn at the
helm like a sailor who knew his duty; he could
sing, and tell stories, and cook, and climb the
rigging, and lay the cloth for dinner, with an
odd satirical delight in the exhibition of his own
dexterity. The display of these, and other
qualities like them, as his spirits rose with the
cruise, had revealed the secret of his attraction
for Allan plainly enough. But had all disclos-
ures rested there? Had the man let no chance
light in on his character in the rector's pres-
ence? Very little; and that little did not set
him forth in a morally alluring aspect. His
way in the world had lain evidently in doubtful
places; familiarity with the small villainies of
vagabonds peeped out of him now and then;
words occasionally slipped off his tongue with
an unpleasantly strong flavor about them; and,
more significant still, he habitually slept the
light suspicious sleep of a man who has been ac-
customed to close his eyes in doubt of the com-
pany under the same roof with him. Down to
the very latest moment of the rector's experience
of him—down to that present Friday night-
his conduct had been persistently secret and un-
accountable to the very last. After bringing
Mr. Brock's letter to the hotel, he had mys-
,teriously disappeared from the house without
leaving any message for his companions, and
without letting any body see whether he had, or
had not, received a letter himself. At night-
fall he had come back stealthily in the darkness
—had been caught on the stairs by Allan, eager
to tell him of the change in the rector's plans—
had listened to the news without a word of re-
mark—and had ended by sulkily locking him-
self into his own room. What was there in his
favor to set against such revelations of his char-
acter as these—against his wandering eyes, his
obstinate reserve with the rector, his ominous
silence on the subject of family and friends?
Little or nothing: the sum of all his merits be-
gan and ended with his gratitude to Allan.
Mr. Brock left his seat on the side of the
bed, trimmed his candle, and, still lost in his
own thoughts, looked out absently at the night.
The change of place brought no new ideas with
it. His retrospect over his own past life had
amply satisfied him that his present sense of re-
sponsibility rested on no merely fanciful grounds;
and having brought him to that point, had left
him there, standing at the window, and seeing
nothing but the total darkness in his own mind
faithfully reflected by the total darkness of the
night.
“If I only had a friend to apply to !” thought
the rector. “If I could only find some one to
help me in this miserable place!”
At the moment when the aspiration crossed
his mind it was suddenly answered by a low
knock at the door, and a voice said softly in the
passage outside, “Let me come in.”
After an instant's pause to steady his nerves
Mr. Brock opened the door, and found himself
at one o'clock in the morning standing face to
face on the threshold of his own bedroom with
Ozias Midwinter.
“Are you ill?” asked the rector, as soon as
his astonishment would allow him to speak.
“I have come here to make a clean breast of
it!” was the strange answer. “Will you let
me in 2”
With those words he walked into the room—
his eyes on the ground, his lips ashy pale, and
his hand holding something hidden behind him.
“I saw the light under your door,” he went
on, without looking up, and without moving his
hand; “and I know the trouble on your mind
which is keeping you from your rest. You are
going away to-morrow morning, and you don't
like leaving Mr. Armadale alone with a stranger
like me.”
Startled as he was, Mr. Brock saw the serious
necessity of being plain with a man who had
come at that time, and had said those words to
him.
“You have guessed right,” he answered. “I
stand in the place of a father to Allan Arma-
dale, and I am naturally unwilling to leave
him, at his age, with a man whom I don't
know.”
Ozias Midwinter took a step forward to the
table. His wandering eyes rested on the rec-
tor's New Testament, which was one of the ob-
jects lying on it.
“You have read that Book, in the years of
a long life, to many congregations,” he said.
“Has it taught you mercy to your miserable
fellow-creatures?”
Without waiting to be answered, he looked
Mr. Brock in the face for the first time, and
brought his hidden hand slowly into view.
“Read that,” he said; “and, for Christ's
sake, pity me when you know who I am.”
He laid a letter of many pages on the table.
It was the letter that Mr. Neal had posted at
Wildbad nineteen years since.


ARMADALE.
#.
|
|
CHAPTER II.
The MAN REWEALED.
THE first cool breathings of the coming dawn
fluttered through the open window as Mr. Brock
read the closing lines of the Confession. He
put it from him in silence without looking up.
The first shock of discovery had struck his mind,
and had passed away again. At his age, and
with his habits of thought, his grasp was not
strong enough to hold the whole revelation that
had fallen on him. All his heart when he
closed the manuscript was with the memory
of the woman who had been the beloved friend
of his later and happier life; all his thoughts
were busy with the miserable secret of her trea-
son to her own father which the letter had dis-
closed.
He was startled out of the narrow limits of his
own little grief by the vibration of the table at
which he sat under a hand that was laid on it
heavily. The instinct of reluctance was strong
in him; but he conquered it, and looked up.
There, silently confronting him in the mixed
light of the yellow candle-flame and the faint
gray dawn, stood the castaway of the village inn
—the inheritor of the fatal Armadale name.
Mr. Brock shuddered as the terror of the pres-
ent time, and the darker terror yet of the future
that might be coming, rushed back on him at the
sight of the man's face. The man saw it, and
spoke first.
“Is my father's crime looking at you out of
my eyes?” he asked. “Has the ghost of the
drowned man followed me into the room?”
The suffering and the passion that he was
forcing back shook the hand that he still kept
on the table, and stifled the voice in which he
spoke until it sank to a whisper.
“I have no wish to treat you otherwise than
justly and kindly,” answered Mr. Brock.
“Do
me justice on my side, and believe that I am in-
capable of cruelly holding you responsible for
your father's crime.”
The reply seemed to compose him. He bow-
ed his head in silence, and took up the confes-
sion from the table.
“Have you read this through?” he asked,
quietly. -
“Every word of it, from first to last.”
“Have Idealt openly with you so far? Has
Ozias Midwinter—”
“Do you still call yourself by that name,”
interrupted Mr. Brock, “now your true name
is known to me?”
“Since I have read my father's confession,”
was the answer, “I like my ugly alias better
than ever. Allow me to repeat the question
which I was about to put to you a minute since
—Has Ozias Midwinter done his best thus far to
enlighten Mr. Brock?”
The rector evaded a direct reply. “Few men
in your position,” he said, “would have had the
courage to show me that letter.”
“Don’t be too sure, Sir, of the vagabond you
picked up at the inn till you know a little more
of him than you know now. You have got the
secret of my birth, but you are not in possession
yet of the story of my life. You ought to know
it, and you shall know it, before you leave
me alone with Mr. Armadale. Will you wait,
and rest a little while? or shall I tell it you
now *
“Now,” said Mr. Brock, still as far away as
ever from knowing the real character of the man
before him.
Everything Ozias Midwinter said, every thing
Ozias Midwinter did, was against him. He had
spoken with a sardonic indifference, almost with
an insolence of tone, which would have repelled
the sympathies of any man who heard him.
And now, instead of placing himself at the ta-
ble, and addressing his story directly to the rec-
tor, he withdrew silently and ungraciously to
the window-seat. There he sat, his face avert–
ed, his hands mechanically turning the leaves,
of his father's letter till he came to the last.
With his eyes fixed on the closing lines of the
manuscript, and with a strange mixture of reck-
lessness and sadness in his voice, he began his
promised narrative in these words:
“The first thing you know of me,” he said,
“is what my father's confession has told you
already. He mentions here that I was a child
asleep on his breast when he spoke his last
words in this world, and when a stranger's hand
wrote them down for him at his death-bed.
That stranger's name, as you may have no-
ticed, is signed on the cover—‘Alexander Neal,
Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh. The first
recollection I have is of Alexander Neal beating
me with a horse-whip (I dare say I deserved it)
in the character of my step-father.”
“Have you no recollection of your mother
at the same time 2" asked Mr. Brock.
“Yes; I remember her having shabby old
-


ARMADALE. 47
clothes made up to fit me, and having fine new away from my step-father; and I laid down
frocks bought for her two children by her sec- that night under my good friend the rock, the
ond husband. I remember the servants laugh- happiest boy in all Scotland !”
ing at me in my old things, and the horsewhip Through the wretched childhood which that
finding its way to my shoulders again for losing one significant circumstance disclosed Mr. Brock
my temper and tearing my shabby clothes. My began to see dimly how little was really strange,
next recollection gets on to a year or two later. how little really unaccountable in the character
I remember myself locked up in a lumber-room, of the man who was now speaking to him.
with a bit of bread and a mug of water, : “Islept soundly,” Midwinter continued, “un-
dering what it was that made my mother and der my friend the rock. When I woke in the
my step-father seem to hate the very sight of morning I found a sturdy old man with a fiddle
me. I never settled that question till yester- sitting on one side of me, and two dancing dogs
day, and then I solved the mystery when my in scarlet jackets on the other. Experience had
father's letter was put into my hands. My mo- made me too sharp to tell the truth when the
ther knew what had really happened on board man put his first questions. He didn't press
the French timber ship, and my step-father them; he gave me a good breakfast out of his
knew what had really happened, and they were knapsack, and he let me romp with the dogs.
both well aware that the shameful secret which “I’ll tell you what, he said, when he had got
they would fain have kept from every living my confidence in this manner, ‘you want three
creature was a secret which would be one day things, my man; you want a new father, a new
revealed to me. There was no help for it; the family, and a new name. I'll be your father;
confession was in the executor's hands; and I'll let you have the dogs for your brothers; and
there was I, an ill-conditioned brat, with my if you'll promise to be very careful of it I'll give
mother's negro blood in my face, and my mur- you my own name into the bargain. Ozias
dering father's passions in my heart, inheritor | Midwinter, junior, you have had a good break-
of their secret in spite of them | I don't won- fast; if you want a good dinner come along
der at the horsewhip now, or the shabby old with me.' He got up; the dogs trotted after
clothes, or the bread and water in the lumber- him, and I trotted after the dogs. Who was
room. Natural penalties all of them, Sir, which my new father? you will ask. A half-bred
the child was beginning to pay already for the gipsy, Sir; a drunkard, a ruffian, and a thief—
father's sin.” and the best friend I ever had Isn't a man
Mr. Brock looked at the swarthy, secret face, |your friend who gives you your food, your shel-
still obstinately turned away from him. “Is 'ter, and your education ? Ozias Midwinter
this the stark insensibility of a vagabond,” he taught me to dance the Highland fling, to throw
asked himself, “or the despair in disguise of a somersaults, to walk on stilts, and to sing songs
miserable man?” to his fiddle. Sometimes we roamed the coun--
“School is my next recollection,” the other try and performed at fairs. Sometimes we tried
went on. “A cheap place in a lost corner of the large towns, and enlivened bad company
Scotland. I was left there, with a bad charac- over its cups. I was a nice lively little boy of
ter to help me at starting. I spare you the eleven years old, and bad company, the women
story of the master's cane in the school-room especially, took a fancy to me and my nimble
and the boys' kicks in the play-ground. I dare feet. I was vagabond enough to like the life.
say there was ingrained ingratitude in my na-. The dogs and I lived together, ate, and drank,
ture; at any rate, I ran away. The first per- and slept together. I can't think of those poor
son who met me asked my name. I was too little four-footed brothers of mine, even now,
young and too foolish to know the importance without a choking in the throat. Many is the
of concealing it, and, as a matter of course, I beating we three took together; many is the
was taken back to school the same evening. hard day's dancing we did together; many is
The result taught me a lesson which I have not the night we have slept together, and whimpered
forgotten since. In a day or two more, like together on the cold hill-side. I'm not trying
the vagabond I was, I ran away for the second to distress you, Sir; I'm only telling you the
time. The school watch-dog had had his in- truth: The life, with all its hardships, was a
structions, I suppose: he stopped me before I life that fitted me, and the half-bred gipsy who
got outside the gate. Here is his mark, among gave me his name, ruffian as he was, was a ruf-
|
the rest, on the back of my hand. His mas- fian I liked.”
ter's marks I can't show you—they are all on “A man who beat you!” exclaimed Mr.
my back. Can you believe in my perversity? | Brock, in astonishment.
There was a devil in me that no dog could “Didn't I tell you just now, Sir, that I lived
worry out; I ran away again as soon as I left with the dogs? and did you ever hear of a dog
my bed; and this time I got off. At nightfall who liked his master the worse for beating him?
I found myself (with a pocketful of the school Hundreds of thousands of miserable men, wo-
oat-meal) lost on a moor. I laid down on the men, and children would have liked that man
fine soft heather, under the lee of a great gray (as I liked him) if he had always given them
rock. Do you think I felt lonely? Not I: I what he always gave me-plenty to eat. It
was away from the master's cane, away from was stolen food mostly, and my new gipsy fa-
my school-fellows kicks, away from my mother, ther was generous with it. He seldom laid the


48 ARMADALE.
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MY BROTHERS THE DOGS.
stick on us when he was sober; but it diverted harder than usual, and the more he drank the
him to hear us yelp when he was drunk. He better he liked his after-dinner amusement. He
died drunk, and enjoyed his favorite amuse- was in high good-humor that day, and he hit
ment with his last breath. One day (when I me so hard that he toppled over, in his drunken
had been two years in his service), after giving state, with the force of his own blow. He fell
us a good dinner out on the moor, he sat down with his face in a puddle, and lay there without
with his back against a stone, and called us up moving. I and the dogs stood at a distance
to divert himself with his stick. He made the and looked at him: we thought he was feign-
dogs yelp first, and then he called to me. I ing, to get us near and have another stroke at
didn't go very willingly; he had been drinking us. He feigned so long that we ventured up to


50
ARMADALE.
coasting-vessel. I had met, at that time, with
another vagabond boy, of my own age; we had
quarreled and parted. The day after, my step-
father's inquiries were made in that very district;
and it became a question with him (a good per-
sonal description being unattainable in either
case) which of the two boys he should fol-
low. One of them, he was informed, was known
as “Brown,” and the other as “Midwinter.”
Brown was just the common name which a cun-
ning runaway boy would be most likely to as-
sume; Midwinter just the remarkable name
which he would be most likely to avoid. The
pursuit had accordingly followed Brown, and
had allowed me to escape. I leave you to im-
agine whether I was not doubly and trebly de-
termined to keep my gipsy-master's name after
that. But my resolution did not stop here. I
made up my mind to leave the country alto-
gether. After a day or two's lurking about
the outward-bound vessels in port, I found out
which sailed first, and hid myself on board.
Hunger tried hard to force me out before the
pilot had left; but hunger was not new to me,
and I kept my place. The pilot was out of the
vessel when I made my appearance on deck, and
there was nothing for it but to keep me or throw
me overboard. The captain said (I have no
doubt quite truly) that he would have preferred
throwing me overboard; but the majesty of the
law does sometimes stand the friend even of
a vagabond like me. In that way I came
back to a sea life. In that way I learned
enough to make me handy and useful (as I saw
you noticed) on board Mr. Armadale's yacht. I
sailed more than one voyage, in more than one
vessel, to more than one part of the world; and
I might have followed the sea for life, if I could
only have kept my temper under every provoca-
tion that could be laid on it. I had learned a
great deal—but, not having learned that, I made
the last part of my last voyage home to the port
of Bristol in irons; and I saw the inside of a
prison for the first time in my life, on a charge
of mutinous conduct to one of my officers. You
have heard me with extraordinary patience, Sir,
and I am glad to tell you, in return, that we are
not far now from the end of my story. You found
some books, if I remember right, when you
searched my luggage at the Somersetshire inn?”
Mr. Brock answered in the affirmative.
“Those books mark the next change in my
life—and the last, before I took the usher's place
at the school. My term of imprisonment was
not a long one. Perhaps my youth pleaded for
me; perhaps the Bristol magistrates took into
consideration the time I had passed in irons on
board ship. Any how, I was just turned seven-
teen when I found myself out on the world
again. I had no friends to receive me; I had
no place to go to. A sailor's life, after what
had happened, was a life I recoiled from in dis-
gust. I stood in the crowd on the bridge at
Bristol, wondering what I should do with my
freedom now I had got it back. Whether I had
altered in the prison, or whether I was feeling
the change in character that comes with coming
manhood, I don't know; but the old reckless
enjoyment of the old vagabond life seemed quite
worn out of my nature. An awful sense of
loneliness kept me wandering about Bristol, in
horror of the quiet country, till after nightfall.
I looked at the lights kindling in the parlor win-
dows with a miserable envy of the happy people
inside. A word of advice would have been worth
something to me at that time. Well! I got it:
a policeman advised me to move on. He was
quite right—what else could I do? I looked up
at the sky, and there was my old friend of many
a night's watch at sea, the north star. “All
points of the compass are alike to me,’ I thought
to myself; ‘I'll go your way. Not even the
star would keep me company that night. It got
behind a cloud, and left me alone in the rain
and darkness. I groped my way to a cart-shed,
fell asleep, and dreamed of old times, when I
served my gipsy-master and lived with the dogs.
God! what I would have given when I woke to
have felt Tommy's little cold muzzle in my
hand ! Why am I dwelling on these things?
why don't I get on to the end? You shouldn't
encourage me, Sir, by listening so patiently.
After a week more of wandering, without hope
to help me, or prospects to look to, I found my-
self in the streets of Shrewsbury, staring in at
the windows of a bookseller's shop. An old
man came to the shop-door, looked about him,
and saw me. “Do you want a job?' he asked.
‘And are you not above doing it cheap?' The
prospect of having something to do, and some
human creature to speak a word to, tempted me,
and I did a day's dirty work in the bookseller's
warehouse for a shilling. More work followed
at the same rate. In a week I was promoted
to sweep out the shop and put up the shutters.
In no very long time after I was trusted to
carry the books out; and when quarter-day
came, and the shopman left, I took his place.
Wonderful luck! you will say; here I had found
my way to a friend at last. I had found my
way to one of the most merciless misers in En-
gland; and I had risen in the little world of
Shrewsbury by the purely commercial process
of underselling all my competitors. The job in
the warehouse had been declined at the price by
every idle man in the town—and I did it. The
regular porter received his weekly pittance under
weekly protest—I took two shillings less, and
made no complaint. The shopman gave warm-
ing on the ground that he was underfed as well
as underpaid. I received half his salary, and
lived contentedly on his reversionary scraps.
Never were two men so well suited to each other
as that bookseller and Il His one object in life
was to find somebody who would work for him
at starvation wages. My one object in life was
to find somebody who would give me an asylum
over my head. Without a single sympathy in
common—without a vestige of feeling of any
sort, hostile or friendly, growing up between us
on either side—without wishing each other good-
night when we parted on the house stairs, or


ARMADALE.
51
good-morning when we met at the shop counter
—we lived alone in that house, strangers from
first to last, for two whole years. A dismal ex-
istence for a lad of my age, was it not? You
are a clergyman and a scholar-surely you can
guess what made the life endurable to me?”
Mr. Brock remembered the well-worn vol-
umes which had been found in the usher's bag.
“The books made it endurable to you,” he said.
The eyes of the castaway kindled with a new
light.
s: Yes!” he said, “the books—the generous
friends who met me without suspicion – the
merciful masters who never used me ill! The
only years of my life that I can look back on
with something like pride are the years I passed
in the miser's house. The only unalloyed pleas-
ure I have ever tasted is the pleasure that I
found for myself on the miser's shelves. Early
and late, through the long winter nights and
the quiet summer days, I drank at the fountain
of knowledge, and never wearied of the draught.
There were few customers to serve; for the books
were mostly of the solid and scholarly kind. No
responsibilities rested on me; for the accounts
were kept by my master, and only the small
sums of money were suffered to pass through
my hands. He soon found out enough of me to
know that my honesty was to be trusted, and
that my patience might be counted on, treat me
as he might. The one insight into his charac-
ter which I obtained, on my side, widened the
distance between us to its last limits. He was
a confirmed opium-eater in secret—a prodigal in
laudanum, though a miser in all besides. He
never confessed his frailty, and I never told
him I had found it out. He had his pleasure
apart from me; and I had my pleasure apart
from him. Week after week, month after month,
there we sat without a friendly word ever pass-
ing between us—I alone with my book at the
counter; he alone with his ledger in the parlor,
dimly visible to me through the dirty window-
pane of the glass door, sometimes poring over
his figures, sometimes lost and motionless for
hours in the ecstasy of his opium-trance. Time
passed, and made no impression on us; the sea-
sons of two years came and went, and found us
still unchanged. One morning, at the opening
of the third year, my master did not appear as
usual to give me my allowance for breakfast. I
went up stairs, and found him helpless in his
bed. He refused to trust me with the keys of
the cupboard, or to let me send for a doctor.
I bought a morsel of bread, and went back to
my books, with no more feeling for him (I hon-
estly confess it) than he would have had for me
under the same circumstances. An hour or
two later I was roused from my reading by an
occasional customer of ours, a retired medical
man. He went up stairs. I was glad to get
rid of him and return to my books. He came
down again, and disturbed me once more. “I
| pointed.
don't much like you, my lad,” he said; “but I
think it my duty to say that you will soon have
to shift for yourself. You are no great favorite
in the town, and you may have some difficulty
in finding a new place. Provide yourself with
a written character from your master before it is
too late.” He spoke to me coldly. I thanked
him coldly on my side, and got my character
the same day. Do you think my master let me
have it for nothing? Not hel He bargained
with me on his death-bed. I was his creditor
for a month's salary, and he wouldn't write a
line of my testimonial until I had first promised
to forgive him the debt. Three days afterward
he died, enjoying to the last the happiness of
having overreached his shopman. “Aha!” he
whispered, when the doctor formally summoned
me to take leave of him, ‘I got you cheap!’
Was Ozias Midwinter's stick as cruel as that ?
I think not. Well! there I was, out on the
world again, but surely with better prospects
this time. I had taught myself to read Latin,
Greek, and German; and I had got my written
character to speak for me. All useless! The
doctor was quite right; I was not liked in the
town. The lower order of the people despised
me for selling my services to the miser at the
miser's price. As for the better classes I did with
them (God knows how!) what I have always
done with every body, except Mr. Armadale—I
produced a disagreeable impression at first sight;
I couldn't mend it afterward; and there was an
end of me in respectable quarters. It is quite
likely I might have spent all my savings, my
puny little golden offspring of two years' mis-
erable growth, but for a school advertisement
which I saw in a local paper. The heartlessly
mean terms that were offered encouraged me to
apply, and I got the place. How I prospered
in it, and what became of me next, there is no
need to tell you. The thread of my story is all
wound off; my vagabond life stands stripped of
its mystery; and you know the worst of me at
last.”
A moment of silence followed those closing
words. Midwinter rose from the window-seat
and came back to the table with the letter from
Wildbad in his hand.
“My father's confession has told you who I
am; and my own confession has told you what
my life has been,” he said, addressing Mr. Brock,
without taking the chair to which the rector
“I promised to make a clean breast
of it when I first asked leave to enter this room.
Have I kept my word?”
“It is impossible to doubt it,” replied Mr.
Brock. “You have established your claim on
my confidence and my sympathy. I should be
insensible indeed if I could know what I now
know of your childhood and your youth and not
feel something of Allan's kindness for Allan's
friend.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Midwinter, simply
and gravely.
He sat down opposite Mr. Brock at the table
for the first time.
“In a few hours you will have left this place,”
he proceeded. “If I can help you to leave it
UNIVERSITY OF III"nts


52 ARMADALE.
with your mind at ease I will. There is more any name I please. As Ozias Midwinter Mr.
to be said between us than we have said up to Armadale first knew me—as Ozias Midwinter
this time. My future relations with Mr. Arma- he shall know me to the end of my days. What-
dale are still left undecided; and the serious ever may be the result of this interview—wheth-
question raised by my father's letter is a ques- er I win your confidence, or whether I lose it—
tion which we have neither of us faced yet.” of one thing you may feel sure. Your pupil
He paused and looked with a momentary im- shall never know the horrible secret which I
patience at the candle still burning on the table have trusted to your keeping. This is no ex-
in the morning light. The struggle to speak traordinary resolution-for, as you know al-
with composure, and to keep his own feelings ready, it costs me no sacrifice of feeling to keep
stoically out of view, was evidently growing my assumed name. There is nothing in my
harder and harder to him. conduct to praise—it comes naturally out of the
“It may possibly help your decision,” he gratitude of a thankful man. Review the cir-
went on, “if I tell you how I determined to act cumstances for yourself, Sir, and set my own
toward Mr. Armadale—in the matter of the horror of revealing them to Mr. Armadale out
similarity of our names—when I first read this of the question. If the story of the names is
letter, and when I had composed myself suffi-ever told, there can be no limiting it to the dis-
ciently to be able to think at all.” He stopped, closure of my father's crime; it must go back to
and cast a second impatient look at the lighted the story of Mrs. Armadale's marriage. I have
candle. “Will you excuse the odd fancy of an heard her son talk of her; I know how he loves
odd man?” he asked, with a faint smile. “I her memory. As God is my witness he shall
want to put out the candle—I want to speak of never love it less dearly through me!”
the new subject in the new light.” Simply as the words were spoken, they touch-
He extinguished the candle as he spoke, and ||ed the deepest sympathies in the rector's nature:
let the first tenderness of the daylight flow unin- they took his thoughts back to Mrs. Armadale's
terruptedly into the room. death-bed. There sat the man against whom
“I must once more ask your patience,” he she had ignorantly warned him in her son's in-
resumed, “if I return for a moment to myself terests—and that man, of his own free-will, had
and my circumstances. I have already told | laid on himself the obligation of respecting her
you that my step-father made an attempt to dis-, secret for her son's sake! The memory of his
cover me some years after I had turned my back own past efforts to destroy the very friendship
on the Scotch school. He took that step out of out of which this resolution had sprung rose
no anxiety of his own, but simply as the agent and reproached Mr. Brock. He held out his
of my father's trustees. In the exercise of their hand to Midwinter for the first time. “In her
discretion they had sold the estates in Barba- name, and in her son's name,” he said, warmly,
does (at the time of the emancipation of the “I thank you.”
slaves, and the ruin of West Indian property). Without replying Midwinter spread the con-
for what the estates would fetch. Having in- fession open before him on the table.
vested the proceeds they were bound to set aside “I think I have said all that it was my duty
a sum for my yearly education. This responsi- to say,” he began, “before we could approach
bility obliged them to make the attempt to trace the consideration of this letter. Whatever may
me—a fruitless attempt, as you already know. have appeared strange in my conduct toward
A little later (as I have been since informed) I you and toward Mr. Armadale may be now
was publicly addressed by an advertisement in trusted to explain itself. You can easily im-
the newspapers – which I never saw. Later agine the natural curiosity and surprise that I
still, when I was twenty-one, a second adver- must have felt (ignorant as I then was of the
tisement appeared (which I did see) offering a truth) when the sound of Mr. Armadale's name
reward for evidence of my death. If I was first startled me as the echo of my own. You
alive, I had a right to my half share of the pro- will readily understand that I only hesitated to
ceeds of the estates on coming of age; if dead, tell him I was his namesake, because I hesitated
the money reverted to my mother. I went to to damage my position—in your estimation, if
the lawyers and heard from them what I have not in his—by confessing that I had come among
just told you. After some difficulty in proving you under an assumed name. And, after all
my identity—and, after an interview with my that you have just heard of my vagabond life
step-father, and a message from my mother, and my low associates, you will hardly wonder
which has hopelessly widened the old breach at the obstinate silence I maintained about my-
between us—my claim was allowed, and my self, at a time when I did not feel the sense of
money is now invested for me in the funds un- responsibility which my father's confession has
der the name that is really my own.” laid on me. We can return to these small per-
Mr. Brock drew eagerly nearer to the table. sonal explanations, if you wish it, at another
He saw the end now to which the speaker was time; they can not be suffered to keep us from
tending. the greater interests which we must settle before
“Twice a year,” Midwinter pursued, “I you leave this place. We may come now—”
must sign my own name to get my own in- his voice faltered, and he suddenly turned his
come. At all other times, and under all other face toward the window so as to hide it from
circumstances, I may hide my identity under the rector's view. “We may come now,” he


ARMADALE.
53
repeated, his hand trembling visibly as it held
the page, “to the murder on board the timber
ship, and to the warning that has followed me
from my father's grave.”
Softly—as if he feared they might reach Al-
lan, sleeping in the neighboring room—he read
the last terrible words which the Scotchman's
pen had written at Wildbad, as they fell from
his father's lips.
“Avoid the widow of the man I killed—if
the widow still lives. Avoid the maid whose
wicked hand smoothed the way to the marriage
—if the maid is still in her service. And more
than all, avoid the man who bears the same name
as your own. Offend your best benefactor, if
that benefactor's influence has connected you
one with the other. Desert the woman who
loves you, if that woman is a link between you
and him. Hide yourself from him under an
assumed name. Put the mountains and the
seas between you; be ungrateful; be unforgiv-
ing; be all that is most repellent to your own
gentler nature rather than live under the same
roof and breathe the same air with that man.
Never let the two Allan Armadales meet in this
world; never, never, never!”
After reading those sentences he pushed the
manuscript from him without looking up. The
fatal reserve which he had been in a fair way of
conquering but a few minutes since possessed
itself of him once more. Again his eyes wan-
dered; again his voice sank in tone. A stran-
ger who had heard his story, and who saw him
now, would have said, “His look is lurking, his
manner is bad; he is, every inch of him, his fa-
ther's son.”
“I have a question to ask you,” said Mr.
Brock, breaking the silence between them on
his side. “Why have you just read that pas-
sage in your father's letter?”
“To force me into telling you the truth,” was
the answer. “You must know how much there
is of my father in me before you trust me to
be Mr. Armadale's friend. I got my letter yes-
terday, in the morning. Some inner warning
troubled me, and I went down on the sea-shore
by myself before I broke the seal. Do you be-
lieve the dead can come back to the world they
once lived in ? I believe my father came back
in that bright morning light, through the glare
of that broad sunshine and the roar of that joy-
ful sea, and watched me while I read. When
I got to the words that you have just heard, and
when I knew that the very end which he had
died dreading was the end that had really come,
I felt the horror that had crept over him in his
last moments creeping over me. I struggled
against myself as he would have had me struggle.
I tried to be all that was most repellent to my
own gentler nature; I tried to think pitilessly
of putting the mountains and the seas between
me and the man who bore my name. Hours
passed before I could prevail on myself to go
back and run the risk of meeting Allan Arma-
dale in this house. When I did get back, and
when he met me at night on the stairs, I thought
I was looking him in the face as my father looked
his father in the face when the cabin door closed
between them. Draw your own conclusions,
Sir. Say, if you like, that the inheritance of
my father's heathen belief in Fate is one of the
inheritances he has left to me. I won't dispute
it; I won't deny that all through yesterday his
superstition was my superstition. The night
came before I could find my way to calmer and
brighter thoughts. But I did find my way.
You may set it down in my favor that I lifted
myself at last above the influence of this horri-
ble letter. Do you know what helped me?”
“Did you reason with yourself?”
‘‘I can't reason about what I feel.”
“Did you quiet your mind by prayer?”
“I was not fit to pray.”
“And yet something guided you to the bet-
ter feeling and the truer view?”
“Something did.”
** What was it?”
“My love for Allan Armadale.”
He cast a doubting, almost a timid, look at
Mr. Brock as he gave that answer, and, sud-
denly leaving the table, went back to the win-
dow-seat.
“Have I no right to speak of him in that
way?” he asked, keeping his face hidden from
the rector. “Have I not known him long
enough; have I not done enough for him yet?
Remember what my experience of other men
had been when I first saw his hand held out to
me; when I first heard his voice speaking to me
in my sick room. What had I known of stran-
gers' hands all through my childhood? I had
only known them as hands raised to threaten and
to strike me. His hand put my pillow straight,
and patted me on the shoulder, and gave me my
food and drink. What had I known of other
men's voices when I was growing up to be a
man myself? I had only known them as voices
that jeered, voices that cursed, voices that whis-
pered in corners with a vile distrust. His voice
said to me, ‘Cheer up, Midwinter! we'll soon
bring you round again. You'll be strong enough
in a week to go out for a drive with me in our
Somersetshire lanes. Think of the gipsy's
stick; think of the devils laughing at me when
I went by their windows with my little dead dog
in my arms; think of the master who cheated
me of my month's salary on his death-bed, and
ask your own heart if the miserable wretch
whom Allan Armadale has treated as his equal
and his friend has said too much in saying that
he loves him ? I do love him It will come
out of me; I can't keep it back. I love the very
ground he treads on 1 I would give my life—
yes, the life that is precious to me now, because
his kindness has made it a happy one—I tell you
I would give my life—”
The next words died away on his lips; the
hysterical passion rose and conquered him. He
stretched out one of his hands with a wild ges-
ture of entreaty to Mr. Brock; his head sank on
the window-sill, and he burst into tears.
Even then the hard discipline of the man's


54
ARMADALE.
life asserted itself. He expected no sympathy;
he counted on no merciful human respect for hu-
man weakness. The cruel necessity of self-sup-
pression was present to his mind while the tears
were pouring over his cheeks. “Give me a min-
ute,” he said, faintly. “I’ll fight it down in a
minute; I won't distress you in this way again.”
True to his resolution, in a minute he had
fought it down. In a minute more he was able
to speak calmly.
“We will get back, Sir, to those better
thoughts which brought me last night from my
room to yours,” he resumed. “I can only re-
peat that I should never have torn myself from
the hold which this letter fastened on me if I
had not loved Allan Armadale with all that I
have in me of a brother's love. I said to my-
self, ‘If the thought of leaving him breaks my
heart, the thought of leaving him is wrong!'
That was some hours since, and I am in the
same mind still. I can't believe—I won't be-
lieve—that a friendship which has grown out of
nothing but kindness on one side, and nothing
but gratitude on the other, is destined to lead to
an evil end. I don't undervalue the strange
circumstances which have made us namesakes—
the strange circumstances which have brought
us together and attached us to each other—the
strange circumstances which have since happen-
ed to us separately. They may, and they do,
all link themselves together in my thoughts;
but they shall not daunt me... I won't believe
that these events have happened in the order of
Fate for an end that is evil; I will believe that
they have happened in the order of God for an
end that is good. Judge, you who are a clergy-
man, between the dead father, whose word is in
these pages, and the living son, whose word is
now on his lips | Which am I—now that the
two Allan Armadales have met again in the sec-
ond generation—an instrument in the hands of
Fate, or an instrument in the hands of Provi-
dence? What is it appointed me to do—now
that I am breathing the same air, and living un-
der the same roof with the son of the man whom
my father killed—to perpetuate my father's crime
by mortally injuring him? or to atone for my
father's crime by giving him the devotion of my
whole life? The last of those two faiths is my
faith, and shall be my faith, happen what may.
In the strength of that better conviction I have
come here to trust you with my father's secret,
and to confess the wretched story of my own life.
In the strength of that better conviction I can
face you resolutely with the one plain question,
which marks the one plain end of all that I have
come here to say. Your pupil stands at the
starting-point of his new career, in a position
singularly friendless; his one great need is a
companion of his own age on whom he can rely.
The time has come, Sir, to decide whether I am
to be that companion or not. After all you have
heard of Ozias Midwinter, tell me plainly, will
you trust him to be Allan Armadale's friend?”
Mr. Brock met that fearlessly frank question
by a fearless frankness on his side.
“I believe you love Allan,” he said; “and
I believe you have spoken the truth. A man
who has produced that impression on me is a
man whom I am bound to trust. I trust you.”
Midwinter started to his feet, his dark fa 2
flushing deep, his eyes fixed brightly and stead-
ily at last on the rector's face. “A light!” he
exclaimed, tearing the pages of his father's let-
ter one by one from the fastening that held
them. “Let us destroy the last link that holds
us to the horrible past! Let us see this con-
fession a heap of ashes before we part!”
“Wait!” said Mr. Brock. “Before you burn
it there is a reason for looking at it once
more.”
The parted leaves of the manuscript dropped
from Midwinter's hands. Mr. Brock took them
up, and sorted them carefully until he found the
last page.
“I view your father's superstition as you view
it,” said the rector. “But there is a warning
given you here which you will do well (for Al-
lan's sake, and for your own sake) not to neg-
lect. The last link with the past will not be
destroyed when you have burnt these pages.
One of the actors in this story of treachery and
murder is not dead yet. Read those words.”
He pushed the page across the table with his
finger on one sentence. Midwinter's agitation
misled him. He mistook the indication, and
read, “Avoid the widow of the man I killed—
if the widow still lives.”
“Not that sentence,” said the rector.
next.”
Midwinter read it: “Avoid the maid whose
wicked hand smoothed the way to the marriage
—if the maid is still in her service.”
“The maid and the mistress parted,” said
Mr. Brock, “at the time of the mistress's mar-
riage. The maid and the mistress met again at
Mrs. Armadale's residence in Somersetshire last
year. I myself met the woman in the village,
and I myself know that her visit hastened Mrs.
Armadale's death. Wait a little, and compose
yourself; I see I have startled you.”
He waited as he was bid, his color fading
away to a gray paleness, and the light in his
clear brown eyes dying out slowly. What the
rector had said had produced no transient im-
pression on him; there was more than doubt,
there was alarm in his face as he sat lost in his
own thoughts. Was the struggle of the past
night renewing itself already? Did he feel the
horror of his hereditary superstition creeping
over him again?
“Can you put me on my guard against her?”
he asked, after a long interval of silence. “Can
you tell me her name?”
“I can only tell you what Mrs. Armadale
told me,” answered Mr. Brock. “The wo-
man acknowledged having been married in the
long interval since she and her mistress had last
met. But not a word more escaped her about
her past life. She came to Mrs. Armadale to
ask for money under a plea of distress. She
got the money, and she left the house, positive-
“The



ARMADALE. *
55
ly refusing, when the question was put to her,
to mention her married name.”
“You saw her yourself in the village. What
was she like P”
“She kept her veil down. I can't tell you.”
“You can tell me what you did see?”
“Certainly. I saw as she approached me
that she moved very gracefully, that she had a
beautiful figure, and that she was a little over
the middle height. I noticed, when she asked
me the way to Mrs. Armadale's house, that her
manner was the manner of a lady, and that the
tone of her voice was remarkably soft and win-
ning. Lastly, I remembered afterward that she
wore a thick black veil, a black bonnet, a black
silk dress, and a red Paisley shawl. I feel all
the importance of your possessing some better
means of identifying her than I can give you.
But, unhappily—”
He stopped. Midwinter was leaning eagerly
across the table, and Midwinter's hand was laid
suddenly on his arm.
“Is it possible that you know the woman?”
asked Mr. Brock, surprised at the sudden change
in his manner.
“No.”
“What have I said, then, that has startled
you so?”
“Do you remember the woman who threw
herself from the river steamer?” asked the other,
“the woman who caused that succession of
deaths, which opened Allan Armadale's way to
the Thorpe-Ambrose estate?”
“I remember the description of her in the
police report,” answered the rector.
“That woman,” pursued Midwinter, “moved
gracefully, and had a beautiful figure. That
woman wore a black veil, a black bonnet, a black
silk gown, and a red Paisley shawl—” He
stopped, released his hold of Mr. Brock's arm,
and abruptly resumed his chair. “Can it be
the same?” he said to himself, in a whisper.
“Is there a fatality that follows men in the dark?
And is it following us in that woman's foot-
steps?”
If the conjecture was right, the one event in
the past which had appeared to be entirely dis-
connected with the events that had preceded it,
was, on the contrary, the one missing link which
made the chain complete. Mr. Brock's comfort-
able common sense instinctively denied that
startling conclusion. He looked at Midwinter
with a compassionate smile. -
“My young friend,” he said, kindly, “have
you cleared your mind of all superstition as com-
pletely as you think? Is what you have just
said worthy of the better resolution at which
you arrived last night?”
Midwinter's head drooped on his breast; the
color rushed back over his face: he sighed bit-
terly.
“You are beginning to doubt my sincerity,”
he said. “I can't blame you.”
“I believe in your sincerity as firmly as ever,”
answered Mr. Brock. “I only doubt whether
you have fortified the weak places in your nature
as strongly as you yourself suppose. Many a
man has lost the battle against himself far oftener
than you have lost it yet, and has nevertheless
won his victory in the end. I don't blame you,
I don't distrust you. I only notice what has
happened, to put you on your guard against
yourself. Come! come! Let your own better
sense help you; and you will agree with me,
that there is really no evidence to justify the
suspicion that the woman whom I met in Som-
ersetshire, and the woman who attempted sui-
cide in London, are one and the same. Need
an old man like me remind a young man like
you that there are thousands of women in En-
gland with beautiful figures—thousands of wo-
men who are quietly dressed in black silk gowns
and red Paisley shawls?”
Midwinter caught eagerly at the suggestion;
too eagerly, as it might have occurred to a
harder critic on humanity than Mr. Brock.
“You are quite right, Sir,” he said, “and I
am quite wrong. Tens of thousands of women
answer the description, as you say. I have been
wasting time on my own idle fancies when I
ought to have been carefully gathering up facts.
If this woman ever attempts to find her way to
Allan I must be prepared to stop her.” He be-
gan searching restlessly among the manuscript
leaves scattered about the table, paused over
one of the pages, and examined it attentively.
“This helps me to something positive,” he went
on; “this helps me to a knowledge of her age.
She was twelve at the time of Mrs. Armadale's
marriage; add a year, and bring her to thirteen;
add Allan's age (twenty-two), and we make her
a woman of five-and-thirty at the present time.
I know her age; and I know that she has her
own reasons for being silent about her married
life. This is something gained at the outset,
and it may lead, in time, to something more.”
He looked up brightly again at Mr. Brock. “Am
I in the right way now, Sir? Am I doing my
best to profit by the caution which you have
kindly given me?”
“You are vindicating your own better sense,”
answered the rector, encouraging him to tram-
ple down his own imagination, with an English-
man's ready distrust of the noblest of the human
faculties. “You are paving the way for your
own happier life.”
“Am I?” said the other, thoughtfully.
He searched among the papers once more, and
stopped at another of the scattered pages.
“The Ship!” he exclaimed suddenly, his col-
or changing again, and his manner altering on
the instant. -
“What ship?” asked the rector.
“The ship in which the deed was done,” Mid-
winter answered, with the first signs of impa-
tience that he had shown yet. - “The ship in
which my father's murderous hand turned the
lock of the cabin door.”
“What of it?" said Mr. Brotk.
He appeared not to hear the question; his
eyes remained fixed intently on the page that
he was reading.


56
ARMADALE.
“A French vessel, employed in the timber after his yacht, and Midwinter entering the house
trade,” he said, still speaking to himself; “a to get the rest that he needed after a sleepless
French vessel, named La Grace de Dieu. If
my father's belief had been the right belief—if
the Fatality had been following me, step by step,
from my father's grave—in one or other of my
voyages I should have fallen in with that ship.”
He looked up again at Mr. Brock. “I am quite
sure about it now,” he said. “Those women
are two—and not one.”
Mr. Brock shook his head.
“I am glad you have come to that conclu-
sion,” he said. “But I wish you had reached
it in some other way.” -
Midwinter started passionately to his feet, and
seizing on the pages of the manuscript with both
hands, flung them into the empty fire-place.
“For God's sake, let me burn it!” he ex-
claimed. “As long as there is a page left I
shall read it. And as long as I read it my fa-
ther gets the better of me in spite of myself!”
Mr. Brock pointed to the match-box. In
another moment the confession was in flames.
When the fire had consumed the last morsel
of paper Midwinter drew a deep breath of re-
lief.
“I may say, like Macbeth, “Why, so, being
gone, I am a man again!’” he broke out with
a feverish gayety. “You look fatigued, Sir;
and no wonder,” he added, in a lower tone. “I
have kept you too long from your rest—I will
keep you no longer. Depend on my remember-
ing what you have told me; depend on my stand-
ing between Allan and any enemy, man or wo-
man, who comes near him. Thank you, Mr.
Brock; a thousand, thousand times, thank you!
I came into this room the most wretched of liv-
ing men; I can leave it now as happy as the
birds that are singing outside.”
As he turned to the door the rays of the ris-
ing sun streamed through the window and touch-
ed the heap of ashes lying black in the black fire-
place. The sensitive imagination of Midwinter
kindled instantly at the sight.
“Look!” he said, joyously. “The promise
of the Future shining over the ashes of the
Past !”
An inexplicable pity for the man at the mo-
ment of his life when he needed pity least stole
over the rector's heart when the door had closed,
and he was left by himself again.
“Poor fellow !” he said, with an uneasy sur-
prise at his own compassionate impulse. “Poor
fellow !”
-e-
CHAPTER III.
• *) A. Y. AN ID NIGHT.
THE morning hours had passed; the noon
had come and gone; and Mr. Brock had start-
ed on the first stage of his journey home.
After parting from the rector in Douglas Har-
bor the two young men had returned to Castle-
night.
He darkened his room; he closed his eyes—
but no sleep came to him. On this first day of
the rector's absence his sensitive nature extrav-
agantly exaggerated the responsibility which he
now held in trust for Mr. Brock. A nervous
dread of leaving Allan by himself, even for a few
hours only, kept him waking and doubting until
it became a relief rather than a hardship to rise
from the bed again, and following in Allan's
footsteps, to take the way to the waterside which
led to the yacht.
The repairs of the little vessel were nearly
completed. It was a breezy, cheerful day; the
land was bright, the water was blue, the quick
waves leaped crisply in the sunshine, the men
were singing at their work. Descending to the
cabin, Midwinter discovered his friend busily
occupied in attempting to set the place to rights.
Habitually the least systematic of mortals, Allan :
now and then awoke to an overwhelming sense
of the advantages of order, and on such occa-
sions a perfect frenzy of tidiness possessed him.
He was down on his knees, hotly and wildly at
work, when Midwinter looked in on him, and
was fast reducing the meat little world of the
cabin to its original elements of chaos with a
misdirected energy wonderful to see.
“Here's a mess!” said Allan, rising com-
posedly on the horizon of his own accumulated
litter. “Do you know, my dear fellow, I begin
to wish I had let well alone.”
Midwinter smiled, and came to his friend's
assistance with the natural neat-handedness of a
sailor.
The first object that he encountered was Al-
lan's dressing-case, turned upside down, with
half the contents scattered on the floor, and with
a duster and a hearth-broom lying among them.
Replacing the various objects which formed the
furniture of the dressing-case one by one, Mid-
winter lighted unexpectedly on a miniature por-
trait of the old-fashioned oval form, primly
framed in a setting of small diamonds.
“You don't seem to set much value on this,”
he said. “What is it?”
Allan bent over him, and looked at the min-
iature.
“It belonged to my mother,” he answered;
“and I set the greatest value on it. It is a por-
trait of my father.”
Midwinter put the miniature abruptly into
Allan's hands, and withdrew to the opposite
side of the cabin.
“You know best where the things ought to be
put in your own dressing-case,” he said, keeping
his back turned on Allan. “I’ll make the place
tidy on this side of the cabin, and you shall make
the place tidy on the other.”
He began setting in order the litter scattered
about him on the cabin table and on the floor.
But it seemed as if fate had decided that his
town, and had there separated at the hotel door,
Allan walking down to the waterside to look
friend's personal possessions should fall into his
hands that morning employ them where he


ARMADALE. 57
might. One among the first objects which he
took up was Allan's tobacco-jar with the stopper
missing, and with a letter (which appeared by
the bulk of it to contain inclosures) crumpled
into the mouth of the jar in the stopper's
place.
“Did you know that you had put this here?”
he asked. “Is the letter of any importance?”
Allan recognized it instantly. It was the
first of the little series of letters which had fol-
lowed the cruising party to the Isle of Man—the
letter which young Armadale had briefly re-
ferred to as bringing him “more worries from
those everlasting lawyers,” and had then dis-
missed from further notice as recklessly as usual.
“This is what comes of being particularly
careful,” said Allan; “here is an instance of
my extreme thoughtfulness. You may not think
it, but I put the letter there on purpose. Every
time I went to the jar, you know, I was sure to
see the letter; and every time I saw the letter I
was sure to say to myself, ‘This must be an-
swered.” There's nothing to laugh at; it was
a perfectly sensible arrangement—if I could only
have remembered where I put the jar. Suppose
I tie a knot in my pocket-handkerchief this
time? You have a wonderful memory, my dear
fellow. Perhaps you'll remind me in the course
of the day, in case I forget the knot next.”
Midwinter saw his first chance, since Mr.
Brock's departure, of usefully filling Mr. Brock's
place.
“Here is your writing-case,” he said, “why
not answer the letter at once? If you put it
away again you may forget it again.”
“Very true,” returned Allan. “But the
worst of it is, I can't quite make up my mind
what answer to write. I want a word of advice.
Come and sit down here, and I'll tell you all
about it.”
With his loud boyish laugh—echoed by Mid-
winter, who caught the infection of his gayety—
he swept a heap of miscellaneous encumbranc-
es off the cabin sofa, and made room for his
friend and himself to take their places. In the
high flow of youthful spirits the two sat down to
their trifling consultation over a letter lost in a
tobacco-jar. It was a memorable moment to
both of them, lightly as they thought of it at the
time. Before they had risen again from their
places they had taken the first irrevocable step
together on the dark and tortuous road of their
future lives.
Reduced to plain facts, the question on which
Allan now required his friend's advice may be
stated as follows:
While the various arrangements connected
with the succession to Thorpe-Ambrose were in
progress of settlement, and while the new pos-
sessor of the estate was still in London, a ques-
tion had necessarily arisen relating to the per-
son who should be appointed to manage the
property. The steward employed by the Blanch-
ard family had written, without loss of time, to
offer his services. Although a perfectly compe-
tent and trust-worthy man, he failed to find fa-
vor in the eyes of the new proprietor. Acting,
as usual, on his first impulses, and resolved, at
all hazards, to install Midwinter as a permanent
inmate at Thorpe-Ambrose, Allan had determ-
ined that the steward's place was the place ex-
actly fitted for his friend, for the simple reason
that it would necessarily oblige his friend to live
with him on the estate. He had accordingly
written to decline the proposal made to him
without consulting Mr. Brock, whose disapprov-
al he had good reason to fear; and without tell-
ing Midwinter, who would probably (if a chance
were allowed him of choosing) have declined
taking a situation which his previous training
had by no means fitted him to fill. Further
correspondence had followed this decision, and
had raised two new difficulties which looked a
little embarrassing on the face of them, but
which Allan, with the assistance of his lawyers,
easily contrived to solve. The first difficulty,
of examining the outgoing steward's books, was
settled by sending a professional accountant to
Thorpe-Ambrose; and the second difficulty, of
putting the steward's empty cottage to some prof-
itable use (Allan's plans for his friend compre-
hending Midwinter's residence under his own
roof), was met by placing the cottage on the list
of an active house-agent in the neighboring
county town. In this state the arrangements
had been left when Allan quitted London. He
had heard and thought nothing more of the mat-
ter until a letter from the lawyers had followed
him to the Isle of Man, inclosing two proposals
to occupy the cottage—both received on the
same day—and requesting to hear, at his earli-
est convenience, which of the two he was pre-
pared to accept.
Finding himself, after having conveniently for-
gotten the subject for some days past, placed
face to face once more with the necessity for de-
cision, Allan now put the two proposals into his
friend's hands, and, after a rambling explana-
tion of the circumstances of the case, requested
to be favored with a word of advice. Instead
of examining the proposals Midwinter uncere-
moniously put them aside, and asked the two
very natural and very awkward questions of
who the new steward was to be, and why he
was to live in Allan's house?
“I’ll tell you who, and I'll tell you why, when
we get to Thorpe-Ambrose,” said Allan. “In
the mean time we'll call the steward X. Y. Z.,
and we'll say he lives with me, because I'm dev-
ilish sharp, and I mean to keep him under my own
eye. You needn't look surprised. I know the
man thoroughly well; he requires a good deal
of management. If I offered him the steward's
place beforehand his modesty would get in his
way, and he would say—‘No.” If I pitch him
into it neck and crop, without a word of warm-
ing and with nobody at hand to relieve him of
the situation, he'll have nothing for it but to
consult my interests, and say—‘Yes. X. Y. Z.
is not at all a bad fellow, I can tell you. You'll
see him when we go to Thorpe-Ambrose; and


58
ARMADALE.
I rather think you and he will get on uncom-
monly well together.”
The humorous twinkle in Allan's eye, the sly
significance in Allan's voice, would have be-
trayed his secret to a prosperous man. Mid-
winter was as far from suspecting it as the car-
penters who were at work above them on the
deck of the yacht.
“Is there no steward now on the estate?” he
asked, his face showing plainly that he was far
from feeling satisfied with Allan's answer. “Is
the business neglected all this time?”
“Nothing of the sort!” returned Allan. “The
business is going with ‘a wet sheet and a flow-
ing sail, and a wind that follows free. I'm not
Joking—I'm only metaphorical. A regular ac-
countant has poked his nose into the books, and
a steady-going lawyer's clerk attends at the of-
fice once a week. That doesn't look like neg-
lect, does it? Leave the new steward alone for
the present, and just tell me which of those two
tenants you would take if you were in my place.”
Midwinter opened the proposals and read
them attentively.
The first proposal was from no less a person
than the solicitor at Thorpe-Ambrose, who had
first informed Allan at Paris of the large for-
tune that had fallen into his hands. This gen-
tleman wrote personally to say that he had long
admired the cottage, which was charmingly situ-
ated within the limits of the Thorpe-Ambrose
grounds. He was a bachelor, of studious hab-
its, desirous of retiring to a country seclusion
after the wear and tear of his business hours;
and he ventured to say that Mr. Armadale, in
accepting him as a tenant, might count on se-
curing an unobtrusive neighbor, and on putting
the cottage into responsible and careful hands.
The second proposal came through the house-
agent and proceeded from a total stranger. The
tenant who offered for the cottage, in this case,
was a retired officer in the army—one Major
Milroy. His family merely consisted of an in-
valid wife and an only child—a young lady.
His references were unexceptionable; and he,
too, was especially anxious to secure the cot-
tage, as the perfect quiet of the situation was
exactly what was required by Mrs. Milroy in
her feeble state of health.
“Well! which profession shall I favor?”
asked Allan. “The army or the law?”
“There seems to me to be no doubt about it,”
said Midwinter. “The lawyer has been already
in correspondence with you; and the lawyer's
claim is, therefore, the claim to be preferred.”
“I knew you would say that. In all the
thousands of times I have asked other people
for advice I never yet got the advice I wanted.
Here's this business of letting the cottage as an
instance. I'm all on the other side myself. I
want to have the major.”
44 Why ?”
Young Armadale laid his forefinger on that
part of the agent's letter which enumerated Ma-
jor Milroy's family, and which contained the
three words—“a young lady.”
“Abachelor of studious habits walking about
my grounds,” said Allan, “is not an interesting
object; a young lady is. I have not the least
doubt Miss Milroy is a charming girl. Ozias
Midwinter of the serious countenance! think
of her pretty muslin dress flitting about among
your trees and committing trespasses on your
property; think of her adorable feet trotting
into your fruit-garden, and her delicious fresh
lips kissing your ripe peaches; think of her
dimpled hands among your early violets, and
her little cream-colored nose buried in your
blush-roses! What does the studious bachelor
offer me in exchange for the loss of all this?
He offers me a rheumatic brown object in gai-
ters and a wig. No! no! Justice is good, my
dear friend; but, believe me, Miss Milroy is
better.”
“Can you be serious about any mortal thing,
Allan P”
“I’ll try to be, if you like. I know I ought
to take the lawyer; but what can I do if the
major's daughter keeps running in my head?”
Midwinter returned resolutely to the just and
the sensible view of the matter, and pressed it
on his friend's attention with all the persuasion
of which he was master. After listening with
exemplary patience until he had done, Allan
swept a supplementary accumulation of litter
off the cabin table and produced from his waist-
coat-pocket a half-crown coin.
“I’ve got an entirely new idea,” he said.
“Let's leave it to chance.”
The absurdity of the proposal—as coming
from a landlord—was irresistible. Midwinter's
gravity deserted him.
“I’ll spin,” continued Allan, “and you shall
call. We must give precedence to the army,
of course; so we'll say Heads, the major; Tails,
the lawyer. One spin to decide. Now, then,
look out !”
He spun the half-crown on the cabin table.
“Tails!” cried Midwinter, humoring what he
believed to be one of Allan's boyish jokes.
The coin fell on the table with the Head up-
permost.
“You don't mean to say you are really in
earnest!” said Midwinter, as the other opened
his writing-case and dipped his pen in the ink.
“Oh, but I am, though !” replied Allan.
“Chance is on my side and Miss Milroy's; and
you're outvoted, two to one. It's no use argu-
ing. The major has fallen uppermost, and the
major shall have the cottage. I won't leave it
to the lawyers—they'll only be worrying me with
more letters; I'll write myself.”
He wrote his answers to the two proposals,
literally in two minutes. One to the house-
agent: “Dear Sir, I accept Major Milroy's
offer; let him come in when he pleases. Yours
truly, Allan Armadale.” And one to the law-
yer: “Dear Sir, I regret that circumstances
prevent me from accepting your proposal. Yours
truly, etc., etc.” “People make a fuss about
letter-writing,” Allan remarked, when he had
done. “I find it easy enough.”


ARMADALE.
59
-
He wrote the addresses on his two notes and
stamped them for the post, whistling gayly.
While he had been writing he had not noticed
how his friend was occupied. When he had
done, it struck him that a sudden silence had
fallen on the cabin; and looking up, he ob-
served that Midwinter's whole attention was
strangely concentrated on the half-crown, as it
lay head uppermost on the table. Allan sus-
pended his whistling in astonishment.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asked.
“I was only wondering,” replied Midwinter.
“What about?” persisted Allan.
“I was wondering,” said the other, handing
him back the half-crown, “whether there is
such a thing as chance.”
Half an hour later the two notes were posted;
and Allan, whose close superintendence of the
repairs of the yacht had hitherto allowed him
but little leisure time on shore, had proposed to
while away the idle hours by taking a walk in
Castletown. Even Midwinter's nervous anxiety
to deserve Mr. Brock's confidence in him could
detect nothing objectionable in this harmless
proposal, and the young men set forth together
to see what they could make of the metropolis
of the Isle of Man.
It is doubtful if there is a place on the habitable
globe which, regarded as a sight-seeing invest-
ment offering itself to the spare attention of stran-
gers, yields so small a per-centage of interest in
return as Castletown. Beginning with the water-
side, there was an inner harbor to see, with a draw-
bridge to let vessels through; an outer harbor,
ending in a dwarf light-house; a view of a flat
coast to the right, and a view of a flat coast to the
left. In the central solitudes of the city there was
asquat gray building called “the castle;” also a
memorial pillar dedicated to one Governor Smelt,
with a flat top for a statue, and no statue stand-
ing on it; also a barrack, holding the half com-
pany of soldiers allotted to the island, and ex-
hibiting one spirit-broken sentry at its lonely
door. The prevalent color of the town was faint
gray. The few shops open were parted at fre-
quent intervals by other shops closed and desert-
ed in despair. The weary lounging of boatmen
on shore was trebly weary here; the youth of
the district smoked together in speechless de-
pression under the lee of a dead wall; the rag-
ged children said, mechanically, “Give us a pen-
my,” and before the charitable hand could search
the merciful pocket, lapsed away again in mis-
anthropic doubt of the human nature they ad-
dressed. The silence of the grave overflowed
the church-yard and filled this miserable town.
But one edifice, prosperous to look at, rose con-
solatory in the desolation of these dreadful
streets. Frequented by the students of the
neighboring “College of King William,” this
building was naturally dedicated to the uses of
a pastry-cook's shop. Here, at least (viewed
through the friendly medium of the window),
there was something going on for a stranger to
see; for here, on high stools, the pupils of the
| college sat, with swinging legs and slowly-mov-
ing jaws, and, hushed in the horrid stillness of
Castletown, gorged their pastry gravely, in an
atmosphere of awful silence.
“Hang me if I can look any longer at the
boys and the tarts!” said Allan, dragging his
friend away from the pastry-cook's shop. “Let's
try if we can't find something else to amuse us
in the next street.”
The first amusing object which the next street
presented was a carver-and-gilder's shop, expir-
|ing feebly in the last stage of commercial decay.
The counter inside displayed nothing to view but
the recumbent head of a boy, peacefully asleep
in the unbroken solitude of the place. In the
window were exhibited to the passing stranger
three forlorn little fly-spotted frames; a small
posting-bill, dusty with long-continued neglect,
announcing that the premises were to let; and
one colored print, the last of a series illustrating
the horrors of drunkenness, on the fiercest tem-
perance principles. The composition—repre-
senting an empty bottle of gin, an immensely
spacious garret, a perpendicular Scripture-read-
er, and a horizontal expiring family—appealed
to public favor, under the entirely unobjection-
able title of The Hand of Death. Allan's reso-
lution to extract amusement from Castletown by
main force had resisted a great deal, but it failed
him at this stage of the investigations. He sug-
gested trying an excursion to some other place.
Midwinter readily agreeing, they went back to
the hotel to make inquiries. Thanks to the
mixed influence of Allan's ready gift of famili-
arity and total want of method in putting his
questions, a perfect deluge of information flowed
in on the two strangers, relating to every subject
but the subject which had actually brought then
to the hotel. They made various interesting
discoveries in connection with the laws and con-
stitution of the Isle of Man, and the manners
and customs of the natives. To Allan's delight
the Manxmen spoke of England as of a well-
known adjacent island, situated at a certain dis-
tance from the central empire of the Isle of Man.
It was further revealed to the two Englishmen
that this happy little nation rejoiced in laws of
its own, publicly proclaimed once a year by the
governor and the two head-judges, grouped to-
gether on the top of an ancient mound, in fancy
costumes appropriate to the occasion. Possess-
ing this enviable institution, the island added
to it the inestimable blessing of a local parlia-
ment, called the House of Keys, an assembly
far in advance of the other parliament belonging
to the neighboring island, in this respect—that
the members dispensed with the people, and
solemnly elected each other. With these, and
many more local particulars, extracted from all
sorts and conditions of men in and about the
hotel, Allan whiled away the weary time in his
own essentially desultory manner, until the gos-
sip died out of itself, and Midwinter (who had
been speaking apart with the landlord) quietly
recalled him to the matter in hand. The finest
coast scenery in the island was said to be to the


60
ARMADALE.
westward and the southward, and there was a
fishing town in those regions called Port St.
Mary, with a hotel at which travelers could
sleep. If Allan's impressions of Castletown still
inclined him to try an excursion to some other
place, he had only to say so, and a carriage
would be produced immediately. Allan jumped
at the proposal, and in ten minutes more he and
*Midwinter were on their way to the western
wilds of the island.
With trifling incidents, the day of Mr. Brock's
departure had worn on thus far. With trifling
incidents, in which not even Midwinter's nervous
watchfulness could see any thing to distrust, it
was still to proceed, until the night came—a
night which one at least of the two companions
was destined to remember to the end of his
life.
Before the travelers had advanced two miles
on their road an accident happened. The horse
fell, and the driver reported that the animal had
seriously injured himself. There was no altern-
ative but to send for another carriage to Castle-
town, or to get on to Port St. Mary on foot.
Deciding to walk, Midwinter and Allan had not
gone far before they were overtaken by a gen-
tleman driving alone in an open chaise. He
civilly introduced himself as a medical man,
living close to Port St. Mary, and offered seats
in his carriage. Always ready to make new
Acquaintances, Allan at once accepted the pro-
posal. He and the doctor (whose name was
ascertained to be Hawbury) became friendly
and familiar before they had been five minutes
in the chaise together; Midwinter sitting be-
hind them, reserved and silent, on the back
seat. They separated just outside Port St.
Mary, before Mr. Hawbury's house, Allan bois-
terously admiring the doctor's neat French win-
dows, and pretty flower-garden and lawn, and
wringing his hand at parting, as if they had
known each other from boyhood upward. Ar-
rived in Port St. Mary, the two friends found
themselves in a second Castletown on a smaller
scale. But the country round, wild, open, and
hilly, deserved its reputation. A walk brought
them well enough on with the day—still the
harmless, idle day that it had been from the
first—to see the evening near at hand. After
waiting a little to admire the sun, setting grand-
ly over hill, and heath, and crag, and talking,
while they waited, of Mr. Brock and his long
journey home, they returned to the hotel to
order their early supper. Nearer and nearer
the night, and the adventure which the night
was to bring with it, came to the two friends;
and still the only incidents that happened were
incidents to be laughed at, if they were noticed
at all. The supper was badly cooked; the
waiting-maid was impenetrably stupid; the old-
fashioned bell-rope in the coffee-room had come
down in Allan's hands, and striking in its de-
scent a painted china shepherdess on the chim-
ney-piece, had laid the figure in fragments on
the floor. Events as trifling as these were still
the only events that had happened, when the
twilight faded, and the lighted candles were
brought into the room.
Finding Midwinter, after the double fatigue
of a sleepless night and a restless day, but little
inclined for conversation, Allan left him resting
on the sofa, and lounged into the passage of the
hotel, on the chance of discovering somebody to
talk to. Here another of the trivial incidents
of the day brought Allan and Mr. Hawbury to-
gether again, and helped—whether happily or
not yet remained to be seen—to strengthen the
acquaintance between them on either side.
The “bar” of the hotel was situated at one
end of the passage, and the landlady was in at-
tendance there, mixing a glass of liquor for the
doctor, who had just looked in for a little gos-
sip. On Allan's asking permission to make a
third in the drinking and the gossiping Mr.
Hawbury civilly handed him the glass which
the landlady had just filled. It contained cold
brandy and water. A marked change in Al-
lan's face, as he suddenly drew back and asked
for whisky instead, caught the doctor's medical
eye. “A case of nervous antipathy,” said Mr.
Hawbury, quietly taking the glass away again.
The remark obliged Allan to acknowledge that
he had an insurmountable loathing (which he
was foolish enough to be a little ashamed of
mentioning) to the smell and taste of brandy.
No matter with what diluting liquid the spirit
was mixed, the presence of it—instantly detect-
ed by his organs of taste and smell—turned him
sick and faint if the drink touched his lips.
Starting from this personal confession the talk
turned on antipathies in general; and the doc-
tor acknowledged, on his side, that he took a
professional interest in the subject, and that he
possessed a collection of curious cases at home,
which his new acquaintance was welcome to
look at, if Allan had nothing else to do that
evening, and if he would call, when the medical
work of the day was over, in an hour's time.
Cordially accepting the invitation (which was
extended to Midwinter also, if he cared to profit
by it) Allan returned to the coffee-room to look
after his friend. Half asleep and half awake,
Midwinter was still stretched on the sofa, with
the local newspaper just dropping out of his lan-
guid hand.
“I heard your voice in the passage,” he said,
drowsily. “Who were you talking to?”
“The doctor,” replied Allan. “I am going
to smoke a cigar with him in an hour's time.
Will you come too?”
Midwinter assented with a weary sigh. Al-
ways shyly unwilling to make new acquaint-
ances, fatigue increased the reluctance he now
felt to become Mr. Hawbury's guest. As mat-
ters stood, however, there was no alternative but
to go; for with Allan's constitutional impru-
dence there was no safely trusting him alone
any where, and more especially in a stranger's
house. Mr. Brock would certainly not have
left his pupil to visit the doctor alone; and
Midwinter was still nervously conscious that he
occupied Mr. Brock's place. *


ARMADALE.
61
“What shall we do till it's time to go?”
asked Allan, looking about him. “Any thing
in this?” he added, observing the fallen news-
paper and picking it up from the floor.
“I’m too tired to look. If you find any thing
interesting read it out,” said Midwinter, thinking
that the reading might help to keep him awake.
Part of the newspaper, and no small part of
it, was devoted to extracts from books recently
published in London. One of the works most
largely laid under contribution in this manner
was of the sort to interest Allan: it was a high-
ly-spiced narrative of Traveling Adventures in
the wilds of Australia. Pouncing on an ex-
tract which described the sufferings of the trav-
The hint was enough for Midwinter. He and
the doctor set out for the pier immediately—Mr.
Hawbury mentioning on the way the circum-
stances under which he had come to the hotel.
Punctual to the appointed hour Allan had
made his appearance at the doctor's house; ex-
plaining that he had left his weary friend so fast
asleep on the sofa that he had not had the heart
to wake him. The evening had passed pleas-
antly, and the conversation had turned on many
|subjects—until, in an evil hour, Mr. Hawbury
had dropped a hint which showed that he was
| fond of sailing, and that he possessed a pleasure-
boat of his own in the harbor. Excited on the
instant by his favorite topic, Allan had left his
eling-party, lost in a trackless wilderness, and host no hospitable alternative but to take him
in danger of dying by thirst, Allan announced to the pier-head and show him the boat. The
that he had found something to make his friend's beauty of the night and the softness of the breeze
flesh creep, and began eagerly to read the pas- had done the rest of the mischief—they had
sage aloud. Resolute not to sleep, Midwinter | filled Allan with irresistible longings for a sail by
followed the progress of the adventure, sentence moonlight. Prevented from accompanying his
by sentence, without missing a word. The con- guest by professional hindrances which obliged
sultation of the lost travelers, with death by him to remain on shore, the doctor, not knowing
thirst staring them in the face; the resolution
to press on while their strength lasted; the fall
of a heavy shower, the vain efforts made to catch
the rain-water, the transient relief experienced
by sucking their wet clothes; the sufferings re-
newed a few hours after; the night-advance of
the strongest of the party, leaving the weakest
behind; the following a flight of birds when
morning dawned; the discovery by the lost men
of the broad pool of water that saved their lives
—all this Midwinter's fast-failing attention mas-
tered painfully, Allan's voice growing fainter
and fainter on his ear with every sentence that
was read. Soon the next words seemed to drop
away gently, and nothing but the slowly-sinking
sound of the voice was left. Then the light in
the room darkened gradually; the sound dwin-
dled into delicious silence; and the last waking
impressions of the weary Midwinter came peace-
fully to an end.
The next event of which he was conscious
was a sharp ringing at the closed door of the
hotel. He started to his feet with the ready
alacrity of a man whose life has accustomed him
to wake at the shortest notice. An instant's
look round showed him that the room was
empty; and a glance at his watch told him
that it was close on midnight. The noise made
by the sleepy servant in opening the door, and
the tread the next moment of quick footsteps in
the passage, filled him with a sudden foreboding
of something wrong. As he hurriedly stepped
forward to go out and make inquiry the door of
the coffee-room opened, and the doctor stood be-
fore him.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Mr. Haw-
bury. “Don’t be alarmed; there's nothing
wrong.”
“Where is my friend?” asked Midwinter.
“At the pier-head,” answered the doctor.
“I am, to a certain extent, responsible for what
he is doing now; and I think some careful per-
son, like Hourself, ought to be with him.”
what else to do, had ventured on disturbing Mid-
winter rather than take the responsibility of al-
lowing Mr. Armadale (no matter how well he
might be accustomed to the sea) to set off on a
sailing trip at midnight entirely by himself.
The time taken to make this explanation
brought Midwinter and the doctor to the pier-
head. There, sure enough, was young Arma-
dale in the boat, hoisting the sail, and singing
the sailor’s “Yo-heave-ho!” at the top of his
voice.
“Come along, old boy!” cried Allan. “You're
just in time for a frolic by moonlight!”
Midwinter suggested a frolic by daylight, and
an adjournment to bed in the mean time.
“Bed !” cried Allan, on whose harum-scarum
high spirits Mr. Hawbury's hospitality had cer-
tainly not produced a sedative effect. “Hear
him, doctor! one would think he was ninety!
Bed, you drowsy old dormouse! Look at that
—and think of bed if you can l”
He pointed to the sea. The moon was shin-
ing in the cloudless heaven; the night breeze
blew soft and steady from the land; the peace-
ful waters rippled joyfully in the silence and the
glory of the night. Midwinter turned to the
doctor, with a wise resignation to circumstances:
he had seen enough to satisfy him that all words
of remonstrance would be words simply thrown
away. *
“How is the tide?” he asked.
Mr. Hawbury told him.
“Are the oars in the boat?”
“Yes.”
“I am well used to the sea,” said Midwinter,
descending the pier steps. “You may trust me
to take care of my friend, and to take care of
the boat.”
“Good-night, doctor!"shouted Allan. “Your
whisky and water is delicious—your boat's a lit-
tle beauty—and you're the best fellow I ever
met in my life!”
The doctor laughed, and waved his hand;


62
ARMADALE.
and the boat glided out from the harbor, with
Midwinter at the helm.
As the breeze then blew they were soon
abreast of the westward headland, bounding the
bay of Poolvash; and the question was started
whether they should run out to sea or keep
along the shore. The wisest proceeding, in the
event of the wind failing them, was to keep by
the land. Midwinter altered the course of the
boat, and they sailed on smoothly in a south-
westerly direction, abreast of the coast.
Little by little the cliffs rose in height, and
the rocks, massed wild and jagged, showed rifted
black chasms yawning deep in their seaward
sides. Off the bold promontory called Spanish
Head Midwinter looked ominously at his watch.
But Allan pleaded hard for half an hour more,
and for a glance at the famous channel of the
Sound, which they were now fast nearing, and
of which he had heard some startling stories
from the workmen employed on his yacht. The
new change which Midwinter's compliance with
this request rendered it necessary to make in
the course of the boat, brought her close to the
wind; and revealed, on one side, the grand
view of the southernmost shores of the Isle of
Man, and, on the other, the black precipices of
the islet called the Calf, separated from the
main land by the dark and dangerous channel
of the Sound.
Once more Midwinter looked at his watch.
“We have gone far enough,” he said. “Stand
by the sheet!”
“Stop!” cried Allan, from the bows of the
boat. “Good God! here's a wrecked ship right
ahead of us!”
Midwinter let the boat fall off a little, and
-looked where the other pointed.
There, stranded midway between the rocky
boundaries on either side of the Sound—there,
never again to rise on the living waters from
her grave on the sunken rock; lost and lonely
in the quiet night; high, and dark, and ghostly
in the yellow moonshine, lay the Wrecked Ship.
“I know the vessel,” said Allan, in great ex-
citement. “I heard my workmen talking of
her yesterday. She drifted in here on a pitch-
dark night when they couldn't see the lights.
A poor old worn-out merchantman, Midwinter,
that the shipbrokers have bought to break up.
Let's run in and have a look at her.”
Midwinter hesitated. All the old sympa-
thies of his sea-life strongly inclined him to fol-
low Allan's suggestion; but the wind was fall-
ing light, and he distrusted the broken water
and the swirling currents of the channel ahead.
“This is an ugly place to take a boat into when
you know nothing about it,” he said.
“Nonsense!” returned Allan. “It's as light
as day, and we float in two feet of water.”
Before Midwinter could answer the current
caught the boat and swept them onward through
the channel straight toward the Wreck.
“Lower the sail,” said Midwinter, quietly,
“and ship the oars. We are running down on
her fast enough now, whether we like it or not.”
Both well accustomed to the use of the oar,
they brought the course of the boat under suf-
ficient control to keep her on the smoothest side
of the channel—the side which was nearest to
the Islet of the Calf. As they came swiftly up
with the wreck, Midwinter resigned his oar to
Allan; and, watching his opportunity, caught
a hold with the boat-hook on the forechains of
the vessel. The next moment they had the
boat safely in hand, under the lee of the
Wreck.
The ship's ladder used by the workmen hung
over the forechains. Mounting it, with the
boat's rope in his teeth, Midwinter secured one
end, and lowered the other to Allan in the boat.
“Make that fast,” he said, “and wait till I see
if it's all safe on board.” With those words he
disappeared behind the bulwark.
“Wait?” repeated Allan, in the blankest
astonishment at his friend's excessive caution.
“What on earth does he mean? I'll be hanged
if I wait—where one of us goes the other goes
too!”
He hitched the loose end of the rope round
the forward thwart of the boat; and, swinging
himself up the ladder, stood the next moment
on the deck. “Any thing very dreadful on
board 7” he inquired, sarcastically, as he and
his friend met.
Midwinter smiled. “Nothing whatever,” he
replied. “But I couldn't be sure that we were
to have the whole ship to ourselves till I got
over the bulwark and looked about me.”
Allan took a turn on the deck, and surveyed
the wreck critically from stem to stern.
“Not much of a vessel,” he said; “the
Frenchmen generally build better ships than
this.”
Midwinter crossed the deck, and eyed Allan
in a momentary silence.
“Frenchmen?” he repeated, after an inter-
val. “Is this vessel French P”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The men I have got at work on the yacht
told me. They know all about her.”
Midwinter came a little nearer. His swarthy
face began to look, to Allan's eyes, unaccount-
ably pale in the moonlight.
“Did they mention what trade she was en-
gaged in ?”
“Yes—the timber trade.”
As Allan gave that answer Midwinter's lean
brown hand clutched him fast by the shoulder,
and Midwinter's teeth chattered in his head like
the teeth of a man struck by a sudden chill.
“Did they tell you her name?” he asked, in
a voice that dropped suddenly to a whisper.
“They did, I think. But it has slipped my
memory. Gently, old fellow; those long claws
of yours are rather tight on my shoulder.”
“Was the name—?” he stopped, removed
his hand, and dashed away the great drops
that were gathering on his forehead—“Was the
name La Grace de Dieu ?”
“How the deuce did you come to know it?


ARMADALE.
63
That's the name, sure enough. La Grace de
Dieu.”
At one bound Midwinter leapt on the bul-
wark of the wreck.
“The boat!!!” he cried, with a scream of
horror that rang far and wide through the still-
ness of the night, and brought Allan instantly
to his side.
The lower end of the carelessly-hitched rope
was loose on the water; and ahead, in the track
of the moonlight, a small black object was float-
ing out of view. The boat was adrift.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SHADOW OF THE PAST.
ONE stepping back under the dark shelter
of the bulwark, and one standing out boldly in
the yellow light of the moon, the two friends
turned face to face on the deck of the tim-
ber ship, and looked at each other in silence.
The next moment Allan's inveterate recklessness
seized on the grotesque side of the situation by
main force. He seated himself astride on the
bulwark, and burst out boisterously into his
loudest and heartiest laugh.
“All my fault,” he said; “but there's no help
for it now. Here we are, hard and fast in a trap
of our own setting—and there goes the last of
the doctor's boat! Come out of the dark, Mid-
winter; I can't half see you there, and I want
to know what's to be done next.”
Midwinter neither answered nor moved. Al-
lan left the bulwark, and, mounting the fore-
castle, looked down attentively at the waters of
the Sound.
|
“One thing is pretty certain,” he said. “With
the current on that side, and the sunken rocks
on this, we can't find our way out of the scrape
by swimming, at any rate. So much for the
prospect at this end of the wreck. Let's try
how things look at the other. Rouse up, mess-
mate!” he called out, cheerfully, as he passed
Midwinter. “Come and see what the old tub
of a timber ship has got to show us astern.”
He sauntered on, with his hands in his pockets,
humming the chorus of a comic song.
His voice had produced no apparent effect on
his friend; but at the light touch of his hand,
in passing, Midwinter started, and moved out
slowly from the shadow of the bulwark. “Come
along!” cried Allan, suspending his singing for
a moment, and glancing back. Still, without
a word of answer, the other followed. Thrice he
stopped before he reached the stern end of the
wreck: the first time, to throw aside his hat,
and push back his hair from his forehead and
temples; the second time, reeling giddily, to
| hold for a moment by a ring bolt close at hand;
the last time (though Allan was plainly visible a
few yards ahead) to look stealthily behind him,
with the furtive scrutiny of a man who believes
that other footsteps are following him in the dark.
“Not yet!” he whispered to himself, with eyes
that searched the empty air. “I shall see him
astern, with his hand on the lock of the cabin
door.”
The stern end of the wreck was clear of the
ship-breaker's lumber, accumulated in the other
parts of the vessel. Here, the one object that
| rose visible on the smooth surface of the deck,
was the low wooden structure which held the
cabin door, and roofed in the cabin stairs. The
wheel-house had been removed, the binna-
cle had been removed; but the cabin entrance,
and all that belonged to it, had been left un-
touched. The scuttle was on, and the door was
closed.
On gaining the after-part of the vessel, Allan
walked straight to the stern and looked out to
sea over the taffrail. No such thing as a boat
was in view any where on the quiet moon-bright-
ened waters. Knowing Midwinter's sight to be
better than his own, he called out, “Come up
here, and see if there's a fisherman within hail
of us.” Hearing no reply, he looked back.
Midwinter had followed him as far as the cabin,
and had stopped there. He called again, in a
louder voice, and beckoned impatiently. Mid-
winter had heard the call, for he looked up—but
still he never stirred from his place. There he
stood, as if he had reached the utmost limits of
the ship, and could go no further.
Allan went back and joined him. It was not
easy to discover what he was looking at, for he
kept his face turned away from the moonlight;
but it seemed as if his eyes were fixed, with a
strange expression of inquiry, on the cabin door.
“What is there to look at there?” Allan asked.
“Let's see if it's locked.” As he took a step
forward to open the door Midwinter's hand
seized him suddenly by the coat-collar and


64
ARMADALE.
forced him back. The moment after the hand
relaxed, without losing its grasp, and trembled
violently, like the hand of a man completely
unnerved.
“Am I to consider myself in custody?” asked
Allan, half astonished and half amused. “Why,
in the name of wonder, do you keep staring at
the cabin door? Any suspicious noises below?
It's no use disturbing the rats—if that's what
you mean—we haven't got a dog with us. Men?
Living men they can't be; for they would have
heard us and come on deck. Dead men? Quite
|
impossible! No ship's crew could be drowned
in a landlocked place like this, unless the vessel
broke up under them—and here's the vessel as
steady as a church to speak for herself. Man
alive, how your hand trembles! What is there
to scare you in that rotten old cabin? What
are you shaking and shivering about? Any
company of the supernatural sort on board?
Mercy preserve us!—as the old women say—do
you see a ghost?”
“I see two !” answered the other, driven head-
long into speech and action by a maddening


ARMADALE.
65
temptation to reveal the truth. “Two!” he re-
peated, his breath bursting from him in deep,
heavy gasps, as he tried vainly to force back the
horrible words. “The ghost of a man like you,
drowning in the cabin! And the ghost of a man
like me, turning the lock of the door on him!”
Once more young Armadale's hearty laugh-
ter rang out loud and long through the stillness
of the night.
“Turning the lock of the door, is he?” said
Allan, as soon as his merriment left him breath
enough to speak. “That's a devilish unhand-
some action, Master Midwinter, on the part of
your ghost. The least I can do, after that, is
to let mine out of the cabin, and give him the
run of the ship.”
With no more than a momentary exertion of
his superior strength he freed himself easily
from Midwinter's hold. “Below there!” he
called out, gayly, as he laid his strong hand
on the crazy lock and tore open the cabin door.
“Ghost of Allan Armadale, come on deck!” In
his terrible ignorance of the truth he put his
head into the doorway, and looked down, laugh-
ing, at the place where his murdered father had
died. “Pah!” he exclaimed, stepping back sud-
denly, with a shudder of disgust. “The air is
foul already—and the cabin is full of water.”
It was true. The sunken rocks on which the
vessel lay wrecked had burst their way through
her lower timbers astern, and the water had
welled up through the rifted wood. Here, where
the deed had been done, the fatal parallel be-
tween past and present was complete. What
the cabin had been in the time of the fathers,
that the cabin was now in the time of the sons.
Allan pushed the door to again with his foot,
a little surprised at the sudden silence which ap-
peared to have fallen on his friend, from the mo-
ment when he had laid his hand on the cabin
lock. When he turned to look, the reason of
the silence was instantly revealed. Midwinter
had dropped on the deck. He lay senseless be-
fore the cabin door; his face turned up, white
and still, to the moonlight, like the face of a
dead man. -
In a moment Allan was at his side. He
looked uselessly round the lonely limits of the
wreck, as he lifted Midwinter's head on his knee,
for a chance of help, where all chance was ruth-
lessly cut off. “What am I to do?” he said to
himself, in the first impulse of alarm. “Not a
drop of water near but the foul water in the
cabin.” A sudden recollection crossed his mem-
ory; the florid color rushed back over his face;
and he drew from his pocket a wicker-covered
flask. “God bless the doctor for giving me
this before we sailed !” he broke out fervently,
as he poured down Midwinter's throat some
drops of the raw whisky which the flask con-
tained. The stimulant acted instantly on the
sensitive system of the swooning man. He
sighed faintly, and slowly opened his eyes.
“Have I been dreaming?” he asked, looking up
vacantly in Allan's face. His eyes wandered
higher, and encountered the dismantled masts
of the wreck rising weird and black against the
night sky. He shuddered at the sight of them,
and hid his face on Allan's knee. “No dream l’’
he murmured to himself, mournfully. “Oh me,
no dream '"
“You have been over-tired all day,” said Al-
lan; “and this infernal adventure of ours has
upset you. Take some more whisky—it's sure
to do you good. Can you sit by yourself, if I
put you against the bulwark, so?”
“Why by myself? Why do you leave me?”
asked Midwinter.
Allan pointed to the mizzen shrouds of the
wreck, which were still left standing. “You are
not well enough to rough it here till the work-
men come off in the morning,” he said. “We
must find our way on shore at once, if we can.
I am going up to get a good view all round, and
see if there's a house within hail of us.”
Even in the moment that passed while those
few words were spoken Midwinter's eyes wan-
dered back distrustfully to the fatal cabin door.
“Don’t go near it !” he whispered. “Don't
try to open it, for God's sake!”
“No, no,” returned Allan, humoring him.
“When I come down from the rigging I'll
come back here.” He said the words a little
constrainedly; noticing, for the first time while
he now spoke, an underlying distress in Mid-
winter's face, which grieved and perplexed him.
“You're not angry with me?” he said, in his
simple, sweet-tempered way. “All this is my
fault, I know—and I was a brute and a fool to
laugh at you, when I ought to have seen you
were ill. I am so sorry, Midwinter. Don't be
angry with me!”
Midwinter slowly raised his head.
rested with a mournful interest, long
derly on Allan's anxious face.
“Angry?” he repeated, in his lowest, gen-
tlest tones. “Angry with you?—Oh, my poor
boy, were you to blame for being kind to me
when I was ill in the old west-country inn?
And was I to blame for feeling your kindness
thankfully? Was it our fault that we never
doubted each other, and never knew that we
were traveling together blindfold on the way that
was to lead us here? The cruel time is coming,
Allan, when we shall rue the day we ever met.
Shake hands, brother, on the edge of the preci-
pice—shake hands while we are brothers still?”
Allan turned away quickly, convinced that
his mind had not yet recovered the shock of the
fainting-fit. “Don’t forget the whisky!” he
said, cheerfully, as he sprang into the rigging,
and mounted to the mizzen-top.
It was past two; the moon was waning; and
the darkness that comes before dawn was begin-
ning to gather round the wreck. Behind Allan,
as he now stood looking out from the elevation
of the mizzen-top, spread the broad and lonely
sea. Before him, were the low, black, lurking
rocks, and the broken waters of the channel,
pouring white and angry into the vast calm of
the westward ocean beyond. On the right hand,
heaved back grandly from the waterside, were
His eyes
and ten-


66
- ARMADALE.
the rocks and precipices, with their little table-
lands of grass between; the sloping downs, and
upward-rolling heath solitudes of the Isle of
Man. On the left hand, rose the craggy sides
of the Islet of the Calf—here, rent wildly into
deep black chasms; there, lying low under long
sweeping acclivities of grass and heath. No
sound rose, no light was visible, on either shore.
The black lines of the topmost masts of the
wreck looked shadowy and faint in the darken-
ing mystery of the sky; the land-breeze had
dropped; the small shoreward waves fell noise-
less; far or near, no sound was audible but the
cheerless bubbling of the broken water ahead,
pouring through the awful hush of silence in
which earth and ocean waited for the coming day.
Even Allan's careless nature felt the solemn
influence of the time. The sound of his own
voice startled him, when he looked down and
hailed his friend on deck.
“I think I see one house,” he said. “Here-
away, on the main land to the right.” He looked
again, to make sure, at a dim little patch of
white, with faint white lines behind it, nestling
low in a grassy hollow, on the main island.
“It looks like a stone-house and inclosure,” he
resumed. “I’ll hail it, on the chance.” He
passed his arm round a rope to steady himself;
made a speaking-trumpet of his hands—and sud-
denly dropped them again without uttering a
sound. “It's so awfully quiet,” he whispered
to himself. “I’m half afraid to call out.” He
looked down again on deck. “I sha'n't startle
you, Midwinter—shall I?” he said, with an un-
easy laugh. He looked once more at the faint
white object in the grassy hollow. “It won't
do to have come up here for nothing,” he thought
—and made a speaking-trumpet of his hands
again. This time he gave the hail with the
whole power of his lungs. “On shore there!”
he shouted, turning his face to the main island.
“Ahoy-hoy-hoy!”
The last echoes of his voice died away and
were lost. No sound answered him but the
cheerless bubbling of the broken water ahead.
He looked down again at his friend, and saw
the dark figure of Midwinter rise erect, and pace
the deck backward and forward—never disap-
pearing out of sight of the cabin when it re-
tired toward the bows of the wreck; and never
passing beyond the cabin when it returned to-
ward the stern. “He is impatient to get away,”
thought Allan; “I’ll try again.” He hailed
the land once more; and, taught by previous
experience, pitched his voice in its highest key.
This time another sound than the sound of
the bubbling water answered him. The lowing
of frightened cattle rose from the building in
the grassy hollow, and traveled far and drearily
through the stillness of the morning air. Allan
waited and listened. If the building was a
farm-house, the disturbance among the beasts
would rouse the men. If it was only a cattle-
stable, nothing more would happen. The low-
ing of the frightened brutes rose and fell dreari-
ly; the minutes passed—and nothing happened.
“Once more!” said Allan, looking down at
the restless figure pacing beneath him. For the
third time he hailed the land. For the third
time he waited and listened.
In a pause of silence among the cattle he
heard behind him, on the opposite shore of the
channel—faint and far among the solitudes of
the Islet of the Calf—a sharp, sudden sound,
like the distant clash of a heavy door-bolt drawn
back. Turning at once in the new direction,
he strained his eyes to look for a house. The
last faint rays of the waning moonlight trembled
here and there on the higher rocks, and on the
steeper pinnacles of ground—but great strips of
darkness lay dense and black over all the land
between; and in that darkness the house, if
house there were, was lost to view.
“I have roused somebody at last,” Allan
called out encouragingly to Midwinter, still
walking to and fro on the deck, strangely in-
different to all that was passing above and be-
yond him. “Look out for the answering hail!”
And with his face set toward the Islet, Allan
shouted for help.
The shout was not answered, but mimicked
with a shrill, shrieking derision—with wilder
and wilder cries, rising out of the deep distant
darkness, and mingling horribly the expression
of a human voice with the sound of a brute's.
A sudden suspicion crossed Allan's mind, which
made his head swim and turned his hand cold
as it held the rigging. In breathless silence he
looked toward the quarter from which the first
mimicry of his cry for help had come. After a
moment's pause the shrieks were renewed, and
the sound of them came nearer. Suddenly a
figure, which seemed the figure of a man, leapt
up black on a pinnacle of rock, and capered and
shrieked in the waning gleam of the moonlight.
The screams of a terrified woman mingled with
the cries of the capering creature on the rock.
A red spark flashed out in the darkness from
a light kindled in an invisible window. The
hoarse shouting of a man's voice in anger was
heard through the noise. A second black figure
leapt up on the rock, struggled with the first
figure, and disappeared with it in the darkness.
The cries grew fainter and fainter—the screams
of the woman were stilled—the hoarse voice of
the man was heard again for a moment, hailing
the wreck in words made unintelligible by the
distance, but in tones plainly expressive of rage
and fear combined. Another moment and the
clang of the door-bolt was heard again; the red
spark of light was quenched in darkness; and
all the islet lay quiet in the shadows once more.
The lowing of the cattle on the main land ceased
—rose again-stopped. Then, cold and cheer-
less as ever, the eternal bubbling of the broken
water welled up through the great-gap of silence
—the one sound left, as the mysterious stillness
of the hour fell like a mantle from the heavens,
and closed over the wreck.
Allan descended from his place in the mizzen-
top and joined his friend again on deck.
“We must wait till the ship-breakers come


ARMADALE.
67
off to their work,” he said, meeting Midwinter
half-way in the course of his restless walk.
“After what has happened, I don't mind con-"
fessing that I've had enough of hailing the
land. Only think of there being a madman in
that house ashore, and of my waking him!
Horrible, wasn't it?”
Midwinter stood still for a moment and looked
at Allan with the perplexed air of a man who
hears circumstances familiarly mentioned to
which he is himself a total stranger. He ap-
peared, if such a thing had been possible, to
have passed over entirely without notice all
that had just happened on the Islet of the Calf.
“Nothing is horrible out of this ship,” he
said. “Every thing is horrible in it.”
Answering in those strange words he turned
away again, and went on with his walk.
Allan picked up the flask of whisky lying on
the deck near him, and revived his spirits with
a dram. “Here's one thing on board that isn't
horrible,” he retorted briskly, as he screwed on
the stopper of the flask; “and here's another,”
he added, as he took a cigar from his case and
lit it. “Three o'clock 1" he went on, looking
at his watch, and settling himself comfortably
on deck with his back against the bulwark.
“Daybreak isn't far off—we shall have the
piping of the birds to cheer us up before long.
I say, Midwinter, you seem to have quite got
over that unlucky fainting-fit. How you do
keep walking! Come here and have a cigar,
and make yourself comfortable. What's the
good of tramping backward and forward in that
restless way?”
“I am waiting,” said Midwinter.
“Waiting! What for?”
“For what is to happen to you or to me—or
to both of us—before we are out of this ship.”
“With submission to your superior judg-
ment, my dear fellow, I think quite enough has
happened already. The adventure will do very
well as it stands now; more of it is more than
I want.” He took another dram of whisky and
rambled on, between the puffs of his cigar, in
his usual easy way. “I’ve not got your fine
imagination, old boy; and I hope the next
thing that happens will be the appearance of
the workmen's boat. I suspect that queer fancy
of yours has been running away with you while
you were down here all by yourself. Come
now! what were you thinking of while I was
up in the mizzen-top frightening the cows?”
Midwinter suddenly stopped. “Suppose I
tell you?” he said.
“Suppose you do.”
The torturing temptation to reveal the truth,
roused once already by his companion's merci-
less gayety of spirit, possessed itself of Midwinter
for the second time. He leaned back in the
dark against the high side of the ship and looked
down in silence at Allan's figure stretched com-
fortably on the deck. “Rouse him,” the fiend
whispered, subtly, “from that ignorant self-pos-
session, and that pitiless repose. Show him
the place where the deed was done; let him
know it with your knowledge, and fear it with
your dread. Tell him of the letter you burnt,
and of the words no fire can destroy, which are
living in your memory now. Let him see your
mind as it was yesterday, when it roused your
sinking faith in your own convictions, to look
back on your life at sea, and to cherish the com-
forting remembrance that, in all your voyages,
you had never fallen in with this ship. Let
him see your mind as it is now, when the ship
has got you at the turning-point of your new
life, at the outset of your friendship with the
one man of all men whom your father warned
you to avoid. Think of those death-bed words,
and whisper them in his ear, that he may think
of them too. Hide yourself from him under
an assumed name. Put the mountains and the
seas between you; be ungrateful, be unforgiv-
ing; be all that is most repellent to your own
gentler nature, rather than live under the same
roof and breathe the same air with that man.”
So the tempter counseled. So, like a noisome
exhalation from the father's grave, the father's
influence rose and poisoned the mind of the son.
The sudden silence surprised Allan; he look-
ed back drowsily over his shoulder. “Thinking
again!” he exclaimed, with a weary yawn.
Midwinter stepped out from the shadow and
came nearer to Allan than he had come yet.
“Yes,” he said, “thinking of the past and the
future.”
“The past and the future?” repeated Allan,
shifting himself comfortably into a new posi-
tion. “For my part I'm dumb about the past.
It's a sore subject with me—the past means the
loss of the doctor's boat. Let's talk about the
future. Have you been taking a practical view?
as dear old Brock calls it. Have you been con-
sidering the next serious question that concerns
us both when we get back to the hotel—the
question of breakfast?”
After an instant's hesitation Midwinter took
a step nearer. “I have been thinking of your
future and mine,” he said; “I have been think-
ing of the time when your way in life, and my
way in life, will be two ways instead of one.”
“Here's the daybreak!” cried Allan. “Look
up at the masts; they're beginning to get clear
again already. I beg your pardon. What were
you saying?”
Midwinter made no reply. The struggle be-
tween the hereditary superstition that was driv-
ing him on, and the unconquerable affection for
Allan that was holding him back, suspended the
next words on his lips. He turned aside his
face in speechless suffering. “Oh, my father!”
he thought, “better have killed me on that day
when I lay on your bosom than have let me live
for this!”
“What's that about the future?” persisted
Allan. “I was looking for the daylight; I
didn't hear.”
Midwinter controlled himself, and answered.
“You have treated me with your usual kind-
ness,” he said, “in planning to take me with
you to Thorpe-Ambrose. I think, on reflection,


68
ARMADALE.
I had better not intrude myself where I am not
known and not expected. His voice faltered,
and he stopped again. The more he shrank
from it the clearer the picture of the happy life
that he was resigning rose on his mind.
Allan's thoughts instantly reverted to the
mystification about the new steward, which he
had practiced on his friend when they were con-
sulting together in the cabin of the yacht. “Has
he been turning it over in his mind?” wondered
Allan; “and is he beginning at last to suspect
the truth? I'll try him. Talk as much non-
sense, my dear fellow, as you like,” he rejoined;
“but don't forget that you are engaged to see
me established at Thorpe-Ambrose, and to give
me your opinion of the new steward.”
Midwinter suddenly stepped forward again,
close to Allan.
“I am not talking about your steward or
your estate,” he burst out, passionately; “I am
talking about myself. Do you hear? Myself!
I am not a fit companion for you. You don't
know who I am.” He drew back into the shad-
owy shelter of the bulwark as suddenly as he
had come out from it. “O God! I can't tell
him,” he said to himself, in a whisper.
For a moment, and for a moment only, Allan
was surprised. “Not know who you are?”
Even as he repeated the words his easy good-
humor got the upper hand again. He took up
the whisky - flask, and shook it significantly.
“I say,” he resumed, “how much of the doc-
tor's medicine did you take while I was up in
the mizzen-top?”
The light tone which he persisted in adopt-
ing stung Midwinter to the last pitch of exasper-
ation. He came out again into the light, and
stamped his foot angrily on the deck. “Listen
to me!” he said. “You don't know half the
low things I have done in my lifetime. I have
been a tradesman's drudge; I have swept out
the shop and put up the shutters; I have car-
ried parcels through the street, and waited for
my master's money at his customers' doors.”
“I have never done any thing half as use-
ful,” returned Allan, composedly. “Dear old
boy, what an industrious fellow you have been
in your time!”
“I have been a vagabond and a blackguard
in my time,” returned the other, fiercely; “I’ve
been a street-tumbler, a tramp, a gipsy's boy!
I've sung for half-pence with dancing dogs on
the high-road! I've worn a foot-boy's livery,
and waited at table! I've been a common sail-
or's cook, and a starving fisherman's Jack of all
trades! What has a gentleman in your posi-
tion in common with a man in mine? Can
you take me into the society at Thorpe-Am-
brose? Why, my very name would be a re-
proach to you. Fancy the faces of your new
neighbors when their footmen announce Ozias
Midwinter and Allan Armadale in the same
breath !” He burst into a harsh laugh, and re-
peated the two names again, with a scornful
bitterness of emphasis which insisted pitilessly
on the marked contrast between them.
Something in the sound of his laughter jarred
painfully, even on Allan's easy nature. He
raised himself on the deck, and spoke seriously
for the first time. “A joke's a joke, Midwin-
ter,” he said, “as long as you don't carry it too
far. I remember your saying something of the
same sort to me once before, when I was nurs-
ing you in Somersetshire. You forced me to
ask you if I deserved to be kept at arm's-length
by you of all the people in the world. Don't
force me to say so again. Make as much fun
of me as you please, old fellow, in any other
way. That way hurts me.”
Simple as the words were, and simply as they
had been spoken, they appeared to work an in-
stant revolution in Midwinter's mind. His im-
pressible nature recoiled as from some sudden
shock. Without a word of reply he walked
away by himself to the forward part of the ship.
He sat down on some piled planks between the
masts, and passed his hand over his head in a
vacant, bewildered way. Though his father's
belief in Fatality was his own belief once more
—though there was no longer the shadow of a
doubt in his mind that the woman whom Mr.
Brock had met in Somersetshire and the wo-
man who had tried to destroy herself in Lon-
don were one and the same—though all the hor-
ror that mastered him when he first read the let-
ter from Wildbad had now mastered him again,
Allan's appeal to their past experience of each
other had come home to his heart, with a force
more irresistible than the force of his supersti-
tion itself. In the strength of that very super-
stition he now sought the pretext which might
encourage him to sacrifice every less generous
feeling to the one predominant dread of wound-
ing the sympathies of his friend. “Why dis-
tress him?” he whispered to himself. “We
are not at the end here—there is the Woman
behind us in the dark. Why resist him when
the mischief's done, and the caution comes too
late P What is to be will be. What have I to
do with the future? and what has he?”
He went back to Allan, sat down by his side,
and took his hand. “Forgive me,” he said,
gently; “I have hurt you for the last time.”
Before it was possible to reply he snatched up
the whisky-flask from the deck. “Come!” he
exclaimed, with a sudden effort to match his
friend's cheerfulness, “you have been trying the
doctor's medicine, why shouldn't I?”
Allan was delighted. “This is something
like a change for the better,” he said; “Mid-
winter is himself again. Hark! there are the
birds. Hail, smiling morn! smiling morn!”
He sang the words of the glee in his old cheer-
ful voice, and clapped Midwinter on the shoul-
der in his old hearty way. “How did you man-
age to clear your head of those confounded me-
grims? Do you know you were quite alarm-
ing about something happening to one or other
of us before we were out of this ship?”
“Sheer nonsense!” returned Midwinter, con-
temptuously. “I don't think my head has ever
been quite right since that fever; I've got a bee


ARMADALE.
69
in my bonnet, as they say in the North. Let's
talk of something else. About those people
you have let the cottage to ? I wonder wheth-
er the agent's account of Major Milroy's family
is to be depended on ? There might be another
lady in the household besides his wife and his
daughter.” -
“Oho!” cried Allan, “you're beginning to
think of nymphs among the trees, and flirta-
tions in the fruit-garden, are you? Another
lady—eh? Suppose the major's family circle
won't supply another? We shall have to spin
that half-crown again, and toss up for which is
to have the first chance with Miss Milroy.”
For once Midwinter spoke as lightly and care-
lessly as Allan himself. “No, no,” he said;
“the major's landlord has the first claim to the
notice of the major's daughter. I'll retire into
the back-ground, and wait for the next lady who
makes her appearance at Thorpe-Ambrose.”
“Very good. I’ll have an Address to the
women of Norfolk posted in the park to that ef-
fect,” said Allan. “Are you particular to a
shade about size or complexion ? What's your
favorite age?”
Midwinter trifled with his own superstition
as a man trifles with the loaded gun that may
kill him, or with the savage animal that may
maim him for life. He mentioned the age (as
he had reckoned it himself) of the woman in
the black gown and the red Paisley shawl.
“Five-and-thirty,” he said.
As the words passed his lips his factitious
spirits deserted him. He left his seat, impene-
trably deaf to all Allan's efforts at rallying him
on his extraordinary answer, and resumed his
restless pacing of the deck in dead silence. Once
more the haunting thought which had gone to
and fro with him in the hour of darkness went
to and fro with him now in the hour of day-
light. Once more the conviction possessed it-
self of his mind that something was to happen to
Allan or to himself before they left the wreck.
Minute by minute the light strengthened in
the eastern sky, and the shadowy places on the
deck of the timber ship revealed their barren
emptiness under the eye of day. As the breeze
rose again the sea began to murmur wakefully
in the morning light. Even the cold bubbling
of the broken water changed its cheerless note,
and softened on the ear as the mellowing flood
of daylight poured warm over it from the rising
sun. Midwinter paused near the forward part
of the ship, and recalled his wandering attention
to the passing time. The cheering influences
of the hour were round him look where he might.
The happy morning smile of the summer sky, so
brightly merciful to the old and weary earth,
lavished its all-embracing beauty even on the
wreck! The dew that lay glittering on the in-
land fields lay glittering on the deck, and the
worn and rusted rigging was gemmed as bright-
ly as the fresh green leaves on shore. Insensi-
bly, as he looked round, Midwinter's thoughts
reverted to the comrade who had shared with
him the adventure of the night.
He returned
to the after-part of the ship, and spoke to Allan
as he advanced. Receiving no answer, he ap-
proached the recumbent figure and looked closer
at it. Left to his own resources, Allan had let
the fatigues of the night take their own way
with him. His head had sunk back; his hat
had fallen off; he lay stretched at full length on
the deck of the timber ship, deeply and peace-
fully asleep.
Midwinter resumed his walk; his mind lost
in doubt, his own past thoughts seeming sud-
denly to have grown strange to him. How dark-
ly his forebodings had distrusted the coming
time—and how harmlessly that time had come!
The sun was mounting in the heavens, the hour
of release was drawing nearer and nearer; and
of the two Armadales imprisoned in the fatal
ship one was sleeping away the weary time, and
the other was quietly watching the growth of the
new day.
The sun climbed higher; the hour wore on.
With the latent distrust of the wreck which still
clung to him Midwinter looked inquiringly on,
either shore for signs of awakening human life.
The land was still lonely. The smoke-wreaths
that were soon to rise from cottage chimneys
had not risen yet.
After a moment's thought he went back again
to the after-part of the vessel, to see if there
might be a fisherman's boat within hail astern
of them. Absorbed for the moment by the new
idea, he passed Allan hastily, after barely no-
ticing that he still lay asleep. One step more
would have brought him to the taffrail—when
that step was suspended by a sound behind him,
a sound like a faint groan. He turned, and
looked at the sleeper on the deck. He knelt
softly, and looked closer.
“It has come!” he whispered to himself.
“Not to me—but to him.”
It had come, in the bright freshness of the
morning; it had come, in the mystery and terror
of a Dream. The face which Midwinter had last
seen in perfect repose was now the distorted face
of a suffering man. The perspiration stood thick
on Allan's forehead, and matted his curling
‘hair. His partially-opened eyes showed nothing
but the white of the eyeball gleaming blindly.
His outstretched hands scratched and struggled
on the deck. From moment to moment he
moaned and muttered helplessly; but the words
that escaped him were lost in the grinding and
gnashing of his teeth. There he lay—so near
in the body to the friend who bent over him; so
far away in the spirit that the two might have
been in different worlds—there he lay, with the
morning sunshine on his face, in the torture of
his dream.
One question, and one only, rose in the mind
of the man who was looking at him. What had
the Fatality which had imprisoned him in the
Wreck decreed that he should see?
Had the treachery of Sleep opened the gates
of the grave to that one of the two Armadales
whom the other had kept in ignorance of the
truth? Was the murder of the father revealing


70
ARMADALE.
itself to the son—there, on the very spot where
the crime had been committed—in the vision of
a dream ?
With that question overshadowing all else in
his mind, the son of the homicide knelt on the
deck, and looked on the son of the man whom
his father's hand had slain.
The conflict between the sleeping body and
the waking mind was strengthening every mo-
ment. The dreamer's helpless groaning for de-
liverance grew louder; his hands raised them-
selves and clutched at the empty air. Strug-
gling with the all-mastering dread that still held
him, Midwinter laid his hand gently on Allan's
forehead. Light as the touch was, there were
mysterious sympathies in the dreaming man that
answered it. His groaning ceased, and his hands
dropped slowly. There was an instant of sus-
pense, and Midwinter looked closer. His breath
just fluttered over the sleeper's face. Before
the next breath had risen to his lips Allan sud-
denly sprang up on his knees—sprang up as if
the call of a trumpet had rung on his ear, awake
in an instant.
“You have been dreaming,” said Midwinter,
as the other looked at him wildly, in the first
bewilderment of waking.
Allan's eyes began to wander about the wreck
—at first vacantly, then with a look of angry
surprise. “Are we here still?” he said, as Mid-
winter helped him to his feet. “Whatever else
I do on board this infernal ship,” he added, aft-
er a moment, “I won't go to sleep again l”
As he said those words his friend's eyes search-
ed his face in silent inquiry. They took a turn
together on the deck.
“Tell me your dream,” said Midwinter, with
a strange tone of suspicion in his voice, and a
strange appearance of abruptness in his manner.
“I can't tell it yet,” returned Allan. “Wait
a little till I'm my own man again.”
They took another turn on the deck. Mid-
winter stopped and spoke once more.
“Look at me for a moment, Allan,” he said.
There was something of the trouble left by
the dream, and something of natural surprise
at the strange request just addressed to him, in
Allan's face, as he turned it full on the speak-
er; but no shadow of ill-will, no lurking lines
of distrust any where. Midwinter turned aside
quickly, and hid, as he best might, an irrepress-
ible outburst of relief.
“Do I look a little upset?” asked Allan, tak-
ing his arm and leading him on again. “Don’t
make yourself nervous about me if I do. My
head feels wild and giddy; but I shall soon get
over it.”
For the next few minutes they walked back-
ward and forward in silence—the one bent on
dismissing the terror of the dream from his
thoughts, the other bent on discovering what
the terror of the dream might be. Relieved of
the dread that had oppressed it, the supersti-
tious nature of Midwinter had leaped to its next
conclusion at a bound. What if the sleeper had
been visited by another revelation than the rev-
elation of the Past? What if the dream had
opened those unturned pages in the book of the
Future which told the story of his life to come?
The bare doubt that it might be so strengthened
tenfold Midwinter's longing to penetrate the mys-
tery which Allan's silence still kept a secret from
him.
“Is your head more composed?” he asked.
“Can you tell me your dream now?”
While he put the question a last memorable
moment in the Adventure of the Wreck was at
hand.
They had reached the stern, and were just
turning again when Midwinter spoke. As Al-
lan opened his lips to answer he looked out me-
chanically to sea. Instead of replying he sud-
denly ran to the taffrail, and waved his hat over
his head, with a shout of exultation.
Midwinter joined him, and saw a large six-
oared boat pulling straight for the channel of
the Sound. A figure, which they both thought
they recognized, rose eagerly in the stern-sheets
and returned the waving of Allan's hat. The
boat came nearer; the steersman called to them
cheerfully; and they recognized the doctor's
voice.
“Thank God you're both above water!” said
Mr. Hawbury, as they met him on the deck of
the timber ship. “Of all the winds of heaven
which wind blew you here?”
He looked at Midwinter as he made the in-
quiry; but it was Allan who told him the story
of the night, and Allan who asked the doctor
for information in return. The one absorbing
interest in Midwinter's mind—the interest of
penetrating the mystery of the dream—kept him
silent throughout. Heedless of all that was said
or done about him, he watched Allan, and fol-
lowed Allan, like a dog, until the time came for
getting down into the boat. Mr. Hawbury's
professional eye rested on him curiously, noting
his varying color and the incessant restlessness
of his hands. “I wouldn't change nervous sys-
tems with that man for the largest fortune that
could be offered me,” thought the doctor as he
took the boat's tiller, and gave the oarsmen their
order to push off from the wreck.
Having reserved all explanations on his side
until they were on their way back to Port St.
Mary, Mr. Hawbury next addressed himself to
the gratification of Allan's curiosity. The cir-
cumstances which had brought him to the res-
cue of his two guests of the previous evening
were simple enough. The lost boat had been
met with at sea by some fishermen of Port Erin,
on the western side of the island, who at once
recognized it as the doctor's property, and at
once sent a messenger to make inquiry at the
doctor's house. The man's statement of what
had happened had naturally alarmed Mr. Haw-
bury for the safety of Allan and his friend. He
had immediately secured assistance; and, guided
by the boatmen's advice, had made first for the
most dangerous place on the coast—the only
place, in that calm weather, in which an acci-
dent could have happened to a boat sailed by


ARMADALE.
experienced men—the channel of the Sound.
After thus accounting for his welcome appear-
ance on the scene, the doctor hospitably insist-
ed that his guests of the evening should be his
guests of the morning as well. It would still
be too early when they got back for the people
at the hotel to receive them, and they would
find bed and breakfast at Mr. Hawbury's house.
At the first pause in the conversation between
Allan and the doctor Midwinter—who had nei-
ther joined in the talk, nor listened to the talk
—touched his friend on the arm. “Are you
better?” he asked in a whisper. “Shall you
soon be composed enough to tell me what I
want to know?”
Allan's eyebrows contracted impatiently; the
subject of the dream, and Midwinter's obstinacy
in returning to it, seemed to be alike distasteful
to him. He hardly answered with his usual
good-humor. “I suppose I shall have no peace
till I tell you,” he said, “so I may as well get
it over at once.”
“No!” returned Midwinter, with a look at
the doctor and his oarsmen. “Not where oth-
er people can hear it—not till you and I are
alone.”
“If you wish to see the last, gentlemen, of
your quarters for the night,” interposed the
doctor, “now is your time! the coast will shut
the vessel out in a minute more.”
In silence on the one side and on the other,
the two Armadales looked their last at the fa-
tal ship. Lonely and lost they had found the
Wreck in the mystery of the summer night.
Lonely and lost they left the Wreck in the ra-
diant beauty of the summer morning.
An hour later the doctor had seen his guests
established in their bedrooms, and had left them
to take their rest until the breakfast hour arrived.
Almost as soon as his back was turned the
doors of both rooms opened softly, and Allan
and Midwinter met in the passage.
“Can you sleep after what has happened?”
asked Allan.
Midwinter shook his head. “You were com-
ing to my room, were you not?” he said. “What
for?”
“To ask you to keep my company.
were you coming to my room for?”
“To ask you to tell me your dream.”
“Damn the dream! I want to forget all
about it.”
“And I want to know all about it.”
Both paused; both refrained instinctively from
saying more. For the first time since the begin-
ning of their friendship they were on the verge
of a disagreement—and that on the subject of
the dream. Allan's good temper just stopped
them on the brink.
“You are the most obstinate fellow alive,”
he said, “but if you will know all about it, you
must know all about it, I suppose. Come into
my room and I'll tell you.”
He led the way, and Midwinter followed.
The door closed, and shut them in together.
What
joke.
CHAPTER V.
The SHADOW OF THE FUTURE.
WHEN Mr. Hawbury joined his guests in the
breakfast-room the strange contrast of character
between them which he had noticed already was
impressed on his mind more str&ngly than ever.
One of them sat at the well-spread table, hungry
and happy; ranging from dish to dish, and de-
claring that he had never made such a breakfast
in his life. The other sat apart at the window;
his cup thanklessly deserted before it was empty,
his meat left ungraciously half eaten on his plate.
The doctor's morning greeting to the two, accu-
rately expressed the differing impressions which
they had produced on his mind. He clapped
Allan on the shoulder, and saluted him with a
He bowed constrainedly to Midwinter,
and said, “I am afraid you have not recovered
the fatigues of the night.”
“It's not the night, doctor, that has damped
his spirits,” said Allan. “It's something I
have been telling him. It is not my fault,
mind. If I had only known beforehand that
he believed in dreams I wouldn't have opened
my lips.”
“Dreams?” repeated the doctor, looking at
Midwinter directly, and addressing him under a
mistaken impression of the meaning of Allan's
words. “With your constitution, you ought to
be well used to dreaming by this time.”
“This way, doctor; you have taken the wrong
turning !” cried Allan. “I’m the dreamer—not
he. Don't look astonished; it wasn't in this
comfortable house—it was on board that con-
founded timber ship. The fact is, I fell asleep
just before you took us off the wreck; and it's
not to be denied that I had a very ugly dream.
Well, when we got back here—”
“Why do you trouble Mr. Hawbury about a
matter that can not possibly interest him?” asked
Midwinter, speaking for the first time, and speak-
ing very impatiently.
“I beg your pardon,” returned the doctor,
rather sharply; “so far as I have heard the
matter does interest me.”
“That's right, doctor!” said Allan. “Be
interested, I beg and pray; I want you to clear
his head of the nonsense he has got in it now.
What do you think?—he will have it that my
dream is a warning to me to avoid certain peo-
ple; and he actually persists in saying that one
of those people is—himself! Did you ever
hear the like of it? I took great pains; I ex-
plained the whole thing to him. I said, warm-
ing be hanged—it's all indigestion! You don't
know what I ate and drank at the doctor's sup-
per-table—I do. Do you think he would listen
to me? Not he. You try him next; you're a
professional man, and he must listen to you.
Be a good fellow, doctor, and give me a cer-
tificate of indigestion; I'll show you my tongue
with pleasure.”
“The sight of your face is quite enough,”
said Mr. Hawbury. “I certify, on the spot,
that you never had such a thing as an indiges-


72
ARMADALE.
tion in your life. Let's hear about the dream,
and see what we can make of it—if you have
no objection, that is to say.”
Allan pointed at Midwinter with his fork.
“Apply to my friend, there,” he said; “he
has got a much better account of it than I can
give you. If you'll believe me, he took it all
down in writing from my own lips; and he
made me sign it at the end, as if it was my
“last dying speech and confession before I
went to the gallows. Out with it, old boy—I
saw you put it in your pocket-book-out with
it!”
“Are you really in earnest?” asked Mid-
winter, producing his pocket-book with a re-
luctance which was almost offensive under the
circumstances, for it implied distrust of the doc-
tor in the doctor's own house.
Mr. Hawbury's color rose. “Pray don't
show it to me if you feel the least unwilling-
ness,” he said, with the elaborate politeness of
an offended man.
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Allan.
it over here!”
Instead of complying with that characteristic
request Midwinter took the paper from the
pocket-book, and, leaving his place, approached
Mr. Hawbury. “I beg your pardon,” he said,
as he offered the doctor the manuscript with his
own hand. His eyes dropped to the ground,
and his face darkened, while he made the apol-
ogy. “A secret, sullen fellow,” thought the
doctor, thanking him with formal civility—
“his friend is worth ten thousand of him.”
Midwinter went back to the window and sat
down again in silence, with the old impenetra-
ble resignation which had once puzzled Mr.
Brock.
“Read that, doctor,” said Allan, as Mr.
Hawbury opened the written paper. “It's not
told in my roundabout way; but there's nothing
added to it, and nothing taken away. It's ex-
actly what I dreamed, and exactly what I should
have written myself, if I had thought the thing
worth putting down on paper, and if I had had
the knack of writing—which,” concluded Allan,
composedly stirring his coffee, “I haven't, ex-
cept it's letters; and I rattle them off in no
time.”
Mr. Hawbury spread the manuscript before
him on the breakfast-table and read these lines:
“Throw
ALLAN ARMADALE'S DREAM.
“Early on the morning of June the first,
eighteen hundred and fifty-one, I found myself
(through circumstances which it is not import-
ant to mention in this place) left alone with a
friend of mine—a young man about my own
age—on board the French timber ship named
La Grace de Dieu, which ship then lay wrecked
in the channel of the Sound, between the main
land of the Isle of Man and the islet called the
Calf. Having not been in bed the previous
night, and feeling overcome by fatigue, I fell
asleep on the deck of the vessel. I was in my
usual good health at the time, and the morning
was far enough advanced for the sun to have
risen. Under these circumstances, and at that
period of the day, I passed from sleeping to
dreaming. As clearly as I can recollect it,
after the lapse of a few hours, this was the suc-
cession of events presented to me by the dream:
“1. The first event of which I was conscious
was the appearance of my father. He took me
silently by the hand; and we found ourselves in
the cabin of a ship.
“2. Water rose slowly over us in the cabin;
and I and my father sank through the water to-
gether.
“3. An interval of oblivion followed; and
then the sense came to me of being left alone in-
the darkness.
“4. I waited.
“5. The darkness opened and showed me
the vision—as in a picture—of a broad, lonely
pool, surrounded by open ground. Above the
farther margin of the pool I saw the cloudless
western sky red with the light of sunset.
“6. On the near margin of the pool there
stood the Shadow of a Woman.
“7. It was the shadow only. No indication
was visible to me by which I could identify it,
or compare it with any living creature. The
long robe showed me that it was the shadow of
a woman, and showed me nothing more.
“8. The darkness closed again—remained
with me for an interval—and opened for the
second time.
“9. I found myself in a room, standing be-
fore a long window. The only object of furni-
ture or of ornament that I saw (or that I can
now remember having seen) was a little statue
placed near me. The statue was on my left
hand, and the window was on my right. The
window opened on a lawn and flower-garden;
and the rain was pattering heavily against the
glass.
“10. I was not alone in the room. Standing
opposite to me at the window was the Shadow
of a Man.
“11. I saw no more of it—I knew no more
of it than I saw and knew of the shadow of the
woman. But the shadow of the man moved.
It stretched out its arm toward the statue; and
the statue fell in fragments on the floor.
“12. With a confused sensation in me, which
was partly anger and partly distress, I stooped
to look at the fragments. When I rose again
the Shadow had vanished, and I saw no more.
“13. The darkness opened for the third time
and showed me the Shadow of the Woman and
the Shadow of the Man together.
“14. No surrounding scene (or none that I
can now call to mind) was visible to me.
“15. The Man-Shadow was the nearest; the
Woman-Shadow stood back. From where she
stood there came a sound as of the pouring of a
liquid softly. I saw her touch the shadow of
the man with one hand, and with the other give
him a glass. He took the glass and gave it to
me. In the moment when I put it to my lips a
deadly faintness mastered me from head to foot.


ARMADALE. 73
**
When I came to my senses again the Shadow “Come! that's fair enough, I'm sure,” ex-
had vanished, and the third vision was at an end. claimed Allan. “He hit you hard with the
“16. The darkness closed over me again; ‘dissecting-knife, doctor; and now you have
and the interval of oblivion followed. hit him back again with your “natural explana-
“17. I was conscious of nothing more till I'tion. Let's have it.”
felt the morning sunshine on my face, and heard “By all means,” said Mr. Hawbury; “here
my friend tell me that I had awakened from a it is. There is nothing at all extraordinary in
dream.” my theory of dreams: it is the theory accepted
by the great mass of my profession. A Dream
After reading the narrative attentively to the is the reproduction, in the sleeping state of the
last line (under which appeared Allan's signa- brain, of images and impressions produced on it
ture) the doctor looked across the breakfast- in the waking state; and this reproduction is
table at Midwinter, and tapped his fingers on more or less involved, imperfect, or contradic-
the manuscript with a satirical smile. tory, as the action of certain faculties in the
- “Many men, many opinions,” he said. “I dreamer is controlled more or less completely by
don't agree with either of you about this dream. the influence of sleep. Without inquiring far-
Your theory,” he added, looking at Allan, with ther into this latter part of the subject—a very
a smile, “we have disposed of already: the sup-curious and interesting part of it—let us take
per that you can't digest is a supper which has the theory, roughly and generally, as I have
yet to be discovered. My theory we will come just stated it, and apply it at once to the dream
to presently; your friend's theory claims atten-
tion first.” He turned again to Midwinter, with
his anticipated triumph over a man whom he
disliked a little too plainly visible in his face
and manner. “If I understand rightly,” he
went on, “you believe that this dream is a
warning, supernaturally addressed to Mr. Arma-
dale, of dangerous events that are threatening
him, and of dangerous people connected with
those events, whom he would do wisely to avoid.
May I inquire whether you have arrived at this
conclusion as an habitual believer in dreams?
or, as having reasons of your own for attaching
especial importance to this one dream in par-
ticular *"
“You have stated what my conviction is quite
accurately,” returned Midwinter, chafing under
the doctor's looks and tones. “Excuse me if I
ask you to be satisfied with that admission, and
to let me keep my reasons to myself.”
“That's exactly what he said to me,” inter-
posed Allan. “I don't believe he has got any
reasons at all.”
“Gently! gently!" said Mr. Hawbury. “We
can discuss the subject without intruding our-
selves into any body's secrets. Let us come to
my own method of dealing with the dream next.
Mr. Midwinter will probably not be surprised to
hear that I look at this matter from an essen-
tially practical point of view.”
“I shall not be at all surprised,” retorted
Midwinter. “The view of a medical man,
when he has a problem in humanity to solve,
seldom ranges beyond the point of his dissect-
ing-knife.”
The doctor was a little nettled on his side.
“Our limits are not quite so narrow as that,” he
said; “but I willingly grant you that there are
some articles of your faith in which we doctors
don't believe. For example, we don't believe
that a reasonable man is justified in attaching a
supernatural interpretation to any phenomenon
which comes within the range of his senses, un-
til he has certainly ascertained that there is no
such thing as a natural explanation of it to be
found in the first instance.”
now under consideration.” He took up the
written paper from the table, and dropped the
£ tone (as of a lecturer addressing an au-
dience) into which he had insensibly fallen.
“I see one event already in this dream,” he re-
sumed, “which I know to be the reproduction
of a waking impression produced on Mr. Arma-
dale in my own presence. If he will only help
me by exerting his memory, I don't despair of
tracing back the whole succession of events set
down here to something that he has said or
thought, or seen or done, in the four-and-twenty
| hours, or less, which preceded his falling asleep
on the deck of the timber ship.”
“I’ll exert my memory with the greatest
pleasure,” said Allan. “Where shall we start
from ?”
“Start by telling me what you did yesterday,
before I met you and your friend on the road to
this place,” replied Mr. Hawbury. “We will
say, you got up and had your breakfast. What
next?”
“We took a carriage next,” said Allan, “and
drove from Castletown to Douglas to see my old
friend, Mr. Brock, off by the steamer to Liver-
pool. We came back to Castletown, and sepa-
rated at the hotel door. Midwinter went into
the house, and I went on to my yacht in the
harbor. By-the-by, doctor, remember you have
promised to go cruising with us before we leave
the Isle of Man.”
“Many thanks—but suppose we keep to the
matter in hand. What next?”
Allan hesitated. In both senses of the word
his mind was at sea already.
“What did you do on board the yacht?"
“Oh, I know! I put the cabin to rights—
thoroughly to rights. I give you my word of
honor I turned every blessed thing topsy-turvy.
And my friend there came off in a shore-boat
and helped me. Talking of boats, I have never
asked you yet whether your boat came to any
harm last night. If there's any damage done I
insist on being allowed to repair it.”
The doctor abandoned all further attempts at
the cultivation of Allan's memory in despair.


74
ARMADALE.
“I doubt if we shall be able to reach our ob-
ject conveniently in this way,” he said. “It
will be better to take the events of the dream in
their regular order, and to ask the questions that
naturally suggest themselves as we go on. Here
are the first two events to begin with. You
dream that your father appears to you—that you
and he find yourselves in the cabin of a ship—
that the water rises over you, and that you sink
in it together. Were you down in the cabin of
the wreck, may I ask?”
“I couldn't be down there,” replied Allan,
“as the cabin was full of water. I looked in
and saw it, and shut the door again.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Hawbury. “Here
are the waking impressions clear enough, so far.
You have had the cabin in your mind, and you
have had the water in your mind; and the sound
of the channel current (as I well know without
asking) was the last sound in your ears when
you went to sleep. The idea of drowning comes
too naturally out of such impressions as these to
need dwelling on. Is there any thing else be-
fore we go on? Yes; there is one more cir-
cumstance left to account for.”
“The most important circumstance of all,”
remarked Midwinter, joining in the conversation
without stirring from his place at the window.
“You mean the appearance of Mr. Arma-
dale's father? I was just coming to that,” an-
swered Mr. Hawbury. “Is your father alive?”
he added, addressing himself to Allan once
more.
“My father died before I was born.”
The doctor started. “This complicates it a
little,” he said. “How did you know that the
figure appearing to you in the dream was the
figure of your father?”
Allan hesitated again. Midwinter drew his
chair a little away from the window, and looked
at the doctor attentively for the first time.
“Was your father in your thoughts before
you went to sleep?” pursued Mr. Hawbury.
“Was there any description of him—any por-
trait of him at home—in your mind?”
“Of course there was !” cried Allan, sudden-
ly seizing the lost recollection. “Midwinter!
you remember the miniature you found on the
floor of the cabin when we were putting the
yacht to rights? You said I didn't seem to
value it; and I told you I did, because it was
a portrait of my father—”
“And was the face in the dream like the face
in the miniature?” asked Mr. Hawbury.
“Exactly like I say, doctor, this is begin-
ning to get interesting!”
“What do you say now?” asked Mr. Haw-
bury, turning toward the window again.
Midwinter hurriedly left his chair, and placed
himself at the table with Allan. Just as he had
once already taken refuge from the tyranny of
his own superstition in the comfortable common
sense of Mr. Brock—so, with the same headlong
eagerness, with the same straightforward sin-
cerity of purpose, he now took refuge in the doc-
tor's theory of dreams. “I say what my friend
*
says,” he answered, flushing with a sudden en-
thusiasm; “this is beginning to get interest-
ing. Go on-pray go on.”
The doctor looked at his strange guest more
indulgently than he had looked yet. “You are
the only mystic I have met with,” he said, “who
is willing to give fair evidence fair play. I don't
despair of converting you before our inquiry
comes to an end. Let us go on to the next set
of events,” he resumed, after referring for a mo-
ment to the manuscript. “The interval of ob-
livion which is described as succeeding the first
of the appearances in the dream may be easily
disposed of. It means, in plain English, the
momentary cessation of the brain's intellectual
action, while a deeper wave of sleep flows over
it, just as the sense of being alone in the dark-
ness, which follows, indicates the renewal of
that action previous to the reproduction of an-
other set of impressions. Let us see what they
are. A lonely pool, surrounded by an open
country; a sunset sky on the farther side of the
pool; and the shadow of a woman on the near
side. Very good; now for it, Mr. Armadale! How
did that pool get into your head? The open
country you saw on your way from Castletown
to this place. But we have no pools or lakes
hereabouts; and you can have seen none re-
cently elsewhere, for you came here after a
cruise at sea. Must we fall back on a picture,
or a book, or a conversation with your friend?”
Allan looked at Midwinter. “I don't re-
member talking about pools or lakes,” he said.
“Do you?”
Instead of answering the question, Midwin-
ter suddenly appealed to the doctor.
“Have you got the last number of the Manx
newspaper?” he asked.
The doctor produced it from the side-board.
Midwinter turned to the page containing those
extracts from the recently published Travels in
Australia, which had roused Allan's interest on
the previous evening, and the reading of which
had ended by sending his friend to sleep. There
—in the passage describing the sufferings of the
travelers from thirst, and the subsequent dis-
covery which saved their lives—there, appear-
ing at the climax of the narrative, was the broad
pool of water which had figured in Allan's
dream :
“Don’t put away the paper,” said the doc-
tor, when Midwinter had shown it to him, with
the necessary explanation. “Before we are at
the end of the inquiry it is quite possible we
may want that extract again. We have got at
the pool. How about the sunset? Nothing
of that sort is referred to in the newspaper ex-
tract. Search your memory again, Mr. Arma-
dale; we want your waking impression of a
sunset, if you please.”
Once more, Allan was at a loss for an an-
swer; and, once more, Midwinter's ready mem-
ory helped him through the difficulty.
“I think I can trace our way back to this im-
pression, as I traced our way back to the other,”
he said, addressing the doctor. “After we got


ARMADALE.
75
fiere yesterday afternoon my friend and I took
a long walk over the hills—”
“That's it!” interposed Allan. “I remem-
ber. The sun was setting as we came back to
the hotel for supper—and it was such a splendid
red sky we both stopped to look at it. And
then we talked about Mr. Brock, and wondered
how far he had got on his journey home. My
memory may be a slow one at starting, doctor;
but when it's once set going, stop it if you can
I haven't half done yet.”
“Wait one minute, in mercy to Mr. Midwin-
ter's memory and mine,” said the doctor. “We
have traced back to your waking impressions
the vision of the open country, the pool, and the
sunset. But the Shadow of the Woman has not
been accounted for yet. Can you find us the
original of this mysterious figure in the dream-
landscape?”
Allan relapsed into his former perplexity, and
Midwinter waited for what was to come, with
his eyes fixed in breathless interest on the doc-
tor's face. For the first time there was unbroken
silence in the room. Mr. Hawbury looked in-
terrogatively from Allan to Allan's friend. Nei-
ther of them answered him. Between the shad-
ow and Bhe shadow's substance there was a great
gulf of mystery, impenetrable alike to all three
of them.
“Patience,” said the doctor, composedly.
“Let us leave the figure by the pool for the
present, and try if we can't pick her up again as
we go on. Allow me to observe, Mr. Midwin-
ter, that it is not very easy to identify a shadow;
but we won't despair. This impalpable lady of
the lake may take some consistency when we
next meet with her.”
Midwinter made no reply. From that mo-
ment his interest in the inquiry began to flag.
“What is the next scene in the dream?” pur-
sued Mr. Hawbury, referring to the manuscript.
“Mr. Armadale finds himself in a room. He
is standing before a long window opening on a
lawn and flower-garden, and the rain is patter-
ing against the glass. The only thing he sees
in the room is a little statue; and the only com-
pany he has is the Shadow of a Man standing
opposite to him. The Shadow stretches out its
arm, and the statue falls in fragments on the
floor; and the dreamer, in anger and distress at
the catastrophe (observe, gentlemen, that here
the sleeper's reasoning faculty wakes up a little,
and the dream passes rationally, for a moment,
from cause to effect), stoops to look at the broken
pieces. When he looks up again the scene has
vanished. That is to say, in the ebb and flow
of sleep it is the turn of the flow now, and the
brain rests a little. What's the matter, Mr.
Armadale? Has that restive memory of yours
run away with you again?”
“Yes,” said Allan. “I’m off at full gallop.
I've run the broken statue to earth; it's nothing
more nor less than a china shepherdess I knocked
off the mantle-piece in the hotel coffee-room
when I rang the bell for supper last night. I
say, how well we get on; don't we? It's like
guessing a riddle.
turn next.”
“No!” said the doctor. “My turn, if you
please. I claim the long window, the garden,
and the lawn as my property. You will find
the long window, Mr. Armadale, in..the next
room. If you look out, you'll see the garden
and lawn in front of it—and, if you'll exert that
wonderful memory of yours, you will recollect
that you were good enough to take special and
complimentary notice of my smart French win-
dow and my neat garden when I drove you and
your friend to Port St. Mary yesterday.
“Quite right,” rejoined Allan, “so I did.
But what about the rain that fell in the dream ?
I haven't seen a drop of rain for the last week.”
Mr. Hawbury hesitated. The Manx news-
paper which had been left on the table caught
his eye. “If we can think of nothing else,” he
said, “let us try if we can't find the idea of the
rain where we found the idea of the pool.” He
looked through the extract carefully. “I have
got it!” he exclaimed. “Here is rain described
as having fallen on these thirsty Australian trav-
elers before they discovered the pool. Behold
the shower, Mr. Armadale, which got into your
mind when you read the extract to your friend
last night! And behold the dream, Mr. Mid-
winter, mixing up separate waking impressions
just as usual !”
“Can you find the waking impression which
accounts for the human figure at the window?”
asked Midwinter; “or, are we to pass over the
Shadow of the Man as we have passed over the
Shadow of the Woman already?”
He put the question with scrupulous courtesy
of manner, but with a tone of sarcasm in his
voice which caught the doctor's ear, and set up
the doctor's controversial bristles on the in-
Stant. -
“When you are picking up shells on the
beach, Mr. Midwinter, you usually begin with
the shells that lie nearest at hand,” he rejoined.
“We are picking up facts now; and those that
are easiest to get at are the facts we will take
first. Let the Shadow of the Man and the
Shadow of the Woman pair off together for the
present; we won't lose sight of them, I promise
you. All in good time, my dear Sir; all in
good time!”
IIe too was polite, and he too was sarcastic.
The short truce between the opponents was at
an end already. Midwinter returned signifi-
cantly to his former place by the window. The
doctor instantly turned his back on the window
more significantly still. Allan, who never quar-
reled with any body's opinion, and never looked
below the surface of anybody's conduct, drummed
cheerfully on the table with the handle of his
knife. “Go on, doctor!” he called out; “my
wonderful memory is as fresh as ever.”
“Is it?” said Mr. Hawbury, referring again
to the narrative of the dream. “Do you re-
member what happened when you and I were
gossiping with the landlady at the bar of the
hotel last night?”
Now then, Midwinter! your


76
ARMADALE.
“Of course I do! You were kind enough to
hand me a glass of brandy-and-water, which the
landlady had just mixed for your own drinking.
And I was obliged to refuse it because, as I told
you, the taste of brandy always turns me sick
and faint, mix it how you please.”
“Exactly so,” returned the doctor. “And
here is the incident reproduced in the dream.
You see the man's shadow and the woman's
shadow together this time. You hear the pour-
ing out of liquid (brandy from the hotel bottle,
and water from the hotel jug); the glass is
handed by the woman-shadow (the landlady)
to the man-shadow (myself); the man-shadow
hands it to you (exactly what I did); and the
faintness (which you had previously described
to me) follows in due course. I am shocked to
identify these mysterious Appearances, Mr. Mid-
winter, with such miserably unromantic origin-
als as a woman who keeps a hotel and a man
who physics a country district. But your friend
himself will tell you that the glass of brandy-
and-water was prepared by the landlady, and
that it reached him by passing from her hand
to mine. We have picked up the shadows, ex-
actly as I anticipated; and we have only to ac-
count now—which may be done in two words—
for the manner of their appearance in the dream.
After having tried to introduce the waking im-
pression of the doctor and the landlady separate-
ly, in connection with the wrong set of circum-
stances, the dreaming mind comes right at the
third trial, and introduces the doctor and the
landlady together, in connection with the right
set of circumstances. There it is in a nut-shell!
Permit me to hand you back the manuscript,
with my best thanks for your very complete and
striking confirmation of the rational theory of
dreams.” Saying those words, Mr. Hawbury
returned the written paper to Midwinter, with
the pitiless politeness of a conquering man.
“Wonderful! not a point missed any where
from beginning to end ! By Jupiter!” cried
Allan, with the ready reverence of intense ig-
norance. “What a thing science is !”
“Not a point missed, as you say,” remarked
the doctor, complacently. “And yet I doubt
if we have succeeded in convincing your
friend.”
“You have not convinced me,” said Midwin-
ter. “But I don't presume on that account to
say that you are wrong.”
He spoke quietly, almost sadly. The terri-
ble conviction of the supernatural origin of the
dream, from which he had tried to escape, had
possessed itself of him again. All his interest
in the argument was at an end; all his sensi-
tiveness to its irritating influences was gone. In
the case of any other man Mr. Hawbury would
have been mollified by such a concession as his
adversary had now made to him, but he dis-
liked Midwinter too cordially to leave him in
the peaceable enjoyment of an opinion of his
OWn.
“Do you admit,” asked the doctor, more
pugnaciously than ever, “that I have traced
back every event of the dream to a waking im-
pression which preceded it in Mr. Armadale's
mind?”
“I have no wish to deny that you have done
so,” said Midwinter, resignedly.
“Have I identified the Shadows with their
living originals?”
“You have identified them to your own sat-
isfaction, and to my friend's satisfaction. Not
to mine.”
“Not to yours? Can you identify them?”
“No. I can only wait till the living origin-
als stand revealed in the future.”
“Spoken like an oracle, Mr. Midwinter!
Have you any idea at present of who those liv-
ing originals may be?”
“I have. I believe that coming events will
identify the Shadow of the Woman with a per-
son whom my friend has not met with yet; and
the Shadow of the Man with myself.”
Allan attempted to speak. The doctor stopped
him.
“Let us clearly understand this,” he said to
Midwinter. “Leaving your own case out of
the question for the moment, may I ask how a
shadow, which has no distinguishing mark about
it, is to be identified with a living womah whom
your friend doesn't know?”
Midwinter's color rose a little.
feel the lash of the doctor's logic.
“The landscape-picture of the dream has its
distinguishing marks,” he replied. “And in
that landscape the living woman will appear
when the living woman is first seen.”
“The same thing will happen, I suppose,”
pursued the doctor, “with the man-shadow
which you persist in identifying with yourself.
You will be associated in the future with a
statue broken in your friend's presence, with a
long window looking out on a garden, and with
a shower of rain pattering against the glass?
Do you say that?”
“I say that.”
“And so again, I presume, with the next vi-
sion? You and the mysterious woman will be
brought together in some place now unknown,
and will present to Mr. Armadale some liquid
yet unnamed, which will turn him faint?—Do
you seriously tell me you believe this?”
“I seriously tell you I believe it.”
“And, according to your view, these fulfill-
ments of the dream will mark the progress of
certain coming events, in which Mr. Armadale's
happiness or Mr. Armadale's safety will be dan-
gerously involved?”
“That is my firm conviction.”
The doctor rose—laid aside his moral dissect-
ing-knife—considered for a moment—and took
it up again.
“One last question,” he said. “Have you
any reason to give for going out of your way to
adopt such a mystical view as this, when an un-
answerably rational explanation of the dream
lies straight before you?”
“No reason,” replied Midwinter, “that I can
give, either to you or to my friend.”
He began to


ARMADALE.
77
The doctor looked at his watch with the air
of a man who is suddenly reminded that he has
been wasting his time.
“We have no common ground to start from,”
he said; “and if we talked till doomsday we
should not agree. Excuse my leaving you rath-
er abruptly. It is later than I thought, and my
morning's batch of sick people are waiting for
me in the surgery. I have convinced your mind,
Mr. Armadale, at any rate; so the time we have
given to this discussion has not been altogether
lost. Pray stop here and smoke your cigar. I
shall be at your service again in less than an
hour.” He nodded cordially to Allan, bowed
formally to Midwinter, and quitted the room.
As soon as the doctor's back was turned Allan
left his place at the table, and appealed to his
friend with that irresistible heartiness of manner
which had always found its way to Midwinter's
sympathies from the first day when they met at
the Somersetshire inn.
“Now the sparring-match between you and
the doctor is over,” said Allan, “I have got two
words to say on my side. Will you do some-
thing for my sake which you won't do for your
own 7"
Midwinter's face brightened instantly.
will do any thing you ask me,” he said.
“Very well. Will you let the subject of the
‘‘I
dream drop out of our talk altogether from this
time forth P”
“Yes, if you wish it.”
“Will you go a step further? Will you leave
off thinking about the dream?”
“It's hard to leave off thinking about it, Al-
lan. But I will try.”
“That's a good fellow! Now give me that
trumpery bit of paper, and let's tear it up, and
have done with it.”
He tried to snatch the manuscript out of his
friend's hand; but Midwinter was too quick for
him, and kept it beyond his reach.
“Come! come!” pleaded Allan. “I’ve set
my heart on lighting my cigar with it.”
Midwinter hesitated painfully. It was hard
to resist Allan; but he did resist him. “I’ll
wait a little,” he said, “before you light your
cigar with it.”
“How long?
“Longer.”
‘‘Till we leave the Isle of Man?”
“Longer.”
“Hang it—give me a plain answer to a plain
question! How long will you wait?”
Midwinter carefully restored the paper to its
place in his pocket-book.
“I’ll wait,” he said, “till we get to Thorpe-
Ambrose.”
Till to-morrow?”


78
ARMADALE.
B O O K. I I I.
CHAPTER I.
LU R KING MISC HIE F.
1.–From Ozias Midwinter to Mr. Brock.
“TIIoEPE-AMBRose, June 15, 1851.
“DEAR MR. BRock,-Only an hour since we
reached this house, just as the servants were
locking up for the night. Allan has gone to
bed, worn out by our long day's journey, and
has left me in the room they call the library, to
tell you the story of our journey to Norfolk.
Being better seasoned than he is to fatigues of
all kinds, my eyes are quite wakeful enough for
writing a letter, though the clock on the chim-
ney-piece points to midnight, and we have been
traveling since ten in the morning.
“The last news you had of us was news sent
by Allan from the Isle of Man. If I am not
mistaken, he wrote to tell you of the night we
passed on board the wrecked ship. Forgive me,
dear Mr. Brock, if I say nothing on that subject
until time has helped me to think of it with a
quieter mind. The hard fight against myself
must all be fought over again; but I will win it
yet, please God; I will indeed.
“There is no need to trouble you with any
account of our journeyings about the northern
and western districts of the island; or of the
short cruises we took when the repairs of the
yacht were at last complete. It will be better if
I get on at once to the morning of yesterday, the
fourteenth. We had come in with the night-tide
to Douglas harbor; and, as soon as the post-
office was open, Allan, by my advice, sent on
shore for letters. The messenger returned with
one letter only; and the writer of it proved to
be the former mistress of Thorpe-Ambrose—
Mrs. Blanchard.
“You ought to be informed, I think, of the
contents of this letter; for it has seriously influ-
enced Allan's plans. He loses every thing,
sooner or later, as you know, and he has lost
the letter already. So I must give you the sub-
stance of what Mrs. Blanchard wrote to him, as
plainly as I can.
“The first page announced the departure of
the ladies from Thorpe-Ambrose. They left on
the day before yesterday—the thirteenth—hav-
ing, after much hesitation, finally decided on
going abroad, to visit some old friends settled
in Italy, in the neighborhood of Florence. It
appears to be quite possible that Mrs. Blanchard
and her niece may settle there too, if they can
find a suitable house and grounds to let. They
both like the Italian country and the Italian
people, and they are well enough off to please
themselves. The elder lady has her jointure,
and the younger is in possession of all her fa-
ther's fortune.
“The next page of the letter was, in Allan's
opinion, far from a pleasant page to read. After
referring, in the most grateful terms, to the
kindness which had left her niece and herself
free to leave their old home at their own time,
Mrs. Blanchard added that Allan's considerate
conduct had produced such a strongly favorable
impression among the friends and dependents
of the family, that they were desirous of giving
him a public reception on his arrival among
them. A preliminary meeting of the tenants
on the estate, and the principal persons in the
neighboring town, had already been held to dis-
cuss the arrangements; and a letter might be
expected shortly from the clergyman, inquiring
when it would suit Mr. Armadale's convenience
to take possession personally and publicly of his
estates in Norfolk.
“You will now be able to guess the cause of
our sudden departure from the Isle of Man.
The first and foremost idea in your old pupil's
mind, as soon as he had read Mrs. Blanchard's
account of the proceedings at the meeting, was
the idea of escaping the public reception; and
the one certain way he could see of avoiding it,
was to start for Thorpe-Ambrose before the cler-
gyman's letter could reach him. I tried hard
to make him think a little before he acted on
his first impulse in this matter; but he only
went on packing his portmanteau in his own


ARMADALE.
79
1.
impenetrably good-humored way. In ten min- presume to think that my own wishes will have
utes his luggage was ready, and in five minutes
more he had given the crew their directions for
taking the yacht back to Somersetshire. The
steamer to Liverpool was alongside of us in the
harbor, and I had really no choice but to go on
board with him, or to let him go by himself. I
spare you the account of our stormy voyage, of
our detention at Liverpool, and of the trains we
missed on our journey across the country. You
know that we have got here safely, and that is
enough. What the servants think of the new
squire's sudden appearance among them, with-
out a word of warning, is of no great conse-
quence. What the committee for arranging the
public reception may think of it, when the news
flies abroad to-morrow, is, I am afraid, a more
serious matter.
“Having already mentioned the servants, I
may proceed to tell you that the latter part of
Mrs. Blanchard's letter was entirely devoted to
instructing Allan on the subject of the domestic
establishment which she has left behind her.
It seems that all the servants, indoors and out
(with three exceptions), are waiting here, on
the chance that Allan will continue them in
their places. Two of these exceptions are read-
ily accounted for: Mrs. Blanchard's maid and
Miss Blanchard's maid go abroad with their
mistresses. The third exceptional case is the
case of the upper house-maid; and here there
is a little hitch. In plain words, the house-
maid has been sent away at a moment's no-
tice, for what Mrs. Blanchard rather mysteri-
ously describes as ‘levity of conduct with a
stranger.’
“I am afraid you will laugh at me, but I
must confess the truth. I have been made so
distrustful (after what happened to us in the Isle
of Man) of even the most trifling misadventures,
which connect themselves in any way with Al-
lan's introduction to his new life and prospects,
that I have already questioned one of the men-
servants here about this apparently unimportant
matter of the house-maid's going away in dis-
grace. All I can learn is, that a strange man
had been noticed hanging suspiciously about the
grounds; that the house-maid was so ugly a wo-
man as to render it next to a certainty that he
had some underhand purpose to serve in mak-
ing himself agreeable to her; and that he has
not as yet been seen again in the neighborhood
since the day of her dismissal. So much for
the one servant who has been turned out at
Thorpe-Ambrose. I can only hope there is no
trouble for Allan brewing in that quarter. As
for the other servants who remain, Mrs. Blan-
chard describes them, both men and women,
as perfectly trust-worthy; and they will all, no
doubt, continue to occupy their present places.
“Having now done with Mrs. Blanchard's
letter, my next duty is to beg you, in Allan's
name and with Allan's love, to come here and
stay with him at the earliest moment when you
can leave Somersetshire. Although I can not
any special influence in determining you to ac-
cept this invitation, I must nevertheless ac-
knowledge that I have a reason of my own for
earnestly desiring to see you here. Allan has
innocently caused me a new anxiety about my
future relations with him, and I sorely need
your advice to show me the right way of setting
that anxiety at rest.
“The difficulty which now perplexes me re-
lates to the steward's place at Thorpe-Ambrose.
Before to-day I only knew that Allan had hit
on some plan of his own for dealing with this
matter; rather strangely involving, among oth-
er results, the letting of the cottage which was
the old steward's place of abode, in consequence
of the new steward's contemplated residence in
the great house. A chance word in our con-
versation on the journey here led Allan into
speaking out more plainly than he had spoken
yet; and I heard, to my unutterable astonish-
ment, that the person who was at the bottom of
the whole arrangement about the steward was
no other than myself!
“It is needless to tell you how I felt this new
instance of Allan's kindness. The first pleasure
of hearing from his own lips that I had deserved
the strongest proof he could give of his confi-
dence in me was soon dashed by the pain which
mixes itself with all pleasure—at least with all
that I have ever known. Never has my past
life seemed so dreary to look back on as it seems
now, when I feel how entirely it has unfitted
me to take the place of all others that I should
have liked to occupy in my friend's service. I
mustered courage to tell him that I had none
of the business knowledge and business experi-
ence which his steward ought to possess. He
generously met the objection by telling me that
I could learn; and he promised to send to Lon-
don for the person who had already been em-
ployed for the time being in the steward's office,
and who would, therefore, be perfectly competent
to teach me. Do you, too, think I can learn?
If you do, I will work day and night to instruct
myself. But if (as I am afraid) the steward's
duties are of far too serious a kind to be learned
off-hand by a man so young and so inexperi-
enced as I am—then, pray hasten your journey
to Thorpe-Ambrose, and exert your influence
over Allan personally. Nothing less will in-
duce him to pass me over, and to employ a stew-
ard who is really fit to take the place. Pray,
pray, act in this matter as you think best for
Allan's interests. Whatever disappointment I
may feel he shall not see it.
“Believe me, dear Mr. Brock,
“Gratefully yours,
“Oz.IAS MIDWINTER.
“P.S.–I open the envelope again to add one
word more. If you have heard or seen anything
since your return to Somersetshire of the wo-
man in the black dress and the red shawl, I hope
you will not forget, when you write, to let me
know it.-O. M.”


80
ARMADALE.
2.–From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“LADIEs ToILET REPository,
DIANA STREET, PiMlico: Wednesday.
“MY DEAR LYDIA,—To save the post I write
to you after a long day's worry at my place of
business, on the business letter-paper, having
news since we last met, which it seems advisa-
ble to send you at the earliest opportunity.
“To begin at the beginning. After careful-
ly considering the thing, I am quite sure you
will do wisely with young Armadale if you hold
your tongue about Madeira, and all that hap-
pened there. Your position was, no doubt, a
very strong one with his mother. You had pri-
vately helped her in playing a trick on her own
father—you had been ungratefully dismissed,
at a pitiably tender age, as soon as you had
served her purpose—and when you came upon
her suddenly, after a separation of more than
twenty years, you found her in failing health,
with a grown-up son, whom she had kept in
total ignorance of the true story of her mar-
riage. Have you any such advantages as these
with the young gentleman who has survived
her! If he is not a born idiot, he will decline to
believe your shocking aspersions on the memory
of his mother; and—seeing that you have no
proofs at this distance of time to meet him with
—there is an end of your money-grubbing in
the golden Armadale diggings. Mind ! I don't
dispute that the old lady's heavy debt of obliga-
tion, after what you did for her in Madeira, is
not paid yet, and that the son is the next per-
son to settle with you, now the mother has
slipped through your fingers. Only squeeze
him the right way, my dear, that's what I ven-
ture to suggest-squeeze him the right way.
“And which is the right way? This brings
me to my news., Have you thought again of
that other notion of yours of trying your hand
on this lucky young gentleman, with nothing
but your own good looks and your own quick
wits to help you? The idea hung on my mind
so strangely after you were gone, that it ended
in my sending a little note to my lawyer to have
the will under which young Armadale has got
his fortune examined at Doctors' Commons.
The result turns out to be something infinitely
more encouraging than either you or I could
possibly have hoped for. After the lawyer's re-
port to me there can not be a moment's doubt
of what you ought to do. In two words, Lydia,
take the bull by the horns—and marry him ' ' '
“I am quite serious. He is much better
worth the venture than you suppose. Only per-
suade him to make you Mrs. Armadale, and you
may set all after-discoveries at flat defiance.
As long as he lives you can make your own
terms with him; and if he dies the will entitles
you, in spite of any thing he can say or do—
with children, or without them—to an income,
chargeable on his estate, of twelve hundred a year
for life. There is no doubt about this—the
lawyer himself has looked at the will. Of course
Mr. Blanchard had his son and his son's wid-
ow in his eye when he made the provision. But
as it is not limited to any one heir by name, and
not revoked any where, it now holds as good
with young Armadale as it would have held un-
der other circumstances with Mr. Blanchard's
son. What a chance for you, after all the mis-
eries and the dangers you have gone through,
to be mistress of Thorpe-Ambrose if he lives; to ,
have an income for life if he dies! Hook him,
my poor dear; hook him at any sacrifice.
“I dare say you will make the same objection
when you read this which you made when we
were talking about it the other day—I mean,
the objection of your age. Now, my good creat-
ure, just listen to me. The question is—not
whether you were five-and-thirty last birthday;
we will own the dreadful truth, and say you
were—but whether you do look, or don't look,
your real age. My opinion on this matter ought
to be, and is, one of the best opinions in London.
I have had twenty years' experience among our
charming sex in making up battered old faces
and worn-out old figures to look like new—and
I say positively you don't look a day over thirty,
if as much. If you will follow my advice about
dressing, and use one or two of my applications
privately, I guarantee to put you back three
years more. I will forfeit all the money I shall
have to advance for you in this matter, if, when
I have ground you young again in my wonder-
ful mill, you look more than seven-and-twenty
in any man's eyes living—except, of course, when
you wake anxious in the small hours of the morn-
ing; and then, my dear, you will be old and
ugly in the retirement of your own room, and
it won't matter.
“‘But, you may say, ‘supposing all this,
here I am, at my very best, a good six years
older than he is; and that is against me at start-
ing. Is it? Just think again. Surely your
own experience must have shown you that the
commonest of all common weaknesses in young
fellows of this Armadale's age is to fall in love
with women older than themselves? Who are
the men who really appreciate us in the bloom
of our youth (I'm sure I have cause to speak
well of the bloom of youth; I made fifty
guineas to-day by putting it on the spotted
shoulders of a woman old enough to be your
mother)—who are the men, I say, who are
ready to worship us when we are mere babies
of seventeen ? The gay young gentlemen in
the bloom of their own youth ? No! The
cunning old wretches who are on the wrong
side of forty.
“And what is the moral of this, as the story-
books say? The moral is that the chances, with
such a head as you have got on your shoulders,
are all in your favor. If you feel your present
forlorn position, as I believe you do; if you
know what a charming woman (in the men's
eyes) you can still be when you please; and if
all your old resolution has really come back,
after that shocking outbreak of desperation on
board the steamer (natural enough, I own, un-
der the dreadful provocation laid on you), you
will want no further persuasion from me to try


ARMADALE.
81
this experiment. Only to think of how things
turn out! If the other young booby had not
jumped into the river after you, this young
booby would never have had the estate. It
really looks as if fate had determined that you
were to be Mrs. Armadale, of Thorpe-Ambrose
—and who can control his fate, as the poet says?
“Send me one line to say, Yes or No; and
believe me,
“Your attached old friend,
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.”
3.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw.
“RICHMOND, Thursday.
“YoU OLD WRETCH,-I won't say Yes or
No till I have had a long, long look at my glass
first. If you had any real regard for any body
but your wicked old self, you would know that
the bare idea of marrying again (after what I
have gone through) is an idea that makes my
flesh creep.
“But there can be no harm in your sending
me a little more information while I am mak-
ing up my mind. You have got twenty pounds
of mine still left out of those things you sold for
me: send ten pounds here for my expenses, in
a post-office order, and use the other ten for
making private inquiries at Thorpe-Ambrose.
I want to know when the two Blanchard wo-
men go away, and when young Armadale stirs
up the dead ashes in the family fire-place. Are
you quite sure he will turn out as easy to man-
age as you think? If he takes after his hypo-
crite of a mother, I can tell you this-Judas Is-
cariot has come to life again.
“I am very comfortable in this lodging.
There are lovely flowers in the garden, and the
birds wake me in the morning delightfully. I
have hired a reasonably good piano. The only
man I care two straws about—don't be alarmed;
he was laid in his grave many a long year ago
under the name of BEETHovEN—keeps me com-
pany in my lonely hours. The landlady would
keep me company, too, if I would only let her.
I hate women. The new curate paid a visit to
the other lodger yesterday, and passed me on
the lawn as he came out. My eyes have lost
nothing yet, at any rate, though I am five-and-
thirty; the poor man actually blushed when I
looked at him : What sort of color do you
think he would have turned if one of the little
birds in the garden had whispered in his ear
and told him the true story of the charming
Miss Gwilt?
“Good-by, mother Oldershaw. I rather doubt
whether I am yours, or any body's, affectionate-
ly; but we all tell lies at the bottoms of our let-
ters, don't we? If you are my attached old
friend, I must of course be
“Yours affectionately,
“LYDIA GWILT.”
“P.S.—Keep your odious powders and paints
and washes for the spotted shoulders of your cus-
tomers; not one of them shall touch my skin, I
promise you. If you really want to be useful,
try and find out some quieting draught to keep
me from grinding my teeth in my sleep. I
shall break them one of these nights; and then
what will become of my beauty, I wonder?”
4.—From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“LADIEs ToILET REPosiToRY, Tuesday.
“MY DEAR LYDIA,-It is a thousand pities
your letter was not addressed to Mr. Armadale;
your graceful audacity would have charmed him.
It doesn't affect me; I am so well used to it, you
know. Why waste your sparkling wit, my love,
on your own impenetrable Oldershaw 3 it only
splutters and goes out. Will you try and be
serious this next time? I have news for you
from Thorpe-Ambrose, which is beyond a joke,
and which must not be trifled with.
“An hour after I got your letter I set the in-
quiries on foot. Not knowing what consequences
they might lead to, I thought it safest to begin
in the dark. Instead of employing any of the
people whom I have at my own disposal (who
know you and know me), I went to the Private
Inquiry Office in Shadyside Place, and put the
matter in the inspector's hands, in the charac-
ter of a perfect stranger, and without mention-
ing you at all. This was not the cheapest way
of going to work, I own; but it was the safest
way, which is of much greater consequence.
“The inspector and I understood each other
in ten minutes; and the right person for the
purpose—the most harmless-looking young man
you ever saw in your life—was produced imme-
diately. He left for Thorpe-Ambrose an hour
after I saw him. I arranged to call at the of-
fice on the afternoons of Saturday, Monday, and
to-day for news. There was no news till to-
day; and there I found our Confidential Agent
just returned to town, and waiting to favor me
with a full account of his trip to Norfolk.
“First of all, let me quiet your mind about
those two questions of yours; I have got answers
to both the one and the other. The Blanchard
women go away to foreign parts on the thir-
teenth; and young Armadale is at this moment
cruising somewhere at sea in his yacht. There
is talk at Thorpe-Ambrose of giving him a pub-
lic reception, and of calling a meeting of the
local grandees to settle it all. The speechify-
ing and fuss on these occasions generally wastes
plenty of time; and the public reception is not
thought likely to meet the new Squire much be-
fore the end of the month.
“If our messenger had done no more for us
than this I think he would have earned his mon-
ey. But the harmless young man is a regular
Jesuit at a private inquiry—with this great ad-
vantage over all the Popish priests I have ever
seen, that he has not got his slyness written in
his face. Having to get his information through
the female servants, in the usual way, he ad-
dressed himself, with admirable discretion, to
the ugliest woman in the house. “When they
are nice-looking, and can pick and choose, as
he neatly expressed it to me, “they waste a great
deal of valuable time in deciding on a sweet-
heart. When they are ugly, and haven't got


82
ARMADALE.
the ghost of a chance of choosing, they snap at a
sweet-heart, if he comes their way, like a starved
dog at a bone.’ Acting on these excellent prin-
ciples, our Confidential Agent succeeded, after
certain unavoidable delays, in addressing him-
self to the upper house-maid at Thorpe-Am-
brose, and took full possession of her confidence
at the first interview. Bearing his instructions
carefully in mind, he encouraged the woman to
chatter, and was favored, of course, with all the
gossip of the servants' hall. The greater part
of it (as repeated to me) was of no earthly im-
portance. But I listened patiently, and was re-
warded by a valuable discovery at last. Here
it is. *
“It seems there is an ornamental cottage in
the grounds at Thorpe-Ambrose. For some rea-
son unknown young Armadale has chosen to let
it; and a tenant has come in already. He is a
poor half-pay major in the army, named Milroy
—a meek sort of man, by all accounts, with a
turn for occupying himself in mechanical pur-
suits, and with a domestic encumbrance in the
shape of a bedridden wife, who has not been
seen by any body. Well, and what of all this?
you will ask, with that sparkling impatience
which becomes you so well. My dear Lydia,
don't sparkle! The man's family affairs seri-
ously concern us both; for, as ill-luck will have
it, the man has got a daughter!
“You may imagine how I questioned our
agent, and how our agent ransacked his mem-
ory, when I stumbled, in due course, upon such a
discovery as this.
women's chattering tongues, heaven be praised !
From Miss Blanchard to Miss Blanchard's maid;
from Miss Blanchard's maid to Miss Blanchard's
aunt's maid; from Miss Blanchard's aunt's maid
to the ugly house-maid; from the ugly house-
maid to the harmless-looking young man—so
the stream of gossip trickled into the right res-
ervoir at last, and thirsty mother Oldershaw has
drunk it all up. In plain English, my dear,
this is how it stands. The major's daughter is
a minx just turned sixteen; lively and nice-
looking (hateful little wretch!), dowdy in her
dress (thank Heaven!), and deficient in her man-
mers (thank Heaven again!). She has been
brought up at home. The governess who last
had charge of her left before her father moved
to Thorpe-Ambrose. Her education stands woe-
fully in want of a finishing touch, and the ma-
jor doesn't quite know what to do next. None
of his friends can recommend him a new gov-
erness, and he doesn't like the notion of send-
ing the girl to school. So matters rest at pres-
ent, on the major's own showing—for so the
major expressed himself at a morning call which
the father and daughter paid to the ladies at the
great house.
“You have now got my promised news, and
you will have little difficulty, I think, in agree-
ing with me, that the Armadale business must
be settled at once, one way or the other. If–
with your hopeless prospects, and with what I
may call your family claim on this young fellow
If heaven is responsible for
—you decide on giving him up, I shall have the
pleasure of sending you the balance of your ac-
count with me (seven-and-twenty shillings), and
shall then be free to devote myself entirely to
my own proper business. If, on the contrary,
you decide to try your luck at Thorpe-Ambrose,
then (there being no kind of doubt that the ma-
jor's minx will set her cap at the young squire)
I should be glad to hear how you mean to meet
the double difficulty of inflaming Mr. Armadale
and extinguishing Miss Milroy.
“Affectionately yours,
“MARIA OLDERSHAW.”
5.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw. (First
Answer.)
“RICHMOND, Wednesday Morning.
“MRs. OLDERSHAw,—Send me my seven-
and-twenty shillings, and devote yourself to
your own proper business.
“Yours,
* * L. G.”
6.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw.
ond Answer.)
“RICHMOND, Wednesday Night.
“DEAR old LovE,—Keep the seven-and-
twenty shillings, and burn my other letter. I
have changed my mind.
“I wrote the first time after a horrible night.
I write, this time, after a ride on horseback, a
tumbler of claret, and the breast of a chicken.
Is that explanation enough? Please say yes—
for I want to go back to my piano.
“No; I can't go back yet—I must answer
your question first. But are you really so very
simple as to suppose that I don't see straight
through you and your letter? You know that
the major's difficulty is our opportunity, as well
as I do—but you want me to take the responsi-
bility of making the first proposal; don't you?
Suppose I take it in your own roundabout way?
Suppose I say—pray don't ask me how I propose
inflaming Mr. Armadale and extinguishing Miss
Milroy; the question is so shockingly abrupt I
really can't answer it. Ask me instead, if it
is the modest ambition of my life to become Miss
Milroy's governess? Yes, if you please, Mrs.
Oldershaw—and if you will assist me by becom-
ing my reference.
“There it is, for you ! If some serious dis-
aster happens (which is quite possible), what a
comfort it will be to remember that it was all
my fault!
“Now I have done this for you, will you do
something for me? I want to dream away the
little time I am likely to have left here in my
own way. Be a merciful mother Oldershaw,
and spare me the worry of looking at the Ins
and Outs, and adding up the chances For and
Against, in this new venture of mine. Think
for me, in short, until I am obliged to think for
myself.
“I had better not write any more, or I shall
say something savage that you won't like. I
am in one of my tempers to-night. I want a
(Sec.


ARMADALE.
83
husband to vex, or a child to beat, or something
of that sort. Do you ever like to see the sum-
mer insects kill themselves in the candle? I
do, sometimes. Good-night, Mrs. Jezabel. The
longer you can leave me here the better. The
air agrees with me, and I am looking charm-
ingly. L. G.”
7.—From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“Thursday.
“MY DEAR LYDIA,-Some persons in my
situation might be a little offended at the tone
of your last letter. But I am so fondly attached
to you! And when I love a person, it is so
very hard, my dear, for that person to offend
me! Don't ride quite so far, and only drink
half a tumblerful of claret next time. I say no
Inore.
“Shall we leave off our fencing-match and
come to serious matters now? How curiously
hard it always seems to be for women to under-
stand each other—especially when they have got
their pens in their hands! But suppose we try.
“Well, then, to begin with—I gather from
your letter that you have wisely decided to try
the Thorpe-Ambrose experiment—and to secure,
if you can, an excellent position at starting, by
becoming a member of Major Milroy's house-
hold. If the circumstances turn against you,
and some other woman gets the governess's
place (about which I shall have something more
to say presently), you will then have no choice
but to make Mr. Armadale's acquaintance in
some other character. In any case, you will
want my assistance; and the first question there-
fore to set at rest between us, is the question of
what I am willing to do, and what I can do, to
help you.
“A woman, my dear Lydia, with your ap-
pearance, your manners, your abilities, and your
education, can make almost any excursions into
society that she pleases, if she only has money
in her pocket and a respectable reference to ap-
peal to in cases of emergency. As to the mon-
ey, in the first place. I will engage to find it,
on condition of your remembering my assistance
with adequate pecuniary gratitude, if you win
the Armadale prize. Your promise so to re-
member me, embodying the terms in plain fig-
ures, shall be drawn out on paper by my own
lawyer, so that we can sign and settle at once
when I see you in London.
“Next, as to the reference. Here, again, my
services are at your disposal—on another con-
dition. It is this: that you present yourself at
Thorpe-Ambrose, under the name to which you
have returned, ever since that dreadful business of
your marriage—I mean your own maiden name
of Gwilt. I have only one motive in insisting
on this; I wish to run no needless risks. My
experience, as confidential adviser of my cus-
tomers, in various romantic cases of private em-
barrassment, has shown me that an assumed
name is, nine times out of ten, a very unneces-
sary and a very dangerous form of deception.
Nothing could justify your assuming a name
but the fear of young Armadale's detecting you
—a fear from which we are fortunately relieved
by his mother's own conduct in keeping your
early connection with her a profound secret from
her son, and from every body.
“The next and last perplexity to settle re-
lates, my dear, to the chances for and against
your finding your way, in the capacity of gov-
erness, into Major Milroy's house. Once inside
the door, with your knowledge of music and lan-
guages, if you can keep your temper, you may
be sure of keeping the place. The only doubt,
as things are now, is whether you can get it.
“In the major's present difficulty about his
daughter's education, the chances are, I think,
in favor of his advertising for a governess. Say
he does advertise, what address will he give for
applicants to write to? There is the real pinch
of the matter. If he gives an address in Lon-
don, good-by to all chances in your favor at
once; for this plain reason, that we shall not
be able to pick out his advertisement from the
advertisements of other people who want govern-
esses, and who will give them addresses in Lon-
don as well. If, on the other hand, our luck
helps us, and he refers his correspondents to a
shop, post-office, or what not, at Thorpe-Am-
brose, there we have our advertiser as plainly
picked out for us as we can wish. In this last
case I have little or no doubt—with me for your
reference—of your finding your way into the
major's family circle. We have one great ad-
vantage over the other women who will answer
the advertisement. Thanks to my inquiries on
the spot, I know Major Milroy to be a poor
man; and we will fix the salary you ask at a
figure that is sure to tempt him. As for the
style of the letter, if you and I together can't
write a modest and interesting application for
the vacant place, I should like to know who can 7
“All this, however, is still in the future. For
the present, my advice is—stay where you are,
and dream to your heart's content, till you hear
from me again. I take in the Times regularly;
and you may trust my wary eye not to miss the
right advertisement. We can luckily give the
major time without doing any injury to our own
interests; for there is no fear, just yet, of the
girl's getting the start of you. The public re-
ception, as we know, won't be ready till near
the end of the month; and we may safely trust
young Armadale's vanity to keep him out of his
new house until his flatterers are all assembled
to welcome him. Let us wait another ten days,
at least, before we give up the governess motion,
and lay our heads together to try some other
plan.
“It's odd, isn't it, to think how much de-
pends on this half-pay officer's decision ? For
my part, I shall wake every morning now with
the same question in my mind. If the major's
advertisement appears, which will the major say
—Thorpe-Ambrose, or London?
“Ever, my dear Lydia,
“Affectionately yours,
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.”


84
ARMADALE.
| possession of the drawing-room. The duster in
her hand appeared to associate her with the do-
mestic duties of the house; but, at that particu-
EARLY on the morning after his first night's lar moment, she was occupied in asserting the
rest at Thorpe-Ambrose Allan rose and sur- rights of nature over the obligations of service.
veyed the prospect from his bedroom window, In other words, she was attentively contemplat-
lost in the dense mental bewilderment of feel-ling her own face in the glass over the mantle-
ing himself to be a stranger in his own house. piece.
The bedroom looked out over the great front- “There! there! don't let me frighten you,”
door, with its portico, its terrace and flight of said Allan, as the girl started away from the
steps beyond, and, farther still, the broad sweep glass, and stared at him in unutterable confu-
CHAPTER II.
ALLAN AS A LANDED GENTLEMAN.
of the well-timbered park to close the view. |sion.
The morning mist nestled lightly about the dis- face is well worth looking at.
“I quite agree with you, my dear: your
Who are you?
tant trees; and the cows were feeding sociably, oh, the house-maid. And what's your name?
close to the iron fence which railed off the park Susan, eh? Come!
“All
from the drive in front of the house.
I like your name to be-
gin with. Do you know who I am, Susan?
mine!” thought Allan, staring in blank amaze- I'm your master, though you may not think it.
ment at the prospect of his own possessions.
“Hang me, if I can beat it into my head yet.
All mine!”
He dressed, left his room, and walked along
the corridor which led to the staircase and hall,
opening the doors in succession as he passed
them. The rooms in this part of the house were
bedrooms and dressing-rooms—light, spacious,
pérfectly furnished; and all empty, except the
one bedchamber next to Allan's, which had been
appropriated to Midwinter. He was still sleep-
ing when his friend looked in on him, having
sat late into the night writing his letter to Mr.
Brock. Allan went on to the end of the first
corridor, turned at right angles into a second,
and, that passed, gained the head of the great
staircase. “No romance here,” he said to him-
self, looking down the handsomely carpeted stone
stairs into the bright modern hall. “Nothing
to startle Midwinter's fidgety nerves in this
house.” There was nothing indeed; Allan's
essentially superficial observation had not mis-
led him for once. The mansion of Thorpe-
Ambrose (built after the pulling down of the
dilapidated old manor-house) was barely fifty
years old. Nothing picturesque, nothing in the
slightest degree suggestive of mystery and ro-
mance, appeared in any part of it. It was a
purely conventional country-house—the product
of the classical idea, filtered judiciously through
the commercial English mind. Viewed on the
outer side, it presented the spectacle of a mod-
ern manufactory trying to look like an ancient
temple. Viewed on the inner side, it was a
marvel of luxurious comfort in every part of it,
from basement to roof. “And quite right too,”
thought Allan, sauntering contentedly down the
broad, gently-graduated stairs. “Deuce take
all mystery and romance! Let's be clean and
comfortable—that's what I say.”
Arrived in the hall, the new master of Thorpe-
Ambrose hesitated, and looked about him, un-
certain which way to turn next. The four re-
ception-rooms on the ground-floor opened into
the hall, two on either side. Allan tried the
nearest door on his right hand at a venture, and
found himself in the drawing-room. Here the
first sign of life appeared, under life's most at-
tractive form. A young girl was in solitary
|
Your character? Oh, yes! Mrs. Blanchard
gave you a capital character. You shall stop
here; don't be afraid. And you'll be a good
girl, Susan, and wear smart little caps and
aprons and bright ribbons, and you'll look nice
and pretty, and dust the furniture, won't you?”
With this summary of a house-maid's duties,
Allan sauntered back into the hall, and found
more signs of life in that quarter. A man-serv-
ant appeared on this occasion, and bowed, as be-
came a vassal in a linen jacket, before his liege
lord in a wide-awake hat.
“And who may you be?” asked Allan. “Not
the man who let us in last night? Ah, I thought
not. The second footman, eh? Character?
Oh, yes; capital character. Stop here, of course.
You can valet me, can you? Bother valeting
me! I like to put on my own clothes, and
brush them, too, when they are on; and, if I
only knew how to black my own boots, by George
I should like to do it! What room's this?
Morning-room, eh? And here's the dining-room,
of course. Good Heavens, what a table! it's as
long as my yacht, and longer. I say—by-the-
by, what's your name? Richard, is it? well,
Richard, the vessel I sail in is a vessel of my
own building! What do you think of that?
You look to me just the right sort of man to be
my steward on board. If you're not sick at sea
—oh, you are sick at sea? Well, then, we'll
say nothing more about it. And what room is
this? Ah, yes; the library, of course—more in
Mr. Midwinter's way than mine. Mr. Midwin-
ter is the gentleman who came here with me last
night; and mind this, Richard, you're all to
show him as much attention as you show me.
Where are we now? What's this door at the
back? Billiard-room and smoking-room, eh?
Jolly. Another door! and more stairs! Where
do they go to ? and who's this coming up? Take
your time, ma'am; you're not quite so young as
you were once—take your time.”
The object of Allan's humane caution was a
corpulent elderly woman, of the type called
“motherly.” Fourteen stairs were all that sepa-
rated her from the master of the house: she as-
cended them with fourteen stoppages and four-
teen sighs. Nature, various in all things, is in-
finitely various in the female sex. There are


ARMADALE.
85
some women whose personal qualities reveal the
Loves and the Graces; and there are other wo-
men whose personal qualities suggest the Per-
quisites and the Grease Pot. This was one of
the other women.
“Glad to see you looking so well, ma'am,”
said Allan, when the cook, in the majesty of her
office, stood proclaimed before him. “Your
name is Gripper, is it?' I consider you, Mrs.
Gripper, the most valuable person in the house.
For this reason, that nobody in the house eats a
heartier dinner every day than I do. Direc-
tions? Oh no ; I've no directions to give. I
leave all that to you. Lots of strong soup, and
joints done with the gravy in them—there's my
notion of good feeding, in two words. Steady!
Here's somebody else. Oh, to be sure—the but-
ler Another valuable person. We'll go right
through all the wine in the cellar, Mr. butler;
and if I can't give you a sound opinion after
that, we'll persevere boldly, and go right through
it again. Talking of wine-hullo! here are
more of them coming upstairs. There! there!
don't trouble yourselves. You've all got capital
characters, and you shall all stop here along
with me. What was I saying just now? Some-
thing about wine; so it was. I'll tell you what,
Mr. butler, it isn't every day that a new master
comes to Thorpe-Ambrose; and it's my wish
that we should all start together on the best pos-
sible terms. Let the servants have a grand
jollification down stairs, to celebrate my arrival;
and give them what they like to drink my health
in. It's a poor heart, Mrs. Gripper, that never
rejoices, isn't it? No; I won't look at the cel-
lar now : I want to go out and get a breath of
fresh air before breakfast. Where's Richard?
I say, have I got a garden here? Which side
of the house is it? That side, eh? You needn't
show me round. I'll go alone, Richard, and
lose myself, if I can, in my own property.”
With those words Allan descended the ter-
race-steps in front of the house, whistling cheer-
fully. He had met the serious responsibility of
settling his domestic establishment to his own
entire satisfaction. “People talk of the diffi-
culty of managing their servants,” thought Allan.
“What on earth do they mean? I don't see
any difficulty at all.” He opened an ornamental
gate leading out of the drive at the side of the
house, and, following the footman's directions,
entered the shrubbery that sheltered the Thorpe-
Ambrose gardens. “Nice shady sort of place for
a cigar,” said Allan, as he sauntered along, with
his hands in his pockets. “I wish I could beat
it into my head that it really belongs to me.”
The shrubbery opened on the broad expanse
of a flower-garden, flooded bright in its summer
glory by the light of the morning sun. On one
side an archway, broken through a wall, led
into the fruit-garden. On the other, a terrace
of turf led to ground on a lower level, laid out
as an Italian garden. Wandering past the fount-
ains and statues, Allan reached another shrub-
bery, winding its way apparently to some remote
part of the grounds. Thus far not a human
"health.
creature had been visible or audible any where;
but as he approached the end of the second
shrubbery, it struck him that he heard some-
thing on the other side of the foliage. He stopped
and listened. There were two voices speaking
distinctly—an old voice that sounded very ob-
stinate, and a young voice that sounded very
angry.
“It's no use, miss,” said the old voice.
mustn't allow it, and I won’t allow it.
would Mr. Armadale say?”
“If Mr. Armadale is the gentleman I take
& 4 I
What
him for, you old brute!” replied the young voice,
“he would say, Come into my garden, Miss
Milroy, as often as you like, and take as many
nosegays as you please.”
Allan's bright blue eyes twinkled mischievous-
ly. Inspired by a sudden idea, he stole softly
to the end of the shrubbery, darted round the
corner of it, and, vaulting over a low ring-fence,
found himself in a trim little paddock, crossed
by a gravel-walk. At a short distance down the
walk stood a young lady, with her back toward
him, trying to force her way past an impenetra-
ble old man, with a rake in his hand, who stood
obstinately in front of her shaking his head.
“Come into my garden, Miss Milroy, as often
as you like, and take as many nosegays as you
please,” cried Allan, remorselessly repeating her
own words. -
The young lady turned round with a scream;
her muslin dress, which she was holding up in
front, dropped from her hand, and a prodigious
lapful of flowers rolled out on the gravel-walk.
Before another word could be said the im-
penetrable old man stepped forward, with the
utmost composure, and entered on the question
of his own personal interests, as if nothing what-
ever had happened, and nobody was present but
his new master and himself.
“I bid you humbly welcome to Thorpe-Am-
brose, Sir,” said this ancient of the gardens.
“My name is Abraham Sage. I've been em-
ployed in the grounds for more than forty years,
and I hope you'll be pleased to continue me in
my place.”
So, with vision inexorably limited to the hori-
zon of his own prospects, spoke the gardener—
and spoke in vain. Allan was down on his
knees on the gravel-walk, collecting the fallen
flowers, and forming his first impressions of Miss
Milroy from the feet upward. She was pretty;
she was not pretty—she charmed, she disap-
pointed, she charmed again. Tried by recog-
nized line and rule she was too short, and too
well-developed for her age. And yet few men's
eyes would have wished her figure other than it
was. Her hands were so prettily plump and
dimpled that it was hard to see how red they
were with the blessed exuberance of youth and
Her feet apologized gracefully for her
old and ill-fitting shoes; and her shoulders made
ample amends for the misdemeanor in muslin
which covered them in the shape of a dress. Her
dark gray eyes were lovely in their clear softness
of color, in their spirit, tenderness, and sweet


86
ARMADALE.
- ~
- -
ALLAN's NEIGHBOR.
good humor of expression; and her hair (where studios.
Admitting all this, and more, the gir-
a shabby old garden hat allowed it to be seen)|dle round Miss Milroy's waist was the girdle of
was of just that lighter shade of brown which
gave value by contrast to the darker beauty of
her eyes. But these attractions passed, the lit-
tle attendant blemishes and imperfections of this
self-contradictory girl began again. Her nose
was too short, her mouth was too large, her face
was too round and too rosy. The dreadful jus-
tice of photography would have had no mercy
on her, and the sculptors of classical Greece
would have bowed her regretfully out of their
Venus nevertheless—and the pass-key that opens
the general heart was the key she carried, if ever
a girl possessed it yet. Before Allan had picked
up his second handful of flowers Allan was in
love with her.
“Don't! pray don't, Mr. Armadale!” she
said, receiving the flowers under protest, as Al-
lan vigorously showered them back into the lap
of her dress. “I am so ashamed ! I didn't
mean to invite myself in that bold way into your


ARMADALE.
87
garden; my tongue ran away with me—it did
indeed! What can I say to excuse myself?
Oh, Mr. Armadale, what must you think of
me!”
Allan suddenly saw his way to a compliment,
and tossed it up to her forthwith with the third
handful of flowers.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Miss Milroy,” he
said, in his blunt, boyish way.
luckiest walk I ever took in my life was the walk
this morning that brought me here.”
He looked eager and handsome. He was not
addressing a woman worn out with admiration,
but a girl just beginning a woman's life, and it
did him no harm, at any rate, to speak in the
character of master of Thorpe-Ambrose. The
penitential expression on Miss Milroy's face
gently melted away: she looked down, demure
and smiling, at the flowers in her lap.
“I deserve a good scolding,” she said. “I
don't deserve compliments, Mr. Armadale—least
of all from you.”
“Oh, yes you do !” cried the headlong Allan,
getting briskly on his legs. “Besides, it isn't a
compliment; it's true. You are the prettiest—
I beg your pardon, Miss Milroy my tongue ran
away with me that time.”
Among the heavy burdens that are laid on fe-
male human nature, perhaps the heaviest, at the
age of sixteen, is the burden of gravity. Miss
Milroy struggled-tittered—struggled again—
and composed herself for the time being.
The gardener, who still stood where he had
stood from the first, immovably waiting for his
next opportunity, saw it now, and gently push-
ed his personal interests into the first gap of si-
lence that had opened within his reach since
Allan's appearance on the scene.
“I humbly bid you welcome to Thorpe-Am-
brose, Sir,” said Abraham Sage, beginning ob-
stinately with his little introductory speech for
the second time. “My name—”
Before he could deliver himself of his name
Miss Milroy looked accidentally in the horticul-
turist's pertinacious face, and instantly lost her
hold on her gravity beyond recall. Allan, never
backward in following a boisterous example of
any sort, joined in her laughter with right good-
will. The wise man of the gardens showed no
surprise, and took no offense. He waited for
another gap of silence, and walked in again gen-
tly with his personal interests the moment the
two young people stopped to take breath.
“I have been employed in the grounds,” pro-
ceeded Abraham Sage, irrepressibly, “for more
than forty years—”
“You shall be employed in the grounds for
forty more, if you'll only hold your tongue and
take yourself off!” cried Allan, as soon as he
could speak.
“Thank you kindly, Sir,” said the gardener,
with the utmost politeness, but with no present
signs either of holding his tongue or of taking
himself off.
“Well ?” said Allan.
Abraham Sage carefully cleared his throat,
“I think the
and shifted his rake from one hand to the other.
| He looked down the length of his own invalua-
ble implement with a grave interest and atten-
tion, seeing apparently not the long handle of
a rake, but the long perspective of a vista, with
a supplementary personal interest established at
the end of it. “When more convenient, Sir,”
resumed this immovable man, “I should wish
respectfully to speak to you about my son. Per-
haps it may be more convenient in the course
of the day? My humble duty, Sir, and my best
thanks. My son is strictly sober. He is accus-
tomed to the stables, and he belongs to the
Church of England—without encumbrances.”
Having thus planted his offspring provisionally
in his master's estimation, Abraham Sage shoul-
| dered his invaluable rake and hobbled slowly
out of view.
“If that's a specimen of a trust-worthy old
servant,” said Allan, “I think I'd rather take
my chance of being cheated by a new one. You
shall not be troubled with him again, Miss Mil-
roy, at any rate. All the flower-beds in the
garden are at your disposal—and all the fruit in
the fruit-season, if you'll only come here and eat
it.”
“Oh, Mr. Armadale, how very, very kind you
are! How can I thank you?”
Allan saw his way to another compliment—
an elaborate compliment, in the shape of a trap,
this time.
“You can do me the greatest possible favor,”
he said. “You can assist me in forming an
agreeable impression of my own grounds.”
“Dear me! how?” asked Miss Milroy, inno-
cently.
Allan judiciously closed the trap on the spot
in these words: “By taking me with you, Miss
Milroy, on your morning walk.” He spoke—
smiled—and offered his arm.
She saw the way, on her side, to a little flirt-
ation. She rested her hand on his arm—blush-
ed—hesitated—and suddenly took it away again.
“I don't think it's quite right, Mr. Arma-
dale,” she said, devoting herself with the deep-
est attention to her collection of flowers.
“Oughtn't we to have some old lady here?
Isn't it improper to take your arm until I know
you a little better than I do now? I am obliged
to ask; I have had so little instruction; I have
seen so little of society; and one of papa's friends
once said my manners were too bold for my age.
What do you think?”
“I think it's a very good thing your papa's
friend is not here now,” answered the outspoken
Allan; “I should quarrel with him to a dead
certainty. As for society, Miss Milroy, nobody
knows less about it than I do; but if we had an
old lady here, I must say myself I think she
would be uncommonly in the way. Won't you?”
concluded Allan, imploringly offering his arm
for the second time. “Do I’”
Miss Milroy looked up at him sidelong from
her flowers. “You are as bad as the gardener,
Mr. Armadale!” She looked down again in a
flutter of indecision. “I’m sure it's wrong,” she


88
ARMADALE.
said, and took his arm the instant afterward with-
out the slightest hesitation.
They moved away together over the daisied
turf of the paddock, young and bright and happy,
with the sunlight of the summer morning shin-
ing cloudless over their flowery path.
“And where are we going to now?” asked
Allan. “Into another garden?”
She laughed gayly. “How very odd of you,
Mr. Armadale, not to know, when it all belongs
to you! Are you really seeing Thorpe-Am-
brose this morning for the first time? How in-
describably strange it must feel ! No, no; don’t
say any more complimentary things to me just
yet. You may turn my head if you do. We
haven't got the old lady with us, and I really
must take care of myself. Let me be useful;
let me tell you all about your own grounds. We
are going out at that little gate, across one of
the drives in the park, and then over the rustic
bridge, and then round the corner of the planta-
tion—where do you think? To where I live,
Mr. Armadale; to the lovely little cottage that
you have let to papa. Oh, if you only knew
how lucky we thought ourselves to get it!”
She paused, looked up at her companion, and
stopped another compliment on the incorrigible
Allan's lips.
“I’ll drop your arm,” she said, coquettishly,
“if you do! We were lucky to get the cottage,
Mr. Armadale. Papa said he felt under an ob-
ligation to you for letting it, the day we got in.
And I said I felt under an obligation, no longer
ago than last week.”
“You, Miss Milroy!” exclaimed Allan.
“Yes. It may surprise you to hear it; but
if you hadn't let the cottage to papa, I believe I
should have suffered the indignity and misery
of being sent to school.”
Allan's memory reverted to the half crown
that he had spun on the cabin-table of the yacht,
at Castletown. “If she only knew that I had
tossed up for it!” he thought, guiltily.
“I dare say you don't understand why I
should feel such a horror of going to school,”
pursued Miss Milroy, misinterpreting the mo-
mentary silence on her companion's side. “If
I had gone to school in early life—I mean at
the age when other girls go—I shouldn't have
minded it now. But I had no such chance at
the time. It was the time of mamma's illness
and of papa's unfortunate speculations; and as
papa had nobody to comfort him but me, of
course I staid at home. You needn't laugh; I
was of some use, I can tell you. I helped papa
over his troubles by sitting on his knee after
dinner, and asking him to tell me stories of all
the remarkable people he had known when he
was about in the great world, at home and
abroad. Without me to amuse him in the
evening, and his clock to occupy him in the
daytime—”
“His clock?” repeated Allan.
“Oh yes! I ought to have told you. Papa
is an extraordinary mechanical genius. You
will say so, too, when you see his clock. It's
nothing like so large, of course, but it's on the
model of the famous clock at Strasbourg. Only
think, he began it when I was eight years old;
and (though I was sixteen last birthday) it isn't
finished yet! Some of our friends were quite
surprised he should take to such a thing when
his troubles began. But papa himself set that
right in no time; he reminded them that Louis
the Sixteenth took to lock-making when his
troubles began; and then every body was per-
fectly satisfied.” She stopped, and changed
color confusedly. “Oh, Mr. Armadale,” she
said, in genuine embarrassment this time, “here
is my unlucky tongue running away with me
again! I am talking to you already as if I had
known you for years! This is what papa's
friend meant when he said my manners were
too bold. It's quite true; I have a dreadful
way of getting familiar with people if—” She
checked herself suddenly, on the brink of end-
ing the sentence by saying, “if I like them.”
“No, no; do go on,” pleaded Allan. “It's
a fault of mine to be familiar too. Besides, we
must be familiar; we are such near neighbors.
I'm rather an uncultivated sort of fellow, and I
don't know quite how to say it; but I want your
cottage to be jolly and friendly with my house,
and my house to be jolly and friendly with your
cottage. There's my meaning, all in the wrong
words. Do go on, Miss Milroy; pray go on.”
She smiled and hesitated. “I don't exactly
remember where I was,” she replied. “I only
remember I had something I wanted to tell you.
This comes, Mr. Armadale, of my taking your
arm. I should get on so much better if you
would only consent to walk separately. You
won't? Well, then, will you tell me what it
was I wanted to say? Where was I, before I
went wandering off to papa's troubles and papa's
clock.2”
“At school,” replied Allan, with a prodigious
effort of memory.
“Not at school, you mean,” said Miss Mil-
roy; “and all through you. Now I can go on
again, which is a great comfort. I am quite
serious, Mr. Armadale, in saying that I should
have been sent to school if you had said No,
when papa proposed for the cottage. This is
how it happened. When we began moving in
Mrs. Blanchard sent us a most kind message
from the great house, to say that her servants
were at our disposal if we wanted any assist-
ance. The least papa and I could do, after
that, was to call and thank her. We saw Mrs.
Blanchard and Miss Blanchard. Mrs. was
charming, and Miss looked perfectly lovely in
her mourning. I'm sure you admire her?
She's tall and pale and graceful—quite your
idea of beauty, I should think?”
“Nothing like it,” began Allan.
of beauty at the present moment—”
Miss Milroy felt it coming, and instantly took
her hand off his arm.
“I mean I have never seen either Mrs.
Blanchard or her niece,” added Allan, precipi-
tately correcting himself.
“My idea


ARMADALE.
89
Miss Milroy tempered justice with mercy,
and put her hand back again.
“How extraordinary, that you should never
have seen them!” she went on. “Why, you
are a perfect stranger to every thing and every
body at Thorpe-Ambrose ! Well, after Miss
Blanchard and I had sat and talked a little
while I heard my name on Mrs. Blanchard's
lips, and instantly held my breath. She was
asking papa if I had finished my education.
Out came papa's great grievance directly. My
old governess, you must know, left us to be
married just before we came here, and none of
our friends could produce a new one whose
terms were reasonable. “I'm told, Mrs. Blan-
chard, by people who understand it better than
I do,” says papa, “that advertising is a risk. It
all falls on me, in Mrs. Milroy's state of health,
and I suppose I must end in sending my little
girl to school. Do you happen to know of a
school within the means of a poor man?' Mrs.
Blanchard shook her head—I could have kissed
her on the spot for doing it. “All my experi-
ence, Major Milroy,” says this perfect angel of a
woman, “is in favor of hdvertising. My niece's
governess was originally obtained by an adver-
tisement, and you may imagine her value to us
when I tell you that she lived in our family for
more than ten years.' I could have gone down
on both my knees and worshiped Mrs. Blan-
chard then and there—and I only wonder I
didn't! Papa was struck at the time—I could
see that—and he referred to it again on the way
home. ‘Though I have been long out of the
world, my dear, says papa, ‘I know a highly-
bred woman and a sensible woman when I see
her. Mrs. Blanchard's experience puts adver-
tising in a new light: I must think about it.”
He has thought about it, and (though he hasn't
openly confessed it to me) I know that he de-
cided to advertise no later than last night. So,
if papa thanks you for letting the cottage, Mr.
Armadale, I thank you too. But for you we
should never have known darling Mrs. Blan-
chard; and but for darling Mrs. Blanchard I
should have been sent to school.”
Before Allan could reply they turned the cor-
ner of the plantation and came in sight of the
cottage. Description of it is needless; the civ-
ilized universe knows it already. It was the
typical cottage of the drawing-master's early
lessons in neat shading and the broad pencil
touch—with the trim thatch, the luxuriant
creepers, the modest lattice-windows, the rus-
tic porch, and the wicker bird-cage, all com-
plete.
“Isn't it lovely?” said Miss Milroy. “Do
come in '" -
“May I?” asked Allan.
jor think it too early?”
“Early or late, I'm sure papa will be only
too glad to see you.”
She led the way briskly up the garden path,
and opened the parlor door. As Allan follow-
ed her into the little room he saw, at the fur-
ther end of it, a gentleman sitting alone at an
“Won’t the ma-
old-fashioned writing-table, with his back turn-
ed to his visitor.
“Papa! a surprise for you!” said Miss Mil-
roy, rousing him from his occupation. “Mr.
Armadale has come to Thorpe-Ambrose, and I
have brought him here to see you.”
The major started—rose, bewildered for the
moment—recovered himself immediately, and
advanced to welcome his young landlord with
hospitable outstretched hand.
A man with a larger experience of the world
and a finer observation of humanity than Allan
possessed would have seen the story of Major
Milroy's life written in Major Milroy's face.
The home-troubles that had struck him were
plainly betrayed in his stooping figure and his
wan, deeply-wrinkled cheeks, when he first show-
ed himself on rising from his chair. The change-
less influence of one monotonous pursuit and
one monotonous habit of thought was next ex-
pressed in the dull, dreamy self-absorption of
his manner and his look while his daughter was
speaking to him. The moment after, when he
had roused himself to welcome his guest, was
the moment which made the self-revelation com-
plete. Then there flickered in the major's weary
eyes a faint reflection of the spirit of his happier
youth. Then there passed over the major's
dull and dreamy manner a change which told
unmistakably of social graces and accomplish-
ments, learned at some past time in no ignoble
social school. A man who had long since tak-
en his patient refuge from trouble in his one
mechanical pursuit; a man only roused at in-
tervals to know himself again for what he once
had been. So revealed, to all eyes that could
read him aright, Major Milroy now stood before
Allan, on the first morning of an acquaintance
which was destined to be an event in Allan's life.
“I am heartily glad to see you, Mr. Arma-
dale,” he said, speaking in the changelessly
quiet, subdued tone peculiar to most men whose
occupations are of the solitary and monotonous
kind. “You have done me one favor already
by taking me as your tenant, and you now do
me another by paying this friendly visit. If you
have not breakfasted already, let me waive all
ceremony on my side, and ask you to take your
place at our little table.”
“With the greatest pleasure, Major Milroy,
if I am not in the way,” replied Allan, delight-
ed at his reception. “I was sorry to hear from
Miss Milroy that Mrs. Milroy is an invalid.
Perhaps my being here unexpectedly; perhaps
the sight of a strange face—”
“I understand your hesitation, Mr. Arma-
dale,” said the major; “but it is quite unnec-
essary. Mrs. Milroy's illness keeps her entirely
confined to her own room. Have we got every
thing we want on the table, my love?” he went
on, changing the subject so abruptly that a closer
observer than Allan might have suspected it was
distasteful to him. “Will you come and make
tea?”
Miss Milroy's attention appeared to be already
pre-engaged: she made no reply. While her


90
ARMADALE.
father and Allan had been exchanging civilities
she had been putting the writing-table in order,
and examining the various objects scattered on
it with the unrestrained curiosity of a spoiled
child. The moment after the major had spok-
en to her she discovered a morsel of paper hid-
den between the leaves of the blotting-book,
snatched it up, looked at it, and turned round
instantly, with an exclamation of surprise.
“Do my eyes deceive me, papa?” she asked.
“Or were you really and truly writing the ad-
vertisement when I came in 7”
“I had just finished it,” replied her father.
“But, my dear, Mr. Armadale is here—we are
waiting for breakfast.”
“Mr. Armadale knows all about it,” rejoin-
ed Miss Milroy. “I told him in the garden.”
“Oh yes,” said Allan. “Pray don't make
a stranger of me, major. If it's about the gov-
erness, I’ve got something (in an indirect sort
of way) to do with it too.”
Major Milroy smiled. Before he could an-
swer, his daughter, who had been reading the
advertisement, appealed to him eagerly, for the
second time.
“Oh, papa,” she said, “there's one thing here
I don't like at all! Why do you put grandmam-
ma's initials at the end? Why do you tell them
to write to grandmamma's house in London?”
“My dear, your mother can do nothing in
this matter, as you know. And as for me (even
if I went to London), questioning strange ladies
about their characters and accomplishments is
the last thing in the world that I am fit to do.
Your grandmamma is on the spot; and your
grandmamma is the proper person to receive
the letters and to make all the necessary inqui-
ries.”
“But I want to see the letters myself,” per-
sisted the spoiled child. “Some of them are
sure to be amusing—”
“I don't apologize for this very unceremoni-
ous reception of you, Mr. Armadale,” said the
major, turning to Allan, with a quaint and quiet
humor. “It may be useful as a warning, if
you ever chance to marry and have a daughter,
not to begin, as I have done, by letting her have
her own way.”
Allan laughed, and Miss Milroy persisted.
“Besides,” she went on, “I should like to
help in choosing which letters we answer, and
which we don't. I think I ought to have some
voice in the selection of my own governess.
Why not tell them, papa, to send their letters
down here—to the post-office or the stationer's,
or any where you like? When you and I have
read them, we can send up the letters we prefer
to grandmamma, and she can ask all the ques-
tions and pick out the best governess, just as
you have arranged already, without leaving ME
entirely in the dark, which I consider (don't you,
Mr. Armadale?) to be quite inhuman. Let me
alter the address, papa-do, there's a darling!”
“We shall get no breakfast, Mr. Armadale,
if I don't say Yes,” said the Major, good-hu-
moredly. “Do as you like, my dear,” he add-
ed, turning to his daughter. “As long as it
ends in your grandmamma's managing the mat-
ter for us, the rest is of very little consequence.”
Miss Milroy took up her father's pen, drew it
through the last line of the advertisement, and
wrote the altered address with her own hand as
follows:
Apply, by letter, to M., Post-office, Thorpe-
Ambrose, Norfolk.
“There!” she said, bustling to her place at
the breakfast-table. “The advertisement may
go to London now; and if a governess does come
of it, oh, papa, who in the name of wonder will
she be? Tea or coffee, Mr. Armadale? I'm
really ashamed of having kept you waiting. But
it is such a comfort,” she added, saucily, “to get
all one's business off one's mind beforebreakfast!”
Father, daughter, and guest sat down togeth-
er sociably at the little round table—the best of
good neighbors and good friends already.
Three days later one of the London news-boys
|: his business off his mind before breakfast.
His district was Diana Street, Pimlico; and the
last of the morning's newspapers which he dis-
posed of was the newspaper he left at Mrs. Old-
ershaw's door.
| \,
| `-->
| --
~ * *
| "-"
--
~~
| ===\!
| 2:-
| =
CHAPTER III.
THE CLAIMS OF SOCIETY.
MoRE than an hour after Allan had set forth
on his exploring expedition through his own
grounds, Midwinter rose, and enjoyed, in his
turn, a full view by daylight of the magnificence
of the new house.


ARMADALE.
91
Refreshed by his long night's rest, he de-
scended the great staircase as cheerfully as Allan
himself. One after another, he too, looked into
the spacious rooms on the ground-floor in breath-
less astonishment at the beauty and the luxury
which surrounded him. “The house where I
lived in service when I was a boy was a fine
one,” he thought, gayly; “but it was nothing
to this! I wonder if Allan is as surprised and
delighted as I am?” The beauty of the sum-
mer morning drew him out through the open
hall door, as it had drawn his friend out before
him. He ran briskly down the steps, humming
the burden of one of the old vagabond tunes
which he had danced to long since, in the old
vagabond time. Even the memories of his
wretched childhood took their color, on that
happy morning, from the bright medium through
which he looked back at them. “If I was not
out of practice,” he thought to himself, as he
leaned on the fence and looked over at the park,
“I could try some of my old tumbling tricks on
that delicious grass.” He turned; noticed two
of the servants talking together near the shrub-
bery, and asked for news of the master of the
house. The men pointed with a smile in the
direction of the gardens; Mr. Armadale had
gone that way more than an hour since, and
had met (as had been reported) with Miss Mil-
roy in the grounds. Midwinter followed the
path through the shrubbery, but, on reaching
the flower-garden, stopped, considered a little,
and retraced his steps. “If Allan has met
with the young lady,” he said to himself, “Al-
lan doesn't want me.” He laughed as he drew
that inevitable inference, and turned consider-
ately to explore the beauties of Thorpe-Ambrose
on the other side of the house.
Passing the angle of the front wall of the
building, he descended some steps, advanced
along a paved walk, turned another angle, and
found himself in a strip of garden ground at the
back of the house. Behind him was a row of
small rooms situated on the level of the servants’
offices. In front of him, on the farther side of
the little garden, rose a wall, screened by a lau-
rel hedge, and having a door at one end of it,
leading past the stables to a gate that opened on
the high-road. Perceiving that he had only dis-
covered, thus far, the shorter way to the house,
used by the servants and trades-people, Midwin-
ter turned back again, and looked in at the win-
dow of one of the rooms on the basement story
as he passed it. Were these the servants' offi-
ces? No; the offices were apparently in some
other part of the ground-floor; the window he
had looked in at was the window of a lumber-
room. The next two rooms in the row were
both empty. The fourth window, when he ap-
proached it, presented a little variety. It served
also as a door; and it stood open to the garden
at that moment.
Attracted by the book-shelves which he no-
ticed on one of the walls, Midwinter stepped into
the room. The books, few in number, did not
enough, without taking them down. The Wa-
verley Novels, Tales by Miss Edgeworth, and by
Miss Edgeworth's many followers, the Poems of
Mrs. Hemans, with a few odd volumes of the
illustrated gift-books of the period, composed
the bulk of the little library. Midwinter turned
to leave the room, when an object on one side
of the window, which he had not previously no-
ticed, caught his attention and stopped him. It
was a statuette standing on a bracket—a reduced
copy of the famous Niobe of the Florence Mu-
seum. He glanced from the statuette to the
window, with a sudden doubt which set his heart
throbbing fast. It was a French window; and
the statuette was on his left hand as he stood
before it. He looked out with a suspicion which
he had not felt yet. The view before him was
the view of a lawn and garden. For a moment
his mind struggled blindly to escape the conclu-
sion which had seized it—and struggled in vain.
Here, close round him and close before him;
here, forcing him mercilessly back from the hap-
py present to the horrible past, was the room
that Allan had seen in the Second Vision of the
Dream. -
He waited, thinking and looking round him
while he thought. There was wonderfully little
disturbance in his face and manner; he looked
steadily from one to the other of the few objects
in the room, as if the discovery of it had sad-
dened rather than surprised him. Matting of
some foreign sort covered the floor. Two cane
chairs and a plain table comprised the whole of
the furniture. The walls were plainly papered,
and bare—broken to the eye in one place by a
door leading into the interior of the house; in
another, by a small stove; in a third, by the
book-shelves which Midwinter had already no-
ticed. He returned to the books; and, this time,
he took some of them down from the shelves.
The first that he opened contained lines in a
woman's handwriting, traced in ink that had
faded with time. He read the inscription—
“Jane Armadale, from her beloved father.
Thorpe-Ambrose, October, 1828.” In the sec-
ond, third, and fourth volumes that he opened
the same inscription reappeared. His previous
knowledge of dates and persons helped him to
draw the true inference from what he saw. The
books must have belonged to Allan's mother;
and she must have inscribed them with her
name, in the interval of time between her re-
turn to Thorpe-Ambrose from Madeira and the
birth of her son. Midwinter passed on to a .
volume on another shelf—one of a series con-
taining the writings of Mrs. Hemans. In this
case the blank leaf at the beginning of the book
was filled on both sides with a copy of verses,
the writing being still in Mrs. Armadale's hand.
The verses were headed “Farewell to Thorpe-
Ambrose,” and were dated “March, 1829"—two
months only after Allan had been born.
Entirely without merit in itself, the only in-
terest of the little poem was in the domestic
story that it told. The very room in which
detain him long; a glance at their backs was Midwinter then stood was described—with the


92 ARMADALE.
view on the garden, the window made to open “Exactly the sort of place I should have ex-
on it, the book-shelves, the Niobe, and other pected you to hit on!” exclaimed Allan, gayly.
more perishable ornaments which Time had de- “Small and snug and unpretending. I know
stroyed. Here, at variance with her brothers, you, Master Midwinter! You'll be slipping off
shrinking from her friends, the widow of the here when the county families come visiting;
murdered man had, on her own acknowledg- and I rather think on those dreadful occasions
ment, secluded herself, without other comfort you won't find me far behind you. What's the
than the love and forgiveness of her father, un- matter? You look ill and out of spirits. Hun-
til her child was born. The father's mercy gry? Of course you are! unpardonable of me
and the father's recent death filled many verses to have kept you waiting—this door leads some-
—happily too vague in their commonplace ex- where, I suppose; let's try a short cut into the
pression of penitence and despair to give any house. Don't be afraid of my not keeping you
hint of the marriage-story in Madeira to any company at breakfast. I didn't eat much at
reader who looked at them ignorant of the truth. the cottage; I feasted my eyes on Miss Milroy,
A passing reference to the writer's estrangement as the poets say. Oh, the darling! the darling!
from her surviving relatives and to her approach- she turns you topsy-turvy the moment you look
ing departure from Thorpe-Ambrose followed.
Last came the assertion of the mother's resolu-
tion to separate herself from all her old associa-
tions; to leave behind her every possession, even
to the most trifling thing she had, that could re-
mind her of the miserable past; and to date her
new life in the future from the birthday of the
child who had been spared to console her—who
was now the one earthly object that could still
speak to her of love and hope. So the old story
of passionate feeling that finds comfort in phrases
rather than not find comfort at all was told once |
again. So the poem in the faded ink faded
away to its end.
Midwinter put the book back with a ''
sigh, and opened no other volume on the shelves.
“Here in the country-house, or there on board
the Wreck,” he said, bitterly, “the traces of my
father's crime follow me, go where I may.” He
advanced toward the window; stopped and look-
ed back into the lonely, neglected little room.
“Is this chance 7” he asked himself. “The
place where his mother suffered is the place he
sees in the Dream; and the first morning in
the new house is the morning that reveals it,
not to him, but to me. Oh, Allan | Allan how
will it end?”
The thought had barely passed through his
mind before he heard Allan's voice, from the
paved walk at the side of the house, calling to
him by his name. He hastily stepped out into
the garden. At the same moment Allan came
running round the corner, full of voluble apolo-
gies for having forgotten, in the society of his
new neighbors, what was due to the laws of hos-
pitality and the claims of his friend.
“I really haven't missed you,” said Midwin-
ter; “and I am very, very glad to hear that
the new neighbors have produced such a pleas-
ant impression on you already.” i
He tried, as he spoke, to lead the way back
by the outside of the house; but Allan's flighty
attention had been caught by the open window
* and the lonely little room. He stepped in im-
mediately. Midwinter followed, and watched
him in breathless anxiety as he looked round.
Not the slightest recollection of the Dream
troubled Allan's easy mind. Not the slightest
reference to it fell from the silent lips of his
friend.
at her. As for her father, wait till you see his
wonderful clock | It's twice the size of the fa-
mous clock at Strasbourg, and the most tremen-
dous striker ever heard yet in the memory of
man l’”
Singing the praises of his new friends in this
strain, at the top of his voice, Allan hurried
Midwinter along the stone passages on the base-
ment floor which led, as he had rightly guessed,
to a staircase communicating with the hall.
They passed the servants offices on the way.
At the sight of the cook and the roaring fire,
disclosed through the open kitchen door, Allan's
mind went off at a tangent, and Allan's dignity
scattered itself to the four winds of heaven as
usual.
“Aha, Mrs. Gripper; there you are with your
pots and pans, and your burning fiery furnace!
One had need be Shadrach, Meshach, and the
other fellow to stand over that. Breakfast as
soon as ever you like. Eggs, sausages, bacon,
kidneys, marmalade, water-cresses, coffee, and
so forth. My friend and I belong to the select
few whom it's a perfect privilege to cook for.
Voluptuaries, Mrs. Gripper, voluptuaries, both
of us. You'll see,” continued Allan, as they
went on toward the stairs, “I shall make that
worthy creature young again; I'm better than
a doctor for Mrs. Gripper. When she laughs
she shakes her fat sides; and when she shakes
her fat sides she exerts her muscular system;
and when she exerts her muscular system—
Ha! here's Susan again. Don't squeeze your-
self flat against the balusters, my dear; if you
don't mind hustling me on the stairs, I rather
like hustling you. She looks like a full-blown
rose when she blushes, doesn't she? Stop, Su-
san' I've some orders to give. Be very par-
ticular with Mr. Midwinter's room: shake up
his bed like mad, and dust his furniture till those
nice round arms of yours ache again. Non-
sense, my dear fellow ! I'm not too familiar
with them; I'm only keeping them up to their
work. Now then, Richard! where do we break-
fast? Oh, here. Between ourselves, Midwin-
ter, these splendid rooms of mine are a size too
large for me; I don't feel as if I should ever be
on intimate terms with my own furniture. My
views in life are of the snug and slovenly sort-
a kitchen chair, you know, and a low ceiling.


ARMADALE.
93
Man wants but little here below, and wants that
little long. That's not exactly the right quota-
tion; but it expresses my meaning, and we'll let
alone correcting it till the next opportunity.”
“I beg your pardon,” interposed Midwinter,
“here is something waiting for you which you
have not noticed yet.”
As he spoke, he pointed a little impatiently
to a letter lying on the breakfast-table. He
could conceal the ominous discovery which he
had made that morning from Allan's knowledge;
but he could not conquer the latent distrust of
circumstances which was now roused again in
his superstitious nature—the instinctive suspi-
cion of every thing that happened, no matter
how common or how trifling the event, on the
first memorable day when the new life began in
the new house.
Allan ran his eye over the letter, and tossed it
across the table to his friend. “I can’t make
head or tail of it,” he said; “can you?”
Midwinter read the letter slowly, aloud. “SIR,
—I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in
sending these few lines to wait your arrival at
Thorpe-Ambrose. In the event of circumstances
not disposing you to place your law-business in
the hands of Mr. Darch—” He suddenly stopped
at that point, and considered a little.
“Darch is our friend the lawyer,” said Allan,
supposing Midwinter had forgotten the name.
“Don’t you remember our spinning the half-
crown on the cabin table, when I got the two
offers for the cottage? Heads, the major; tails,
the lawyer. This is the lawyer.”
Without making any reply, Midwinter re-
sumed reading the letter. “In the event of
circumstances not disposing you to place your
law-business in the hands of Mr. Darch, I beg
to say that I shall be happy to take charge of
your interests, if you feel willing to honor me
with your confidence. Enclosing a reference
(should you desire it) to my agents in London,
and again apologizing for this intrusion, I beg
to remain, Sir, respectfully yours, A. PEDGIFT,
SEN.”
“Circumstances?” repeated Midwinter, as he
laid the letter down. “What circumstances
can possibly indispose you to give your law-
business to Mr. Darch 7”
“Nothing can indispose me,” said Allan.
“Besides being the family lawyer here, Darch
was the first to write me word at Paris of my
coming in for my fortune; and, if I have got
any business to give, of course he ought to have
it.”
Midwinter still looked distrustfully at the open
letter on the table. “I am sadly afraid, Allan,
there is something wrong already,” he said.
“This man would never have ventured on the
application he has made to you, unless he had
some good reason for believing it would suc-
ceed. If you wish to put yourself right at start-
ing, you will send to Mr. Darch this morning,
to tell him you are here, and you will take no
notice for the present of Mr. Pedgift's letter.”
Before more could be said on either side the
footman made his appearance with the breakfast-
tray. He was followed, after an interval, by the
butler—a man of the essentially confidential kind,
with a modulated voice, a courtly manner, and
a bulbous nose. Any body but Allan would
have seen in his face that he had come into the
room having a special communication to make
to his master. Allan, who saw nothing under
the surface, and whose head was running on the
lawyer's letter, stopped him bluntly with the
point-blank question: “Who's Mr. Pedgift?”
The butler's sources of local knowledge open-
ed confidentially on the instant. Mr. Pedgift
was the second of the two lawyers in the town.
Not so long established, not so wealthy, not so
universally looked up to as old Mr. Darch. Not
doing the business of the highest people in the
county, and not mixing freely with the best so-
ciety, like old Mr. Darch. A very sufficient
man, in his way, nevertheless. Known as a
perfectly competent and respectable practitioner
all round the neighborhood. In short, profes-
sionally next best to Mr. Darch; and personally
superior to him (if the expression might be per-
|mitted) in this respect—that Darch was a Crusty
One and Pedgift wasn't. -
Having imparted this information, the butler,
taking a wise advantage of his position, glided,
without a moment's stoppage, from Mr. Pedgift's
character to the business that had brought him
into the breakfast-room. The Midsummer Au-
dit was near at hand; and the tenants were ac-
customed to have a week's notice of the rent-day
dinner. With this necessity pressing, and with
no orders given as yet, and no steward in office
at Thorpe-Ambrose, it appeared desirable that
some confidential person should bring the mat-
ter forward. The butler was that confidential
person; and he now ventured accordingly to
trouble his master on the subject. -
At this point Allan opened his lips to inter-
rupt, and was himself interrupted before he
could utter a word.
“Wait!” interposed Midwinter, seeing in Al-
lan's face that he was in danger of being pub-
licly announced in the capacity of steward.
“Wait!” he repeated eagerly, “till I can speak
to you first.”
The butler's courtly manner remained alike
"unruffled by Midwinter's sudden interference
and by his own dismissal from the scene. No-
thing but the mounting color in his bulbous nose
betrayed the sense of injury that animated him
as he withdrew. Mr. Armadale's chance of re-
galing his friend and himself that day with the
best wine in the cellar trembled in the balance
as the butler took his way back to the basement
story.
“This is beyond a joke, Allan,” said Mid-
winter, when they were alone. “Somebody
must meet your tenants on the rent-day who is
really fit to take the steward's place. With the
best will in the world to learn, it is impossible
for me to master the business at a week's notice.
Don't, pray don't let your anxiety for my welfare
put you in a false position with other people! I


94
ARMADALE.
should never forgive myself if I was the un-
lucky cause—”
“Gently, gently!” cried Allan, amazed at his
friend's extraordinary earnestness. “If I write
to London by to-night's post for the man who
came down here before, will that satisfy you?”
Midwinter shook his head. “Our time is
short,” he said; “and the man may not be at
liberty. Why not try in the neighborhood first?
You were going to write to Mr. Darch. Send
at once, and see if he can't help us between this
and post-time.”
Allan withdrew to a side-table on which writ-
ing materials were placed. “You shall break-
fast in peace, you old fidget,” he replied—and
addressed himself forthwith to Mr. Darch, with
his usual Spartan brevity of epistolary expres-
sion. “DEAR SIR,-Here I am, bag and bag-
gage. Will you kindly oblige me by being my
lawyer? I ask this, because I want to consult
you at once. Please look in in the course of
the day, and stop to dinner if you possibly can.
Yours truly, ALLAN ARMADALE.” Having read
this composition aloud with unconcealed ad-
miration of his own rapidity of literary execu-
tion, Allan addressed the letter to Mr. Darch,
and rang the bell. “Here, Richard, take this
at once, and wait for an answer. And, I say,
if there's any news stirring in the town, pick it
up and bring it back with you. See how I man-
age my servants!” continued Allan, joining his
friend at the breakfast-table. “See how I adapt
myself to my new duties! I haven't been down
here one clear day yet, and I'm taking an inter-
est in the neighborhood already.”
Breakfast over, the two friends went out to
idle away the morning under the shade of a tree
in the park. Noon came, and Richard never
appeared. One o'clock struck, and still there
were no signs of an answer from Mr. Darch.
Midwinter's patience was not proof against the
delay. He left Allan dozing on the grass, and
went to the house to make inquiries. The town
was described as little more than two miles dis-
tant; but the day of the week happened to be
market-day, and Richard was being detained no
doubt by some of the many acquaintances whom
he would be sure to meet with on that occasion.
Half an hour later the truant messenger re-
turned, and was sent out to report himself to his
master under the tree in the park.
“Any answer from Mr. Darch?” asked Mid-
winter, seeing that Allan was too lazy to put the
question for himself.
“Mr. Darch was engaged, Sir. I was desired
to say that he would send an answer.”
“Any news in the town?” inquired Allan,
drowsily, without troubling himself to open his
eyes.
“No, Sir; nothing in particular.”
Observing the man suspiciously as he made
that reply, Midwinter detected in his face that
he was not speaking the truth. He was plainly
embarrassed, and plainly relieved when his mas-
ter's silence allowed him to withdraw. After a
little consideration, Midwinter followed, and
overtook the retreating servant on the drive be-
fore the house.
“Richard,” he said, quietly, “if I was to
guess that there is some news in the town, and
that you don't like telling it to your master,
should I be guessing the truth?”
The man started and changed color. “I
don't know how you have found it out, Sir,” he
said; “but I can't deny you have guessed right.”
“If you will let me hear what the news is, I
will take the responsibility on myself of telling
Mr. Armadale.”
After some little hesitation, and some dis-
trustful consideration on his side, of Midwinter's
face, Richard at last prevailed on himself to re-
peat what he had heard that day in the town.
The news of Allan's sudden appearance at
Thorpe-Ambrose had preceded the servant's ar-
rival at his destination by some hours. Wher-
ever he went, he found his master the subject of
public discussion. The opinion of Allan's con-
duct among the leading towns-people, the resi-
dent gentry of the neighborhood, and the prin-
cipal tenants on the estate, was unanimously
unfavorable. Only the day before, the commit-
tee for managing the public reception of the new
squire had sketched the progress of the proces-
sion; had settled the serious question of the tri-
umphal arches; and had appointed a competent
person to solicit subscriptions for the flags, the
flowers, the feasting, the fire-works, and the band.
In less than a week more the money could have
been collected, and the rector would have writ-
ten to Mr. Armadale to fix the day. And now,
by Allan's own act, the public welcome waiting
to honor him had been cast back contemptuous-
ly in the public teeth ! Every body took for
granted (what was unfortunately true) that he
had received private information of the contem-
plated proceedings. Every body declared that
he had purposely stolen into his own house like
a thief in the night (so the phrase ran), to escape
accepting the offered civilities of his neighbors.
In brief, the sensitive self-importance of the lit-
tle town was wounded to the quick; and of Al-
lan's once enviable position in the estimation of
the neighborhood not a vestige remained.
For a moment Midwinter faced the messen-
ger of evil tidings in silent distress. That mo-
ment past, the sense of Allan's critical position
roused him, now the evil was known, to seek the
remedy.
“Has the little you have seen of your master,
Richard, inclined you to like him ?” he asked.
This time the man answered without hesita-
tion, “A pleasanter and kinder gentleman than
Mr. Armadale no one could wish to serve.”
“If you think that,” pursued Midwinter,
“you won't object to give me some information
which will help your master to set himself right
with his neighbors. Come into the house.”
He led the way into the library, and, after
asking the necessary questions, took down in
writing a list of the names and addresses of the
most influential persons living in the town and
its neighborhood. This done, he rang the bell
-


ARMADALE. 95
for the head footman, having previously sent
Richard with a message to the stables, directing
an open carriage to be ready in an hour's time.
“When the late Mr. Blanchard went out to
make calls in the neighborhood it was your place
to go with him, was it not?” he asked, when
the upper servant appeared. “Very well. Be
ready in an hour's time, if you please, to go out
with Mr. Armadale.” Having given that order,
he left the house again on his way back to Al-
lan, with the visiting list in his hand. He
smiled a little sadly as he descended the steps.
“Who would have imagined,” he thought, “that
my foot-boy's experience of the ways of gen-
tlefolks would be worth looking back at one day
for Allan's sake?”
The object of the popular odium lay innocent-
ly slumbering on the grass, with his garden hat
over his nose, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his
trowsers wrinkled half-way up his outstretched
legs. Midwinter roused him without hesita-
tion, and remorselessly repeated the servant's
news.
Allan accepted the disclosure thus forced on
him without the slightest disturbance of temper.
“Oh, hang'em!” was all he said. “Let's have
another cigar.” Midwinter took the cigar out
of his hand, and, insisting on his treating the
matter seriously, told him in plain words that
he must set himself right with his offended
neighbors by calling on them personally to make
his apologies. Allan sat up on the grass in
astonishment; his eyes opened wide in incredu-
lous dismay. Did Midwinter positively medi-
tate forcing him into a “chimney-pot hat,” a
nicely-brushed frock-coat, and a clean pair of
gloves? Was it actually in contemplation to
shut him up in a carriage, with his footman on
the box and his card-case in his hand, and send
him round from house to house, to tell a pack
of fools that he begged their pardon for not let-
ting them make a public show of him? If any
thing so outrageously absurd as this was really
to be done, it could not be done that day at any
rate. He had promised to go back to the charm-
ing Milroy at the cottage and to take Midwinter
with him. What earthly need had he of the
good opinion of the resident gentry? The only
friends he wanted were the friends he had got
already. Let the whole neighborhood turn its
back on him if it liked—back or face the Squire
of Thorpe-Ambrose didn't care two straws about
it.
After allowing him to run on in this way
until his whole stock of objections was exhaust-
ed, Midwinter wisely tried his personal influence
next. He took Allan affectionately by the hand.
“I am going to ask a great favor,” he said. “If
you won't call on these people for your own sake,
will you call on them to please me?”
Allan delivered himself of a groan of despair,
stared in mute surprise at the anxious face of
his friend, and good-humoredly gave way. As
Midwinter took his arm, and led him back to
the house, he looked round with rueful eyes at
in the pleasant shade. “Don’t mention it in
the neighborhood,” he said; “I should like to
change places with one of my own cows.”
Midwinter left him to dress, engaging to re-
turn when the carriage was at the door. Al-
lan's toilet did not promise to be a speedy one.
He began it by reading his own visiting cards;
and he advanced it a second stage by looking
into his wardrobe, and devoting the resident
gentry into the infernal regions. Before he
could discover any third means of delaying his
own proceedings, the necessary pretext was un-
expectedly supplied by Richard's appearance
with a note in his hand. The messenger had
just called with Mr. Darch's answer. Allan
briskly shut up the wardrobe, and gave his
whole attention to the lawyer's letter. The
lawyer's letter rewarded him by the following
lines:
“SIR,—I beg to acknowledge the receipt of
your favor of to-day's date, honoring me with
two proposals—namely, on E inviting me to act
as your legal adviser, and on E inviting me to
pay you a visit at your house. In reference to
the first proposal, I beg permission to decline it
with thanks. With regard to the second pro-
posal, I have to inform you that circumstances
have come to my knowledge relating to the let-
ting of the cottage at Thorpe-Ambrose which
render it impossible for me (in justice to myself)
to accept your invitation. I have ascertained,
Sir, that my offer reached you at the same time
as Major Milroy's; and that, with both propo-
sals thus before you, you gave the preference to
a total stranger, who addressed you through a
house agent, over a man who had faithfully
served your relatives for two generations, and
who had been the first person to inform you of
the most important event in your life. After
this specimen of your estimate of what is due to
the claims of common courtesy and common
justice, I can not flatter myself that I possess
any of the qualities which would fit me to take
my place on the list of your friends. I remain,
Sir, your obedient servant, JAMES DARCH.”
“Stop the messenger!” cried Allan, leaping
to his feet, his ruddy face aflame with indigna-
tion. “Give me pen, ink, and paper ! By the
Lord Harry, they're a nice set of people in these
parts; the whole neighborhood is in a conspira-
cy to bully me!” He snatched up the pen in a
fine frenzy of epistolary inspiration. “SIR,-
I despise you and your letter—” At that point
the pen made a blot, and the writer was seized
with a momentary hesitation. “Too strong,”
he thought; “I’ll give it to the lawyer in his
own cool and cutting style.” He began again on
a clean sheet of paper. “SIR,—You remind me
of an Irish bull. I mean that story in Joe Mil-
ler, where Pat remarked, in the hearing of a wag
hard by, that “the reciprocity was all on one side.”
Your reciprocity is all on one side. You take
the privilege of refusing to be my lawyer, and
then you complain of my taking the privilege of
the cattle hard by, placidly whisking their tails refusing to be your landlord.” He paused fond-


96
ARMADALE.
ly over those last words. “Neat!” he thought.
“Argument and hard hitting both in one. I
wonder where my knack of writing comes from?”
He went on, and finished the letter in two more
sentences. “As for your casting my invitation
back in my teeth, I beg to inform you my teeth
are none the worse for it. I am equally glad
to have notning to say to you, either in the ca-
pacity of a friend or a tenant.—ALLAN ARMA-
DALE.” He nodded exultingly at his own com-
position, as he addressed it and sent it down to
the messenger. “Darch's hide must be a thick
one,” he said, “if he doesn't feel that " -
The sound of wheels outside suddenly recalled
him to the business of the day. There was the
carriage waiting to take him on his round of
visits; and there was Midwinter at his post,
pacing to and fro on the drive. “Read that,”
cried Allan, throwing out the lawyer's letter;
“I’ve written him back a smasher.”
He bustled away to the wardrobe to get his
coat. There was a wonderful change in him;
he felt little or no reluctance to pay the visits
now. The pleasurable excitement of answering
Mr. Darch had put him in a fine aggressive
frame of mind for asserting himself in the neigh-
borhood. “Whatever else they may say of me,
they sha'n't say I was afraid to face them.”
Heated red-hot with that idea, he seized his hat
and gloves, and, hurrying out of the room, met
Midwinter in the corridor with the lawyer's let-
ter in his hand.
“Keep up your spirits!” cried Allan, seeing
the anxiety in his friend's face, and misinterpret-
ing the motive of it immediately. “If Darch
can't be counted on to send us a helping hand
into the steward's office, Pedgift can.”
“My dear Allan, I was not thinking of that;
I was thinking of Mr. Darch's letter. I don't
, defend this sour-tempered man—but I am afraid
we must admit he has some cause for complaint.
Pray don't give him another chance of putting
you in the wrong. Where is your answer to
his letter?”
“Gone!” replied Allan; “I always strike
while the iron's hot—a word and a blow, and
the blow first, that's my way. Don't, there's a
dear good fellow, don't fidget about the steward's
books and the rent-day. Here! here's a bunch
of keys they gave me last night: one of them
opens the room where the steward's books are;
go in and read them till I come back. I give
you my sacred word of honor I'll settle it all
with Pedgift before you see me again.”
“One moment,” interposed Midwinter, stop-
ping him resolutely on his way out to the car-
riage. “I say nothing against Mr. Pedgift's
fitness to possess your confidence, for I know no-
thing to justify me in distrusting him. But he
has not introduced himself to your notice in a
very delicate way; and he has not acknowledged
what is quite clear to my mind) that he knew
of Mr. Darch's unfriendly feeling toward you
when he wrote. Wait a little before you go to
this stranger; wait till we can talk it over to-
gether to-night.”
“Wait!" replied Allan. “Haven't I told
you that I always strike while the iron's hot?
Trust my eye for character, old boy; I'll look
Pedgift through and through, and act accord-
ingly. Don't keep me any longer, for Heaven's
sake. I'm in a fine humor for tackling the resi-
dent gentry; and if I don't go at once, I'm afraid
it may wear off.”
With that excellent reason for being in a
hurry, Allan boisterously broke away. Before
it was possible to stop him again he had jumped
into the carriage and had left the house.
--
i CHAPTER IV.
THE MARCH OF EVENTS.
MIDw1NTER's face darkened when the last
trace of the carriage had disappeared from view.
“I have done my best,” he said, as he turned
back gloomily into the house. “If Mr. Brock
himself were here, Mr. Brock could do no more!”
He looked at the bunch of keys which Allan
had thrust into his hand, and a sudden longing
to put himself to the test over the steward's
books took possession of his sensitive self-tor-
menting nature. Inquiring his way to the room
in which the various movables of the steward's
office had been provisionally placed, after the
letting of the cottage, he sat down at the desk,
and tried how his own unaided capacity would
guide him through the business records of the
Thorpe-Ambrose estate. The result exposed
his own ignorance unanswerably before his own
eyes. The Ledgers bewildered him; the Leases,
the Plans, and even the Correspondence itself,
might have been written, for all he could under-
stand of them, in an unknown tongue. His
memory reverted bitterly as he left the room
again to his two years' solitary self-instruction
in the Shrewsbury bookseller's shop. “If I
could only have worked at a business!” he
thought. “If I could only have known that the
company of Poets and Philosophers was com-
pany too high for a vagabond like me!”
He sat down alone in the great hall; the si-
lence of it fell heavier and heavier on his sink-
ing spirits; the beauty of it exasperated him,
like an insult from a purse-proud man. “Curse
the place!” he said, snatching up his hat and
stick. “I like the bleakest hill-side I ever slept .
on better than I like this house !”
He impatiently descended the doorsteps, and
stopped on the drive, considering by which di-
rection he should leave the park for the country
beyond. If he followed the road taken by the
carriage, he might risk unsettling Allan by ac-
cidentally meeting him in the town. If he went
out by the back gate, he knew his own nature
well enough to doubt his ability to pass the
room of the dream without entering it again.
But one other way remained—the way which he
had taken, and then abandoned again, in the
morning. There was no fear of disturbing Al-
lan and the major's daughter now. Without


ARMADALE.
97
further hesitation Midwinter set forth through
the gardens to explore the open country on that
side of the estate.
Thrown off its balance by the events of the
day, his mind was full of that sourly-savage re-
sistance to the inevitable self-assertion of wealth,
so amiably deplored by the prosperous and the
rich; so bitterly familiar to the unfortunate and
the poor. “The heather-bell costs nothing!”
he thought, looking contemptuously at the mass-
es of rare and beautiful flowers that surrounded
him; “and the butter-cups and daisies are as
bright as the best of you!” He followed the
artfully - contrived ovals and squares of the
Italian garden, with a vagabond indifference to
the symmetry of their construction and the in-
genuity of their design. “How many pounds
a foot did you cost?” he said, looking back with
scornful eyes at the last path as he left it.
“Wind away over high and low like the sheep-
walk on the mountain-side, if you can '"
He entered the shrubbery which Allan had
entered before him; crossed the paddock and
the rustic bridge beyond, and reached the ma-
jor's cottage. His ready mind seized the right
conclusion at the first sight of it; and he stopped
before the garden gate to look at the trim little
residence which would never have been empty,
and would never have been let, but for Allan's
ill-advised resolution to force the steward's situ-
ation on his friend.
The summer afternoon was warm; the sum-
mer air was faint and still. On the upper and
the lower floor of the cottage the windows were
all open. From one of them, on the upper
story, the sound of voices was startlingly audible
in the quiet of the park, as Midwinter paused
on the outer side of the garden inclosure. The
voice of a woman, harsh, high, and angrily com-
plaining—a voice with all the freshness and the
melody gone, and with nothing but the hard
power of it left—was the discordantly predomi-
nant sound. With it, from moment to moment,
there mingled the deeper and quieter tones,
soothing and compassionate, of the voice of a
In fill.
allow Midwinter to distinguish the words that
were spoken, he felt the impropriety of remain-
ing within hearing of the voices, and at once
At the at—the direction of the road along which he
stepped forward to continue his walk.
jor Milroy's domestic position had not reached
its end yet. As Midwinter turned the corner
of the garden fence, a tradesman's boy was
handing a parcel in at the wicket gate to the
woman servant. “Well,” said the boy, with
the irrepressible impudence of his class, “how
is the missus?” The woman lifted her hand to
box his ears. “How is the missus?” she re-
peated, with an angry toss of her head as the
boy ran off. “If it would only please God to
take the missus it would be a blessing to every
body in the house.”
No such ill-omened shadow as this had passed
over the bright domestic picture of the inhabit-
ants of the cottage, which Allan's enthusiasm
had painted for the contemplation of his friend.
It was plain that the secret of the tenants had
been kept from the landlord so far. Five min-
utes more of walking brought Midwinter to the
park gates. “Am I fated to see nothing and
hear nothing to-day which can give me heart
and hope for the future?” he thought, as he an-
grily swung back the lodge gate. “Even the
people Allan has let the cottage to are people
whose lives are embittered by a household mis-
ery which it is my misfortune to have found
out !”
He took the first road that lay before him
and walked on, noticing little, immersed in his
own thoughts. More than an hour passed be-
fore the necessity of turning back entered his
mind. As soon as the idea occurred to him he
consulted his watch, and determined to retrace
his steps, so as to be at the house in good time
to meet Allan on his return. Ten minutes of
walking brought him back to a point at which
three roads met; and one moment's observation
of the place satisfied him that he had entirely
failed to notice, at the time, by which of the
three roads he had advanced. No sign-post
was to be seen; the country on either side was
lonely and flat, intersected by broad drains and
ditches. Cattle were grazing here and there;
and a wind-mill rose in the distance above the
pollard willows that fringed the low horizon.
Although the distance was too great to But not a house was to be seen, and not a hu-
man creature appeared on the visible perspec-
tive of any one of the three roads. Midwinter
glanced back in the only direction left to look
same moment the face of a young girl (easily had just been walking. There, to his relief,
recognizable as the face of Miss Milroy, from
Allan's description of her) appeared at the open
window of the room. In spite of himself Mid-
winter paused to look at her.
The expression |
was the figure of a man, rapidly advancing to-
ward him, of whom he could ask his way.
The figure came on, clad from head to foot in .
dreary black—a moving blot on the brilliant
of the bright young face, which had smiled so white surface of the sun-brightened road. He
prettily on Allan, was weary and disheartened. was a lean, elderly, miserably respectable man.
After looking out absently over the park she He wore a poor old black dress-coat, and a cheap
suddenly turned her head back into the room; brown wig, which made no pretense of being his
her attention having been apparently struck by own natural hair. Short black trowsers clung
something that had just been said in it. “Oh, like attached old servants round his wizen legs;
mamma, mamma,” she exclaimed, indignantly, and rusty black gaiters hid all they could of his
“how can you say such things!” The words knobbed ungainly feet. Black crape added its
were spoken close to the window; they reached mite to the decayed and dingy wretchedness of
Midwinter's ears, and hurried him away before his old beaver hat; black mohair, in the obsolete
he heard more. But the self-disclosure of Ma- form of a stock, drearily encircled his neck and


98 ARMADALE.
rose as high as his haggard jaws. The one while he took his way back to the house. He
morsel of color he carried about him was a law- was at a loss to account for it. It never oc-
yer's bag of blue serge as lean and limp as him-
self. The one attractive feature in his clean-
shaven, weary old face, was a meat set of teeth—
teeth (as honest as his wig), which said plainly
to all inquiring eyes, “We pass our nights on
his looking-glass, and our days in his mouth.”
All the little blood in the man's body faintly
reddened his fleshless cheeks as Midwinter ad-
vanced to meet him, and asked the way to
Thorpe-Ambrose. His weak watery eyes looked
hither and thither in a bewilderment painful to
see. If he had met with a lion instead of a man,
and if the few words addressed to him had been
words expressing a threat instead of a question,
he could hardly have looked more confused and
alarmed than he looked now. For the first time
in his life Midwinter saw his own shy uneasi-
ness in the presence of strangers reflected, with
ten-fold intensity of nervous suffering, in the
face of another man—and that man old enough
to be his father.
“Which do you please to mean, Sir—the
Town or the House? I beg your pardon for
asking, but they both go by the same name in
these parts.”
He spoke with a timid gentleness of tone, an
ingratiatory smile, and an anxious courtesy of
manner, all distressingly suggestive of his being
accustomed to receive rough answers in exchange
for his own politeness, from the persons whom
he habitually addressed.
“I was not aware that both the House and
the Town went by the same name,” said Mid-
winter—“I meant the House.” He instinctive-
ly conquered his own shyness as he answered in
those words; speaking with a cordiality of man-
ner which was very rare with him in his inter-
course with strangers.
The man of miserable respectability seemed
to feel the warm return of his own politeness
gratefully; he brightened and took a little cour-
age. His lean forefinger pointed eagerly to the
right road. “That way, Sir,” he said, “and
when you come to two roads next, please take
the left one of the two. I am sorry I have busi-
ness the other way—I mean in the town. I
should have been happy to go with you, and
show you. Fine summer weather, Sir, for walk-
ing? You can't miss your way if you keep to
the left. Oh, don’t mention it! I'm afraid I
have detained you, Sir. I wish you a pleasant
walk back, and—good-morning.”
By the time he had made an end of speaking
(under an impression apparently that the more
he talked the more polite he would be) he had
lost his courage again. He darted away down
his own road, as if Midwinter's attempts to
thank him involved a series of trials too terrible
to confront. In two minutes more his black re-
treating figure had lessened in the distance till
it looked again, what it had once looked already,
a moving blot on the brilliant white surface of
the sun-brightened road.
The man ran strangely in Midwinter's thoughts
curred to him that he might have been insensi-
bly reminded of himself, when he saw the plain
traces of past misfortune and present nervous
suffering in the poor wretch's face. He blindly
resented his own perverse interest in this chance
foot-passenger on the high-road, as he had re-
sented all else that had happened to him since
the beginning of the day. “Have I made an-
other unlucky discovery?” he asked himself,
impatiently. “Shall I see this man again, I
wonder? who can he be?”
Time was to answer both those questions be-
fore many days more had passed over the in-
quirer's head.
Allan had not returned when Midwinter
reached the house. Nothing had happened but
the arrival of a message of apology from the cot-
tage. “Major Milroy's compliments, and he
was sorry that Mrs. Milroy's illness would pre-
vent his receiving Mr. Armadale that day.” It
was plain that Mrs. Milroy's occasional fits of
suffering (or of ill-temper) created no mere trans-
itory disturbance of the tranquillity of the house-
hold. Drawing this natural inference, after
what he had himself heard at the cottage nearly
three hours since, Midwinter withdrew into the
library to wait patiently among the books until
his friend came back.
It was past six o'clock when the well-known
hearty voice was heard again in the hall. Al-
lan burst into the library in a state of irrepres-
sible excitement, and pushed Midwinter back
unceremoniously into the chair from which he
was just rising before he could utter a word.
“Here's a riddle for you, old boy!” cried Al-
lan. “Why am I like the resident manager of
the Augean stable before Hercules was called
in to sweep the litter out? Because I have had
my place to keep up, and I've gone and made
an infernal mess of it! Why don’t you laugh?
By George, he doesn't see the point! Let's try
again. Why am I like the resident manager?—”
“For God's sake, Allan, be serious for a mo-
ment!” interposed Midwinter. “You don't
know how anxious I am to hear if you have re-
covered the good opinion of your neighbors.”
“That's just what the riddle was intended to
tell you!” rejoined Allan. “But if you will
have it in so many words, my own impression is
that you would have done better not to disturb
me under that tree in the park. I've been cal-
culating it to a nicety, and I beg to inform you
that I have sunk exactly three degrees lower in
the estimation of the resident gentry since I had
the pleasure of seeing you last.”
“You will have your joke out," said Midwin-
ter, bitterly. “Well, if I can't laugh, I can
wait.”
“My dear fellow, I'm not joking; I really
mean what I say. You shall hear what hap-
pened; you shall have a report in full of my
first visit. It will do, I can promise you, as a
sample for all the rest. Mind this, in the first


ARMADALE.
99
place, I've gone wrong, with the best possible
intentions. When I started for these visits I
choice selection of books for me to look at—a
religious book, a book about the Duke of Wel-
own I was angry with that old brute of a law-|lington, a book about sporting, and a book about
her, and I certainly had a notion of carrying
things with a high hand. But it wore off some-
how on the road; and the first family I called
on I went in, as I tell you, with the best possi-
ble intentions. Oh dear, dear! there was the
same spick-and-span reception-room for me to
waitin, with the meat conservatory beyond, which
I saw again and again and again at every other
house I went to afterward. There was the same
nothing in particular, beautifully illustrated with
pictures. Down came papa with his nice white
hair, and mamma with her nice lace cap; down
came young Mister with the pink face and the
straw-colored whiskers, and young Miss with the
plump cheeks and the large petticoats. Don't
suppose there was the least unfriendliness on
my side; I always began with them in the same
way; I insisted on shaking hands all round.


100
ARMADALE.
That staggered them to begin with. When I
came to the sore subject next—the subject of
the public reception—I give you my word of
honor I took the greatest possible pains with
my apologies. It hadn't the slightest effect;
they let my apologies in at one ear and out at
the other, and then waited to hear more. Some
men would have been disheartened: I tried an-
other way with them; I addressed myself to the
master of the house, and put it pleasantly next.
‘The fact is,' I said, ‘I wanted to escape the
speechifying—my getting up, you know, and
telling you to your face you're the best of men,
and I beg to propose your health; and your
getting up and telling me to my face I'm the
best of men, and you beg to thank me; and so
on, man after man, praising each other and pest-
ering each other all round the table.” That's
how I put it, in an easy, light-handed, convin-
cing sort of way. Do you think any of them
took it in the same friendly spirit? Not one !
It's my belief they had got their speeches ready
for the reception, with the flags and the flowers,
and that they're secretly angry with me for stop-
ping their open mouths just as they were ready
to begin. Anyway, whenever we came to the
matter of the speechifying (whether they touch-
ed it first or I), down I fell in their estimation
the first of those three steps I told you of just
now. Don't suppose I made no efforts to get
up again! I made desperate efforts. I found
they were all anxious to know what sort of life
I had led before I came in for the Thorpe-Am-
brose property, and I did my best to satisfy
them. And what came of that, do you think?
Hang me if I didn't disappoint them for the
second time! When they found out that I had
actually never-been to Eton or Harrow, or Ox-
ford or Cambridge, they were quite dumb with
astonishment. I fancy they thought me a sort
of outlaw. At any rate, they all froze up again;
and down I fell the second step in their estima-
tion. . Never mind! I wasn't to be beaten; I
had promised you to do my best, and I did it.
I tried cheerful small-talk about the neighbor-
hood next. The women said nothing in par-
ticular; the men, to my unutterable astonish-
ment, all began to condole with me. I shouldn't
be able to find a pack of hounds, they said, with-
in twenty miles of my house; and they thought
it only right to prepare me for the disgracefully
careless manner in which the Thorpe-Ambrose ||
covers had been preserved. I let them go on
condoling with me, and then what do you think
I did? I put my foot in it again. “Oh, don't
take that to heart!' I said; “I don't care two
straws about hunting or shooting either. When
I meet with a bird in my walk I can't for the
life of me feel eager to kill it; I rather like to
see the bird flying about and enjoying itself.”
You should have seen their faces! They had
thought me a sort of outlaw before; now they
evidently thought me mad. Dead silence fell
upon them all; and down I tumbled the third
step in the general estimation. It was just the
same at the next house, and the next, and the
next. The devil possessed us all, I think. It
would come out, now in one way and now in
another, that I couldn't make speeches—that I
had been brought up without a university edu-
cation—and that I could enjoy a ride on horse-
back without galloping after a wretched, stink-
ing fox or a poor, distracted little hare. Those
three unlucky defects of mine are not excused,
it seems, in a country gentleman (especially
when he has dodged a public reception to begin
with). I think I got on best, upon the whole,
with the wives and daughters. The women
and I always fell, sooner or later, on the sub-
ject of Mrs. Blanchard and her niece. We in-
variably agreed that they had done wisely in
going to Florence; and the only reason we had
to give for our opinion was, that we thought
their minds would be benefited, after their sad
bereavement, by the contemplation of the mas-
ter-pieces of Italian Art. Every one of the la-
dies—I solemnly declare it—at every house I
went to came, sooner or later, to Mrs. and Miss
Blanchard's bereavement and the master-pieces
of Italian Art. What we should have done
without that bright idea to help us I really don't
know. The one pleasant thing at any of the
visits was when we all shook our heads togeth-
er, and declared that the master-pieces would
console them. As for the rest of it, there's only
one thing more to be said. What I might be
in other places I don't know; I'm the wrong
man in the wrong place here. Let me muddle
on for the future in my own way, with my own
few friends; and ask me any thing else in the
world, as long as you don't ask me to make any
more calls on my neighbors.”
With that characteristic request Allan's re-
port of his exploring expedition among the res-
ident gentry came to a close. For a moment
Midwinter remained silent. He had allowed
Allan to run on from first to last without utter-
ing a word on his side. The disastrous result
of the visits, coming after what had happened
earlier in the day; and threatening Allan, as
it did, with exclusion from all local sympathies
at the very outset of his local career, had broken
down Midwinter's power of resisting the stealth-
ily depressing influence of his own superstition.
It was with an effort that he now looked up at
Allan; it was with an effort that he roused him-
self to answer. *
“It shall be as you wish,” he said, quietly.
“I am sorry for what has happened; but I am
not the less obliged to you, Allan, for having
done what I asked you.”
His head sank on his breast; and the fatalist
resignation which had once already quieted him
on board the Wreck, now quieted him again.
“What must be will be,” he thought once more.
“What have I to do with the future, and what
has he?”
“Cheer up!” said Allan. “Your affairs are
in a thriving condition at any rate. I paid one
pleasant visit in the town, which I haven't told
you of yet. I've seen Pedgift, and Pedgift's
son, who helps him in the office. They're the


ARMADALE.
101
two jolliest lawyers I ever met with in my life—
and what's more, they can produce the very man
you want to teach you the steward's business.”
Midwinter looked up quickly. Distrust of
Allan's discovery was plainly written in his face
already; but he said nothing.
“I thought of you,” Allan proceeded, “as
soon as the two Pedgifts and I had had a glass
of wine all round to drink to our friendly con-
nection. The finest sherry I ever tasted in my
life; I’ve ordered some of the same—but that's
not the question just now. In two words I told
these worthy fellows your difficulty, and in two
seconds old Pedgift understood all about it. ‘I
have got the man in my office,’ he said, ‘and
before the audit-day comes I'll place him with
the greatest pleasure at your friend's disposal.’”
At this last announcement Midwinter's dis-
trust found its expression in words. He ques-
tioned Allan unsparingly. The man's name, it
appeared, was Bashwood. He had been some
time (how long, Allan could not remember) in
Mr. Pedgift's service. He had been previously
steward to a Norfolk gentleman (name forgot-
ten) in the westward district of the county. He
had lost the steward's place, through some do-
mestic trouble, in connection with his son, the
precise nature of which Allan was not able to
specify. Pedgift vouched for him, and Pedgift
would send him to Thorpe-Ambrose two or three
days before the rent-day dinner. He could not
be spared, for office-reasons, before that time.
There was no need to fidget about it; Pedgift
laughed at the idea of there being any difficulty
with the tenants. Two or three days' work
over the steward's books with a man to help
Midwinter who practically understood that sort
of thing, would put him all right for the audit;
and the other business would keep till afterward.
“Have you seen this Mr. Bashwood yourself,
Allan?” asked Midwinter, still obstinately on his
guard.
“No,” replied Allan; “he was out—out with
the bag, as young Pedgift called it. They tell
me he's a decent elderly man. A little broken
by his troubles, and a little apt to be nervous
and confused in his manner with strangers; but
thoroughly competent and thoroughly to be de-
pended on—those are Pedgift's own words.”
Midwinter paused and considered a little, with
a new interest in the subject. The strange man
whom he had just heard described, and the
strange man of whom he had asked his way
where the three roads met, were remarkably
like each other. Was this another link in the
fast lengthening chain of events? Midwinter
grew doubly determined to be careful, as the
bare doubt that it might be so passed through
his mind.
“When Mr. Bashwood comes,” he said, “will
you let me see him, and speak to him, before
anything definite is done?”
“Of course I will !” rejoined Allan. He
stopped and looked at his watch. “And I'll
tell you what I'll do for you, old boy, in the
mean time,” he added; “I’ll introduce you to
the prettiest girl in Norfolk! There's just time
to run over to the cottage before dinner. Come
along, and be introduced to Miss Milroy.”
“You can't introduce me to Miss Milroy to-
day,” replied Midwinter; and he repeated the
message of apology which had been brought
from the major that afternoon. Allan was sur-
prised and disappointed; but he was not to be
foiled in his resolution to advance himself in
the good graces of the inhabitants of the cot-
tage. After a little consideration he hit on a
means of turning the present adverse circum-
stances to good account. “I’ll show a proper
anxiety for Mrs. Milroy's recovery,” he said,
gravely. “I’ll send her a basket of strawber-
ries, with my best respects, to-morrow morning.”
Nothing more happened to mark the end of
that first day in the new house.
The one noticeable event of the next day was
another disclosure of Mrs. Milroy's infirmity of
temper. Half an hour after Allan's basket of
strawberries had been delivered at the cottage,
it was returned to him intact (by the hands of
the invalid lady's nurse), with a short and sharp
message, shortly and sharply delivered. “Mrs.
Milroy's compliments and thanks. Strawber-
ries invariably disagreed with her.” If this cu-
riously petulant acknowledgment of an act of
politeness was intended to irritate Allan, it failed
entirely in accomplishing its object. Instead of
being offended with the mother, he sympathized
with the daughter. “Poor little thing,” was all
he said, “she must have a hard life of it with
such a mother as that!”
He called at the cottage himself later in the
day, but Miss Milroy was not to be seen; she
was engaged up stairs. The major received his
visitor in his working apron—far more deeply
immersed in his wonderful clock, and far less
readily accessible to outer influences than Allan
had seen him at their first interview. His man-
ner was as kind as before; but not a word more
could be extracted from him on the subject of
his wife than that Mrs. Milroy “had not im-
proved since yesterday.”
The two next days passed quietly and un-
eventfully. Allan persisted in making his in-
quiries at the cottage; but all he saw of the ma-
jor's daughter was a glimpse of her on one oc-
casion, at a window on the bedroom floor. No-
thing more was heard from Mr. Pedgift; and
Mr. Bashwood's appearance was still delayed.
Midwinter declined to move in the matter until
time enough had passed to allow of his first hear-
ing from Mr. Brock, in answer to the letter which
he had addressed to the rector on the might of
his arrival at Thorpe-Ambrose. He was unusu-
ally silent and quiet, and passed most of his
hours in the library among the books. The
time wore on wearily. The resident gentry ac-
knowledged Allan's visit by formally leaving
their cards. Nobody came near the house after-
ward; the weather was monotonously fine. Al-
lan grew a little restless and dissatisfied. He
began to resent Mrs. Milroy's illness; he began
to think regretfully of his deserted yacht.
*


102
ARMADALE.
..
The next day—the twentieth-brought some and, in her eagerness to make her mother's peace
news with it from the outer world. A message
was delivered from Mr. Pedgift, announcing
that his clerk, Mr. Bashwood, would personally
present himself at Thorpe-Ambrose on the fol-
lowing day; and a letter in answer to Midwin-
ter was received from Mr. Brock.
The letter was dated the 18th, and the news
which it contained raised not Allan's spirits only
but Midwinter's as well. On the day on which
he wrote, Mr. Brock announced that he was
about to journey to London, having been sum-
moned thither on business connected with the
interests of a sick relative, to whom he stood in
the position of trustee. The business completed,
he had good hope of finding one or other of his
clerical friends in the metropolis who would be
able and willing to do duty for him at the rec-
tory; and, in that case, he trusted to travel on
from London to Thorpe-Ambrose in a week's
time or less. Under these circumstances, he
would leave the majority of the subjects on
which Midwinter had written to him to be dis-
cussed when they met. But as time might be
of importance in relation to the stewardship of
the Thorpe-Ambrose estate, he would say at
once that he saw no reason why Midwinter
should not apply his mind to learning the stew-
ard's duties, and should not succeed in render-
ing himself invaluably serviceable in that way
to the interests of his friend.
Leaving Midwinter reading and re-reading
the rector's cheering letter, as if he was bent on
getting every sentence in it by heart, Allan went
out rather earlier than usual, to make his daily
inquiry at the cottage—or, in plainer words, to
make a fourth attempt at improving his ac-
quaintance with Miss Milroy. The day had be-
gun encouragingly, and encouragingly it seemed
destined to go on. When Allan turned the cor-
ner of the second shrubbery, and entered the
little paddock where he and the major's daugh-
ter had first met, there was Miss Milroy herself
loitering to and fro on the grass, to all appear-
ance on the watch for somebody.
She gave a little start when Allan appeared,
and came forward without hesitation to meet
him. She was not in her best looks. Her rosy
complexion had suffered under confinement to
the house, and a marked expression of embar-
rassment clouded her pretty face.
“I hardly know how to confess it, Mr. Arma-
dale,” she said, speaking eagerly, before Allan
could utter a word, “but I certainly ventured
here this morning in the hope of meeting with
you. I have been very much distressed; I have
only just heard, by accident, of the manner in
which mamma received the present of fruit you
so kindly sent to her. Will you try to excuse
her? She has been miserably ill for years, and
she is not always quite herself. After your be-
ing so very, very kind to me (and to papa), I
really could not help stealing out here in the
hope of seeing you, and telling you how sorry I
was. Pray forgive and forget, Mr. Armadale—
pray do!” Her voice faltered over the last words,
appear again in her cheeks.
with him, she laid her hand on his arm.
Allan was himself a little confused. Her
earnestness took him by surprise, and her evi-
dent conviction that he had been offended hon-
estly distressed him. Not knowing what else to
do, he followed his instincts, and possessed him-
self of her hand to begin with. -
“My dear Miss Milroy, if you say a word
more you will distress me next,” he rejoined, un-
consciously pressing her hand closer and closer,
in the embarrassment of the moment. “I nev-
er was in the least offended; I made allowances
—upon my honor I did—for poor Mrs. Milroy's
illness. Offended !” cried Allan, reverting en-
ergetically to the old complimentary strain. “I
should like to have my basket of fruit sent back
every day, if I could only be sure of its bringing
you out into the paddock the first thing in the
morning.”
Some of Miss Milroy's missing color began to
“Oh, Mr. Arma-
dale, there is really no end to your kindness,”.
she said; “you don't know how you relieve
me!” She paused; her spirits rallied with as
happy a readiness of recovery as if they had
been the spirits of a child; and her native bright-
ness of temper sparkled again in her eyes as she
looked up, shyly smiling in Allan's face. “Don’t
you think,” she asked, demurely, “that it is al-
most time now to let go of my hand?”
Their eyes met. Allan followed his instincts
for the second time. Instead of releasing her
hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. All
the missing tints of the rosier sort returned to ,
Miss Milroy's complexion on the instant. She
snatched away her hand as if Allan had burned it.
“I’m sure that's wrong, Mr. Armadale,” she
said, and turned her head aside quickly, for she
was smiling in spite of herself.
“I meant it as an apology for—for holding
your hand too long,” stammered Allan. “An
apology can't be wrong, can it?”
There are occasions (though not many) when
the female mind accurately appreciates an ap-
peal to the force of pure reason. This was one
of the occasions. An abstract proposition had
been presented to Miss Milroy, and Miss Milroy
was convinced. If it was meant as an apology,
that (she admitted) made all the difference.
“I only hope,” said the little coquette, looking
at him slyly, “you're not misleading me. Not
that it matters much now,” she added, with a
serious shake of her head. “If we have com-
mitted any improprieties, Mr. Armadale, we are
not likely to have the opportunity of committing
many more.”
“You're not going away?” exclaimed Allan,
in great alarm.
“Worse than that, Mr. Armadale.
governess is coming.”
“Coming?” repeated Allan.
ready?”
“As good as coming, I ought to have said—
only I didn't know you wished me to be so very
particular. We got the answers to the adver-
My new
“Coming al-


ARMADALE. 103
tisements this morning. Papa and I opened When the morning came, and when Allan
them and read them together half an hour ago descended to the breakfast-room, resolute to con-
—and we both picked out the same letter from sult his friend on the obligations that he owed
all the rest. I picked it out because it was so to his neighbors in general, and to Miss Milroy
prettily expressed, and papa picked it out be- in particular, no Midwinter was to be seen. On
cause the terms were so reasonable. He is go- making inquiry it appeared that he had been ob-
ing to send the letter up to grandmamma in served in the hall; that he had taken from the
London by to-day's post; and if she finds every table a letter which the morning's post had
thing satisfactory, on inquiry, the governess is brought to him; and that he had gone back im-
to be engaged. You don't know how dreadfully mediately to his own room. Allan at once as-
nervous I am getting about it already—a strange cended the stairs again, and knocked at his
governess is such an awful prospect. But it is friend's door.
not : so : : : ' : I have . # I come in ?” '
great hopes of this new lady, because she writes ot just now,” was the answer.
such a nice letter! As I said to papa, it almost “You have got a letter, haven't you?” per-
reconciles me to her horrid, unromantic name.” sisted Allan. “Any bad news? Any thing
“What is her name?” asked Allan. “Brown? wrong?”
Grubb2 Scraggs? Any thing of that sort?” “Nothing. I'm not very well this morning.
“Hush! hush! nothing quite so horrible as Don't wait breakfast for me; I'll come down as
that. Her name is Gwilt. Dreadfully unpoet- soon as I can.”
ical, isn't it? And the name of her £ No more was said on either side. Allan re-
is nearly if not quite as bad—Mrs. Oldershaw. turned to the breakfast-room a little disappointed.
She must be a respectable person, though; for He had set his heart on rushing headlong into
she lives in the same part of London as grand- his consultation with Midwinter, and here was
mamma. Stop, Mr. Armadale ! we are going the consultation indefinitely delayed. “What
the wrong way. No; I can't wait to look at an odd fellow he is!” thought Allan. “What
those lovely flowers of yours this morning—and on earth can he be doing, locked in there by
£ £: ": arm. I have ": ?” doi thi H itting b
staid here too long already. Papa is waiting e was doing nothing. e was sitting by
for his breakfast, and I must run back every the window, with the letter which had reached
step of the way. Thank you for making those him that morning open in his hand. The hand-
kind allowances for mamma; thank you again writing was Mr. Brock's, and the words written
and again—and good-by!” were these:
“Won’t you shake hands?” asked Allan.
She gave him her hand. “No more apolo-
gies, if you please, Mr. Armadale,” she said,
saucily. Once more their eyes met; and once
more the plump dimpled little hand found its
way to Allan's lips. “It isn't an apology this
time!” cried Allan, precipitately defending him-
self. “It's—it's a mark of respect.”
She started back a few steps, and burst out
laughing. “You won't find me in your grounds
again, Mr. Armadale,” she said, merrily, “till I
have got Miss Gwilt to take care of me!” With
that farewell she gathered up her skirts and ran
back across the paddock at the top of her speed.
Allan stood watching her in speechless admi-
ration till she was out of sight. His second in- After reading the letter for the second time
terview with Miss Milroy had produced an ex- Midwinter folded it up thoughtfully, and placed
traordinary effect on him. For the first time it in his pocket-book, side '. side with the man-
since he had become the master of Thorpe-Am- uscript narrative of Allan's dream.
brose he was absorbed in serious consideration “Your discovery will not end with you, Mr.
of what he owed to his new position in life. Brock,” he said. “Do what you will with the
“The question is,” pondered Allan, “whether woman, when the time comes the woman will
£ better set myself '' '' '. "£ d f he gl
rs by becoming a married man 'll take the e looked for a moment in the glass—saw
day £ and if I keep in the same mind that he had composed himself sufficiently to
about it I'll consult Midwinter to-morrow morn- meet Allan's eye—and went down stairs to take
ing.” his place at the breakfast-table.
“MY DEAR MIDwnstER,—I have literally
only two minutes before post-time to tell you
that I have just met (in Kensington Gardens)
with the woman, whom we both only know,
thus far, as the woman with the red Paisley
shawl. I have traced her and her companion
(a respectable-looking elderly lady) to their res-
idence—after having distinctly heard Allan's
name mentioned between them. Depend on
my not losing sight of the woman until I am
satisfied that she means no mischief at Thorpe-
Ambrose; and expect to hear from me again as
soon as I know how this strange discovery is to
end. Very truly yours, DECIMUs BRock.”


ARMADALE.
CHAPTER V.
MOTHER OLDERSHAW ON HER GUARD.
1.—From Mrs. Oldershaw (Diana Street, Pim-
lico) to Miss Gwilt (West Place, Old Brompton).
“LADIEs ToILET REPositoRY, June 20,
Eight in the Evening.
“MY DEAR LYDIA,-About three hours have
passed, as well as I can remember, since I push-
ed you unceremoniously inside my house in
West Place; and, merely telling you to wait till
you saw me again, banged the door to between
us, and left you alone in the hall. I know your
sensitive nature, my dear, and I am afraid you
have made up your mind by this time that never
yet was a guest treated so abominably by her
hostess as I have treated you.
“The delay that has prevented me from ex-
plaining my strange conduct is, believe me, a
delay for which I am not to blame. One of the
many delicate little difficulties which beset so
essentially confidential a business as mine, oc-
curred here (as I have since discovered) while
we were taking the air this afternoon in Ken-
sington Gardens. I see no chance of being able
to get back to you for some hours to come, and
I have a word of very urgent caution for your
private ear, which has been too long delayed
already. So I must use the spare minutes as
they come, and write.
“Here is the caution first. On no account
venture outside the door again this evening;
and be very careful, while the daylight lasts,
not to show yourself at any of the front win-
dows. I have reason to fear that a certain
charming person now staying with me may pos-
sibly be watched. Don't be alarmed, and don't
be impatient; you shall know why.
“I can only explain myself by going back to
our unlucky meeting in the Gardens with that
reverend gentleman who was so obliging as to
follow us both back to my house.
“It crossed my mind, just as we were close
to the door, that there might be a motive for the
parson's anxiety to trace us home, far less credit-
able to his taste, and far more dangerous to both
of us than the motive you supposed him to have.
In plainer words, Lydia, I rather doubted wheth-
er you had met with another admirer; and I
strongly suspected that you had encountered an-
other enemy instead. There was no time to tell
you this. There was only time to see you safe
into the house, and to make sure of the parson
(in case my suspicions were right) by treating
him as he had treated us—I mean, by following
him in his turn.
“I kept some little distance behind him at
first, to turn the thing over in my mind, and to
be satisfied that my doubts were not misleading
me. We have no concealments from each other;
and you shall know what my doubts were. I
was not surprised at your recognizing him; he is
not at all a common-looking old man; and you
had seen him twice in Somersetshire—once when
you asked your way of him to Mrs. Armadale's
house; and once when you saw him again on
your way back to the railroad. But I was a
little puzzled (considering that you had your
veil down on both those occasions, and your veil
down also when we were in the Gardens) at his
recognizing you. I doubted his remembering
your figure, in a summer dress, after he had
only seen it in a winter dress; and though we
were talking when he met us, and your voice is
one among your many charms, I doubted his re-
membering your voice either. And yet I felt
persuaded that he knew you. ‘How?"you will
ask. My dear, as ill-luck would have it, we
were speaking at the time of young Armadale.
I firmly believe that the name was the first thing
that struck him; and when he heard that, your
voice certainly, and your figure perhaps, came
back to his memory. “And what if it did?' you
may say. Think again, Lydia, and tell me
whether the parson of the place where Mrs.
Armadale lived was not likely to be Mrs. Arma-
dale's friend? If he was her friend, the very
first person to whom she would apply for advice
after the manner in which you frightened her,
and after what you most injudiciously said on
the subject of appealing to her son, would be the
clergyman of the parish—and the magistrate
too, as the landlord at the inn himself told
Oul.
“You will now understand why I left you in
that extremely uncivil manner, and I may go
on to what happened next.
“I followed the old gentleman till he turned
into a quiet street, and then accosted him with
respect for the Church written (I flatter myself)
in every line of my face.
“‘Will you excuse me,' I said, “if I venture
to inquire, Sir, whether you recognized the lady
who was walking with me when you happened
to pass us in the Gardens?”
“‘Will you excuse my asking, ma'am, why
you put that question?" was all the answer I got.
“‘I will endeavor to tell you, Sir, I said.


ARMADALE.
105
“If my friend is not an absolute stranger to you, ened your obdurate nature; and then, thinking
I should wish to request your attention to a very
delicate subject, connected with a lady deceased,
and with her son who survives her.’
“He was staggered; I could see that. But
he was sly enough at the same time to hold his
tongue and wait till I said something more..
“‘If I am wrong, Sir, in thinking that you
recognized my friend, I went on; ‘I beg to
apologize. But I could hardly suppose it possi-
ble that a gentleman in your profession would
follow a lady home who was a total stranger to
him.”
“There I had him. He colored up (fancy
that, at his age!), and owned the truth, in de-
fense of his own precious character.
“‘I have met with the lady once before, and
I acknowledge that I recognized her in the Gar-
dens,’ he said. “You will excuse me if I de-
cline entering into the question of whether I
did, or did not, purposely follow her home. If
you wish to be assured that your friend is not
an absolute stranger to me, you now have that
assurance; and if you have any thing particular
to say to me, I leave you to decide whether the
time has come to say it.”
“He waited, and looked about. I waited,
and looked about. He said the street was
hardly a fit place to speak of a delicate subject
in. I said the street was hardly a fit place to
speak of a delicate subject in. He didn't offer
to take me to where he lived. I didn't offer to
take him to where I lived. Have you ever seen
two strange cats, my dear, nose to nose on the
tiles? If you have, you have seen the parson
and me done to the life.
“‘Well, ma'am, he said, at last, “shall we
go on with our conversation in spite of circum-
stances?” -
“‘Yes, Sir, I said; “we are both of us, for-
tunately, of an age to set circumstances at de-
fiance’ (I had seen the old wretch looking at my
gray hair, and satisfying himself that his char-
acter was safe if he was seen with me).
“After all this snapping and snarling we
came to the point at last. I began by telling
him that I feared his interest in you was not of
the friendly sort. He admitted that much—of
course, in defense of his own character once
more. I next repeated to him every thing you
had told me about your proceedings in Somer-
setshire, when we first found that he was follow-
ing us home. Don't be alarmed, my dear—I
was acting on principle. If you want to make
a dish of lies digestible, always give it a garnish
of truth. Well, having appealed to the rever-
end gentleman's confidence in this manner, I
next declared that you had become an altered
woman since he had seen you last. I revived
that dead wretch, your husband (without men-
tioning names, of course), established him (the
first place I thought of) in business at the Bra-
zils, and described a letter which he had written,
offering to forgive his erring wife if she would
repent and go back to him. I assured the par-
son that your husband's noble conduct had soft-
G
I had produced the right impression, I came
boldly to close quarters with him. I said, ‘At
the very time when you met us, Sir, my un-
happy friend was speaking in terms of touching
self-reproach of her conduct to the late Mrs.
Armadale. She confided to me her anxiety to
make some atonement, if possible, to Mrs. Ar-
madale's son; and it is at her entreaty (for she
can not prevail on herself to face you) that I
now beg to inquire whether Mr. Armadale is
still in Somersetshire, and whether he would
consent to take back in small installments the
sum of money which my friend acknowledges
that she received by practicing on Mrs. Arma-
dale's fears. Those were my very words. A
neater story (accounting so nicely for every
thing) was never told; it was a story to melt a
stone. But this Somersetshire parson is harder
than stone itself. I blush for him, my dear,
when I assure you that he was evidently insens-
ible enough to disbelieve every word I said about
your reformed character, your husband in the
Brazils, and your penitent anxiety to pay the
money back. It is really a disgrace that such
a man should be in the Church; such cunning
as his is in the last degree unbecoming in a
member of a sacred profession.
“‘Does your friend propose to join her hus-
band by the next steamer?” was all he conde-
scended to say when I had done.
“I acknowledge I was angry. I snapped at
him. I said—‘Yes, she does.'
“‘How am I to communicate with her?” he
asked.
“I snapped at him again.
through me.’
“‘At what address, ma'am?”
“There I had him once more. “You have
found my address out for yourself, Sir, I said.
‘The directory will tell you my name if you
wish to find that out for yourself also; other-
wise, you are welcome to my card.”
“‘Many thanks, ma'am. If your friend
wishes to communicate with Mr. Armadale I
will give you my card in return.'
“‘Thank you, Sir.’
“‘Thank you, ma'am.’
“‘Good-afternoon, Sir.’
“‘Good-afternoon, ma'am.'
“So we parted. I went my way to an ap-
pointment at my place of business, and he went
his in a hurry; which is of itself suspicious.
What I can't get over is his heartlessness.
Heaven help the people who send for him to
comfort them on their death-beds !
“The next consideration is, What are we to
do? If we don't find out the right way to keep
this old wretch in the dark, he may be the ruin
of us at Thorpe-Ambrose just as we are within
easy reach of our end in view. Wait up till I
come to you, with my mind free, I hope, from
the other difficulty which is worrying me here.
Was there ever such ill-luck as ours? Only
think of that man deserting his congregation,
and coming to London just at the very time
‘By letter—


106 ARMADALE.
when we have answered the advertisement, and dale, and that you have entirely confirmed him
may expect the inquiries to be made next week! in that conviction, is as plain as that two and
I have no patience with him—his bishop ought two make four. And this has happened (as
to interfere. you helplessly remind me) just when we have
“Affectionately yours, answered the advertisement, and when we may
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.” expect the major's inquiries to be made in a few
days' time.
2.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw. “Surely, here is a terrible situation for two
“WEST PLACE, June 20. women to find themselves in ? A fiddle-stick's
“My Poor OLD DEAR,--How very little you end for the situation | We have got an easy
know of my sensitive mature, as you call it! way out of it—thanks, Mother Oldershaw, to
Instead of feeling offended when you left me, I what I myself forced you to do, not three hours
went to your piano and forgot all about you before the Somersetshire clergyman met with
till your messenger came. Your letter is irre- us.
sistible; I have been laughing over it till I am “Has that venomous little quarrel of ours
quite out of breath. Of all the absurd stories I this morning—after we had pounced on the
ever read, the story you addressed to the Somer-' major's advertisement in the newspaper—quite
setshire clergyman is the most ridiculous. And slipped out of your memory? Have you for-
as for your interview with him in the street, it gotten how I persisted in my opinion that you
is a perfect sin to keep it to ourselves. The were a great deal too well known in London to
public ought really to enjoy it in the form of a appear safely as my reference in your own name,
farce at one of the theatres. or to receive an inquiring lady or gentleman (as
“Luckily for both of us (to come to serious you were rash enough to propose) in your own
matters) your messenger is a prudent person. house? Don't you remember what a passion
He sent up stairs to know if there was an an- you were in when I brought our dispute to an
swer. In the midst of my merriment I had end by declining to stir a step in the matter,
presence of mind enough to send down stairs and unless I could conclude my application to Ma-
say, ‘Yes.” jor Milroy by referring him to an address at
“Some brute of a man says in some book which you were totally unknown, and to a name
which I once read, that no woman can keep two which might be any thing you pleased, as long
separate trains of ideas in her mind at the same as it was not yours? What a look you gave me
time. I declare you have almost satisfied me when you found there was nothing for it but to
that the man is right. What! when you have drop the whole speculation, or to let me have
escaped unnoticed to your place of business, and my own way! How you fumed over the lodg-
when you suspect this house to be watched, you | ing-hunting on the other side of the Park and
propose to come back here, and to put it in the how you groaned when you came back, possess-
parson's power to recover the lost trace of you! ed of Furnished Apartments in respectable Bays-
What madness! Stop where you are; and when water, over the useless expense I had put you
you have got over your difficulty at Pimlico (it to ! What do you think of those Furnished
is some woman's business of course; what wor-| Apartments now, you obstinate old woman 2
ries women are!), be so good as to read what I | Here we are, with discovery threatening us at
have got to say about our difficulty at Brompton. our very door, and with no hope of escape un-
“In the first place, the house (as you sup- less we can contrive to disappear from the par-
posed) is watched. Half an hour after you left son in the dark. And there are the lodgings in
me loud voices in the street interrupted me at Bayswater, to which no inquisitive strangers
the piano, and I went to the window. There have traced either you or me, ready and wait-
was a cab at the house opposite, where they let ing to swallow us up—the lodgings in which we
lodgings; and an old man, who looked like a can escape all further molestation, and answer
respectable servant, was wrangling with the driv- the major's inquiries at our ease. Can you see,
er about his fare. An elderly gentleman came at last, a little farther than your poor old nose?
out of the house and stopped them. An elder- Is there any thing in the world to prevent your
ly gentleman returned into the house and ap- safe disappearance from Pimlico to-night, and
peared cautiously at the front drawing-room | your safe establishment at the new lodgings, in
window. You know him, you worthy creature the character of my respectable reference, half
—he had the bad taste, some few hours since, an hour afterward? Oh, fie, fie, Mother Old-
to doubt whether you were telling him the truth. ershaw! Go down on your wicked old knees,
Don't be afraid, he didn't see me. When he and thank your stars that you had a she-devil
looked up, after settling with the cab-driver, I like me to deal with this morning!
was behind the curtain. I have been behind “Suppose we come now to the only difficulty
the curtain once or twice since; and I have worth mentioning—my difficulty. Watched as
seen enough to satisfy me that he and his serv- I am in this house, how am I to join you with-
ant will relieve each other at the window, so as out bringing the parson or the parson's servant
never to lose sight of your house here, night or with me at my heels?
day. That the parson suspects the real truth “Being to all intents and purposes a prisoner
is of course impossible. But that he firmly be-, here, it seems to me that I have no choice but
lieves I mean some mischief to young Arma- to try the old prison plan of escape—a change


ARMADALE.
107
of clothes. I have been looking at your house-
maid. Except that we are both light, her face
and hair and my face and hair are as unlike
each other as possible. But she is as nearly as
can be my height and size; and (if she only
knew how to dress herself, and had smaller feet)
her figure is a very much better one than it ought
to be for a person in her station in life. My
idea is, to dress her in the clothes I wore in the
Gardens to-day—to send her out, with our rev-
erend enemy in full pursuit of her—and, as soon
as the coast is clear, to slip away myself and
join you. The thing would be quite impossible,
of course, if I had been seen with my veil up;
but, as events have turned out, it is one ad-
vantage of the horrible exposure which followed
my marriage, that I seldom show myself in pub-
lic, and never of course in such a populous place
as London, without wearing a thick veil and
keeping that veil down. If the house-maid
wears my dress, I don't really see why the
house-maid may not be counted on to represent
me to the life.
“The one question is, can the woman be
trusted? If she can, send me a line, telling
her, on your authority, that she is to place her-
self at my disposal. I won’t say a word till I
have heard from you first.
“Let me have my answer to night. As long
as we were only talking about my getting the
governess's place, I was careless enough how it
ended. But now that we have actually answer-
ed Major Milroy's advertisement, I am in earn-
est at last. I mean to be Mrs. Armadale of
Thorpe-Ambrose; and woe to the man or wo-
man who tries to stop me! Yours,
“LYDIA GWILT.
“P.S.—I open my letter again to say that
you need have no fear of your messenger being
followed on his return to Pimlico. He will
drive to a public house where he is known, will
dismiss the cab at the door, and will go out
again by a back way which is only used by the
landlord and his friends.—L. G.”
3.—From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“DIANA STREET, 10 o'clock.
“MY DEAR LYDIA, —You have written me a
heartless letter. If you had been in my trying
position, harassed as I was when I wrote to you,
I should have made allowances for my friend
when I found my friend not so sharp as usual.
But the vice of the present age is a want of con-
sideration for persons in the decline of life. Your
mind is in a sad state, my dear; and you stand
much in need of a good example. You shall
have a good example—I forgive you.
“Having now relieved my mind by the per-
formance of a good action, suppose I show you
next (though I protest against the vulgarity of
the expression) that I can see a little farther
than my poor old nose?
“I will answer your question about the house-
maid first. You may trust her implicitly. She
has had her troubles, and has learned discretion.
She also looks your age; though it is only her
due to say that, in this particular, she has some
years the advantage of you. I inclose the nec-
essary directions which will place her entirely at
your disposal.
“And what comes next? Your plan for join-
ing me at Bayswater comes next. It is very
well as far as it goes; but it stands sadly in need
of a little judicious improvement. There is a
serious necessity (you shall know why presently)
for deceiving the parson far more completely
than you propose to deceive him. I want him
to see the house-maid's face under circumstances
which will persuade him that it is your face.
And then, going a step farther, I want him to
see the house-maid leave London under the im-
pression that he has seen you start on the first
stage of your journey to the Brazils. He didn't
believe in that journey when I announced it to
him this afternoon in the street. He may be-
lieve in it yet if you follow the directions I am
now going to give you.
“To-morrow is Saturday. Send the house-
maid out in your walking dress of to-day just as
you propose—but don't stir out yourself, and
don't go near the window. Desire the woman
to keep her veil down, to take half-an-hour's
walk (quite unconscious, of course, of the parson
or his servant at her heels), and then to come
back to you. As soon as she appears send her
instantly to the open window, instructing her to
lift her veil carelessly, and look out. Let her
go away again after a minute or two, take off her
bonnet and shawl, and then appear once more at
the window, or, better still, in the balcony out-
side. She may show herself again occasionally
(not too often) later in the day. And to-mor-
row—as we have a professional gentleman to
deal with—by all means send her to church.
If these proceedings don't persuade the parson
that the house-maid's face is your face, and if
they don't make him readier to believe in your
reformed character than he was when I spoke to
him, I have lived sixty years, my love, in this
vale of tears to mighty little purpose. .
“The next day is Monday. I have looked
at the shipping advertisements, and I find that
a steamer leaves Liverpool for the Brazils on
Tuesday. Nothing could be more convenient;
we will start you on your voyage under the par-
son's own eyes. You may manage it in this way:
“At one o'clock send out the man who cleans
the knives and forks to get a cab; and when he
has brought it up to the door, let him go back
and get a second cab, which he is to wait in him-
self round the corner in the square. Let the
house-maid (still in your dress) drive off with
the necessary boxes in the first cab to the North-
western Railway. When she is gone, slip out
yourself to the cab waiting round the corner,
and come to me at Bayswater. They may be
prepared to follow the house-maid's cab, because
they have seen it at the door; but they won't be
prepared to follow your cab, which has been hid-
den round the corner. When the house-maid
has got to the station, and has done her best to
disappear in the crowd (I have chosen the mixed


108
ARMADALE.
train at 2.10, so as to give her every chance),
you will be safe with me; and whether they do
or do not find out that she does not really start
for Liverpool won't matter by that time. They
will have lost all trace of you; and they may
follow the house-maid half over London if they
like. She has my instructions (inclosed) to
leave the empty boxes to find their way to the
lost luggage office, and to go to her friends in
the City, and stay there till I write word that I
want her again.
“And what is the object of all this? My
dear Lydia, the object is your future security
(and mine). We may succeed, or we may fail
in persuading the parson that you have actually
gone to the Brazils. If we succeed, we are re-
lieved of all fear of him. If we fail, he will warn
young Armadale to be careful of a woman like
my house-maid, and not of a woman like you.
This last gain is a very important one; for we
don't know that Mrs. Armadale may not have
told him your maiden name. In that event
the ‘Miss Gwilt whom he will describe as hav-
ing slipped through his fingers here, will be so
entirely unlike the ‘Miss Gwilt established at
Thorpe-Ambrose, as to satisfy every body that
it is not a case of similarity of persons, but only
a case of similarity of names.
“What do you say now to my improvement
on your idea? Are my brains not quite so
addled as you thought them when you wrote?
Don't suppose I'm at all over-boastful about my
own ingenuity. Cleverer tricks than this trick
of mine are played off on the public by swin-
dlers, and are recorded in the newspapers every
week. I only want to show you that my as-
sistance is not less necessary to the success of
the Armadale speculation now than it was when
I made our first important discoveries by means
of the harmless-looking young man and the pri-
vate inquiry office in Shadyside Place.
“There is nothing more to say that I know
of, except that I am just going to start for the
new lodging, with a box directed in my new
name. The last expiring moments of mother
Oldershaw, of the Toilet Repository, are close
at hand; and the birth of Miss Gwilt's respect-
able reference, Mrs. Mandeville, will take place
in a cab in five minutes' time. I fancy I must
be still young at heart, for I am quite in love
already with my romantic name; it sounds al-
most as pretty as Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe-
Ambrose, doesn't it? Good-night, my dear,
and pleasant dreams. If any accident happens
between this and Monday write to me instantly
by post. If no accident happens you will be
with me in excellent time for the earliest in-
quiries that the major can possibly make. My
last words are, don't go out, and don't venture
near the front windows till Monday comes.
“Affectionately yours, M. O.”
CHAPTER VI.
MIDWINTER IN DISGUISE.
TowARD noon on the day of the twenty-first
Miss Milroy was loitering in the cottage garden
—released from duty in the sick-room by an im-
provement in her mother's health—when her at-
tention was attracted by the sound of voices in
the park. One of the voices she instantly rec-
ognized as Allan's: the other was strange to
her. She put aside the branches of a shrub
near the garden palings; and peeping through,
saw Allan approaching the cottage gate, in com-
pany with a slim, dark, undersized man, who
was talking and laughing excitably at the top
of his voice. Miss Milroy ran indoors to warn
her father of Mr. Armadale's arrival, and to add
that he was bringing with him a noisy stranger,
who was, in all probability, the friend generally
reported to be staying with the squire at the
great house.
Had the major's daughter guessed right?
Was the squire's loud-talking, loud-laughing
companion the shy, sensitive Midwinter of oth-
er times? It was even so. In Allan's pres-
ence, that morning, an extraordinary change
had passed over the ordinarily quiet demeanor
of Allan's friend.
When Midwinter had first appeared in the
breakfast-room, after putting aside Mr. Brock's
startling letter, Allan had been too much occu-
pied to pay any special attention to him. The
undecided difficulty of choosing the day for the
audit-dinner had pressed for a settlement once
more, and had been fixed at last (under the but-
ler's advice) for Saturday, the twenty-eighth of
the month. It was only on turning round to
remind Midwinter of the ample space of time
which the new arrangement allowed for master-
ing the steward's books that even Allan's flighty
attention had been arrested by a marked change
in the face that confronted him. He had open-
ly noticed the change in his usual blunt man-
ner, and had been instantly silenced by a fret-
ful, almost an angry reply. The two had sat
down together to breakfast without the usual
cordiality; and the meal had proceeded gloom-
ily till Midwinter himself broke the silence by
bursting into the strange outbreak of gayety
which had revealed in Allan's eyes a new side
to the character of his friend.
As usual with most of Allan's judgments,
here again the conclusion was wrong. It was
no new side to Midwinter's character that now
presented itself—it was only a new aspect of the
one ever-recurring struggle of Midwinter's life.
Irritated by Allan's discovery of the change
in him, which he had failed to see reflected in
his looking-glass when he had consulted it on
leaving his room; feeling Allan's eyes still fixed
inquiringly on his face, and dreading the next
questions that Allan's curiosity might put, Mid-
winter had roused himself to efface, by main
force, the impression which his own altered ap-
pearance had produced. It was one of those
efforts which no men compass so resolutely as


ARMADALE.
109
the men of his quick temper, and his sensitive
feminine organization. With his whole mind
still possessed by the firm belief that the Fatal-
ity had taken one great step nearer to Allan and
himself since the rector's discovery in Kensing-
ton Gardens—with his face still betraying what
he had suffered, under the renewed conviction
that his father's death-bed warning was now, in
event after event, asserting its terrible claim to
part him, at any sacrifice, from the one human
creature whom he loved—with the fear still busy
at his heart that the first mysterious Vision of
Allan's Dream might be a Vision realized, be-
fore the new day that now saw the two Arma-
dales together was a day that had passed over
their heads—with these triple bonds, wrought
by his own superstition, fettering him at that
moment as they had never fettered him yet, he
mercilessly spurred his resolution to the despe-
rate effort of rivaling, in Allan's presence, the
gayety and good spirits of Allan himself. He
talked, and laughed, and heaped his plate in-
discriminately from every dish on the breakfast-
table. He made noisily merry with jests that
had no humor, and stories that had no point.
He first astonished Allan, then amused him,
then won his easily-encouraged confidence on
the subject of Miss Milroy. He shouted with
laughter over the sudden development of Allan's
views on marriage, until the servants down stairs
began to think that their master's strange friend
had gone mad. Lastly, he had accepted Allan's
proposal that he should be presented to the ma-
jor's daughter, and judge of her for himself, as
readily—nay, more readily than it would have
been accepted by the least diffident man living.
There the two now stood at the cottage gater-
Midwinter's voice rising louder and louder over
Allan's—Midwinter's natural manner disguised
(how madly and miserably none but he knew !)
in a coarse masquerade of boldness—the out-
rageous, the unendurable boldness of a shy man.
They were received in the parlor by the ma-
jor's daughter, pending the arrival of the major
himself. -
Allan attempted to present his friend in the
usual form. To his astonishment Midwinter
took the words flippantly out of his lips, and in-
troduced himself to Miss Milroy with a confi-
dent look, a hard laugh, and a clumsy assump-
tion of ease which presented him at his worst.
His artificial spirits, lashed continuously into
higher and higher effervescence since the morn-
ing, were now mounting hysterically beyond his
own control. He looked and spoke with that
terrible freedom of license which is the neces-
sary consequence, when a diffident man has
thrown off his reserve, of the very effort by
which he has broken loose from his own re-
straints. He involved himself in a confused
medley of apologies that were not wanted, and
of compliments that might have over-flattered
the vanity of a savage. He looked backward
and forward from Miss Milroy to Allan, and de-
clared jocosely that he understood now why his
friend's morning walks were always taken in
the same direction. He asked her questions
about her mother, and cut short the answers she
gave him by remarks on the weather. In one
breath, he said she must feel the day insuffer-
ably hot; and, in another, he protested that he
quite envied her in her cool muslin dress.
The major came in. Before he could say
two words, Midwinter overwhelmed him with
the same frenzy of familiarity, and the same
feverish fluency of speech. He expressed his
interest in Mrs. Milroy's health in terms which
would have been exaggerated on the lips of a
friend of the family. He overflowed into a per-
fect flood of apologies for disturbing the major
at his mechanical pursuits. He quoted Allan's
extravagant account of the clock, and expressed
his own anxiety to see it in terms more extrava-
gant still. He paraded his superficial book-
knowledge of the great clock at Strasbourg, with
far-fetched jests on the extraordinary automaton
figures which that clock puts in motion—on the
procession of the twelve apostles, which walks
out under the dial at noon, and on the toy-cock,
which crows at St. Peter's appearance—and this
before a man who had studied every wheel in
that complex machinery, and who had passed
whole years of his life in trying to imitate it.
“I hear you have outnumbered the Strasbourg
apostles, and outcrowed the Strasbourg cock,”
he exclaimed, with the tone and manner of a
friend habitually privileged to waive all cere-
mony; “and I am dying, absolutely dying, ma-
jor, to see your wonderful clock!”
Major Milroy had entered the room with his
mind absorbed in his own mechanical contriv-
ances as usual. But the sudden shock of Mid-
winter's familiarity was violent enough to recall
him instantly to himself, and to make him mas-
ter again, for the time, of his social resources
as a man of the world.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said,
stopping Midwinter for a moment, by a look of
steady surprise. “I happen to have seen the
clock at Strasbourg; and it sounds almost ab-
surd in my ears (if you will pardon me for say-
ing so) to put my little experiment in any light
of comparison with that wonderful achievement.
There is nothing else of the kind like it in the
world!” He paused, to control his own mount-
ing enthusiasm; the clock at Strasbourg was to
Major Milroy what the name of Michael An-
gelo was to Sir Joshua Reynolds. “Mr. Arma-
dale's kindness has led him to exaggerate a lit-
tle,” pursued the major, smiling at Allan, and
passing over another attempt of Midwinter's to
seize on the talk, as if no such attempt had been
made. “But as there does happen to be this
one point of resemblance between the great clock
abroad and the little clock at home, that they
both show what they can do on the stroke of
noon, and as it is close on twelve now, if you
still wish to visit my work-shop, Mr. Midwinter,
the sooner I show you the way to it the better.”
He opened the door, and apologized to Midwin-
ter, with marked ceremony, for preceding him
out of the room. -


110
ARMADALE.
“What do you think of my friend?” whis-
pered Allan, as he and Miss Milroy followed.
“Must I tell you the truth, Mr. Armadale?”
she whispered back.
“Of course !”
“Then I don't like him at all!”
“He's the best and dearest fellow in the
world,” rejoined the outspoken Allan. “You’ll
like him better when you know him better-
I'm sure you will!” a-
Miss Milroy made a little grimace, implying
supreme indifference to Midwinter, and saucy
his post. I must ask your kind allowances for
this last part of the performance. The machin-
ery is a little complicated, and there are defects
in it which I am ashamed to say I have not yet
succeeded in remedying as I could wish. Some-
times the figures go all wrong, and sometimes
they go all right. I hope they may do their
best on the occasion of your seeing them for the
first time.”
As the major, posted near his clock, said the
last words, his little audience of three, assem-
bled at the opposite end of the room, saw the
surprise at Allan's earnest advocacy of the mer-hour-hand and the minute-hand on the dial point
its of his friend. “Has he got nothing more together to twelve. The first stroke sounded,
interesting to say to me than that,” she won- and Time, true to the signal, moved his scythe.
dered, privately, “after kissing my hand twice The day of the month and the day of the week
yesterday morning?”
They were all in the major's work-room be-
fore Allan had the chance of trying a more at-
tractive subject. There, on the top of a rough
wooden case, which evidently contained the ma-
chinery, was the wonderful clock. The dial
was crowned by a glass pedestal placed on rock-
work in carved ebony; and on the top of the
pedestal sat the inevitable figure of Time, with
his everlasting scythe in his hand. Below the
dial was a little platform, and at either end of
it rose two miniature sentry-boxes, with closed
doors. Externally, this was all that appeared,
until the magic moment came when the clock
struck twelve at moon.
It wanted then about three minutes to twelve;
and Major Milroy seized the opportunity of ex-
plaining what the exhibition was to be before
the exhibition began. At the first words his
mind fell back again into its old absorption over
the one employment of his life. He turned to
Midwinter (who had persisted in talking all the
way from the parlor, and who was talking still)
without a trace left in his manner of the cool
and cutting composure with which he had spoken
but a few minutes before. The noisy, familiar
man, who had been an ill-bred intruder in £e
parlor, became a privileged guest in the work-
shop—for there he possessed the all-atoning social
advantage of being new to the performances of
the wonderful clock.
“At the first stroke of twelve, Mr. Midwin-
ter,” said the major, quite eagerly, “keep your
eye on the figure of Time: he will move his
scythe, and point it downward to the glass
pedestal. You will next see a little printed
card appear behind the glass, which will tell you
the day of the month and the day of the week.
At the last stroke of the clock Time will lift his
|
scythe again into its former position, and the
chimes will ring a peal. The peal will be suc-
ceeded by the playing of a tune—the favorite
march of my old regiment—and then the final
performance of the clock will follow. The sen-
try-boxes, which you may observe at each side,
will both open at the same moment. In one of
them you will see the sentinel appear; and, from
the other, a corporal and two privates will march
across the platform to relieve the guard, and
will then disappear, leaving the new sentinel at ,
announced themselves in print through the glass
pedestal next; Midwinter applauding their ap-
pearance with a noisy exaggeration of surprise,
which Miss Milroy mistook for coarse sarcasm
directed at her father's pursuits, and which Allan
(seeing that she was offended) attempted to
moderate by touching the elbow of his friend.
Meanwhile the performances of the clock went
on. At the last stroke of twelve Time lifted
his scythe again, the chimes rang, the march
tune of the major's old regiment followed; and
the crowning exhibition of the relief of the guard
announced itself in a preliminary trembling of
the sentry-boxes, and a sudden disappearance
of the major at the back of the clock.
The performance began with the opening of
the sentry-box on the right-hand side of the
platform, as punctually as could be desired; the
door on the other side, however, was less tract-
able—it remained obstinately closed. Unaware
of this hitch in the proceedings, the corporal
and his two privates appeared in their places in
a state of perfect discipline, tottered out across
the platform, all three trembling in every limb,
dashed themselves headlong against the closed
door on the other side, and failed in producing
the smallest impression on the immovable sentry
presumed to be within. An intermittent click-
ing, as of the major's keys and tools at work,
was heard in the machinery. The corporal and
his two privates suddenly returned, backward,
across the platform, and shut themselves up with
a bang inside their own door. Exactly at the
same moment the other door opened for the
first time, and the provoking sentry appeared
with the utmost deliberation at his post, waiting
to be relieved. He was allowed to wait. No-
thing happened in the other box but an occa-
sional knocking inside the door, as if the cor-
poral and his privates were impatient to be let
out. The clicking of the major's tools was
heard again among the machinery; the corporal
and his party, suddenly restored to liberty, ap-
peared in a violent hurry, and spun furiously
across the platform. Quick as they were, how-
ever, the hitherto deliberate sentry on the other
side, now perversely showed himself to be quicker
still. He disappeared like lightning into his
own premises, the door closed smartly after him,
the corporal and his privates dashed themselves


ARMADALE.
headlong against it for the second time, and the
major appearing again round the corner of the
clock, asked his audience innocently, “if they
would be good enough to tell him whether any
thing had gone wrong?”
The fantastic absurdity of the exhibition,
heightened by Major Milroy's grave inquiry at
the end of it, was so irresistibly ludicrous that
the visitors shouted with laughter; and even
Miss Milroy, with all her consideration for her
father's sensitive pride in his clock, could not
restrain herself from joining in the merriment
which the catastrophe of the puppets had pro-
voked. But there are limits even to the license
of laughter; and these limits were ere long so
outrageously overstepped by one of the little
party as to have the effect of almost instantly
silencing the other two. The fever of Mid-
winter's false spirits flamed out into sheer delir-
ium as the performance of the puppets came to
an end. His paroxysms of laughter followed
each other with such convulsive violence that
Miss Milroy started back from him in alarm,
and even the patient major turned on him with


112
ARMADALE.
a look which said plainly, Leave the room !
Allan, wisely-impulsive for once in his life,
seized Midwinter by the arm, and dragged him
out by main force into the garden, and thence
into the park beyond.
“Good Heavens! what has come to you?” he
exclaimed, shrinking back from the tortured face
before him, as he stopped and looked close at it
for the first time.
For the moment Midwinter was incapable of
answering. The hysterical paroxysm was pass-
ing from one extreme to the other. He leaned
against a tree, sobbing and gasping for breath,
and stretched out his hand in mute entreaty to
Allan to give him time.
“You had better not have nursed me through
my fever,” he said, faintly, as soon as he could
speak. “I'm mad and miserable, Allan — I
have never recovered it. Go back and ask them
to forgive me; I am ashamed to go and ask
them myself. I can't tell how it happened—I
can only ask your pardon and theirs.” He
turned aside his head quickly so as to conceal
his face. “Don’t stop here,” he said; “don’t
look at me—I shall soon get over it.” Allan
still hesitated, and begged hard to be allowed
to take him back to the house. It was useless.
“You break my heart with your kindness,” he
burst out, passionately. “For God's sake leave
me by myself!” .
Allan went back to the cottage and pleaded
there for indulgence to Midwinter, with an earn-
cstness and simplicity which raised him im-
mensely in the major's estimation, but which
totally failed to produce the same favorable im-
pression on Miss Milroy. Little as she herself
suspected it, she was fond enough of Allan al-
ready to be jealous of Allan's friend.
“How excessively absurd!” she thought, pet-
tishly. “As if either papa or I considered such
a person of the slightest consequence?”
“You will kindly suspend your opinion, won't
you, Major Milroy?” said Allan in his hearty
way at parting.
“With the greatest pleasure!” replied the
major, cordially shaking hands.
“And you, too, Miss Milroy ?” added Allan.
Miss Milroy made a mercilessly formal bow.
“My opinion, Mr. Armadale, is not of the slight-
est consequence.”
Allan left the cottage sorely puzzled to ac-
count for Miss Milroy's sudden coolness toward
him. His grand idea of conciliating the whole
neighborhood by becoming a married man un-
derwent some modification as he closed the gar-
den-gate behind him. The virtue called Pru-
dence and the Squire of Thorpe-Ambrose be-
came personally acquainted with each other, on
this occasion, for the first time; and Allan, en-
tering headlong as usual on the high-road to
moral improvement, actually decided on doing
nothing in a hurry!
A man who is entering on a course of refor-
mation ought, if virtue is its own reward, to be
a man engaged in an essentially inspiriting pur-
suit. But virtue is not always its own reward;
and the way that leads to reformation is re-
markably ill-lighted for so respectable a thor-
oughfare. Allan seemed to have caught the
infection of his friend's despondency. As he
walked home he, too, began to doubt—in his
widely-different way, and for his widely-differ-
ent reasons—whether the life at Thorpe-Am-
brose was promising quite as fairly for the fu-
ture as it had promised at first.
--
CHAPTER VII.
ThE PLOT THICKENS.
Two messages were waiting for Allan when
he returned to the house. One had been left
by Midwinter. “He had gone out for a long
walk, and Mr. Armadale was not to be alarmed
if he did not get back till late in the day.”
The other message had been left by “a person
from Mr. Pedgift's office,” who had called, ac-
cording to appointment, while the two gentle-
men were away at the major's. “Mr. Bash-
wood's respects, and he would have the honor
of waiting on Mr. Armadale again in the course
of the evening.”
Toward five o'clock Midwinter returned, pale
and silent. Allan hastened to assure him that
his peace was made at the cottage; and then,
to change the subject, mentioned Mr. Bash-
wood's message. Midwinter's mind was so pre-
occupied or so languid that he hardly seemed to
remember the name. Allan was obliged to re-
mind him that Bashwood was the elderly clerk
whom Mr. Pedgift had sent to be his instructor
in the duties of the steward's office. He listened
without making any remark, and withdrew to
his room to rest till dinner-time.
Left by himself, Allan went into the library
to try if he could while away the time over a
book. He took many volumes off the shelves
and put a few of them back again—and there
he ended. Miss Milroy contrived in some mys-
terious manner to get, in this case, between the
reader and the books. Her formal bow, and
her merciless parting speech, dwelt, try how he
might to forget them, on Allan's mind; he be-
gan to grow more and more anxious as the idle
hour wore on to recover his lost place in her
favor. To call again that day at the cottage,
and ask if he had been so unfortunate as to
offend her, was impossible. To put the ques-
tion in writing with the needful nicety of ex-
pression proved, on trying the experiment, to
be a task beyond his literary reach. After a
turn or two up and down the room, with his pen
in his mouth, he decided on the more diplomatic
course (which happened, in this case, to be the
easiest course too), of writing to Miss Milroy as
cordially as if nothing had happened, and of
testing his position in her good graces by the
answer that she sent him back. An invitation
of some kind (including her father, of course,
but addressed directly to herself) was plainly
the right thing to oblige her to send a written


ARMADALE.
115
He said those words with a cautious choice
of expression very uncharacteristic of him, and
without further explanation, made abruptly for
the door. Midwinter, sitting near it, noticed
his face as he went out. Easy as the way was
into Allan's favor, Mr. Bashwood, beyond all
kind of doubt, had in some unaccountable man-
ner failed to find it!
The two strangely-assorted companions were
left together—parted widely, as it seemed on
the surface, from any possible interchange of
sympathy; drawn invisibly one to the other,
nevertheless, by those magnetic similarities of
temperament which overleap all difference of
age or station, and defy all apparent incongrui-
ties of mind and character. From the moment
when Allan left the room the hidden Influence
that works in darkness began slowly to draw the
two men together, across the great social desert
which had lain between them up to this day.
Midwinter was the first to approach the sub-
ject of the interview.
“May I ask,” he began, “if you have been
made acquainted with my position here, and if
you know why it is that I require your assist-
ance?”
Mr. Bashwood—still hesitating and still timid,
but manifestly relieved by Allan's departure—
sat farther back in his chair, and ventured on
fortifying himself with a modest little sip of
Wine.
“Yes, Sir,” he replied; “Mr. Pedgift in-
formed me of all—at least I think I may say so
—of all the circumstances. I am to instruct,
or perhaps I ought to say to advise—”
“No, Mr. Bashwood; the first word was the
best word of the two. I am quite ignorant of
the duties which Mr. Armadale's kindness has
induced him to intrust to me. If I understand
right, there can be no question of your capacity
to instruct me, for you once filled a steward's
situation yourself. May I inquire where it
was 2.”
“At Sir John Mellowship's, Sir, in West
Norfolk. Perhaps you would like—I have got
it with me—to see my testimonial? Sir John
might have dealt more kindly with me—but I
have no complaint to make; it's all done and
over now !” His watery eyes looked more wa-
tery still, and the trembling in his hands spread
to his lips as he produced an old dingy letter
from his pocket-book, and laid it open on the
table.
The testimonial was very briefly and very
coldly expressed, but it was conclusive as far as
it went. Sir John considered it only right to
say that he had no complaint to make of any
want of capacity or integrity in his steward. If
Mr. Bashwood's domestic position had been
compatible with the continued performance of
his duties on the estate, Sir John would have
been glad to keep him. As it was, embarrass-
ments caused by the state of Mr. Bashwood's
personal affairs had rendered it undesirable that
he should continue in Sir John's service; and
on that ground, and that only, his employer and
he had parted. Such was Sir John's testimony
to Mr. Bashwood's character. As Midwinter
read the last lines, he thought of another testi-
monial, still in his own possession—of the writ-
ten character which they had given him at the
school, when they turned their sick usher adrift
in the world. His superstition (distrusting all
new events and all new faces at Thorpe-Am-
brose) still doubted the man before him as ob.
stinately as ever. But when he now tried to
put those doubts into words, his heart upbraided
him, and he laid the letter on the table in si.
lence.
The sudden pause in the conversation ap-
peared to startle Mr. Bashwood. He comforted
himself with another little sip of wine, and, leav-
ing the letter untouched, burst irrepressibly into
words, as if the silence was quite unendurable to
him.
“I am ready to answer any question, Sir,” he
began. “Mr. Pedgift told me that I must an-
swer questions, because I was applying for a
place of trust. Mr. Pedgift said, neither you
nor Mr. Armadale were likely to think the tes-
timonial sufficient of itself. Sir John doesn’t
say—he might have put it more kindly, but I
don't complain—Sir John doesn't say what the
troubles were that lost me my place. Perhaps
you might wish to know—?” He stopped con-
fusedly, looked at the testimonial, and said no
more.
“If no interests but mine were concerned in
the matter,” rejoined Midwinter, “the testi-
monial would, I assure you, be quite enough to
satisfy me. But while I am learning my new
duties, the person who teaches me will be really
and truly the steward of my friend's estate. I
am very unwilling to ask you to speak on what
may be a painful subject, and I am sadly inex-
perienced in putting such questions as I ought
to put; but perhaps, in Mr. Armadale's inter-
ests, I ought to know something more, either
from yourself, or from Mr. Pedgift, if you prefer
it—” He, too, stopped confusedly, looked at
the testimonial, and said no more.
There was another moment of silence. The
night was warm, and Mr. Bashwood, among his
other misfortunes, had the deplorable infirmity
of perspiring at the palms of the hands. He
took out a miserable little cotton pocket-hand-
kerchief, rolled it up into a ball, and softly
dabbed it to and fro, from one hand to the other,
with the regularity of a pendulum. Performed
by other men, under other circumstances, the
action might have been ridiculous. Performed
by this man, at the crisis of the interview, the
action was horrible. *
“Mr. Pedgift's time is too valuable, Sir, to
be wasted on me,” he said. “I will mention
what ought to be mentioned myself—if you will
please to allow me. I have been unfortunate
in my family. It was very hard to bear, though
it seems not much to tell. My wife—” One
of his hands closed fast on the pocket-handker-
chief; he moistened his dry lips, struggled with
himself, and went on.


ARMADALE.
117
wood (getting nearer and nearer to the door)
answered him more confusedly still.
“Anything, Sir—anything you think right.
I won't intrude any longer—I'll leave it to you
and Mr. Armadale.”
“I will send for Mr. Armadale if you like,”
said Midwinter, following him into the hall.
“But I am afraid he has as little experience in
matters of this kind as I have. Perhaps, if you
see no objection, we might be guided by Mr.
Pedgift?"
Mr. Bashwood caught eagerly at the last sug-
gestion, pushing his retreat while he spoke as
far as the front-door. “Yes, Sir—oh yes, yes!
nobody better than Mr. Pedgift. Don't—pray
don't disturb Mr. Armadale!” His watery eyes
looked quite wild with nervous alarm as he turn-
ed round for a moment in the light of the hall-
lamp to make that polite request. If sending
for Allan had been equivalent to unchaining a
ferocious watch-dog Mr. Bashwood could hard-
ly have been more anxious to stop the proceed-
ing. “I wish you kindly good-evening, Sir,”
he went on, getting out to the steps. “I’m
much obliged to you—I will be scrupulously
punctual on Monday morning—I hope—I think
—I'm sure you will soon learn every thing I can
teach you. It's not difficult—oh dear, no—not
difficult at all! I wish you kindly good-even-
ing, Sir. A beautiful night; yes, indeed, a
beautiful night for a walk home.”
With those words, all dropping out of his lips
one on the top of the other, and without notic-
ing, in his agony of embarrassment at effecting
his departure, Midwinter's outstretched hand,
he went noiselessly down the steps, and was lost
in the darkness of the night.
As Midwinter turned to re-enter the house
the dining-room door opened and his friend met
him in the hall.
“Has Mr. Bashwood gone?” asked Allan.
“He has gone,” replied Midwinter, “after
telling me a very sad story, and leaving me a
little ashamed of myself for having doubted him
without any just cause. I have arranged that
he is to give me my first lesson in the steward's
office on Monday morning.”
“All right,” said Allan. “You needn't be
afraid, old boy, of my interrupting you over
your studies. I dare say I'm wrong—but I
don't like Mr. Bashwood.”
“I dare say I'm wrong,” retorted the other,
a little petulantly. “I do.”
The Sunday morning found Midwinter in the
park, waiting to intercept the postman on the
chance of his bringing more news from Mr.
Brock.
At the customary hour the man made his ap-
pearance and placed the expected letter in Mid-
winter's hands. He opened it, far away from
all fear of observation this time, and read these
lines:
“MY DEAR MIDw1NTER,-I write more for
the purpose of quieting your anxiety than be-
cause I have any thing definite to say. In my
last hurried letter I had no time to tell you that
the elder of the two women whom I met in the
Gardens had followed me, and spoken to me in
the street. I believe I may characterize what
she said (without doing her any injustice) as a
tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end. At
any rate, she confirmed me in the suspicion that
some underhand proceeding is on foot, of which
Allan is destined to be the victim, and that the
prime mover in the conspiracy is the vile wo-
man who helped his mother's marriage and who
hastened his mother's death.
“Feeling this conviction, I have not hesi-
tated to do, for Allan's sake, what I would have
done for no other creature in the world. I have
left my hotel, and have installed myself (with
my old servant Robert) in a house opposite the
house to which I traced the two women. We
are alternately on the watch (quite unsuspected,
I am certain, by the people opposite) day and
night. All my feelings, as a gentleman and a
clergyman, revolt from such an occupation as I
am now engaged in; but there is no other choice.
I must either do this violence to my own self-
respect, or I must leave Allan, with his easy
nature, and in his assailable position, to defend
himself against a wretch who is prepared, I firm-
ly believe, to take the most unscrupulous ad-
vantage of his weakness and his youth. His
mother's dying entreaty has never left my mem-
ory; and, God help me, I am now degrading
myself in my own eyes in consequence.
“There has been some reward already for the
sacrifice. This day (Saturday) I have gained
an immense advantage—I have at last seen the
woman's face. She went out with her veil down
as before; and Robert kept her in view, having
my instructions, if she returned to the house,
not to follow her back to the door. She did re-
turn to the house; and the result of my pre-
caution was, as I had expected, to throw her
off her guard. I saw her face unveiled at the
window, and afterward again in the balcony.
If any occasion should arise for describing her
particularly, you shall have the description. At
present I need only say that she looks the full
age (five-and-thirty) at which you estimated
her, and that she is by no means so handsome
a woman as I had (I hardly know why) expect-
ed to see.
“This is all I can now tell you. If nothing
more happens by Monday or Tuesday next I
shall have no choice but to apply to my lawyers
for assistance; though I am most unwilling to
trust this delicate and dangerous matter in other
hands than mine. Setting my own feelings,
however, out of the question, the business which
has been the cause of my journey to London is
too important to be trifled with much longer as
I am trifling with it now. In any and every
case depend on my keeping you informed of the
progress of events; and believe me
“Yours truly,
“DECIMUS BROCK.”
Midwinter secured the letter as he had secured
the letter that preceded it—side by side in his
pocket-book with the narrative of Allan's Dream.


118
ARMADALE.
“How many days more?” he asked himself,
as he went back to the house. “How many
days more?”
Not many. The time he was waiting for was
a time close at hand.
Monday came and brought Mr. Bashwood,
punctual to the appointed hour. Monday came,
and found Allan immersed in his preparations
for the picnic. He held a series of interviews,
at home and abroad, all through the day. He
transacted business with Mrs. Gripper, with the
butler, and with the coachman, in their three
several departments of eating, drinking, and
driving. He went to the town to consult his
professional advisers on the subject of the
Broads, and to invite both the lawyers, father
and son (in the absence of any body else in the
neighborhood whom he could ask), to join the
picnic. Pedgift Senior (in his department)
supplied general information, but begged to be
excused from appearing at the picnic on the
score of business engagements. Pedgift Junior
(in his department) added all the details; and
casting business engagements to the winds, ac-
cepted the invitation with the greatest pleasure.
Returning from the lawyer's office, Allan's next
proceeding was to go to the major's cottage and
obtain Miss Milroy's approval of the proposed
locality for the pleasure party. This object ac-
complished, he returned to his own house to
meet the last difficulty now left to encounter—
the difficulty of persuading Midwinter to join
the expedition to the Broads.
On first broaching the subject Allan found
his friend impenetrably resolute to remain at
home. Midwinter's natural reluctance to meet
the major and his daughter, after what had hap-
pened at the cottage, might probably have been
overcome. But Midwinter's determination not
to allow Mr. Bashwood's course of instruction
to be interrupted was proof against every effort
that could be made to shake it. After exerting
his influence to the utmost, Allan was obliged
to remain contented with a compromise. Mid-
winter promised, not very willingly, to join the
party toward evening at the place appointed for
a gipsy tea-making, which was to close the pro-
ceedings of the day. To this extent he would
consent to take the opportunity of placing him-
self on a friendly footing with the Milroys.
More he could not concede, even to Allan's per-
suasion, and for more it would be useless to ask.
The day of the picnic came. The lovely
morning and the cheerful bustle of preparation
for the expedition failed entirely to tempt Mid-
winter into altering his resolution. At the reg-
ular hour he left the breakfast-table to join Mr.
Bashwood in the steward's office. The two were
quietly closeted over the books, at the back of
the house, while the packing for the picnic went
on in front. Young Pedgift (short in stature,
smart in costume, and self-reliant in manner)
arrived some little time before the hour for start-
ing, to revise all the arrangements, and to make
any final improvements which his local knowl-
edge might suggest. Allan and he were still
busy in consultation when the first hitch oc-
curred in the proceedings. The woman-servant
from the cottage was reported to be waiting be-
low for an answer to a note from her young mis-
tress, which was placed in Allan's hands.
On this occasion Miss Milroy's emotions had
apparently got the better of her sense of propri-
ety. The tone of the letter was feverish, and
the handwriting wandered crookedly up and
down, in deplorable freedom from all proper re-
straint.
“Oh, Mr. Armadale” (wrote the major's
daughter), “such a misfortune! What are we
to do? Papa has got a letter from grandmam-
ma this morning about the new governess. Her
reference has answered all the questions, and
she's ready to come at the shortest notice.
Grandmamma thinks (how provoking!) the
sooner the better; and she says we may expect
her—I mean the governess—either to-day or to-
morrow. Papa says (he will be so absurdly
considerate to every body!) that we can't allow
Miss Gwilt to come here (if she comes to-day)
and find nobody at home to receive her. What
is to be done? I am ready to cry with vexation.
I have got the worst possible impression (though
grandmamma says she is a charming person) of
Miss Gwilt. Can you suggest something, dear
Mr. Armadale? I'm sure papa would give way
if you could. Don't stop to write—send me a
message back. I have got a new hat for the
picnic; and oh the agony of not knowing wheth-
er I am to keep it on or take it off.—Yours
truly, E. M.”
“The devil take Miss Gwilt!” said Allan,
staring at his legal adviser in a state of helpless
consternation.
“With all my heart, Sir—I don't wish to in-
terfere,” remarked Pedgift Junior. “May I
ask what's the matter?”
Allan told him. Mr. Pedgift the Younger
might have his faults, but a want of quickness
of resource was not among them.
“There's a way out of the difficulty, Mr. Ar-
madale,” he said. “If the governess comes to-
day let's have her at the picnic.” -
Allan's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“All the horses and carriages in the Thorpe-
Ambrose stables are not wanted for this small
party of ours,” proceeded Pedgift Junior. “Of
course not! Very good. If Miss Gwilt comes
to-day she can't possibly get here before five
o'clock. Good again. You order an open car-
riage to be waiting at the major's door at that
time, Mr. Armadale; and I'll give the man his
directions where to drive to. When the govern-
ess comes to the cottage let her find a nice little
note of apology (along with the cold fowl, or
whatever else they give her after her journey),
begging her to join us at the picnic, and putting
a carriage at her own sole disposal to take her
there. Gad, Sir!” said young Pedgift, gayly,
“she must be a Touchy One if she thinks her-
self neglected after that!”
“Capital 1" cried Allan. “She shall have


ARMADALE.
119
every attention. I'll give her the pony-chaise
and the white harness, and she shall drive her-
self if she likes.”
He scribbled a line to relieve Miss Milroy's
apprehensions, and gave the necessary orders
for the pony-chaise. Ten minutes later the car-
riages for the pleasure party were at the door.
“Now we've taken all this trouble about her,”
said Allan, reverting to the governess as they
left the house, “I wonder, if she does come to-
day, whether we shall see her at the picnic.”
“Depends entirely on her age, Sir,” remarked
young Pedgift, pronouncing judgment with the
happy confidence in himself which eminently
distinguished him. “If she's an old one, she'll
be knocked up with the journey, and she'll stick
to the cold fowl and the cottage. If she's a
young one, either I know nothing of women or
the pony in the white harness will bring her to
the picnic.”
They started for the major's cottage.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE NORFOLR BROADS.
THE little group gathered together in Major
Milroy's parlor to wait for the carriages from
Thorpe-Ambrose would hardly have conveyed
the idea, to any previously uninstructed person
introduced among them, of a party assembled in
expectation of a picnic. They were almost dull
enough, so far as outward appearances went, to
have been a party assembled in expectation of a
marriage.
Even Miss Milroy herself, though conscious
of looking her best in her bright muslin dress
and her gayly-feathered new hat, was at this in-
auspicious moment Miss Milroy under a cloud.
Although Allan's note had assured her, in Al-
lan's strongest language, that the one great ob-
ject of reconciling the governess's arrival with
the celebration of the picnic was an object
achieved, the doubt still remained whether the
plan proposed—whatever it might be—would
meet with her father's approval. In a word,
Miss Milroy declined to feel sure of her day's
pleasure until the carriage made its appearance
and took her from the door. The major, on his
side, arrayed for the festive occasion in a tight
blue frock-coat which he had not worn for years,
and threatened with a whole long day of separa-
tion from his old friend and comrade the clock,
was a man out of his element, if ever such a
man existed yet. As for the friends who had
been asked at Allan's request—the widow lady
(otherwise Mrs. Pentecost) and her son (the
Reverend Samuel) in delicate health—two peo-
ple less capable (apparently) of adding to the
hilarity of the day could hardly have been dis-
covered in the length and breadth of all En-
gland. A young man who plays his part in
society by looking on in green spectacles, and
listening with a sickly smile, may be a prodigy
of intellect and a mine of virtue, but he is hardly,
perhaps, the right sort of man to have at a pic-
nic. An old lady afflicted with deafness, whose
one inexhaustible subject of interest is the sub-
ject of her son, and who (on the happily rare
occasions when that son opens his lips) asks
every body eagerly, “What does my boy say?”
is a person to be pitied in respect of her infirmi-
ties, and a person to be admired in respect of
her maternal devotedness, but not a person, if
the thing could possibly be avoided, to take to a
picnic. Such a man, nevertheless, was the Rev-
erend Samuel Pentecost, and such a woman was
the Reverend Samuel's mother, and, in the dearth
of any other producible guests, there they were,
engaged to eat, drink, and be merry for the day
at Mr. Armadale's pleasure-party to the Norfolk
Broads.
The arrival of Allan, with his faithful follow-
er, Pedgift Junior, at his heels, roused the flag-
ging spirits of the party at the cottage. The
plan for enabling the governess to join the pic-
nic, if she arrived that day, satisfied even Major
Milroy's anxiety to show all proper attention to
the lady who was coming into his house. After
writing the necessary note of apology and invi-
tation, and addressing it in her very best hand-
writing to the new governess, Miss Milroy ran
up stairs (a little anxiously) to say good-by to
her mother, and returned, with a smiling face
and a side-look of relief directed at her father,
to announce that there was nothing now to keep
any of them a moment longer indoors. The
company at once directed their steps to the gar-
den-gate, and were there met face to face by the
second great difficulty of the day. How were
the six persons of the picnic to be divided be-


ARMADALE.
121
The carriages stopped, the love-making broke I think the major made an improvement when
off, and the venerable Mrs. Pentecost, recover- he changed it to Neelie.”
ing the use of her senses at a moment's notice,
fixed her eyes sternly on Allan the instant she
woke.
“I see in your face, Mr. Armadale,” said the
old lady, sharply, “that you think I have been
asleep.” -
The consciousness of guilt acts differently on
the two sexes. In nine cases out of ten it is a
much more manageable consciousness with a
woman than with a man. All the confusion,
on this occasion, was on the man's side. While
Allan reddened and looked embarrassed, the
quick-witted Miss Milroy instantly embraced
the old lady with a burst of innocent laughter.
“He is quite incapable, dear Mrs. Pente-
cost,” said the little hypocrite, “of any thing
so ridiculous as thinking you have been asleep!”
“All I wish Mr. Armadale to know,” pur-
sued the old lady, still suspicious of Allan, “is,
that my head being giddy, I am obliged to close
my eyes in a carriage. Closing the eyes, Mr.
Armadale, is one thing, and going to sleep is
another. Where is my son?”
The Reverend Samuel appeared silently at
the carriage door with his green spectacles and
his sickly smile in perfect working order, and
assisted his mother to get out.
“Did you enjoy the drive, Sammy?” asked
the old lady. “Beautiful scenery, my dear,
wasn’t it?”
Young Pedgift, on whom all the arrange-
ments for exploring the Broads devolved, bus-
tled about, giving his orders to the boatmen.
Major Milroy, placid and patient, sat apart on
an overturned punt, and privately looked at his
watch. Was it past noon already? More than
an hour past. For the first time, for many a
long year, the famous clock at home had struck
in an empty work-shop. Time had lifted his
wonderful scythe, and the corporal and his men
had relieved guard, with no master's eye to
watch their performances, with no master's
hand to encourage them to do their best. The
major sighed as he put his watch back in his
pocket.
“I’m afraid I'm too old for this sort of
thing,” thought the good man, looking about
him dreamily. “I don't find I enjoy it as
much as I thought I should. When are we
going on the water, I wonder? where's Neelie?”
Neelie—more properly Miss Milroy—was be-
hind one of the carriages with the promoter of
the picnic. They were immersed in the inter-
esting subject of their own Christian names, and
Allan was as near a point-blank proposal of
marriage as it is well possible for a thoughtless
young gentleman of two-and-twenty to be.
“Tell me the truth,” said Miss Milroy, with
her eyes modestly riveted on the ground, “when
you first knew what my name was you didn't
like it, did you?”
“I like every thing that belongs to you," re-
joined Allan, vigorously. “I think Eleanor is
a beautiful name; and yet, I don't know why,
Jil.
“I can tell you why, Mr. Armadale,” said the
major's daughter, with great gravity. “There
are some unfortunate people in this world whose
names are—how can I express it?—whose names
are, Misfits. Mine is a Misfit. I don't blame
my parents, for of course it was impossible to
know when I was a baby how I should grow up.
But as things are, I and my name don't fit each
other. When you hear a young lady called
Eleanor, you think of a tall, beautiful, interest-
ing creature directly—the very opposite of me !
With my personal appearance Eleanor is ridicu-
lous—and Neelie, as you yourself remarked, is
just the thing. No! no! don't say any more
—I'm tired of the subject; I’ve got another
name in my head, if we must speak of names,
which is much better worth talking about than
mine.” -
She stole a glance at Allan which said plain-
ly enough, “The name is yours.” Allan ad-
vanced a step nearer to her, and lowered his
voice (without the slightest necessity) to a mys-
terious whisper. Miss Milroy instantly resumed
her investigation of the ground. She looked
at it with such extraordinary interest that a ge-
ologist might have suspected her of scientific
flirtation with the superficial strata.
“What name are you thinking of?” asked
Allan.
Miss Milroy addressed her answer, in the form
of a remark, to the superficial strata—and let
them do what they liked with it, in their ca-
pacity of conductors of sound. “If I had been
a man,” she said, “I should so like to have
been called Allan '"
She felt his eyes on her as she spoke, and,
turning her head aside, became absorbed in the
graining of the panel at the back of the car-
riage. “How beautiful it is!” she exclaimed,
with a sudden outburst of interest in the vast
subject of varnish. “I wonder how they do
it!”
Man persists, and woman yields. Allan de-
clined to shift the ground from love-making to
coach-making. Miss Milroy dropped the sub-
ject.
“Call me by my name, if you like it,” he
whispered, perseveringly. “Call me “Allan,”
for once—just to try.”
She hesitated with a heightened color and a
charmingsmile, and shook her head. “I couldn't
just yet,” she answered, softly.
“May I call you Neelie? Is it too soon?”
She looked at him again, with a sudden dis-
turbance about the bosom of her dress, and a
sudden flash of tenderness in her dark gray
eWes.
“You know best!” she said faintly, in a whis-
per.
The inevitable answer was on the tip of Al-
lan's tongue. At the very instant, however,
when he opened his lips, the abhorrent high ten-
or of Pedgift Junior, shouting for “Mr. Arma-
dale,” rang cheerfully through the quiet air.


122
ARMADALE.
, arated in different boats.
At the same moment, from the other side of the
carriage, the lurid spectacles of the Reverend
Samuel showed themselves officiously on the
search, and the voice of the Reverend Samuel's
mother (who had, with neat dexterity, put the
two ideas of the presence of water and a sudden
movement among the company together) in-
quired distractedly if any body was drowned?
Sentiment flies and Love shudders at all demon-
strations of the noisy kind. Allan said, “Damn
it!” and rejoined young Pedgift. Miss Milroy
sighed, and took refuge with her father.
“I’ve done it, Mr. Armadale!” cried young
Pedgift, greeting his patron gayly. “We can
all go on the water together; I've got the big-
gest boat on the Broads. The little skiffs,” he
added, in a lower tone, as he led the way to
the quay steps, “besides being ticklish and eas-
ily upset, won't hold more than two, with the
boatman; and the major told me he should feel
it his duty to go with his daughter, if we all sep-
I thought that would
hardly do, Sir,” pursued Pedgift Junior, with a
respectfully sly emphasis on this word. “And,
besides, if we had put the old lady into a skiff
with her weight (sixteen stone if she's a pound),
we might have her upside down in the water half
her time, which would have occasioned delay,
and thrown what you call a damp on the pro-
ceedings. Here's the boat, Mr. Armadale. What
do you think of it?”
The boat added one more to the strangely
anomalous objects which appeared at the Broads.
It was nothing less than a stout old life-boat,
passing its last declining years on the smooth
fresh water, after the stormy days of its youth-
time on the wild, salt sea. A comfortable little
cabin for the use of fowlers in the winter sea-
son had been built amidships, and a mast and
sail adapted for the inland navigation had been
fitted forward. There was room enough and to
spare for the guests, the dinner, and the three
men in charge. Allan clapped his faithful lieu-
tenant approvingly on the shoulder; and even
Mrs. Pentecost, when the whole party were com-
fortably established on board, took a compara-
tively cheerful view of the prospects of the pic-
nic. “If any thing happens,” said the old lady,
addressing the company generally, “there's one
comfort for all of us. My son can swim.”
The boat floated out from the creek into the
placid waters of the Broad, and the full beauty
of the scene opened on the view. *
On the northward and westward, as the boat
reached the middle of the lake, the shore lay
clear and low in the sunshine, fringed darkly at
certain points by rows of dwarf trees, and dotted
here and there, in the opener spaces, with wind-
mills and reed-thatched cottages of puddled mud.
Southward, the great sheet of water narrowed
gradually to a little group of close-nestling isl-
ands which closed the prospect, while to the
east a long, gently undulating line of reeds fol-
lowed the windings of the Broad, and shut out
all view of the watery wastes beyond. So clear
and so light was the summer air that the one
cloud in the eastern quarters of the heaven was
the smoke-cloud left by a passing steamer three
miles distant and more on the inevitable sea.
When the voices of the pleasure-party were still
not a sound rose far or near but the faint ripple
at the bows, as the men with slow, deliberate
strokes of their long poles pressed the boat for-
ward softly over the shallow water. The world
and the world's turmoil seemed left behind for-
ever on the land; the silence was the silence of
enchantment—the delicious interflow of the soft
purity of the sky and the bright tranquillity of
the lake.
Established in perfect comfort in the boat—
the major and his daughter on one side, the
curate and his mother on the other, and young
Pedgift between the two—the water party floated
smoothly toward the little nest of islands at the
end of the Broad. Miss Milroy was in raptures;
Allan was delighted; and the major for once
forgot his clock. Every one felt pleasurably, in
their different ways, the quiet and beauty of the
scene; Mrs. Pentecost, in her way, feeling it
like a clairvoyant—with closed eyes.
“Look behind you, Mr. Armadale,” whis-
pered young Pedgift. “I think the parson's
beginning to enjoy himself.”
An unwonted briskness—portentous apparent-
ly of coming speech—did certainly at that mo-
ment enliven the curate's manner. He jerked
his head from side to side like a bird; he stopped
and cleared his throat, and clasped his hands;
he sighed, and looked at the company. Getting
into spirits seemed, in the case of this excellent
person, to be alarmingly like getting into the
pulpit,
“Even in this scene of tranquillity,” said the
Reverend Samuel, coming out softly with his
first contribution to the society, in the shape of
a remark, “the Christian mind–led, so to
speak, from one extreme to another—is forcibly
recalled to the unstable nature of all earthly en-
joyments. How, if this calm should not last?
How, if the winds rose and the waters became
agitated?”
“You needn't alarm yourself about that, Sir,”
said young Pedgift, “June's the fine season
here—and you can swim.”
Mrs. Pentecost (mesmerically affected in all
probability by the near neighborhood of her son)
opened her eyes suddenly, and asked with her
customary eagerness, “What does my boy say?”
The Reverend Samuel repeated his words in
the key that suited his mother's infirmity. The
old lady nodded in high approval, and pursued
her son's train of thought through the medium
of a quotation.
“Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pentecost, with infinite
relish, “He rides the whirlwind, Sammy, and
directs the storm 1"
“Noble words!” said the Reverend Samuel.
“Noble and consoling words!”
“I say,” whispered Allan, “if he goes on
much longer in that way, what's to be done?”
“I told you, papa, it was a risk to ask them,”
added Miss Milroy, in another whisper.


ARMADALE.
123
“My dear!” remonstrated the major. “We
know nobody else in the neighborhood, and as
Mr. Armadale kindly suggested our bringing
our friends, what could we do?”
“We can't upset the boat,” remarked young
Pedgift, with sardonic gravity. “It's a life-
boat, unfortunately. May I venture to suggest
putting something into the reverend gentleman's
mouth, Mr. Armadale? It's close on three
o'clock. What do you say to ringing the din-
ner-bell, Sir?”
Never was the right man more entirely in the
right place than Pedgift Junior at the picnic.
In ten minutes more the boat was brought to a
stand-still among the reeds; the Thorpe-Ambrose
hampers were unpacked on the roof of the cabin;
and the current of the curate's eloquence was
checked for the day.
How inestimably important in its moral re-
sults—and therefore how praiseworthy in itself
is the act of eating and drinking! The social
virtues centre in the stomach. A man who is
not a better husband, father, and brother, after
dinner than before, is, digestively speaking, an
incurably vicious man. What hidden charms
of character disclose themselves, what dormant
amiabilities awaken when our common human-
ity gathers together to pour out the gastric juice!
At the opening of the hampers from Thorpe-
Ambrose sweet Sociability (offspring of the hap-
py union of Civilization and Mrs. Gripper) ex-
tended among the boating party, and melted in
one friendly fusion the discordant elements of
which that party had hitherto been composed.
Now did the Reverend Samuel Pentecost, whose
light had hitherto been hidden under a bushel,
prove at last that he could do something by
proving that he could eat. Now did Pedgift
Junior shine brighter than even he had shone
yet, in gems of caustic humor and exquisite fer-
tilities of resource. Now did the squire, and
the squire's charming guest, prove the triple con-
nection between Champagne that sparkles, or
that grows bolder, and Eyes whose vocabulary
is without the word No. Now did cheerful old
times come back to the major's memory, and
this with your tender secrets, your loves and
hatreds, your hopes and fears. His heart is un-
corrected by his stomach, and the social virtues
are not in him.
The last mellow hours of the day had just
met the first cool breezes of the long summer
evening before the dishes were all laid waste,
and the bottles as empty as bottles should be.
This point in the proceedings attained, the pic-
nic party looked lazily at Pedgift Junior to
know what was to be done next. That inex-
haustible functionary was equal as ever to all
the calls on him. He had a new amusement
ready before the quickest of the company could
so much as ask him what that amusement was
to be.
“Fond of music on the water, Miss Milroy?"
he asked, in his airiest and pleasantest manner.
Miss Milroy adored music, both on the water
and the land—always excepting the one when
she was practicing the art herself on the piano
at home.
“We'll get out of the reeds first,” said young
Pedgift. He gave his orders to the boatmen,
dived briskly into the little cabin, and reappear-
ed with a concertina in his hand. “Neat, Miss
Milroy, isn't it?” he observed, pointing to his
initials, inlaid on the instrument in mother-of-
pearl. “My name's Augustus, like my father's.
Some of my friends knock off the “A,” and call
me “Gustus Junior. A small joke goes a long
way among friends, doesn't it, Mr. Armadale?
I sing a little, to my own accompaniment, la-
dies and gentlemen; and, if quite agreeable, I
shall be proud and happy to do my best.”
“Stop!” cried Mrs. Pentecost; “I dote on
music.”
With this formidable announcement the old
lady opened a prodigious leather bag, from which
she never parted night or day, and took out an
ear-trumpet of the old-fashioned kind—some-
thing between a key bugle and a French horn.
“I don't care to use the thing generally,” ex-
plained Mrs. Pentecost, “because I'm afraid of
it's making me deafer than ever. But I can't
and won't miss the music. I dote on music.
cheerful old stories not told for years find their If you'll hold the end of it, Sammy, I'll stick it
way to the major's lips. And now did Mrs. in my ear. Neelie, my dear, tell him to begin.”
Pentecost, coming out wakefully in the whole | Young Pedgift was troubled with no nervous
force of her estimable maternal character, seize hesitation: he began at once—not with songs
on a supplementary fork, and ply that useful of the light and modern kind, and as might
instrument incessantly between the choicest mor- have been expected from an amateur of his age
sels in the whole round of dishes, and the few and character—but with declamation and patri-
vacant places left available on the Reverend
Samuel's plate. “Don’t laugh at my son,”
cried the old lady, observing the merriment
which the proceedings produced among the com-
otic bursts of poetry, set to the bold and blatant
music which the people of England loved dearly
at the earlier part of the present century, and
which, whenever they can get it, they love dear-
pany. “It's my fault, poor dear—I make him |ly still. “The Death of Marmion,” “The Bat-
eat!” And there are men in this world who, tie of the Baltic,” “The Bay of Biscay,” “Nel-
seeing virtues such as these developed at the son,” under various vocal aspects, as exhibited
table, as they are developed nowhere else, can, by the late Braham—these were the songs in
nevertheless, rank the glorious privilege of din- which the warm concertina and student tenor
ing with the smallest of the diurnal personal of Gustus Junior exulted together. “Tell me
worries which necessity imposes on mankind- when you're tired, ladies and gentlemen,” said
with buttoning your waistcoat, for example, or the minstrel solicitor. “There's no conceit
lacing your stays! Trust no such monster as about me. Will you have a little sentiment by


124 ARMADALE.
>|</
22%
£2. %
£3%'.
way of variety? Shall I wind up with “The 'We haven't had half enough yet, have we, Sam-
Mistletoe Bough" and “Poor Mary Anne?” my?”
Having wound up with those two cheerful | The Reverend Samuel made no reply. The
melodies (sitting cross-legged on the roof of the unhappy man had reasons of his own—not ex-
cabin), young Pedgift respectfully requested the actly in his bosom, but a little lower—for re-
rest of the company to follow his vocal example maining silent in the midst of the general hi-
in turn; offering, in every case, to play “a run- larity and the general applause. Alas for hu-
ning accompaniment” impromptu, if the singer manity! Even maternal love is alloyed with
would only be so obliging as to favor him with mortal fallibility. Owing much already to his
the key-note. excellent mother, the Reverend Samuel was now
“Go on, somebody,” cried Mrs. Pentecost, additionally indebted to her for a smart indiges-
eagerly. “I tell you again, I dote on music. |tion.


ARMADALE. 125
:
*
*
Nobody, however, noticed as yet the signs and
tokens of internal revolution in the curate's face.
Every body was occupied in entreating every
body else to sing. Miss Milroy appealed to the
founder of the feast: “Do sing something, Mr.
Armadale,” she said; “I should so like to hear
ou!”
yo: If you once begin, Sir,” added the cheerful
Pedgift, “you'll find it get uncommonly easy as
you go on. Music is a science which requires
to be taken by the throat at starting.”
“With all my heart,” said Allan, in his good-
humored way. “I know lots of tunes, but the
worst of it is, the words escape me. I wonder
if I can remember one of Moore's Melodies?
My poor mother used to be proud of teaching
me Moore's Melodies when I was a boy.”
“Whose melodies?” asked Mrs. Pentecost.
“Moore's? Aha! I know Tom Moore by
heart.”
“Perhaps, in that case, you will be good
enough to help me, ma'am, if my memory
breaks down,” rejoined Allan. “I'll take the
easiest melody in the whole collection, if you'll
allow-me. Every body knows it—“Eveleen's
Bower.’”
“I'm familiar, in a general sort of way, with
the ‘National Melodies of England, Scotland,
and Ireland,’” said Pedgift Junior. “I’ll ac-
company you, Sir, with the greatest pleasure.
This is the sort of thing, I think.” He burst
into a complicated musical improvisation, won-
derful to hear—a mixture of instrumental flour-
ishes and groans; a jig corrected by a dirge,
and a dirge enlivened by a jig. “That's the
sort of thing,” said young Pedgift, with his smile
of supreme confidence. “Fire away, Sir!”
Mrs. Pentecost elevated her trumpet, and Al-
lan elevated his voice. “‘Oh, weep for the
hour when to Eveleen's Bower—’” He stopped;
the accompaniment stopped; the audience wait-
ed. “It's a most extraordinary thing,” said Al-
lan; “I thought I had the next line on the tip
of my tongue, and it seems to have escaped me.
I'll begin again, if you have no objection. ‘Oh,
weep for the hour when to Eveleen's Bower— ”
“‘The lord of the valley with false vows
came,’” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Allan. “Now I
shall get on smoothly. ‘Oh, weep for the hour
when to Eveleen's Bower, the lord of the valley
with false vows came. The moon was shining
bright'—”
“No !” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“I beg your pardon, ma'am,” said Allan.
“‘The moon was shining bright'—”
“The moon wasn't doing any thing of the
kind,” said Mrs. Pentecost.
Pedgift Junior, foreseeing a dispute, perse-
vered sotto voce with the accompaniment—in
the interest of harmony.
“Moore's own words, ma'am,” said Allan,
“in my mother's copy of the Melodies.”
“Your mother's copy was wrong,” retorted
Mrs. Pentecost.
that I knew Tom Moore by heart?”
Pedgift Junior's peace-making concertina still
flourished and groaned, sotto voce.
“Well, what did the moon do?” asked Allan,
in despair.
“What the moon ought to have done, Sir, or
Tom Moore wouldn't have written it so,” re-
joined Mrs. Pentecost. “‘The moon hid her
light from the heaven that night, and wept be-
hind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame! I
wish that young man would leave off playing,”
added Mrs. Pentecost, venting her rising irrita-
tion on Gustus Junior. “I’ve had enough of
him—he tickles my ears.”
“Proud, I'm sure, ma'am,” said the unblush-
ing Pedgift. “The whole science of music con-
sists in tickling the ears.”
“We seem to be drifting into a sort of
argument,” remarked Major Milroy, placidly.
“Wouldn't it be better if Mr. Armadale went
on with his song?” *
“Do go on, Mr. Armadale!” added the ma-
jor's daughter. “Do go on, Mr. Pedgift!”
“One of them doesn't know the words, and
the other doesn't know the music,” said Mrs.
Pentecost. “Let them go on, if they can '"
“Sorry to disappoint you, ma'am,” said Ped-
gift Junior; “I’m ready to go on, myself, to
any extent. Now, Mr. Armadale !”
Allan opened his lips to take up the unfinished
melody where he had last left it. Before he
could utter a note the curate suddenly rose,
with a ghastly face, and a hand pressed convul-
sively over the middle region of his waistcoat.
“What's the matter?” cried the whole boat-
ing-party in chorus.
“I am exceedingly unwell,” said the Rever-
end Samuel Pentecost.
The boat was instantly in a state of confusion.
“Eveleen's Bower” expired on Allan's lips, and
even the irrepressible concertina of Pedgift was
silenced at last. The alarm proved to be quite
needless. Mrs. Pentecost's son possessed a mo-
ther, and that mother had a bag. In two sec-
onds the art of medicine occupied the place left
vacant in the attention of the company by the
art of music.
“Rub it gently, Sammy,” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“I’ll get out the bottles and give you a dose.
It's his poor stomach, major. Hold my trum-
pet, somebody—and stop the boat. You take
that bottle, Neelie, my dear; and you take this
one, Mr. Armadale; and give them to me as I
want them. Ah, poor dear, I know what's the
matter with him! Want of power here, major—
cold, acid, and flabby. Ginger to warm him;
soda to correct him; sal volatile to hold him up.
There, Sammy, drink it before it settles—and
then go and lie down, my dear, in that dog-
kennel of a place they call the cabin. No
more music!” added Mrs. Pentecost, shaking her
forefinger at the proprietor of the concertina—
“unless it's a hymn, and that I don't object
to.”
Nobody appearing to be in a fit frame of mind
“Didn't I tell you just now for singing a hymn, the all-accomplished Ped-
gift drew upon his stores of local knowledge,


126 ARMADALE.
and produced a new idea. The course of the fowling season. From this elevation the eye
boat was immediately changed under his direc- ranged far and wide over a wilderness of wind-
tion. In a few minutes more the companying water and lonesome marsh. If the reed-
found themselves in a little island-creek, with a cutter had lost his boat, he would have been as
lonely cottage at the far end of it, and a per- completely isolated from all communication with
fect forest of reeds closing the view all round town or village as if his place of abode had been
them. |a light-vessel instead of a cottage. Neither he
“What do you say, ladies and gentlemen, to nor his family complained of their solitude, or
stepping on shore and seeing what a reed-cut-looked in any way the rougher or the worse for
ter's cottage looks like?” suggested young Ped-' it. His wife received the visitors hospitably, in
gift. a snug little room, with a strong, raftered ceil-
“We say yes, to be sure,” answered Allan. 'ing, and windows which looked like windows in
“I think our spirits have been a little dashed a cabin on board ship. His wife's father told
by Mr. Pentecost's illness and Mrs. Pentecost's stories of the famous days when the smugglers
bag,” he added, in a whisper to Miss Milroy. came up from the sea at night, rowing through
“A change of this sort is the very thing we the net-work of rivers with muffled oars till they
want to set us all going again.” gained the lonely Broads, and sunk their spirit-
He and young Pedgift handed Miss Milroy casks in the water far from the coast-guard's
out of the boat. The major followed. Mrs. reach. His wild little children played at hide-
Pentecost sat immovable as the Egyptian Sphinx, and-seek with the visitors; and the visitors
with her bag on her knees, mounting guard over ranged in and out of the cottage, and round and
“Sammy” in the cabin. round the morsel of firm earth on which it stood,
“We must keep the fun agoing, Sir," said 'surprised and delighted by the novelty of all they
Allan, as he helped the major over the side of saw. The one person who noticed the advance
the boat. “We haven't half done yet with the of the evening—the one person who thought of
enjoyment of the day.” the flying time and the stationary Pentecosts in
His voice seconded his hearty belief in his the boat — was young Pedgift. That experi-
own prediction to such good purpose that even enced pilot of the Broads looked askance at his
Mrs. Pentecost heard him, and ominously shook watch, and drew Allan aside at the first oppor-
her head. tunity.
“Ah!” sighed the curate's mother. “If “I don't wish to hurry you, Mr. Armadale,”
you were as old as I am, Mr. Armadale, you said Pedgift Junior; “but the time is getting
wouldn't feel quite so sure of the enjoyment of on, and there's a lady in the case.”
the day!” “A lady?” repeated Allan.
So, in rebuke of the rashness of youth, spoke “Yes, Sir,” rejoined young Pedgift. “A
the caution of age. The negative view is noto- lady from London; connected (if you'll allow
riously the safe view, all the world over—and the |me to jog your memory) with a pony-chaise and
caution of age is, as a necessary consequence, white harness.”
generally in the right. “Good Heavens, the governess!" cried Allan;
“why, we have forgotten all about her!”
-e- “Don’t be alarmed, Sir; there's plenty of
time if we only get into the boat again. This
CHAPTER IX. is how it stands, Mr. Armadale. We settled,
if you remember, to have the gipsy tea-making
at the next ‘Broad' to this—Hurle Mere?”
It was close on six o'clock when Allan and “Certainly,” said Allan. “Hurle Mere is
his friends left the boat; and the evening influ- the place where my friend Midwinter has prom-
ence was creeping already, in its mystery and its ised to come and meet us.”
stillness, over the watery solitude of the Broads. “Hurle Mere is where the governess will be,
The shore in these wild regions was not like | Sir, if your coachman follows my directions,”
the shore elsewhere. Firm as it looked, the | pursued young Pedgift. “We have got nearly
garden-ground in front of the reed-cutter's cot- an hour's punting to do along the twists and
tage was floating ground, that rose and fell and turns of the narrow waters (which they call
oozed into puddles under the pressure of the The Sounds here) between this Broad and
foot. The boatmen who guided the visitors | Hurle Mere; and according to my calculations
warned them to keep the path, and pointed we must get on board again in five minutes, if
through gaps in the reeds and pollards to we are to be in time to meet the governess and
grassy places, on which strangers would have to meet your friend.”
walked confidently, where the crust of earth “We mustn't miss my friend on any ac-
was not strong enough to bear the weight of a count,” said Allan; “or the governess either,
child over the unfathomed depths of slime and of course. I'll tell the major.”
water beneath. The solitary cottage, built of Major Milroy was at that moment preparing
planks, pitched black, stood on ground that had to mount the wooden watch-tower of the cottage
been steadied and strengthened by resting it on to see the view. The ever-useful Pedgift vol-
piles. A little wooden tower rose at one end unteered to go up with him, and rattle off all
of the roof and served as a look-out post in the the necessary local explanations in half the time
FATE OR C H A N C E.


ARMADALE.
127
which the reed-cutter would occupy in describing
his own neighborhood to a stranger.
Allan remained standing in front of the cot-
tage, more quiet and more thoughtful than usual.
His interview with young Pedgift had brought
his absent friend to his memory for the first
time since the picnic party had started. He
was surprised that Midwinter, so much in his
thoughts on all other occasions, should have
been so long out of his thoughts now. Some-
thing troubled him like a sense of self-reproach
as his mind reverted to the faithful friend at
home, toiling hard over the steward's books in
his interests and for his sake. “Dear old fel-
low,” thought Allan, “I shall be so glad to see
him at the Mere; the day's pleasure won't be
complete till he joins us!”
“Should I be right or wrong, Mr. Armadale,
if I guessed that you were thinking of some-
body?” asked a voice softly behind him.
Allan turned and found the major's daugh-
ter at his side. Miss Milroy (not unmindful
of a certain tender interview which had taken
place behind a carriage) had noticed her ad-
mirer standing thoughtfully by himself, and had
determined on giving him another opportunity
while her father and young Pedgift were at the
top of the watch-tower.
“You know every thing,” said Allan, smiling.
“I was thinking of somebody.”
Miss Milroy stole a glance at him—a glance
of gentle encouragement. There should be but
one human creature in Mr. Armadale's mind
after what had passed between them that morn-
ing!
“I have been thinking of somebody too,”
she said, half-inviting, half-repelling the com-
ing avowal. “If I tell you the first letter of
my Somebody's name, will you tell me the first
letter of yours?”
“I will tell you any thing you like,” rejoined
Allan with the utmost enthusiasm.
She still shrank coquettishly from the very
subject that she wanted to approach. “Tell
me your letter first,” she said, in low tones,
looking away from him.
Allan laughed. “M,” he said, “is my first
letter.”
She started a little. Strange that he should
be thinking of her by her surname instead of her
Christian name; but it didn't matter as long as
he was thinking of her.
“What is your letter?” asked Allan.
She blushed and smiled. “A—if you will
have it!” she answered, in a reluctant little
whisper. She stole another look at him, and
luxuriously protracted her enjoyment of the
coming avowal once more. “How many syl-
lables is the name in?” she asked, drawing pat-
terns shyly on the ground with the end of her
parasol.
No man with the slightest knowledge of the
sex would have been rash enough, in Allan's
position, to tell her the truth. Allan, who knew
nothing whatever of women's natures, and who
told the truth right and left in all mortal emer-
gencies, answered as if he had been under ex-
amination in a court of justice.
“It's a name in three syllables,” he said.
“Miss Milroy's downcast eyes flashed up at
him like lightning. “Three !” she repeated, in
the blankest astonishment.
Allan was too inveterately straightforward to
take the warning even now. “I'm not strong
at my spelling, I know,” he said, with his easy,
light-hearted laugh. “But I don't think I'm
wrong in calling Midwinter a name in three
syllables. I was thinking of my friend—but
never mind my thoughts. Tell me who A is—
tell me who you were thinking of?”
“Of the first letter of the alphabet, Mr. Ar-
madale, and I beg positively to inform you of
nothing more!”
With that annihilating answer the major's
daughter put up her parasol and walked back
by herself to the boat.
Allan stood petrified with amazement. If
Miss Milroy had actually boxed his ears (and
there is no denying that she had privately longed
to devote her hand to that purpose) he would
hardly have felt more bewildered than he felt
now. “What on earth have I done?” he ask-
ed himself, helplessly, as the major and young
Pedgift joined him, and the three walked down
together to the water-side. “I wonder what
she'll say to me next?”
She said absolutely nothing; she never so
much as looked at Allan when he took his place
in the boat. There she sat, with her eyes and
her complexion both much brighter than usual,
taking the deepest interest in the curate's prog-
ress toward recovery; in the state of Mrs. Pen-
tecost's spirits; in Pedgift Junior (for whom
she ostentatiously made room enough to let him
sit beside her); in the scenery and the reed-
cutter's cottage; in every body and every thing
but Allan—whom she would have married with
the greatest pleasure five minutes since. “I’ll
never forgive him,” thought the major's daugh-
ter. “To be thinking of that ill-bred wretch
when I was thinking of him! and to make me all
but confess it before I found him out! Thank
Heaven Mr. Pedgift's in the boat!”
In this frame of mind Miss Neelie applied
herself forthwith to the fascination of Pedgift
and the discomfiture of Allan. “Oh, Mr. Ped-
gift, how extremely clever and kind of you to
think of showing us that sweet cottage! Lone-
ly, Mr. Armadale? I don't think it's lonely at
all; I should like of all things to live there.
What would this picnic have been without you,
Mr. Pedgift; you can't think how I have en-
joyed it since we got into the boat. Cool, Mr.
Armadale? What can you possibly mean by
saying it's cool? It's the warmest evening we've
had this summer. And the music, Mr. Pedgift;
how nice it was of you to bring your concertina!
I wonder if I could accompany you on the pia-
no? I should so like to try! Oh yes, Mr.
Armadale, no doubt you meant to do something
musical too, and I dare say you sing very well
when you know the words; but, to tell you the


128
ARMADALE.
truth, I always did and always shall hate Moore's
Melodies 1"
Thus, with merciless dexterity and manipu-
lation, did Miss Milroy work that sharpest fe-
male weapon of offense, the tongue; and thus
she would have used it for some time longer, if
Allan had only shown the necessary jealousy,
or if Pedgift had only afforded the necessary
encouragement. But adverse fortune had de-
creed that she should select for her victims two
men essentially unassailable under existing cir-
cumstances. Allan was too innocent of all
knowledge of female subtleties and susceptibil-
ities to understand any thing except that the
charming Neelie was unreasonably out of tem-
per with him without the slightest cause. The
wary Pedgift, as became one of the quick-witted
youth of the present generation, submitted to
female influence, with his eye fixed immovably
all the time on his own interests. Many a young
man of the past generation, who was no fool,
has sacrificed every thing for love. Not one
young man in ten thousand of the present gen-
eration, except the fools, has sacrificed a half-
penny. The daughters of Eve still rise to the
height of their mothers' merits, and drop to the
depth of their mothers' faults. But the sons of
Adam, in these latter days, are men who would
have handed the famous apple back with a bow,
and a “Thanks, no; it might get me into a
scrape.” When Allan—surprised and disap-
pointed—moved away out of Miss Milroy's
reach to the forward part of the boat, Pedgift
Junior rose and followed him. “You're a very
nice girl,” thought this shrewd and sensible
young man; “but a client's a client; and I am
sorry to inform you, Miss, it won't do.” He
set himself at once to rouse Allan's spirits by
diverting his attention to a new subject. There
was to be a regatta that autumn on one of the
Broads, and his client's opinion as a yachtsman
might be valuable to the committee.
“Something new, I should think, to you,
Sir, in a sailing-match on fresh water?” he
said, in his most ingratiatory manner.
And Allan, instantly interested, answered,
“Quite new. Do tell me about it!”
As for the rest of the party, at the other end
of the boat, they were in a fair way to confirm
Mrs. Pentecost's doubts whether the hilarity of
the picnic would last the day out. Poor Neelie's
natural feeling of irritation under the disap-
pointment which Allan's awkwardness had in-
flicted on her was now exasperated into silent
and settled resentment by her own keen sense
of humiliation and defeat.
The major had relapsed into his habitually
dreamy, absent manner; his mind was turning
monotonously with the wheels of his clock. The
curate still secluded his indigestion from public
view in the innermost recesses of the cabin; and
the curate's mother, with a second dose ready at
a moment's notice, sat on guard at the door.
Women of Mrs. Pentecost's age and character
generally enjoy their own bad spirits. “This,”
sighed the old lady, wagging her head with a
smile of sour satisfaction, “is what you call a
day's pleasure, is it? Ah, what fools we all
were to leave our comfortable homes!”
Meanwhile the boat floated smoothly along
the windings of the watery labyrinth which lay
between the two Broads. The view on either
side was now limited to nothing but intermina-
ble rows of reeds. Not a sound was heard, far
or near; not so much as a glimpse of cultivated
or inhabited land appeared any where. “A
trifle dreary hereabouts, Mr. Armadale,” said
the ever-cheerful Pedgift. “But we are just
out of it now. Look ahead, Sir! Here we are
at Hurle Mere.” -
The reeds opened back on the right hand and
the left, and the boat glided suddenly into the
wide circle of a pool. Round the nearer half of
the circle the eternal reeds still fringed the
margin of the water. Round the farther half
the land appeared again—here, rolling back
from the pool in desolate sand-hills; there,
rising above it in a sweep of grassy shore. At
one point the ground was occupied by a planta-
tion, and at another by the outbuildings of a
lonely old red-brick house, with a strip of by-
road near, that skirted the garden-wall and
ended at the pool. The sun was sinking in the
clear heaven, and the water, where the sun's re-
flection failed to tinge it, was beginning to look
black and cold. The solitude that had been
soothing the silence that had fell like an en-
chantment on the other Broad in the day's vig-
orous prime, was a solitude that saddened here
—a silence that struck cold, in the stillness and
melancholy of the day's decline.
The course of the boat was directed across
the Mere to a creek in the grassy shore. One
or two of the little flat-bottomed punts peculiar
to the Broads lay in the creek; and the reed-
cutters to whom the punts belonged, surprised
at the appearance of strangers, came out, staring
silently, from behind an angle of the old garden-
wall. Not another sign of life was visible any
where. No pony-chaise had been seen by the
reed-cutters; no stranger, either man or woman,
had approached the shores of Hurle Mere that
day.
Young Pedgift took another look at his watch,
and addressed himself to Miss Milroy. “You
may, or may not, see the governess when you
get back to Thorpe-Ambrose,” he said; “but
as the time stands now you won't see her here.
You know best, Mr. Armadale,” he added, turn-
ing to Allan, “whether your friend is to be de-
pended on to keep his appointment?”
“I am certain he is to be depended on,” re-
plied Allan, looking about him in unconcealed
disappointment at Midwinter's absence.
“Very good,” pursued Pedgift Junior. “If
we light the fire for our gipsy tea-making on the
open ground there, your friend may find us out,
Sir, by the smoke. That's the Indian dodge
for picking up a lost man on the prairie, Miss
Milroy—and it's pretty nearly wild enough
(isn't it?) to be a prairie here!”
There are some temptations—principally


ARMADALE.
129
those of the smaller kind—which it is not in
the defensive capacity of human nature to resist.
The temptation to direct the whole force of her in-
fluence, as the one young lady of the party, toward
the instant overthrow of Allan's arrangement
for meeting his friend, was too much for the
major's daughter. She turned on the smiling
Pedgift with a look which ought to have over-
whelmed him. But who ever overwhelmed a
solicitor?
“I think it's the most lonely, dreary, hideous
place I ever saw in my life!” said Miss Neelie.
“If you insist on making tea here, Mr. Ped-
gift, don't make any for me. No! I shall stop
in the boat; and though I am absolutely dying
with thirst, I shall touch nothing till we get
back again to the other Broad'"
The major opened his lips to remonstrate.
To his daughter's infinite delight Mrs. Pente-
cost rose from her seat before he could say a
word, and, after surveying the whole landward
prospect, and seeing nothing in the shape of a
vehicle any where, asked indignantly whether
they were going all the way back again to the
place where they had left the carriages in the
middle of the day. On ascertaining that this
was, in fact, the arrangement proposed; and
that, from the nature of the country, the car-
riages could not have been ordered round to
Hurle Mere without, in the first instance, send-
ing them the whole of the way back to Thorpe-
Ambrose, Mrs. Pentecost (speaking in her son's
interests) instantly declared that no earthly
power should induce her to be out on the water
after dark. “Call me a boat?” cried the old
lady, in great agitation. “Wherever there's
water there's a night mist, and wherever there's
a night mist my son Samuel catches cold.
Don't talk to me about your moonlight and your
tea-making—you're all mad! Hi! you two
men there!” cried Mrs. Pentecost, hailing the
silent reed-cutters on shore. “Sixpence apiece
for you, if you'll take me and my son back in
your boat!” -
Before young Pedgift could interfere Allan
himself settled the difficulty this time with per-
fect patience and good temper.
“I can't think, Mrs. Pentecost, of your going
back in any boat but the boat you have come out
in,” he said. “There is not the least need (as
you and Miss Milroy don't like the place) for any
body to go on shore here but me. I must go on
shore; my friend Midwinter never broke his
promise to me yet; and I can't consent to leave
Hurle Mere as long as there's a chance of his
keeping his appointment. But there's not the
least reason in the world why I should stand in
the way on that account. You have the major
and Mr. Pedgift to take care of you; and you
can get back to the carriages before dark, if you
go at once. I will wait here, and give my friend
half an hour more—and then I can follow you
in one of the reed-cutter's boats.”
“That's the most sensible thing, Mr. Arma-
dale, you've said to-day,” remarked Mrs. Pente-
cost, seating herself again in a violent hurry.
“Tell them to be quick!" cried the old lady,
shaking her fist at the boatmen. “Tell them
to be quick!” *
Allan gave the necessary directions, and
stepped on shore. The wary Pedgift (sticking
fast to his client) tried to follow.
“We can't leave you here alone, Sir,” he "
said, protesting eagerly in a whisper. “Let
the major take care of the ladies, and let me
keep you company at the Mere.”
“No, no!” said Allan, pressing him back.
“They're all in low spirits on board. If you
want to be of service to me, stop like a good
fellow where you are, and do your best to keep
the thing going.”
He waved his hand, and the men pushed the
boat off from the shore. The others all waved
their hands in return except the major's daugh-
ter, who sat apart from the rest, with her face
hidden under her parasol. The tears stood thick
in Neelie's eyes. Her last angry feeling against
Allan died out, and her heart went back to him
penitently the moment he left the boat. “How
good he is to us all!” she thought, “and what
a wretch I am!” She got up with every gen-
erous impulse in her nature urging her to make
atonement to him. She got up, reckless of ap-
pearances, and looked after him with eager eyes
and flushed cheeks, as he stood alone on the
shore. “Don’t be long, Mr. Armadale !” she
said, with a desperate disregard of what the rest
of the company thought of her.
The boat was already far out in the water,
and with all Neelie's resolution the words were
spoken in a faint little voice which failed to
reach Allan's ears. The one sound he heard,
as the boat gained the opposite extremity of the
Mere, and disappeared slowly among the reeds,
was the sound of the concertina. The indefati-
gable Pedgift was keeping things going—evi-
dently under the auspices of Mrs. Pentecost–
by performing a sacred melody.
Left by himself Allan lit a cigar and took a
turn backward and forward on the shore. “She
might have said a word to me at parting!” he
thought. “I’ve done every thing for the best;
I've as good as told her how fond of her I am,
and this is the way she treats me!” He stopped,
and stood looking absently at the sinking sun
and the fast-darkening waters of the Mere. Some
inscrutable influence in the scene forced its way
steadily into his mind, and diverted his thoughts
from Miss Milroy to his absent friend. He start-
ed, and looked about him.
The reed-cutters had gone back to their re-
treat behind the angle of the wall, not a living
creature was visible, not a sound rose any where
along the dreary shore. Even Allan's spirits
began to get depressed. It was nearly an hour
after the time when Midwinter had promised to
be at Hurle Mere. He had himself arranged to
walk to the pool (with a stable-boy from Thorpe-
Ambrose as his guide), by lanes and foot-paths
which shortened the distance by the road. The
boy knew the country well, and Midwinterwasha-
bitually punctual at all his appointments. Had


130
ARMADALE.
anything gone wrong at Thorpe-Ambrose? Had
some accident happened on the way? Determ- it.
ined to remain no longer doubting and idling 'stone's-throw of us.
by himself, Allan made up his mind to walk
inland from the Mere, on the chance of meeting
his friend. He went round at once to the angle
in the wall, and asked one of the reed-cutters to
show him the foot-path to Thorpe-Ambrose.
The man led him away from the road, and
pointed to a barely-perceptible break in the out-
er trees of the plantation. After pausing for
one more useless look round him, Allan turn-
ed his back on the Mere and made for the
trees.
For a few paces the path ran straight through
the plantation.
through the thickening trees—and the water and
the open country became both lost to view. Al-
lan steadily followed the grassy track before him,
seeing nothing and hearing nothing, until he
came to another winding of the path. Turn-
ing in the new direction, he saw dimly a human
figure sitting alone at the foot of one of the
trees. Two steps nearer were enough to make
the figure familiar to him. “Midwinter!” he
exclaimed, in astonishment. “This is not the
place where I was to meet you ! What are you
waiting for here?”
Midwinter rose without answering. The even-
ing dimness among the trees, which obscured his
face, made his silence doubly perplexing.
Allan went on eagerly questioning him. “Did
you come here by yourself?” he asked. “I
thought the boy was to guide you?”
This time Midwinter answered, but in a
strangely reluctant, irritating way. “When
we got as far as these trees,” he said, “I sent
the boy back. He told me I was close to the
place, and couldn't miss it.”
“What made you stop here when he left
you?” reiterated Allan. “Why didn't you
walk on ?”
“Don’t despise me, Allan,” answered the oth-
er, “I hadn't the courage!”
“Not the courage '" repeated Allan. He
paused a moment. “Oh, I know!” he re-
sumed, putting his hand gayly on Midwinter's
shoulder. “You're still shy of the Milroys.
What nonsense, when I told you myself that
your peace was made at the cottage!”
“I wasn't thinking, Allan, of your friends at
the cottage. The truth is, I'm hardly myself
to-day. I am ill and unnerved; trifles startle
me.” He stopped, and shrunk away, under the
anxious scrutiny of Allan's eyes. “If you will
have it,” he burst out abruptly, “the horror of
that night on board the Wreck has got me again;
there's a dreadful oppression on my head; there's
a dreadful sinking at my heart—I'm afraid of
something happening to us, if we don't part be-
fore the day is out. I can't break my promise
to you; for God's sake release me from it, and
let me go back 7”
Remonstrance, to any one who knew Mid-
winter, was plainly useless at that moment.
Allan humored him. “Come out of this dark,
Thence it took a sudden turn
airless place,” he said; “and we'll talk about
The water and the open sky are within a
I hate a wood in the even-
ing—it even gives me the horrors. You have
been working too hard over the steward's books.
Come and breathe freely in the blessed open
air.”
Midwinter stopped, considered for a moment,
and suddenly submitted.
“You're right,” he said, “and I'm wrong,
as usual. I'm wasting time and distressing
you to no purpose. What folly to ask you to
let me go back! Suppose you had said yes?”
“Well?” asked Allan.
“Well,” repeated Midwinter, “something
would have happened at the first step to stop
me—that's all. Come on.”
They walked together in silence on the way
to the Mere.
At the last turn in the path Allan's cigar
went out. While he stopped to light it again
Midwinter walked on before him, and was the
first to come in sight of the open ground.
Allan had just kindled the match, when, to
his surprise, his friend came back to him round
the turn in the path. There was light enough
to show objects more clearly in this part of the
plantation. The match, as Midwinter faced
him, dropped on that instant from Allan's hand.
“Good God!” he cried, starting back, “you
look as you looked on board the Wreck!”
Midwinter held up his hand for silence. He
spoke with his wild eyes riveted on Allan's face,
with his white lips close at Allan's ear.
“You remember how I looked,” he answered,
in a whisper. “Do you remember what I said
when you and the doctor were talking of the
Dream P”
“I have forgotten the Dream,” said Allan.
As he made that answer Midwinter took his
hand and led him round the last turn in the
path.
“Do you remember it now?” he asked, and
pointed to the Mere.
The sun was sinking in the cloudless west-
ward heaven. The waters of the Mere lay be-
neath, tinged red by the dying light. The open
country stretched away, darkening drearily al-
ready on the right hand and the left. And on
the near margin of the pool, where all had been
solitude before, there now stood, fronting the
sunset, the figure of a Woman.
The two Armadales stood together in silence,
and looked at the lonely figure and the dreary
Wile W.
Midwinter was the first to speak.
“Your own eyes have seen it,” he said.
“Now look at your own words.” >
He opened the narrative of the Dream and
held it under Allan's eyes. His finger pointed
to the lines which recorded the first Vision; his
voice, sinking lower and lower, repeated the
words:
“The sense came to me of being left alone
in the darkness.
“I waited.


ARMADALE.
133
“Well, and what then?”
“You seem to forget, Sir, what the whole
neighborhood has heard about Mrs. Milroy ever
since the major first settled among us. We
have all been told, on the doctor's own authority,
that she is too great a sufferer to see strangers.
Isn't it a little odd that she should have sudden-
My turned out well enough to see Miss Gwilt (in
her husband's absence) the moment Miss Gwilt
entered the house?”
“Not a bit of it! Of course she was anxious
to make acquaintance with her daughter's gov-
erness.”
“Likely enough, Mr. Armadale. But the
major and Miss Neelie don't see it in that light,
at any rate. I had my eye on them both when
the governess told them that Mrs. Milroy had
sent for her. If ever I saw a girl look thorough-
ly frightened, Miss Milroy was that girl; and
(if I may be allowed, in the strictest confidence,
to libel a gallant soldier) I should say that the
major himself was much in the same condition.
Take my word for it, Sir, there's something
wrong up stairs in that pretty cottage of yours;
and Miss Gwilt is mixed up in it already.”
There was a minute of silence. When the
voices were next heard by Midwinter they were
farther away from the house, Allan was proba-
bly accompanying young Pedgift a few steps on
his way back.
After a while Allan's voice was audible once
more under the portico, making inquiries after
his friend; answered by the servant's voice giv-
ing Midwinter's message. This brief interrup-
tion over, the silence was not broken again till
the time came for shutting up the house. The
servants' footsteps passing to and fro, the clang
of closing doors, the barking of a disturbed dog
in the stable-yard—these sounds warned Mid-
winter that it was getting late. He rose me-
chanically to kindle a light. But his head was
giddy, his hand trembled—he laid aside the
match-box, and returned to his chair. The
conversation between Allan and young Pedgift
had ceased to occupy his attention the instant
he ceased to hear it; and now again, the sense
that the precious time was failing him became
a lost sense, as soon as the house-noises which
had awakened it had passed away. His ener-
gies of body and mind were both alike worn
out; he waited with a stolid resignation for the
trouble that was to come to him with the com-
ing day.
An interval passed, and the silence was once
more disturbed by voices outside; the voices of
a man and a woman this time. The first few
words exchanged between them indicated plain-
ly enough a meeting of the clandestine kind;
and revealed the man as one of the servants at
Thorpe-Ambrose, and the woman as one of the
servants at the cottage.
Here again, after the first greetings were over,
the subject of the new governess became the all-
absorbing subject of conversation. The woman
was brimful of forebodings (inspired solely by
Miss Gwilt's good looks), which she poured out
irrepressibly on the man, try as he might to di-
vert her to other topics. Sooner or later, let
him mark her words, there would be an awful
“upset" at the cottage. Her master, it might
be mentioned in confidence, led a dreadful life
with her mistress. The major was the best of
men; he hadn't a thought in his heart beyond
his daughter and his everlasting clock. But
only let a mice-looking woman come near the
place, and Mrs. Milroy was jealous of her—
raging jealous, like a woman possessed, on that
miserable sick-bed of hers. If Miss Gwilt (who
was certainly good-looking, in spite of her hide-
ous hair) didn't blow the fire into a flame be-
fore many days more were over their heads the
mistress was the mistress no longer, but some-
body else. Whatever happened, the fault, this
time, would lie at the door of the major's mo-
ther. The old lady and the mistress had had a
dreadful quarrel two years since; and the old
lady had gone away in a fury, telling her son,
before all the servants, that if he had a spark
of spirit in him he would never submit to his
wife's temper as he did. It would be too much
perhaps to accuse the major's mother of purpose-
ly picking out a handsome governess to spite
the major's wife. But it might be safely said
that the old lady was the last person in the world
to humor the mistress's jealousy by declining
to engage a capable and respectable governess
for her grand-daughter because that governess
happened to be blessed with good looks. How
it was all to end (except that it was certain to
end badly) no human creature could say. Things
were looking as black already as things well
could. Miss Neelie was crying, after the day's
pleasure (which was one bad sign); the mistress
had found fault with nobody (which was an-
other); the master had wished her good-night
through the door (which was a third); and the
governess had locked herself up in her room
(which was the worst sign of all, for it looked as
if she distrusted the servants). Thus the stream
of the woman's gossip ran on, and thus it reached
Midwinter's ears through the window, till the
clock in the stable-yard struck, and stopped the
talking. When the last vibrations of the bell
had died away the voices were not audible again,
and the silence was broken no more.
Another interval passed, and Midwinter made
a new effort to rouse himself. This time he
kindled the light without hesitation, and took
the pen in hand.
He wrote at the first trial with a sudden fa-
cility of expression, which, surprising him as he
went on, ended in rousing in him some vague
suspicion of himself. He left the table, and
bathed his head and face in water, and came
back to read what he had written. The lan-
guage was barely intelligible-sentences were
left unfinished; words were misplaced one for
the other—every line recorded the protest of the
weary brain against the merciless will that had
forced it into action. Midwinter tore up the
sheet of paper as he had torn up the other sheets
before it—and sinking under the struggle at last,


134
ARMADALE.
laid his weary head on the pillow. Almost on
the instant exhaustion overcame him, and be-
fore he could put the light out he fell asleep.
He was roused by a noise at the door. The
sunlight was pouring into the room; the candle
had burned down into the socket; and the serv-
ant was waiting outside with a letter which had
come for him by the morning's post.
“I ventured to disturb you, Sir,” said the
man, when Midwinter opened the door, “be-
cause the letter is marked “Immediate, and I
didn't know but it might be of some conse-
quence.”
Midwinter thanked him, and looked at the
letter. It was of some consequence—the hand-
writing was Mr. Brock's.
He paused to collect his faculties. The torn
sheets of paper on the floor recalled to him in a
moment the position in which he stood. He
locked the door again, in the fear that Allan
might rise earlier than usual and come in to
make inquiries. Then-feeling strangely little
interest in any thing that the rector could write
to him now—he opened Mr. Brock's letter, and
read these lines:
“Tuesday.
“MY DEAR MIDw1NTER,—It is sometimes
best to tell bad news plainly in few words. Let
me tell mine at once in one sentence. My pre-
cautions have all been defeated; the woman has
escaped me.
“This misfortune—for it is nothing less—
happened yesterday (Monday). Between elev-
en and twelve in the forenoon of that day, the
business which originally brought me to Lon-
don obliged me to go to Doctors' Commons,
and to leave my servant Robert to watch the
house opposite our lodging until my return.
About an hour and a half after my departure he
observed an empty cab drawn up at the door of
the house. Boxes and bags made their appear-
ance first; they were followed by the woman her-
self, in the dress I had first seen her in. Hav-
ing previously secured a cab, Robert traced her
to the terminus of the Northwestern Railway—
saw her pass through the ticket-office—kept her
in view till she reached the platform—and there,
in the confusion caused by the starting of a
large mixed train, lost her. I must do him
the justice to say that he at once took the right
course in this emergency. Instead of wasting
time in searching for her on the platform, he
looked along the line of carriages; and he pos-
itively declares that he failed to see her in any
one of them. He admits, at the same time,
that his search (conducted between two o'clock,
when he lost sight of her, and ten minutes past,
when the train started) was, in the confusion
of the moment, necessarily an imperfect one.
But this latter circumstance, in my opinion,
matters little. I as firmly disbelieve in the wo-
man's actual departure by that train as if I had
searched every one of the carriages myself; and
you, I have no doubt, will entirely agree with
Inc.
“You now know how the disaster happened.
Let us not waste time and words in lamenting
it. The evil is done—and you and I together
must find the way to remedy it.
“What I have accomplished already, on my
side, may be told in two words. Any hesita-
tion I might have previously felt at trusting this
delicate business in strangers' hands was at an
end the moment I heard Robert's news. I went
back at once to the city, and placed the whole
matter confidentially before my lawyers. The
conference was a long one; and when I left
the office it was past the post-hour, or I should
have written to you on Monday instead of
writing to-day. My interview with the law-
yers was not very encouraging. They warn me
plainly that serious difficulties stand in the way
of our recovering the last trace. But they have
promised to do their best; and we have decided
on the course to be taken—excepting one point
on which we totally differ. I must tell you what
this difference is; for while business keeps me
away from Thorpe-Ambrose you are the only
person whom I can trust to put my convictions
to the test.
“The lawyers are of opinion, then, that the
woman has been aware from the first that I was
watching her; that there is, consequently, no
present hope of her being rash enough to ap-
pear personally at Thorpe-Ambrose; that any
mischief she may have in contemplation to do
will be done in the first instance by deputy;
and that the only wise course for Allan's friends
and guardians to take is to wait passively till
events enlighten them. My own idea is dia-
metrically opposed to this. After what has
happened at the railway I can not deny that
the woman must have discovered that I was
watching her. But she has no reason to sup-
pose that she has not succeeded in deceiving
me; and I firmly believe she is bold enough to
take us by surprise, and to win, or force, her
way into Allan's confidence before we are pre-
pared to prevent her. You and you only (while
I am detained in London) can decide whether I
am right or wrong—and you can do it in this
way. Ascertain at once whether any woman
who is a stranger in the neighborhood has ap-
peared since Monday last at, or near, Thorpe-
Ambrose. If any such person has been observed
(and nobody escapes observation in the coun-
try), take the first opportunity you can get of
seeing her, and ask yourself if her face does, or
does not, answer certain plain questions which I
am now about to write down for you. You may
depend on my accuracy. I saw the woman un-
veiled on more than one occasion—and the last
time through an excellent glass.
“1. Is her hair light brown, and (apparently)
not very plentiful? 2. Is her forehead high,
narrow, and sloping backward from the brow?
3. Are her eyebrows very faintly marked, and
are her eyes small, and nearer dark than light
—either gray or hazel (I have not seen her close
enough to be certain which)? 4. Is her nose
aquiline? 5. Are her lips thin, and is the up-
per lip long? 6, Does her complexion look


ARMADALE.
135
like an originally fair complexion, which has
deteriorated into a dull, sickly paleness?
(and lastly). Has she a retreating chin, and is
|
|
7
deep breath of relief as he descended the house
steps—relief at having escaped the friendly greet-
ing of the morning from the one human creature
there, on the left side of it, a mark of some kind whom he loved !
—a mole or a scar, I can't say which?
He entered the shrubbery with Mr. Brock's
“I add nothing about her expression, for you letter in his hand and took the nearest way that
may see her under circumstances which may
partially alter it as seen by me. Test her by
her features, which no circumstances can change.
If there is a stranger in the neighborhood, and
if her face answers my seven questions—you have
found the woman / Go instantly, in that case,
to the nearest lawyer, and pledge my name and
credit for whatever expenses may be incurred
in keeping her under inspection night and day.
Having done this, take the speediest means of
communicating with me; and whether my busi-
ness is finished or not, I will start for Norfolk
by the first train.
“In any event—whether you succeed or
whether you fail in confirming my suspicions—
write to me by return of post. If it is only to
tell me that you have received my letter, write!
I am suffering under anxiety and suspense, sep-
arated as I am from Allan, which you alone
can relieve. Having said this, I know you well
enough to feel sure that I need say no more.
“Always your friend,
“DECIMUS BROCK.”
Hardened by the fatalist conviction that now
possessed him, Midwinter read the rector's con-
fession of defeat from the first line to the last
without the slightest betrayal either of interest
or surprise. The one part of the letter at which
he looked back was the closing part of it.
led to the major's cottage. Not the slightest
recollection was in his mind of the talk which
had found its way to his ears during the night.
His one reason for determining to see the wo-
man was the reason which the rector had put
in his mind. The one remembrance that now
guided him to the place in which she lived was
the remembrance of Allan's exclamation when
he first identified the governess with the figure
at the pool.
Arrived at the gate of the cottage he stopped.
The thought struck him that he might defeat
his own object if he looked at the rector's ques-
tions in the woman's presence. Her suspicions
would be probably roused, in the first instance,
by his asking to see her (as he had determined
to ask, with or without an excuse); and the ap-
pearance of the letter in his hand might confirm
them. She might defeat him by instantly leav-
ing the room. Determined to fix the descrip-
tion in his mind first, and then to confront her,
he opened the letter; and turning away slowly
by the side of the house, read the seven ques-
tions which he felt absolutely assured before-
hand the woman's face would answer.
In the morning quiet of the park slight noises
traveled far. A slight noise disturbed Midwin-
ter over the letter.
He looked up and found himself on the brink
He of a broad grassy trench, having the park on
read the last paragraph for the second time, and one side and the high laurel hedge of an in-
then waited for a moment reflecting on it. “I
owe much to Mr. Brock's kindness,” he thought;
“and I shall never see Mr. Brock again. It is
closure on the other. The inclosure evidently
surrounded the back garden of the cottage; and
the trench was intended to protect it from being
useless and hopeless—but he asks me to do it and damaged by the cattle grazing in the park.
it shall be done. A moment's look at her will
be enough—a moment's look at her with his let-
ter in my hand—and a line to tell him that the
woman is here!”
Again he stood hesitating at the half-opened
door; again, the cruel necessity of writing his
farewell to Allan stopped him and stared him
in the face.
He looked aside doubtingly at the rector's
letter. “I will write the two together,” he
said. “One may help the other.” His face
flushed deep as the words escaped him. He
was conscious of doing what he had not done
yet—of voluntarily putting off the evil hour;
of making Mr. Brock the pretext for gaining
the last respite left, the respite of time.
The only sound that reached him through
the open door was the sound of Allan stirring
noisily in the next room. He stepped at once
into the empty corridor; and, meeting no one
on the stairs, made his way out of the house.
The dread that his resolution to leave Allan
might fail him, if he saw Allan again, was as
vividly present to his mind in the morning as it
had been all through the night. He drew a
Listening carefully as the slight sound which
had disturbed him grew fainter, he recognized
in it the rustling of women's dresses. A few
paces ahead the trench was crossed by a bridge
(closed by a wicket-gate) which connected the
garden with the park. He passed through the
gate, crossed the bridge, and, opening a door at
the other end, found himself in a summer-house,
thickly covered with creepers, and commanding
a full view of the garden from end to end.
He looked, and saw the figures of two ladies
walking slowly away from him toward the cot-
tage. The shorter of the two failed to occupy
his attention for an instant—he never stopped
to think whether she was, or was not, the ma-
jor's daughter. His eyes were riveted on the
other figure—the figure that moved over the
garden-walk with the long, lightly-falling dress,
and the easy seductive grace. There, present-
ed exactly as he had seen her once already-
there, with her back again turned on him, was
the Woman at the pool :
There was a chance that they might take an-
other turn in the garden—a turn back toward
the summer-house. On that chance Midwinter


136
ARMADALE.
waited. No consciousness of the intrusion that
he was committing had stopped him at the door
of the summer-house; and no consciousness of
it troubled him even now. Every finer sensi-
bility in his nature, sinking under the cruel
laceration of the past night, had ceased to feel.
The dogged resolution to do what he had come
to do, was the one animating influence left alive
in him. He acted, he even looked, as the most
stolid man living might have acted and looked
in his place. He was self-possessed enough, in
the interval of expectation, before governess and
pupil reached the end of the walk, to open Mr.
Brock's letter, and to fortify his memory by a last
look at the paragraph which described her face.
He was still absorbed over the description
when he heard the smooth rustle of the dresses
traveling toward him again. Standing in the
shadow of the summer-house he waited while
she lessened the distance between them. With
her written portrait vividly impressed on his
mind, and with the clear light of the morning
to help him, his eyes questioned her as she came
on; and these were the answers that her face
gave him back.
The hair in the rector's description was light
brown and not plentiful. This woman's hair,
superbly luxuriant in its growth, was of the one
unpardonably remarkable shade of color which
the prejudice of the northern nations never en-
tirely forgives—it was red! The forehead in
the rector's description was high, narrow, and
sloping backward from the brow; the eyebrows
were faintly marked, and the eyes small, and in
color either gray or hazel. This woman's fore-
head was low, upright, and broad toward the
temples; her eyebrows, at once strongly and
delicately marked, were a shade darker than
her hair; her eyes, large, bright, and well-open-
ed, were of that purely blue color, without a
tinge in it of gray or green, so often present-
ed to our admiration in pictures and books, so
rarely met with in the living face. The nose
in the rector's description was aquiline. The
line of this woman's nose bent neither outward
nor inward: it was the straight delicately-mould-
ed nose (with the short upper-lip beneath) of the
ancient statues and busts. The lips in the rec-
tor's description were thin, and the upper-lip
long; the complexion was of a dull sickly pale-
ness; the chin retreating, and the mark of a
mole or a scar on the left side of it. This wo-
man's lips were full, rich, and sensual. Her
complexion was the lovely complexion which
accompanies such hair as hers—so delicately
bright in its rosier tints, so warmly and softly
white in its gentler gradations of color on the
forehead and the neck. Her chin, round and
dimpled, was pure of the slightest blemish in ev-
ery part of it, and perfectly in line with her fore-
head to the end. Nearer and nearer, and fairer
and fairer she came, in the glow of the morning
light—the most startling, the most unanswerable
contradiction that eye could see or mind conceive
to the description in the rector's letter.
Both governess and pupil were close to the
*
summer-house before they looked that way and
noticed Midwinter standing inside. The gov-
erness saw him first.
“A friend of yours, Miss Milroy?" she asked,
quietly, without starting or betraying any sign
of surprise.
Neelie recognized him instantly. Prejudiced
against Midwinter by his conduct when his
friend had introduced him at the cottage, she
now fairly detested him as the unlucky first
cause of her misunderstanding with Allan at
the picnic. Her face flushed, and she drew
back from the summer-house with an expression
of merciless surprise.
“He is a friend of Mr. Armadale's,” she re-
plied, sharply. “I don't know what he wants,
or why he is here.”
“A friend of Mr. Armadale's!” The gov-
erness's face lit up with a suddenly-roused in-
terest as she repeated the words. She returned
Midwinter's look, still steadily fixed on her, with
equal steadiness on her side.
“For my part,” pursued Neelie, resenting
Midwinter's insensibility to her presence on the
scene, “I think it a great liberty to treat papa's
garden as if it was the open park!”
The governess turned round and gently in-
terposed.
“My dear Miss Milroy,” she remonstrated,
“there are certain distinctions to be observed.
This gentleman is a friend of Mr. Armadale's.
You could hardly express yourself more strong-
ly if he was a perfect stranger.” *
“I express my opinion,” retorted Neelie,
chafing under the satirically indulgent tone in
which the governess addressed her. “It is a
matter of taste, Miss Gwilt; and tastes differ.”
She turned away petulantly, and walked back
by herself to the cottage.
“She is very young,” said Miss Gwilt, ap-
pealing with a smile to Midwinter's forbearance;
“and, as you must see for yourself, Sir, she is
a spoiled child.” She paused—showed, for an
instant only, her surprise at Midwinter's strange
silence and strange persistency in keeping his
eyes still fixed on her—then set herself, with a
charming grace and readiness, to help him out
of the false position in which he stood. “As
you have extended your walk thus far,” she re-
sumed, “perhaps you will kindly favor me, on
your return, by taking a message to your friend?
Mr. Armadale has been so good as to invite me
to see the Thorpe-Ambrose gardens this morn-
ing. Will you say that Major Milroy permits
me to accept the invitation (in company with
Miss Milroy) between ten and eleven o'clock?”
For a moment her eyes rested, with a renewed
look of interest, on Midwinter's face. She
waited, still in vain, for an answering word
from him—smiled, as if his extraordinary si-
lence amused rather than angered her—and
followed her pupil back to the cottage.
It was only when the last trace of her had
disappeared that Midwinter roused himself and
attempted to realize the position in which he


ARMADALE.
'W.
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\ N \
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W.
MISS GWILT.
stood. The revelation of her beauty was in no
respect answerable for the breathless astonish-
ment which had held him spell-bound up to this
moment. The one clear impression she had pro-
duced on him thus far began and ended with
his discovery of the astounding contradiction
that her face offered, in one feature after anoth-
er, to the description in Mr. Brock's letter. All
beyond this was vague and misty—a dim con-
sciousness of a tall, elegant woman, and of kind
words, modestly and gracefully spoken to him,
and nothing more.
He advanced a few steps into the garden,
without knowing why—stopped, glancing hith-
er and thither like a man lost—recognized the
summer-house by an effort, as if years had elapsed
since he had seen it—and made his way out
again, at last, into the park. Even here, he
wandered first in one direction, then in another.
His mind was still reeling under the shock that
had fallen on it; his perceptions were all con-
fused. Something kept him mechanically in
action, walking eagerly without a motive-
walking he knew not where.


ARMADALE. 139
You are no doubt sure to hear of her from one
or other of the people in the lawyer's office,
whom you have asked to inform you of the ap-
pearance of a stranger in the town.
“I am the more pleased at finding how en-
tirely I can trust you in this matter—for I am
likely to be obliged to leave Allan's interests
longer than I supposed solely in your hands.
My visit to Thorpe-Ambrose must, I regret to
say, be deferred for two months. The only one
of my brother-clergymen in London who is able
to take my duty for me can not make it conven-
ient to remove with his family to Somersetshire
before that time. I have no alternative but to
finish my business here, and be back at my rec-
tory on Saturday next. If any thing happens,
you will of course instantly communicate with
me; and, in that case, be the inconvenience
what it may, I must leave home for Thorpe-
Ambrose. If, on the other hand, all goes more
smoothly than my own obstinate apprehensions
will allow me to suppose, then Allan (to whom
I have written) must not expect to see me till
this day two months.
“No result has, up to this time, rewarded our
exertions to recover the trace lost at the rail-
way. I will keep my letter open, however, until
post time, in case the next few hours bring any
Ilews. Always truly yours,
“DECIMUS BRock.”
“P.S.—I have just heard from the lawyers'.
They have found out the name the woman passed
by in London. If this discovery (not a very
important one, I am afraid) suggests any new
course of proceeding to you, pray act on it at
once. The name is—Miss Gwilt.”
2.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw.
“THE COTTAGE, THORPE-AMBROSE,
“Saturday, June 28.
“If you will promise not to be alarmed,
Mamma Oldershaw, I will begin this letter in a
very odd way, by copying a page of a letter writ-
ten by somebody else. You have an excellent
memory, and you may not have forgotten that I
received a note from Major Milroy's mother
(after she had engaged me as governess) on
Monday last. It was dated and signed; and
here it is, as far as the first page: “June 23,
1851. Dear Madam,-Pray excuse my trou-
bling you, before you go to Thorpe-Ambrose,
with a word more about the habits observed in
my son's household. When I had the pleasure
of seeing you at two o'clock to-day, in Kings-
down Crescent, I had another appointment in a
distant part of London at three; and, in the
hurry of the moment, one or two little matters
escaped me, which I think I ought to impress
on your attention. The rest of the letter is not
of the slightest importance, but the lines that I
have just copied are well worthy of all the atten-
tion you can bestow on them. They have saved
me from discovery, my dear, before I have been
a week in Major Milroy's service!
‘‘It happened no later than yesterday even-
“There is a gentleman here (of whom I shall
have more to say presently), who is an intimate
friend of young Armadale's, and who bears the
strange name of Midwinter. He contrived yes-
terday to speak to me alone in the Park. Al-
most as soon as he opened his lips I found that
my name had been discovered in London (no
doubt by the Somersetshire clergyman), and that
Mr. Midwinter had been chosen (evidently by
the same person) to identify the Miss Gwilt who
had vanished from Brompton with the Miss
Gwilt who had appeared at Thorpe-Ambrose.
You foresaw this danger, I remember; but you
could scarcely have imagined that the exposure
would threaten me so soon.
“I spare you the details of our conversation,
to come to the end. Mr. Midwinter put the
matter very delicately, declaring, to my great
surprise, that he felt quite certain himself that I
was not the Miss Gwilt of whom his friend was
in search, and that he only acted as he did out
of regard to the anxiety of a person whose wishes
he was bound to respect. Would I assist him
in setting that anxiety completely at rest, so far
as I was concerned, by kindly answering one
plain question, which he had no other right to
ask me than the right my indulgence might
give him? The lost “Miss Gwilt had been
missed on Monday last, at two o'clock, in the
crowd on the platform of the Northwestern Rail-
way, in Euston Square. Would I authorize him
to say that on that day, and at that hour, the
Miss Gwilt who was Major Milroy's governess
had never been near the place 2
“I need hardly tell you that I seized the fine
opportunity he had given me of disarming all
future suspicion. I took a high tone on the
spot, and met him with the old lady's letter.
He politely refused to look at it. I insisted on
his looking at it. “I don't choose to be mis-
taken,' I said, ‘for a woman who may be a bad
character, because she happens to bear, or to
have assumed, the same name as mine. I in-
sist on your reading the first part of this letter
for my satisfaction, if not for your own. He
was obliged to comply—and there was the proof,
in the old lady's own handwriting, that at two
o'clock on Monday last she and I were togeth-
er in Kingsdown Crescent, which any directory
would tell him is a ‘crescent in Bayswater! I
leave you to imagine his apologies, and the per-
fect sweetness with which I received them.
“I might, of course, if I had not preserved
the letter, have referred him to you, or to the
major's mother with similar results. As it is,
the object has been gained without trouble or
delay. I have been proved not to be myself;
and one of the many dangers that threatened
me at Thorpe-Ambrose is a danger blown over
from this moment. Your house-maid's face
may not be a very handsome one; but there
is no denying that it has done us excellent serv-
1Ce.
“So much for the past; now for the future.
ing, and it began and ended in this manner:
You shall hear how I get on with the people


140
ARMADALF.
about me; and you shall judge for yourself what
the chances are, for and against my becoming
mistress of Thorpe-Ambrose.
“Let me begin with young Armadale—be-
cause it is beginning with good news. I have
produced the right impression on him already,
and Heaven knows that is nothing to boast of !
Any moderately good-looking woman who chose
to take the trouble could make him fall in love
with her. He is a rattle-pated young fool—
one of those noisy, rosy, light-haired, good-tem-
pered men, whom I particularly detest. I had
a whole hour alone with him in a boat, the first
day I came here, and I have made good use of
my time, I can tell you, from that day to this.
The only difficulty with him is the difficulty of
concealing my own feelings—especially when
he turns my dislike of him into downright ha-
tred by sometimes reminding me of his mother.
I really never saw a man whom I could use so
ill if I had the opportunity. He will give me
the opportunity, I believe, if no accident hap-
pens, sooner than we calculated on. I have
just returned from a party at the great house,
in celebration of the rent-day dinner, and the
squire's attentions to me, and my modest reluct-
ance to receive them, have already excited gen-
eral remark.
“My pupil, Miss Milroy, comes next. She
too is rosy and foolish; and, what is more, awk-
ward and squat and freckled and ill-tempered
and ill-dressed. No fear of her, though she
hates me like poison, which is a great comfort,
for I get rid of her out of lesson-time and walk-
ing-time. It is perfectly easy to see that she has
made the most of her opportunities with young
Armadale (opportunities, by-the-by, which we
never calculated on); and that she has been
stupid enough to let him slip through her fin-
gers. When I tell you that she is obliged, for
the sake of appearances, to go with her father
and me to the little entertainments at Thorpe-
Ambrose, and to see how young Armadale ad-
a prospect yet without an ugly place in it. My
prospect has two ugly places in it. The name
of one of them is Mrs. Milroy; and the name
of the other is Mr. Midwinter. ,
“Mrs. Milroy first. Before I had been five
minutes in the cottage, on the day of my ar-
rival, what do you think she did? She sent
down stairs and asked to see me. The mes-
sage startled me a little—after hearing from the
old lady, in London, that her daughter-in-law
was too great a sufferer to see any body; but
of course when I got her message I had no
choice but to go up stairs to the sick-room. I
found her bedridden with an incurable spinal
complaint, and a really horrible object to look
at—but with all her wits about her; and, if I
am not greatly mistaken, as deceitful a woman,
with as vile a temper, as you could find any
where in all your long experience. Her excess-
ive politeness, and her keeping her own face in
the shade of the bed-curtains while she contrived
to keep mine in the light, put me on my guard
the moment I entered the room. We were
more than half an hour together without my
stepping into any one of the many clever little
traps she laid for me. The only mystery in her
behavior, which I failed to see through at the
time, was her perpetually asking me to bring
her things (things she evidently did not want)
from different parts of the room.
“Since then events have enlightened me.
My first suspicions were raised by overhearing
some of the servants’ gossip; and I have been
confirmed in my opinion by the conduct of Mrs.
Milroy's nurse. On the few occasions when I
have happened to be alone with the major, the
nurse has also happened to want something of
her master, and has invariably forgotten to an-
nounce her appearance by knocking at the door.
Do you understand now why Mrs. Milroy sent
for me the moment I got into the house, and
what she wanted, when she kept me going back-
ward and forward, first for one thing and then for
mires me, you will understand the kind of place
I hold in her affections. She would try me
past all endurance if I didn't see that I aggra-
vate her by keeping my temper—so of course I
keep it. If I do break out it will be over our
lessons—not over our French, our grammar,
history, and globes—but over our music. No
words can say how I feel for her poor piano.
Half the musical girls in England ought to have
their fingers chopped off in the interests of so-
ciety; and, if I had my way, Miss Milroy's fin-
gers should be executed first.
“As for the major, I can hardly stand high-
er in his estimation than I stand already. I
am always ready to make his breakfast—and his
daughter is not. I can always find things for
him when he loses them — and his daughter
can't. I never yawn when he proses—and his
daughter does. I like the poor dear harmless
old, gentleman; so I won't say a word more
another? There is hardly an attractive light in
which my face and figure can be seen in which
that woman's jealous eyes have not studied them
already. I am no longer puzzled to know why
the father and daughter started, and looked at
each other, when I was first presented to them;
or why the servants still stare at me with a mis-
chievous expectation in their eyes when I ring
the bell and ask them to do anything. It is
useless to disguise the truth, Mother Oldershaw,
between you and me. When I went up stairs
into that sick-room I marched blindfold into
the clutches of a jealous woman. If Mrs. Mil-
roy can turn me out of the house, Mrs. Milroy
will—and, morning and night, she has nothing
else to do in that bed-prison of hers but to find
out the way.
“In this awkward position my own cautious
conduct is admirably seconded by the dear old
major's perfect insensibility. His wife's jeal-
about him.
“Well, here is a fair prospect for the future
surely? My good Oldershaw, there never was
|ousy of him is as monstrous a delusion as any
that could be found in a mad-house—it is the
| growth of her own vile temper, under the ag-


ARMADALE.
141
gravation of an incurable illness.
man hasn’t a thought beyond his mechanical
pursuits; and I don't believe he knows at this
moment whether I am a handsome woman or
not. With this chance to help me I may hope
to set the nurse's intrusions and jhe mistress's
contrivances at defiance—for a time, at any rate.
But you know what a jealous woman is, and I
think I know what Mrs. Milroy is; and I own I
shall breathe more freely on the day when young
Armadale opens his foolish lips to some pur-
pose, and sets the major advertising for a new
governess.
“Armadale's name reminds me of Armadale's
friend. There is more danger threatening in
that quarter; and, what is worse, I don't feel
half as well armed beforehand against Mr. Mid-
winter as I do against Mrs. Milroy.
“Every thing about this man is more or less
mysterious, which I don't like to begin with.
How does he come to be in the confidence of the
Somersetshire clergyman? How much has that
clergyman told him? How is it that he was so
firmly persuaded, when he spoke to me in the
park, that I was not the Miss Gwilt of whom his
friend was in search I haven't the ghost of
an answer to give to either of those three ques-
tions. I can't even discover who he is, or how
he and young Armadale first became acquainted.
I hate him. No, I don't; I only want to find
out about him. He is very young—little and
lean and active and dark, with bright black eyes
which say to me plainly, ‘We belong to a man
with brains in his head and a will of his own;
a man who hasn't always been hanging about a
country-house in attendance on a fool. Yes; I
am positively certain Mr. Midwinter has done
something or suffered something in his past life,
young as he is; and I would give I don't know
what to get at it. Don't resent my taking up
so much space in writing about him. He has
influence enough over young Armadale to be a
very awkward obstacle in my way, unless I can
secure his good opinion at starting.
“Well, you may ask, and what is to prevent
your securing his good opinion? I am sadly
afraid, Mother Oldershaw, I have got it on terms
I never bargained for. I am sadly afraid the
man is in love with me already.
“Don’t toss your head and say, “Just like
her vanity l’ After the horrors I have gone
through, I have no vanity left; and a man who
admires me is a man who makes me shudder.
There was a time, I own— Pooh! what am I
writing? Sentiment, I declare! Sentiment to
gou! Laugh away, my dear. As for me, I
neither laugh nor cry; I mend my pen, and get
on with my—what do the men call it?—my re-
port.
“The only thing worth inquiring is, whether
I am right or wrong in my idea of the impres-
sion I have made on him. Let me see—I have
been four times in his company. The first time
was in the major's garden, where we met unex-
pectedly, face to face. He stood looking at me,
like a man petrified, without speaking a word.
The poor
The effect of my horrid red hair, perhaps?
Quite likely—let us lay it on my hair. The
second time was in going over the Thorpe-Am-
brose grounds with young Armadale on one side
of me and my pupil (in the sulks) on the other.
Out comes Mr. Midwinter to join us—though
he had work to do in the steward's office, which
he had never been known to neglect on any
other occasion. Laziness, possibly? or an at-
tachment to Miss Milroy ? I can't say; we will
lay it on Miss Milroy, if you like—I only know
he did nothing but look at me. The third time
was at the private interview in the park, which
I have told you of already. I never saw a man
so agitated at putting a delicate question to a
woman in my life. But that might have been
only awkwardness; and his perpetually looking
back after me when we had parted, might have
been only looking back at the view. Lay it on
the view; by all means lay it on the view ! The
fourth time was this very evening, at the little
party. They made me play; and, as the piano
was a good one, I did my best. All the com-
pany crowded round me, and paid me their com-
pliments (my charming pupil paid hers, with a
face like a cat's, just before she spits), except
Mr. Midwinter. He waited till it was time to
go, and then he caught me alone for a moment
in the hall. There was just time for him to
take my hand and say two words. Shall I tell
you how he took my hand, and what his voice
sounded like when he spoke? Quite needless!
You have always told me that the late Mr. Older-
shaw doted on you. Just recall the first time
he took your hand and whispered a word or two
addressed to your private ear. To what did
you attribute his behavior on that occasion? I
have no doubt, if you had been playing on the
piano in the course of the evening, you would
have attributed it entirely to the music!
“No! you may take my word for it, the harm
is done. This man is no rattle-pated fool, who
changes his fancies as readily as he changes his
clothes—the fire that lights those big black eyes
of his is not an easy fire, when a woman has
once kindled it, for that woman to put out. I
don't wish to discourage you; I don't say the
chances are against us. But with Mrs. Milroy
threatening me on one side, and Mr. Midwinter
on the other, the worst of all risks to run is the
risk of losing time. Young Armadale has hinted
already, as well as such a lout can hint, at a pri-
vate interview ! Miss Milroy's eyes are sharp,
and the nurse's eyes are sharper; and I shall
lose my place if they either of them find me out.
No matter! I must take my chance, and give
him the interview. Only let me get him alone,
only let me escape the prying eyes of the wo-
men, and—if his friend doesn't come between
us—I answer for the result!
“In the mean time have I any thing more
to tell you? Are there any other people in our
way at Thorpe-Ambrose? Not another creat-
ure! None of the resident families call here,
young Armadale being, most fortunately, in bad
odor in the neighborhood. There are no hand-


142
ARMADALE.
some highly-bred women to come to the house,
and no persons of consequence to protest against
his attentions to a governess. The only guests
he could collect at his party to-night were the
lawyer and his family (a wife, a son, and two
daughters), and a deaf old woman and her son—
all perfectly unimportant people, and all obe-
dient humble servants of the stupid young
squire.
“Talking of obedient humble servants there
is one other person established here who is em-
ployed in the steward's office—a miserable, shab-
by, dilapidated old man named Bashwood. He
is a perfect stranger to me, and I am evidently
a perfect stranger to him; for he has been ask-
ing the house-maid at the cottage who I am.
It is paying no great compliment to myself to
confess it; but it is not the less true that I pro-
duced the most extraordinary impression on this
feeble old creature the first time he saw me.
He turned all manner of colors, and stood trem-
bling and staring at me as if there was some-
thing perfectly frightful in my face. I felt
quite startled for the moment—for of all the
ways in which men have looked at me, no man
ever looked at me in that way before. Did you
ever see the boa constrictor fed at the Zoological
Gardens? They put a live rabbit into his cage,
and there is a moment when the two creatures
look at each other. I declare Mr. Bashwood
reminded me of the rabbit!
“Why do I mention this? I don't know
why. Perhaps I have been writing too long,
and my head is beginning to fail me. Per-
haps Mr. Bashwood's manner of admiring me
strikes my fancy by its novelty. Absurd ' I
am exciting myself, and troubling you about
nothing. Oh, what a weary, long letter I have
written I and how brightly the stars look at me
through the window—and how awfully quiet
the night is! Send me some more of those
sleeping drops, and write me one of your nice,
wicked, amusing letters. You shall hear from
me again as soon as I know a little better how
it is all likely to end. Good-night, and keep a
corner in your stony old heart for L. G.”
3.–From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“DIANA STREET, PIMLIco, Monday.
“MY DEARLYDIA,-I am in no state of mind
to write you an amusing letter. Your news is
very discouraging, and the recklessness of your
tone quite alarms me. Consider the money I
have already advanced, and the interests we
both have at stake. Whatever else you are
don't be reckless, for Heaven's sake!
“What can I do?—I ask myself, as a wo-
man of business, what can I do to help you? I
can't give you advice, for I am not on the spot,
and I don't know how circumstances may alter
from one day to another. Situated as we are
now I can only be useful in one way; I can
discover a new obstacle that threatens you, and
I think I can remove it.
“You say, with great truth, that there never
was a prospect yet without an ugly place in it,
and that there are two ugly places in your pros-
pect. My dear, there may be three ugly places
if I don't bestir myself to prevent it; and the
name of the third place will be—Brock! Is it
possible you can refer, as you have done, to the
Somersetshire clergyman and not see that the
progress you make with young Armadale will
be, sooner or later, reported to him by young
Armadale's friend? Why, now I think of it,
you are doubly at the parson's mercy! You are
at the mercy of any fresh suspicion which may
bring him into the neighborhood himself at a
day's notice; and you are at the mercy of his
interference the moment he hears that the squire
is committing himself with a neighbor's govern-
ess. If I can do nothing else I can keep this
additional difficulty out of your way. Andoh,
Lydia, with what alacrity I shall exert myself
after the manner in which the old wretch in-
sulted me when I told him that pitiable story in
the street! I declare I tingle with pleasure at
this new prospect of making a fool of Mr. Brock.
“And how is it to be done? Just as we have
done it already, to be sure. He has lost “Miss
Gwilt (otherwise my house-maid), hasn't he?
Very well. He shall find her again, wherever
he is now, suddenly settled within easy reach
of him. As long as she stops in the place he
will stop in it; and as we know he is not at
Thorpe-Ambrose there you are free of him :
The old gentleman's suspicions have given us a
great deal of trouble so far. Let us turn them
to some profitable account at last; let us tie
him, by his suspicions, to my house-maid's
apron-string. Most refreshing! Quite a moral
retribution, isn't it?
“The only help I need trouble you for is help
you can easily give. Find out from Mr. Mid-
winter where the parson is now, and let me
know by return of post. If he is in London I
will personally assist my house-maid in the nec-
essary mystification of him. If he is any where
else I will send her after him, accompanied by
a person on whose discretion I can implicitly
rely.
'. You shall have the sleeping-drops to-mor-
row. In the mean time, I say at the end what
I said at the beginning—no recklessness! Don't
encourage poetical feelings by looking at the
stars; and don't talk about the night being aw-
fully quiet. There are people (in Observatories)
paid to look at the stars for you—leave it to
them. And as for the night, do what Provi-
dence intended you to do with the night when
Providence provided you with eyelids—go to
sleep in it.
“Affectionately yours,
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.”
4.–From the Reverend Decimus Brock to Ozias
Midwinter.
“Boscombe RECTORY, WEST SoMERSET,
Thursday, July 3.
“MY DEAR MIDw1NTER,-One line before
the post goes out, to relieve you of all sense of
responsibility at Thorpe-Ambrose, and to make


ARMADALE.
143
my apologies to the lady who lives as governess
in Major Milroy's family.
“The Miss Gwilt—or perhaps I ought to say,
the woman calling herself by that name—has,
to my unspeakable astonishment, openly made
her appearance here, in my own parish ! She
is staying at the inn, accompanied by a plausi-
ble-looking man, who passes as her brother.
What this audacious proceeding really means—
unless it marks a new step in the conspiracy
against Allan, taken under new advice—is, of
course, more than I can yet find out.
“My own idea is, that they have recognized
the impossibility of getting at Allan, without
finding me (or you) as an obstacle in their way;
and that they are going to make a virtue of
necessity by boldly trying to open their commu-
nications through me. The man looks capable
of any stretch of audacity; and both he and the
woman had the impudence to bow when I met
them in the village half an hour since. They
have been making inquiries already about Allan's
mother—here, where her exemplary life may set
their closest scrutiny at defiance. If they will
only attempt to extort money, as the price of
the woman's silence on the subject of poor Mrs.
Armadale's conduct in Madeira at the time of
her marriage, they will find me well prepared
for them beforehand. I have written by this
post to my lawyers, to send a competent man to
assist me: and he will stay at the rectory, in
any character which he thinks it safest to as-
sume under present circumstances.
“You shall hear what happens in the next
day or two.
“Always truly yours, DECIMUs BRock.”
-e-
CHAPTER XII.
THE CLoUDING OF THE SKY.
NINE days had passed, and the tenth day was
nearly at an end, since Miss Gwilt and her
pupil had taken their morning walk in the cot-
tage garden.
The night was overcast. Since sunset there
had been signs in the sky from which the popu-
lar forecast had predicted rain. The reception-
rooms at the great house were all empty and
dark. Allan was away, passing the evening
with the Milroys; and Midwinter was waiting
his return—not where Midwinter usually waited,
among the books in the library—but in the lit-
tle back-room which Allan's mother had inhab-
ited in the last days of her residence at Thorpe-
Ambrose.
Nothing had been taken away, but much had
been added to the room, since Midwinter had
first seen it. The books which Mrs. Armadale
had left behind her, the furniture, the old mat-
ting on the floor, the old paper on the walls,
were all undisturbed. The statuette of Niobe
still stood on its bracket, and the French win-
dow still opened on the garden. But now, to
the relics left by the mother, were added the
personal possessions belonging to the son. The
wall, bare hitherto, was decorated with water-
color drawings—with a portrait of Mrs. Arma-
dale, supported on one side by a view of the old
house in Somersetshire, and on the other by a
picture of the yacht. Among the books which
bore in faded ink Mrs. Armadale's inscription,
“From my father,” were other books inscribed
in the same handwriting, in brighter ink, “To
my son.” Hanging to the wall, ranged on the
chimney-piece, scattered over the table, were a
host of little objects, some associated with Allan's
past life, others necessary to his daily pleasures
and pursuits, and all plainly testifying that the
room which he habitually occupied at Thorpe-
Ambrose was the very room which had once re-
called to Midwinter the second vision of the
dream. Here, strangely unmoved by the scene
around him, so lately the object of his supersti-
tious distrust, Allan's friend now waited com-
posedly for Allan's return—and here, more
strangely still, he looked on a change in the
household arrangements, due in the first instance
entirely to himself. His own lips had revealed
the discovery which he had made on the first
morning in the new house; his own voluntary
act had induced the son to establish himself in
the mother's room.
Under what motives had he spoken the words?
Under no motives which were not the natural
growth of the new interests and the new hopes
that now animated him.
The entire change wrought in his convictions
by the memorable event that had brought him
face to face with Miss Gwilt, was a change which
it was not in his nature to hide from Allan's
knowledge. He had spoken openly, and had
spoken as it was in his character to speak. The
merit of conquering his superstition was a merit
which he shrank from claiming, until he had
first unsparingly exposed that superstition in its
worst and weakest aspects to view. It was only
after he had unreservedly acknowledged the im-
pulse under which he had left Allan at the Mere
that he had taken credit to himself for the new
point of view from which he could now look at
the Dream. Then, and not till them, he had
spoken of the fulfillment of the first Vision, as
the doctor at the Isle of Man might have spoken
of it—he had asked, as the doctor might have
asked, Where was the wonder of their seeing a
pool at sunset, when they had a whole net-work
of pools within a few hours drive of them? and
what was there extraordinary in discovering a
woman at the Mere, when there were roads that
led to it, and villages in its neighborhood, and
boats employed on it, and pleasure parties visit-
ing it? So again, he had waited to vindicate
the firmer resolution with which he looked to
the future, until he had first revealed all that
he now saw himself of the errors of the past.
The abandonment of his friend's interests, the
unworthiness of the confidence that had given
him the steward's place, the forgetfulness of the
trust that Mr. Brock had reposed in him, all
implied in the one idea of leaving Allan, were


144
ARMADALE.
all pointed out. The glaring selfcontradiction. The hour wore on quietly as Allan's friend sat
betrayed in accepting the Dream as the revela-
tion of a fatality, and in attempting to escape
that fatality by an exertion of free-will—in toil-
ing to store up knowledge of the steward's duties
for the future, and in shrinking from letting the
future find him in Allan's house—were, in their
turn, unsparingly exposed. To every error, to
every inconsistency, he resolutely confessed, be-
fore he attempted to assert the clearer and bet-
ter mind that was in him—before he ventured
on the last simple appeal which closed all,
“Will you trust me in the future? will you for-
give and forget the past?”
A man who could thus open his whole heart,
without one lurking reserve inspired by consid-
eration for himself, was not a man to forget any
minor act of concealment of which his weakness
might have led him to be guilty toward his
friend. It lay heavy on Midwinter's conscience
that he had kept secret from Allan a discovery
which he ought in Allan's dearest interests to
have revealed—the discovery of his mother's
room.
But one doubt had closed his lips—the doubt
whether Mrs. Armadale's conduct in Madeira
had been kept secret on her return to England.
Careful inquiry, first among the servants, “hen
among the tenantry, careful consideration of the
few reports current at the time, as repeated to
him by the few persons left who remembered
them, convinced him at last that the family se-
cret had been successfully kept within the family
limits. Once satisfied that whatever inquiries
the son might make would lead to no disclosure
which could shake his respect for his mother's
memory, Midwinter had hesitated no longer.
He had taken Allan into the room, and had
shown him the books on the shelves, and all
that the writing in the books disclosed. He had
said plainly, “My one motive for not telling you
this before sprang from my dread of interesting
you in the room which I looked at with horror
as the second of the scenes pointed at in the
Dream. Forgive me this also, and you will
have forgiven me all.”
With Allan's love for his mother's memory,
but one result could follow such an avowal as
this. He had liked the little room from the first
as a pleasant contrast to the oppressive grandeur
of the other rooms at Thorpe-Ambrose; and
now that he knew what associations were con-
nected with it, his resolution was at once taken
to make it especially his own. The same day
all his personal possessions were collected and
arranged in his mother's room—in Midwinter's
presence, and with Midwinter's assistance given
to the work.
Under those circumstances had the change
now wrought in the household arrangements
been produced; and in this way had Midwin-
ter's victory over his own fatalism—by making
Allan the daily occupant of a room which he
might otherwise hardly ever have entered—actu-
ally favored the fulfillment of the Second Vision
of the Dream.
waiting for Allan's return. Sometimes reading,
sometimes thinking placidly, he whiled away the
time. No vexing cares, no boding doubts trou-
bled him now. The rent-day, which he had
once dreaded, had come and gone harmlessly.
A friendly understanding had been established
between Allan and his tenants; Mr. Bashwood
had proved himself to be worthy of the confi-
dence reposed in him; the Pedgifts, father and
son, had amply justified their client's good opin-
ion of them. Wherever Midwinter looked the
prospect was bright, the future was without a
cloud.
He trimmed the lamp on the table beside him,
and looked out at the night. The stable-clock
was chiming the half-hour past eleven as he
walked to the window, and the first rain-drops
were beginning to fall. He had his hand on the
bell to summon the servant, and send him over
to the cottage with an umbrella, when he was
stopped by hearing the familiar footstep on the
walk outside.
“How late you are!” said Midwinter, as Al-
lan entered through the open French window.
“Was there a party at the cottage?”
“No ! only ourselves. The time slipped
away somehow.”
He answered in lower tones than usual, and
sighed as he took his chair.
“You seem to be out of spirits,” pursued
Midwinter. “What's the matter?”
Allan hesitated. “I may as well tell you,”
he said, after a moment. “It's nothing to be
ashamed of; I only wonder you haven't noticed
it before ! There's a woman in it, as usual—
I'm in love.”
Midwinter laughed. “Has Miss Milroy been
more charming to-night than ever?” he asked,
gayly.
“Miss Milroy'" repeated Allan. “What
are you thinking of? I'm not in love with Miss
Milroy.”
“Who is it, then?”
*Who is it? What a question to ask!
can it be but Miss Gwilt?”
There was a sudden silence. Allan sat list-
lessly, with his hands in his pockets, looking out
through the open window at the falling rain.
If he had turned toward his friend when he
mentioned Miss Gwilt's name he might possi-
bly have been a little startled by the change he
would have seen in Midwinter's face.
“I suppose you don't approve of it?” he said,
after waiting a little.
There was no answer.
“It's too late to make objections,” proceeded
Allan. “I really mean it when I tell you I'm
in love with her.”
“A fortnight since you were in love with Miss
Milroy,” said the other, in quiet, measured tones.
“Pooh ! a mere flirtation. It's different this
time. I'm in earnest about Miss Gwilt.”
He looked round as he spoke. Midwinter
turned his face aside on the instant and bent it
over a book.
Who


ARMADALE.
145
“I see yoy don’t approve of the thing,” Al-
lan went on “Do you object to her being
only a governess? You can't do that, I'm sure.
If you were in my place, her being only a gov-
erness wouldn't stand in the way with you?”
“No,” said Midwinter; “I can't honestly
say it would stand in the way with me.” He
gave the answer reluctantly, and pushed his
chair back out of the light of the lamp.
“A governess is a lady who is not rich,” said
Allan, in an oracular manner; “and a duchess
is a lady who is not poor. And that's all the
difference I acknowledge between them. Miss
Gwilt is older than I am—I don't deny that.
What age do you guess her at, Midwinter? I say
seven or eight-and-twenty. What do you say?”
“Nothing. I agree with you.”
“Do you think seven or eight-and-twenty is
too old for me? If you were in love with a wo-
man yourself, you wouldn't think seven or eight-
and-twenty too old—would you?”
“I can't say I should think it too old, if—”
“If you were really fond of her?”
Once more there was no answer.
“Well,” resumed Allan, “if there's no harm
in her being only a governess, and no harm in
her being a little older than I am, what's the
objection to Miss Gwilt?”
“I have made no objection.”
“I don't say you have. But you don't seem
to like the notion of it, for all that.”
There was another pause. Midwinter was
the first to break the silence this time.
“Are you sure of yourself, Allan’” he ask-
ed, with his face bent once more over the book;
“are you really attached to this lady? Have
you thought seriously already of asking her to
be your wife?”
“I am thinking seriously of it at this mo-
ment,” said Allan. “I can't be happy—I can't
live without her. Upon my soul, I worship the
very ground she treads on.”
“How long—?” His voice faltered, and he
stopped. “How long,” he reiterated, “have
you worshiped the very ground she treads on?”
“Longer than you think for. I know I can
trust you with all my secrets—”
“Don’t trust me !”
“Nonsense! I will trust you. There is a
little difficulty in the way, which I haven’t men-
tioned yet. It's a matter of some delicacy, and
I want to consult you about it. Between our-
selves, I have had private opportunities with
Miss Gwilt—”
Midwinter suddenly started to his feet, and
opened the door.
“We'll talk of this to-morrow,” he said.
“Good-night.”
Allan looked round in astonishment. The
door was closed again, and he was alone in the
room.
“He has never shaken hands with me!” ex-
claimed Allan, looking bewildered at the empty
chair.
As the words passed his lips the door opened,
and Midwinter appeared again.
“We haven't shaken hands,” he said, ab-
ruptly. “God bless you, Allan: We'll talk
of it to-morrow. Good-night.”
Allan stood alone at the window, looking out
at the pouring rain. He felt ill at ease, with-
out knowing why. “Midwinter's ways get
stranger and stranger,” he thought. “What
can he mean by putting me off till to-morrow
when I wanted to speak to him to-night?” He
took up his bedroom candle a little impatiently
—put it down again—and, walking back to the
open window, stood looking out in the direction
of the cottage. “I wonder if she's thinking of
me?” he said to himself softly.
She was thinking of him. She had just
opened her desk to write to Mrs. Oldershaw;
and her pen had that moment traced the open-
ing line: “Make your mind easy. I have got
him ''”
CHAPTER XIII. .
EXIT.
IT rained all through the night; and when
the morning came it was raining still.
Contrary to his ordinary habit, Midwinter
was waiting in the breakfast-room when Allan
entered it. He looked worn and weary, but his
smile was gentler, and his manner more com-
posed than usual. To Allan's surprise he ap-
proached the subject of the previous night's con-
versation of his own accord as soon as the serv-
ant was out of the room.
“I am afraid you thought me very impatient
and very abrupt with you last night,” he said.
“I will try to make amends for it this morning.
I will hear everything you wish to say to me on
the subject of Miss Gwilt.”
“I hardly like to worry you,” said Allan.


146
ARMADALE.
“You look as if you had had a bad night's
rest.”
“I have not slept well for some time past,”
replied Midwinter, quietly. “Something has
been wrong with me. But I believe I have
found out the way to put myself right again
without troubling the doctors. Later in the
morning I shall have something to say to you
about this. Let us get back first to what you
were talking of last night. You were speaking
of some difficulty—” He hesitated, and finished
the sentence in a tone so low that Allan failed
to hear him. “Perhaps it would be better,”
he went on, “if, instead of speaking to me, you
spoke to Mr. Brock?”
“I would rather speak to you,” said Allan.
“But tell me first, was I right or wrong last
night in thinking you disapproved of my falling
in love with Miss Gwilt?”
Midwinter's lean nervous fingers began to
crumble the bread in his plate. His eyes looked
away from Allan for the first time.
“If you have any objection,” persisted Allan,
“I should like to hear it.”
Midwinter suddenly looked up again, his
cheeks turning ashy pale, and his glittering
black eyes fixed full on Allan's face. ,
“You love her,” he said. “Does she love
gou?”
“You won't think me vain?” returned Allan.
“I told you yesterday I had had private oppor-
tunities with her—”
Midwinter's eyes dropped again to the crumbs
on his plate. “I understand,” he interposed,
quickly. “You were wrong last night. I had
no objections to make.”
“Don’t you congratulate me?” asked Allan,
a little uneasily. “Such a beautiful woman:
such a clever woman '" -
Midwinter held out his hand. “I owe you
more than mere congratulations,” he said. “In
any thing which is for your happiness I owe you
help.” He took Allan's hand, and wrung it
hard. “Can I help you?” he asked, growing
paler and paler as he spoke.
“My dear fellow !” exclaimed Allan, “what
is the matter with you? Your hand is as cold
as ice.”
Midwinter smiled faintly. “I am always in
extremes,” he said; “my hand was as hot as
fire the first time you took it at the old west
country inn. Come to that difficulty which you
have not come to yet. You are young, rich,
your own master—and she loves you. What
difficulty can there be?”
Allan hesitated. “I hardly know how to put
it,” he replied. “As you said just now, I love
her, and she loves me—and yet there is a sort
of strangeness between us. One talks a good
deal about one's self, when one is in love—at
least I do. I've told her all about myself, and
my mother, and how I came in for this place,
and the rest of it. Well—though it doesn't
strike me when we are together—it comes across
me now and then, when I'm away from her,
that she doesn't say much on her side. In
fact, I know no more about her than you
do.”
“Do you mean that you know nothing about
Miss Gwilt's family and friends?”
“That's it, exactly.”
“Have you never asked her about them?”
“I said something of the sort the other day,”
returned Allan; “and I'm afraid, as usual, I
said it in the wrong way. She looked—I can't
quite tell you how; not exactly displeased, but
—oh, what things words are ! I'd give the
world, Midwinter, if I could only find the right
word when I want it, as well as you do.”
“Did Miss Gwilt say any thing to you in the
way of a reply?”
“That's just what I was coming to. She
said, ‘I shall have a melancholy story to tell
you one of these days, Mr. Armadale, about my-
self and my family; but you look so happy, and
the circumstances are so distressing, that I have
hardly the heart to speak of it now.” Ah, she
can express herself—with the tears in her eyes,
my dear fellow, with the tears in her eyes! Of
course I changed the subject directly. And now
the difficulty is how to get back to it, delicately,
without making her cry again. We must get
back to it, you know. Not on my account; I
am quite content to marry her first, and hear
of her family misfortunes, poor thing, afterward.
But I know Mr. Brock. If I can't satisfy him
about her family when I write to tell him of this
(which of course I must do), he will be dead
against the whole thing. I'm my own master,
of course, and I can do as I like about it. But
dear old Brock was such a good friend to my
poor mother, and he has been such a good friend
to me—you see what I mean, don't you?”
“Certainly, Allan; Mr. Brock has been your
second father. Any disagreement between you
about such a serious matter as this would be the
saddest thing that could happen. You ought to
satisfy him that Miss Gwilt is (what I am sure
Miss Gwilt will prove to be) worthy, in every way
worthy—” His voice sank in spite of him, and
he left the sentence unfinished.
“Just my feeling in the matter!” Allan
struck in, glibly. “Now we can come to what
I particularly wanted to consult you about. If
this was your case, Midwinter, you would be
able to say the right words to her—you would
put it delicately, even though you were putting
it quite in the dark. I can't do that. I am a
blundering sort of fellow; and I am horribly
afraid, if I can't get some hint at the truth to
help me at starting, of saying something to dis-
tress her. Family misfortunes are such tender
subjects to touch on—especially with such a re-
fined woman, such a tender-hearted woman, as
Miss Gwilt. There may have been some dread-
ful death in the family—some relation who has
disgraced himself—some infernal cruelty which
has forced the poor thing out on the world as a
governess. Well, turning it over in my mind, it
struck me that the major might be able to put
me on the right tack. It is quite possible that
he might have been informed of Miss Gwilt's


ARMADALE.
147
family circumstances before he engaged her—
isn’t it?”
“It is possible, Allan, certainly.”
“Just my feeling again! My notion is to
speak to the major. If I could only get the
story from him first I should know so much bet-
ter how to speak to Miss Gwilt about it afterward.
You advise me to try the major, don't you?”
There was a pause before Midwinter replied.
When he did answer it was a little reluctantly.
“I hardly know how to advise you, Allan,”
he said. “This is a very delicate matter.”
“I believe you would try the major if you
were in my place,” returned Allan, reverting to
his inveterately personal way of putting the
question.
“Perhaps I might,” said Midwinter, more
and more unwillingly. “But if I did speak to
the major I should be very careful, in your
place, not to put myself in a false position—I
should be very careful to let no one suspect me
of the meanness of prying into a woman's secrets
behind her back.” -
Allan's face flushed. “Good Heavens, Mid-
winter!” he exclaimed, “who could suspect me
of that ?”
“Nobody, Allan, who really knows you.”
“The major knows me. The major is the
last man in the world to misunderstand me.
All I want him to do is to help me (if he can)
to speak about a delicate subject to Miss Gwilt,
without hurting her feelings. Can any thing be
simpler between two gentlemen?”
Instead of replying, Midwinter, still speaking
as constrainedly as ever, asked a question on his
side. “Do you mean to tell Major Milroy,” he
said, “what your intentions really are toward
Miss Gwilt?”
Allan's manner altered. He hesitated, and
looked confused.
“I have been thinking of that,” he replied;
“and I mean to feel my way first, and then tell
him or not afterward, as matters turn out.”
A proceeding so cautious as this was too strik-
ingly inconsistent with Allan's character not to
surprise any one who knew him. Midwinter
showed his surprise plainly.
“You forget that foolish flirtation of mine
with Miss Milroy,” Allan went on, more and
more confusedly. “The major may have no-
ticed it, and may have thought I meant—well,
what I didn't mean. It might be rather awk-
ward, mightn't it, to propose to his face for his
governess instead of his daughter?”
He waited for a word of answer, but none
came. Midwinter opened his lips to speak, and,
suddenly checked himself. Allan, uneasy at
his silence, doubly uneasy under certain recol-
lections of the major's daughter which the con-
versation had called up, rose from the table, and
shortened the interview a little impatiently.
“Come! come!” he said, “don’t sit there
Iooking unutterable things—don't make mount-
ains out of molehills. You have such an old,
old head, Midwinter, on those young shoulders
of yours!
Let's have done with all these pros
and cons. Do you mean to tell me in plain
words that it won't do to speak to the major?”
“I can't take the responsibility, Allan, of
telling you that. To be plainer still, I can't
feel confident of the soundness of any advice I
may give you in—in our present position toward
each other. All I am sure of is, that I can not
possibly be wrong in entreating you to do two
things.”
“What are they?”
“If you speak to Major Milroy, pray remem-
ber the caution I have given you ! Pray think
of what you say before you say it!”
“I’ll think—never fear ! What next?”
“Before you take any serious step in this
matter write and tell Mr. Brock. Will you
promise me to do that?”
“With all my heart. Anything more?”
“Nothing more. I have said my last words.”
Allan led the way to the door. “Come into
my room,” he said, “and I'll give you a cigar.
The servants will be in here directly to clear
away, and I want to go on talking about, Miss
Gwilt.”
“Don’t wait for me,” said Midwinter; “I'll
follow you in a minute or two.” -
He remained seated until Allan had closed
the door—then rose, and took from a corner of
the room, where it lay hidden behind one of the
curtains, a knapsack ready packed for traveling.
As he stood at the window thinking, with the
knapsack in his hand, a strangely old, care-worn
look stole over his face; he seemed to lose the
last of his youth in an instant.
What the woman's quicker insight had dis-
covered days since, the man's slower perception
had only realized in the past night. The pang
that had wrung him when he heard Allan's
avowal had set the truth self-revealed before
Midwinter for the first time. He had been con-
scious of looking at Miss Gwilt with new eyes
and a new mind, on the next occasion when
they met after the memorable interview in Major
Milroy's garden; he had been conscious of his
growing interest thenceforth in her society, and
his growing admiration of her beauty—but he
had never until now known the passion that
she had roused in him for what it really was.
Knowing it at last, feeling it consciously in full
possession of him, he had the courage which no
man with a happier experience of life would
have possessed—the courage to recall what
Allan had said to him, and to look resolutely at
the future through his own grateful remem-
brances of the past.
Steadfastly, through the sleepless hours of the
night, he had contemplated the sacrifice of him-
self to the dearest interest of his friend, as part
of the great debt of gratitude that he owed to
Allan. Steadfastly he had bent his mind to the
conviction that he must conquer the passion
which had taken possession of him for Allan's
sake; and that the one way to conquer it was—
to go. No after-doubt as to the sacrifice had
troubled him when morning came; and no aft-


148
ARMADALE.
er-doubt troubled him now. The one question
that kept him hesitating was the question of
leaving Thorpe-Ambrose. Though Mr. Brock's
letter relieved him from all necessity of keeping
watch in Norfolk for a woman who was known
to be in Somersetshire; though the duties of
the steward's office were duties which might be
safely left in Mr. Bashwood's tried and trust-
worthy hands—still, admitting these considera-
tions, his mind was not easy at the thought of
leaving Allan at a time when a crisis was ap-
proaching in Allan's life.
He slung the knapsack loosely over his shoul-
der, and put the question to his conscience for
the last time. “Can you trust yourself to see
her, day by day, as you must see her—can you
trust yourself to hear him talk of her, hour by
hour, as you must hear him—if you stay in this
house?” Again the answer came, as it had
come all through the night. Again his heart
warned him, in the very interests of the friend-
ship that he held sacred, to go while the time
was his own; to go before the woman who had
possessed herself of his love had possessed her-
self of his power of self-sacrifice and his sense
of gratitude as well.
He looked round the room mechanically be-
fore he turned to leave it. Every remembrance
of the conversation that had just taken place
between Allan and himself pointed to the same
conclusion, and warned him, as his own con-
science had warned him, to go. Had he hon-
estly mentioned any one of the objections which
he or any man must have seen to Allan's attach-
ment? Had he—as his knowledge of his friend's
facile character bound him to do—warmed Allan
to distrust his own hasty impulses, and to test
himself by time and absence before he made sure
that the happiness of his whole life was bound
up in Miss Gwilt? No. The bare doubt wheth-
er, in speaking of these things, he could feel
that he was speaking disinterestedly, had closed
his lips, and would close his lips for the fu-
ture, till the time for speaking had gone by.
Was the right man to restrain Allan the man
who would have given the world, if he had it,
to stand in Allan's place? There was but one
plain course of action that an honest man and
a grateful man could follow in the position in
which he stood. Far removed from all chance
of seeing her, and from all chance of hearing of
her—alone with his own faithful recollection of
what he owed to his friend—he might hope to
fight it down, as he had fought down the tears
in his childhood under his gipsy master's stick;
as he had fought down the misery of his lonely
youth-time in the country bookseller's shop.
“I must go,” he said, as he turned wearily from
the window, “before she comes to the house
again. I must go before another hour is over
my head.”
With that resolution he left the room; and,
in leaving it, took the irrevocable step from
Present to Future.
The rain was still falling. The sullen sky
all round the horizon still lowered, watery and
dark, when Midwinter, equipped for traveling,
appeared in Allan's room.
“Good Heavens!” cried Allan, pointing to
the knapsack, “what does that mean?”
“Nothing very extraordinary,” said Midwin-
ter. “It only means—good-by.”
“Good-by!” repeated Allan, starting to his
feet in astonishment.
Midwinter put him back gently into his chair,
and drew a seat near to it for himself.
“When you noticed that I looked ill this
morning,” he said, “I told you that I had been
thinking of a way to recover my health, and
that I meant to speak to you about it later in
the day. That later time has come. I have
been out of sorts, as the phrase is, for some time
past. You have remarked it yourself, Allan,
more than once; and, with your usual kind-
ness, you have allowed it to excuse many things
in my conduct which would have been otherwise
unpardonable, even in your friendly eyes.”
“My dear fellow,” interposed Allan, “you
don't mean to say you are going out on a walk-
ing tour in this pouring rain '"
“Never mind the rain,” rejoined Midwinter.
“The rain and I are old friends. You know
something, Allan, of the life I led before you
met with me. From the time when I was a
child I have been used to hardship and expo-
sure. Night and day, sometimes for months to-
gether, I never had my head under a roof. For
years and years the life of a wild animal—per-
haps I ought to say, the life of a savage—was
the life I led, while you were at home and hap-
py. I have the leaven of the vagabond—the
vagabond animal, or the vagabond man, I hard-
ly know which—in me still. Does it distress
you to hear me talk of myself in this way? I
won't distress you. I will only say that the
comfort and the luxury of our life here are, at
times, I think, a little too much for a man to
whom comforts and luxuries come as strange
things. I want nothing to put me right again
but more air and exercise; fewer good break-
fasts and dinners, my dear friend, than I get
here. Let me go back to some of the hardships
which this comfortable house is expressly made
to shut out. Let me meet the wind and weath-
er as I used to meet them when I was a boy;
let me feel weary again for a little while, with-
out a carriage near to pick me up; and hungry
when the night falls, with miles of walking be-
tween my supper and me. Give me a week or
two away, Allan—up northward, on foot, to the
Yorkshire moors—and I promise to return to
Thorpe-Ambrose better company for you and
for your friends. I shall be back before you
have time to miss me. Mr. Bashwood will take
care of the business in the office. It is only for
a fortnight, and it is for my own good: let me
O !”
9. “I don't like it,” said Allan. “I don't like
your leaving me in this sudden manner. There's
something so strange and dreary about it. Why
not try riding, if you want more exercise; all


ARMADALE.
149
the horses in the stables are at your disposal.
At all events, you can't possibly go to-day.
Look at the rain P”
Midwinter looked toward the window, and
gently shook his head. -
“I thought nothing of the rain,” he said,
“when I was a mere child, getting my living
with the dancing dogs—why should I think any
thing of it now? My getting wet, and your get-
ting wet, Allan, are two very different things.
When I was a fisherman's boy in the Hebrides
I hadn't a dry thread on me for weeks together.”
“But you're not in the Hebrides now,” per-
sisted Allan; “and I expect our friends from
the cottage to-morrow evening. You can’t start
till after to-morrow. Miss Gwilt is going to
give us some more music, and you know you
like Miss Gwilt's playing.”
Midwinter turned aside to buckle the straps
of his knapsack. “Give me another chance of
hearing Miss Gwilt when I come back,” he said,
with his head down and his fingers busy at the
straps.
“You have one fault, my dear fellow, and it
grows on you,” remonstrated Allan; “when you
have once taken a thing into your head you're
the most obstinate man alive. There's mo per-
suading you to listen to reason. If you will go,”
added Allan, suddenly rising as Midwinter took
up his hat and stick in silence, “I have half a
mind to go with you, and try a little roughing
it too !”
“Go with me!” repeated Midwinter, with a
momentary bitterness in his tone, “and leave
Miss Gwilt!”
Allan sat down again, and admitted the force
of the objection in significant silence. Without
a word more on his side, Midwinter held out
his hand to take leave. They were both deeply
moved, and each was anxious to hide his agita-
tion from the other. Allan took the last refuge
which his friend's firmness left to him: he tried
to lighten the farewell moment by a joke.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I begin to
doubt if you're quite cured yet of your belief
in the Dream. I suspect you're running away
from me, after all!”
Midwinter looked at him, uncertain whether
he was in jest or earnest. “What do you
mean?” he asked.
“What did you tell me,” retorted Allan,
“when you took me in here the other day and
“No!” he said, pointing to the little marble
figure on the bracket, “the scene is not com-
plete; you have forgotten something as usual.
The Dream is wrong this time, thank God!—
utterly wrong! In the vision you saw, the stat-
ue was lying in fragments on the floor; and you
were stooping over them with a troubled and an
angry mind. There stands the statue safe and
sound! and you haven't the vestige of an angry
feeling in your mind, have you?” He seized
Allan impulsively by the hand. At the same
moment the consciousness came to him that he
was speaking and acting as earnestly as if he
still believed in the Dream. The color rushed
back over his face, and he turned away in con-
fused silence. *
“What did I tell you?” said Allan, laughing
a little uneasily. “That night on the Wreck
is hanging on your mind as heavily as ever.”
“Nothing hangs heavy on me,” retorted Mid-
winter, with a sudden outburst of impatience,
“but the knapsack on my back, and the time
I'm wasting here. I'll go out and see if it's
likely to clear up.”
“You'll come back?” interposed Allan.
Midwinter opened the French window, and
stepped out into the garden.
“Yes,” he said, answering with all his former
gentleness of manner, “I’ll come back in a fort-
might. Good-by, Allan; and good luck with
Miss Gwilt!”
He pushed the window to, and was away
across the garden before his friend could open it
again and follow him.
Allan rose, and took one step into the garden;
then checked himself at the window, and returned
to his chair. He knew Midwinter well enough
to feel the total uselessness of attempting to fol-
low him, or to call him back. He was gone,
and for two weeks to come there was no hope
of seeing him again. An hour or more passed,
the rain still fell, and the sky still threatened.
A heavier and heavier sense of loneliness and
despondency—the sense of all others which his
previous life had least fitted him to understand
and endure—possessed itself of Allan's mind.
In sheer horror of his own uninhabitably solitary
house he rang for his hat and umbrella, and re-
solved to take refuge in the major's cottage.
“I might have gone a little way with him,”
thought Allan, his mind still running on Mid-
winter as he put on his hat. “I should like to
made a clean breast of it? What did you say have seen the dear old fellow fairly started on
about this room and the second vision of the
dream? By Jupiter!” he exclaimed, starting
to his feet once more, “now I look again, here
is the Second Vision |
the garden outside; here am I where I stood in
There's the rain patter-
ing against the window; there's the lawn and have heard some news to interest him in his
present frame of mind. As it was, he went out
his journey.”
He took his umbrella. If he had noticed the
face of the servant who gave it to him he might
possibly have asked some questions, and might
the Dream; and there are you where the Shad- without looking at the man, and without sus-
ow stood. The whole scene complete, out of pecting that his servants knew more of Midwin-
doors and in; and I’ve discovered it this time!”
A moment's life stirred again in the dead re-
mains of Midwinter's superstition.
His color
ter's last moments at Thorpe-Ambrose than he
knew himself. Not ten minutes since the grocer
and the butcher had called in to receive payment
changed; and he eagerly, almost fiercely, dis- of their bills—and the grocer and the butcher
puted Allan's conclusion.
had seen how Midwinter started on his journey.


150
ARMADALE.
The grocer had met him first, not far from
the house, stopping on his way, in the pouring
rain, to speak to a little ragged imp of a boy, the
pest of the neighborhood. The boy's customary
impudence had broken out even more unrestrain-
edly than usual at the sight of the gentleman's
knapsack. And what had the gentleman done
in return? He had stopped and looked dis-
tressed, and had put his two hands gently on the
boy's shoulders. The grocer's own eyes had seen
that; and the grocer's own ears had heard him
say, “Poor little chap! I know how the wind
gnaws and the rain wets through a ragged jacket
better than most people who have got a good coat
on their backs.” And with those words he had
put his hand in his pocket, and had rewarded
the boy's impudence with a present of a shilling.
“Wrong hereabouts,” said the grocer, touching
his forehead. “That's my opinion of Mr. Ar-
madale's friend!”
The butcher had seen him farther on in the
journey, at the other end of the town. He had
stopped—again in the pouring rain—and this
time to look at nothing more remarkable than a
half-starved cur, shivering on a door-step. “I
had my eye on him,” said the butcher; “and
what do you think he did? He crossed the
road over to my shop, and bought a bit of meat
fit for a Christian. Very well. He says good-
morning, and crosses back again; and, on the
word of a man, down he goes on his knees on
the wet door-step, and out he takes his knife, and
cuts up the meat, and gives it to the dog. Meat,
I tell you again, fit for a Christian' I'm not a
hard man, ma'am,” concluded the butcher, ad-
dressing the cook, “but meat's meat; and it
will serve your master's friend right if he lives
to want it.”
With those old unforgotten sympathies of the
old unforgotten time to keep him company on
his lonely road he had left the town behind him,
and had been lost to view in the misty rain.
The grocer and the butcher had seen the last of
him, and had judged a great nature as all great
natures are judged from the grocer and the
butcher point of view.


ARMADALE.
151
B O O K. I. V.
CHAPTER I.
M. R. S. M I L R O Y.
Two days after Midwinter's departure from
Thorpe-Ambrose Mrs. Milroy, having completed
her morning toilet, and having dismissed her
nurse, rang the bell again five minutes after-
ward, and, on the woman's reappearance, asked
impatiently if the post had come in.
“Post?” echoed the nurse. “Haven't you
got your watch? Don't you know that it's a
good half hour too soon to ask for your letters?”
She spoke with the confident insolence of a serv-
ant long accustomed to presume on her mis-
tress's weakness, and her mistress's necessities.
Mrs. Milroy, on her side, appeared to be well
used to her nurse's manner; she gave her orders
composedly, without noticing it.
“When the postman does come,” she said,
“see him yourself. I am expecting a letter
which I ought to have had two days since. I
don't understand it. I'm beginning to suspect
the servants.”
The nurse smiled contemptuously. “Who
will you suspect next?” she asked. “There !
don't put yourself out. I'll answer the gate-
bell this morning; and we'll see if I can't bring
you a letter when the postman comes.” Saying
those words, with the tone and manner of a wo-
man who is quieting a fractious child, the nurse,
without waiting to be dismissed, left the room.
Mrs. Milroy turned slowly and wearily on her
bed when she was left by herself again, and let
the light from the window fall on her face.
It was the face of a woman who had once
been handsome, and who was still, so far as
years went, in the prime of her life. Long-con-
tinued suffering of body, and long-continued ir-
ritation of mind, had worn her away—in the
roughly-expressive popular phrase—to skin and
bone. The utter wreck of her beauty was made
a wreck horrible to behold by her desperate ef-
forts to conceal the sight of it from her own
eyes, from the eyes of her husband and her
child, from the eyes even of the doctor who at-
tended her, and whose business it was to pene-
trate to the truth. Her head, from which the
greater part of the hair had fallen off, would
have been less shocking to see than the hideous-
ly youthful wig by which she tried to hide the
loss. No deterioration of her complexion, no
wrinkling of her skin could have been so dread-
ful to look at as the rouge that lay thick on her
cheeks, and the white enamel plastered on her
forehead. The delicate lace and the bright
trimming on her dressing-gown, the ribbons in
*
intended to draw the eye away from the change
that had passed over her, directed the eye to it
on the contrary; emphasized it; made it by
sheer force of contrast more hopeless and more
horrible than it really was. An illustrated book
of the fashions, in which women were repre-
sented exhibiting their finery by means of the
free use of their limbs, lay on the bed, from
which she had not moved for years without
being lifted by her nurse. A hand-glass was
placed with the book, so that she could reach it
easily. She took up the glass after her attend-
ant had left the room, and looked at her face
with an unblushing interest and attention
which she would have been ashamed of herself
at the age of eighteen.
“Older and older, and thinner and thinner!”
she said. “The major will soon be a free man;
but I'll have that red-haired hussy out of the
house first!”
She dropped the looking-glass on the counter-
pane, and clenched the hand that had held it.
Her eyes suddenly riveted themselves on a little
crayon portrait of her husband hanging on the
opposite wall; they looked at the likeness with
the hard and cruel brightness of the eyes of a
bird of prey. “Red is your taste in your old
age, is it?” she said to the portrait. “Red hair
and a scrofulous complexion and a padded fig-
ure, a ballet-girl's walk, and a pickpocket's light
fingers. Miss Gwilt! Miss, with those eyes
and that walk!” She turned her head sudden-
ly on the pillow, and burst into a harsh, jeering
laugh. “Miss " she repeated over and over
again, with the venomously-pointed emphasis of
the most merciless of all human forms of con-
tempt—the contempt of one woman for another.
The age we live in is an age which finds no
human creature inexcusable. Is there an excuse
for Mrs. Milroy? Let the story of her life an-
swer the question.
She had married the major at an unusually
early age; and, in marrying him, had taken a
man for her husband who was old enough to be
her father—a man who at that time had the
reputation, and not unjustly, of having made
the freest use of his social gifts and his advant-
ages of personal appearance in the society of
women. Indifferently educated, and below her
husband in station, she had begun by accepting
his addresses under the influence of her own
flattered vanity, and had ended by feeling the
fascination which Major Milroy had exercised
over women infinitely her mental superiors in
his earlier life. He had been touched, on his
her cap, and the rings on her bony fingers, all side, by her devotion, and had felt in his turn the


152
ARMADALE.
*
attraction of her beauty, her freshness, and her
youth. Up to the time when their little daugh-
ter and only child had reached the age of eight
years their married life had been an unusually
happy one. At that period the double misfor-
tune fell on the household of the failure of the
wife's health and the almost total loss of the
£ and from that moment the
domestic happiness of the married pair was vir-
tually at an end.
Having reached the age when men in gen-
eral are readier, under the pressure of calamity,
to resign themselves than to resist, the major
had secured the little relics of his property, had
retired into the country, and had patiently taken
refuge in his mechanical pursuits. A woman
nearer to him in age, or a woman with a better
training and more patience of disposition than
his wife possessed, would have understood the
major's conduct, and have found consolation in
the major's submission. Mrs. Milroy found con-
solation in nothing. Neither nature nor train-
ing helped her to meet resignedly the cruel
calamity which had struck at her in the bloom
of womanhood and the prime of beauty. The
curse of incurable sickness blighted her at once
and for life.
Suffering can, and does, develop the latent
evil that there is in humanity as well as the
latent good. The good that was in Mrs. Mil-
roy's nature shrank up under that subtly-
deteriorating influence in which the evil grew
and flourished. Month by month, as she be-
came the weaker woman physically, she be-
came the worse woman morally. All that
was mean, cruel, and false in her, expanded in
steady proportion to the contraction of all that
had once been generous, gentle, and true. Old
suspicions of her husband's readiness to relapse
into the irregularities of his bachelor life, which
in her healthier days of mind and body she had
openly confessed to him—which she had always,
sooner or later, seen to be suspicions that he
had not deserved—came back, now that sick-
ness had divorced her from him, in the form of
that baser conjugal distrust which keeps itself
cunningly secret; which gathers together its
inflammatory particles atom by atom into a
heap, and sets the slowly-burning frenzy of jeal-
ousy alight in the mind. No proof of her hus-
band's blameless and patient life that could now
be shown to Mrs. Milroy; no appeal that could
be made to her respect for herself or for her
child growing up to womanhood, availed to dis-
sipate the terrible delusion born of her hopeless
illness, and growing steadily with its growth.
Like all other madness it had its ebb and flow,
its time of spasmodic outburst and its time of
deceitful repose—but, active or passive, it was
always in her. It had injured innocent serv-
ants, and insulted blameless strangers. It had
brought the first tears of shame and sorrow into
her daughter's eyes, and had set the deepest lines
that scored it in her husband's face. It had
made the secret misery of the little household
for years; and it was now to pass beyond the
family limits, and to influence coming events at
Thorpe-Ambrose, in which the future interests
of Allan and Allan's friend were vitally con-
| cerned.
A moment's glance at the posture of domestic
affairs in the cottage, prior to the engagement
of the new governess, is necessary to the due
appreciation of the serious consequences that
| followed Miss Gwilt's appearance on the scene.
On the marriage of the governess who had
| lived in his service for many years (a woman of an
age and an appearance to set even Mrs. Milroy's
jealousy at defiance), the major had considered
the question of sending his daughter away from
home, far more seriously than his wife supposed.
On the one hand, he was conscious that scenes
took place in the house at which no young girl
should be present. On the other, he felt an in-
vincible reluctance to apply the one efficient
remedy—the keeping his daughter away from
home in school-time and holiday-time alike.
The struggle thus raised in his mind once set
at rest, by the resolution to advertise for a new
governess, Major Milroy's natural tendency to
avoid trouble rather than to meet it, had de-
clared itself in its customary manner. He had
closed his eyes again on his home anxieties as
quietly as usual, and had gone back, as he had
gone back on hundreds of previous occasions, to
the consoling society of his old friend the clock.
It was far otherwise with the major's wife.
The chance which her husband had entirely
overlooked, that the new governess who was to
come might be a younger and a more attractive
woman than the old governess who had gone,
was the first chance that presented itself as pos-
sible to Mrs. Milroy's mind. She had said no-
thing. Secretly waiting, and secretly nursing
her inveterate distrust, she had encouraged her
husband and her daughter to leave her on the
occasion of the picnic, with the express purpose
of making an opportunity for seeing the new
governess alone. The governess had shown
herself; and the smouldering fire of Mrs. Mil-
roy's jealousy had burst into flame in the mo-
ment when she and the handsome stranger first
set eyes on each other.
The interview over, Mrs. Milroy's suspicions
fastened at once and immovably on her hus-
band's mother. She was well aware that there
was no one else in London on whom the major
could depend to make the necessary inquiries;
she was well aware that Miss Gwilt had applied
for the situation, in the first instance, as a stran-
ger answering an advertisement published in a
newspaper. Yet knowing this, she had obsti-
nately closed her eyes, with the blind frenzy of
the blindest of all the passions, to the facts
straight before her; and, looking back to the
last of many quarrels between them which had
ended in separating the elder lady and herself,
had seized on the conclusion that Miss Gwilt's
engagement was due to her mother-in-law's vin-
dictive enjoyment of making mischief in her
household. The inference which the very serv-
ants themselves, witnesses of the family scandal,


154
ARMADALE.
The letter, expressed in these terms, was
posted the same day. On the morning when
the answer was due no answer appeared. The
next morning arrived, and still there was no re-
ply. When the third morning came Mrs. Mil-
roy's impatience had broken loose from all re-
straint. She had rung for the nurse in the
manner which has been already recorded, and
had ordered the woman to be in waiting to re-
ceive the letters of the morning with her own
hands. In this position matters now stood; and
in these domestic circumstances the new series
of events at Thorpe-Ambrose took their rise.
Mrs. Milroy had just looked at her watch,
and had just put her hand once more to the bell-
pull, when the door opened and the nurse en-
tered the room.
“Has the postman come 2" asked Mrs. Mil-
roW.
The nurse laid a letter on the bed without
answering, and waited, with unconcealed curi-
osity, to watch the effect which it produced on
her mistress.
.Mrs. Milroy tore open the envelope the in-
stant it was in her hand. A printed paper ap-
peared (which she threw aside), surrounding a
letter (which she looked at) in her own hand-
writing! She snatched up the printed paper.
It was the customary post-office circular, in-
forming her that her letter had been duly pre-
sented at the right address, and that the person
whom she had written to was not to be found.
“Something wrong?” asked the nurse, de-
tecting a change in her mistress's face.
The question passed unheeded. Mrs. Mil-
roy's writing-desk was on the table at the bed-
side. She took from it the letter which the
major's mother had written to her son, and
turned to the page containing the name and
address of Miss Gwilt's reference, “Mrs. Man-
deville, 18 Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater,”
she read eagerly to herself, and then looked at
the address on her own returned letter. No er-
ror had been committed: the directions were
identically the same.
“Something wrong?” reiterated the nurse,
advancing a step nearer to the bed.
“Thank God—yes!” cried Mrs. Milroy, with
a sudden outburst of exultation. She tossed
the post-office circular to the nurse, and beat
her bony hands on the bed-clothes in an ec-
stasy of anticipated triumph. “Miss Gwilt's
an impostor! Miss Gwilt's an impostor! If I
die for it, Rachel, I'll be carried to the win-
dow to see the police take her away!”
“It's one thing to say she's an impostor be-
hind her back, and another thing to prove it to
her face,” remarked the nurse. She put her
hand as she spoke into her apron pocket, and,
with a significant look at her mistress, silently
produced a second letter.
“For me?” asked Mrs. Milroy.
“No," said the nurse, “for Miss Gwilt.”
The two women eyed each other, and under-
stood each other without another word.
park.
“Where is she?” said Mrs. Milroy.
The nurse pointed in the direction of the
“Out again for another walk before
breakfast—by herself.” -
Mrs. Milroy beckoned to the nurse to stoop
close over her. “Can you open it, Rachel?”
she whispered.
Rachel nodded.
“Can you close it again so that nobody would
know 2"
“Can you spare the scarf that matches your
pearl-gray dress?" asked Rachel.
“Take it!” said Mrs. Milroy, impatiently.
The nurse opened the wardrobe in silence,
took the scarf in silence, and left the room in
silence. In less than five minutes she came
back with the envelope of Miss Gwilt's letter
open in her hand.
“Thank you, ma'am, for the scarf,” said Ra-
chel, putting the opened letter composedly on
the counterpane of the bed.
Mrs. Milroy looked at the envelope. It had
been closed as usual by means of adhesive gum,
which had been made to give way by the appli-
cation of steam. As Mrs. Milroy took out the
letter her hand trembled violently, and the white
enamel parted into cracks over the wrinkles on
her forehead. “My drops,” she said. “I’m
dreadfully excited, Rachel. My drops!”
Rachel produced the drops, and then went to
the window to keep watch on the park. “Don't
hurry,” she said. “No signs of her yet.”
Mrs. Milroy still paused, keeping the all-im-
portant morsel of paper folded in her hand. She
could have taken Miss Gwilt's life—but she hes-
itated at reading Miss Gwilt's letter.
“Are you troubled with scruples?” asked the
nurse, with a sneer. “Consider it a duty you
owe to your daughter.”
“You wretch!” said Mrs. Milroy. With that
expression of opinion she opened the letter.
It was evidently written in great haste—was
undated—and was signed in initials only. Thus
it ran :
** DiANA Street.
“MY DEAR LYDIA,-The cab is waiting at
the door, and I have only a moment to tell you
that I am obliged to leave London, on business,
for three or four days, or a week at longest.
My letters will be forwarded if you write. I
got yours yesterday, and I agree with you that
it is very important to put him off the awkward
subject of yourself and your family as long as
you safely can. The better you know him the
better you will be able to make up the sort of
story that will do. Once told you will have to
stick to it—and, having to stick to it, beware of
making it complicated, and beware of making
it in a hurry. I will write again about this,
and give you my own ideas. In the mean time
don't risk meeting him too often in the park.
“Yours, M. O.”
“Well?” asked the nurse, returning to the
bedside. “Have you done with it?”
“Meeting him in the park?” repeated Mrs.


ARMADALE.
155
The TEMPTING MOMENT.
Milroy, with her eyes still fastened on the let-
ter. “Him Rachel, where is the major?”
**In his own room.”
“I don’t believe it !”
“Have your own way.
and the envelope.”
“Can you close it again so that she won't
know?”
“What I can open I can shut.
more?”
“Nothing more.”
Mrs. Milroy was left alone again, to review
I want the letter
Any thing
her plan of attack by the new light that had
now been thrown on Miss Gwilt.
The information that had been gained by
opening the governess's letter pointed plainly
to the conclusion that an adventuress had stolen
her way into the house by means of a false ref-
erence. But having been obtained by an act
of treachery which it was impossible to acknowl-
edge it was not information that could be used
either for warning the major or for exposing
Miss Gwilt. The one available weapon in Mrs.
Milroy's hands was the weapon furnished by her


156 ARMADALE.
own returned letter—and the one question to speaking and looking as she might have spoken
decide was how to make the best and speediest and looked if the wrong servant had come into
use of it. the room.
The longer she turned the matter over in her | Neelie put the tray down on the bedside table.
mind the more hasty and premature seemed the “I thought I should like to bring you up your
exultation which she had felt at the first sight | breakfast, mamma, for once in a way,” she re-
of the post-office circular. That a lady acting 'plied, “and I asked Rachel to let me.”
as reference to a governess should have quitted
her residence without leaving any trace behind
her, and without even mentioning an address to
which her letters could be forwarded, was a cir-
cumstance in itself sufficiently suspicious to be
mentioned to the major. But Mrs. Milroy, how-
ever perverted her estimate of her husband might
be in some respects, knew enough of his charac-
ter to be assured that, if she told him what had
happened, he would frankly appeal to the gov-
erness herself for an explanation. Miss Gwilt's
quickness and cunning would, in that case, pro-
duce some plausible answer on the spot, which
the major's partiality would be only too ready |
to accept; and she would at the same time, no
doubt, place matters in train, by means of the
post, for the due arrival of all needful confirma-
tion on the part of her accomplice in London.
To keep strict silence for the present, and to
institute (without the governess's knowledge)
such inquiries as might be necessary to the dis-
covery of undeniable evidence, was plainly the
only safe course to take with such a man as the
major and with such a woman as Miss Gwilt.
Helpless herself, to whom could Mrs. Milroy
commit the difficult and dangerous task of in-
vestigation? The nurse, even if she was to be
trusted, could not be spared at a day's notice,
and could not be sent away without the risk of
exciting remark. Was there any other compe-
tent and reliable person to employ, either at
Thorpe-Ambrose or in London? Mrs. Milroy
turned from side to side of the bed, searching
every corner of her mind for the needful discov-
ery, and searching in vain. “Oh, if I could
only lay my hand on some man I could trust!”
she thought, despairingly. “If I only knew
where to look for somebody to help me!”
As the idea passed through her mind the
sound of her daughter's voice startled her from
the other side of the door.
“May I come in?” asked Neelie.
“What do you want?” returned Mrs. Milroy,
impatiently.
“I have brought up your breakfast, mamma.”
“My breakfast?” repeated Mrs. Milroy, in
surprise. “Why doesn't Rachel bring it up as
usual?” She considered a moment, and then
called out sharply, “Come in 1”
--
CHAPTER II.
The MAN is FOUND.
NEELIE entered the room, carrying the tray
with the tea, the dry toast, and the pat of butter
which composed the invalid's invariable break-
fast.
“What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Milroy,
“Come here,” said Mrs. Milroy, “and wish
me good-morning.”
Neelie obeyed. As she stooped to kiss her
mother, Mrs. Milroy caught her by the arm and
turned her roughly to the light. There were
plain signs of disturbance and distress in her
daughter's face. A deadly thrill of terror ran
through Mrs. Milroy on the instant. She sus-
pected that the opening of the letter had been
discovered by Miss Gwilt, and that the nurse
was keeping out of the way in consequence.
“Let me go, mamma,” said Neelie, shrink-
ing under her mother's grasp. “You hurt
me."
“Tell me why you have brought up my
breakfast this morning,” persisted Mrs. Milroy.
“I have told you, mamma.”
“You have not / You have made an excuse
—I see it in your face. Come! what is it?”
Neelie's resolution gave way before her mo-
ther's. She looked aside uneasily at the things
in the tray; “I have been vexed,” she said,
with an effort; “and I didn't want to stop in
the breakfast-room. I wanted to come up here
and speak to you.”
“Vexed? Who has vexed you? What has
happened? Has Miss Gwilt any thing to do
with it?”
Neelie looked round again at her mother in
sudden curiosity and alarm. “Mamma!” she
said, “you read my thoughts—I declare you
frighten me. It was Miss Gwilt.”
Before Mrs. Milroy could say a word more
on her side, the door opened and the nurse
looked in. -
“Have you got what you want?” she asked
as composedly as usual. “Miss, there, insisted
on taking your tray up this morning. Has she
broken any thing?”
“Go to the window—I want to speak to Ra-
chel,” said Mrs. Milroy.
As soon as her daughter's back was turned
she beckoned eagerly to the nurse. “Any
thing wrong?” she asked, in a whisper. “Do
you think she suspects us?”
The nurse turned away with her hard, sneer-
ing smile. “I told you it should be done,” she
said, “and it has been done. She hasn't the
ghost of a suspicion. I waited in the room—
and I saw her take up the letter and open it.”
Mrs. Milroy drew a deep breath of relief.
“Thank you,” she said, loud enough for her
daughter to hear. “I want nothing more.”
The nurse withdrew; and Neelie came back
from the window. Mrs. Milroy took her by the
hand and looked at her more attentively and
more kindly than usual. Her daughter inter-
ested her that morning—for her daughter had
something to say on the subject of Miss Gwilt.


ARMADALE.
157
“I used to think you promised to be pretty,
child,” she said, cautiously resuming the inter-
rupted conversation in the least direct way.
“But you don't seem to be keeping your prom-
ise. You look out of health and out of spirits
—what is the matter with you?”
If there had been any sympathy between mo-
ther and child Neeliemight have owned the truth.
She might have said frankly, “I am looking ill,
because my life is miserable to me. I am fond
of Mr. Armadale, and Mr. Armadale was once
fond of me. We had one little disagreement,
only one, in which I was to blame. I wanted
to tell him so at the time, and I have wanted to
tell him so ever since—and Miss Gwilt stands
between us and prevents me. She has made us
like strangers; she has altered him, and taken
him away from me. He doesn't look at me as
he did; he doesn't speak to me as he did; he is
never alone with me as he used to be; I can't
say the words to him that I long to say; and I
can’t write to him, for it would look as if I
wanted to get him back. It is all over between
me and Mr. Armadale—and it is that woman's
fault. There is ill-blood between Miss Gwilt
and me the whole day long; and say what I
may, and do what I may, she always gets the
better of me, and always puts me in the wrong.
Everything I saw at Thorpe-Ambrose pleased
me, every thing I did at Thorpe-Ambrose made
me happy before she came. Nothing pleases
me, and nothing makes me happy now !” If
Neelie had ever been accustomed to ask her
mother's advice and to trust herself to her mo-
ther's love, she might have said such words as
these. As it was the tears came into her eyes,
and she hung her head in silence.
“Come!” said Mrs. Milroy, beginning to lose
patience. “You have something to say to me
about Miss Gwilt. What is it?”
Neelie forced back the tears and made an
effort to answer.
“She aggravates me beyond endurance, mam-
ma; I can't bear her; I shall do something—”
Neelie stopped, and stamped her foot angrily on
the floor. “I shall throw something at her
head if we go on much longer like this! I
should have thrown something this morning if I
hadn't left the room. Oh, do speak to papa
about it! do find out some reason for sending
her away! I'll go to school—I'll do any thing
in the world to get rid of Miss Gwilt!”
To get rid of Miss Gwilt! At those words—
at that echo from her daughter's lips of the one
dominant desire kept secret in her own heart—
Mrs. Milroy slowly raised herself in the bed.
What did it mean? Was the help she wanted
coming from the very last of all quarters in
which she could have thought of looking for it?"
“Why do you want to get rid of Miss Gwilt,”
she asked. “What have you got to complain
of?”
“Nothing!” said Neelie. “That's the ag-
gravation of it. Miss Gwilt won't let me have
anything to complain of She is perfectly de-
testable; she is driving me mad; and she is
the pink of propriety all the time. I dare say
it's wrong, but, I don't care—I hate her !”
Mrs. Milroy's eyes questioned her daughter's
face as they had never questioned it yet. There
was something under the surface, evidently—
something which it might be of vital importance
to her own purpose to discover—which had not
risen into view. She went on probing her way
| gently deeper and deeper into Neelie's mind,
with a warmer and warmer interest in Neelie's
Secret.
“Pour me out a cup of tea,” she said; “and
don't excite yourself, my dear. Why do you
speak to me about this? why don't you speak to
your father?”
“I have tried to speak to papa,” said Neelie.
“But it is no use; he is too good to know what
a wretch she is. She is always on her best be-
havior with him; she is always contriving to be
useful to him. I can't make him understand
why I dislike Miss Gwilt—I can't make you un-
derstand—I only understand it myself.” She
tried to pour out the tea, and in trying upset the
cup. “I’ll go down stairs again!” exclaimed
Neelie, with a burst of tears. “I’m not fit
for any thing—I can't even pour out a cup of
tea!”
Mrs. Milroy seized her hand and stopped her.
Trifling as it was, Neelie's reference to the rela-
tions between the major and Miss Gwilt had
roused her mother's ready jealousy. The re-
straints which Mrs. Milroy had laid on herself
thus far vanished in a moment—vanished, even
in the presence of a girl of sixteen, and that
girl her own child !
“Wait here!” she said, eagerly. “You have
come to the right place and the right person.
Go on abusing Miss Gwilt. I like to hear you
—I hate her too !”
“You, mamma!” exclaimed Neelie, looking
at her mother in astonishment.
For a moment Mrs. Milroy hesitated before
she said more. Some last-left instinct of her
married life in its earlier career and happier
time pleaded hard with her to respect the youth
and the sex of her child. But jealousy respects
nothing; in the heaven above and on the earth
beneath, nothing but itself. The slow fire of
self-torment burning night and day in the mis-
erable woman's breast flashed its deadly light
into her eyes, as the next words dropped slowly
and venomously from her lips.
“If you had had eyes in your head you
would never have gone to your father,” she
said. “Your father has reasons of his own for
hearing nothing that you can say, or that any
body can say, against Miss Gwilt.”
Many girls at Neelie's age would have failed
to see the meaning hidden under those words.
It was the daughter's misfortune, in this instance,
to have had experience enough of the mother to
understand her. Neelie started back from the
bedside with her face in a glow. “Mamma!"
she said, “you are talking horribly Papa is
the best and dearest and kindest—oh, I won't
hear it! I won't hear it !”


158
ARMADALE.
Mrs. Milroy's fierce temper broke out in an
instant—broke out all the more violently from
her feeling herself, in spite of herself, to have
been in the wrong.
“You impudent little fool!” she retorted fu-
riously, “do you think I want you to remind
me of what I owe to your father? Am I to
learn how to speak of your father, and how to
think of your father, and how to love and honor
your father, from a forward little minx like
you! I was finely disappointed, I can tell you,
when you were born—I wished for a boy, you
impudent hussy ! If you ever find a man who
is fool enough to marry you, he will be a lucky
man if you only love him half as well, a quarter
as well, a hundred-thousandth part as well, as I
loved your father. Ah, you can cry when it's
too late; you can come creeping back to beg
your mother's pardon after you have insulted
her. You little dowdy, half-grown creature!
I was handsomer than ever you will be when I
married your father—I would have gone through
fire and water to serve your father! If he had
asked me to cut off one of my arms, I would
have done it—I would have dome it to please
him 1" She turned suddenly with her face to
the wall—forgetting her daughter, forgetting her
husband, forgetting every thing but the torturing
remembrance of her lost beauty. “My arms!”
she repeated to herself, faintly. “What arms
I had when I was young!” She snatched up the
sleeve of her dressing-gown furtively, with a shud-
der. “Oh, look at it now ! look at it now!”
Neelie fell on her knees at the bedside and
hid her face. In sheer despair of finding com-
fort and help any where else she had cast herself
impulsively on her mother's mercy—and this was
how it had ended ! “Oh, mamma,” she plead-
ed, “you know I didn't mean to offend you! I
couldn't help it when you spoke so of my father.
Oh do, do forgive me.”
Mrs. Milroy turned again on her pillow, and
looked at her daughter vacantly. “Forgive
you?” she repeated, with her mind still in the
past, groping its way back darkly to the present.
“I beg your pardon, mamma—I beg your
pardon on my knees. I am so unhappy; I
do so want a little kindness! Won't you for-
give me?”
“Wait a little,” rejoined Mrs. Milroy, “Ah,”
she said, after an interval, “now I know ! For-
give you? Yes—I'll forgive you on one condi-
tion.” She lifted Neelie's head, and looked her
searchingly in the face. “Tell me why you
hate Miss Gwilt! You've a reason of your
own for hating her, and you haven't confessed
it Vet.”
Neelie's head dropped again. The burning
color that she was hiding by hiding her face
showed itself on her neck. Her mother saw it,
and gave her time.
“Tell me,” reiterated Mrs. Milroy, more gen-
tly, “why do you hate her?”
The answer came reluctantly, a word at a
time, in fragments.
“Because she is trying—”
“Trying what?”
“Trying to make somebody who is much—”
“Much what?”
“Much too young for her—”
“Marry her?" -
“Yes, mamma.”
Breathlessly interested, Mrs. Milroy leaned
forward, and twined her hand caressingly in her
daughter's hair.
“Who is it, Neelie?” she asked, in a whis-
per.
“You will never say I told you, mamma?”
“Never ! Who is it?”
“Mr. Armadale.”
Mrs. Milroy leaned back on her pillow in dead
silence. The plain betrayal of her daughter's
first love, by her daughter's own lips, which
would have absorbed the whole attention of other
mothers, failed to occupy her for a moment.
Her jealousy, distorting all things to fit its own
conclusions, was busied in distorting what she
had just heard. “A blind,” she thought,
“which has deceived my girl. It doesn't de-
ceive me. Is Miss Gwilt likely to succeed?” she
asked aloud. “Does Mr. Armadale show any
sort of interest in her?”
Neelie looked up at her mother for the first
time. The hardest part of the confession was
over now—she had revealed the truth about Miss
Gwilt, and she had openly mentioned Allan's
name.
“He shows the most unaccountable interest,”
she said. “It's impossible to understand it.
It's downright infatuation—I haven't patience to
talk about it!”
“How do you come to be in Mr. Armadale's
secrets?” inquired Mrs. Milroy. “Has he in-
formed you, of all the people in the world, of his
interest in Miss Gwilt?”
“Me!” exclaimed Neelie, indignantly. “It's
quite bad enough that he should have told papa.”
At the reappearance of the major in the nar-
rative Mrs. Milroy's interest in the conversation
rose to its climax. She raised herself again
from the pillow. “Get a chair,” she said.
“Sit down, child, and tell me all about it. Ev-
ery word, mind—every word!”
“I can only tell you, mamma, what papa
told me.”
“When ?”
“Saturday. I went in with papa's lunch to
the work-shop, and he said, ‘I have just had a
visit from Mr. Armadale; and I want to give
you a caution, while I think of it. I didn't say
anything, mamma—I only waited. Papa went
on, and told me that Mr. Armadale had been
speaking to him on the subject of Miss Gwilt,
and that he had been asking a question about
her which nobody in his position had a right to
ask. Papa said he had been obliged, good-hu-
moredly, to warn Mr. Armadale to be a little
more delicate, and a little more careful next
time. I didn't feel much interested, mamma-
it didn't matter to me what Mr. Armadale said
or did. Why should I care about it?”
“Never mind yourself,” interposed Mrs. Mil-


ARMADALE.
150
roy, sharply. “Go on with what your father
said. What was he doing when he was talking
about Miss Gwilt? How did he look?”
“Much as usual, mamma. He was walking
up and down the work-shop; and I took his arm
and walked up and down with him.”
“I don't care what you were doing,” said Mrs.
Milroy, more and more irritably. “Did your
father tell you what Mr. Armadale's question
was—or did he not?”
“Yes, mamma. He said Mr. Armadale be-
gan by mentioning that he was very much inter-
ested in Miss Gwilt, and he then went on to ask
whether papa could tell him any thing about her
family misfortunes—”
“What!!!” cried Mrs. Milroy. The word
burst from her almost in a scream, and the white
enamel on her face cracked in all directions.
“Mr. Armadale said that ?” she went on, lean-
ing out farther and farther over the side of the
bed.
Neelie started up, and tried to put her mother
back on the pillow.
“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “are you in
pain? are you ill? You frighten me!”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” said Mrs. Mil-
roy. She was too violently agitated to make
any other than the commonest excuse. “My
nerves are bad this morning—don't notice it.
I'll try the other side of the pillow. Go on go
on 1 I'm listening, though I'm not looking at
you.” She turned her face to the wall, and
clenched her trembling hands convulsively be-
neath the bed-clothes. “I’ve got her !” she
whispered to herself, under her breath. “I’ve
got her at last!”
“I'm afraid I've been talking too much,”
said Neelie; “I'm afraid I've been stopping
here too long. Shall I go down stairs, mam-
ma, and come back later in the day?”
“Go on,” repeated Mrs. Milroy, mechanical-
ly. “What did your father say next? Any
thing more about Mr. Armadale?”
“Nothing more, except how papa answered
him,” replied Neelie. “Papa repeated his own
words when he told me about it. He said, “In
the absence of any, confidence volunteered by
the lady herself, Mr. Armadale, all I know or
wish to know—and you must excuse me for say-
ing, all any one else need know or wish to know
—is, that Miss Gwilt gave me a perfectly satis-
factory reference before she entered my house.”
Severe, mamma, wasn't it? I don't pity him
in the least; he richly deserved it. The next
thing was papa's caution to me. He told me to
check Mr. Armadale's curiosity if he applied to
me next. As if he was likely to apply to me!
and as if I should listen to him if he did! That's
all, mamma. You won't suppose, will you, that
I have told you this because I want to hinder
Mr. Armadale from marrying Miss Gwilt? Let
him marry her if he pleases; I don't care!” said
Neelie, in a voice that faltered a little, and with
a face which was hardly composed enough to be
in perfect harmony with a declaration of indif-
ference. “All I want is to be relieved from
the misery of having Miss Gwilt for my govern-
ess. I'd rather go to school. I should like to
go to school. My mind's quite changed about
all that—only I haven't the heart to tell papa.
I don't know what's come to me; I don't seem
to have heart enough for any thing now; and
when papa takes me on his knee in the evening,
and says, “Let's have a talk, Neelie,' he makes
me cry. Would you mind breaking it to him,
mamma, that I've changed my mind, and I want
to go to school?” The tears rose thickly in her
eyes, and she failed to see that her mother never
even turned on the pillow to look round at her.
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Milroy, vacantly.
“You're a good girl; you shall go to school.”
The cruel brevity of the reply, and the tone
in which it was spoken, told Neelie plainly that
her mother's attention had been wandering far
away from her, and that it was useless and necd-
less to prolong the interview. She turned aside
quietly, without a word of remonstrance. It
was nothing new, in her experience, to find her-
self shut out from her mother's sympathies. She
looked at her eyes in the glass, and, pouring
out some cold water, bathed her face. “Miss
Gwilt sha'n't see I’ve been crying!” thought Nee-
lie, as she went back to the bedside to take her
leave. “I’ve tired you out, mamma,” she said,
gently. “Let me go now; and let me come
back a little later when you have had some rest.”
“Yes,” repeated her mother, as mechanical-
ly as ever; “a little later, when I have had
some rest.”
Neelie left the room. The minute after the
door had closed on her Mrs. Milroy rang the
bell for her nurse. In the face of the narrative
she had just heard, in the face of every reason-
able estimate of probabilities, she held to her
own jealous conclusions as firmly as ever. “Mr.
Armadale may believe her, and my daughter
may believe her,” thought the furious woman.
“But I know the major—and she can't deceive
me.”
The nurse came in. “Prop me up,” said
Mrs. Milroy. “And give me my desk. I want
to write.”
“You're excited,” replied the nurse. “You're
not fit to write.”
“Give me the desk,” reiterated Mrs. Milroy.
“Any thing more!” asked Rachel, repeating
her invariable formula as she placed the desk
on the bed.
“Yes. Come back in half an hour. I shall
want you to take a letter to the great house.”
The nurse's sardonic composure deserted her
for once. “Mercy on us!” she exclaimed, with
an accent of genuine surprise. “What next?
You don't mean to say you're going to write—?”
“I am going to write to Mr. Armadale,” in-
terposed Mrs. Milroy; “and you are going to
take the letter to him, and wait for an answer;
and, mind this, not a living soul but our two
selves must know of it in the house.”
“Why are you writing to Mr. Armadale?"
asked Rachel. “And why is nobody to know
of it but our two selves?”


160
ARMADALE.
“Wait,” rejoined Mrs. Milroy, “and you will
see.”
The nurse's curiosity, being a woman's curi-
osity, declined to wait.
“I’ll help you, with my eyes open,” she said.
“But I won't help you blindfold.”
“Oh, if I only had the use of my limbs!”
groaned Mrs. Milroy. “You wretch, if I could
only do without you!”
“You have the use of your head,” retorted
the impenetrable nurse. “And you ought to
know better than to trust me by halves, at this
time of day.”
It was brutally put; but it was true—doubly
true, after the opening of Miss Gwilt's letter.
Mrs. Milroy gave way.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Tell me—and leave me.”
“I want to know what you are writing to Mr.
Armadale about.”
“About Miss Gwilt.”
“What has Mr. Armadale to do with you and
Miss Gwilt?”
Mrs. Milroy held up the letter which had been
returned to her by the authorities at the post-
office.
“Stoop,” she said. “Miss Gwilt may be
listening at the door. I'll whisper.”
The nurse stooped, with her eye on the door.
“You know that the postman went with this
letter to Kingsdown Crescent?” said Mrs. Mil-
roy. “And you know that he found Mrs. Man-
deville gone away, nobody could tell where?”
“Well,” whispered Rachel, “what next?"
“This next. When Mr. Armadale gets the
letter that I am going to write to him he will
follow the same road as the postman; and we'll
see what happens when he knocks at Mrs. Man-
deville's door.”
“How do you get him to the door?”
“I tell him to go to Miss Gwilt's reference.”
“Is he sweet on Miss Gwilt?”
44 Yes. **
“Ah!” said the nurse; “I see!”
->-
CHAPTER III.
THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY.
THE morning of the interview between Mrs.
Milroy and her daughter at the cottage was a
morning of serious reflection for the squire at
the great house.
Even Allan's easy-tempered nature had not
been proof against the disturbing influence exer-
cised on it by the events of the last three days.
Midwinter's abrupt departure had vexed him;
and Major Milroy's reception of his inquiries re-
lating to Miss Gwilt weighed unpleasantly on
his mind. Since his visit to the cottage he had
felt impatient and ill at ease, for the first time
in his life, with every body who came near him.
Impatient with Pedgift Junior, who had called
on the previous evening to announce his de-
parture for London on business the next day,
|
| || | -
l | |
|
and to place his services at the disposal of his
client; ill at ease with Miss Gwilt, at a secret
meeting with her in the park that morning; and
ill at ease in his own company, as he now sat
moodily smoking in the solitude of his room.
“I can't live this sort of life much longer,”
thought Allan. “If nobody will help me to
put the awkward question to Miss Gwilt, I must
stumble on some way of putting it for myself.”
What way? The answer to that question
was as hard to find as ever. Allan tried to stim-
ulate his sluggish invention by walking up and
down the room, and was disturbed by the ap-
pearance of the footman at the first turn.
“Now then what is it?” he asked, impa-
tiently.
“A letter, Sir; and the person waits for an
answer.”
Allan looked at the address. It was in a
strange handwriting. He opened the letter;
and a little note inclosed in it dropped to the
ground. The note was directed, still in the
strange handwriting, to “Mrs. Mandeville, 18
Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater. Favored by
Mr. Armadale.” More and more surprised, Al-
lan turned for information to the signature at
the end of the letter. It was “Anne Milroy.”
“Anne Milroy 7” he repeated. “It must be
the major's wife. What can she possibly want
with me?”
By way of discovering what she wanted, Allan
did at last what he might more wisely have done
at first. He sat down to read the letter.
“THE CorraGE, Monday.
* Private.
“DEAR SIR,—The name at the end of these
lines will, I fear, recall to you a very rude re-


ARMADALE. 161
turn made on my part, some time since, for an dered it unpleasant for me (and would render it
act of neighborly kindness on yours. I can quite impossible for you) to seek information in
only say in excuse that I am a great sufferer, the first instance from herself. I am certainly
and that if I was ill-tempered enough, in a mo- justified in applying to her reference; and you
ment of irritation under severe pain, to send are certainly not to blame for being the medium
back your present of fruit, I have regretted do- of safely transmitting a sealed communication
ing so ever since. Attribute this letter, if you from one lady to another. If I find in that
please, to my desire to make you some atone- communication family secrets which can not
ment, and to my wish to be of service to our honorably be mentioned to any third person, I
good friend and landlord if I possibly can. shall of course be obliged to keep you waiting
“I have been informed of the question which until I have first appealed to Miss Gwilt. If I
you addressed to my husband the day before yes- find nothing recorded but what is to her honor,
terday on the subject of Miss Gwilt. From all and what is sure to raise her still higher in your
I have heard of you, I am quite sure that your estimation, I am undeniably doing her a service
anxiety to know more of this charming person by taking you into my confidence. This is how
than you know now is an anxiety proceeding
from the most honorable motives. Believing
this, I feel a woman's interest—incurable invalid
as I am—in assisting you. If you are desirous
of becoming acquainted with Miss Gwilt's fami-
ly circumstances without directly appealing to
Miss Gwilt herself, it rests with you to make the
discovery—and I will tell you how.
“It so happens that some few days since I
wrote privately to Miss Gwilt's reference on this
very subject. I had long observed that my gov-
erness was singularly reluctant to speak of her
family and her friends; and without attributing
her silence to other than perfectly proper mo-
tives, I felt it my duty to my daughter to make
some inquiry on the subject. The answer that
I have received is satisfactory as far as it goes.
My correspondent informs me that Miss Gwilt's
story is a very sad one, and that her own con-
duct throughout has been praiseworthy in the
extreme. , The circumstances (of a domestic na-
ture, as I gather) are all plainly stated in a
collection of letters now in the possession of
I look at the matter—but pray don't allow me
to influence you. .
“In any case I have one condition to make,
which I am sure you will understand to be in-
dispensable. The most innocent actions are
liable, in this wicked world, to the worst possi-
ble interpretation. I must therefore request
that you will consider this communication as
strictly private. I write to you in a confidence
which is on no account (until circumstances
may, in my opinion, justify the revelation of it)
to extend beyond our two selves.
“Believe me, dear Sir, truly yours,
“ANNE MILROY.”
In this tempting form the unscrupulous in-
genuity of the major's wife had set the trap.
Without a moment's hesitation Allan followed
his impulses as usual, and walked straight into
it—writing his answer and pursuing his own
reflections simultaneously, in a highly charac-
teristic state of mental confusion.
“By Jupiter, this is kind of Mrs. Milroy 1"
Miss Gwilt's reference. This lady is perfectly (“My dearmadam.”) “Just the thing I want-
willing to let me see the letters—but not pos- ed, at the time when I needed it most!” (“I
sessing copies of them, and being personally re- don't know how to express my sense of your
sponsible for their security, she is reluctant, if it kindness, except by saying that I will go to
can be avoidcd, to trust them to the post; and London and fetch the letters with the greatest
she begs me to wait until she, or I can find pleasure.”). “She shall have a basket of fruit
some reliable person who can be employed to regularly every day, all through the season.”
transmit the packet from her hands to mine. (“I will go at once, dearmadam, and be back
“Under these circumstances it has struck to-morrow.") “Ah, nothing like the women
me that you might possibly, with your interest for helping one when one is in love! This is
in the matter, be not unwilling to take charge just what my poor mother would have done in
of the papers. If I am wrong in this idea, and Mrs. Milroy's place.” (“On my word of hon-
if you are not disposed, after what I have told or as a gentleman, I will take the utmost care
you, to go to the trouble and expense of a jour- of the letters, and keep the thing strictly pri-
ney to London, you have only to burn my letter |vate, as you request.”) “I would have given
and inclosure, and to think no more about it. five hundred pounds to any body who would
If you decide on becoming my envoy, I gladly have put me up to the right way to speak to
provide you with the necessary introduction to Miss Gwilt, and here is this blessed woman does
Mrs. Mandeville. You have only, on present- it for nothing.” (“Believe me, my dear mad-
ing it, to receive the letters in a sealed packet, am, gratefully yours, Allan Armadale.”)
to send them here on your return to £ Having sent his reply out to Mrs. Milroy's
Ambrose, and to wait an early communication |messenger, Allan paused in a momentary per-
from me Acquainting you with the result. plexity. He had an appointment with Miss
“In conclusion, I have only to add that I see Gwilt in the park for the next morning. It was
no impropriety in your taking (if you feel so in- absolutely necessary to let her know that he
clined) the course that I propose to you. Miss would be unable to keep it; she had forbidden
Gwilt's manner of receiving such allusions as I him to write, and he had no chance that day of
have made to her family circumstances has rem- seeing her alone. In this difficulty he determ-


162
ARMADALE.
ined to let the necessary intimation reach her
through the medium of a message to the major,
announcing his departure for London on busi-
ness, and asking if he could be of service to any
member of the family. Having thus removed
the only obstacle to his departure, Allan con-
sulted the time-table, and found, to his disap-
pointment, that there was a good hour to spare
before it would be necessary to drive to the rail-
way-station. In his existing frame of mind he
would infinitely have preferred starting for Lon-
don in a violent hurry. -
When the time came at last, Allan, on pass-
ing the steward's office, drummed at the door,
and called through it, to Mr. Bashwood, “I’m
going to town—back to-morrow.” There was
no answer from within; and the servant inter-
posing, informed his master that Mr. Bashwood,
having no business to attend to that day, had
locked up the office, and had left some hours
since.
On reaching the station the first person whom
Allan encountered was Pedgift Junior, going
to London on the legal business which he had
mentioned on the previous evening at the great
house. The necessary explanations exchanged,
it was decided that the two should travel in the
same carriage. Allan was glad to have a com-
panion; and Pedgift, enchanted as usual to
make himself useful to his client, bustled away
to get the tickets and see to the luggage. Saun-
tering to and fro on the platform until his faith-
ful follower returned, Allan came suddenly upon
no less a person than Mr. Bashwood himself—
standing back in a corner with the guard of the
train, and putting a letter (accompanied, to all
appearance, by a fee) privately into the man's
hand.
“Hullo!” cried Allan, in his hearty way.
“Something important there, Mr. Bashwood—
eh P”
If Mr. Bashwood had been caught-in the act
of committing murder he could hardly have
shown greater alarm than he now testified at
Allan's sudden discovery of him. Snatching
off his dingy old hat, he bowed bareheaded, in
a palsy of nervous trembling from head to foot.
“No, Sir—no, Sir; only a little letter, a little
letter, a little letter,” said the deputy-steward,
taking refuge in reiteration, and bowing himself
swiftly backward out of his employer's sight.
Allan turned carelessly on his heel. “I wish
I could take to that fellow,” he thought—“but
I can't; he's such a sneak! What the deuce
was there to tremble about? Does he think I
want to pry into his secrets?”
Mr. Bashwood's secret on this occasion con-
cerned Allan more nearly than Allan supposed.
The letter which he had just placed in charge
of the guard was nothing less than a word of
warning addressed to Mrs. Oldershaw, and writ-
ten by Miss Gwilt.
“If you can hurry your business” (wrote the
major's governess) “do so, and come back to
London immediately. Things are going wrong
here, and Miss Milroy is at the bottom of the
mischief. This morning she insisted on taking
up her mother's breakfast, always on other oc-
casions taken up by the nurse. They had a long
confabulation in private; and half an hour later
I saw the nurse slip out with a letter, and take
the path that leads to the great house. The
sending of the letter has been followed by young
Armadale's sudden departure for London—in
the face of an appointment which he had with
me for to-morrow morning. This looks serious.
The girl is evidently bold enough to make a
fight of it for the position of Mrs. Armadale of
Thorpe-Ambrose, and she has found out some
way of getting her mother to help her. Don't
suppose I am in the least nervous or discour-
aged; and don't do anything till you hear from
me again. Only get back to London, for I
may have serious need of your assistance in the
course of the next day or two.
“I send this letter to town (to save a post)
by the mid-day train, in charge of the guard.
As you insist on knowing every step I take at
Thorpe-Ambrose, I may as well tell you that
my messenger (for I can't go to the station my-
self) is that curious old creature whom I men-
tioned to you in my first letter. Ever since
that time he has been perpetually hanging
about here for a look at me. I am not sure
whether I frighten him or fascinate him—per-
haps I do both together. All you need care to
know is, that I can trust him with my trifling
errands, and possibly, as time goes on, with
something more. L. G.”
Meanwhile the train had started from the
Thorpe-Ambrose station, and the squire and
his traveling companion were on their way to
London.
Some men, finding themselves in Allan's
company under present circumstances, might
have felt curious to know the nature of his busi-
ness in the metropolis. Young Pedgift's un-
erring instinct as a man of the world penetrated
the secret without the slightest difficulty. “The
old story,” thought this wary old head, wagging
privately on its lusty young shoulders. “There's
a woman in the case, as usual. Any other busi-
ness would have been turned over to me.” Per-
fectly satisfied with this conclusion, Mr. Ped-
gift the younger proceeded, with an eye to his
professional interest, to make himself as agreea-
ble to his client as usual. He seized on the
whole administrative business of the journey to
London as he had seized on the whole admin-
istrative business of the picnic at the Broads.
On reaching the terminus, Allan was ready to
go to any hotel that might be recommended.
His invaluable solicitor straightway drove him
to a hotel at which the Pedgift family had been
accustomed to put up for three generations.
“You don't object to vegetables, Sir?” said
the cheerful Pedgift, as the cab stopped at a
hotel in Covent Garden Market. “Very good,
you may leave the rest to my grandfather, my
father, and me. I don't know which of the
three is most beloved and respected in this


164
ARMADALE.
what date Mrs. Mandeville left, and how she
left. Having discovered this, you should have
ascertained next under what domestic circum-
stances she went away—whether there was a
misunderstanding with any body; say a diffi-
culty about money-matters. Also, whether she
went away alone, or with somebody else. Also,
whether the house was her own, or whether she
only lodged in it. Also, in the latter event—”
“Stop! stop! you're making my head swim,”
cried Allan. “I don't understand all these ins
and outs—I'm not used to this sort of thing.”
“I've been used to it myself from my child-
hood upward, Sir,” remarked Pedgift. “And
if I can be of any assistance, say the word.”
“You're very kind,” returned Allan. “If
you could only help me to find Mrs. Mandeville;
and if you wouldn't mind leaving the thing after-
ward entirely in my hands—?”
“I’ll leave it in your hands, Sir, with all the
pleasure in life,” said Pedgift Junior. (“And
I'll lay five to one,” he added, mentally, “when
the time comes, you'll leave it in mine!”) “We'll
go to Bayswater together, Mr. Armadale, to-
morrow morning. In the mean time here's the
soup. The case now before the court is—Pleas-
ure versus Business. I don't know what you
say, Sir; I say, without a moment's hesitation,
Verdict for the plaintiff. Let us gather our
rose-buds while we may. Excuse my high spir-
its, Mr. Armadale. Though buried in the coun-
try, I was made for a London life; the very air
of the metropolis intoxicates me.” With that
avowal the irresistible Pedgift placed a chair for
his patron, and issued his orders cheerfully to
his viceroy, the head-waiter. “Iced punch,
William, after the soup. I answer for the
punch, Mr. Armadale—it's made after a receipt
of my great uncle's. He kept a tavern, and
founded the fortunes of the family. I don't
mind telling you the Pedgifts have had a pub-
lican among them; there's no false pride about
me. ‘Worth makes the man (as Pope says),
and want of it the fellow; the rest is all but
leather and prunella.' I cultivate poetry as well
as music, Sir, in my leisure hours; in fact, I'm
more or less on familiar terms with the whole
of the nine Muses. Aha! here's the punch !
The memory of my great uncle, the publican,
Mr. Armadale—drunk in solemn silence!”
Allan tried hard to emulate his companion's
gayety and good-humor, but with very indiffer-
ent success. His visit to Kingsdown Crescent
recurred ominously again and again to his mem-
ory, all through the dinner, and all through the
public amusements to which he and his legal
adviser repaired at a later hour of the evening.
When Pedgift Junior put out his candle that
night he shook his wary head, and regretfully
apostrophized “the women” for the second time.
By ten o'clock the next morning the indefat-
igable Pedgift was on the scene of action. To
Allan's great relief he proposed making the
necessary inquiries at Kingsdown Crescent in
his own person, while his patron waited near at
hand in the cab which had brought them from
the hotel. After a delay of little more than five
minutes, he reappeared, in full possession of all
attainable particulars. His first proceeding was
to request Allan to step out of the cab and to
pay the driver. Next, he politely offered his
arm, and led the way round the corner of the
crescent, across a square, and into a by-street,
which was rendered exceptionally lively by the
presence of the local cab-stand. Here he
stopped, and asked jocosely, whether Mr. Arma-
dale saw his way now, or whether it would be
necessary to test his patience by making an ex-
planation.
“See my way?” repeated Allan, in bewil-
derment. “I see nothing but a cab-stand.”
Pedgift Junior smiled compassionately, and
entered on his explanation. It was a lodging-
house at Kingsdown Crescent, he begged to
state, to begin with. He had insisted on see-
ing the landlady. A very nice person, with all
the remains of having been a fine girl about
fifty years ago; quite in Pedgift's style—if he
had only been alive at the beginning of the pres-
ent century—quite in Pedgift's style. But per-
haps Mr. Armadale would prefer hearing about
Mrs. Mandeville 7 Unfortunately there was no-
thing to tell. There had been no quarreling,
and not a farthing left unpaid: the lodger had
gone, and there wasn't an explanatory circum-
stance to lay hold of any where. It was either
Mrs. Mandeville's way to vanish, or there was
something under the rose, quite undiscoverable
so far. Pedgift had got the date on which she
left, and the time of day at which she left, and
the means by which she left. The means might
help to trace her. She had gone away in a cab,
which the servant had fetched from the nearest
stand. The stand was now before their eyes;
and the waterman was the first person to apply
to-going to the waterman for information be-
ing clearly (if Mr. Armadale would excuse the
joke) going to the fountain-head. Treating the
subject in this airy manner, and telling Allan
that he would be back in a moment, Pedgift
Junior sauntered down the street and beckoned
the waterman confidentially into the nearest
public house.
In a little while the two reappeared; the wa-
terman taking Pedgift in succession to the first,
third, fourth, and sixth of the cabmen whose
vehicles were on the stand. The longest con-
ference was held with the sixth man; and it
ended in the sudden approach of the sixth cab
to the part of the street where Allan was wait-
1ng.
“Get in, Sir,” said Pedgift, opening the door,
“I've found the man. He remembers the lady;
and, though he has forgotten the name of the
street, he believes he can find the place he drove
her to when he once gets back into the neigh-
borhood. I am charmed to inform you, Mr.
Armadale, that we are in luck's way so far. I
asked the waterman to show me the regular men
on the stand—and it turns out that one of the
regular men drove Mrs. Mandeville. The wa-
terman vouches for him; he's quite an anomaly—


ARMADALE.
165
**
a respectable cabman; drives his own horse,
and has never been in any trouble. These are
the sort of men, Sir, who sustain one's belief in
human nature. I've had a look at our friend,
and I agree with the waterman—I think we can
depend on him.”
The investigation required some exercise of
patience at the outset. It was not till the cab
had traversed the distance between Bayswater
and Pimlico that the driver began to slacken his
pace and look about him. After once or twice
retracing its course, the vehicle entered a quiet
by-street, ending in a dead wall with a door in
it; and stopped at the last house on the left-
hand side, the house next to the wall.
“Here it is, gentlemen,” said the man, open-
ing the cab-door.
Allan and Allan's adviser both got out and
both looked at the house with the same feeling of
instinctive distrust. Buildings have their phys-
iognomy—especially buildings in great cities—
and the face of this house was essentially furtive
in its expression. The front windows were all
shut, and the front blinds were all drawn down.
It looked no larger than the other houses in the
street, seen in front; but it ran back deceitful-
ly, and gained its greater accommodation by
means of its greater depth. It affected to be a
shop on the ground-floor; but it exhibited ab-
The yellow young woman stared at him in
astonishment. “No person of that name is
” she answered, sharply, in a for-
known here,
eign accent.
“Perhaps they know her at the private
door?” suggested Pedgift Junior.
“Perhaps they do?” said the yellow young
woman, and shut the door in his face.
“Rather a quick-tempered young person that,
| Sir,” said Pedgift. “I congratulate Mrs. Man-
deville on not being acquainted with her.” . He
|led the way as he spoke to Doctor Downward's
side of the premises, and rang the bell.
The door was opened this time by a man in a
shabby livery. He too stared when Mrs. Man-
deville's name was mentioned; and he too knew
of no such person in the house. -
h “Very odd,” said Pedgift, appealing to Al-
aln.
“What is odd?” asked a softly-stepping,
softly-speaking gentleman in black, suddenly
appearing on the threshold of the parlor-door.
Pedgift Junior politely explained the circum-
stances, and begged to know whether he had the
pleasure of speaking to Doctor Downward.
The doctor bowed. If the expression may be
pardoned, he was one of those carefully-con-
structed physicians in whom the public—espe-
cially the female public—implicitly trust. He
solutely nothing in the space that intervened had the necessary bald head, the necessary dou-
between the window and an inner row of red ble eyeglass, the necessary black clothes, and
curtains which hid the interior entirely from the necessary blandness of manner, all com-
view. At one side was the shop-door, having
more red curtains behind the glazed part of it,
and bearing a brass plate on the wooden part of
it, inscribed with the name of “Oldershaw.”
On the other side was the private door, with
a bell marked Professional; and another brass
plate indicating a medical occupant on this side
of the house, for the name on it was “Doctor
Downward.” If ever brick and mortar spoke
yet, the brick and mortar here said plainly, “We
have got our secrets inside, and we mean to
keep them.”
“This can't be the place,” said Allan; “there
must be some mistake.”
“You know best, Sir,” remarked Pedgift
Junior, with his sardonic gravity. “You know
Mrs. Mandeville's habits.”
“I!” exclaimed Allan. “You may be sur-
prised to hear it, but Mrs. Mandeville is a total
stranger to me.”
“I’m not in the least surprised to hear it,
Sir; the landlady at Kingsdown Crescent in-
formed me that Mrs. Mandeville was an old
woman. Suppose we inquire?” added the im-
penetrable Pedgift, looking at the red curtains
in the shop-window with a strong suspicion that
Mrs. Mandeville's grand-daughter might possi-
bly be behind them.
They tried the shop-door first. It was lock-
ed. . They rang. A lean and yellow young wo-
man, with a tattered French novel in her hand,
opened it.
“Good-morning, miss!” said Pedgift. “Is
Mrs. Mandeville at home 2"
plete.
| deliberate, his smile was confidential.
His voice was soothing, his ways were
What
particular branch of his profession Doctor Down-
ward followed was not indicated on his door-
plate; but he had utterly mistaken his vocation
if he was not a ladies’ medical man.
“Are you quite sure there is no mistake
about the name?” asked the doctor, with a
strong underlying anxiety in his manner. “I
have known very serious inconvenience to arise
sometimes from mistakes about names. No?
There is really no mistake? In that case, gen-
tlemen, I can only repeat what my servant has
already told you. Don't apologize, pray. Good-
morning.” The doctor withdrew as noiselessly
as he had appeared; the man in the shabby
livery silently opened the door; and Allan and
his companion found themselves in the street
'ain.
“Mr. Armadale,” said Pedgift, “I don't know
how you feel—I feel puzzled.”
“That's awkward,” returned Allan; “I was
| just going to ask you what we ought to do
| next.”
“I don't like the look of the place, the look
of the shopwoman, or the look of the doctor,”
pursued the other. “And yet I can't say I
think they are deceiving us—I can't say I think
they really do know Mrs. Mandeville's name.”
| The impressions of Pedgift Junior seldom
misled him; and they had not misled him in
this case. The caution which had dictated Mrs.
Oldershaw's private removal from Bayswater
was the caution which frequently overreaches


ARMADALE.
- -
- - -
-
- -
- -
-
itself. It had warned her to trust nobody at
Pimlico with the secret of the name she had as-
sumed as Miss Gwilt's reference; but it had en-
tirely failed to prepare her for the emergency
that had really happened. In a word, Mrs.
Oldershaw had provided for every thing except
for the one unimaginable contingency of an aft-
er-inquiry into the character of Miss Gwilt.
“We must do something,” said Allan; “it
seems useless to stop here.”
Nobody had ever yet caught Pedgift Junior
at the end of his resources; and Allan failed to
catch him at the end of them now. “I quite
agree with you, Sir," he said; “we must do
something. We'll cross-examine the cabman.”
The cabman proved to be immovable.
Charged with mistaking the place, he pointed
to the empty shop-window. “I don't know
what you may have seen, gentleman,” he re-
marked; “but there's the only shop-window I
ever saw with nothing at all inside it. That
fixed the place in my mind at the time, and I
know it again when I see it.” Charged with
mistaking the person, or the day, or the house
- -
-
------


ARMADALE.
167
at which he had taken the person up, the cab-
man proved to be still unassailable. The serv-
ant who fetched him was marked as a girl well
known on the stand. The day was marked as
the unluckiest working day he had had since
the first of the year; and the lady was marked
he said. “I want to consider a little about
this; and a walk and a cigar will help me.”
“My business will be done, Sir, between one
and two,” said Pedgift, when the cab had been
| stopped, and Allan had got out. “Shall we
meet again at two o'clock at the hotel?”
as having had her money ready at the right mo-
ment (which not one elderly lady in a hundred
usually had), and having paid him his fare on de-
mand, without disputing it (which not one elder-
ly lady in a hundred usually did). “Take my
number, gentlemen,” concluded the cabman,
“and pay me for my time; and what I’ve said
to you I'll swear to any where.” Two o'clock came; and Pedgift Junior, punc-
Pedgift made a note in his pocket-book of the tual to his time, came with it. His vivacity of
man's number. Having added to it the name the morning had all sparkled out; he greeted
of the street, and the names on the two brass |Allan with his customary politeness, but with-
plates, he quietly opened the cab-door. “We out his customary smile; and when the head-
are quite in the dark, thus far,” he said. “Sup- waiter came in for orders his dismissal was in-
pose we grope our way back to the hotel?” stantly pronounced in words never yet heard to
He spoke and looked more seriously than issue from the lips of Pedgift in that hotel:
usual. The mere fact of “Mrs. Mandeville's" “Nothing at present.”
having changed her lodging without telling any “You seem to be in low spirits,” said Allan.
one where she was going, and without leaving “Can't we get our information? Can nobody
any address at which letters could be forwarded tell you any thing about the house in Pimli-
to her—which the jealous malignity of Mrs. Mil- co?”
roy had interpreted as being undeniably suspi- “Three different people have told me about
cious in itself—had produced no great impression it, Mr. Armadale; and they have all three said
on the more impartial judgment of Allan's so- the same thing.”
licitor. People frequently left their lodgings in Allan eagerly drew his chair nearer to the
a private manner, with perfectly producible rea-place occupied by his traveling companion. His
sons for doing so. But the appearance of the reflections in the interval since they had last
place to which the cabman persisted in declar- seen each other had not tended to compose him.
ing that he had driven “Mrs. Mandeville” set That strange connection, so easy to feel, so hard
the character and proceedings of that mysteri- to trace, between the difficulty of approaching
ous lady before Pedgift Junior in a new light. Miss Gwilt's family circumstances and the dif-
His personal interest in the inquiry suddenly ficulty of approaching Miss Gwilt's reference,
strengthened, and he began to feel a curiosity to which had already established itself in his
know the real nature of Allan's business which thoughts, had by this time stealthily taken a
he had not felt yet. firmer and firmer hold on his mind. Doubts
“Our next move, Mr. Armadale, is not a very troubled him which he could neither under-
easy move to see,” he said, as they drove back stand nor express. Curiosity filled him, which
to the hotel. “Do you think you could put me he half-longed and half-dreaded to satisfy.
in possession of any further particulars?” “I am afraid I must trouble you with a ques-
Allan hesitated; and Pedgift Junior saw that |tion or two, Sir, before I can come to the point,”
he had advanced a little too far. “I mustn't said Pedgift Junior. “I don't want to force
force it,” he thought; “I must give it time, and myself into your confidence; I only want to see
let it come of its own accord. In the absence my way in what looks to me like a very awk-
of any other information, Sir,” he resumed, ward business. Do you mind telling me wheth-
“what do you say to my making some inquiry er others besides yourself are interested in this
about that queer shop, and about those two inquiry of ours?”
names on the door-plate? My business in Lon- “Other people are interested in it,” replied
don, when I leave you, is of a professional na-. Allan. “There's no objection to telling you
ture; and I am going into the right quarter for that.”
getting information, if it is to be got.” “Is there any other person who is the object
“There can't be any harm, I suppose, in of the inquiry besides Mrs. Mandeville herself?”
making inquiries,” replied Allan. pursued Pedgift, winding his way a little deeper
He, too, spoke more seriously than usual; into the secret.
he, too, was beginning to feel an all-mastering “Yes; there is another person,” said Allan,
curiosity to know more. Some vague connec- answering rather unwillingly.
tion, not to be distinctly realized or traced out, “Is the person a young woman, Mr. Arma-
began to establish itself in his mind between the dale 7”
difficulty of approaching Miss Gwilt's family cir-| Allan started. “How do you come to guess
cumstances and the difficulty of approaching that?” he began—then checked himself when
Miss Gwilt's reference. “I’ll get down and , it was too late. “Don’t ask me any more
walk, and leave you to go on to your business,” questions,” he resumed. “I’m a bad hand at
Allan nodded, and the cab drove off.
-o-
CHAPTER IV.
A L L A N AT B.A. Y.


168
ARMADALE.
defending myself against a sharp fellow like
you; and I'm bound in honor toward other peo-
ple to keep the particulars of this business to
myself.”
Pedgift Junior had apparently heard enough
for his purpose.
nearer to Allan.
He drew his chair, in his turn,
He was evidently anxious
and embarrassed—but his professional manner
began to show itself again from sheer force of
habit.
“I’ve done with my questions, Sir,” he said;
“and I have something to say now on my side.
In my father's absence perhaps you may be
kindly disposed to consider me as your legal ad-
viser. If you will take my advice you will not
stir another step in this inquiry.”
“What do you mean?” interposed Allan.
“It is just possible, Mr. Armadale, that the
cabman, positive as he is, may have been mis-
taken. I strongly recommend you to take it for
granted that he is mistaken—and to drop it
there.”
The caution was kindly intended; but it
came too late. Allan did what ninety-nine men
out of a hundred in his position would have
done—he declined to take his lawyer's advice.
“Very well, Sir,” said Pedgift Junior; “if
you will have it, you must have it.”
He leaned forward close to Allan's ear, and
whispered what he had heard of the house in
Pimlico, and of the people who occupied it.
“Don’t blame me, Mr. Armadale,” he add-
ed, when the irrevocable words had been spoken.
“I tried to spare you.”
Allan suffered the shock, as all great shocks
are suffered, in silence. His first impulse would
have driven him headlong for refuge to that very
view of the cabman's assertion which had just
been recommended to him, but for one dam-
ming circumstance which placed itself inexorably
in his way. Miss Gwilt's marked reluctance to
approach the story of her past life rose irrepress-
ibly on his memory, in indirect but horrible con-
firmation of the evidence which connected Miss
Gwilt's reference with the house in Pimlico.
One conclusion, and one only—the conclusion
which any man must have drawn, hearing what
he had just heard, and knowing no more than
he knew—forced itself into his mind. A mis-
erable, fallen woman, who had abandoned her-
self in her extremity to the help of wretches
skilled in criminal concealment—who had stol-
en her way back to decent society and a reputa-
ble employment by means of a false character
—and whose position now imposed on her the
dreadful necessity of perpetual secrecy and per-
petual deceit in relation to her past life—such
was the aspect in which the beautiful govern-
ess at Thorpe-Ambrose now stood revealed to
Allan's eyes!
Falsely revealed or truly revealed? Had she
stolen her way back to decent society and a rep-
utable employment by means of a false charac-
ter? She had. Did her position impose on
her the dreadful necessity of perpetual secrecy
and perpetual deceit in relation to her past life?
It did. Was she some such pitiable victim to
the treachery of a man unknown as Allan had
supposed? She was no such pitiable victim. The
conclusion which Allan had drawn—the con-
clusion literally forced into his mind by the facts
before him—was, nevertheless, the conclusion
of all others that was farthest even from touch-
ing on the truth. The true story of Miss
Gwilt's connection with the house in Pimlico
and the people who inhabited it—a house right-
ly described as filled with wicked secrets, and
people rightly represented as perpetually in dan-
ger of feeling the grasp of the law—was a story
which coming events were yet to disclose; a
story infinitely less revolting, and yet infinitely
more terrible, than Allan or Allan's companion
had either of them supposed.
“I tried to spare you, Mr. Armadale,” re-
peated Pedgift. “I was anxious, if I could
possibly avoid it, not to distress you.”
Allan looked up and made an effort to con-
trol himself. “You have distressed me dread-
fully,” he said. “You have quite crushed me
down. But it is not your fault. I ought to
feel you have done me a service; and what I
ought to do I will do, when I am my own man
again. There is one thing,” Allan added, aft-
er a moment's painful consideration, “which
ought to be understood between us at once.
The advice you offered me just now was very
kindly meant, and it was the best advice that
could be given. I will take it gratefully. We
will never talk of this again, if you please; and
I beg and entreat you will never speak about
it to any other person. Will you promise me
that?”
Pedgift gave the promise with very evident
sincerity, but without his professional confidence
of manner. The distress in Allan's face seem-
ed to daunt him. After a moment of very un-
characteristic hesitation he considerately quitted
the room.
Left by himself, Allan rang for writing ma-
terials, and took out of his pocket-book the fa-
tal letter of introduction to “Mrs. Mandeville”
which he had received from the major's wife.
A man accustomed to consider consequences
and to prepare himself for action by previous
thought would, in Allan's present circumstances,
have felt some difficulty as to the course which
it might now be least embarrassing and least
dangerous to pursue. Accustomed to let his
impulses direct him on all other occasions, Al-
lan acted on impulse in the serious emergency
that now confronted him. Though his attach-
ment to Miss Gwilt was nothing like the deeply-
rooted feeling which he had himself honestly
believed it to be, she had taken no common
place in his admiration, and she filled him with
no common grief when he thought of her now.
His one dominant desire at that critical moment
in his life was a man's merciful desire to protect
from exposure and ruin the unhappy woman
who had lost her place in his estimation, with-
out losing her claim to the forbearance that
| could spare and to the compassion that could


ARMADALE.
169
shield her. “I can't go back to Thorpe-Am-
brose; I can't trust myself to speak to her or
to see her again. But I can keep her misera-
ble secret—and I will !” With that thought in
his heart Allan set himself to perform the first
and foremost duty which now claimed him—the
duty of communicating with Mrs. Milroy. If
he had possessed a higher mental capacity and
a clearer mental view he might have found the
letter no easy one to write. As it was, he cal-
culated no consequences and felt no difficulty.
His instinct warned him to withdraw at once
from the position in which he now stood toward
the major's wife, and he wrote what his instinct
counseled him to write under those circum-
stances as rapidly as the pen could travel over
the paper:
“DUNN's HorrL, CovENT GARDEN, Tuesday.
“DEAR MADAM,-Pray excuse my not re-
turning to Thorpe-Ambrose to-day, as I said I
would. Unforeseen circumstances oblige me to
stop in London. I am sorry to say I have not
succeeded in seeing Mrs. Mandeville, for which
reason I can not perform your errand; and I
beg, therefore, with many apologies, to return
the letter of introduction. I hope you will al-
low me to conclude by saying that I am very
much obliged to you for your kindness, and
that I will not venture to trespass on it any fur-
ther.
“I remain, dear Madam, yours truly,
“ALLAN ARMADALE.”
In those artless words, still entirely unsuspi-
cious of the character of the woman he had to
deal with, Allan put the weapon she wanted
into Mrs. Milroy's hands.
The letter and its inclosure once sealed up
and addressed, he was free to think of himself
and his future. As he sat idly drawing lines
with his pen on the blotting-paper the tears
came into his eyes for the first time—tears in
which the woman who had deceived him had
no share. His heart had gone back to his dead
mother. “If she had been alive,” he thought,
“I might have trusted her, and she would have
comforted me.” It was useless to dwell on it;
he dashed away the tears, and turned his
thoughts, with the heart-sick resignation that
we all know, to living and present things.
He wrote a line to Mr. Bashwood, briefly in-
forming the deputy steward that his absence from
Thorpe-Ambrose was likely to be prolonged for
some little time, and that any further instruc-
tions which might be necessary, under those
circumstances, would reach him through Mr.
Pedgift the elder. This done, and the letters
sent to the post, his thoughts were forced back
once more on himself. Again the blank future
waited before him to be filled up; and again
his heart shrank from it to the refuge of the
past.
This time other images than the image of his
mother filled his mind. The one all-absorbing
interest of his earlier days stirred living and
eager in him again. He thought of the sea;
L
he thought of his yacht lying idle in the fish-
ing harbor at his west-country home. The old
longing got possession of him to hear the wash
of the waves; to see the filling of the sails; to
feel the vessel that his own hands had helped
to build bounding under him once more. He
rose in his impetuous way to call for the time-
table, and to start for Somersetshire by the first
train, when the dread of the questions which
Mr. Brock might ask, the suspicion of the change
which Mr. Brock might see in him, drew him
back to his chair. “I’ll write,” he thought,
“to have the yacht rigged and refitted, and I'll
wait to go to Somersetshire myself till Midwin-
ter can go with me.” He sighed as his mem-
ory reverted to his absent friend. Never had
he felt the void made in his life by Midwinter's
departure so painfully as he felt it now, in the
dreariest of all social solitudes—the solitude of
a stranger in London, left by himself at a hotel.
Before long Pedgift Junior looked in, with
an apology for his intrusion. Allan felt too
lonely and too friendless not to welcome his
companion's reappearance gratefully. “I’m
not going back to Thorpe-Ambrose,” he said;
“I’m going to stay a little while in London. I
hope you will be able to stay with me?” To do
him justice, Pedgift was touched by the solitary
position in which the owner of the great Thorpe-
Ambrose estate now appeared before him. He
had never, in his relations with Allan, so en-
tirely forgotten his business interests as he for-
got them now.
“You are quite right, Sir, to stop here—Lon-
don's the place to divert your mind,” said Ped-
gift, cheerfully. “All business is more or less
elastic in its nature, Mr. Armadale; I'll spin
my business out, and keep you company with
the greatest pleasure. We are both of us on
the right side of thirty, Sir—let's enjoy our-
selves. What do you say to dining early, and
going to the play, and trying the Great Exhibi-
tion in Hyde Park to-morrow morning after
breakfast? If we only live like fighting-cocks,
and go in perpetually for public amusements,
we shall arrive in no time at the mens sana in
corpore sano of the ancients. Don't be alarmed
at the quotation, Sir. I dabble a little in Latin
after business hours, and enlarge my sympathies
by occasional perusal of the Pagan writers, as-
sisted by a crib. William, dinner at five; and,
as it's particularly important to-day, I'll see the
cook myself.”
The evening passed—the next day passed-
Thursday morning came, and brought with it a
letter for Allan. The direction was in Mrs.
Milroy's handwriting; and the form of address
adopted in the letter warned Allan the moment
he opened it that something had gone wrong.
*The CoTTAGE, Thompe-AMBROSE,
* Private. “Wednesday.
“SIR,-I have just received your mysterious
letter. It has more than surprised, it has really
alarmed me. After having made the friendli-
est advances to you on my side, I find myself
suddenly shut out from your confidence in the


170
ARMADALE.
most unintelligible, and, I must add, the most
discourteous manner. It is quite impossible
that I can allow the matter to rest where you
have left it. The only conclusion I can draw
from your letter is, that my confidence must
have been abused in some way, and that you
know a great deal more than you are willing to
tell me. Speaking in the interest of my daugh-
ter's welfare, I request that you will inform me
what the circumstances are which have pre-
vented your seeing Mrs. Mandeville, and which
have led to the withdrawal of the assistance that
you unconditionally promised me in your letter
of Monday last.
“In my state of health I can not involve my-
self in a lengthened correspondence. I must
endeavor to anticipate any objections you may
make, and I must say all that I have to say in
my present letter. In the event (which I am
most unwilling to consider possible) of your de-
clining to accede to the request that I have just
addressed to you, I beg to say that I shall con-
sider it my duty to my daughter to have this
very unpleasant matter cleared up. If I don't
hear from you to my full satisfaction by return
of post, I shall be obliged to tell my husband
that circumstances have happened which justify
us in immediately testing the respectability of
Miss Gwilt's reference. And when he asks me
for my authority, I will refer him to you.
“Your obedient servant,
“ANNE MILROY.”
In those terms the major's wife threw off the
mask and left her victim to survey at his leisure
the trap in which she had caught him. Allan's
belief in Mrs. Milroy's good faith had been so
implicitly sincere that her letter simply bewil-
dered him. He saw vaguely that he had been
deceived in some way, and that Mrs. Milroy's
neighborly interest in him was not what it had
looked on the surface; and he saw no more.
The threat of appealing to the major—on which,
with a woman's ignorance of the natures of men,
Mrs. Milroy had relied for producing its effect
—was the only part of the letter to which Allan
reverted with any satisfaction: it relieved in-
stead of alarming him. “If there is to be a
quarrel,” he thought, “it will be a comfort, at
any rate, to have it out with a man.”
Firm in his resolution to shield the unhappy
woman whose secret he wrongly believed him-
self to have surprised, Allan sat down to write
his apologies to the major's wife. After setting
up three polite declarations in close marching
order he retired from the field. “He was ex-
tremely sorry to have offended Mrs. Milroy.
He was innocent of all intention to offend Mrs.
Milroy. And he begged to remain Mrs. Mil-
roy's truly.” Never had Allan's habitual brev-
ity as a letter-writer done him better service than
it did him now. With a little more skillfulness
in the use of his pen he might have given his
enemy even a stronger hold on him than the
hold she had got already.
The interval-day passed, and with the next
morning's post Mrs. Milroy's threat came real-
ized in the shape of a letter from her husband.
The major wrote less formally than his wife had
written, but his questions were mercilessly to
the point.
“THE CorrAGE, THoRPE-AMBRose,
* Private. “Friday, July 11, 1851.
“DEAR SIR,—When you did me the favor of
calling here a few days since, you asked a ques-
tion relating to my governess, Miss Gwilt, which
I thought rather a strange one at the time, and
which caused, as you may remember, a mo-
mentary embarrassment between us.
“This morning the subject of Miss Gwilt has
been brought to my notice again in a manner
which has caused me the utmost astonishment.
In plain words, Mrs. Milroy has informed me
that Miss Gwilt has exposed herself to the sus-
picion of having deceived us by a false reference.
On my expressing the surprise which such an
extraordinary statement caused me, and request-
ing that it might be instantly substantiated, I
was still further astonished by being told to ap-
ply for all particulars to no less a person than
Mr. Armadale. I have vainly requested some
further explanation from Mrs. Milroy; she per-
sists in maintaining silence, and in referring me
to yourself.
“Under these extraordinary circumstances I
am compelled, in justice to all parties, to ask
you certain questions, which I will endeavor to
put as plainly as possible, and which I am quite
ready to believe (from my previous experience
of you) that you will answer frankly on your
side.
“I beg to inquire, in the first place, whether
you admit or deny Mrs. Milroy's assertion that
you have made yourself acquainted with partic-
ulars relating either to Miss Gwilt or to Miss
Gwilt's reference of which I am entirely igno-
rant? In the second place, if you admit the
truth of Mrs. Milroy's statement, I request to
know how you became acquainted with those
particulars? Thirdly, and lastly, I beg to ask
you what the particulars are?
“If any special justification for putting these
questions be needed—which, purely as a matter
of courtesy toward yourself, I am willing to ad-
mit—I beg to remind you that the most precious
charge in my house, the charge of my daughter,
is confided to Miss Gwilt; and that Mrs. Mil-
roy's statement places you, to all appearance,
in the position of being competent to tell me
whether that charge is properly bestowed or not.
“I have only to add that, as nothing has thus
far occurred to justify me in entertaining the
slightest suspicion either of my governess or her
reference, I shall wait before I make any appeal
to Miss Gwilt until I have received your answer
—which I shall expect by return of post.
“Believe me, dear Sir, faithfully yours,
“DAVID MILROY.”
This transparently straightforward letter at
once dissipated the confusion which had thus far
existed in Allan's mind: he saw the snare in


ARMADALE. * 171
which he had been caught as he had not seen last occasion that I shall have to communicate
it yet. Mrs. Milroy had clearly placed him be- with you. Allow me, therefore, merely to re-
tween two alternatives—the alternative of put- mark that our ideas of the conduct which is be-
ting himself in the wrong, by declining to an- coming in a gentleman differ seriously; and
swer her husband's questions; or the alterna- permit me on this account to request that you
tive of meanly sheltering his responsibility be- will consider yourself for the future as a stranger
hind the responsibility of a woman, by acknowl- to my family and to myself.
edging to the major's own face that the major's “Your obedient servant,
wife had deceived him. In this difficulty Allan “DAVID MILROY.”
acted, as usual, without hesitation. His pledge
to Mrs. Milroy to consider their correspondence The Monday morning on which his client re-
private still bound him, disgracefully as she had ceived the major's letter was the blackest Mon-
abused it. And his resolution was as immova- day that had yet been marked in Pedgift's cal-
ble as ever to let no earthly consideration tempt endar. When Allan's first angry sense of the
him into betraying Miss Gwilt. “I may have tone of contempt in which his friend and neigh-
behaved like a fool,” he thought, “but I won't | bor pronounced sentence upon him had sub-
break my word; and I won't be the means of sided, it left him sunk in a state of depression
turning that miserable woman adrift in the world from which no efforts made by his traveling
again.” companion could rouse him for the rest of the
He wrote to the major as artlessly and briefly day. Reverting naturally, now that his sen-
as he had written to the major's wife. He de- tence of banishment had been pronounced, to
clared his unwillingness to cause a friend and his early intercourse with the cottage, his mem-
neighbor any disappointment, if he could possi- ory went back to Neelie, more regretfully and
bly help it. On this occasion he had no other | more penitently than it had gone back to her
choice. The questions the major asked him yet. “If she had shut the door on me instead
were questions which he could not consent to of her father,” was the bitter reflection with
answer. He was not very clever at explaining which Allan now reviewed the past, “I shouldn't
himself, and he hoped he might be excused for have had a word to say against it; I should have
putting it in that way, and saying no more. felt it served me right.”
Monday's post brought with it Major Milroy's The next day brought another letter—a wel-
rejoinder, and closed the correspondence: come letter this time—from Mr. Brock. Allan
“THE Corrace, Thomre-AMIRose, had written to Somersetshire on the subject of
“Sunday. refitting the yacht some days since. The letter
“SIR,—Your refusal to answer my questions, had found the rector engaged, as he innocently
unaccompanied as it is by even the shadow of supposed, in protecting his old pupil against the
an £ for such a £ £ be inter- '' ": ' # in £ #
preted but in one way. Besides being an im- whom he now believed to have followed him
plied acknowledgment of the correctness of Mrs. back to his own home. Acting under the direc-
Milroy's statement, it is also an implied reflec- tions sent to her, Mrs. Oldershaw's house-maid
tion on my governess character. As an act had completed the mystification of Mr. Brock.
of justice toward a lady who lives under the She had tranquilized all further anxiety on the
protection of my roof, and who has given me no rector's part by giving him a written undertak-
reason whatever to distrust her, I shall now show ing (in the character of Miss Gwilt), engaging
our correspondence to Miss Gwilt; and I shall never to approach Mr. Armadale, either person-
repeat to her the conversation which I had with ally or by letter! Firmly persuaded that he
Mrs. Milroy on this subject, in Mrs. Milroy's had won the victory at last, poor Mr. Brock an-
presence. swered Allan's note in the highest spirits, ex-
“One word more respecting the future rela- pressing some natural surprise at his leaving
tions between us, and I have done. My ideas | Thorpe-Ambrose, but readily promising that the
on certain subjects aré. I dare say, the ideas of yacht should be refitted, and offering the hospi-
an old-fashioned man. In my time we had a tality of the rectory in the heartiest manner.
code of honor by which we regulated our actions. This letter did wonders in raising Allan's spir-
According to that code, if a man made private its. It gave him a new interest to look to, en-
inquiries into a lady's affairs, without £ tirely disassociated from his past life in Norfolk.
either her husband, her father, or her brother, He began to count the days that were still to
he subjected himself to the responsibility of jus- pass before the return of his absent friend. It
tifying his conduct in the estimation of others; | Was then Tuesday. If Midwinter came back
and, if he evaded that responsibility, he abdi. from his walking trip, as he had engaged to
cated the position of a gentleman. It is quite come back, in a fortnight, Saturday would find
possible that this antiquated way of thinking him at Thorpe-Ambrose. A note Sent to meet
exists £ ' it is too : for me, at ": the £ ' ' him £ :
time of life, to adopt more modern views. same night; and, if all went well, before anoth-
am scrupulously anxious, seeing that we live in er week was over they might be afloat together
a country and a time in which the only court gf in the yacht. * - -
honor is a police-court, to express myself with The next day passed, to Allan's relief, with-
the utmost moderation of language upon this the out bringing any letters. The spirits of Ped-


172
ARMADALE.
gift rose sympathetically with the spirits of his
client. Toward dinner-time he reverted to the
mens sana in corpore sano of the ancients, and
issued his orders to the head-waiter more royally
than ever.
Thursday came, and brought the fatal post-
man with more news from Norfolk. A letter-
writer now stepped on the scene who had not
appeared there yet; and the total overthrow of
all Allan's plans for a visit to Somersetshire was
accomplished on the spot.
Pedgift Junior happened that morning to be
first at the breakfast-table. When Allan came
in he relapsed into his professional manner, and
offered a letter to his patron with a bow per-
formed in dreary silence.
“For me?” inquired Allan, shrinking in-
stinctively from a new correspondent.
“For you, Sir, from my father,” replied Ped-
gift, “inclosed in one to myself. Perhaps you
will allow me to suggest, by way of preparing
you for—for something a little unpleasant—that
we shall want a particularly good dinner to-day;
and (if they're not performing any modern Ger-
man music to-night) I think we should do well
to finish the evening melodiously at the Opera.”
“Something wrong at Thorpe-Ambrose?”
asked Allan.
“Yes, Mr. Armadale; something wrong at
Thorpe-Ambrose.”
Allan sat down resignedly and opened the
letter
“HIGH STREET, THoRPE-AMBRose,
“July 17, 1851.
“Private and confidential.
“DEAR SIR,-I can not reconcile it with my
sense of duty to your interests to leave you any
longer in ignorance of reports current in this
town and its neighborhood, which, I regret to
say, are reports affecting yourself.
“The first intimation of any thing unpleasant
reached me on Monday last. It was widely ru-
mored in the town that something had gone
wrong at Major Milroy's with the new governess,
and that Mr. Armadale was mixed up in it. I
paid no heed to this, believing it to be one of
the many trumpery pieces of scandal perpetual-
ly set going here; and as necessary as the air
they breathe to the comfort of the inhabitants
of this highly respectable place.
“Tuesday, however, put the matter in a new
light. The most interesting particulars were cir-
culated on the highest authority. On Wednes-
day the gentry in the neighborhood took the
matter up, and universally sanctioned the view
adopted by the town. To-day the public feel-
ing has reached its climax, and I find myself
under the necessity of making you acquainted
with what has happened.
“To begin at the beginning. It is asserted
that a correspondence took place last week be-
tween Major Milroy and yourself, in which you
cast a very serious suspicion on Miss Gwilt's re-
spectability, without defining your accusation,
and without (on being applied to) producing
your proofs. Upon this the major appears to
have felt it his duty (while assuring his gov-
erness of his own firm belief in her respectabili-
ty) to inform her of what had happened, in
order that she might have no future reason to
complain of his having had any concealments
from her in a matter affecting her character.
Very magnanimous on the major's part; but
you will see directly that Miss Gwilt was more
magnanimous still. After expressing her thanks
in a most becoming manner, she requested per-
mission to withdraw herself from Major Milroy's
service.
“Various reports are in circulation as to the
governess's reason for taking this step.
“The authorized version (as sanctioned by
the resident gentry) represents Miss Gwilt to
have said that she could not condescend-in
justice to herself and in justice to her highly
respectable reference—to defend her reputation
against undefined imputations cast on it by a
comparative stranger. At the same time it was
impossible for her to pursue such a course of
conduct as this unless-she possessed a freedom
of action which was quite incompatible with her
continuing to occupy the dependent position of
a governess. For that reason she felt it incum-
bent on her to leave her situation. But while
doing this she was equally determined not to
lead to any misinterpretation of her motives by
leaving the neighborhood. No matter at what
inconvenience to herself, she would remain long
enough at Thorpe-Ambrose to await any more
definitely-expressed imputations that might be
made on her character, and to repel them pub-
licly the instant they assumed a tangible form.
“Such is the position which this high-minded
lady has taken up, with an excellent effect on
the public mind in these parts. It is clearly
her interest, for some reason, to leave her situ-
ation without leaving the neighborhood. On
Monday last she established herself in a cheap
lodging on the outskirts of the town. And on
the same day she probably wrote to her refer-
ence, for yesterday there came a letter from that
lady to Major Milroy, full of virtuous indigna-
tion, and courting the fullest inquiry. The let-
ter has been shown publicly, and has immensely
strengthened Miss Gwilt's position. She is now
considered to be quite a heroine. The Thorpe-
Ambrose Mercury has got a leading article about
her, comparing her to Joan of Arc. It is con-
sidered probable that she will be referred to in
the sermon next Sunday. We reckon five
strong-minded single ladies in this neighbor-
hood, and all five have called on her. A test-
imonial was suggested; but it has been given
up at Miss Gwilt's own request, and a general
movement is now on foot to get her employment
as a teacher of music. Lastly, I have had the
honor of a visit from the lady herself, in her
capacity of martyr, to tell me, in the sweetest
manner, that she doesn't blame Mr. Armadale;
and that she considers him to be an innocent
instrument in the hands of other and more de-
signing people. I was carefully on my guard
with her; for I don't altogether believe in Miss


ARMADALE.
173
Gwilt, and I have my lawyer's suspicions of the
motive that is at the bottom of her present pro-
ceedings.
“I have written thus far, my dear Sir, with
little hesitation or embarrassment. But there
is unfortunately a serious side to this business
as well as a ridiculous side; and I must unwill-
ingly come to it before I close my letter.
“It is, I think, quite impossible that you can
permit yourself to be spoken of as you are spoken
of now without stirring personally in the matter.
You have unluckily made many enemies here,
and foremost among them is my colleague, Mr.
Darch. He has been showing every where a
somewhat rashly-expressed letter you wrote to
him on the subject of letting the cottage to
Major Milroy instead of to himself, and it has
helped to exasperate the feeling against you.
It is roundly stated, in so many words, that you
have been prying into Miss Gwilt's family affairs
with the most dishonorable motives; that you
have tried, for a profligate purpose of your own,
to damage her reputation, and to deprive her of
the protection of Major Milroy's roof; and that,
after having been asked to substantiate by proof
the suspicions that you have cast on the reputa-
tion of a defenseless woman, you have main-
tained a silence which condemns you in the es-
timation of all honorable men.
“I hope it is quite unnecessary for me to say
that I don't attach the smallest particle of credit
to these infamous reports. But they are too
widely spread and too widely believed to be
treated with contempt. I strongly urge you to
return at once to this place, and to take the nec-
essary measures for defending your character,
in concert with me, as your legal adviser. I
have formed, since my interview with Miss
Gwilt, a very strong opinion of my own on the
subject of that lady, which it is not necessary to
commit to paper. Suffice it to say here, that I
shall have a means to propose to you for silenc-
ing the slanderous tongues of your neighbors,
on the success of which I stake my professional
reputation, if you will only back me by your
presence and authority.
“It may, perhaps, help to show you the ne-
cessity there is for your return, if I mention one
other assertion respecting yourself which is in
every body's mouth. Your absence is, I blush
to tell you, attributed to the meanest of all mo-
tives. It is said that you are remaining in
London because you are afraid to show your
face at Thorpe-Ambrose.
“Believe me, dear Sir, your faithful servant,
“A. PEDGIFT, Sen'.”
Allan was of an age to feel the sting contained
in the last sentence of his lawyer's letter. He
started to his feet in a paroxysm of indignation,
which revealed his character to Pedgift Junior
in an entirely new light.
“Where's the time-table?” cried Allan. “I
must go back to Thorpe-Ambrose by the next
train! If it doesn't start directly I’ll have a
special engine. I must and will go back in-
stantly, and I don't care two straws for the ex-
pense!”
“Suppose we telegraph to my father, Sir?”
suggested the judicious Pedgift. “It's the
quickest way of expressing your feelings, and
the cheapest.”
“So it is,” said Allan. “Thank you for re-
minding me of it. Telegraph to them ! Tell
your father to give every man in Thorpe-Am-
brose the lie direct, in my name. Put it in
capital letters, Pedgift—put it in capital let-
ters!”
Pedgift smiled and shook his head. If he
was acquainted with no other variety of human
nature, he thoroughly knew the variety that ex-
ists in country towns.
“It won't have the least effect on them, Mr.
Armadale,” he remarked, quietly. “They'll
only go on lying harder than ever. If you want
to upset the whole town, one line will do it.
With five shillings' worth of human labor and
electric fluid, Sir (I dabble a little in science
after business hours), we'll explode a bombshell
in Thorpe-Ambrose!” He produced the bomb-
shell on a slip of paper as he spoke: “A. Ped-
gift, Junior, to A. Pedgift, Senior.–Spread it
all over the place that Mr. Armadale is coming
down by the next train.”
“More words,” suggested Allan, looking over
his shoulder. “Make it stronger.”
“Leave my father to make it stronger, Sir,”
returned the judicious Pedgift. “My father is
on the spot, and his command of language is
something quite extraordinary.” He rang the
bell, and dispatched the telegram.
Now that something had been done Allan
subsided gradually into a state of composure.
He looked back again at Mr. Pedgift's letter,
and then handed it to Mr. Pedgift's son.
“Can you guess your father's plan for setting
me right in the neighborhood?” he asked.
Pedgift the younger shook his wise head.
“His plan appears to be connected in some
way, Sir, with his opinion of Miss Gwilt.”
“I wonder what he thinks of her?” said Allan.
“I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Armadale,”
returned Pedgift Junior, “if his opinion stag-
gers you a little when you come to hear it. My
father has had a large legal experience of the
shady side of the sex, and he learned his pro-
fession at the Old Bailey.”
Allan made no further inquiries. He seemed
to shrink from pursuing the subject, after hav-
ing started it himself. “Let's be doing some-
thing to kill the time,” he said. “Let's pack
up and pay the bill.”
They packed up and paid the bill. The hour
came, and the train left for Norfolk at last.
While the travelers were on their way back a
somewhat longer telegraphic message than Al-
lan's was flashing its way past them along the
wires in the reverse direction—from Thorpe-Am-
brose to London. The message was in cipher,
and, the signs being interpreted, it ran thus:
“From Lydia Gwilt to Maria Oldershaw–
Good news! He is coming back. I mean to


174
ARMADALE.
have an interview with him. Every thing looks
well. Now I have left the cottage I have no
women's prying eyes to dread, and I can come
and go as I please. Mr. Midwinter is luckily
out of the way. I don't despair of becoming
Mrs. Armadale yet. Whatever happens, depend
on my keeping away from London until I am
certain of not taking any spies after me to your
place. I am in no hurry to leave Thorpe-Am-
brose. I mean to be even with Miss Milroy
first.” -
Shortly after that message was received in
London Allan was back again in his own house.
It was evening—Pedgift Junior had just left
him, and Pedgift Senior was expected to call
on business in half an hour's time.
CHAPTER V.
P E D G IFT'S REM E D Y.
AFTER waiting to hold a preliminary consult-
ation with his son, Mr. Pedgift the elder set
forth alone for his interview with Allan at the
great house.
Allowing for the difference in their ages, the
son was, in this instance, so accurately the re-
flection of the father, that an acquaintance with
either of the two Pedgifts was almost equivalent
to an acquaintance with both. Add some little
height and size to the figure of Pedgift Junior;
give some additional breadth and boldness to his
humor, and some additional solidity and com-
posure to his confidence in himself—and the
branch of the law.
presence and character of Pedgift Senior stood
for all general purposes revealed before you.
The lawyer's conveyance to Thorpe-Ambrose
was his own smart gig, drawn by his famous
fast-trotting mare. It was his habit to drive
himself; and it was one among the trifling ex-
ternal peculiarities in which he and his son dif-
fered a little, to affect something of a sporting
character in his dress. The drab trowsers of
Pedgift the elder fitted close to his legs; his
boots in dry weather and wet alike were equal-
ly thick in the sole; his coat-pockets overlapped
his hips, and his favorite summer cravat was of
light spotted muslim, tied in the neatest and
smallest of bows. He used tobacco like his
son, but in a different form. While the youn-
ger man smoked, the elder took snuff copiously;
and it was noticed among his intimates that he
always held his “pinch” in a state of suspense
between his box and his nose when he was go-
ing to clench a good bargain or to say a good
thing. The art of diplomacy enters largely into
the practice of all successful men in the lower
Mr. Pedgift's form of dip-
lomatic practice had been the same throughout
his life, on every occasion when he found his
arts of persuasion required at an interview with
another man. He invariably kept his strongest
argument, or his boldest proposal, to the last,
and invariably remembered it at the door (after
previously taking his leave), as if it was a pure-
ly accidental consideration which had that in-
stant occurred to him. Jocular friends, ac-
quainted by previous experience with this form
of proceeding, had given it the name of “Ped-
gift's postscript.” There were few people in
Thorpe - Ambrose who did not know what it
meant, when the lawyer suddenly checked his
exit at the opened door; came back softly to
his chair, with his pinch of snuff suspended be-
tween his box and his nose; said, “By-the-by
there's a point occurs to me;” and settled the
question off-hand after having given it up in
despair not a minute before.
This was the man whom the march of events
at Thorpe-Ambrose had now thrust capriciously
into a foremost place. This was the one friend
at hand to whom Allan in his social isolation
could turn for counsel in the hour of need.
“Good-evening, Mr. Armadale. Many thanks
for your prompt attention to my very disagreea-
ble letter,” said Pedgift Senior, opening the
conversation cheerfully the moment he entered
his client's house. “I hope you understand,
Sir, that I had really no choice under the cir-
cumstances but to write as I did?”
“I have very few friends, Mr. Pedgift," re-
turned Allan, simply. “And I am sure you
are one of the few.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Armadale. I have al-
ways tried to deserve your good opinion, and I
mean, if I can, to deserve it now. You found
yourself comfortable I hope, Sir, at the hotel in
London? We call it Our hotel. Some rare
old wine in the cellar, which I should have in-


ARMADALE.
175
troduced to your notice if I had had the ''
of being with you. My son unfortunately knows who decline to take No for an answer. Mr.
nothing about wine.” Pedgift the elder had risen in the law; and Mr.
Allan felt his false position in the neighbor- Pedgift the elder now declined to take No for
hood far too acutely to be capable of talking an answer. But all pertinacity—even profes-
of any thing but the main business of the even-sional pertinacity included—sooner or later finds
ing. His lawyer's politely roundabout method its limits; and the lawyer, doubly fortified as
of approaching the painful subject to be discussed he was by long experience and copious pinches
between them rather irritated than composed of snuff, found his limits at the very outset of
him. He came at once to the point in his own the interview. It was impossible that Allan
bluntly straightforward way. |could respect the confidence which Mrs. Mil-
“The hotel was very comfortable, Mr. Ped- roy had treacherously affected to place in him.
gift, and your son was very kind to me. But But he had an honest man's regard for his own
we are not in London now; and I want to talk | pledged word—the regard which looks straight-
to you about how I am to meet the lies that are forward at the fact, and which never glances
being told of me in this place. Only point me sidelong at the circumstances—and the utmost
out any one man,” cried Allan, with a rising persistency of Pedgift Senior failed to move him
voice and a mounting color—“any one man a hair's-breadth from the position which he had
who says I am afraid to show my face in the taken up. “No” is the strongest word in the
The men who rise in the law are the men
neighborhood, and I'll horsewhip him publicly
before another day is over his head!”
Pedgift Senior helped himself to a pinch of
snuff, and held it calmly in suspense midway
between his box and his nose.
“You can horsewhip a man, Sir; but you
can't horsewhip a neighborhood,” said the law-
yer, in his politely epigrammatic manner. “We
will fight our battle, if you please, without bor-
rowing our weapons of the coachman yet a while,
at any rate.”
“But how are we to begin?” asked Allan,
impatiently. “How am I to contradict the in-
famous things they say of me?”
“There are two ways of stepping out of your
English language, in the mouth of any man who
has the courage to repeat it often enough—and
Allan had the courage to repeat it often enough
on this occasion.
“Very good, Sir,” said the lawyer, accepting
| his defeat without the slightest loss of temper.
“The choice rests with you, and you have
chosen. We will go the long way. It starts
(allow me to inform you) from my office; and
it leads (as I strongly suspect) through a very
miry road to–Miss Gwilt.”
Allan looked at his legal adviser in speech-
less astonishment.
“If you won't expose the person who is re-
sponsible, in the first instance, Sir, for the in-
|
present awkward position, Sir–a short way quiries to which you unfortunately lent your-
and a long way,” replied Pedgift Senior. “The self,” proceeded Mr. Pedgift the elder, “the only
short way (which is always the best) has oc- other alternative, in your present position, is to
curred to me since I have heard of your pro-
ceedings in London from my son. I under-
stand that you permitted him, after you re-
ceived my letter, to take me into your confi-
dence. I have drawn various conclusions from
what he has told me, which I may find it nec-
essary to trouble you with presently. In the
mean time I should be glad to know under what
circumstances you went to London to make these
unfortunate inquiries about Miss Gwilt? Was
it your own notion to pay that visit to Mrs.
Mandeville? or were you acting under the in-
fluence of some other person?”
Allan hesitated. “I can't honestly tell you
it was my own notion,” he replied—and said no
nore.
“I thought as much !” remarked Pedgift
Senior, in high triumph. “The short way out
of our present difficulty, Mr. Armadale, lies
straight through that other person, under whose
influence you acted. That other person must
be presented forthwith to public notice, and
must stand in that other person's proper place.
The name, if you please, Sir, to begin with—
we'll come to the circumstances directly.”
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Pedgift, that we must
try the longest way, if you have no objection,”
replied Allan, quietly. “The short way hap-
pens to be a way I can't take on this occasion.”
justify the inquiries themselves.”
“And how is that to be done?” inquired Al-
lan.
“By proving to the whole neighborhood, Mr.
Armadale, what I firmly believe to be the truth
—that the pet object of the public protection is
an adventuress of the worst class; an undenia-
bly worthless and dangerous woman. In plain-
er English still, Sir, by employing time enough
and money enough to discover the truth about
Miss Gwilt.”
Before Allan could say a word in answer
there was an interruption at the door. After
the usual preliminary knock one of the servants
came in.
“I told you I was not to be interrupted,”
said Allan, irritably. “Good Heavens! am I
never to have done with them? Another let-
ter?”
“Yes, Sir,” said the man, holding it out.
“And,” he added, speaking words of evil omen
in his master's ears, “the person waits for an
answer.”
Allan looked at the address of the letter with
a natural expectation of encountering the hand-
writing of the major's wife. The anticipation
was not realized. His correspondent was plain-
ly a lady, but the lady was not Mrs. Milroy.


ARMADALE.
177
yielded gracefully to a compromise. On re-
ceiving his client's promise not to see Miss
Gwilt he consented to Allan's committing him-
self in writing—under his lawyer's dictation.
The letter thus produced was modeled on Al-
lan's own style; it began and ended in one
sentence. “Mr. Armadale presents his com-
pliments to Miss Gwilt, and regrets that he can
not have the pleasure of seeing her at Thorpe-
Ambrose.” Allan had pleaded hard for a sec-
ond sentence, explaining that he only declined,
Miss Gwilt's request from a conviction that an
interview would be needlessly distressing on
both sides. But his legal adviser firmly reject-
ed the proposed addition to the letter. “When
you say No to a woman, Sir,” remarked Ped-
gift Senior, “always say it in one word. If
you give her your reasons she invariably be-
lieves that you mean Yes.”
Producing that little gem of wisdom from the
rich mine of his professional experience, Mr.
Pedgift the elder sent out the answer to Miss
Gwilt's messenger, and recommended the serv-
ant to “see the fellow, whoever he was, well
clear of the house.”
“Now, Sir,” said the lawyer, “we will come
back, if you like, to my opinion of Miss Gwilt.
It doesn't at all agree with yours, I'm afraid.
You think her an object of pity—quite natural
at your age. I think her an object for the in-
side of a prison—quite natural at mine. You
shall hear the grounds on which I have formed
my opinion directly. Let me show you that I
am in earnest by putting the opinion itself, in
the first place, to a practical test. Do you think
Miss Gwilt is likely to persist in paying you a
visit, Mr. Armadale, after the answer you have
just sent to her?”
“Quite impossible !” cried Allan, warmly.
“Miss Gwilt is a lady; after the letter I have
sent to her she will never come near me again.”
“There we join issue, Sir,” cried Pedgift
Senior. “I say she will snap her fingers at
your letter (which was one of the reasons why I
objected to your writing it). I say, she is in
all probability waiting her messenger's return,
in or near your grounds at this moment. I say
she will try to force her way in here before
four-and-twenty hours more are over your head.
Egad, Sir !” cried Mr. Pedgift, looking at his
watch, “it’s only seven o'clock now. She's
bold enough and clever enough to catch you un-
awares this very evening. Permit me to ring
for the servant—permit me to request that you
will give him orders immediately to say you are
not at home. You needn't hesitate, Mr. Arma-
dale! If you're right about Miss Gwilt, it's a
mere formality. If I'm right, it's a wise pre-
caution. Back your opinion, Sir,” said Mr.
Pedgift, ringing the bell, “I’ll back mine!”
Allan was sufficiently nettled when the bell
rang to feel ready to give the order. But when
the servant came in past remembrances got the
better of him, and the words stuck in his throat,
“You give the order,” he said to Mr. Pedgift
—and walked away abruptly to the window.
“You're a good fellow !” thought the old law-
yer, looking after him, and penetrating his mo-
tive on the instant. “The claws of that she-
devil sha'n't scratch you if I can help it.”
The servant waited inexorably for his orders.
“If Miss Gwilt calls here, either this even-
ing or at any other time,” said Pedgift Senior,
“Mr. Armadale is not at home. Wait ! If
she asks when Mr. Armadale will be back, you
don't know. Wait ! If she proposes coming
in and sitting down, you have a general or-
der that nobody is to come in and sit down, un-
less they have a previous appointment with Mr.
Armadale. Come!” cried old Pedgift, rubbing
his hands cheerfully when the servant had left
the room, “I’ve stopped her out now, at any
rate | The orders are all given, Mr. Armadale.
We may go on with our conversation.”
Allan came back from the window. “The
conversation is not a very pleasant one,” he said.
“No offense to you, but I wish it was over.”
“We will get it over as soon as possible, Sir,”
said Pedgift Senior, still persisting as only law-
yers and women can persist, in forcing his way
little by little nearer and nearer to his own ob-
ject. “Let us go back, if you please, to the
practical suggestion which I offered to you when
the servant came in with Miss Gwilt's note.
There is, I repeat, only one way left for you,
Mr. Armadale, out of your present awkward po-
sition. You must pursue your inquiries about
this woman to an end—on the chance (which I
consider next to a certainty) that the end will
justify you in the estimation of the neighbor-
hood.”
“I wish to God I had never made any in-
quiries at all !” said Allan. “Nothing will in-
duce me, Mr. Pedgift, to make any more.”
“Why?" asked the lawyer.
“Can you ask me why,” retorted Allan, hot-
ly, “after your son has told you what we found
out in London ? Even if I had less cause to be
—to be sorry for Miss Gwilt than I have; even
if it was some other woman, do you think I
would inquire any further into the secret of a
poor betrayed creature—much less expose it to
the neighborhood? I should think myself as
great a scoundrel as the man who has cast her
out helpless on the world if I did any thing of
the kind. I wonder you can ask me the ques-
tion—upon my soul, I wonder you can ask me
the question '"
“Give me your hand, Mr. Armadale!” cried
Pedgift Senior, warmly; “I honor you for be-
ing so angry with me. The neighborhood may
say what it pleases; you're a gentleman, Sir,
in the best sense of the word. Now,” pursued
the lawyer, dropping Allan's hand, and lapsing
back instantly from sentiment to business, “just
hear what I have got to say in my own defense.
Suppose Miss Gwilt's real position happens to
be nothing like what you are generously de-
termined to believe it to be?”
“We have no reason to suppose that,” said
Allan, resolutely.


178
ARMADALE.
“Such is your opinion, Sir,” persisted Pedgift.
“Mine, founded on what is publicly known of
Miss Gwilt's proceedings here, and on what I
have seen of Miss Gwilt herself, is, that she is
as far as I am from being the sentimental vic-
tim you are inclined to make her out. Gently,
Mr. Armadale! remember that I have put my
opinion to a practical test, and wait to con-
demn it off-hand until events have justified you.
Let me put my points, Sir—make allowances
for me as a lawyer—and let me put my points.
you and my son are young men; and I don't
deny that the circumstances, on the surface, ap-
pear to justify the interpretation which, as young
men, you have placed on them. I am an old
man—I know that circumstances are not al-
ways to be taken as they appear on the surface
—and I possess the great advantage, in the pres-
ent case, of having had years of professional ex-
perience among some of the wickedest women
who ever walked this earth.”
Allan opened his lips to protest, and checked
himself, in despair of producing the slightest ef-
fect. Pedgift Senior bowed in polite acknowl-
edgment of his client's self-restraint, and took
instant advantage of it to go on. -
“All Miss Gwilt's proceedings,” he resumed,
“since your unfortunate correspondence with
the major, show me that she is an old hand at
deceit. The moment she is threatened with
exposure-exposure of some kind, there can be
mo doubt, after what you discovered in London
—she turns your honorable silence to the best
possible account, and leaves the major's service
in the character of a martyr.
house, what does she do next? She boldly stops
in the neighborhood, and serves three excellent
purposes by doing so. In the first place, she
shows every body that she is not afraid of fac.
ing another attack on her reputation. In the
second place, she is close at hand to twist you
round her little finger, and to become Mrs.
Armadale in spite of circumstances, if you (and
I) allow her the opportunity. In the third
place, if you (and I) are wise enough to distrust
her, she is equally wise on her side, and doesn't
give us the first great chance of following her to
London, and associating her with her accom-
plices. Is this the conduct of an unhappy wo-
man who has lost her character in a moment
of weakness, and who has been driven unwill-
ingly into a deception to get it back again?”
“You put it cleverly,” said Allan, answering
with marked reluctance; “I can't deny that you
put it cleverly.”
“Your own common sense, Mr. Armadale,
is beginning to tell you that I put it justly,” said
Pedgift Senior. “I don't presume to say yet
what this woman's connection may be with those
people at Pimlico. All I assert is, that it is
not the connection you suppose. Having stated
the facts so far, I have only to add my own per-
sonal impression of Miss Gwilt. I won't shock
you, if I can help it—I'll try if I can't put it
cleverly again. She came to my office (as I told
you in my letter), no doubt to make friends with
Once out of the
your lawyer, if she could—she came to tell me,
in the most forgiving and Christian manner, that
she didn't blame you.”
“Do you ever believe in any body, Mr. Ped-
gift?” interposed Allan. ,
“Sometimes, Mr. Armadale,” returned Ped-
gift the elder, as unabashed as ever. “I be-
lieve as often as a lawyer can. To proceed, Sir.
When I was in the criminal branch of practice
it fell to my lot to take instructions for the de-
fense of women committed for trial from the
women's own lips. Whatever other difference
there might be among them, I got, in time, to
notice, among those who were particularly wicked
and unquestionably guilty, one point in which
they all resembled each other. Tall and short,
old and young, handsome and ugly, they all had
a secret self-possession that nothing could shake.
On the surface they were as different as possible.
Some of them were in a state of indignation;
some of them were drowned in tears; some of
them were full of pious confidence; and some
of them were resolved to commit suicide before
the night was out. But only put your finger
suddenly on the weak point in the story told by
any one of them, and there was an end of her
rage, or her tears, or her piety, or her despair—
and out came the genuine woman, in full pos-
session of all her resources, with a neat little lie
that exactly suited the circumstances of the case.
Miss Gwilt was in tears, Sir—becoming tears
that didn't make her nose red—and I put my
| finger suddenly on the weak point in her story.
Down dropped her pathetic pocket-handkerchief
from her beautiful blue eyes, and out came the
genuine woman with the neat little lie that ex-
actly suited the circumstances! I felt twenty
years younger, Mr. Armadale, on the spot. I
declare I thought I was in Newgate again, with
my note-book in my hand, taking my instruc-
tions for the defense!”
“The next thing, you'll say, Mr. Pedgift,”
cried Allan, angrily, “is that Miss Gwilt has
been in prison '" -
Pedgift Senior calmly rapped his snuff-box,
and had his answer ready at a moment's notice.
“She may have richly deserved to see the
inside of a prison, Mr. Armadale; but, in the
age we live in, that is one excellent reason for
her never having been near any place of the
kind. A prison, in the present tender state of
public feeling, for a charming woman like Miss
Gwilt! My dear Sir, if she had attempted to
murder you or me, and if an inhuman judge and
jury had decided on sending her to a prison,
the first object of modern society would be to
prevent her going into it; and, if that couldn't
be done, the next object would be to let her out
again as soon as possible. Read your newspa-
per, Mr. Armadale, and you'll find we live in
piping times for the black sheep of the commu-
nity—if they are only black enough. I insist
on asserting, Sir, that we have got one of the
blackest of the lot to deal with in this case. I
insist on asserting that you have had the rare
luck, in these unfortunate inquiries, to pitch on


180
ARMADALE.
his lifetime in making a clock!)—up jumps the
addle-headed major, in the loftiest manner, and
actually tries to look me down. Ha! ha! the
idea of any body looking me down at my time
of life. I behaved like a Christian; I nodded
kindly to old What's-o'clock. “Fine morning,
major,’ says I. ‘Have you any business with
me?” says he. “Just a word,” says I. Miss
Neelie, like the sensible girl she is, gets up to
leave the room; and what does her ridiculous
father do? He stops her. “You needn't go,
my dear; I have nothing to say to Mr. Pedgift,'
says this old military idiot, and turns my way,
and tries to look me down again. “You are
Mr. Armadale's lawyer,’ says he, “if you come
on any business relating to Mr. Armadale, I re-
fer you to my solicitor.” (His solicitoris Darch;
and Darch has had enough of me in business, I
can tell you!) ‘My errand here, major, does
certainly relate to Mr. Armadale, says I; “but
it doesn't concern your lawyer—at any rate, just
yet. I wish to caution you to suspend your
opinion of my client, or, if you won't do that,
to be careful how you express it in public. I
warn you that our turn is to come, and that you
are not at the end yet of this scandal about Miss
Gwilt. It struck me as likely that he would
lose his temper when he found himself tackled
in that way, and he amply fulfilled my expecta-
tions. He was quite violent in his language—
the poor weak creature—actually violent with
me! I behaved like a Christian again; I
nodded kindly, and wished him good-morning.
When I looked round to wish Miss Neelie good-
morning too, she was gone. You seem restless,
Mr. Armadale,” remarked Pedgift Senior, as
Allan, feeling the sting of old recollections, sud-
denly started out of his chair, and began pacing
up and down the room. “I won't try your pa-
tience much longer, Sir; I am coming to the
point.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pedgift,” said Allan,
returning to his seat, and trying to look com-
posedly at the lawyer through the intervening
image of Neelie which the lawyer had called up.
“Well, Sir, I left the cottage,” resumed Ped-
gift Senior. “Just as I turned the corner from
the garden into the park who should I stumble
on but Miss Neelie herself, evidently on the
look-out for me? “I want to speak to you for
one moment, Mr. Pedgift!" says she. “Does
Mr. Armadale think me mixed up in this mat-
ter?' She was violently agitated—tears in her
eyes, Sir, of the sort which my legal experience
has not accustomed me to see. I quite forgot
myself; I actually gave her my arm, and led
her away gently among the trees. (A nice posi-
tion to find me in, if any of the scandal-mongers
of the town had happened to be walking in that
direction :) ‘My dear Miss Milroy,” says I,
‘why should Mr. Armadale think you mixed up
in it?’”
“You ought to have told her at once that I
thought nothing of the kind !” exclaimed Al-
lan, indignantly. “Why did you leave her a
moment in doubt about it?”
“Because I am a lawyer, Mr. Armadale,”
rejoined Pedgift Senior, dryly. “Even in mo-
ments of sentiment, under convenient trees, with
a pretty girl on my arm, I can't entirely divest
myself of my professional caution. Don't look
distressed, Sir, pray! I set things right in due
course of time. Before I left Miss Milroy I told
her, in the plainest terms, no such idea had ever
entered your head.”
“Did she seem relieved?” asked Allan.
“She was able to dispense with the use of my
arm, Sir,” replied old Mr. Pedgift, as dryly as
ever, “and to pledge me to inviolable secrecy on
the subject of our interview. She was particu-
larly desirous that you should hear nothing about
it. If you are at all anxious on your side to
know why I am now betraying her confidence, I
beg to inform you that her confidence related to
no less a person than the lady who favored you
with a call just now—Miss Gwilt.”
Allan, who had been once more restlessly pac-
ing the room, stopped, and returned to his chair.
“Is this serious?” he asked.
“Most serious, Sir,” returned Pedgift Senior.
“I am betraying Miss Neelie's secret in Miss
Neelie's own interest. Let us go back to that
cautious question I put to her. She found some
little difficulty in answering it—for the reply in-
volved her in a narrative of the parting interview
between her governess and herself. This is the
substance of it. The two were alone when Miss
Gwilt took leave of her pupil; and the words
she used (as reported to me by Miss Neelie)
were these. She said, ‘Your mother has de-
clined to allow me to take leave of her. Do you
decline too?" Miss Neelie's answer was a re-
markably sensible one for a girl of her age.
‘We have not been good friends, she said, ‘and
I believe we are equally glad to part with each
other. But I have no wish to decline taking
leave of you.” Saying that, she held out her
hand. Miss Gwilt stood looking at her stead-
ily, without taking it, and addressed her in these
words: ‘You are not Mrs. Armadale yet. Gen-
tly, Sir! Keep your temper. It's not at all
wonderful that a woman conscious of having her
own mercenary designs on you, should attribute
similar designs to a young lady who happens to
be your near neighbor. Let me go on. Miss
Neelie, by her own confession (and quite natu-
rally, I think), was excessively indignant. She
owns to having answered, ‘You shameless creat-
ure, how dare you say that to me!’ Miss Gwilt's
rejoinder was rather a remarkable one—the an-
ger on her side appears to have been of the cool,
still, venomous kind. “Nobody ever yet in-
jured me, Miss Milroy, she said, “without soon-
er or later bitterly repenting it. You will bit-
terly repent it. She stood looking at her pupil
for a moment in dead silence, and then left the
room. Miss Neelie appears to have felt the im-
putation fastened on her in connection with
you far more sensitively than she felt the threat.
She had previously known, as every body had
known in the house, that some unacknowledged
proceedings of yours in London had led to Miss


ARMADALE.
181
Gwilt's voluntary withdrawal from her situation.
And she now inferred, from the language ad-
dressed to her, that she was actually believed by
Miss Gwilt to have set those proceedings on foot
to advance herself, and to injure her governess,
in your estimation. Gently, Sir, gently : I
haven't quite done yet. As soon as Miss Neelie
had recovered herself she went up stairs to speak
to Mrs. Milroy. Miss Gwilt's abominable im-
putation had taken her by surprise; and she
went to her mother first for enlightenment and
advice. She got neither the one nor the other.
Mrs. Milroy declared she was too ill to enter on
the subject, and she has remained too ill to enter
on it ever since. Miss Neelie applied next to
her father. The major stopped her the mo-
ment your name passed her lips: he declared
he would never hear you mentioned again by any
member of his family. She has been left in the
dark from that time to this—not knowing how
she might have been misrepresented by Miss
Gwilt, or what falsehoods you might have been
led to believe of her. At my age and in my
profession I don't profess to have any extraor-
dinary softness of heart. But I do think, Mr.
Armadale, that Miss Neelie's position deserves
our sympathy.”
“I’ll do any thing to help her!” cried Allan,
impulsively. “You don't know, Mr. Pedgift,
what reason I have—” He checked himself,
and confusedly repeated his first words. “I'll
do any thing,” he reiterated, earnestly—“any
thing in the world to help her!”
“Do you really mean that, Mr. Armadale?
Excuse my asking—but you can very materially
help Miss Neelie if you choose.”
“How?” asked Allan. “Only tell me how.”
“By giving me your authority, Sir, to pro-
tect her from Miss Gwilt.”
Having fired that shot point-blank at his cli-
ent, the wise lawyer waited a little to let it take
its effect before he said any more.
Allan's face clouded, and he shifted uneasily
from side to side of his chair.
“Your son is hard enough to deal with, Mr.
Pedgift,” he said. “And you are harder than
your son.”
“Thank you, Sir,” rejoined the ready Ped-
gift, “in my son's name and my own for a hand-
some compliment to the firm. If you really wish
to be of assistance to Miss Neelie,” he went on
more seriously, “I have shown you the way.
You can do nothing to quiet her anxiety which
I have not done already. As soon as I had as-
sured her that no misconception of her conduct
existed in your mind, she went away satisfied.
Her governess's parting threat doesn't seem to
have dwelt on her memory. I can tell you, Mr.
Armadale, it dwells on mine! You know my
opinion of Miss Gwilt; and you know what Miss
Gwilt herself has done this very evening to justi-
fy that opinion even in your eyes. May I ask,
after all that has passed, whether you think she
is the sort of woman who can be trusted to con-
fine herself to empty threats?”
The question was a formidable one to an-
swer. Forced steadily back from the position
which he had occupied at the outset of the in-
terview by the irresistible pressure of plain
facts, Allan began for the first time to show
symptoms of yielding on the subject of Miss
Gwilt. “Is there no other way of protecting
Miss Milroy but the way you have mentioned?”
he asked, uneasily.
“Do you think the major would listen to
you, Sir, if you spoke to him?” asked Pedgift
Senior, sarcastically; “I’m rather afraid he
wouldn't honor me with his attention. Or per-
haps you would prefer alarming Miss Neelie by
telling her in plain words that we both think
her in danger? Or, suppose you send me to
Miss Gwilt, with instructions to inform her that
she has done her pupil a cruel injustice? Wo-
men are so proverbially ready to listen to rea-
son; and they are so universally disposed to
alter their opinions of each other on application
—especially when one woman thinks that an-
other woman has destroyed her prospect of mak-
ing a good marriage. Don't mind me, Mr.
Armadale—I'm only a lawyer, and I can sit
water-proof under another shower of Miss
Gwilt's tears!”
“Damn it, Mr. Pedgift, tell me in plain
words what you want to do!” cried Allan, los-
ing his temper at last.
“In plain words, Mr. Armadale, I want to
keep Miss Gwilt's proceedings privately under
view, as long as she stops in this neighborhood.
I answer for finding a person who will look
after her delicately and discreetly. And I
agree to discontinue even this harmless superin-
tendence of her actions, if there isn't good rea-
son shown for continuing it, to your entire
satisfaction, in a week's time. I make that
moderate proposal, Sir, in what I sincerely be-
lieve to be Miss Milroy's interest, and I wait
your answer, Yes or No.”
“Can't I have time to consider?” asked Al-
lan, driven to the last helpless expedient of
taking refuge in delay.
“Certainly, Mr. Armadale. But don't for-
get, while you are considering, that Miss Mil-
roy is in the habit of walking out alone in your
park, innocent of all apprehension of danger-
and that Miss Gwilt is perfectly free to take any
advantage of that circumstance that Miss Gwilt
pleases.”
“Do as you like!” exclaimed Allan in de-
spair. “And, for God's sake, don't torment me
any longer!”
Popular prejudice may deny it—but the pro-
fession of the law is a practically Christian pro-
fession in one respect at least. Of all the large
collection of ready answers lying in wait for
mankind on a lawyer's lips, none is kept in bet-
ter working order than “the soft answer which
turneth away wrath.” Pedgift Senior rose with
the alacrity of youth in his legs, and the wise
moderation of age on his tongue. “Many
thanks, Sir,” he said, “for the attention you
have bestowed on me. I congratulate you on
your decision, and I wish you good-evening.”


182
ARMADALE.
This time his indicative snuff-box was not in
his hand when he opened the door, and he act-
ually disappeared without coming back for a
second postscript.
Allan's head sank on his breast when he was
left alone. “If it was only the end of the
week!” he thought, longingly. “If I only had
Midwinter back again!”
As that aspiration escaped the client's lips
the lawyer got gayly into his gig. “Hie away,
old girl!” cried Pedgift Senior, patting the fast-
trotting mare with the end of his whip. “I
never keep a lady waiting—and I've got busi-
ness to-night with one of your own sex!”
->-
CHAPTER VII.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MISS GWILT.
THE outskirts of the little town of Thorpe-
Ambrose, on the side nearest to “the great
house,” have earned some local celebrity as ex-
hibiting the prettiest suburb of the kind to be
found in East Norfolk. Here the villas and
gardens are for the most part built and laid out
in excellent taste; the trees are in the prime of
their growth; and the heathy common beyond
the houses rises and falls in picturesque and
delightful variety of broken ground. The rank,
fashion, and beauty of the town make this place
their evening promenade; and when a stranger
goes out for a drive, if he leaves it to the coach-
man, the coachman starts by way of the com-
mon as a matter of course.
On the opposite side, that is to say, on the
side farthest from “the great house,” the sub-
urbs (in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-
one) were universally regarded as a sore sub-
ject by all persons zealous for the reputation of
the town.
Here Nature was uninviting; man was poor,
and social progress, as exhibited under the form
of building, halted miserably. The streets
dwindled feebly as they receded from the cen-
tre of the town into smaller and smaller houses,
and died away on the barren open ground into
an atrophy of skeleton cottages. Builders here-
abouts appeared to have universally abandoned
their work in the first stage of its creation.
Landholders set up poles on lost patches of
ground; and, plaintively advertising that they
were to let for building, raised sickly little crops
meanwhile, in despair of finding a purchaser to
deal with them. All the waste paper of the
town seemed to float congenially to this neg-
lected spot; and all the fretful children came
and cried here, in charge of all the slatternly
nurses who disgraced the place. If there was
any intention in Thorpe-Ambrose of sending a
worn-out horse to the knackers, that horse was
sure to be found waiting his doom in a field on
this side of the town. No growth flourished
in these desert regions but the arid growth of
rubbish; and no human creatures rejoiced but
the creatures of the night—the vermin here and
there in the beds, and the cats every where on
the tiles.
The sun had set, and the summer twilight
was darkening. The fretful children were cry-
ing in their cradles; the horse destined for the
knacker dozed forlorn in the field of his impris-
onment; the cats waited stealthily in corners
for the coming night. But one living figure
appeared in the lonely suburb—the figure of Mr.
Bashwood. But one faint sound disturbed the
dreadful silence—the sound of Mr. Bashwood's
softly-stepping feet.
Moving slowly past the heaps of bricks rising
at intervals along the road; coasting carefully
round the old iron and the broken tiles scat-
tered here and there in his path, Mr. Bashwood
advanced from the direction of the country to-
ward one of the unfinished streets of the suburb.
His personal appearance had been apparently
made the object of some special attention. His
false teeth were brilliantly white; his wig was
carefully brushed; his mourning garments, re-
newed throughout, gleamed with the hideous
and slimy gloss of cheap black cloth. He
moved with a nervous jauntiness, and looked
about him with a vacant smile. Having reach-
ed the first of the skeleton cottages, his watery
eyes settled steadily for the first time on the
view of the street before him. The next in-
stant he started; his breath quickened; he
leaned trembling and flushing against the un-
finished wall at his side. A lady, still at some
distance, was advancing toward him down the
length of the street. “She's coming!” he
whispered, with a strange mixture of rapture
and fear, of alternating color and paleness,
showing itself in his haggard face. “I wish I
was the ground she treads on ' I wish I was
the glove she's got on her hand!” He burst
ecstatically into those extravagant words, with
a concentrated intensity of delight in uttering
them that actually shook his feeble figure from
head to foot.
Smoothly and gracefully the lady glided near-
er and nearer, until she revealed to Mr. Bash-
wood's eyes what Mr. Bashwood's instincts had
recognized in the first instance—the face of
Miss Gwilt.
She was dressed with an exquisitely express-
ive economy of outlay. The plainest straw
bonnet procurable, trimmed sparingly with the
cheapest white ribbon, was on her head. Mod-
est and tasteful poverty expressed itself in the
speckless cleanliness and the modestly-propor-
tioned skirts of her light “print” gown, and in
the scanty little mantilla of cheap black silk
which she wore over it, edged with a simple
frilling of the same material. The lustre of
her terrible red hair showed itself unshrinkingly
in a plaited coronet above her forehead, and es-
caped in one vagrant love-lock, perfectly curled,
that dropped over her left shoulder. Her gloves,
fitting her like a second skin, were of the sober
brown hue which is slowest to show signs of use.
One hand lifted her dress daintily above the
impurities of the road; the other held a little
-


ARMADALE.
183
nosegay of the commonest garden flowers.
Noiselessly and smoothly she came on, with a
gentle and regular undulation of the print gown;
with the love-lock softly lifted from moment to
moment in the evening breeze; with her head a
little drooped, and her eyes on the ground—in
walk, and look, and manner, in every casual
movement that escaped her, expressing that
subtle mixture of the voluptuous and the mod-
est which, of the many attractive extremes that
meet in women, is in a man's eyes the most ir-
resistible of all.
“Mr. Bashwood'" she exclaimed, in loud,
clear tones, indicative of the utmost astonish-
ment, “what a surprise to find you here ! I
thought none but the wretched inhabitants ever
ventured near this side of the town. Hush !”
she added quickly, in a whisper.—“You heard
right when you heard that Mr. Armadale was
going to have me followed and watched. There's
a man behind one of the houses. We must talk
out loud of indifferent things, and look as if we
had met by accident. Ask me what I am do-
ing. Out loud! Directly! You shall never
see me again if you don't instantly leave off
trembling and do what I tell you!”
She spoke with a merciless tyranny of eye
and voice—with a merciless use of her power
over the feeble creature whom she addressed.
Mr. Bashwood obeyed her in tones that qua-
vered with agitation, and with eyes that devour-
ed her beauty in a strange fascination of terror
and delight.
“I am trying to earn a little money by teach-
ing music,” she said, in the voice intended to
reach the spy's ears. “If you are able to rec-
ommend me any pupils, Mr. Bashwood, your
good word will oblige me. Have you been in
the grounds to-day?” she went on, dropping
her voice again to a whisper. “Has Mr. Arma-
dale been near the cottage? Has Miss Milroy
been out of the garden? No? Are you sure?
Look out for them to-morrow, and next day,
and next day. They are certain to meet and
make it up again, and I must and will know of
it. Hush! Ask me my terms for teaching
music. What are you frightened about? It's
me the man's after—not you. Louder than
when you asked me what I was doing just now;
louder, or I won't trust you any more; I'll go
to somebody else!”
Once more Mr. Bashwood obeyed. “Don’t
be angry with me,” he murmured faintly, when
he had spoken the necessary words. “My
heart beats so—you'll kill me!”
“You poor old dear!” she whispered back,
with a sudden change in her manner—with an
easy, satirical tenderness. “What business
have you with a heart at your age? Be here
to-morrow at the same time, and tell me what
you have seen in the grounds. My terms are
only five shillings a lesson,” she went on, in her
louder tone; “I’m sure that's not much, Mr.
Bashwood—I give such long lessons, and I get
all my pupils' music half price.” She suddenly
dropped her voice again, and looked him bright-
|ly into instant subjection. “Don’t let Mr. Ar-
madale out of your sight to-morrow! If that
girl manages to speak to him, and if I don't
hear of it, I'll frighten you to death. If I do
hear of it I'll kiss you! Hush ! Wish me
good-night, and go on to the town, and leave
me to go the other way. I don't want you—
I'm not afraid of the man behind the houses; I
can deal with him by myself. Say good-night,
and I'll let you shake hands. Say it louder,
and I'll give you one of my flowers, if you'll
promise not to fall in love with it.” She raised
her voice again. “Good-night, Mr. Bashwood!
Don't forget my terms. Five shillings a lesson,
and the lessons last an hour at a time, and I
get all my pupils' music half price, which is an
immense advantage, isn't it?” She slipped a
|'' into his hand-frowned him into obe-
dience, and smiled to reward him for obeying,
at the same moment—lifted her dress again
| above the impurities of the road—and went on
| her way with a dainty and indolent deliberation,
as a cat goes on her way when she has exhaust-
ed the enjoyment of frightening a mouse.
Left alone, Mr. Bashwood turned to the low
cottage wall near which he had been standing,
and, resting himself on it wearily, looked at the
flower in his hand. His past existence had dis-
ciplined him to bear disaster and insult as few
happier men could have borne them, but it had
not prepared him to feel the master-passion of
humanity, for the first time, at the dreary end
of his life, in the hopeless decay of a manhood
that had withered under the double blight of
conjugal disappointment and parental sorrow.
“Oh, if I was only young again!” murmured
the poor wretch, resting his arms on the wall,
and touching the flower with his dry, fevered
lips, in a stealthy rapture of tenderness. “She
might have liked me when I was twenty!” He
suddenly started back into an erect position,
and stared about him in vacant bewilderment
|' terror. “She told me to go home,” he
said, with a startled look. “Why am I stop-
ping here?” He turned, and hurried on to the
town—in such dread of her anger, if she looked
round and saw him, that he never so much as
ventured on a backward glance at the road by
which she had retired, and never detected the
spy dogging her footsteps, under cover of the
empty houses and the brick-heaps by the road-
side.
Smoothly and gracefully, carefully preserving
the speckless integrity of her dress, never hast-
ening her pace, and never looking aside to the
right hand or the left, Miss Gwilt pursued her
way toward the open country. The suburb-
an road branched off at its end in two direc-
tions. On the left, the path wound through a
ragged little coppice, to the grazing grounds of
a neighboring farm. On the right, it led across
a hillock of waste land to the high-road. Stop-
ping a moment to consider, but not showing
the spy that she suspected him, by glancing be-
hind her, while there was a hiding-place within
his reach, Miss Gwilt took the path across the


ARMADALE. 185
They reached the modest little lodging, in the 'grace, for the things she wanted in the tray.
miserable little suburb. Miss Gwilt sighed, and Exercise had heightened the brilliancy of her
removed her glove before she took Midwinter's complexion, and had quickened the rapid altern-
hand. “I have taken refuge here,” she said, ations of expression in her eyes—the delicious
simply. “It is clean and quiet—I am too poor languor that stole over them when she was list-
to want or expect more. We must say good-' ening or thinking, the bright intelligence that
by, I suppose, unless—” she hesitated modestly, flashed from them softly when she spoke. In
and satisfied herself by a quick look round that the lightest word she said, in the least thing
they were unobserved—“unless you would like she did, there was something that gently solicit-
to come in and rest a little? I feel so grate- ed the heart of the man who sat with her. Per-
fully toward you, Mr. Midwinter: Is there any fectly modest in her manner, possessed to per-
harm, do you think, in my offering you a cup fection of the graceful restraints and refinements
of tea 9” of a lady, she had all the allurements that feast
The magnetic influence of her touch was the eye, all the siren-invitations that seduce the
thrilling through him while she spoke. Change sense—a subtle suggestiveness in her silence,
and absence, to which he had trusted to weaken and a sexual sorcery in her smile.
her hold on him, had treacherously strengthened “Should I be wrong,” she asked, suddenly
it instead. A man exceptionally sensitive, a | suspending the conversation which she had thus
man exceptionally pure in his past life, he stood |far persistently restricted to the subject of Mid-
hand in hand in the tempting secrecy of the winter's walking tour, “if I guessed that you
night, with the first woman who had exercised have something on your mind—something which
over him the all-absorbing influence of her sex. neither my tea nor my talk can charm away?
At his age and in his position who could have Are men as curious as women? Is the some-
left her? The man (with a man's tempera-
ment) doesn't live who could have left her.
Midwinter went in.
A stupid, sleepy lad opened the house-door.
Even he, being a male creature, brightened un-
der the influence of Miss Gwilt. “The urn,
John,” she said, kindly, “and another cup and
saucer. I'll borrow your candle to light my
candles up stairs—and then I won't trouble you
any more to-night.” John was wakeful and
active in an instant. “No trouble, miss,” he
said, with awkward civility. Miss Gwilt took
his candle with a smile. “How good people
are to me!” she whispered, innocently, to Mid-
winter, as she led the way up stairs to the little
drawing-room on the first-floor.
She lit the candles, and, turning quickly on
her guest, stopped him at the first attempt he
made to remove the knapsack from his shoul-
ders. “No,” she said, gently. “In the good
old times there were occasions when the ladies
unarmed their knights. I claim the privilege
of unarming my knight.” Her dextrous fin-
gers intercepted his at the straps and buckles;
and she had the dusty knapsack off before he
could protest against her touching it.
They sat down at the one little table in the
room. It was very poorly furnished—but there
was something of the dainty neatness of the wo-
man who inhabited it in the arrangement of the
few poor ornaments on the chimney-piece, in the
one or two prettily-bound volumes on the chif-
fonier, in the flowers on the table, and the mod-
est little work-basket in the window. “Women
are not all coquettes,” she said, as she took off
her bonnet and mantilla, and laid them care-
fully on a chair. “I won't go into my room,
and look in my glass, and make myself smart:
you shall take me just as I am.” Her hands
moved about among the tea-things with a smooth,
noiseless activity. Her magnificent hair flashed
• crimson in the candle-light, as she turned her
head hither and thither, searching, with an easy
M
thing—Me?”
Midwinter struggled against the fascination
of looking at her and listening to her. “I am
very anxious to hear what has happened since I
have been away," he said. “But I am still
more anxious, Miss Gwilt, not to distress you
by speaking of a painful subject.”
She looked at him gratefully. “It is for
your sake that I have avoided the painful sub-
ject,” she said, toying with her spoon among the
dregs in her empty cup. “But you will hear
about it from others if you don't hear about it
from me; and you ought to know why you found
me in that strange situation, and why you see
me here. Pray remember one thing to begin
with. I don't blame your friend Mr. Armadale
—I blame the people whose instrument he is.”
Midwinter started. “Is it possible,” he be-
gan, “that Allan can be in any way answera-
ble—?” He stopped, and looked at Miss Gwilt
in silent astonishment. -
She gently laid her hand on his. “Don't be
angry with me for only telling the truth,” she
said. “Your friend is answerable for every
thing that has happened to me—innocently an-
swerable, Mr. Midwinter, I firmly believe. We
are both victims. He is the victim.of his posi-
tion as the richest single man in the neighbor-
hood; and I am the victim of Miss Milroy's de-
termination to marry him.”
“Miss Milroy?” repeated Midwinter, more
and more astonished. “Why? Allan himself
told me—” He stopped again.
“He told you that I was the object of his ad-
miration? Poor fellow, he admires every body
—his head is almost as empty as this,” said Miss
Gwilt, smiling indicatively into the hollow of her
cup. She dropped the spoon, sighed, and be-
came serious again. “I am guilty of the van-
ity of having let him admire me,” she went on,
penitently, “without the excuse of being able,
on my side, to reciprocate even the passing in-
terest that he felt in me. I don't undervalue


ARMADALE.
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2×
- - *>
L- ------ -
5:--~~~~~~~~
- - - --~~ -
------- -
*-
his many admirable qualities, or the excellent
position he can offer to his wife. But a woman's
heart is not to be commanded—no, Mr. Midwin-
ter, not even by the fortunate master of Thorpe-
Ambrose who commands everything else.”
She looked him full in the face as she uttered
that magnanimous sentiment. His eyes dropped
before hers, and his dark color deepened. He
had felt his heart leap in him at the declaration
of her indifference to Allan. For the first time
since they had known each other his interests
now stood self-revealed before him as openly ad-
verse to the interests of his friend.
“I have been guilty of the vanity of letting
Mr. Armadale admire me, and I have suffered
for it,” resumed Miss Gwilt. “If there had been
any confidence between my pupil and me, I
might have easily satisfied her that she might
become Mrs. Armadale—if she could—without
having any rivalry to fear on my part. But
Miss Milroy disliked and distrusted me from the
first. She took her own jealous view, no doubt,
of Mr. Armadale's thoughtless attentions to me.
It was her interest to destroy the position, such
as it was, that I held in his estimation; and it
is quite likely her mother assisted her. Mrs.


ARMADALE.
187
Milroy had her motive also (which I am really for some minutes.
He had felt her appeal to
ashamed to mention) for wishing to drive me his consideration as she had never expected or
out of the house. Any how, the conspiracy has
succeeded. I have been forced (with Mr. Arma-
dale's help) to leave the major's service. Don't
be angry, Mr. Midwinter ! don't form a hasty
opinion : I dare say Miss Milroy has some good
qualities, though I have not found them out;
and I assure you again and again that I don't
blame Mr. Armadale—I only blame the people
whose instrument he is.”
“How is he their instrument? How can he
be the instrument of any enemy of yours?”
asked Midwinter. “Pray excuse my anxiety,
Miss Gwilt—Allan's good name is as dear to me
as my own!”
Miss Gwilt's eyes turned full on him again,
and Miss Gwilt's heart abandoned itself inno-
cently to an outburst of enthusiasm. “How I
admire your earnestness!” she said. “How I
like your anxiety for your friend! Oh, if wo-
men could only form such friendships! Oh, you
happy, happy men!” Her voice faltered, and
her convenient tea-cup absorbed her for the third
time. “I would give all the little beauty I pos-
sess,” she said, “if I could only find such a friend
as Mr. Armadale has found in you. I never
shall, Mr. Midwinter, I never shall. Let us go
back to what we were talking about. I can only
tell you how your friend is concerned in my mis-
fortunes, by telling you something first about
myself. I am like many other governesses; I
am the victim of sad domestic circumstances.
It may be weak of me, but I have a horror of
alluding to them among strangers. My silence
about my family and my friends exposes me
to misinterpretation in my dependent position.
Does it do me any harm, Mr. Midwinter, in
your estimation?”
“God forbid!” said Midwinter, fervently.
“There is no man living,” he went on, thinking
of his own family story, “who has better reason
to understand and respect your silence than I
have.”
Miss Gwilt seized his hand impulsively.
“Oh,” she said, “I knew it, the first moment
I saw you! I knew that you, too, had suffered,
that you too had sorrows which you kept sacred !
Strange, strange sympathy! I believe in mes-
merism—do you?” She suddenly recollected
herself and shuddered. “Oh, what have I done?
what must you think of me?” she exclaimed, as
he yielded to the magnetic fascination of her
touch, and forgetting every thing but the hand
that lay warm in his own, bent over it and kissed
it. “Spare me!” she said, faintly, as she felt
the burning touch of his lips. “I am so friend-
less, I am so completely at your mercy!”
He turned away from her, and hid his face in
his hands—he was trembling, and she saw it.
She looked at him, while his face was hidden
from her—she looked at him with a furtive in-
terest and surprise. “How that man loves me!”
she thought. “I wonder whether there was a
time once when I might have loved him?”
The silence between them remained unbroken
intended him to feel it—he shrank from look-
ing at her or from speaking to her again.
“Shall I go on with my story?” she asked.
“Shall we forget and forgive on both sides?”
A woman's inveterate indulgence for every ex-
pression of a man's admiration which keeps
within the limits of a personal respect curved
her lips gently into a charming smile. She
looked down meditatively at her dress, and
brushed a crumb off her lap with a little flut-
tering sigh. “I was telling you,” she went on,
“of my reluctance to speak to strangers of my
sad family story. It was in that way, as I after-
ward found out, that I laid myself open to Miss
Milroy's malice and Miss Milroy's suspicion.
Private inquiries about me were addressed to the
lady who was my reference—at Miss Milroy's
suggestion, in the first instance, I have no doubt.
I am sorry to say this is not the worst of it. By
some underhand means of which I am quite ig-
norant, Mr. Armadale's simplicity was imposed
on—and when application was made secretly
to my reference in London, it was made, Mr.
Midwinter, through your friend.”
Midwinter suddenly rose from his chair and
looked at her. The fascination that she exer-
cised over him, powerful as it was, became a
suspended influence now that the plain disclos-
ure came plainly at last from her lips. He look-
ed at her, and sat down again like a man be-
wildered, without uttering a word.
“Remember how weak he is,” pleaded Miss
Gwilt, gently, “and make allowances for him
as I do. The trifling accident of his failing to
find my reference at the address given him seems,
I can't imagine why, to have excited Mr. Arma-
dale's suspicion. At any rate he remained in
London. What he did there it is impossible for
me to say. I was quite in the dark; I knew no-
thing; I distrusted nobody; I was as happy in
my little round of duties as I could be with a
pupil whose affections I had failed to win-
when, one morning, to my indescribable aston-
ishment, Major Milroy showed me a correspond-
ence between Mr. Armadale and himself. He
spoke to me in his wife's presence. Poor creat-
ure, I make no complaint of her—such affliction
as she suffers excuses every thing. I wish I
could give you some idea of the letters between
Major Milroy and Mr. Armadale—but my head
is only a woman's head, and I was so confused
and distressed at the time! All I can tell you
is, that Mr. Armadale chose to preserve silence
about his proceedings in London under circum-
stances which made that silence a reflection on
my character. The major was most kind; his
confidence in me remained unshaken—but could
his confidence protect me against his wife's prej-
udice and his daughter's ill-will? Oh the hard-
ness of women to each other | Oh the humili-
ation if men only knew some of us as we really
are ! What could I do? I couldn't defend my-
self against mere imputations; and I couldn't
remain in my situation after a slur had been


188
ARMADALE.
cast on me. My pride (Heaven help me, I was bly with a silent despair. “It's even baser work
brought up like a gentlewoman, and I have sens-
ibilities that are not blunted even yet!)—my
than Ibargained for,” she said, “to deceive him.”
After pacing to and fro in the room for some
pride got the better of me, and I left my place. minutes, she stopped wearily before the glass
Don't let it distress you, Mr. Midwinter! There's
a bright side to the picture. The ladies in the
neighborhood have overwhelmed me with kind-
ness; I have the prospect of getting pupils to
teach; I am spared the mortification of going
back to be a burden on my friends. The only
complaint I have to make is, I think, a just one.
Mr. Armadale has been back at Thorpe-Am-
brose for some days. I have entreated him, by
letter, to grant me an interview; to tell me what
dreadful suspicions he has of me, and to let me
set myself right in his estimation. Would you
believe it? he has declined to see me—under
the influence of others; not of his own free-will,
I am sure! Cruel, isn't it? But he has even
used me more cruelly still—he persists in sus-
pecting me--it is he who is having me watched.
Oh, Mr. Midwinter, don't hate me for telling
you what you must know! The man you found
persecuting me and frightening me to-night was
only earning his money, after all, as Mr. Arma-
dale's spy.”
Once more Midwinter started to his feet; and
this time the thoughts that were in him found
their way into words.
“I can't believe it; I won't believe it!” he
exclaimed, indignantly, “If the man told you
that the man lied. I beg your pardon, Miss
Gwilt; I beg your pardon from the bottom of
my heart. Don't, pray don't think I doubt you;
I only say there is some dreadful mistake. I am
not sure that I understand as I ought all that
you have told me. But this last infamous mean-
mess of which you think Allan guilty, I do un-
derstand. I swear to you he is incapable of
it! Some scoundrel has been taking advantage
of him; some scoundrel has been using his
name. I'll prove it to you if you will only give
me time. Let me go and clear it up at once.
I can't rest; I can't bear to think of it; I
can't even enjoy the pleasure of being here.
Oh,” he burst out, desperately, “I’m sure you
feel for me after what you have said—I feel so
for you!”
He stopped in confusion. Miss Gwilt's eyes
were looking at him again; and Miss Gwilt's
hand had found its way once more into his own.
“You are the most generous of living men,”
she said, softly; “I will believe what you tell
me to believe. Go,” she added, in a whisper,
suddenly releasing his hand and turning away
from him. “For both our sakes, go!”
His heart beat fast; he looked at her as she
dropped into a chair and put her handkerchief
to her eyes. For one moment he hesitated—the
next he snatched up his knapsack from the floor,
and left her precipitately without a backward
look or a parting word.
She rose when the door closed on him. A
change came over her the instant she was alone.
The color faded out of her cheeks; the beauty
died out of her eyes; her face hardened horri-
over the fire-place. “You strange creature!”
she murmured, leaning her elbows on the man-
tle-piece, and languidly addressing the reflection
of herself in the glass. “Have you got any
conscience left? And has that man roused it?”
The reflection of her face changed slowly.
The color returned to her cheeks, the delicious
languor began to suffuse her eyes again. Her
lips parted gently, and her quickening breath
began to dim the surface of the glass. She
drew back from it, after a moment's absorption
in her own thoughts, with a start of terror.
“What am I doing?” she asked herself in a
sudden panic of astonishment. “Am I mad
enough to be thinking of him in that way?”
She burst into a mocking laugh, and opened
her desk on the table recklessly with a bang.
‘‘It’s high time I had some talk with mother
Jezebel,” she said, and sat down to write to
Mrs. Oldershaw.
“I have met with Mr. Midwinter,” she be-
gan, “under very lucky circumstances; and I
have made the most of my opportunity. He
has just left me for his friend Armadale; and
one of two good things will happen to-morrow.
If they don't quarrel, the doors of Thorpe-Am-
brose will be open to me again at Mr. Midwin-
ter's intercession. If they do quarrel, I shall
be the unhappy cause of it, and I shall find my
way in for myself, on the purely Christian er-
rand of reconciling them.”
She hesitated at the next sentence, wrote the
first few words of it, scratched them out again,
and petulantly tore the letter into fragments,
and threw the pen to the other end of the room.
Turning quickly on her chair, she looked at the
seat which Midwinter had occupied; her foot
restlessly tapping the floor, and her handker-
chief thrust like a gag between her clenched
teeth. “Young as you are,” she thought, with
her mind reviving the image of him in the
empty chair—“there has been something out of
the common in your life—and I must and will
know it!”
The house clock struck the hour and roused
her. She sighed, and walking back to the
glass, wearily loosened the fastenings, of her
dress; wearily removed the studs from the
chemisette beneath it, and put them on the
chimney-piece. She looked indolently at the
reflected beauties of her neck and bosom, as
she unplaited her hair and threw it back in
one great mass over her shoulders. “Fancy,”
she thought, “if he saw me now !” She turned
back to the table, and sighed again as she ex-
tinguished one of the candles and took the other
in her hand. “Midwinter?” she said, as she
passed through the folding-doors of the room to
her bedchamber. “I don't believe in his name,
to begin with !”
The night had advanced by more than an


ARMADALE.
hour before Midwinter was back again at the
great house.
Twice, well as the homeward way was known
to him, he had strayed out of the right road.
The events of the evening—the interview with
Miss Gwilt herself, after his fortnight's solitary |
thinking of her; the extraordinary change that
had taken place in her position since he had
seen her last; and the startling assertion of
Allan's connection with it—had all conspired
to throw his mind into a state of ungovernable
confusion. The darkness of the cloudy night
added to his bewilderment. Even the familiar
gates of Thorpe-Ambrose seemed strange to
him. When he tried to think of it, it was
a mystery to him how he had reached the
place.
The front of the house was dark and closed
for the night. Midwinter went round to the
back. The sound of men's voices, as he ad-
vanced, caught his ear. They were soon dis-
tinguishable as the voices of the first and second
footman, and the subject of conversation be-
tween them was their master.
“I’ll bet you an even half-crown he's driven
out of the neighborhood before another week is
over his head,” said the first footman.
“Done?” said the second. “He isn't as
easy driven as you think. .
“Isn’t he ” retorted the other. “He’ll be
mobbed if he stops here! I tell you again, he's
not satisfied with the mess he's got into already.
I know it for certain he's having the governess
watched.”
At those words Midwinter mechanically
checked himself before he turned the corner of
the house. His first doubt of the result of his
meditated appeal to Allan ran through him like
a sudden chill. The influence exercised by the
voice of public scandal is a force which acts in
opposition to the ordinary law of mechanics.
It is strongest, not by concentration, but by dis-
tribution. To the primary sound we may shut
our ears; but the reverberation of it in echoes
is irresistible. On his way back Midwinter's
one desire had been to find Allan up and to
speak to him immediately. His one hope now
was to gain time to contend with the new doubts
and to silence the new misgivings—his one pres-
ent anxiety was to hear that Allan had gone to
bed. He turned the corner of the house and
presented himself before the men smoking their
pipes in the back garden. As soon as their as-
tonishment allowed them to speak they offered
to rouse their master. Allan had given his
friend up for that night and had gone to bed
about half an hour since.
“It was my master's particular order, Sir,”
said the head footman, “that he was to be told
of it if you came back.”
“It is my particular request,” returned Mid-
winter, “that you won't disturb him.”
The men looked at each other wonderingly,
as he took his candle and left them.
--
CHAPTER VIII.
SHE COMES BETWEEN THEM.
APPo1NTED hours for the various domestic
events of the day were things unknown at
Thorpe-Ambrose. Irregular in all his habits,
Allan accommodated himself to no stated times
(with the solitary exception of dinner-time), at
any hour of the day or night. He retired to
rest early or late, and he rose early or late, exact-
ly as he felt inclined. The servants were for-
bidden to call him; and Mrs. Gripper was ac-
customed to improvise the breakfast as she best
might, from the time when the kitchen fire was
first lighted to the time when the clock stood on
the stroke of noon.
Toward nine o'clock on the morning after his
return Midwinter knocked at Allan's door, and,
on entering the room, found it empty. After
inquiry among the servants, it appeared that
Allan had risen that morning before the man
who usually attended on him was up, and that
his hot water had been brought to the door by
one of the house-maids, who was then still in
ignorance of Midwinter's return. Nobody had
chanced to see the master either on the stairs
or in the hall; nobody had heard him ring the
bell for breakfast as usual. In brief, nobody
knew any thing about him, except what was
obviously clear to all—that he was not in the
house.
Midwinter went out under the great portico.
He stood at the head of the flight of steps, con-
sidering in which direction he should set forth
to look for his friend. Allan's unexpected ab-


...ARMADALE.
191
look round to see if the servants were within
hearing.
“I’ve learned to be cautious since you went
away and left me,” said Allan. “My dear fel-
low, you haven't the least notion what things
have happened, and what an awful scrape I'm
in at this very moment!”
“You are mistaken, Allan. I have heard
more of what has happened than you sup-
se.”
“What! the dreadful mess I’m in with Miss
Gwilt? the row with the major? the infernal
scandal-mongering in the neighborhood? You
don't mean to say—?”
“Yes,” interposed Midwinter, quietly, “I
have heard of it all.”
“Good Heavens! how? Did you stop at
Thorpe-Ambrose on your way back? Have you
been in the coffee-room at the hotel? Have you
met Pedgift? Have you dropped into the Read-
ing Rooms, and seen what they call the freedom
of the press in the town newspaper?”
Midwinter paused before he answered, and
looked up at the sky. The clouds had been
gathering unnoticed over their heads, and the
first rain-drops were beginning to fall.
“Come in here,” said Allan. “We'll go up
to breakfast this way.” He led Midwinter
through the open French window into his own
sitting-room. The wind blew toward that side
of the house, and the rain followed them in.
Mfdwinter, who was last, turned and closed the
window.
Allan was too eager for the answer which the
weather had interrupted to wait for it till they
reached the breakfast-room. He stopped close
at the window, and added two more to his string
of questions.
“How can you possibly have heard about me
and Miss Gwilt?” he asked. “Who told you?”
“Miss Gwilt herself,” replied Midwinter,
gravely.
Allan's manner changed the moment the gov-
erness's name passed his friend's lips.
“I wish you had heard my story first,” he
said. “Where did you meet with Miss Gwilt?”
There was a momentary pause. They both
stood still at the window, absorbed in the inter-
est of the moment. They both forgot that their
contemplated place of shelter from the rain had
been the breakfast-room up stairs.
“Before I answer your question,” said Mid-
winter, a little constrainedly, “I want to ask you
something, Allan, on my side. Is it really true
that you are in some way concerned in Miss
Gwilt's leaving Major Milroy's service?”
There was another pause. The disturbance
which had begun to appear in Allan's manner
palpably increased.
“It's rather a long story,” he began. “I
have been taken in, Midwinter. I've been im-
tion, can't I? You will never say a word, will
you?”
“Stop!” said Midwinter. “Don’t trust me
with any secrets which are not your own. If
you have given a promise, don't trifle with it,
even in speaking to such an intimate friend as I
am.” He laid his hand gently and kindly on
Allan's shoulder. “I can't help seeing that I
have made you a little uncomfortable,” he went
on. “I can't help seeing that my question is
not so easy a one to answer as I had hoped and
supposed. Shall we wait a little? shall we go
up stairs and breakfast first?”
Allan was far too earnestly bent on presenting
his conduct to his friend in the right aspect to
heed Midwinter's suggestion. He spoke eagerly
on the instant, without moving from the win-
dow.
“My dear fellow, it's a perfectly easy question
to answer. Only—” He hesitated. “Only it
requires what I'm a bad hand at—it requires an
explanation.”
“Do you mean,” asked Midwinter, more se-
riously, but not less gently than before, “that
you must first justify yourself, and then answer
my question?”
“That's it!” said Allan, with an air of re-
lief. “You’ve hit the right nail on the head,
just as usual.”
Midwinter's face darkened for the first time.
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said; his voice
sinking low, and his eyes dropping to the ground
as he spoke. -
The rain was beginning to fall thickly. It
swept across the garden, straight on the closed
windows, and pattered heavily against the glass.
“Sorry!” repeated Allan. “My dear fellow,
you haven't heard the particulars yet. Wait
till I explain the thing first.”
“You are a bad hand at explanations,” said
Midwinter, repeating Allan's own words. “Don't
place yourself at a disadvantage. Don't explain
it.”
Allan looked at him in silent perplexity and
surprise.
“You are my friend—my best and dearest
friend,” Midwinter went on. “I can't bear to
let you justify yourself to me as if I was your
judge, or as if I doubted you.” He looked up
again at Allan frankly and kindly as he said
those words. “Besides,” he resumed, “I think
if I look into my memory I can anticipate your
explanation. We had a moment's talk, before
I went away, about some very delicate ques-
tions, which you proposed putting to Major
Milroy. I remember I warned you; I remem-
ber I had my misgivings. Should I be guess-
ing right if I guessed that those questions have
been in some way the means of leading you into
a false position? If it is true that you have
been concerned in Miss Gwilt's leaving her
posed on by a person, who—I can't help saying situation, is it also true—is it only doing you
it—who cheated me into promising what I justice to believe—that any mischief for which
oughtn't to have promised, and doing what I you are responsible has been mischief innocent-
had better not have done. It isn't breaking my
promise to tell you. I can trust in your discre-
ly done?”
“Yes,” said Allan, speaking for the first time


192
ARMADALE.
a little constrainedly on his side. “It is only
doing me justice to say that.” He stopped and
began drawing lines absently with his finger on
the blurred surface of the window-pane. “You’re
not like other people, Midwinter,” he resumed
suddenly, with an effort; “and I should have
liked you to have heard the particulars all the
same.”
“I will hear them if you desire it,” returned
Midwinter. “But I am satisfied, without an-
other word, that you have not willingly been
the means of depriving Miss Gwilt of her situa-
tion. If that is understood between you and me,
I think we need say no more. Besides, I have
another question to ask, of much greater im-
portance; a question that has been forced on
me by what I saw with my own eyes, and heard
with my own ears last night.”
He stopped, recoiling in spite of himself.
“Shall we go up stairs first?” he asked, abrupt-
ly, leading the way to the door, and trying to
gain time.
It was useless. Once again, the room which
they were both free to leave, the room which
one of them had twice tried to leave already,
held them as if they were prisoners.
Without answering, without even appearing
to have heard Midwinter's proposal to go up
stairs, Allan followed him mechanically as far
as the opposite side of the window. There he
stopped. “Midwinter!” he burst out, in a sud-
den panic of astonishment and alarm, “there
seems to be something strange between us!
<you're not like yourself. What is it?”
With his hand on the lock of the door Mid-
winter turned, and looked back into the room.
The moment had come. His haunting fear of
doing his friend an injustice had shown itself in
a restraint of word, look, and action, which had
been marked enough to force its way to Allan's
notice. The one course left now, in the dear-
est interests of the friendship that united them,
was to speak at once, and to speak boldly.
“There's something strange between us,”
reiterated Allan. “For God's sake what is it?”
Midwinter took his hand from the door and
came down again to the window, fronting Allan.
He occupied the place, of necessity, which Allan
had just left. It was the side of the window on
which the Statuette stood. The little figure,
placed on its projecting bracket, was close be-
hind him on his right hand. No signs of change
appeared in the stormy sky. The rain still
swept slanting across the garden, and pattered
heavily against the glass.
“Give me your hand, Allan.”
Allan gave it, and Midwinter held it firmly
while he spoke. -
“There is something strange between us,” he
said. “There is something to be set right which
touches you nearly; and it has not been set
right yet. You asked me just now where I met
with Miss Gwilt. I met with her on my way
back here, upon the high-road on the farther
side of the town. She entreated me to protect
her from a man who was following and fright-
ening her. I saw the scoundrel with my own
eyes, and I should have laid hands on him if
Miss Gwilt herself had not stopped me. She
gave a very strange reason for stopping me.
She said I didn't know who his employer was.”
Allan's ruddy color suddenly deepened; he
looked aside quickly through the window at the
pouring rain. At the same moment their hands
fell apart, and there was a pause of silence on
either side. Midwinter was the first to speak
again.
“Later in the evening,” he went on, “Miss
Gwilt explained herself. She told me two
things. She declared that the man whom I
had seen following her was a hired spy. I was
surprised, but I could not dispute it. She told
me next, Allan—what I believe with my whole
heart and soul to be a falsehood which has been
imposed on her as the truth—she told me that
the spy was in your employment!”
Allan turned instantly from the window and
looked Midwinter full in the face again. “I
must explain myself this time,” he said, reso-
lutely.
The ashy paleness peculiar to him in mo-
ments of strong emotion began to show itself
on Midwinter's cheeks.
“More explanations!” he said, and drew
back a step, with his eyes fixed in a sudden ter-
ror of inquiry on Allan's face. -
“You don't know what I know, Midwinter.
You don't know that what I have done has been
done with a good reason. And what is more,
I have not trusted to myself—I have had good
advice.”
“Did you hear what I said just now?” asked
Midwinter, incredulously; “you can't—surely,
you can't have been attending to me?”
“I haven't missed a word,” rejoined Allan.
“I tell you again, you don't know what I know
of Miss Gwilt. She has threatened Miss Mil-
roy. Miss Milroy is in danger while her gov-
erness stops in this neighborhood.”
Midwinter dismissed the major's daughter
from the conversation with a contemptuous ges-
ture of his hand.
“I don't want to hear about Miss Milroy,”
he said. “Don’t mix up Miss Milroy— Good
God, Allan, am I to understand that the spy
set to watch Miss Gwilt was doing his vile work
with your approval?”
“Once for all, my dear fellow, will you, or
will you not, let me explain?”
“Explain!” cried Midwinter, his eyes aflame,
and his hot Creole blood rushing crimson into
his face. “Explain the employment of a spy?
What! after having driven Miss Gwilt out of
her situation by meddling with her private af-
fairs, you meddle again by the vilest of all
means—the means of a paid spy? You set a
watch on the woman whom you yourself told
me you loved, only a fortnight since 1 the wo-
man you were thinking of as your wife! I
don't believe it; I won't believe it. Is my head
failing me? Is it Allan Armadale I am speak-
ing to? Is it Allan Armadale's face looking


ARMADALE.
193
at me? Stop! you are acting under some mis-
taken scruple. Some low fellow has crept into
your confidence, and has done this in your name
without telling you first.”
Allan controlled himself with admirable pa-
tience and admirable consideration for the tem-
per of his friend. “If you persist in refusing
to hear me,” he said, “I must wait as well as I
can till my turn comes.”
“Tell me you are a stranger to the employ-
ment of that man and I will hear you willingly.”
“Suppose there should be a necessity that
you know nothing about for employing him?”
“I acknowledge no necessity for the coward-
ly persecution of a helpless woman.”
A momentary flush of irritation—momentary,
and no more—passed over Allan's face. “You
mightn't think her quite so helpless,” he said,
“if you knew the truth.”
“Are you the man to tell me the truth?” re-
torted the other. “You who have refused to
hear her in her own defense ! You, who have
closed the doors of this house against her!”
Allan still controlled himself, but the effort
began at last to be visible.
“I know your temper is a hot one,” he said.
“But for all that, your violence quite takes me
by surprise. I can't account for it, unless”—he
hesitated a moment, and then finished the sen-
tence in his usual frank, outspoken way—“un-
less you are sweet yourself on Miss Gwilt.”
Those last words heaped fuel on the fire.
They stripped the truth instantly of all conceal-
ments and disguises, and laid it bare to view.
Allan's instinct had guessed, and the guiding
influence stood revealed of Midwinter's interest
in Miss Gwilt.
“What right have you to say that?” he ask-
ed, with raised voice and threatening eyes.
“I told you,” said Allan, simply, “when I
thought I was sweet on her myself. Come,
come! it's a little hard, I think, even if you are
in love with her, to believe every thing she tells
you, and not to let me say a word. Is that the
way you decide between us?”
“Yes, it is!” cried the other, infuriated by
Allan's scCond allusion to Miss Gwilt. “When
I am asked to choose between the employer of
a spy and the victim of a spy I side with the
victim l’”
“Don’t try me too hard, Midwinter; I have
a temper to lose as well as you.”
He stopped, struggling with himself. The
torture of passion in Midwinter's face, from
which a less simple and less generous nature
might have recoiled in horror, touched Allan
suddenly with an artless distress, which, at that
moment, was little less than sublime. He ad-
vanced, with his eyes moistening and his hand
held out. “You asked me for my hand just
now,” he said, “and I gave it you. Will you
remember old times and give me yours, before
it's too late?”
“No!” retorted Midwinter, furiously. “I
may meet Miss Gwilt again, and I may want
my hand free to deal with your spy!”
He had drawn back along the wall as Allan
advanced until the bracket which supported the
Statuette was before instead of behind him. In
the madness of his passion he saw nothing but
Allan's face confronting him. In the madness
of his passion he stretched out his right hand
as he answered, and shook it threateningly in
the air. It struck the forgotten projection of
the bracket, and the next instant the Statuette
lay in fragments on the floor.
The rain drove slanting over flower-bed and
lawn, and pattered heavily against the glass;
and the two Armadales stood by the window,
as the two Shadows had stood in the second
Vision of the Dream, with the wreck of the im-
age between them.
Allan stooped over the fragments of the lit-
tle figure and lifted them one by one from the
floor. “Leave me,” he said, without looking
up, “ or we shall both repent it."
Without a word Midwinter moved back slow-
ly. He stood for the second time with his hand
on the door, and looked his last at the room.
The horror of the night on the Wreck had got
him once more, and the flame of his passion was
quenched in an instant.
“The Dream " he whispered, under his
breath. “The Dream again!”
The door was tried from the outside, and a
servant appeared with a trivial message about
the breakfast. -
Midwinter looked at the man with a blank,
dreadful helplessness in his face. “Show me
the way out,” he said. “The place is dark,
and the room turns round with me.”
The servant took him by the arm, and silently
led him out.
As the door closed, on them Allan picked up
the last fragment of the broken figure. He sat
down alone at the table, and hid his face in his
hands. The self-control which he had bravely
preserved under exasperation renewed again and
again, now failed him at last in the friendless
solitude of his room ; and in the first bitterness
of feeling that Midwinter had turned against
him like the rest, he burst into tears.
The moments followed each other, the slow
time wore on. Little by little the signs of a
new elemental disturbance began to show them-
selves in the summer storm. The shadew of a
swiftly-deepening darkness swept over the sky.
The pattering of the rain lessened with the less-
ening wind. There was a momentary hush of
stillness. Then on a sudden the rain poured
down again like a cataract, and the low roll of
thunder came up solemnly on the dying air.
->-
CHAPTER IX.
SHE RNOWS THE TRUTH.
1.–From Mr. Bashwood to Miss Gwilt.
“THoRPE-AMBRose, July 20, 1851.
“DEAR MADAM,-I received yesterday, by
private messenger, your obliging note, in which
you direct me to communicate with you, through


194
ARMADALE.
the post only, as long as there is reason to be-
lieve that any visitors who may come to you are
likely to be observed. May I be permitted to
say, that I look forward with respectful anxiety
to the time when I shall again enjoy the only
real happiness I have ever experienced—the
happiness of personally addressing you?
“In compliance with your desire that I should
not allow this day (the Sunday) to pass without
privately noticing what went on at the great
house, I took the keys, and went this morning
to the steward's office.
pearance to the servants by informing them that
I had work to do which it was important to com-
plete in the shortest possible time. The same
excuse would have done for Mr. Armadale, if
we had met, but no such meeting happened.
“Although I was at Thorpe-Ambrose, in what
I thought good time, I was too late to see or
hear any thing myself of a serious quarrel which
appeared to have taken place, just before I ar-
rived, between Mr. Armadale and Mr. Midwin-
ter.
“All the little information I can give you in
this matter is derived from one of the servants.
The man told me that he heard the voices of the
two gentlemen loud, in Mr. Armadale's sitting-
room. He went into announce breakfast shortly
afterward, and found Mr. Midwinter in such a
dreadful state of agitation, that he had to be
helped out of the room. The servant tried to
take him upstairs to lie down and compose him-
self. He declined, saying he would wait a lit-
tle first in one of the lower rooms, and begging
that he might be left alone. The man had
hardly got down stairs again, when he heard
the front-door opened and closed. He ran back,
and found that Mr. Midwinter was gone. The
rain was pouring at the time, and thunder and
lightning came soon afterward. Dreadful weath-
er, certainly, to go out in. The servant thinks
Mr. Midwinter's mind was unsettled. I sin-
cerely hope not. Mr. Midwinter is one of the
few people I have met with in the course of my
life who have treated me kindly.
“Hearing that Mr. Armadale still remained
in his sitting-room, I went into the steward's
office (which, as you may remember, is on the
same side of the house), and left the door ajar,
and set the window open, waiting and listening
for anything that might happen. Dearmadam,
there was a time when I might have thought
such a position in the house of my employer not
a very becoming one. Let me hasten to assure
you that this is far from being my feeling now.
I glory in any position which makes me service-
able to you.
“The state of the weather seemed hopelessly
adverse to that renewal of intercourse between
Mr. Armadale and Miss Milroy, which you so
confidently anticipate, and of which you are so
anxious to be made aware. Strangely enough,
however, it is actually in consequence of the
state of the weather that I am now in a position
to give you the very information you require.
Mr. Armadale and Miss Milroy met about an
I accounted for my ap-
hour since. The circumstances were as fol-
lows:
“Just at the beginning of the thunder-storm
I saw one of the grooms run across from the
|stables, and heard him tap at his master's win-
dow. Mr. Armadale opened the window and
asked what was the matter. The groom said he
came with a message from the coachman's wife.
She had seen from her room over the stables
(which looks on to the park) Miss Milroy, quite
| alone, standing for shelter under one of the
trees. As that part of the park was at some dis-
tance from the major's cottage she had thought
that her master might wish to send and ask the
young lady into the house—especially as she had
placed herself, with a thunder-storm coming on,
in what might turn out to be a very dangerous
position.
“The moment Mr. Armadale understood the
man's message he called for the waterproof
things and the umbrellas, and ran out himself,
instead of leaving it to the servants. In a little
time he and the groom came back with Miss
Milroy between them, as well protected as could
be from the rain.
“I ascertained from one of the women-serv-
ants, who had taken the young lady into a bed-
room, and had supplied her with such dry things
as she wanted, that Miss Milroy had been after-
ward shown into the drawing-room, and that
Mr. Armadale was there with her. The only
way of following your instructions, and finding
out what passed between them, was to go round
the house in the pelting rain, and get into the con-
servatory (which opens into the drawing-room)
by the outer door. I hesitate at nothing, dear
madam, in your service; I would cheerfully get
wet every day to please you. Besides, though
I may at first sight be thought rather an elderly
man, a wetting is of no very serious consequence
to me. I assure you I am not so old as I look,
and I am of a stronger constitution than ap-
pears.
“It was impossible for me to get near enough
in the conservatory to see what went on in the
drawing-room, without the risk of being dis-
covered. But most of the conversation reached
me, except when they dropped their voices.
This is the substance of what I heard:
“I gathered that Miss Milroy had been pre-
vailed on, against her will, to take refuge from
the thunder-storm in Mr. Armadale's house. She
said so at least, and she gave two reasons. The
first was, that her father had forbidden all inter-
course between the cottage and the great house.
Mr. Armadale met this objection by declaring
that her father had issued his orders under a
total misconception of the truth, and by entreat-
ing her not to treat him as cruelly as the ma-
jor had treated him. He entered, I suspect,
into some explanations at this point, but, as he
dropped his voice, I am unable to say what they
were. His language, when I did hear it, was
confused and ungrammatical. It seemed, how-
ever, to be quite intelligible enough to persuade
Miss Milroy that her father had been acting


196
ARMADALE.
“I must leave you, I fear, to judge for your-
self of the effect of this on the young lady; for
though I tried hard I failed to catch what she
said. I am almost certain I heard her crying,
and Mr. Armadale entreating her not to break
his heart. They whispered a great deal, which
aggravated me. I was afterward alarmed by
Mr. Armadale coming out into the conservatory
to pick some flowers. He did not come as far,
fortunately, as the place where I was hidden;
and he went in again into the drawing-room,
and there was more talking (I suspect at close
quarters), which to my great regret I again
failed to catch. Pray forgive me for having
so little to tell you. I can only add, that when
the storm cleared off Miss Milroy went away
with the flowers in her hand, and with Mr.
Armadale escorting her from the house. My
own humble opinion is that he had a powerful
friend at court, all through the interview, in the
young lady's own liking for him.
“This is all I can say at present, with the
exception of one other thing I heard, which I
blush to mention. But your word is law, and
you have ordered me to have no concealments
from you.
“Their talk turned once, dear madam, on
yourself. I think I heard the word “Creature'
from Miss Milroy; and I am certain that Mr.
Armadale, while acknowledging that he had
once admircd you, added that circumstances
had since satisfied him of ‘his folly. I quote
his own expression—it made me quite tremble
with indignation. If I may be permitted to say
so, the man who admires Miss Gwilt lives in
paradise. Respect, if nothing else, ought to
have closed Mr. Armadale's lips. He is my
employer, I know—but, after his calling it an
act of folly to admire you (though I am his
deputy steward), I utterly despise him.
“Trusting that I may have been so happy as
to give you satisfaction thus far, and earnestly
desirous to deserve the honor of your continued
confidence in me, I remain, dear madam,
“Your grateful and devoted servant,
“FELIX BASHwood.”
2.–From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“DIANA STREET, Monday, July 21.
“MY DEARLYDIA,-I trouble you with a few
lines. They are written under a sense of the
duty which I owe to myself in our present po-
sition toward each other.
“I am not at all satisfied with the tone of
your two last letters; and I am still less pleased
at your leaving me this morning without any
letter at all—and this when we had arranged,
in the doubtful state of our prospects, that I was
to hear from you every day. I can only inter-
pret your conduct in one way. I can only in-
fer that matters at Thorpe-Ambrose, having
been all mismanaged, are all going wrong.
“It is not my present object to reproach you,
for why should I waste time, language, and pa-
per? I merely wish to recall to your memory
certain considerations which you appear to be
disposed to overlook. Shall I put them in the
plainest English 2 Yes—for with all my faults
I am frankness personified.
“In the first place, then, I have an interest
in your becoming Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe-
Ambrose as well as you. Secondly, I have pro-
vided you (to say nothing of good advice) with
all the money needed to accomplish our object.
Thirdly, I hold your notes - of hand at short
dates for every farthing so advanced. Fourth-
ly and lastly, though I am indulgent to a fault
in the capacity of a friend—in the capacity of a
woman of business, my dear, I am not to be
trifled with. That is all, Lydia, at least for
the present.
“Pray don't suppose I write in anger, I am
only sorry and disheartened. My state of mind
resembles David's. If I had the wings of a
dove, I would flee away and be at rest.
“Affectionately yours,
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.”
3.–From Mr. Bashwood to Miss Gwilt.
“THoRPE-AMBRose, July 21.
“DEAR MADAM,--You will probably receive
these lines a few hours after my yesterday's
communication reaches you. I posted my first
letter last night, and I shall post this before
noon to-day.
“My present object in writing is to give you
some more news from this house. I have the
inexpressible happiness of announcing that Mr.
Armadale's disgraceful intrusion on your privacy
is at an end. The watch set on your actions is
to be withdrawn this day. I write, dear mad-
am, with the tears in my eyes—tears of joy,
caused by feelings which I ventured to express
in my previous letter (see first paragraph to-
ward the end). Pardon me this personal ref-
erence. I can speak to you (I don't know
why) so much more readily with my pen than
with my tongue.
“Let me try to compose myself and proceed
with my narrative.
“I had just arrived at the steward's office
this morning when Mr. Pedgift the elder fol-
lowed me to the great house to see Mr. Arma-
dale by special appointment. It is needless to
say that I at once suspended any little busi-
ness there was to do, feeling that your inter-
ests might possibly be concerned. It is also
most gratifying to add that this time circum-
stances favored me. I was able to stand un-
der the open window and to hear the whole
interview.
“Mr. Armadale explained himself at once
in the plainest terms. He gave orders that the
person who had been hired to watch you should
be instantly dismissed. On being asked to ex-
plain this sudden change of purpose, he did not
conceal that it was owing to the effect produced
on his mind by what had passed between Mr.
Midwinter and himself on the previous day.
Mr. Midwinter's language, cruelly unjust as it
was, had nevertheless convinced him that no
necessity whatever could excuse any proceeding


ARMADALE.
197
so essentially base in itself as the employment
of a spy, and on that conviction he was now de-
termined to act.
“But for your own positive directions to me
to conceal nothing that passes here in which
your name is concerned, I should really be
ashamed to report what Mr. Pedgift said on his
side. He has behaved kindly to me, I know.
But if he was my own brother I could never
forgive him the tone in which he spoke of you,
and the obstinacy with which he tried to make
Mr. Armadale change his mind.
“He began by attacking Mr. Midwinter. He
declared that Mr. Midwinter's opinion was the
very worst opinion that could be taken; for it
was quite plain that you, dear madam, had
twisted him round your finger. Producing no
effect by this coarse suggestion (which nobody
who knows you could for a moment believe),
Mr. Pedgift next referred to Miss Milroy, and
asked Mr. Armadale if he had given up all idea
of protecting her. What this meant I can not
imagine. I can only report it for your private
consideration. Mr. Armadale briefly answered
that he had his own plan for protecting Miss
Milroy, and that the circumstances were altered
in that quarter, or words to a similar effect.
Still Mr. Pedgift persisted. He went on (I
blush to mention) from bad to worse. He
tried to persuade Mr. Armadale next to bring
an action at law against one or other of the
persons who had been most strongly condemn-
ing his conduct in the neighborhood for the
purpose—I really hardly know how to write it
—of getting you into the witness-box. And
worse yet; when Mr. Armadale still said No,
Mr. Pedgift, after having, as I suspected by
the sound of his voice, been on the point of
leaving the room, artfully came back and pro-
posed sending for a detective officer from Lon.
don simply to look at you. “The whole of this
mystery about Miss Gwilt's true character, he
said, ‘may turn on a question of identity. It
won't cost much to have a man down from
London; and it's worth trying whether her
face is or is not known at head-quarters to the
police.” I again and again assure you, dearest
lady, that I only repeat those abominable words
from a sense of duty toward yourself. I shook
—I declare I shook from head to foot when I
heard them.
“To resume, for there is more to tell you.
“Mr. Armadale (to his credit—I don't deny
it, though I don't like him) still said No. He
appeared to be getting irritated under Mr. Ped-
gift's persistence, and he spoke in a somewhat
hasty way. “You persuaded me on the last
occasion when we talked about this, he said,
‘to do something that I have been since hearti-
ly ashamed of You won't succeed in persuad-
ing me, Mr. Pedgift, a second time. Those
were his words. Mr. Pedgift took him up
short; Mr. Pedgift seemed to be nettled on
his side.
“‘If that is the light in which you see my
the future the better. Your character and po-
sition are publicly involved in this matter be-
tween yourself and Miss Gwilt; and you per-
sist, at a most critical moment, in taking a
course of your own, which I believe will end
badly. After what I have already said and
done in this very serious case, I can't consent
to go on with it with both my hands tied; and
I can't drop it with credit to myself, while I re-
main publicly known as your solicitor. You
leave me no alternative, Sir, but to resign the
honor of acting as your legal adviser.” “I am
sorry to hear it, says Mr. Armadale, “but I
have suffered enough already through interfer-
ing with Miss Gwilt. I can't and won't stir
any further in the matter. “You may not stir
any further in it, Sir,’ says Mr. Pedgift, “and
I shall not stir any further in it, for it has
ceased to be a question of professional interest
to me. But mark my words, Mr. Armadale,
you are not at the end of this business yet.
Some other person's curiosity may go on from
the point where you (and I) have stopped, and
some other person's hand may let the broad
daylight in yet on Miss Gwilt.”
“I report their language, dearmadam, almost
word for word, I believe, as I heard it. It pro-
ced an indescribable impression on me; it
led me, I hardly know why, with quite a pan-
ic of alarm. I don't at all understand it, and
I understand still less what happened immedi-
ately afterward.
“Mr. Pedgift's voice, when he said those last
words, sounded dreadfully close to me. He
must have been speaking at the open window,
and he must, I fear, have seen me under it. I
had time, before he left the house, to get out
quietly from among the laurels, but not to get
back to the office. Accordingly I walked away
along the drive toward the lodge, as if I was
going on some errand connected with the stew-
ard's business.
“Before long Mr. Pedgift overtook me in his
gig, and stopped. “So you feel some curiosity
about Miss Gwilt, do you?" he said. ‘Gratify
your curiosity by all means—I don't object to
it. I felt naturally nervous, but I managed to
ask him what he meant. He didn't answer;
he only looked down at me from the gig in a
very odd manner, and laughed. “I have known
stranger things happen even than that " he said
to himself, suddenly, and drove off.
“I have ventured to trouble you with this
last incident, though it may seem of no import-
ance in your eyes, in the hope that your supe-
rior ability may be able to explain it. My own
poor faculties, I confess, are quite unable to
penetrate Mr. Pedgift's meaning. All I know
is, that he has no right to accuse me of any
such impertinent feeling as curiosity in relation
to a lady whom I ardently esteem and admire.
I dare not put it in warmer words.
“I have only to add that I am in a position
to be of continued service to you here if you
wish it. Mr. Armadale has just been into the
advice, Sir, he said, ‘the less you have of it for office, and has told me briefly that, in Mr. Mid-


198
ARMADALE.
winter's continued absence, I am still to act as
steward's deputy till further notice.
“Believe me, dear madam,
“Anxiously and devotedly yours,
“FELIX BASHwooD.”
4.–From Allan Armadale to the Rev. Decimus
Brock.
“THoRPE-AMBRose, Tuesday.
“MY DEAR MR. BRock,—I am in sad trou-
ble. Midwinter has quarreled with me and left
me; and my lawyer has quarreled with me and
left me; and (except dear little Miss Milroy,
who has forgiven me) all the neighbors have
turned their backs on me. There is a good
deal about ‘me’ in this, but I can't help it. I
am very miserable alone in my own house. Do,
pray, come and see me! You are the only old
friend I have left, and I do long so to tell you
about it. N.B.—On my word of honor as a
gentleman, I am not to blame. Yours affec-
tionately, ALLAN ARMADALE.
“P.S.–I would come to you (for this place
is grown quite hateful to me), but I have a rea-
son for not going too far away from Miss Mil-
roy just at present."
5.–From Robert Stapleton to Allan Armada
Esq
“Boscow BE RECroRY, Thursday Morning.
“RESPECTED SIR,-I see a letter in your
writing, on the table along with the others,
which I am sorry to say my master is not well
enough to open. He is down with a sort of
low fever. The doctor says it has been brought
on with worry and anxiety, which master was
not strong enough to bear. This seems likely;
for I was with him when he went to London
last month, and what with his own business
and the business of looking after that person
who afterward gave us the slip, he was worried
and anxious all the time; and, for the matter
of that, so was I,
“My master was talking of you a day or two
since. He seemed unwilling that you should
know of his illness, unless he got worse. But
I think you ought to know of it. At the same
time he is not worse—perhaps a trifle better.
The doctor says he must be kept very quiet,
and not agitated on any account. So be pleased
to take no notice of this—I mean in the way of
coming to the rectory. I have the doctor's or.
ders to say it is not needful, and it would only
upset my master in the state he is in now.
“I will write again if you wish it. Please
accept of my duty, and believe me to remain,
Sir, your humble servant,
“ROBERT STAPLETON.
“P.S.—The yacht has been rigged and re-
painted, waiting your orders. She looks beau-
tiful.”
6.—From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“DIANA STREET, July 24.
“Miss Gwilt,—The post-hour has passed
for three mornings following, and has brought
me no answer to my letter. Are you purposely
bent on insulting me? or have you left Thorpe-
Ambrose? In either case I won't put up with
your conduct any longer. The law shall bring
you to book, if I can't.
“Your first note-of-hand (for thirty pounds)
falls due on Tuesday next, the 29th. If you
had behaved with common consideration toward
me I would have let you renew it with pleasure.
As things are, I shall have the mote presented;
and if it is not paid I shall instruct my man of
business to take the usual course. Yours,
“MARIA OLDERSHAw.”
7.–From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw.
“5 PARADISE PLACE, THoRPE-AMBRose, July 25.
“MRs. OLDERSHAw,—The time of your man
of business being, no doubt, of some value, I
write a line to assist him when he takes the
usual course. He will find me waiting to be
arrested in the first-floor apartments, at the
above address. In my present situation, and
with my present thoughts, the best service you
can possibly render me is to lock me up.
“L. G.”
8.–From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt.
“DIANASTREET, July 26,
“MY DARLING LYDIA,-The longer I live in
this wicked world the more plainly I see that
women's own tempers are the worst enemies wo-
men have to contend with. What a truly re-
gretable style of correspondence we have fallen
into ! What a sad want of self-restraint, my
dear, on your side and on mine!
“Let me, as the oldest in years, be the first
to make the needful excuses, the first to blush
for my own want of self-control. Your cruel
neglect, Lydia, stung me into writing as I did.
I am so sensitive to ill-treatment, when it is in-
flicted on me by a person whom I love and ad-
mire—and, though turned sixty, I am still (un-
fortunately for myself) so young at heart. Ac-
cept my apologies for having made use of my
pen, when I ought to have been content to take
refuge in my pocket-handkerchief. Forgive
your attached Maria for being still young at
heart!
“But oh, my dear—though I own I threat-
ened you—how hard of you to take me at my
word! How cruel of you, if your debt had
been ten times what it is, to suppose me capa-
ble (whatever I might say) of the odious inhu-
manity of arresting my bosom friend | Heav-
ens! have I deserved to be taken at my word in
this unmercifully exact way, after the years of
tender intimacy that have united us? But I
don't complain; I only mourn over the frailty
of our common human nature. Let us expect
as little of each other as possible, my dear; we
are both women, and we can't help it. I de-
clare, when I reflect on the origin of our unfor-
tunate sex—when I remember that we were all
originally made of no better material than the
rib of a man (and that rib of so little importance
to its possessor that he never appears to have


200
ARMADALE.
have ever known, with the last love I shall ever the garden.
feel? Let the coming time answer the question;
I dare not write of it or think of it more.”
“Those were the last words. In that strange
way the letter ended.
“I felt a perfect fever of curiosity to know
what he meant. His loving me, of course, was
easy enough to understand. But what did he
mean by saying he had been warned? Why was
he never to live under the same roof, never to
The landlord and his family were
at supper, and nobody saw me. I opened the
door in the wall, and got round by the lane into
the street. At that awkward moment I sudden-
ly remembered, what I had forgotten before, the
spy set to watch me, who was, no doubt, wait-
ing somewhere in sight of the house.
“It was necessary to get time to think, and
it was (in my state of mind) impossible to let
Midwinter go without speaking to him. In
breathe the same air again with young Arma- great difficulties you generally decide at once,
dale? What sort of quarrel could it be which if you decide at all. I decided to make an ap-
obliged one man to hide himself from another pointment with him for the next evening, and
under an assumed name, and to put the mount- to consider in the interval how to manage the
ains and the seas between them? Above all, if
he came back, and let me fascinate him, why
should it be fatal to the hateful lout who pos-
sesses the noble fortune and lives in the great
house?
“I never longed in my life as I longed to see
him again, and put these questions to him. I
got quite superstitious about it as the day drew
on. They gave me a sweet-bread and a cherry
pudding for dinner. I actually tried if he would
come back by the stones in the plate! He will,
he won't, he will, he won't—and so on.
ended in “he won't. I rang the bell, and had
the things taken away. I contradicted Destiny
quite fiercely. I said, “he will!’ and I waited
at home for him. *
“You don't know what a pleasure it is to me
to give you all these little particulars. Count
up—my bosom friend, my second mother—count
up the money you have advanced on the chance
of my becoming Mrs. Armadale, and then think
of my feeling this breathless interest in another
man. Oh, Mrs. Oldershaw, how intensely I en-
joy the luxury of irritating you! -
“The day got on toward evening. I rang
again, and sent down to borrow a railway time-
table. What trains were there to take him away
on Sunday? The national respect for the Sab-
bath stood my friend. There was only one train,
which had started hours before he wrote to me.
I went and consulted my glass. It paid me the
compliment of contradicting the divination by
cherry-stones. My glass said, “Get behind the
window-curtain; he won't pass the long lonely
evening without coming back again to look at
the house.' I got behind the window-curtain,
and waited with his letter in my hand.
“The dismal Sunday light faded, and the dis-
mal Sunday quietness in the street grew quieter
still. The dusk came, and I heard a step com-
ing with it in the silence. My heart gave a lit-
tle jump-only think of my having any heart
left! I said to myself, “Midwinter!’ And Mid-
winter it was. *
“When he came in sight he was walking slow-
ly, stopping and hesitating at every two or three
steps. My ugly little drawing-room window
seemed to be beckoning him on in spite of him-
self. After waiting till I saw him come to a
stand-still, a little aside from the house, but still
within view of my irresistible window, I put on
mythings and slipped out by the back way into
It
| interview so that it might escape observation.
This, as I felt at the time, was leaving my own
curiosity free to torment me for four-and-twenty
mortal hours—but what other choice had I? It
was as good as giving up being mistress of
Thorpe-Ambrose altogether to come to a pri-
|vate understanding with Midwinter in the sight
and possibly in the hearing of Armadale's spy.
“Finding an old letter of yours in my pocket,
I drew back into the lane, and wrote on the
blank leaf, with the little pencil that hangs at
my watch-chain: “I must and will speak to
you. It is impossible to-night, but be in the
street to-morrow at this time, and leave me aft-
erward forever, if you like. When you have
read this, overtake me, and say as you pass,
without stopping or looking round, “Yes, I prom-
ise.””
“I folded up the paper and came on him sud-,
denly from behind. As he started and turned
round I put the note into his hand, pressed his
hand, and passed on. Before I had taken ten
steps I heard him behind me. I can't say he
didn't look round—I saw his big black eyes,
bright and glittering in the dusk, devour me
from head to foot in a moment; but otherwise
he did what I told him. “I can deny you no-
thing,” he whispered; “I promise. He went on
anti left me. I couldn't help thinking at the
time how that brute and booby Armadale would
have spoiled every thing in the same situation.
“I tried hard all night to think of a way of
making our interview of the next evening safe
from discovery, and tried in vain. Even as
carly as this I began to feel as if Midwinter's
letter had in some unaccountable manner stu-
pefied me.
“Monday morning made matters wore. News
came from my faithful ally, Mr. Bashwood, that
Miss Milroy and Armadale had met and become
friends again. You may fancy the state I was
in An hour or two later there came more
news from Mr. Bashwood—good news this time.
The mischievous idot at Thorpe-Ambrose had
shown sense enough at last to be ashamed of
himself. He had decided on withdrawing the
spy that very day, and he and his lawyer had
quarreled in consequence.
“So here was the obstacle which I was too
stupid to remove for myself obligingly removed
for me! No more need to fret about the coming
| interview with Midwinter—and plenty of time to


ARMADALE.
201
consider my next proceedings, now that Miss dim and
Milroy and her precious swain had come to-
gether again. Would you believe it, the letter,
or the man himself (I don't know which), had
taken such a hold on me that, though I tried
and tried, I could think of nothing else—and
this, when I had every reason to fear that Miss
Milroy was in a fair way of changing her name
to Armadale, and when I knew that my heavy
debt of obligation to her was not paid yet?
Was there ever such perversity? I can't ac-
count for it—can you?
“The dusk of the evening came at last. I
looked out of the window—and there he was !
“I joined him at once; the people of the
house, as before, being too much absorbed in
their eating and drinking to notice any thing
else. ‘We mustn't be seen together here, I
whispered. “I must go on first, and you must
follow me.”
“He said nothing in the way of reply. What
was going on in his mind I can't pretend to
guess—but, after coming to his appointment,
he actually hung back as if he was half inclined
to go away again.
“‘You look as if you were afraid of me,” I
said.
“‘I am afraid of you, he answered—‘of you
and of myself.”
“It was not encouraging; it was not com-
plimentary. But I was in such a frenzy of cu-
riosity by this time, that if he had been ruder
still I should have taken no notice of it. I led
the way a few steps toward the new buildings,
and stopped and looked round after him.
“‘Must I ask it of you as a favor,” I said,
“after your giving me your promise, and after
such a letter as you have written to me?’
“Something suddenly changed him; he was
at my side in an instant. “I beg your pardon,
Miss Gwilt; lead the way where you please.'
He dropped back a little after that answer, and I
heard him say to himself, ‘What is to be will be.
What have I to do with it, and what has she?'
“It could hardly have been the words, for I
didn't understand them—it must have been the
tone he spoke in, I suppose, that made me feel
a momentary tremor. I was half inclined, with-
out the ghost of a reason for it, to wish him
good-night and go in again. Not much like
me, you will say. Not much, indeed! It didn't
last a moment. Your darling Lydia soon came
to her senses again.
“I led the way toward the unfinished cot-
tages and the country beyond. It would have
been much more to my taste to have had him
into the house, and have talked to him in the
light of the candles. But I had risked it once
already; and in this scandal-mongering place,
and in my critical position, I was afraid to risk
it again. The garden was not to be thought of
either—for the landlord smokes his pipe there
after his supper. There was no alternative but
to take him away from the town.
“From time to time I looked back as I went
on. There he was, always at the same distance,
ghostlike in the dusk, silently follow-
1ng me.
“I must leave off for a little while. The
church bells have broken out, and the jangling
of them drives me mad. In these days, when
we have all got watches or clocks, why are bells
wanted to remind us when the service begins?
We don't require to be rung into the theatre.
How excessively discreditable to the clergy to be
obliged to ring us into the church!
“They have rung the congregation in at
last—and I can take up my pen and go on
again.
“I was a little in doubt where to lead him
to. The high-road was on one side of me—
but, empty as it looked, somebody might be
passing when we least expected it. The other
way was through the coppice. I led him through
the coppice.
“At the outskirts of the trees, on the other
side, there was a dip in the ground, with some
felled timber lying in it, and a little pool be-
yond, still and white and shining in the twi-
light. The long grazing grounds rose over its
farther shore, with the mist thickening on them,
and a dim black line far away of cattle in slow
procession going home. There wasn't a living
creature near; there wasn't a sound to be heard.
I sat down on one of the felled trees and looked
back for him. “Come, I said, softly, ‘come
and sit by me here.”
“Why am I so particular about all this? I
hardly know. The place made an unaccounta-
bly vivid impression on me, and I can't help
writing about it. If I end badly-suppose we
say on the scaffold?—I believe the last thing I
shall see, before the hangman pulls the drop,
will be the little shining pool, and the long
misty grazing grounds, and the cattle winding
dimly home in the thickening night. Don't be
alarmed, you worthy creature! My fancy plays
me strange tricks sometimes—and there is a
little of last night's laudanum, I dare say, in
this part of my letter.
“He came—in the strangest silent way, like
a man walking in his sleep—he came and sat
down by me. Either the night was very close,
or I was by this time literally in a fever—I
couldn't bear my bonnet on; I couldn't bear
my gloves. The want to look at him and see
what his singular silence meant, and the im-
possibility of doing it in the darkening light,
irritated my nerves till I thought I should have
screamed. I took his hand to try if that would
help me. It was burning hot; and it closed in-
stantly on mine—you know how. Silence, after
that, was not to be thought of The one safe
way was to begin talking to him at once.
“‘Don’t despise me,” I said. “I am obliged
to bring you to this lonely place; I should lose
my character if we were seen together.’
“I waited a little. His hand warned me
once more not to let the silence continue. I
determined to make him speak to me this time.
“‘You have interested me and frightened


204
ARMADALE.
He spoke in a new voice—he suddenly com-
manded, as only men can.
“Sit down, he said. “You have given me
back my courage—you shall know who I am."
“In the silence and the darkness all round
us I obeyed him, and sat down.
“In the silence and the darkness all round
us he took me in his arms again, and told me
who he was.
“Shall I trust you with his story? Shall I
tell you his real name? Shall I show you, as
I threatened, the thoughts that have grown out
of my interview with him, and out of all that
has happened to me since that time?
“Or shall I keep his secret as I promised?
*N-
- | |
and keep my own secret too, by bringing this W
weary long letter to an end at the very moment
when you are burning to hear more?
“Those are serious questions, Mrs. Older-
shaw—more serious than you suppose. I have
had time to calm down, and I begin to see what
I failed to see when I first took up my pen to
write to you—the wisdom of looking at conse-
quences. Have I frightened myself in trying
to frighten you? It is possible—strange as it
may seem, it is really possible.
“I have been at the window for the last min-
ute or two, thinking. There is plenty of time
for thinking before the post leaves. The people
are only now coming out of church.
“I have settled to put my letter on one side,
and to take a look at my diary. In plainer
words, I must see what I risk if I decide on
trusting you; and my diary will show me what
my head is too weary to calculate without help.
I have written the story of my days (and some-
times the story of my nights) much more regu-
larly than usual for the last week, having rea-
sons of my own for being particularly careful in
this respect under present circumstances. If I
end in doing what it is now in my mind to do,
it would be madness to trust to my memory.
The smallest forgetfulness of the slightest event
that has happened from the night of my inter-
view with Midwinter to the present time might
be utter ruin to me.
“‘Utter ruin to her!' you will say.
kind of ruin does she mean?'
“Wait a little, till I have asked my diary
whether I can safely tell you.”
“What
->-
CHAPTER X.
MISS Gwilt's DIARY.
“...... July 21st, Monday night, eleven o'clock.
—He has just left me. We parted by my de-
sire at the path out of the coppice; he going his
way to the hotel, and I going mine to my lodg-
ings.
“I have managed to avoid making another
appointment with him by arranging to write to
him to-morrow morning. This gives me the
night's interval to compose myself, and to coax
I
my mind back (if I can) to my own affairs.
say, “if I can, for I feel as if his story had taken
possession of me, never to leave me again. Will
the night pass, and the morning find me still
thinking of the Letter that came to him from
his father's death-bed? of the night he watched
through, on the Wrecked Ship; and, more than
all, of the first breathless moment when he told
me his real Name? -
“Would it help me to shake off these im-
pressions, I wonder, if I made the effort of
| writing them down? There would be no dan-
|ger, in that case, of my forgetting any thing
important. And perhaps, after all, it may be
the fear of forgetting something which I ought
to remember that keeps this story of Midwinter's
weighing as it does on my mind. At any rate,
the experiment is worth trying. In my present
situation I must be free to think of other things,
or I shall never find my way through all the
difficulties of Thorpe-Ambrose that are still to
Conno.
“Let me think. What haunts me, to begin
with ?
“The Names haunt me. I keep saying and
saying to myself. Both alike! Christian name
and surname, both alike : A light-haired Al-
lan Armadale, whom I have long since known
of, and who is the son of my old mistress. A
dark-haired Allan Armadale, whom I only know
of now, and who is only known to others under
the name of Ozias Midwinter. Stranger still;
it is not relationship, it is not chance, that has
made them namesakes. The father of the light
|Armadale was the man who was born to the


ARMADALE.
205
family name, and who lost the family inherit-
ance. The father of the dark Armadale was
the man who took the name, on condition of
getting the inheritance—and who got it.
“So there are two of them—I can't help
thinking of it—both unmarried. The light-
haired Armadale, who offers to the woman who
can secure him eight thousand a year while he
lives; who leaves her twelve hundred a year
when he dies; who must and shall marry me
for those two golden reasons; and whom I hate
and loath as I never hated and loathed a man
yet. And the dark-haired Armadale, who has a
poor little income which might perhaps pay his
wife's milliner, if his wife was careful; who has
just left me, persuaded that I mean to marry
him; and whom—well, whom I might have loved
once, before I was the woman I am now.
“And Allan the Fair doesn't know he has a
namesake. And Allan the Dark has kept the
secret from every body but the Somersetshire
clergyman (whose discretion he can depend on)
and myself. -
“And there are two Allan Armadales—two Al-
lan Armadales—two Allan Armadales. There!
three is a lucky number. Haunt me again,
after that, if you can!
“What next? The murder in the timber
ship? No; the murder is a good reason why
the dark Armadale, whose father committed it,
should keep his secret from the fair Armadale,
whose father was killed; but it doesn't concern
me. I remember there was a suspicion in Ma-
deira at the time of something wrong. Was it
wrong? Was the man who had been tricked
out of his wife to blame for shutting the cabin-
door and leaving the man who had tricked him
to drown in the wreck? Yes — the woman
wasn't worth it.
“What am I sure of that really concerns my-
self?
“I am sure of one very important thing. I
am sure that Midwinter—I must call him by his
ugly false name or I may confuse the two Arma-
dales before I have done—I am sure that Mid-
winter is perfectly ignorant that I and the little
imp of twelve years old who waited on Mrs.
Armadale in Madeira, and copied the letters
that were supposed to arrive from the West In-
dies, are one and the same. There are not
many girls of twelve who could have imitated a
man's handwriting and held their tongues about
it afterward, as I did—but that doesn't matter
now. What does matter is, that Midwinter's
belief in the Dream is Midwinter's only reason
for trying to connect me with Allan Armadale
by associating me with Allan Armadale's father
and mother. I asked him if he actually thought
me old enough to have known either of them.
And he said No, poor fellow, in the most inno-
cent, bewildered way. Would he say No, if he
saw me now? Shall I turn to the glass and
see if I look my five-and-thirty years? or shall I
go on writing? I will go on writing.
“There is one thing more that haunts me
almost as obstinately as the Names.
“I wonder whether I am right in relying on
Midwinter's superstition (as I do) to help me in
keeping him at arm's-length. After having let
the excitement of the moment hurry me into
saying more than I need have said, he is certain
to press me; he is certain to come back, with
a man's hateful selfishness and impatience in
such things, to the question of marrying me.
Will the Dream help me to check him? After
alternately believing and disbelieving in it, he
has got, by his own confession, to believing in
it again. Can I say I believe in it too? I
have better reasons for doing so than he knows
of. I am not only the person who helped Mrs.
Armadale's marriage by helping her to impose
on her own father—I am the woman who tried
to drown herself; the woman who started the
series of accidents which put young Armadale in
possession of his fortune; the woman who has
come to Thorpe-Ambrose to marry him for his
fortune now he has got it; and more extraordi-
mary still, the woman who stood in the Shadow's
place at the pool! These may be coincidences,
but they are strange coincidences. I declare
I begin to fancy that I believe in the Dream
too !
“Suppose I say to him, ‘I think as you think.
I say, what you said in your letter to me, Let us
part before the harm is done. Leave me before
the third Vision of the Dream comes true. Leave
me; and put the mountains and the seas be-
tween you and the man who bears your name!’
“Suppose, on the other side, that his love
for me makes him reckless of every thing else?
Suppose he says those desperate words again,
which I understand now-‘What is to be, will
be. What have I to do with it, and what has
she?' Suppose—suppose-
“I won't write any more. I hate writing!
It doesn't relieve me—it makes me worse. I'm
farther from being able to think of all that I
must think of, than I was when I sat down. It
is past midnight. To-morrow has come already
—and here I am as helpless as the stupidest wo-
man living! Bed is the only fit place for me.
“Bed? If it was ten years since, instead of
to-day; and if I had married Midwinter for love,
I might be going to bed now with nothing heav-
|ier on my mind than a visit on tip-toe to the
nursery, and a last look at night to see if my
children were sleeping quietly in their cribs. I
wonder whether I should have loved my chil-
dren if I had ever had any? Perhaps, yes—
perhaps, no. It doesn't matter.
“Tuesday morning, ten o'clock.—Who was the
man who invented laudanum ? I thank him
from the bottom of my heart, whoever he was.
If all the miserable wretches in pain of body and
mind, whose comforter he has been, could meet
together to sing his praises, what a chorus it
would be I have had six delicious hours of
oblivion; I have woke up with my mind com-
posed; I have written a perfect little letter to
Midwinter; I have drunk my nice cup of tea,
with a real relish of it; I have dawdled over my


206
ARMADALE.
morning toilet with an exquisite sense of relief—
and all through the modest little bottle of Drops
which I see on my bedroom chimney-piece at
this moment. “Drops, you are a darling! If
I love nothing else, I love you.
“My letter to Midwinter has been sent through
the post; and I have told him to reply to me in
the same manner.
“I feel no anxiety about his answer—he can
only answer in one way. I have asked for a lit-
tle time to consider, because my family circum-
stances require some consideration, in his inter-
ests as well as in mine. I have engaged to tell
him what those circumstances are (what shall I
say, I wonder?) when we next meet; and I have
requested him in the mean time to keep all that
has passed between us a secret for the present.
As to what he is to do himself in the interval
while I am supposed to be considering, I have
left it to his own discretion—merely reminding
him that, in our present situation, his remaining
at Thorpe-Ambrose might lead to inquiry into
his motives, and that his attempting to see me
again (while our positions toward each other can
not be openly avowed) might injure my reputa-
tion. I have offered to write to him if he wishes
it; and I have ended by promising to make the
interval of our necessary separation as short as I
Can. *
“This sort of plain unaffected letter—which
I might have written to him last night, if his
story had not been running in my head as it did
—has one defect, I know. It certainly keeps
him out of the way, while I am casting my net,
and catching my gold fish at the great house
for the second time—but it also leaves an awk-
ward day of reckoning to come with Midwinter
if I succeed. How am I to manage him? What
am I to do? I ought to face those two ques-
tions as boldly as usual—but somehow my cour-
age seems to fail me; and I don't quite fancy
meeting that difficulty till the time comes when
it must be met. Shall I confess to my diary that
I am sorry for Midwinter, and that I shrink a
little from thinking of the day when he hears
that I am going to be mistress at the great
house?
“But I am not mistress yet—and I can't take
a step in the direction of the great house till I
have got the answer to my letter, and till I know
that Midwinter is out of the way. Patience:
patience 1 I must go and forget myself at my
piano. There is the ‘Moonlight Sonata open,
and tempting me, on the music-stand. Have I
nerve enough to play it, I wonder? Or will it
set me shuddering with the mystery and terror
of #, as it did the other day?
“Five o'clock.—I have got his answer. The
slightest request I can make is a command to
him. He has gone—and he sends me his ad-
dress in London. ‘There are two considera-
tions’ (he says) ‘which help to reconcile me to
leaving you. The first is, that you wish it, and
that it is only to be for a little while. The sec-
ond is, that I think I can make some arrange-
ments in London for adding to my income by
my own labor. I have never cared for money
for myself—but you don't know how I am be-
ginning already to prize the luxuries and refine-
ments that money can provide, for my wife's
sake. Poor fellow ! I almost wish I had not
written to him as I did; I almost wish I had not
sent him away from me.
“Fancy, if mother Oldershaw saw this page
in my diary ! I have had a letter from her this
morning—a letter to remind me of my obliga-
tions, and to tell me she suspects things are all
going wrong. Let her suspect! I sha'n't trou-
ble myself to answer—I can't be worried with
that old wretch in the state I am in now.
“It is a lovely afternoon—I want a walk—
I mustn't think of Midwinter. Suppose I put
on my bonnet, and try, my experiment at once
at the great house? Every thing is in my fa-
vor. There is no spy to follow me, and no law-
yer to keep me out this time. Am I hand-
some enough to-day? Well, yes—handsome
enough to be a match for a little dowdy, awkward,
freckled creature, who ought to be perched on a
form at school, and strapped to a back-board to
straighten her crooked shoulders.
“‘The nursery lisps out in all they utter;
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter."
“How admirably Byron has described girls
in their teens !
“Eight o'clock.—I have just got back from
Armadale's house. I have seen him, and spok-
en to him; and the end of it may be set down
in three plain words. I have failed. There is
no more chance of my being Mrs. Armadale of
Thorpe-Ambrose than there is of my being
Queen of England.
“Shall I write and tell Oldershaw P Shall
I go back to London ? Not till I have had time
to think a little. Not just yet.
“Let me think; I have failed completely—
failed, with all the circumstances in favor of suc-
cess. I caught him alone on the drive in front
of the house. He was excessively disconcerted,
but at the same time quite willing to hear me.
I tried him, first quietly—then with tears, and
the rest of it. I introduced myself in the char-
acter of the poor innocent woman whom he had
been the means of injuring. I confused, I in-
terested, I convinced him. I went on to the pure-
ly Christian part of my errand, and spoke with
such feeling of his separation from his friend,
for which I was innocently responsible, that I
turned his odious rosy face quite pale, and made
him beg me at last not to distress him. But,
whatever other feelings I roused in him, I never
once roused his old feeling for me. I saw it in
his eyes when he looked at me; I felt it in his
fingers when we shook hands. We parted friends
and nothing more.
“It is for this, is it, Miss Milroy, that I re-
sisted temptation, morning after morning, when
I knew you were out alone in the park? I have
just left you time to slip in and take my place
in Armadale's good graces, have I? I never


ARMADALE.
207
resisted temptation yet without suffering for it pardon, Miss Gwi-Gwi-Gwilt! You are not re-
in some such way as this! If I had only fol-
lowed my first thoughts, on the day when I took
leave of you, my young lady—well, well, never
mind that now. I have got the future before
me; you are not Mrs. Armadale yet! And I
can tell you one other thing—who ever else he
marries, he will never marry you. If I am even
with you in no other way, trust me, whatever
comes of it, to be even with you there!
“I am not, to my own surprise, in one of my
furious passions. The last time I was in this
perfectly cool state, under serious provocation,
something came of it, which I daren't write
down, even in my own private diary. I shouldn't
be surprised if something comes of it now.
“On my way back I called at Mr. Bash-
wood's lodgings in the town. He was not at
home, and I left a message telling him to come
here to-night and speak to me. I mean to re-
lieve him at once of the duty &f looking after
Armadale and Miss Milroy. I may not see my
way yet to ruining her prospects at Thorpe-Am-
brose as completely as she has ruined mine.
But when the time comes, and I do see it, I
don't know to what lengths my sense of injury
may take me; and there may be inconvenience,
and possibly danger, in having such a chicken-
hearted creature as Mr. Bashwood in my confi-
dence.
“I suspect I am more upset by all this than
I supposed. Midwinter's story is beginning to
haunt me again, without rhyme or reason.
“A soft, quick, trembling knock at the street
door! I know who it is. No hand but old
Bashwood's could knock in that way.
“Nine o'clock.—I have just got rid of him.
He has surprised me by coming out in a new
character.
“It seems (though I didn't detect him) that
he was at the great house while I was in com-
pany with Armadale. He saw us talking on the
drive; and he afterward heard what the serv-
ants said, who saw us too. The wise opinion
below stairs is that we have ‘made it up, and
that the master is likely to marry me after all.
‘He's sweet on her red hair, was the elegant ex-
pression they used in the kitchen. ‘Little Missie
can't match her there—and little Missie will get
the worst of it. How I hate the coarse ways
of the lower orders!
“While old Bashwood was telling me this I
thought he looked even more confused and nerv-
ous than usual. But I failed to see what was
really the matter until after I had told him that
he was to leave all further observation of Mr.
Armadale and Miss Milroy to me. Every drop
of the little blood there is in the feeble old creat-
ure's body seemed to fly up into his face. He
made quite an overpowering effort; he really
looked as if he would drop down dead of fright
at his own boldness; but he forced out the ques-
tion, for all that, stammering, and stuttering,
and kneading desperately with both hands at
the brim of his hideous great hat. “I beg your
ally go go-going to marry Mr. Armadale, are
you?” Jealous—if ever I saw it in a man's face
yet, I saw it in his—actually jealous of Arma-
dale, at his age ! If I had been in the humor
for it I should have burst out laughing in his
face. As it was, I was angry, and lost all pa-
tience with him. I told him he was an old fool,
and ordered him to go on quietly with his usual
business until I sent him word that he was want-
ed again. He submitted as usual; but there
was an indescribable something in his watery old
eyes, when he took leave of me, which I have
never noticed in them before. Love has the
credit of working all sorts of strange transform-
ations. Can it be really possible that Love has
made Mr. Bashwood man enough to be angry
with me?
“Wednesday.—My experience of Miss Mil-
roy's habits suggested a suspicion to me last
night which I thought it desirable to clear up
this morning.
“It was always her way, when I was at the
cottage, to take a walk early in the morning
before breakfast. Considering that I used often
to choose that very time for my private meet-
ings with Armadale, it struck me as likely that
my former pupil might be taking a leaf out of
my book, and that I might make some desira-
ble discoveries if I turned my steps in the direc-
tion of the major's garden at the right hour. I
deprived myself of my Drops to make sure of
waking; passed a miserable night in conse-
quence; and was ready enough to get up at
six o'clock, and walk the distance from my
lodgings to the cottage in the fresh morning air.
“I had not been five minutes on the park-
side of the garden inclosure before I saw her
come out. She seemed to have had a bad
night too; her eyes were heavy and red, and
her lips and cheeks looked swollen, as if she had
been crying. There was something on her mind,
evidently; something, as it soon appeared, to
take her out of the garden into the park. She
walked (if one can call it walking with such legs
as hers!) straight to the summer-house, and
opened the door, and crossed the bridge, and
went on quicker and quicker toward the low
ground in the park, where the trees are thickest.
I followed her over the open space with perfect
impunity, in the preoccupied state she was in;
and when she began to slacken her pace among
the trees I was among the trees too, and was
not afraid of her seeing me.
“Before long there was a crackling and
trampling of heavy feet coming up toward us
through the underwood in a deep dip of the
ground. I knew that step as well as she knew
it. ‘Here I am, she said, in a faint little voice.
I kept behind the trees a few yards off, in some
doubt on which side Armadale would come out
of the underwood to join her. He came out
up the side of the dell opposite to the tree be-
hind which I was standing. They sat down
together on the bank. I sat down behind the


208
ARMADALE.
tree, and looked at them through the under-
wood, and heard without the slightest difficulty
every word that they said.
“The talk began by his noticing that she look-
ed out of spirits, and asking if any thing had
gone wrong at the cottage. The artful little
minx lost no time in making the necessary im-
pression on him; she began to cry. He took
her hand, of course, and tried, in his brutishly
straightforward way, to comfort her. No; she
was not to be comforted. A miserable prospect
was before her; she had not slept the whole
night for thinking of it. Her father had called
her into his room the previous evening, had
spoken about the state of her education, and had
told her, in so many words, that she was to go
to school. The place had been found, and the
terms had been settled; and as soon as her
clothes could be got ready Miss was to go.
“While that hateful Miss Gwilt was in the
house,” says this model young person, ‘I would
have gone to school willingly—I wanted to go.
But it's all different now ; I don't think of it in
the same way; I feel too old for school. I'm
quite heart-broken, Mr. Armadale. There she
stopped, as if she had meant to say more, and
gave him a look which finished the sentence
plainly—‘I'm quite heart-broken, Mr. Arma-
dale, now we are friendly again, at going away
from you!' For downright brazen impudence,
which a grown woman would be ashamed of,
give me the young girls whose ‘modesty' is so
pertinaciously insisted on by the nauseous do-
mestic sentimentalists of the present day !
“Even Armadale, booby as he is, understood
her. After bewildering himself in a labyrinth
of words that led nowhere, he took her—one can
hardly say round the waist, for she hasn't got
one-he took her round the last hook-and-eye
of her dress, and, by way of offering her a refuge
from the indignity of being sent to school at her
age, made her a proposal of marriage in so many
words.
“If I could have killed them both at that
moment by lifting up my little finger, I have
not the least doubt I should have lifted it. As
things were, I only waited to see what Miss Mil-
roy would do.
“She appeared to think it necessary—feel-
ing, I suppose, that she had met him without her
father's knowledge, and not forgetting that I
had had the start of her as the favored object of
Mr. Armadale's good opinion—to assert herself
by an explosion of virtuous indignation. She
wondered how he could think of such a thing
after # conduct with Miss Gwilt, and after her
father had forbidden him the house ! Did he
want to make her feel how inexcusably she had
forgotten what was due to herself? Was it
worthy of a gentleman to propose what he knew
as well as she did was impossible? and so on,
and so on. Any man with brains in his head
would have known what all this rhodomontade
really meant. Armadale took it so seriously
that he actually attempted to justify himself.
He declared, in his headlong, blundering way,
that he was quite in earnest; he and her father
might make it up, and be friends again; and if
the major persisted in treating him as a stran-
ger, young ladies and gentlemen in their situa-
tion had made runaway marriages before now,
and fathers and mothers who would not for-
give them before had forgiven them afterward.
Such outrageously straightforward love-making
as this left Miss Milroy, of course, but two al-
ternatives—to confess that she had been saying
No when she meant Yes, or to take refuge in an-
other explosion. She was hypocrite enough to
prefer another explosion. ‘How dare you, Mr.
Armadale? Go away directly : It's inconsider-
ate, it's heartless, it's perfectly disgraceful to say
such things to me!’ and so on, and so on. It
seems incredible, but it is not the less true, that
he was positively fool enough to take her at
her word. He begged her pardon, and went
away like a child that is put in the corner—the
most contemptible object in the form of man
that eyes ever looked on:
“She waited, after he had gone, to compose
herself, and I waited behind the trees to see
how she would succeed. Her eyes wandered
round slyly to the path by which he had left
her. She smiled (grinned would be the truer
way of putting it, with such a mouth as hers);
took a few steps on tip-toe to look after him;
turned back again, and suddenly burst into a
violent fit of crying. I am not quite so easily
taken in as Armadale, and I saw what it all
meant plainly enough.
“‘To-morrow, I thought to myself, ‘you
will be in the park again, miss, by pure acci-
dent. The next day, you will lead him on into
proposing to you for the second time. The day
after he will venture back to the subject of run-
away marriages, and you will only be becom-
ingly confused. And the day after that, if he
has got a plan to propose, and if your clothes
are ready to be packed for school, you will listen
to him. Yes, yes; Time is always on the
man's side, where a woman is concerned, if the
man is only patient enough to let Time help
him. *
“I let her leave the place and go back to the
cottage, quite unconscious that I had been look-
ing at her. I waited among the trees thinking.
The truth is, I was impressed by what I had
heard and seen, in a manner that it is not very
easy to describe. It put the whole thing before
me in a new light. It showed me—what I had
never even suspected till this morning—that she
is really fond of him.
“Heavy as my debt of obligation is to her,
there is no fear now of my failing to pay it to
the last farthing. It would have been no small
triumph for me to stand between Miss Milroy
and her ambition to be one of the leading ladies
of the county. But it is infinitely more, where
her first love is concerned, to stand between Miss
Milroy and her heart's desire. Shall I remem-
ber my own youth and spare her? No! She
has deprived me of the one chance I had of
breaking the chain that binds me to a past life


ARMADALE. - 209
*
too horrible to be thought of I am thrown again and again—I don't care! Here I stop,
back into a position, compared to which the if I sell the clothes off my back, if I hire myself
position of an outcast who walks the streets is at the public house to play to the brutes in the
endurable and enviable. No, Miss Milroy—no, tap-room; here I stop till the time comes, and
Mr. Armadale; I will spare neither of you. |: see the way to parting Armadale and Miss
“I have been back some hours. I have been Milroy forever! -
thinking, and nothing has come of it. Ever
since I got that strange letter of Midwinter's “Seven o'clock.—Any signs that the time is
last Sunday, my usual readiness in emergencies coming yet? I hardly know—there are signs
has deserted me. When I am not thinking of of a change, at any rate, in my position in the
him or of his story, my mind feels quite stupe- neighborhood.
fied. I who have always known what to do on “Two of the oldest and ugliest of the many
other occasions, don't know what to do now. old and ugly ladies who took up my case when
It would be easy enough, of course, to warn I left Major Milroy's service, have just called,
Major Milroy of his daughter's proceedings. announcing themselves with the insufferable
But the major is fond of his daughter; Arma- impudence of charitable Englishwomen, as a
dale is anxious to be reconciled with him; deputation from my patronesses. It seems that
Armadale is rich and prosperous, and ready to the news of my reconciliation with Armadale
submit to the elder man—and sooner or later has spread from the servants offices at the great
they will be friends again, and the marriage house, and has reached the town, with this re-
will follow. Warning Major Milroy is only the sult. It is the unanimous opinion of my “pa-
way to embarrass them for the present; it is not 'tronesses (and the opinion of Major Milroy
the way to part them for good and all. also, who has been consulted), that I have acted
“What is the way? I can't see it. I could with the most inexcusable imprudence in going
tear my own hair off my head! I could burn to Armadale's house, and in there speaking on
the house down! If there was a train of gun- friendly terms with a man whose conduct to-
powder under the whole world, I could light it, ward myself has made his name a by-word in
and blow the whole world to destruction—I am the neighborhood. My total want of self-re-
in such a rage, such a frenzy with myself for not spect in this matter has given rise to a report
seeing it! that I am trading as cleverly as ever on my
“Boor dear Midwinter ! Yes, “dear. I good looks, and that I am as likely as not to
don't care. I'm lonely and helpless. I want end in making Armadale marry me after all.
somebody who is gentle and loving, to make | My ‘patronesses are, of course, too charitable
much of me; I wish I had his head on my bo- to believe this. They merely feel it necessary
som again; I have a good mind to go to Lon- to remonstrate with me in a Christian spirit, and
don and marry him. Am I mad? Yes; all to warn me that any second and similar impru-
people who are as miserable as I am are mad. dence on my part would force all my best friends
I must go to the window and get some air. in the place to withdraw the countenance and
Shall I jump out? No; it disfigures one so, protection which I now enjoy.
and the coroner's inquest lets so many people | “Having addressed me, turn and turn about,
see it. - in these terms (evidently all rehearsed before-
“The air has revived me. I begin to re- hand), my two Gorgon-visitors straightened
member that I have Time on my side, at any themselves in their chairs, and looked at me as
rate. Nobody knows but me of their secret much as to say, ‘You may often have heard of
meetings in the park the first thing in the morn-|Virtue, Miss Gwilt, but we don't believe you
ing. If jealous old Bashwood, who is slinking ever really saw it in full bloom till we came
and sly enough for any thing, tries to look pri- and called on you.’
vately after Armadale, in his own interests, he “Seeing they were bent on provoking me, I
will try at the usual time when he goes to the kept my temper, and answered them in my
steward's office. He knows nothing of Miss smoothest, sweetest, and most lady-like man-
Milroy's early habits; and he won't be on the ner. I have noticed that the Christianity of a
spot till Armadale has got back to the house. certain class of respectable people begins when
For another week to come I may wait and they open their prayer-books at eleven o'clock
watch them, and choose my own time and way on Sunday morning, and ends when they shut
of interfering the moment I see a chance of his them up again at one o'clock on Sunday after-
getting the better of her hesitation, and making noon. Nothing so astonishes and insults Chris-
her say, Yes. tians of this sort as reminding them of their
“So here I wait, without knowing how things | Christianity on a week-day. On this hint, as
will end with Midwinter in London; with my the man says in the play, I spoke.
purse getting emptier and emptier, and no ap- “‘What have I done that is wrong?' I asked,
pearance so far of any new pupils to fill it; innocently. “Mr. Armadale has injured me;
with Mother Oldershaw certain to insist on hav- and I have been to his house and forgiven him
ing her money back the moment she knows I the injury. Surely there must be some mis-
have failed; without prospects, friends, or hopes | take, ladies? You can't have really come here
of any kind—a lost woman, if ever there was a to remonstrate with me in a Christian spirit for
lost woman yet. Well! I say it again and performing an act of Christianity?"


ARMADALE.
MISS GWILT AND THE GORGONS.
“The two Gorgons got up. I firmly believe
some women have cats' tails as well as cats'
faces. I firmly believe the tails of those two
particular cats wagged slowly under their petti-
coats, and swelled to four times their proper
S1ze.
“‘Temper we were prepared for, Miss Gwilt,’
they said, “but not Profanity. We wish you
good-evening.’
“So they left me, and so ‘Miss Gwilt sinks
out of the patronizing notice of the neighborhood.
“I wonder what will come of this trumpery
little quarrel? One thing will come of it which
I can see already. The report will reach Miss
Milroy's ears. She will insist on Armadale's
justifying himself—and Armadale will end in
satisfying her of his innocence by making an-
other proposal. This will be quite likely to
hasten matters between them—at least it would
with me. If I was in her place I should say to
myself, ‘I will make sure of him while I can."
Supposing it doesn't rain to-morrow morning, I


ARMADALE.
211
think I will take another early walk in the di-
rection of the park.
“Midnight.—As I can't take my drops, with a
morning walk before me, I may as well give up
all hope of sleeping, and go on with my diary.
Even with my drops, I doubt if my head would
be very quiet on my pillow to-night. Since the
little excitement of the scene with my “lady pa-
tronesses has worn off I have been troubled with
misgivings which would leave me but a poor
chance, under any circumstances, of getting
much rest.
“I can't imagine why, but the parting words
spoken to Armadale by that old brute of a lawyer
have come back to my mind! Here they are, as
reported in Mr. Bashwood's letter: “Some oth-
er person's curiosity may go on from the point
where you (and I) have stopped, and some oth-
er person's hand may let the broad daylight in
yet on Miss Gwilt.”
“What does he mean by that? And what
did he mean afterward when he overtook old
Bashwood in the drive, by telling him to grat-
ify his curiosity? Does this hateful Pedgift
actually suppose there is any chance—? Ri-
diculous! Why, I have only to look at the
feeble old creature, and he daren't lift his little
finger unless I tell him. He try to pry into
my past life indeed! Why, people with ten
times his brains and a hundred times his cour-
age have tried—and have left off as wise as
they began.
“I don't know, though—it might have been
better if I had kept my temper when Bashwood
was here the other night. And it might be
better still if I saw him to-morrow, and took
him back into my good graces by giving him
something to do for me. Suppose I tell him
to look after the two Pedgifts, and to discover
whether there is any chance of their attempting
to renew their connection with Armadale? No
such thing is at all likely; but if I gave old
Bashwood this commission it would flatter his
sense of his own importance to me, and would
at the same time serve the excellent purpose
of keeping him out of my way.
“Thursday morning, nine o'clock.—I have just
got back from the park.
“For once I have proved a true prophet.
There they were together, at the same early
hour, in the same secluded situation among the
trees; and there was Miss in full possession of
the report of my visit to the great house, and
taking her tone accordingly.
“After saying one or two things about me,
which I promise him not to forget, Armadale
took the way to convince her of his constancy
which I felt beforehand he would be driven to
take. He repeated his proposal of marriage,
with excellent effect this time. Tears and kiss-
es and protestations followed; and my late pu-
pil opened her heart at last in the most inno-
cent manner. Home, she confessed, was get-
ting so miserable to her now that it was only
less miserable than going to school. Her mo-
ther's temper was becoming more violent and
unmanageable every day. The nurse, who was
the only person with any influence over her,
had gone away in disgust. Her father was be:
coming more and more immersed in his clock!
and was made more and more resolute to send
her away from home by the distressing scenes
which now took place with her mother almost
day by day. I waited through these domestic
disclosures on the chance of hearing any plans
they might have for the future discussed be-
tween them; and my patience, after no small
exercise of it, was rewarded at last.
“The first suggestion (as was only natural
where such a fool as Armadale was concerned)
came from the girl. She started an idea, which
I own I had not anticipated. She proposed
that Armadale should write to her father; and,
cleverer still, she prevented all fear of his blun-
dering by telling him what he was to say." He
was to express himself as deeply distressed at
his estrangement from the major, and to re-
quest permission to call at the cottage and say
a few words in his own justification. That was
all. The letter was not to be sent that day, for
the applicants for the vacant place of Mrs. Mil-
roy's nurse were coming, and seeing them and
questioning them would put her father, with his
dislike of such things, in no humor to receive
Armadale's application indulgently. The Fri-
day would be the day to send the letter, and
on the Saturday morning, if the answer was
unfortunately not favorable, they might meet
again. “I don't like deceiving my father; he
has always been so kind to me. And there
will be no need to deceive him, Allan, if we
can only make you friends again. Those
were the last words the little hypocrite said,
when I left them.
“What will the major do? Saturday morn-
ing will show. I won't think of it till Saturday
morning has come and gone. They are not
man and wife yet; and again and again I say
it, though my brains are still as helpless as
ever, man and wife they shall never be.
“On my way home again I caught Bash-
wood at his breakfast, with his poor old black
tea-pot, and his little penny loaf, and his one
cheap morsel of oily butter, and his darned
dirty table-cloth. It sickens me to think of it.
“I coaxed and comforted the miserable old
creature till the tears stood in his eyes, and he
quite blushed with pleasure. He undertakes
to look after the Pedgifts with the utmost alac-
rity. Pedgift the elder he describes, when
once roused, as the most obstimate man living;
nothing will induce him to give way unless Ar-
madale gives way also on his side. Pedgift
the younger is much the more likely of the two
to make attempts at a reconciliation. Such at
least is Bashwood's opinion. It is of very little
consequence now what happens either way. The
only important thing is to tie my elderly ad-
mirer safely again to my apron-string. And
this is done.


212
ARMADALE.
“The post is late this morning. It has only
just come in, and has brought me a letter from
Midwinter.
“It is a charming letter; it flatters me and
flutters me as if I was a young girl again. No
reproaches for my never having written to him;
no hateful hurrying of me, in plain words, to
marry him. He only writes to tell me a piece
of news. He has obtained, through his law-
yers, a prospect of being employed as occasion-
al correspondent to a newspaper which is about
to be started in London. The employment will
require him to leave England for the Continent,
which would exactly meet his own wishes for
the future, but he can not consider the proposal
seriously until he has first ascertained whether
it would meet my wishes too. He knows no
will but mine, and he leaves me to decide, after
first mentioning the time allowed him before
his answer must be sent in. It is the time of
course (if I agree to his going abroad) in which
I must marry him. But there is not a word
about this in his letter. He asks for nothing
but a sight of my handwriting to help him
through the interval, while we are separated
from each other.
“That is the letter; not very long, but so
prettily expressed.
“I think I can penetrate the secret of his
fancy for going abroad. That wild idea of
putting the mountains and the seas between
Armadale and himself is still in his mind. As
if either he or I could escape doing what we are
fated to do—supposing we really are fated—by
putting a few hundred, or a few thousand miles,
between Armadale and ourselves! What strange
absurdity and inconsistency! And yet how I like
him for being absurd and inconsistent; for don't
I see plainly that I am at the bottom of it all?
Who leads this clever man astray in spite of
himself? Who makes him too blind to see the
contradiction in his own conduct which he
would see plainly in the conduct of another
person? - How interested I do feel in him!
How dangerously near I am to shutting my
eyes on the past and letting myself love him !
Was Eve fonder of Adam than ever, I wonder,
after she had coaxed him into eating the apple?
I should have quite doted on him if I had been
in her place. (Memorandum: To write Mid-
winter a charming little letter on my side, with
a kiss in it; and as time is allowed him before
he sends in his answer to ask for time too before
I tell him whether I will or will not go abroad.)
“Five o'clock.—A tiresome visit from my
landlady; eager for a little gossip, and full of
news, which she thinks will interest me.
“She is acquainted, I find, with Mrs. Milroy's
late nurse; and she has been seeing her friend
off at the station this afternoon. They talked
of course of affairs at the cottage, and my name
turned up in the course of conversation. I am
quite wrong, it seems, if the nurse's authority
is to be trusted in believing Miss Milroy to be
responsible for sending Mr. Armadale to my
reference in London. Miss Milroy really knew
nothing about it, and it all originated in her
mother's mad jealousy of me. The present
wretched state of things at the cottage is due
entirely to the same cause. Mrs. Milroy is
firmly persuaded that my remaining at Thorpe-
Ambrose is referable to my having some private
means of communicating with the major which
it is impossible for her to discover. With this
conviction in her mind she has become so un-
manageable that no person, with any chance of
bettering herself, could possibly remain in at-
tendance on her; and, sooner or later, the ma-
jor, object to it as he may, will be obliged to
place her under proper medical care.
“That is the sum and substance of what the
wearisome landlady had to tell me. Unneces-
sary to say that I was not in the least interested
by it. Even if the nurse's assertion is to be
depended on—which I persist in doubting—it is
of no importance now. I know that Miss Mil-
roy, and nobody bat Miss Milroy, has utterly
ruined my prospect of becoming Mrs. Arma-
dale of Thorpe-Ambrose—and I care to know
nothing more. If her mother was really alone
in the attempt to expose my false reference, her .
mother seems to be suffering for it, at any rate.
And so good-by to Mrs. Milroy—and Heaven
defend me from any more last glimpses at the
cottage, seen through the medium of my land-
lady's spectacles!
“Nine o'clock.—Bashwood has just left me,
having come with news from the great house.
Pedgift the younger has made his attempt at
bringing about a reconciliation this very day,
and has failed. I am the sole cause of the fail-
ure. Armadale is quite willing to be reconciled,
if Pedgift the elder will avoid all future occasion
of disagreement between them, by never recur-
ring to the subject of Miss Gwilt. This, how-
ever, happens to be exactly the condition which
Pedgift's father—with his opinion of me and my
doings—would consider it his duty to Armadale
not to accept. So lawyer and client remain as
far apart as ever, and the obstacle of the Ped-
gifts is cleared out of my way.
“It might have been a very awkward obsta-
cle, so far as Pedgift the elder is concerned, if
one of his suggestions had been carried out—I
mean, if an officer of the London police had been
brought down here to look at me. It is a ques-
tion, even now, whether I had better not take to
the thick veil again, which I always wear in Lon-
don and other large places. The only difficulty
is, that it would excite remark in this inquisitive
little town to see me wearing a thick veil, for
the first time, in the summer weather.
“It is close on ten o'clock—I have been daw-
dling over my diary longer than I supposed. No
words can describe how weary and languid I
feel. Why don't I take my sleeping drops and
go to bed? There is no meeting between Ar-
madale and Miss Milroy to force me into early
rising to-morrow morning. Am I trying, for


ARMADALE. 213
the hundredth time, to see my way clearly into heard of a Mrs. Allan Armadale, they would set
the future—trying, in my present state of fa- her down at once as his wife. Even if they act-
tigue, to be the quick-witted woman I once was, ually saw me—if I actually came among them
before all these anxieties came together and over- with that name, and if he was not present to
powered me? or am I perversely afraid of my contradict it—his own servants would be the first
bed when I want it most? I don't know—I am | to say, ‘We knew she would marry him after
tired and miserable; I am looking wretchedly all!' And my lady-patronesses, who will be
haggard and old. With a little encouragement ready to believe any thing of me now we have
I might be fool enough to burst out crying. quarreled, would join the chorus sotto voce
Luckily, there is no one to encourage me. What ‘Only think, my dear, the report that so shocked
sort of night is it, I wonder? us actually turns out to be true!” No. If I
“A cloudy night, with the moon showing at marry Midwinter, I must either be perpetually
intervals, and the wind rising. I can just hear putting my husband and myself in a false posi-
it moaning among the ins and outs of the unfin- tion—or I must leave his real name, his pretty,
ished cottages at the end of the street. My romantic name, behind me at the church-door.
nerves must be a little shaken, I think. I was “My husband! As if I was really going to
startled just now by a shadow on the wall. It marry him ! I am not going to marry him, and
was only after a moment or two that I mustered there's an end of it.
sense enough to notice where the candle was,
and to see that the shadow was my own. “Halfpast ten.—Oh dear! oh dear! how my
“Shadows remind me of Midwinter—or, if temples throb, and how hot my weary eyes feel!
the shadows don't, something else does. I must There is the moon looking at me through the
have another look at his letter, and then I will window. How fast the little scattered clouds
positively go to bed. are flying before the wind | Now they let the
moon in; and now they shut the moon out.
“I shall end in getting fond of him. If I | What strange shapes the patches of yellow light
remain much longer in this lonely uncertain take and lose again all in a moment! No peace
state—so irresolute, so unlike my usual self—I and quiet for me look where I may. The can-
shall end in getting fond of him. What mad-idle keeps flickering, and the very sky itself is
ness! As if I could ever be really fond of a
man again :
“Suppose I took one of my sudden resolu-
tions and married him. Poor as he is, he would
give me a name and a position, if I became his
wife. Let me see how the name—his own name
—would look, if I really did consent to take it
for mine.
“‘Mrs. Armadale!' Pretty.
“‘Mrs. Allan Armadale !” Prettier still.
“My nerves must be shaken. Here is my
own handwriting startling me now! It is so
strange—it is enough to startle any body. The
similarity in the two names never struck me in
this light before. Marry which of the two I
might my name would of course be the same.
I should have been Mrs. Armadale, if I had mar-
ried the light-haired Allan at the great house.
And I can be Mrs. Armadale still, if I marry the
dark-haired Allan in London. It's almost mad-
dening to write it down—to feel that something
ought to come of it—and to find nothing come.
“How can any thing come of it? If I did go
to London and marry him (as of course I must
marry him).under his real name, would he let
me be known by it afterward? With all his
reasons for concealing his real name he would
insist—no, he is too fond of me to do that—he
would entreat me to take the name which he has
assumed. Mrs. Midwinter. Hideous! Ozias,
too, when I wanted to address him familiarly as
his wife should. Worse than hideous!
“And yet, there would be some reason for
humoring him in this, if he asked me. Suppose
the brute at the great house happened to leave
this neighborhood as a single man; and suppose,
in his absence, any of the people who know him
restless to-night.
“‘To bed! to bed!' as Lady Macbeth says.
I wonder, by-the-by, what Lady Macbeth would
have done in my position? She would have
killed somebody when her difficulties first be-
|gan. Probably Armadale.
“Friday morning. — A night's rest, thanks
again to my Drops. I went to breakfast in bet-
ter spirits, and received a morning welcome in
the shape of a letter from Mrs. Oldershaw.
“My silence has produced its effect on Mother
Jezabel. She attributes it to the right cause,
and she shows her claws at last. If I am not
in a position to pay my note-of-hand for thirty
pounds, which is due on Tuesday next, her law-
yer is instructed to “take the usual course. If
I am not in a position to pay it! Why, when
I have settled to-day with my landlord, I shall
have barely five pounds left| There is not the
shadow of a prospect between now and Tuesday
of my earning any money; and I don't possess
a friend in this place who would trust me with
sixpence. The difficulties that are swarming
round me wanted but one more to complete
them, and that one has come.
“Midwinter would assist me, of course, if I
could bring myself to ask him for assistance.
But that means marrying him. Am I really
desperate enough and helpless enough to end it
in that way? No; not yet.
“My head feels heavy; I must get out into
the fresh air and think about it.
“Two o'clock.—I believe I have caught the
infection of Midwinter's superstition. I begin
to think that events are forcing me nearer and


216
ARMADALF.
sity to any other woman—but is it, ought it to
be terrible to Me?
“I hate him for his mother's sake.
him for his own sake.
all the time not once remembering that, even
with every other impediment removed, he alone,
I hate when the time came, would be an insurmount-
I hate him for go- able obstacle in my way? Has the effort to face
ing to London behind my back and making the consideration of Armadale's death absorbed
inquiries about me.
me out of my situation before I wanted to go.
I hate him for destroying all my hopes of mar-
rying him, and throwing me back helpless on
my own miserable life. But oh, after what I
have done already in the past time, how can I?
how can I?
“The girl, too—the girl who has come be-
tween us; who has taken him away from me;
who has openly insulted me this very day—how
the girl whose heart is set on him would feel it,
if he died ! What a vengeance on her if I did
it ! And when I was received as Armadale's
widow what a triumph for me! Triumph! It
is more than triumph—it is the salvation of me.
A name that can't be assailed, a station that
can't be assailed, to hide myself in from my
past life! Comfort, luxury, wealth ! An in-
come of twelve hundred a year secured to me—
secured by a will which has been looked at by a
lawyer; secured independently of anything he
can say or do himself! I never had twelve
hundred a year. At my luckiest time I never
had half as much really my own. What have
I got now? Just five pounds left in the world
—and the prospect next week of a debtor's me with an arrest.
prison.
I hate him for forcing me to that degree? I suppose it has.
I can’t
account for such extraordinary forgetfulness on
my part in any other way.
“Shall I stop and think it out, as I have
thought out all the rest? Shall I ask myself if
the obstacle of Midwinter would after all, when
the time came, be the unmanageable obstacle
that it looks at present? No! What need is
there to think of it? I have made up my mind
to get the better of the temptation. I have
made up my mind to give my landlady and her
children a treat; I have made up my mind to
close my Diary. And closed it shall be.
“Six o'clock.—The landlady's gossip is un-
endurable; the landlady's children distract me.
I have left them, to run back here before post-
time and write a line to Mrs. Oldershaw.
“The dread that I shall sink under the
temptation has grown stronger and stronger on
me. I have determined to put it beyond my
power to have my own way and follow my own
will. Mother Oldershaw shall be the salvation
of me for the first time since I have known her.
If I can't pay my note-of-hand, she threatens
Well, she shall arrest me.
In the state my mind is in now, the best thing
“But oh, after what I have done already in that can happen to me is to be taken away from
the past time, how can I? how can I?
Thorpe-Ambrose, whether I like it or not. I
“Some women—in my place, and with my will write and say that I am to be found here.
recollections to look back on—would feel it dif-
ferently. Some women would say: “It's easier
the second time than the first. Why can't I?
why can't I?’
“Oh, you Devil tempting me, is there no
Angel near to raise some timely obstacle be-
tween this and to-morrow, which might help
me to give it up ?
“I shall sink under it—I shall sink if I write
or think of it any more ! I'll shut up these
leaves and go out again. I'll get some common
person to come with me, and we will talk of
common things. I'll take out the woman of the
house, and her children. We will go and see
something. There is a show of some kind in
the town—I'll treat them to it. I'm not such
an ill-natured woman when I try; and the land-
lady has really been kind to me. Surely I
might occupy my mind a little in seeing her
and her children enjoying themselves.
“A minute since I shut up these leaves as I
said I would; and now I have opened them
again, I don't know why. I think my brain is
turned. I feel as if something was lost out of
my mind; I feel as if I ought to find it here.
“I have found it ! Midwinter! ! !
“Is it possible that I can have been thinking
of the reasons For and Against for an hour past
-writing Midwinter's name over and over again
-speculating seriously on marrying him—and
I will write and tell her, in so many words, that
the best service she can render me is to lock me
up!
“Seven o'clock.—The letter has gone to the
post. I had begun to feel a little easier, when
the children came in to thank me for taking
them to the show. One of them is a girl, and
the girl upset me. She is a forward child, and
her hair is nearly the color of mine. She said,
“I shall be like you when I have grown bigger,
sha'n't I?” Her idiot of a mother said, “Please
to excuse her, miss, and took her out of the
room, laughing. Like me! I don't pretend to
be fond of the child—but think of her being
like Me!
“Saturday morning.—I have done well for
once in acting on impulse, and writing as I did
to Mrs. Oldershaw. The only new circum-
stance that has happened is another circum-
stance in my favor !
“Major Milroy has answered Armadale's let-
ter entreating permission to call at the cottage
and justify himself. His daughter read it in si-
lence when Armadale handed it to her at their
meeting this morning in the park. But they
talked about it afterward, loud enough for me
to hear them. The major persists in the course
he has taken. He says his opinion of Arma-
dale's conduct has been formed, not on common


218
ARMADALE.
“Why can't I wait a little? Why can't I
let Time help me? Time? It's Saturday !
What need is there to think of it, unless I like?
There is no post to London to-day. I must wait.
If I posted the letter it wouldn't go. Besides,
to-morrow I may hear from Mrs. Oldershaw. I
ought to wait to hear from Mrs. Oldershaw. I
can't consider myself a free woman till I know
what Mrs. Oldershaw means to do. There is a
necessity for waiting till to-morrow. I shall take
my bonnet off, and lock the letter up in my desk
“Sunday morning —There is no resisting it!
One after another the circumstances crowd on
me. They come thicker and thicker, and they
all force me one way.
“I have got Mother Oldershaw's answer.
The wretch fawns on me and cringes to me. I
can see, as plainly as if she had acknowledged
it, that she suspects me of seeing my own way
to success at Thorpe-Ambrose without her as-
sistance. Having found threatening me useless
she tries coaxing me now. I am her darling
Lydia again! She is quite shocked that I could
imagine she ever really intended to arrest her
bosom friend—and she has only to entreat me,
as a favor to herself, to renew the bill !
“I say once more, no mortal creature could
resist it! Time after time I have tried to escape
the temptation; and time after time the circum-
stances drive me back again. I can struggle no
longer. The post that takes the letters to-night
shall take my letter to Midwinter among the rest.
“To-night! If I give myself till to-night
something else may happen. If I give myself
till to-night I may hesitate again. I'm weary
of the torture of hesitating. I must and will
have relief in the present, cost what it may in
the future. My letter to Midwinter will drive
me mad if I see it staring and staring at me in
my desk any longer. I can post it in ten min-
utes' time—and I will !
“It is done. The first of the three steps that
lead me to the end is a step taken. My mind
is quieter—the letter is in the post.
“By to-morrow Midwinter will receive it.
Before the end of the week Armadale must be
publicly seen to leave Thorpe-Ambrose; and I
must be publicly seen to leave with him.
“Have I looked at the consequences of my
marriage to Midwinter? No! Do I know how
to meet the obstacle of my husband when the
time comes which transforms me from the living
Armadale's wife to the dead Armadale's widow P
“No! When the time comes I must meet
the obstacle as I best may. I am going blind-
fold then—so far as Midwinter is concerned–
into this frightful risk? Yes; blindfold. Am
I out of my senses? Very likely. Or am I a
little too fond of him to look the thing in the
face? I dare say. Who cares?
“I won't, I won't, I won't think of it! Haven't
I a will of my own? And can't I think, if I like,
of something else?
That is something else to think of. I'll answer
it. I am in a fine humor for writing to Mother
Jezabel. * * * *
Conclusion of Miss Gwilt's Letter to Mrs. Older-
shaw,
“......... I told you, when I broke off, that I
would wait before I finished this, and ask my
Diary if I could safely tell you what I have now
got it in my mind to do. Well, I have asked;
and my Diary says, “Don’t tell her!’ Under
these circumstances I close my letter—with my
best excuses for leaving you in the dark.
“I shall probably be in London before long
—and I may tell you by word of mouth what I
don't think it safe to write here. Mind, I make
no promise! It all depends on how I feel to-
ward you at the time. I don't doubt your dis-
cretion—but (under certain circumstances) I am
not so sure of your courage. L. G.”
“P.S.–My best thanks for your permission
to renew the bill. I decline profiting by the
proposal. The money will be ready when the
money is due. I have a friend now in London
who will pay it if I ask him. Do you wonder
who the friend is? You will wonder at one or
two other things, Mrs. Oldershaw, before many
weeks more are over your head and mine.”
\ S.
|
l
| #
($
|
CHAPTER XI.
LO W E AND LA W.
On the morning of Monday, the twenty-eighth
of July, Miss Gwilt—once more on the watch
“Here is Mother Jezabel's cringing letter. for Allan and Neelie—reached her customary


ARMADALE.
219
post of observation in the park by the usual
roundabout way.
She was a little surprised to find Neelie alone
at the place of meeting. She was more seri-
ously astonished, when the tardy Allan made
his appearance ten minutes later, to see him
mounting the side of the dell with a large vol-
ume under his arm, and to hear him say, as an
apology for being late, that “he had muddled
away his time in hunting for the books; and
that he had only found one, after all, which
seemed in the least likely to repay either Neelie
or himself for the trouble of looking into it.”
If Miss Gwilt had waited long enough in the
park on the previous Saturday to hear the lov-
ers' parting words on that occasion, she would
have been at no loss to explain the mystery of
the volume under Allan's arm, and she would
have understood the apology which he now of.
fered for being late, as readily as Neelie herself.
There is a certain exceptional occasion in
life—the occasion of marriage—in which even
girls in their teens sometimes become capable
(more or less hysterically) of looking at conse-
quences. At the farewell moment of the inter-
view on Saturday, Neelie's mind had suddenly
precipitated itself into the future; and she had
startled Allan indescribably by inquiring wheth-
er the contemplated elopement was an offense
punishable by the Law? Her memory satisfied
her that she had certainly read somewhere, at
some former period, in some book or other (pos-
sibly a novel), of an elopement with a dreadful
end—of a bride dragged home in hysterics—and
of a bridegroom sentenced to languish in prison,
with all his beautiful hair cut off, by Act of Par-
liament, close to his head. Supposing she could
bring herself to consent to the elopement at all
—which she positively declined to promise—she
must first insist on discovering whether there
was any fear of the police being concerned in
her marriage as well as the parson and the clerk.
Allan being a man, ought to know; and to Al-
lan she looked for information—with this pre-
liminary assurance to assist him in laying down
the law, that she would die of a broken heart a
thousand times over rather than be the innocent
means of sending him to languish in prison, with
his hair cut off, by Act of Parliament, close to
his head.
“It's no laughing matter," said Neelie, reso-
lutely, in conclusion; “I decline even to think
of our marriage till my mind is made easy first
on the subject of the Law.”
“But I don't know anything about the law,
not even as much as you do,” said Allan. “Hang
the law! I don't mind my head being cropped.
Let's risk it.”
“Risk it?” repeated Neelie, indignantly.
“Heavens! have you no consideration for me?
I won't risk it! Where there's a will there's a
way. We must find out the law for ourselves.”
“With all my heart,” said Allan. “How 7”
“Out of books, to be sure ! There must be
quantities of information about the law in that
enormous library of yours at the great house.
*
If you really love me you won't mind going
over the backs of a few thousand books for my
sake!”
“I’ll go over the backs of ten thousand!”
cried Allan, warmly. “But when I've found
the books, what then?”
“What then You must look in the index
for “Marriage, to be sure; and turn to the right
place, and get it all thoroughly arranged in your
own head, and then come here and explain it
to me. What! you don't think your head is to
be trusted to do such a simple thing as that?”
“I'm certain it isn't,” said Allan. “Can't
you help me?”
“Of course I can, if you can't manage with-
out me! Law may be hard, but it can't be
harder than music, and I must, and will, satisfy
my mind. Bring me all the books you can find
on Monday morning—in a wheel-barrow, if there
are a good many of them, and if you can't man-
age it in any other way.”
The result of this conversation was Allan's
appearance in the park with a volume of Black-
stone's Commentaries under his arm on the fatal
Monday morning when Miss Gwilt's written en-
gagement of marriage was placed in Midwinter's
hands. Here again, in this, as in all other hu-
man instances, the widely discordant elements
of the grotesque and the terrible were forced to-
gether by that subtle law of contrast which is
one of the laws of mortal life. Amidst all the
thickening complications now impending over
their heads—with the shadow of meditated mur-
der stealing toward one of them already from
the lurking-place that hid Miss Gwilt—the two
sat down, unconscious of the future, with the
book between them; and applied themselves to
the study of the law of marriage, with a grave
resolution to understand it, which, in two such
students, was nothing less than a burlesque in
itself!
“Find the place,” said Neelie, as soon as
they were comfortably established. “We must
manage this by what they call a division of la-
bor. You shall read—and I'll take notes.”
She produced forthwith a smart little pocket-
book and pencil, and opened the book in the
middle, where there was a blank page on the
right hand and the left. At the top of the
right-hand page she wrote the word Good. At
the top of the left-hand page she wrote the word
Bad. “‘Good’ means where the law is on our
side,” she explained; “and “Bad” means where
the law is against us. We will have ‘Good’
and ‘Bad opposite each other, all down the two
pages; and when we get to the bottom we'll add
them up, and act accordingly. They say girls
have no heads for business. Haven't they! Don't
look at me—look at Blackstone, and begin.”
“Would you mind giving me a kiss first?”
asked Allan.
“I should mind it very much. In our se-
rious situation, when we have both got to exert
our intellects, I wonder you can ask for such a
thing!”


220
ARMADALF.
w
“That's why I asked for it,” said the un-
blushing Allan. “I feel as if it would clear
my head.”
“Oh, if it would clear your head, that's quite
another thing! I must clear your head, of
course, at any sacrifice. Only one, mind,” she
whispered, coquettishly; “and pray be careful
of Blackstone, or you'll lose the place.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Black-
stone and the pocket-book both rolled on the
ground together.
“If this happens again,” said Neelie, picking
up the pocket-book, with her eyes and her com-
plexion at their brightest and best, “I shall sit
with my back to you for the rest of the morning.
Will you go on?”
Allan found his place for the second time,
and fell headlong into the bottomless abyss of
the English Law. -
“Page two-hundred-and-eighty,” he began.
“Law of husband and wife. Here's a bit I
don't understand, to begin with: “It may be
observed generally, that the law considers mar-
riage in the light of a Contract.” What does
that mean? I thought a contract was the sort
of thing a builder signs when he promises to
have the workmen out of the house in a given
time, and when the time comes (as my poor
mother used to say) the workmen never go.”
“Is there nothing about Love?” asked Neelie.
“Look a little lower down.”
“Not a word. He sticks to his confounded
‘Contract all the way through.”
“Then he's a brute! Go on to something
else that's more in our way.”
“Here's a bit that's more in our way—‘In-
capacities. If any persons under legal incapac-
ities come together, it is a meretricious and not
a matrimonial union. [Blackstone's a good one
at long words, isn't he? I wonder what he
means by meretricious?] The first of these
legal disabilities is a prior marriage, and having
another husband or wife living—’”
“Stop!” said Neelie. “I must make a note
of that.” She gravely made her first entry on
the page headed “Good.” “I have no hus-
band and Allan has no wife. We are both en-
tirely unmarried at the present time.”
“All right, so far,” remarked Allan, looking
over her shoulder.
“Go on,” said Neelie. “What's next?”
“‘The next disability,’” proceeded. Allan,
“‘is want of age. The age for consent to
matrimony is, fourteen in males and twelve
in females. Come!” cried Allan, cheerful-
ly. “Blackstone begins early enough at any
rate ''”
Neelie was too business-like to make any other
remark, on her side, than the necessary remark
in the pocket-book. She made another entry
under the head of “Good.” “I am old enough
to consent, and so is Allan too-go on,” re-
sumed Neelie, looking over the reader's shoul-
der “Never mind all that prosing of Black-
stone's about the husband being of years of
discretion and the wife under twelve Abom-
| inable wretch! the wife under twelve : Skip to
the third incapacity, if there is one.”
“The third incapacity,” Allan went on, “is
want of reason.”
Neelie immediately made a third entry on the
side of “Good:” “Allan and I are both per-
fectly reasonable-skip to the next page.”
Allan skipped. “A fourth incapacity is in
respect of proximity of relationship.”
A fourth entry followed instantly on the cheer-
ing side of the pocket-book—“He loves me and
I love him—without our being in the slightest
degree related to each other. Any more?”
asked Neelie, tapping her chin impatiently with
the end of the pencil.
“Plenty more,” rejoined Allan; “all in hiero-
glyphics. Look here: “Marriage Acts, 4 Geo.
iv. c. 76, and 6 and 7 Will. iv. c. 85 (q). Black-
stone's intellect seems to be wandering here.
Shall we take another skip, and see if he picks
himself up again on the next page.”
“Wait a little,” said Neelie; “what's that I
see in the middle.” She read for a minute in si-
lence over Allan's shoulder, and suddenly clasped
her hands in despair. “I knew I was right!”
she exclaimed. “Oh, Heavens, here it is!”
“Where?” asked Allan. * “I see nothing
about languishing in prison, and cropping a fel-
low's hair close to his head, unless it's in the
hieroglyphics. Is ‘4 Geo. iv." short for ‘Lock
him up?' and does ‘c. 85’ (q) mean, “Send for
the hair-cutter?’”
“Pray be serious,” remonstrated Neelie.
“We are both standing on a volcano. There!"
she said, pointing to the place. “Read it! If
anything can bring you to a proper sense of our
situation that will.”
Allan cleared his throat, and Neelie held the
point of her pencil ready on the depressing side
of the account—otherwise the “Bad” page of
the pocket-book.
“‘And as it is the policy of our law, Allan
began, “to prevent the marriage of persons un-
der the age of twenty-one, without the consent
of parents and guardians”—(Neelie made her
first entry on the side of “Bad.”) “I am only
seventeen next birthday, and circumstances for-
bid me to confide my attachment to papa”—
“‘it is provided that in the case of the publica-
tion of bans of a person under twenty-one, not
being a widower or widow, who are deemed
emancipated’”—(Neelie made another entry on
the depressing side. “Allan is not a widower,
and I am not a widow; consequently, we are
neither of us emancipated”)—“‘if the parent
or guardian openly signifies his dissent at the
time the bans are published ”—(“which papa
would be certain to do")—“‘such publication
shall be void.’ I’ll take breath here, if you'll
allow me,” said Allan. “Blackstone might put
it in shorter sentences, I think, if he can't put
it in fewer words. Cheer up, Neelie! there
must be other ways of marrying, besides this
roundabout way, that ends in a Publication and
a Void. Infernal gibberish ! I could write bet-
ter English myself.”


ARMADALE.
221
“We are not at the end of it yet,” said Nee-'lie, indignantly, “would induce me to be mar-
lie.
thing to what is to come.”
“Whatever it is,” rejoined Allan, “we'll treat
it like a dose of physic—we'll take it at once,
and be done with it.” He went on reading—
“‘And no license to marry without bans shall
be granted, unless oath shall be first made by
one of the parties that he or she believes that
there is no impediment of kindred or alliance’—
well, I can take my oath of that with a safe con-
science! What next? “And one of the said
parties must, for the space of fifteen days im-
mediately preceding such license, have had his
or her usual place of abode within the parish or
chapelry within which such marriage is to be
solemnized !’ Chapelry! I'd live fifteen days in
a dog-kennel with the greatest pleasure. I say,
Neelie, all this seems like plain sailing enough.
What are you shaking your head about? Go
on, and I shall see? Oh, all right; I'll go on.
Here we are—“And where one of the said par-
ties, not being a widower or widow, shall be un-
der the age of twenty-one years, oath must first
be made that the consent of the person or per-
sons whose consent is required, has been ob-
tained, or that there is no person having author-
ity to give such consent. The consent required
by this Act is that of the father—” At those
last formidable words Allan came to a full stop.
“The consent of the father,” he repeated, with
all heedful seriousness of will and manner. “I
could not exactly swear to that, could I?”
, Neelie answered in expressive silence.
She
handed him the pocket-book, with the final en-
try completed, on the side of “Bad,” in these
terms—“Our marriage is impossible, unless Al-
lan commits perjury.” -
The lovers looked at each other across the
insuperable obstacle of Blackstone, in speechless
dismay.
“Shut up the book,” said Neelie, resignedly.
“I have no doubt we should find the police,
and the prison, and the hair-cutting—all punish-
ments for perjury, exactly as I told you—if we
looked at the next page. But we needn't trou-
ble ourselves to look; we have found out quite
enough already. It's all over with us. I must
go to school on Saturday, and you must manage
to forget me as soon as you can. Perhaps we
may meet in after-life, and you may be a widow-
er and I may be a widow, and the cruel law may
consider usemancipated, when it's too late to be
of the slightest use. By that time no doubt I
shall be old and ugly, and you will naturally
have ceased to care about me, and it will all end
in the grave, and the sooner the better. Good-
by,” concluded Neelie, rising mournfully, with
the tears in her eyes. “It's only prolonging our
misery to stop here, unless—unless you have any
thing to propose?”
“I’ve got something to propose,” cried the
headlong Allan. “It's an entirely new idea.
Would you mind trying the blacksmith at Gret-
na Green P”
“No earthly consideration,” answered Nee-
“The Publication and the Void are no-|ried by a blacksmith!”
“Don’t be offended,” pleaded Allan; “I
meant it for the best. Lots of people in our
| situation have tried the blacksmith, and found
him quite as good as a clergyman, and a most
amiable man, I believe, into the bargain. Never
mind! We must try another string to our bow.”
“We haven't got another to try,” said Neelie.
“Take my word for it,” persisted Allan, stout-
ly, “there must be ways and means of circum-
venting Blackstone (without perjury), if we only
knew of them. It's a matter of law, and we must
consult somebody in the profession. I dare say
it's a risk. But nothing venture, nothing have.
What do you say to young Pedgift? He's a
thorough good fellow. I'm sure we could trust
young Pedgift to keep our secret.”
“Not for worlds!” exclaimed Neelie. “You
may be willing to trust your secrets to the vul-
gar little wretch, I won’t have him trusted with
mine. I hate him. No!" she continued, with,
a momentary color and a peremptory stamp of
her foot on the grass. “I positively forbid you
to take any of the Thorpe-Ambrose people into
your confidence. They would instantly suspect
me, and it would be all over the place in a mo-
ment. My attachment may be an unhappy one,”
remarked Neelie, with her handkerchief to her
eyes, and papa may nip it in the bud, but I won't
have it profaned by the town-gossip !”
“Hush! hush!” said Allan. “I won't say a
word at Thorpe-Ambrose, I won't indeed!” He
paused, and considered for a moment. “There's
another way!” he burst out, brightening up on
the instant. “We’ve got the whole week before
us. I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go to London "
There was a sudden rustling—heard neither
by one nor the other—among the trees behind
them that screened Miss Gwilt. One more of
the difficulties in her way (the difficulty of get-
ting Allan to London), now promised to be re-
moved by an act of Allan's own will.
“To London?” replied Neelie, looking up in
astonishment.
“To London ''' reiterated Allan. “That's
far enough away from Thorpe-Ambrose, surely?
Wait a minute, and don’t forget that this is a
question of law. Very well, I know some law-
yers in London who managed all my business
for me when I first came in for this property;
they are just the men to consult. And if they
decline to be mixed up in it, there's their head
clerk, who is one of the best fellows I ever met
with in my life. I asked him to go yachting
with me, I remember; and though he couldn't
go, he said he felt the obligation all the same.
That's the man to help us. Blackstone's a
mere infant to him. Don't say it's absurd;
don't say it's exactly like me. Do pray hear
me out. I shouldn't breathe your name or your
father's. I should describe you as a young lady
to whom I was devotedly attached. And if my
friend the clerk asks where you live, I'll say the
north of Scotland or the west of Ireland, or the
Channel Islands, or any where else you like.


222
ARMADALE.
t
My friend, the clerk, is a total stranger to
Thorpe-Ambrose and every body in it (which
is one recommendation); and in five minutes'
time he'd put me up to what to do (which is
another). If you only knew him! He's one
of those extraordinary men who appear once or
twice in a century—the sort of man who won't
allow you to make a mistake if you try. All I
have got to say to him (putting it short) is,
‘My dear fellow, I want to be privately married,
without perjury. All he has got to say to me
(putting it short) is, “You must do So-and-So,
and So-and-So; and you must be careful to
avoid This, That, and The other. I have no-
thing in the world to do but to follow his di-
rections; and you have nothing in the world to
do but what the bride always does when the
bridegroom is ready and waiting!” His arm
stole round Neelie's waist, and his lips pointed
the moral of the last sentence with that inarticu-
late eloquence which is uniformly successful in
persuading a woman against her will.
All Neelie's meditated objections dwindled,
in spite of her, to one feeble little question.
“Suppose I allow you to go, Allan’” she whis-
pered, toying nervously with the stud in the
bosom of his shirt, “Shall you be very long
away?”
“I’ll be off to-day,” said Allan, “by the eleven
o'clock train. And I'll be back to-morrow, if I
and my friend the clerk can settle it all in time.
If not, by Wednesday at latest.”
“You'll write to me every day?” pleaded
Neelie, clinging a little closer to him. “I shall
sink under the suspense, if you don't promise to
write to me every day.”
Allan promised to write twice a day, if she
liked—letter-writing, which was such an effort
to other men, was no effort to him /
“And mind, whatever those people may say
to you in London,” proceeded Neelie, “I insist
on your coming back for me. I positively de-
cline to run away, unless you promise to fetch
me.”
Allan promised for the second time, on his
sacred word of honor, and at the full compass
of his voice. But Neelie was not satisfied even
yet. She reverted to first principles, and in-
sisted on knowing whether Allan was quite sure
he loved her. Allan called Heaven to witness
how sure he was; and got another question di-
rectly for his pains. Could he solemnly declare
that he would never regret taking Neelie away
from home? Allan called Heaven to witness
again, louder than ever. All to no purpose !
The ravenous female appetite for tender prot-
estations still hungered for more. “I know
what will happen one of these days,” persisted
Neelie. “You will see some other girl who is
prettier than I am, and you will wish you had
married her instead of Me!”
As Allan opened his lips for a final outburst
of asseveration the stable-clock at the great
house was faintly audible in the distance, strik-
ing the hour. Neelie started quietly. It was
breakfast time at the cottage—in other words,
time to take leave. At the last moment her
heart went back to her father; and her head
sank on Allan's bosom as she tried to say,
Good-by. “Papa has always been so kind to
me, Allan,” she whispered, holding him back
tremulously when he turned to leave her. “It
seems so guilty and so heartless to go away from
him and be married in secret. Oh do, do think
before you really go to London; is there no way
of making him a little kinder and juster to you?”
The question was useless; the major's resolute-
ly unfavorable reception of Allan's letter was
there in Neelie's memory to answer her as the
words passed her lips. With a girl's impulsive-
ness she pushed Allan away before he could
speak, and signed to him impatiently to go.
The conflict of contending emotions, which she
had mastered thus far, burst its way outward in
spite of her after he had waved his hand for the
last time, and had disappeared in the depths of
the dell. When she turned from the place, on
her side, her long-restrained tears fell freely at
last, and made the lonely way back to the cot-
tage the dimmest prospect to look at that Neelhe
had seen for many a long day past.
As she hurried homeward the leaves parted
behind her, and Miss Gwilt stepped softly into
the open space. She stood there in triumph,
tall, beautiful, and resolute. Her lovely color
brightened while she watched Neelie's retreat-
ing figure hastening lightly away from her over
the grass.
“Cry, you little fool!” she said, with her
quiet, clear tones, and her steady smile of con-
tempt. “Cry as you have never cried yet!
You have seen the last of your sweet-heart.”
--
CHAPTER XII.
A SCANDAL AT The STATION.
AN hour later the landlady at Miss Gwilt's
lodgings was lost in astonishment, and the clam-
orous tongues of the children were in a state of
ungovernable revolt. “Unforeseen circumstan-
ces” had suddenly obliged the tenant of the first-
floor to terminate the occupation of her apart-
ments, and to go to London that day by the
eleven o'clock train.
“Please to have a fly at the door at half past
ten,” said Miss Gwilt, as the amazed landlady
followed her up stairs. “And excuse me, you
good creature, if I beg and pray not to be dis-
turbed till the fly comes.”
Once inside her room, she locked the door,
and then opened her writing-desk. “Now for
my letter to the major!” she said. “How
shall I word it?"
A moment's consideration apparently decided
her. Searching through her collection of pens,
she carefully selected the worst that could be
found, and began the letter by writing the date
of the day on a solid sheet of note-paper, in
crooked, clumsy characters, which ended in a
blot made purposely with the feather of the pen.


224
ARMADALE.
mon decencies of politoness left Allan no al- himself impregnably in the strong-hold of his
ternative but to submit. After having been the own office
cause of her leaving her situation at Major Mil-
roy's, after having pointedly avoided her only a
few days since on the high-road, to have de-
clined going to London in the same carriage
with Miss Gwilt would have been an act of
downright brutality which it was simply impos-
sible to commit “Damn her!” said Allan,
internally, as he handed his traveling compan-
ion into an empty carriage, officiously placed at
his disposal, before all the people at the station,
by the guard. “You sha'n't be disturbed, Sir,”
the man whispered, confidentially, with a smile
and a touch of his hat. Allan could have
knocked him down with the utmost pleasure
“Stop!” he said from the window. “I don't
want the carriage—” It was useless; the guard
was out of hearing; the whistle blew, and the
train started for London.
The select assembly of travelers' friends, left
behind on the platform, congregated in a circle
on the spot, with the station-master in the centre.
The station-master—otherwise Mr. Mack–
was a popular character in the neighborhood.
He possessed two social qualifications which in-
variably impress the average English mind—he
was an old soldier, and he was a man of few
words. The conclave on the platform insisted
on taking his opinion before it committed itself
positively to an opinion of its own. A brisk
fire of remarks exploded, as a matter of course,
on all sides; but every body's view of the sub-
ject ended interrogatively, in a question aimed
point-blank at the station-master's ears.
“She's got him, hasn't she?” “She'll come
back “Mrs. Armadale, won't she?” “He'd
better have stuck to Miss Milroy, hadn't he?”
“Miss Milroy stuck to him. She paid him a
visit at the great house, didn't she?” “No-
thing of the sort; it's a shame to take the girl's
character away. She was caught in a thunder-
storm close by; he was obliged to give her shel-
ter; and she's never been near the place since.
Miss Gwilt's been there, if you like, with no
thunder-storm to force her in ; and Miss Gwilt's
off with him to London now in a carriage all
to themselves, eh, Mr Mack?” “Ah, he's a
soft one, that Armadale! with all his money,
to take up with a red-haired woman, a good
eight or nine years older than he is! She's
thirty if she's a day. That's what I say, Mr
Mack. What do you say?” “Older or youn-
ger, she'll rule the roast at Thorpe-Ambrose;
and I say, for the sake of the place, and for the
sake of trade, let's make thc best of it; and
Mr. Mack, as a man of the world, sees it in the
same light as I do, don't you, Sir?”
“Gentlemen,” said the station-master, with
his abrupt military accent, and his impenetra-
ble military manner, “she's a devilish fine wo-
man. And, when I was Mr. Armadale's age,
it's my opinion, if her fancy had laid that way,
she might have married Me.”
With that expression of opinion the station-
master wheeled to the right, and intrenched
The citizens of Thorpe-Ambrose looked at
the closed door and gravely shook their heads.
Mr Mack had disappointed them. No opin-
ion which openly recognizes the frailty of hu-
man nature is ever a popular opinion with man-
kind. “It's as good as saying that any of us
might have married her, if we had been Mr.
Armadale's age!” Such was the general im-
pression on the minds of the conclave when the
meeting had been adjourned and the members
were leaving the station.
The last of the party to go was a slow old
gentleman, with a habit of deliberately looking
about him. Pausing at the door, this observ-
ant person stared up the platform, and down
the platform, and discovered in the latter direc-
tion, standing behind an angle of the wall, an
elderly man in black, who had escaped the no-
tice of every body up to that time. “Why,
bless my soul!” said the old gentleman, ad-
vancing inquisitively by a step at a time, “it
can't be Mr. Bashwood'"
It was Mr. Bashwood—Mr Bashwood, whose
constitutional curiosity had taken him privately
to the station, bent on solving the mystery of
Allan's sudden journey to London—Mr. Bash-
wood, who had seen and heard, behind the an-
gle in the wall, what every body else had seen
and heard, and who appeared to have been im-
pressed by it in no ordinary way. He stood
stiffly against the wall, like a man petrified,
with one hand pressed on his bare head, and
the other holding his hat—he stood, with a dull
flush on his face, and a dull stare in his eyes,
looking straight into the black depths of the
tunnel outside the station, as if the train to
London had disappeared in it but the moment
before.
“Is your head bad?” asked the old gentle-
man. “Take my advice. Go home and lie
down.”
Mr. Bashwood listened mechanically, with his
usual attention, and answered mechanically, with
his usual politeness
“Yes, Sir,” he said, in a low, lost tone, like
a man between dreaming and waking; “I’ll go
home and lie down "
“That's right,” rejoined the old gentleman,
making for the door. “And take a pill, Mr.
Bashwood—take a pill.”
Five minutes later the porter charged with the
business of locking up the station found Mr.
Bashwood, still standing bare-headed against
the wall, and still looking straight into the
black depths of the tunnel, as if the train to
London had disappeared in it but a moment
since.
“Come, Sir!” said the porter. “I must
lock up. Are you out of sorts? Any thing
wrong with your inside? Try a drop of gin-
and-bitters.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bashwood, answering the
porter exactly as he had answered the old gen-
tleman; “I'll try a drop of gin-and-bitters.”


ARMADALE.
225
The porter took him by the arm and led him
out. “You'll get it there,” said the man,
pointing, confidentially, to a public house;
“ and you'll get it good.”
“I shall get it there,” echoed Mr. Bashwood,
still mechanically repeating what was said to
him; “and I shall get it good.”
His will seemed to be paralyzed; his actions
depended absolutely on what other people told
him to do. He took a few steps in the direc-
tion of the public house—hesitated; staggered
—and caught at the pillar of one of the station
lamps near him.
The porter followed and took him by the arm
once more.
“Why, you've been drinking already!” ex-
claimed the man, with a suddenly-quickened
interest in Mr. Bashwood's case. “What was
it? Beer?”
Mr. Bashwood, in his low, lost tones, echoed
the last word.
It was close on the porter's dinner-time. But
when the lower orders of the English people
believe they have discovered an intoxicated
man their sympathy with him is boundless.
The porter let his dinner take its chance, and
carefully assisted Mr. Bashwood to reach the
public house. “Gin-and-bitters will put you
on your legs again,” whispered this Samaritan
setter-right of the alcoholic disasters of man-
kind
If Mr. Bashwood had really been intoxicated
the effect of the porter's remedy would have
been marvelous indeed. Almost as soon as the
glass was emptied the stimulant did its work.
The long-weakened nervous system of the dep-
uty-steward, prostrated for the moment by the
shock that had fallen on it, rallied again like a
weary horse under the spur. The dull flush on
his cheeks, the dull stare in his eyes, disap-
peared simultaneously. After a momentary
effort he recovered memory enough of what had
passed to thank the porter, and to ask whether
he would take something himself. The worthy
her,” he repeated in louder tones, “if I spend
every half-penny I've got!”
Some women of the disorderly sort, passing
on their way to the town, heard him. “Ah,
you old brute,” they called out, with the meas-
ureless license of their class; “whatever she
did she served you right!”
The coarseness of the voices startled him
whether he comprehended the words or not.
He shrank away from more interruption and
more insult into the quieter road that led to
the great house.
At a solitary place by the wayside he stopped
and sat down. He took off his hat and lifted
his youthful wig a little from his bald old head,
and tried desperately to get beyond the one im-
movable conviction which lay on his mind like
lead—the conviction that Miss Gwilt had been
purposely deceiving him from the first. It was
useless. No effort would free him from that
one dominant impression, and from the one an-
swering idea that it had evoked—the idea of
revenge. He got up again and put on his hat
and walked rapidly forward a little way—then
turned without knowing why and slowly walked
back again. “If I had only dressed a little
smarter!” said the poor wretch, helplessly.
“If I had only been a little bolder with her
she might have overlooked my being an old
man l’’ The angry fit returned on him. He
clenched his clammy trembling hands and shook
them fiercely in the empty air. “I’ll be re-
venged on her,” he reiterated. “I’ll be re-
venged on her if I spend every half-penny I've
got!” It was terribly suggestive of the hold
she had taken on him, that his vindictive sense
of injury could not get far enough away from
her to reach the man whom he believed to be
his rival, even yet. In his rage, as in his love,
he was absorbed, body and soul, by Miss Gwilt.
In a moment more the noise of running wheels
approaching from behind startled him. He
turned and looked round. There was Mr. Ped-
gift the elder, rapidly overtaking him in the
creature instantly accepted a dose of his own gig, just as Mr. Pedgift had overtaken him
remedy—in the capacity of a preventive—and once already on that former occasion when he
went home to dinner as only those men can go had listened under the window at the great
home who are physically warmed by gin-and- house, and when the lawyer had bluntly
bitters, and morally elevated by the perform- charged him with feeling a curiosity about
ance of a good action. Miss Gwilt!
Still strangely abstracted (but conscious now | In an instant the inevitable association of
of the way by which he went), Mr. Bashwood ideas burst on his mind. The opinion of Miss
left the public house a few minutes later in his Gwilt, which he had heard the lawyer express
turn. He walked on mechanically, in his dreary to Allan, at parting, flashed back into his mem-
black garments, moving like a blot on the white ory, side by side with Mr. Pedgift's sarcastic
surface of the sun-brightened road, as Midwin- approval of any thing in the way of inquiry
ter had seen him move in the early days at which his own curiosity might attempt. “I
Thorpe-Ambrose when they had first met. may be even with her yet,” he thought, “if Mr.
Arrived at the point where he had to choose | Pedgift will help me!–Stop, Sir!” he called
between the way that led into the town, and the out, desperately, as the gig came up with him.
way that led to the great house, he stopped, in- “If please, Sir, I want to speak to you."
capable of deciding, and careless, apparently, Pedgift Senior slackened the pace of his fast-
even of making the attempt. “I’ll be revenged trotting mare without pulling up. “Come to
on her!” he whispered to himself, still absorbed the office in half an hour,” he said. “I'm busy
in his jealous frenzy of rage against the woman now.” Without waiting for an answer, without
who had deceived him. “I’ll be revenged on noticing Mr. Bashwood's bow, he gave the mare


226 ARMADALE.
|
#: #. r | |
the rein again, and was out of sight in another | The sense of oppression on his head forced
minute. - him once again to remove his hat. He sat with
Mr. Bashwood sat down once more in a shady it on his lap, deep in thought; his face bent
place by the road-side. He appeared to be in- low, and the wavering finger of one hand run-
capable of feeling any slight but the one unpar-|ning absently on the crown of the hat. If Mr.
donable slight put upon him by Miss Gwilt. Pedgift the elder, seeing him as he sat now,
He not only declined to resent, he even made could only have looked a little beyond him into
the best of Mr. Pedgift's unceremonious treat- the future, the monotonously-drumming hand
ment of him. “Half an hour,” he said, resign- of the deputy-steward might have been strong
edly. “Time enough to compose myself; and enough, feeble as it was, to stop the lawyer by
I want time. Very kind of Mr. Pedgift, though the road-side. It was the worn, weary, miser-
he mightn't have meant it.” able old hand of a worn, weary, miserable old


ARMADALE.
227
man; but it was, for all that (to use the lam-
guage of Mr. Pedgift's own parting prediction to
Allan), the hand that was now destined to “let
the light in on Miss Gwilt.”
--
CHAPTER XIII.
s AN old MAN's HEART.
PUNCTUAL to the moment, when the half
hour's interval had expired, Mr. Bashwood was
announced at the office as waiting to see Mr.
Pedgift by special appointment.
The lawyer looked up from his papers with
an air of annoyance: he had totally forgotten
the meeting by the road-side. “See what he
wants,” said Pedgift Senior to Pedgift Junior,
working in the same room with him. “And
if it's nothing of importance put it off to some
other time.” -
Pedgift Junior swiftly disappeared, and swift-
ly returned.
“Well ?” asked the father.
“Well,” answered the son, “he is rather
more shaky and unintelligible than usual. I
can make nothing out of him, except that he
persists in wanting to see you. My own idea,”
pursued Pedgift Junior, with his usual sardonic
gravity, “is, that he is going to have a fit, and
that he wishes to acknowledge your uniform
kindness to him by obliging you with a private
view of the whole proceeding.”
Pedgift Senior habitually matched every body
—his son included—with their own weapons.
“Be good enough to remember, Augustus,” he
rejoined, “that My Room is not a Court of
Law. A bad joke is not invariably followed
by ‘roars of laughter here. Let Mr. Bashwood
come in.”
Mr. Bashwood was introduced, and Pedgift
Junior withdrew. “You mustn't bleed him,
Sir,” whispered the incorrigible joker, as he
passed the back of his father's chair. “Hot
water bottles to the soles of his feet, and a mus-
tard plaster on the pit of his stomach—that's
the modern treatment.” -
“Sit down, Bashwood,” said Pedgift Senior,
when they were alone. “And don't forget that
time's money. Out with it, whatever it is, at
the quickest possible rate, and in the fewest pos-
sible words.”
These preliminary directions, bluntly but not
all unkindly spoken, rather increased than di-
minished the painful agitation under which Mr.
Bashwood was suffering. He stammered more
helplessly, he trembled more continuously than
usual, as he made his little speech of thanks,
and added his apologies at the end for intruding
on his patron in business hours.
“Every body in the place, Mr. Pedgift, Sir,
knows your time is valuable. Oh dear, yes!
oh dear, yes! most valuable, most valuable!
Excuse me, Sir, I'm coming out with it. Your
goodness—or rather your business—no, your
goodness gave me half an hour to wait—and I
have thought of what I had to say, and pre-
pared it, and put it short.” Having got as far
as that he stopped with a pained, bewildered
look. He had put it away in his memory, and
now, when the time came, he was too confused
to find it. And there was Mr. Pedgift mutely
waiting; his face and manner alike expressive
of that silent sense of the value of his own time
which every patient who has visited a great doc-
tor, every client who has consulted a lawyer in
large practice, knows so well. “Have you
heard the news, Sir?” stammered Mr. Bash-
wood, shifting his ground in despair, and let-
ting the uppermost idea in his mind escape
him, simply because it was the one idea in him
that was ready to come out.
“Does it concern me?” asked Pedgift Senior,
mercilessly brief, and mercilessly straight in
coming to the point.
“It concerns a lady, Sir—no, not a lady—a
young man, I ought to say, in whom you used
to feel some interest. Oh, Mr. Pedgift, Sir,
what do you think! Mr. Armadale and Miss
Gwilt have gone up to London together to-day
—alone, Sir, alone—in a carriage reserved for
their two selves! Do you think he's going to
marry her? Do you really think, like the rest
of them, he's going to marry her?”
He put the question with a sudden flush in
his face, and a sudden energy in his manner.
His sense of the value of the lawyer's time, his
conviction of the greatness of the lawyer's con-
descension, his constitutional shyness and timid-
ity, all yielded together to his one overwhelm-
ing interest in hearing Mr. Pedgift's answer.
He was loud—he was loud, for the first time in
his life, in putting the question.
“After my experience of Mr. Armadale,” said
the lawyer, instantly hardening in look and man-
ner, “I believe him to be infatuated enough to
marry Miss Gwilt a dozen times over if Miss
Gwilt chose to ask him. Your news doesn't sur-
prise me in the least, Bashwood. I'm sorry for
him. I can homestly say that, though he has
set my advice at defiance. And I'm more sorry
still,” he continued, softening again as his mind
reverted to his interview with Neelie under the
trees of the park. “I’m more sorry still for an-
other person who shall be nameless. But what
have I to do with all this? and what on earth
is the matter with you?” he resumed, noticing
for the first time the abject misery in Mr. Bash-
wood's manner, the blank despair in Mr. Bash-
wood's face, which his answer had produced.
“Are you ill? Is there something behind the
curtain that you're afraid to bring out? I don't
understand it. Have you come here—here in
my private room, in business hours—with no-
thing to tell me but that young Armadale has
been fool enough to ruin his prospects for life?
Why, I foresaw it all weeks since, and what is
more, I as good as told him so at the last con-
versation I had with him in the great house.”
At those last words Mr. Bashwood suddenly
rallied. The lawyer's passing reference to the
great house had led him back in a moment to


228
ARMADALE.
the main object, from which he had been wan-
dering farther and farther away ever since he
had entered the room.
“That's it, Sir!” he said, eagerly; “that's
what I wanted to speak to you about; that's
what I’ve been preparing in my mind. Mr.
Pedgift, Sir, the last time you were at the great
house, when you came away in your gig, you—
you overtook me on the drive.”
“I dare say I did,” remarked Pedgift, re-
signedly. “My mare happens to be a trifle
quicker on her legs than you are on yours,
Bashwood. Go on, go on. We shall come in
time, I suppose, to what you are driving at.”
“You stopped and spoke to me, Sir,” pro-
ceeded Mr. Bashwood, advancing more and more
eagerly to his end, now that he had it at last in
view. “You said you suspected me of feeling
some curiosity about Miss Gwilt, and you told
me (I remember the exact words, Sir)—you
told me to gratify my curiosity by all means,
for you didn't object to it.”
Pedgift Senior began for the first time to look
interested in hearing more.
“I remember something of the sort,” he re-
plied; “and I also remember thinking it rather
remarkable that you should happen—we won't
put it in any more offensive way—to be exactly
under Mr. Armadale's open window while I was
talking to him. It might have been accident
of course; but it looked rather more like curi-
osity. I could only judge by appearances,”
concluded Pedgift, pointing his sarcasm with a
pinch of snuff, “and appearances, Bashwood,
were decidedly against you.”
“I don't deny it, Sir, I only mentioned the
circumstance—”
“Well? why did you mention it?”
Under the threatening influence of the law-
yer's keenly watchful eye Mr. Bashwood sum-
moned his courage, and ventured a little nearer
to the object that he had in view.
“I mentioned it, Sir,” he replied, “because
I wished to acknowledge that I was curious and
am curious about Miss Gwilt.”
“Why?" asked Pedgift Senior, seeing some-
thing under the surface in Mr. Bashwood's face
and manner, but utterly in the dark thus far as
to what that something might be.
There was silence for a moment. The mo-
ment passed, Mr. Bashwood took the refuge usu-
ally taken by nervous unready men, placed in
his circumstances, when they are at a loss for
an answer. He simply reiterated the assertion
that he had just made. “I feel some curiosity,
Sir,” he said, with a strange mixture of dogged-
ness and timidity, “about Miss Gwilt.”
There was another moment of silence. In
spite of his practiced acuteness and knowledge
of the world, the lawyer was more puzzled than
ever. The case of Mr. Bashwood presented the
one human riddle of all others which he was
least qualified to solve. Though year after year
witnesses, in thousands and thousands of cases,
the remorseless disinheriting of nearest and dear-
est relations, the unnatural breaking-up of sa-
cred family ties, the deplorable severance of
old and firm friendships, due entirely to the
intense self-absorption which the sexual passion
can produce when it enters the heart of an old
man, the association of love with infirmity and
gray hairs arouses, nevertheless, all the world
over, no other idea than the idea of extravagant
improbability or extravagant absurdity in the
general mind. If the interview now taki
place in Mr. Pedgift's consulting-room had tak-
en place at his dinner-table instead, when wine
had opened his mind to humorous influences, it
is possible that he might, by this time, have
suspected the truth. But, in his business hours,
Pedgift Senior was in the habit of investigating
men's motives seriously from the business point
of view; and he was on that very account sim-
ply incapable of conceiving any improbability
so startling, any absurdity so enormous, as the
absurdity and improbability of Mr. Bashwood's
being in love.
Some men in the lawyer's position would have
tried to force their way to enlightenment by ob-
stinately repeating the unanswered question.
Pedgift Senior wisely postponed the question
until he had moved the conversation another
step. “Well,” he resumed, “let us say you
feel a curiosity about Miss Gwilt. What next?”
The palms of Mr. Bashwood's hands began
to moisten under the influence of his agitation
as they had moistened in the past days, when
he had told the story of his domestic sorrows to
Midwinter at the great house. Once more he
rolled his handkerchief into a ball, and dabbed
it softly to and fro from one hand to the other.
“May I ask if I am right, Sir,” he began,
“in believing that you have a very unfavorable
opinion of Miss Gwilt? You are quite con-
vinced, I think—”
“My good fellow," interrupted Pedgift Senior,
“why need you be in any doubt about it? You
were under Mr. Armadale's open window all the
while I was talking to him; and your ears, I
presume, were not absolutely shut.”
Mr. Bashwood showed no sense of the inter-
ruption. The little sting of the lawyer's sar-
casm was lost in the nobler pain that wrung
him from the wound inflicted by Miss Gwilt.
“You are quite convinced, I think, Sir,” he
resumed, “that there are circumstances in Miss
Gwilt's past life which would be highly discred-
itable to her if they were discovered at the pres-
ent time?”
“The window was open at the great house,
Bashwood; and your ears, I presume, were not
absolutely shut.”
Still impenetrable to the sting, Mr. Bashwood
persisted more obstinately than ever.
“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” he said,
“your long experience in such things has even
suggested to you, Sir, that Miss Gwilt might
turn out to be known to the police?”
Pedgift Senior's patience gave way. “You
have been over ten minutes in this room,” he
broke out; “can you, or can you not, tell me
in plain English what you want?”


230
ARMADALE.
It was quite plain to him that, in putting the I'm sure I may spend my savings as I please.”
question which had so violently agitated the Blind to every consideration but the one consid-
deputy-steward, he had unintentionally offered
Mr. Bashwood a chance of misleading him,
which Mr. Bashwood had eagerly—too eagerly
—accepted on the spot. “One thing is clear,”
reasoned old Pedgift. “His true motive in this
matter is a motive which he is afraid to avow.
That's enough for me. If I was Mr. Armadale's
lawyer, the mystery might be worth investiga-
ting. As things are, it's no interest of mine to
hunt Mr. Bashwood from one lie to another till
I run him to earth at last. I have nothing
whatever to do with it; and I shall leave him,
free to follow his own roundabout courses, in his
own roundabout way.” Having arrived at that
conclusion, Pedgift Senior pushed back his chair,
and rose hastily to terminate the interview.
“Don’t be alarmed, Bashwood,” he began.
“The subject of our conversation is a subject
exhausted, so far as I am concerned. I have
only a few last words to say, and it's a habit of
mine, as you know, to say my last words on my
legs. Whatever else I may be in the dark about,
I have made one discovery, at any rate. I have
found out what you really want with me—at
last! You want me to help you.”
“If you would be so very, very kind, Sir?”
stammered Mr. Bashwood. “If you would only
give me the great advantage of your opinion and
advice– P” -
“Wait a bit, Bashwood. We will separate
those two things if you please. A lawyer may
offer an opinion like any other man; but when
a lawyer gives his advice—by the Lord Harry,
Sir, it's Professional ! You're welcome to my
opinion in this matter; I have disguised it from
nobody. I believe there have been events in
Miss Gwilt's career, which (if they could be dis-
covered) would even make Mr. Armadale, in-
fatuated as he is, afraid to marry her—suppos-
ing, of course, that he really is going to marry
her; for though the appearances are in favor of
it so far, it is only an assumption after all. As
to the mode of proceeding by which the blots on
this woman's character might or might not be
brought to light in time—she may be married
by license in a fortnight if she likes—that is a
branch of the question on which I positively de-
cline to enter. It implies speaking in my char-
acter as a lawyer, and giving you, what I de-
cline positively to give you, my professional ad-
vice.”
“Oh, Sir, don't say that!” pleaded Mr. Bash-
wood. “Don't deny me the great favor, the in-
estimable advantage of your advice I have
such a poor head, Mr. Pedgift! I am so old
and so slow, Sir, and I get so sadly startled and
worried when I'm thrown out of my ordinary
ways. It's quite natural you should be a little
impatient with me for taking up your time—I
know that time is money to a clever man like
you. Would you excuse me—would you please
excuse me, if I venture to say that I have saved
a little something, a few pounds, Sir; and be-
ing quite lonely, with nobody dependent on me,
eration of propitiating Mr. Pedgift, he took out
a dungy, ragged old pocket-book, and tried, with
trembling fingers, to open it on the lawyer's table.
“Put your pocket-book back directly,” said
Pedgift Senior. “Richer men than you have
tried that argument with me, and have found
that there is such a thing (off the stage) as a
lawyer who is not to be bribed. I will have no-
thing to do with the case, under existing cir-
cumstances. If you want to know why, I beg
to inform you that Miss Gwilt ceased to be pro-
fessionally interesting to me on the day when I
ceased to be Mr. Armadale's lawyer. I may
have other reasons besides, which I don't think
it necessary to mention. The reason already
given is explicit enough. Go your own way,
and take your responsibility on your own shoul-
ders. You may venture within reach of Miss
Gwilt's claws, and come out again without being
scratched. Time will show. In the mean while
I wish you good-morning—and I own, to my
shame, that I never knew till to-day what a hero
you were.”
This time Mr. Bashwood felt the sting. With-
out another word of expostulation or entreaty,
without even saying “Good-morning” on his
side, he walked to the door, opened it softly, and
left the room.
The parting look in his face, and the sudden
silence that had fallen on him, were not lost on
Pedgift Senior. “Bashwood will end badly,”
said the lawyer, shuffling his papers, and return-
ing impenetrably to his interrupted work.
The change in Mr. Bashwood's face and man-
ner to something dogged and self-contained was
so startlingly uncharacteristic of him, that it even
forced itself on the notice of Pedgift Junior and
the clerks, as he passed through the outer office.
Accustomed to make the old man their butt, they
took a boisterously comic view of the marked al-
teration in him. Deaf, apparently, to the mer-
ciless raillery with which he was assailed on all
sides, he stopped opposite young Pedgift; and
looking him attentively in the face, said, in a
quiet absent manner, like a man thinking aloud,
“I wonder whether you would help me.”
“Open an account instantly,” said Pedgift
Junior to the clerks, “in the name of Mr. Bash-
wood. Place a chair for Mr. Bashwood, with a
footstool close by, in case he wants it. Supply
me with a quire of extra double-wove satin pa-
per, and a gross of picked quills to take notes of
Mr. Bashwood's conversation; and inform my
father instantly that I am going to leave him
and set up in business for myself, on the strength
of Mr. Bashwood's patronage. Take a seat, Sir,
pray take a seat, and express your feelings freely.”
Still impenetrably deaf to the raillery of which
he was the object, Mr. Bashwood waited until
Pedgift Junior had exhausted himself, and then
turned quietly away.
“I outght to have known better,” he said, in
the same absent manner as before. “He is his


ARMADALE.
231
father's son all over—he would make game of
me on my death-bed.” He paused a moment
at the door, mechanically brushing his hat with
his hand, and went out into the street.
The bright sunshine dazzled his eyes, the
passing vehicles and foot-passengers startled
and bewildered him. He shrank into a by-
street, and put his hand over his eyes. “I'd
better go home,” he thought, “and shut myself
up, and think about it in my own room.” "
His lodging was in a small house, in the poor
quarter of the town. He let himself in with his
key, and stole softly up stairs. The one little
room he possessed met him cruelly, look round
it where he might, with silent memorials of Miss
Gwilt. On the chimney-piece were the flow-
ers she had given him at various times, all with-
ered long since, and all preserved on a little
china pedestal, protected by a glass shade. On
the wall hung a withered colored print of a wo-
man, which he had caused to be nicely framed
and glazed, because there was a look in it that
reminded him of her face. In his clumsy old
mahogany writing-desk were the few letters,
brief and peremptory, which she had written to
him at the time when he was watching and list-
ening meanly at Thorpe-Ambrose to please her.
And when, turning his back on these, he sat
down wearily on his sofa-bedstead, there, hang-
ing over one end of it, was the gaudy cravat of
blue satin which he had bought because she
had told him she liked bright colors, and which
he had never yet had the courage to wear, though Bashwood's face.
was of the lighter sort—the vice of curiosity;
and among the many counterbalancing virtues
she possessed was the virtue of greatly respect-
ing Mr. Bashwood as a lodger whose rent was
regularly paid, and whose ways were always
quiet and civil from one year's end to another.
“What did you please to want, Sir?” asked
the landlady. “Boiling water, is it? Did
you ever know the water boil, Mr. Bashwood,
when you wanted it? Did you ever see a sulk-
ier fire than that? I'll put a stick or two in,
if you'll wait a little and give me the chance.
Dear, dear me, you'll excuse my mentioning it,
Sir, but how poorly you do look to-day!”
The strain on Mr. Bashwood's mind was be-
ginning to tell. Something of the helplessness
which he had shown at the station appeared
again in his face and manner as he put his tea-
pot on the kitchen-table, and sat down.
“I'm in trouble, ma'am,” he said, quietly;
“and I find trouble gets harder to bear than it
used to be.”
“Ah, you may well say that!” rejoined the
landlady: “I’m ready for the undertaker, Mr.
Bashwood, when my time comes, whatever you
may be. You're too lonely, Sir. When you're
in trouble it's some help—though not much—to
shift a share of it off on another person's shoul-
ders. If your good lady had only been alive
now, Sir, what a comfort you would have found
her, wouldn't you?”
A momentary spasm of pain passed across Mr.
The landlady had ignorant-
he had taken it out morning after morning with ly recalled him to the misfortunes of his married
the resolution to put it on |
Habitually quiet life.
He had been long since forced to quiet
in his actions, habitually restrained in his lan- her curiosity about his family affairs by telling
guage, he now seized the cravat as if it were a
living thing that could feel, and flung it to the
other end of the room with an oath.
The time passed; and still, though his reso-
lution to stand between Miss Gwilt and her mar-
riage remained unbroken, he was as far as ever
from discovering the means which might lead
him to his end. The more he thought and
thought of it, the darker and the darker his
course in the future looked to him.
He rose again, as wearily as he had sat down,
and went to his cupboard. “I’m feverish and
thirsty,” he said; “a cup of tea may help me.”
He opened his canister, and measured out his
small allowance of tea less carefully than usual.
“Even my own hands won't serve me to-day !”
he thought, as he scraped together the few grains
of tea that he had spilt, and put them carefully
back in the canister.
In that fine summer weather the one fire in
the house was the kitchen fire. He went down
stairs for the boiling water with his tea-pot in his
hand.
Nobody but the landlady was in the kitchen.
She was one of the many English matrons whose
path through this world is a path of thorns;
and who take a dismal pleasure, whenever the
opportunity is afforded them, in inspecting the
scratched and bleeding feet of other people in a
like condition with themselves. Her one vice
her that he was a widower, and that his domes-
tic circumstances had not been happy ones; but
he had taken her no further into his confidence
than this. The sad story which he had related
to Mr. Midwinter of the drunken wife, who had
embarrassed his relations with his employer, and
who had ended her miserable life in a lunatic
asylum, was a story which he had shrunk from
confiding to the talkative woman, who would have
confided it in her turn to every one in the house.
“What I always say to my husband when
he's low, Sir,” pursued the landlady, intent on
the kettle, “is, ‘What would you do now, Sam,
without Me?' When his temper don't get the
better of him (it will boil directly, Mr. Bash-
wood), he says, “Elizabeth, I could do nothing.’
When his temper does get the better of him, he
says, “I should try the public house, missus;
and I'll try it now.' Ah, I've got my troubles!
A man with grown-up sons and daughters, tip-
pling in a public house ! I don't call to mind,
Mr. Bashwood, whether you ever had any sons
and daughters? and yet, now I think of it, I
seem to fancy you said yes, you had. Daugh-
ters, Sir, weren't they?—and, ah, dear! dear!
to be sure ! all dead.”
“I had one daughter, ma'am,” said Mr.
Bashwood, patiently — “Only one, who died
before she was a year old.”
“Only one!” repeated the sympathizing land-


234
ARMADALE.
dress discovered from that moment. Once let
me identify her and know where she is—and
you shall see all her charming little secrets as
plainly as you see the paper on which your af-
fectionate son is now writing to you.
“A word more about the terms. I am as
willing as you are to be friends again; but,
though I own you were out of pocket by me
once, I can't afford to be out of pocket by you.
It must be understood that you are answerable
for all the expenses of the inquiry. We may
have to employ some of the women attached to
this office, if your lady is too wide-awake, or
too nice-looking, to be dealt with by a man.
There will be cab-hire and postage-stamps—ad-
missions to public amusements, if she is inclined
that way—shillings for pew-openers, if she is ''
serious, and takes our people into churches to
hear popular preachers, and so on. My own
professional services you shall have gratis; but
I can't lose by you as well. Only remember
that—and you shall have your way. By-gones
shall be by-gones, and you will forget the past.
“Your affectionate Son,
“JAMES BASHwood.”
In the ecstasy of seeing help placed at last
within his reach the father put the son's atro-
cious letter to his lips. “My good boy!” he
murmured tenderly; “My dear, good boy!”
He put the letter down, and fell into a new
train of thought. The next question to face
was the serious question of time. Mr. Pedgift
had told him she might be married in a fort-
night. One day of the fourteen had passed al-
ready, and another was passing. He beat his
hand impatiently on the table at his side, won-
dering how soon the want of money would force
Allan to write to him from London. “To-
morrow?" he asked himself. “Or next day?"
The morrow passed; and nothing happened.
The next day came—and the letter arrived!
It was on business, as he had anticipated; it
asked for money, as he had anticipated—and
there, at the end of it, in a postscript, was the
address added, concluding with the words, “You
may count on my staying here till further notice.”
He gave one deep gasp of relief; and instantly
busied himself—though there were nearly two
hours to spare before the train started for Lon-
don—in packing his bag. The last thing he
put in was his blue satin cravat. “She likes
bright colors,” he said, “and she may see me in
it yet!”
---
CHAPTER XIV.
MI SS G W I LT's D I AR Y.
“ALL SAINTs TERRACE, NEw RoAD, LoNDoN,
“July 28–Monday night.
“I CAN hardly hold my head up, I am so tired.
But, in my situation, I must trust nothing to
memory. Before I go to bed I must write my
customary record of the events of the day.
“So far, the turn of luck in my favor (it was
long enough before it took the turn!) seems like-
ly to continue. I succeeded in forcing Arma-
dale—the brute required nothing short of fore-
ing!—to leave Thorpe-Ambrose for London
alone in the same carriage with me, before all
the people in the station. There was a full at-
tendance of dealers in small scandal, all staring
hard at us, and all evidently drawing their own
conclusions. Either I knew nothing of Thorpe-
Ambrose, or the town-gossip is busy enough by
this time with Mr. Armadale and Miss Gwilt.
“I had some difficulty with him for the first
half hour after we left the station. The guard
(delightful man!—I felt so grateful to him!)
had shut us up together, in expectation of half-
a-crown at the end of the journey. Armadale
was suspicious of me, and he showed it plainly.
Little by little I tamed my wild beast—partly
by taking care to display no curiosity about his
journey to town, and partly by interesting him
on the subject of his friend Midwinter, dwelling
especially on the opportunity that now offered
itself for a reconciliation between them. I kept
harping on this string till I set his tongue going,
and made him amuse me as a gentleman is
bound to do when he has the honor of escorting
a lady on a long railway journey.
“What little mind he has was full, of course,
of his own affairs and Miss Milroy's. No words
can express the clumsiness he showed in trying
to talk about himself, without taking me into
his confidence or mentioning Miss Milroy's name.
He was going to London, he gravely informed
me, on a matter of indescribable interest to him.
It was a secret for the present, but he hoped to
tell it me soon; it had made a great difference
already in the way in which he looked at the slan-
----------"
<--


ARMADALE. 235
ders spoken of him in Thorpe-Ambrose; he was voice when he spoke, and such tenderness in
too happy to care what the scandal-mongers said his eyes every time they turned my way. Ar-
of him now, and he should soon stop their mouths madale overlooked me as completely as if I had
by appearing in a new character that would sur- not been in the room. He referred to me over
prise them all. So he blundered on, with the and over again in the conversation; he constant-
firm persuasion that he was keeping me quite in ly looked at me to see what I thought, while I
the dark. It was hard not to laugh, when I sat in my corner silently watching them; he
thought of my anonymous letter on its way to wanted to go with me and see me safe to my
the major; but I managed to control myself— lodgings, and spare me all trouble with the cab-
though, I must own, with some difficulty. As man and the luggage. When I thanked him
the time wore on I began to feel a terrible ex- and declined, Armadale looked unaffected, re-
citement; the position was, I think, a little too lieved at the prospect of seeing my back turned
much for me. There I was, alone with him, at last, and of having his friend all to himself.
talking in the most innocent, easy, familiar man- I left him with his awkward elbows half over
ner, and having it in my mind all this time to the table, scrawling a letter (no doubt to Miss
brush his life out of my way, when the moment Milroy), and shouting to the waiter that he
comes, as I might brush a stain off my gown. wanted a bed at the hotel. I had calculated (if
It made my blood leap and my cheeks flush. I I succeeded in reconciling them) on his staying
caught myself laughing once or twice much as a matter of course where he found his friend
louder than I ought; and long before we got to staying. It was pleasant to find my anticipa-
London I thought it desirable to put my face in tions realized, and to know that I have as good
hiding by pulling down my veil. as got him now under my own eye.
“There was no difficulty, on reaching the “After promising to let Midwinter know
terminus, in getting him to come in the cab where he could see me to-morrow, I went away
with me to the hotel where Midwinter is staying. in the cab to hunt for lodgings by myself.
He was all eagerness to be reconciled with his “With some difficulty I have succeeded in
dear friend—principally, I have no doubt, be- getting a sitting-room and bedroom to suit me
cause he wants the dear friend to lend a help- in this house, where the people are perfect stran-
ing-hand to the elopement. The real difficulty gers to me. Having paid a week's rent in ad-
lay, of course, with Midwinter. My sudden |vance (for I naturally preferred dispensing with
journey to London had allowed me no oppor- a reference), I find myself with exactly three
tunity of writing to warn him—or, rather, of shillings and ninepence left in my purse. It is
writing to combat his superstitious conviction impossible to ask Midwinter for money, after he
that he and his former friend are better apart. has already paid Mrs. Oldershaw's note-of-hand.
I thought it wise to leave Armadale in the cab I must borrow something to - morrow on my
at the door, and to go into the hotel by myself watch and chain at the pawnbroker's. Enough
to pave the way for him. to keep me going for a fortnight is all, and more
“Fortunately Midwinter had not gone out. than all, that I want. In that time, or in less
His delight at seeing me some days sooner than than that time, Midwinter will have married
he had hoped had something infectious in it, I me.
suppose. Pooh! I may own the truth to my
own diary! There was a moment when I for- “July 29th. Two o'clock.—Early in the
got every thing in the world but our two selves morning I sent a line to Midwinter, telling him
as completely as he did. I felt as if I was back that he would find me here at three this after-
in my teens—until I recovered and remembered noon. That done, I devoted the morning to
the lout in the cab at the door. And then I was two errands of my own. One is hardly worth
five-and-thirty again in an instant. mentioning—it was only to raise money on my
“His face altered when he heard who was watch and chain. I got more than I expected,
below, and what it was I wanted of him. He and more (even supposing I buy myself one or
looked not angry but distressed. He yielded, two little things in the way of cheap summer
however, before long, not to my reasons, for I dress) than I am at all likely to spend before
gave him none, but to my entreaties. His old the wedding-day.
fondness for his friend might possibly have had “The other errand was of a far more serious
some share in persuading him against his will; kind. It led me into an attorney's office.
but my own opinion is that he acted entirely “I was well aware last night (though I was
under the influence of his fondness for Me. too weary to put it down in my diary) that I
“I waited in the sitting-room while he went | could not possibly see Midwinter this morning,
down to the door; so I knew nothing of what in the position he now occupies toward me, with-
passed between them when they first saw each out at least appearing to take him into my con-
other again. But oh, the difference between fidence on the subject of myself and my circum-
the two men when the interval had passed, and stances. Excepting one necessary consideration
they came up stairs together and joined me. which I must be careful not to overlook, there is
They were both agitated, but in such different not the least difficulty in my drawing on my in-
ways! The hateful Armadale, so loud and red vention, and telling him any story I please—
and clumsy; the dear, lovable Midwinter, so for thus far I have told no story to any body.
pale and quiet, with such a gentleness in his Midwinter went away to London before it was


236
ARMADALE.
possible to approach the subject. As to the Mil- apprehension about the future. The only im-
roys (having provided them with the customary posture my husband will ever discover—and
reference), I could fortunately keep them at then only if he happens to be on the spot—is
arm's-length on all questions relating purely to the imposture that puts me in the place, and
myself.
And lastly, when I effected my mem- gives me the income, of Armadale's widow;
orable reconciliation with Armadale on the and by that time I shall have invalidated my
drive in front of the house, he was fool enough own marriage forever.
to be too generous to let me defend my charac-
ter. When I had expressed my regret for hav-
ing lost my temper and threatened Miss Milroy,
and when I had accepted his assurance that my
pupil had never done nor meant to do me any
injury, he was too magnanimous to hear a word
on the subject of my private affairs.
am quite unfettered by any former assertions of
my own; and I may tell any story I please-
with the one drawback hinted at already in the
shape of a restraint. Whatever I may invent
in the way of pure fiction, I must preserve the
character in which I have appeared at Thorpe-
Ambrose—for, with the notoriety that is at-
tached to my other name, I have no other choice
but to marry Midwinter in my maiden name as
“Miss Gwilt.”
“This was the consideration that took me
into the lawyer's office. I felt that I must in-
form myself, before I saw Midwinter later in
the day, of any awkward consequences that may
follow the marriage of a widow who conceals
her widow's name.
“Knowing of no other professional person
whom I could trust, I went boldly to the law-
yer who had my interests in his charge at that
terrible past time in my life which I have more
reason than ever to shrink from thinking of now.
He was astonished, and, as I could plainly de-
tect, by no means pleased to see me. I hardly
opened my lips before he said he hoped I was
not consulting him again (with a strong em-
phasis on the word) on my own account. I
took the hint, and put the question I had come
to ask in the interests of that accommodating
personage on such occasions—an absent friend.
The lawyer evidently saw through it at once;
but he was sharp enough to turn my “friend’ to
good account on his side. He said he would
answer the question as a matter of courtesy to-
ward a lady represented by myself; but he must
make it a condition that this consultation of him
by deputy should go no further.
“I accepted his terms, for I really respected
the clever manner in which he contrived to keep
me at arm's-length without violating the laws
of good-breeding. In two minutes I heard what
he had to say, mastered it in my own mind, and
Went out.
“Short as it was, the consultation told me
every thing I wanted to know. I risk nothing
by marrying Midwinter in my maiden instead
of my widow's name. The marriage is a good
marriage in this way—that it can only be set
aside if my husband finds out the imposture,
and takes proceedings to invalidate our mar-
riage in my lifetime. That is the lawyer's an-
swer in the lawyer's own words. It relieves me
at once—in this direction, at any rate—of all
“Half past two! He will be here in half an
hour. I must go and ask my glass how I look.
I must rouse my invention, and make up my
little domestic romance. Am I feeling nervous
about it? Something flutters in the place where
| my heart used to be. At five-and-thirty too!
Thus I
and after such a life as mine!
“Six o'clock.—He has just gone. The day
for our marriage is a day determined on already.
“I have tried to rest and recover myself. I
can't rest. I have come back to these leaves.
There is much to be written in them since Mid-
winter has been here that concerns me nearly.
“Let me begin with what I hate most to re-
member, and so be the sooner done with it—
let me begin with the paltry string of falsehoods
I told him about my family troubles.
“What can be the secret of this man's hold
on me? How is it that he alters me so that I
hardly know myself again? I was like myself
in the railway carriage yesterday with Arma-
dale. It was surely frightful to be talking to
the living man, through the whole of that long
journey, with the knowledge in me all the while
that I meant to be his widow—and yet I was
only excited and fevered. Hour after hour I
never shrunk once from speaking to Armadale
—but the first trumpery falsehood I told Mid-
winter turned me cold when I saw that he be-
lieved it! I felt a dreadful hysterical choking
in the throat when he entreated me not to re-
veal my troubles. And once—I am horrified
when I think of it—once, when he said, ‘If I
could love you more dearly, I should love you
more dearly now,' I was within a hair's-breadth
of turning traitor to myself! I was on the very
point of crying out to him, ‘Lies! all lies! I'm
a fiend in human shape! Marry the wretched-
est creature that prowls the streets, and you will
marry a better woman than me!’ Yes! the
seeing his eyes moisten, the hearing his voice
tremble while I was deceiving him, shook me in
that way. I have seen handsomer men by hun-
dreds, cleverer men by hundreds. What can
this man have roused in me? Is it Love? I
thought I had loved, never to love again. Does
a woman not love when the man's hardness to
her drives her to drown herself? A man drove
me to that last despair in days gone by. Did
all my misery at that time come from some-
thing which was not Love? Have I lived to
be five-and-thirty, and am I only feeling now
what Love really is?—now, when it is too late?
Ridiculous! Besides, what is the use of ask-
ing? What do I know about it? What does
any woman ever know? The more we think
of it the more we deceive ourselves. I wish I
had been born an animal. My beauty might


238
ARMADALE.
will he say when the town-gossip tells him that
Armadale has taken me to London, in a car-
riage reserved for ourselves? It really is too
absurd in a man of Bashwood's age and appear-
ance to presume to be in love!......
“July 30th.—News at last! Armadale has
heard from Miss Milroy. My anonymous let-
ter has produced its effect. The girl is removed
from Thorpe-Ambrose already; and the whole
project of the elopement is blown to the winds
at once and forever. This was the substance
of what Midwinter had to tell me, when I met
him in the Park. I affected to be excessively
astonished, and to feel the necessary feminine
longing to know all the particulars. ‘Not that
I expect to have my curiosity satisfied, I added,
“for Mr. Armadale and I are little better than
mere acquaintances, after all.”
“‘You are far more than a mere acquaint-
ance in Allan's eyes,” said Midwinter. “Having
your permission to trust him, I have already
told him how near and dear you are to me.”
“Hearing this, I thought it desirable, before
I put any questions about Miss Milroy, to attend
to my own interests first, and to find out what
effect the announcement of my coming marriage
had produced on Armadale. It was possible
that he might be still suspicious of me, and that
the inquiries he made in London, at Mrs. Mil-
roy's instigation, might be still hanging on his
mind.
“‘Did Mr. Armadale seem surprised, I asked,
‘when you told him of our engagement, and
when you said it was to be kept a secret from
every body?'
“‘He seemed greatly surprised,” said Mid-
winter, ‘to hear that we were going to be mar-
ried. All he said when I told him it must be
kept a secret was, that he supposed there were
family reasons on your side for making the mar-
riage a private one.’
“‘What did you say, I inquired, ‘when he
made that remark?'
“‘I said there were family reasons on my
side,” answered Midwinter. “And I thought it
right to add—considering that Allan had al-
lowed himself to be misled by the ignorant dis-
trust of you at Thorpe-Ambrose—that you had
confided to me the whole of your sad family
story, and that you had amply justified, in my
eyes, your unwillingness to speak of your pri-
vate affairs, under all ordinary circumstances.”
(“I breathed freely again. He had said just
what was wanted, just in the right way.)
“‘Thank you,' I said, ‘for putting me right
in your friend's estimation. Does he wish to
see me?' I added, by way of getting back to the
other subject of Miss Milroy and the elopement.
“‘He is longing to see you, returned Mid-
winter. ‘He is in great distress, poor fellow—
distress which I have done my best to soothe,
but which I believe would yield far more readi-
ly to a woman's sympathy than to mine.’
‘‘‘Where is he now?' I asked.
“He was at the hotel; and to the hotel I in-
stantly proposed that we should go. It is a
busy, crowded place; and (with my veil down)
I have less fear of compromising myself there
than at my quiet lodgings. Besides, it is vitally
important to me to know what Armadale does
next, under this total change of circumstances
—for I must so control his proceedings as to get
him away from England if I can. We took a
cab: such was my eagerness to sympathize with
the heart-broken lover, that we took a cab.
“Anything so ridiculous as Armadale's be-
havior under the double shock of discovering
that his young lady has been taken away from
him, and that I am to be married to Midwinter,
I never before witnessed in all my experience.
To say that he was like a child is a libel on all
children who are not born idiots. He congrat-
ulated me on my coming marriage, and exe-
crated the unknown wretch who had written
the anonymous letter, little thinking that he
was speaking of one and the same person in
one and the same breath. Now he submissively
acknowledged that Major Milroy had his rights
as a father, and now he reviled the major as
having no feeling for any thing but his mechan-
ics and his clock. At one moment he started
up, with the tears in his eyes, and declared that
his “darling Neelie' was an angel on earth. At
another he sat down sulkily, and thought that
a girl of her spirit might have run away on the
spot and joined him in London. After a good
half hour of this absurd exhibition I succeeded
in quieting him; and then a few words of ten-
der inquiry produced what I had expressly come
to the hotel to see—Miss Milroy's letter.
“It was outrageously long and rambling and
confused—in short, the letter of a fool. I had
to wade through plenty of vulgar sentiment and
lamentation, and to lose time and patience over
maudlin and nauseous outbursts of affection, of
kisses inclosed in circles of ink. However, I
contrived to extract the information I wanted at
last; and here it is:
“The major, on receipt of my anonymous
warning, appears to have sent at once for his
daughter, and to have shown her the letter.
‘You know what a hard life I lead with your
mother; don't make it harder still, Neelie, by
deceiving me.' That was all the poor old gen-
tleman said. I always did like the major;
and, though he was afraid to show it, I know he
always liked me. His appeal to his daughter
(if her account of it is to be believed) cut her to
the heart. She burst out crying (let her alone
for crying at the right moment!), and confessed
every thing.
“After giving her time to recover herself (if
he had given her a good box on the ears it would
have been more to the purpose!) the major
seems to have put certain questions, and to have
become convinced (as I was convinced myself)
that his daughter's heart, or fancy, or whatever
she calls it, was really and truly set on Arma-
dale. The discovery evidently distressed as well
as surprised him. He appears to have hesitated,


ARMADALE.
230
#"
|
THE END OF THE ELOPEMENT.
and to have maintained his own unfavorable
opinion of Miss Neelie's lover for some little
time. But his daughter's tears and entreaties
(so like the weakness of the dear old gentle-
man!) shook him at last. Though he firmly
refused to allow of any marriage engagement at
present, he consented to overlook the clandes-
time meetings in the Park, and to put Arma-
dale's fitness to become his son-in-law to the
test, on certain conditions.
“These conditions are, that for the next six
months to come all communication is to be
broken off, both personally and by writing, be-
tween Armadale and Miss Milroy. That space
of time is to be occupied by the young gentle-
man as he himself thinks best, and by the young
lady in completing her education at school. If
when the six months have passed they are both
still of the same mind, and if Armadale's con-
duct in the interval has been such as to improve
the major's opinion of him, he will be allowed
to present himself in the character of Miss Mil-


ARMADALE.
241
wrote to Miss Milroy, that my engagement to I was obliged to go out again and do some-
Midwinter was to be kept as strictly secret from
her as from every body else), the next question
we had to settle related to his future proceed-
ings. I was ready with the necessary arguments
to stop him, if he had proposed returning to
Thorpe-Ambrose. But he proposed nothing of
the sort. On the contrary, he declared, of his
own accord, that nothing would induce him to
go back. The place and the people were asso-
ciated with everything that was hateful to him.
There would be no Miss Milroy now to meet
him in the park, and no Midwinter to keep him
company in the solitary house. ‘I’d rather break
stones on the road,” was the sensible and cheer-
ful way in which he put it, “than go back to
Thorpe-Ambrose.”
“The first suggestion after this came from
Midwinter. The sly old clergyman who gave
Mrs. Oldershaw and me so much trouble, has, it
seems, been ill; but has been latterly reported
better. “Why not go to Somersetshire,” said
Midwinter, “and see your good friend, and my
good friend, Mr. Brock?'
“Armadale caught at the proposal readily
enough. He longed, in the first place, to see
“dear old Brock, and he longed, in the second
place, to see his yacht. Yes; he would stay a
few days more in London with Midwinter, and
then he would go to Somersetshire. But what
after that?
“Seeing my opportunity, I came to the res-
cue this time. “You have got a yacht, Mr. Ar-
madale,” I said; “and you know that Midwinter
is going to Italy. When you are tired of Som-
ersetshire, why not make a voyage to the Med-
iterranean, and meet your friend, and your
friend's wife, at Naples?”
“I made the allusion to “his friend's wife,’
with the most becoming modesty and confusion.
Armadale was enchanted. I had hit on the
best of all ways of occupying the weary time.
He started up and wrung my hand in quite an
ecstasy of gratitude. How I do hate people who
can only express their feelings by hurting other
peoples’ hands!
“Midwinter was as pleased with my proposal
as Armadale; but he saw difficulties in the way
of carrying it out. He considered the yacht
too small for a cruise to the Mediterranean, and
he thought it would be wise to hire a larger ves-
sel. His friend thought otherwise. I left them
arguing the question. It was quite enough for
me to have made sure, in the first place, that
Armadale will not return to Thorpe-Ambrose;
and to have decided him, in the second place,
on going abroad. He may go how he likes. I
should prefer the small yacht myself—for there
seems to be a chance that the small yacht might
do me the inestimable service of drowning
him.......
“Five o'clock.—The excitement of feeling
that I have got Armadale's future movements
completely under my own control made me so
restless, when I returned to my lodgings, that
thing. A new interest to occupy me being
what I wanted, I went to Pimlico to have it out
with Mother Oldershaw.
“I walked—and made up my mind on the
way that I would begin by quarreling with her.
One of my notes-of-hand being paid already,
and Midwinter being willing to pay the other
two when they fall due, my present position
with the old wretch is as independent a one as I
| could desire. I always get the better of her
when it comes to a downright battle between
us, and find her wonderfully civil and obliging
the moment I have made her feel that mine is
the strongest will of the two. In my present
situation she might be of use to me in various
ways, if I could secure her assistance without
trusting her with secrets which I am now more
than ever determined to keep to myself. That
was my idea as I walked to Pimlico. Upset-
ting Mother Oldershaw's nerves, in the first
place, and then twisting her round my little
finger, in the second, promised me, as I thought,
an interesting occupation for the rest of the aft-
ernoon.
“When I got to Pimlico a surprise was in
store for me. The house was shut up—not
only on Mrs. Oldershaw's side, but on Doctor'
Downward's as well. A padlock was on the
shop-door; and a man was hanging about on
the watch, who might have been an ordinary
idler certainly, but who looked, to my mind,
like a policeman in disguise.
“Knowing the risks the doctor runs in his
particular form of practice, I suspected at once
that something serious had happened, and that
even cunning Mrs. Oldershaw was compromised
this time. Without stopping, or making any
inquiry, therefore, I called the first cab that
passed me and drove to the post-office, to which
I had desired my letters to be forwarded if any
came for me after I left my Thorpe-Ambrose
lodging.
“On inquiry a letter was produced for “Miss
Gwilt. It was in Mother Oldershaw's hand-
writing, and it told me (as I had supposed) that
the doctor had got into a serious difficulty—
that she was herself more unfortunately mixed
up in the matter—and that they were both in
hiding for the present. The letter ended with
some sufficiently venomous sentences about my
conduct at Thorpe-Ambrose, and with a warm-
ing that I have not heard the last of Mrs. Older-
shaw yet. It relieved me to find her writing in
this way—for she would have been civil and
cringing if she had had any suspicion of what I
have really got in view. I burned the letter as
soon as the candles came up. And there, for
the present, is an end of the connection be-
tween Mother Jezebel and me. I must do all
my own dirty work now—and I shall be all the
safer, perhaps, for trusting nobody's hands to do
it but my own.
“July 31st.—More useful information for me.
I met Midwinter again in the Park (on the pre-


242
ARMADALE.
text that my reputation"might suffer if he called “These details are so dry and uninteresting
too often at my lodgings); and heard the last
news of Armadale since I left the hotel yesterday.
“After he had written to Miss Milroy, Mid-
winter took the opportunity of speaking to him
about the necessary business arrangements dur-
ing his absence from the great house. It was
decided that the servants should be put on board
wages, and that Mr. Bashwood should be left in
charge. (Somehow I don't like this reappear-
ance of Mr. Bashwood in connection with my
present interests, but there is no help for it.)
The next question—the question of money—was
settled at once by Armadale himself. All his
available ready-money (a large sum) is to be
lodged by Mr. Bashwood in Coutts's Bank, and
to be there deposited in Armadale's name. This,
he said, would save him the worry of any fur-
ther letter-writing to his steward, and would
enable him to get what he wanted, when he
went abroad, at a moment's notice. The plan
thus proposed being certainly the simplest and
the safest, was adopted with Midwinter's full
concurrence; and here the business discussion
would have ended, if the everlasting Mr. Bash-
wood had not turned up again in the conversation
and prolonged it in, an entirely new direction.
“On reflection, it seems to have struck Mid-
winter that the whole responsibility at Thorpe-
Ambrose ought not to rest on Mr. Bashwood's
shoulders. Without in the least distrusting
him, Midwinter felt, nevertheless, that he ought
to have somebody set over him to apply to in
case of emergency. Armadale made no objec-
tion to this; he only asked, in his helpless way,
who the person was to be? -
“The answer was not an easy one to arrive
at. Either of the two solicitors at Thorpe-Am-
brose might have been employed—but Arma-
dale was on bad terms with both of them. Any
reconciliation with such a bitter enemy as the
elder lawyer, Mr. Darch, was out of the ques-
tion; and reinstating Mr. Pedgift in his former
position implied a tacit sanction on Armadale's
part of the lawyer's abominable conduct toward
me, which was scarcely consistent with the re-
spect and regard that he felt for the lady who
was soon to be his friend's wife. After some
further discussion Midwinter hit on a new sug-
gestion which appeared to meet the difficulty.
He proposed that Armadale should write to a
respectable solicitor at Norwich, stating his po-
sition in general terms, and requesting that
gentleman to take charge of his affairs, and to
act as Mr. Bashwood's adviser and superintend-
ent when occasion required. Norwich being
within an easy railway ride of Thorpe-Ambrose,
Armadale saw no objection to the proposal, and
promised to write to the Norwich lawyer. Fear-
ing that he might make some mistake, if he
wrote without assistance, Midwinter drew him
out a draft of the necessary letter, and Arma-
dale having delayed till the next morning, was
now engaged in copying the draft, and also in
writing to Mr. Bashwood-to lodge the money
immediately in Coutts's Bank.
in themselves that I hesitated at first about put-
ting them down in my diary. But a little re-
flection has convinced me that they are too im-
portant to be passed over. Looked at from my
point of view they mean this—that Armadale's
own act is now cutting him off from all com-
munication with Thorpe-Ambrose, even by let-
ter. He is as good as dead already to every
body he leaves behind him. The causes which
have led to such a result as that are causes
which certainly claim the best place I can give
them in these pages.
“August 1st.—Nothing to record, but that I
have had a long, quiet, happy day with Midwin-
ter. He hired a carriage, and we drove to Rich-
mond, and dined there. After to-day's expe-
rience it is impossible to deceive myself any
longer. Come what may of it, I love him.
“I have fallen into low spirits since he left
me. A persuasion has taken possession of my
mind, that the smooth and prosperous course of
my affairs since I have been in London is too
smooth and prosperous to last. There is some-
thing oppressing me to-night, which is more
than the oppression of the heavy London air.
“August 2d. Three o'clock.—My presenti-
ments, like other peoples', have deceived me
often enough—but I am almost afraid that my
presentiment of last night was really prophetic,
for once in a way.
“I went after breakfast to a milliner's in this
neighborhood to order a few cheap summer
things. From the milliner's I drove to Mid-
winter's hotel; and (in pursuance of my reso-
lution to throw dust, if I can, in the eyes of the
people of this house) when I invited him to
come and drink tea with me to-night, I begged
that he would bring Armadale with him. I
drove to the milliner's and to the hotel, and
part of the way back. Then, feeling disgusted
with the horrid close smell of the cab (some-
body had been smoking in it, I suppose), I got
out to walk the rest of the way. Before I had
been two minutes on my feet I discovered that
I was being followed by a strange man.
“This may mean nothing but that an idle
fellow has been struck by my figure, and my
appearance generally. My face could have made
no impression on him—for it was hidden as
usual by my veil. Whether he followed me
(in a cab of course) from the milliner's, or from
the hotel, I can not say. Nor am I quite cer-
tain whether he did or did not track me to this
door. I only know that I lost sight of him be-
fore I got back. There is no help for it but to
wait till events enlighten me. If there is any
thing serious in what has happened I shall soon
discover it.
“Five o'clock.—It is serious. Ten minutes
since I was in my bedroom, which communi-
cates with the sitting-room. I was just coming
out when I heard a strange voice on the land-


ARMADALE.
243
ing outside—a woman's voice. The next in-
stant the sitting-room door was suddenly opened;
the woman's voice said, “Are these the apart-
ments you have got to let?” and though the
landlady, behind her, answered, ‘No! higher
up, ma'am, the woman came on straight to my
bedroom, as if she had not heard. I had just
time to slam the door in her face before she saw
me. The necessary explanations and apologies
followed between the landlady and the stranger
in the sitting-room—and then I was left alone
again.
“I have no time to write more. It is plain
that somebody has an interest in trying to iden-
tify me, and that, but for my own quickness,
the strange woman would have accomplished
this object by taking me by surprise. She and
the man who followed me in the street are, I
suspect, in league together; and there is proba-
bly somebody in the back-ground whose inter-
ests they are serving. Is Mother Oldershaw at-
tacking me in the dark? or who else can it be?
No matter who it is, my present situation is too
critical to be trifled with. I must get away from
this house to-night, and leave no trace behind
me by which I can be followed to another place.
“August 3d.—Gary Street, Tottenham Court
Road.—I got away last night (after writing an
excuse to Midwinter, in which ‘my invalid mo-
ther figured as the all-sufficient cause of my
disappearance); and I have found refuge here.
It has cost me some money; but my object is
attained ! Nobody can possibly have traced me
from All Saints' Terrace to this address.
“After paying my landlady the necessary for-
feit for leaving her without notice, I arranged
with her son that he should take my boxes in a
cab to the cloak-room at the nearest railway sta-
tion, and send me the ticket in a letter, to wait
my application for it at the post-office. While
he went his way in one cab I went mine in an-
other, with a few things for the night in my
little hand-bag. I drove straight to the millin-
er's shop—which I had observed, when I was
there yesterday, had a back entrance into a
mews, for the apprentices to go in and out by.
I went in at once, leaving the cab waiting for
me at the door. “A man is following me, I
said; “and I want to get rid of him. Here is
my cab-fare; wait ten minutes before you give
it to the driver, and let me out at once by the
back way. In a moment I was out in the mews
—in another, I was in the next street—in a third,
I hailed a passing omnibus, and was a free wo-
man again.
“Having now cut off all communication be-
tween me and my last lodgings, the next pre-
caution (in case Midwinter or Armadale are
watched) is to cut off all communication, for
some days to come at least, between me and the
hotel. I have written to Midwinter—making
my supposititious mother once more the excuse
—to say that I am tied to my nursing duties,
and that we must communicate by writing only
for the present. Ignorant as I still am of who
my hidden enemy is, and of what that enemy's
object may be, I can do no more to defend my-
self than I have done now.
“August 4th.—The two friends at the hotel
have both written to me. Midwinter expresses
his sympathy, and his regret at our separation,
in the tenderest terms. Armadale writes an
entreaty for help under very awkward circum-
stances. A letter from Major Milroy has been
forwarded to him from the great house, and he
incloses it in his letter to me.
“Having left the sea-side, and placed his
daughter safely at the school originally chosen
for her (in the neighborhood of Ely), the major
appears to have returned to Thorpe-Ambrose at
the close of last week; to have heard then, for
the first time, the reports about Armadale and
me; and to have written instantly to Armadale
to tell him so. The letter is stern and short.
Major Milroy dismisses the report as unworthy
of credit, because it is impossible for him to be-
lieve in such an act of “cold-blooded treachery,’
as the scandal would imply, if the scandal were
true. He simply writes to warn Armadale that,
if he is not more careful in his actions for the
future, he must resign all pretensions to Miss
Milroy's hand. ‘I neither expect, nor wish for,
an answer to this (the letter ends), “for I desire
to receive no mere protestations in words. By
your conduct, and by your conduct alone, I shall
judge you as time goes on. Let me also add,
that I positively forbid you to consider this let-
ter as an excuse for violating the terms agreed
on between us, by writing again to my daugh-
ter. You have no need to justify yourself in
her eyes—for I fortunately removed her from
Thorpe-Ambrose before this abominable report
had time to reach her, and I shall take good
care, for her sake, that she is not agitated and
unsettled by hearing it where she is now.’
“Armadale's petition to me, under these cir-
cumstances, entreats (as I am the innocent cause
of the new attack on his character) that I will
write to the major to absolve him of all indiscre-
tion in the matter, and to say that he could not,
in common politeness, do otherwise than accom-
pany me to London. I forgive the impudence
ef his request, in consideration of the news that
he sends me. It is certainly another circum-
stance in my favor, that the scandal at Thorpe-
Ambrose is not to be allowed to reach Miss
Milroy's ears. With her temper (if she did
hear it) she might do something desperate in
the way of claiming her lover, and might com-
promise me seriously. As for my own course
with Armadale, it is easy enough. I shall quiet
him by promising to write to Major Milroy; and
I shall take the liberty, in my own private in-
terests, of not keeping my word.
“Nothing in the least suspicious has hap-
pened to-day. Whoever my enemies are, they
have lost me, and between this and the time
when I leave England they shall not find me
again. I have been to the post-office, and have
got the ticket for my luggage inclosed to me in


244
ARMADALE.
a letter from All Saints' Terrace, as I directed.
The luggage itself I shall still leave at the cloak-
room until I see the way before me more clear-
ly than I see it now.
“August 5th.—Two letters again from the
hotel. Midwinter writes to remind me, in the
prettiest possible way, that he will have lived
long enough in the parish by to-morrow to be
able to get our marriage license, and that he
proposes applying for it in the usual way at Doc-
tors' Commons. Now, if I am ever to say it, is
the time to say No. But I haven't the heart to
disappoint him, he is so eager to marry me.
“Armadale's letter is a letter of farewell.
He thanks me for my kindness in writing to the
major, sends me his best wishes, and bids me
good-by till we meet again at Naples. He has
learned from his friend that there are private
reasons which will oblige him to forbid himself
the pleasure of being present at our marriage.
Under these circumstances, there is nothing to
keep him in London. He has made all his
business arrangements; he goes to Somerset-
shire by to-night's train, and, after staying some
time with Mr. Brock, he will sail for the Medi-
terranean from the Bristol Channel (in spite of
Midwinter's objections) in his own yacht.
“The letter incloses a jeweler's box, with a
ring in it—Armadale's present to me on my
marriage. It is a ruby—but rather a small one,
and set in the worst possible taste. He could
have given Miss Milroy a ring worth ten times
the money, if it had been her marriage present.
There is no more hateful creature, in my opin-
ion, than a miserly young man. I wonder wheth-
er his trumpery little yacht will drown him?
“I am so excited and fluttered I hardly know
what I am writing. Not that I shrink from
what is coming—I only feel as if I was being
hurried on faster than I quite like to go. At
this rate, if nothing happens, Midwinter will
have married me by the end of the week. And
then-l
“August 6th.—If any thing could startle me
now, I should feel startled by the news that has
reached me to-day.
“On his return to the hotel this morning,
after getting the Marriage License, Midwinter
found a telegram waiting for him. It contained
an urgent message from Armadale, announcing
that Mr. Brock had had a relapse on the previ-
ous day, and that all hope of his recovery was
pronounced by the doctors to be at an end. By
the dying man's own desire Midwinter was
summoned to take leave of him, and was en-
treated by Armadale not to lose a moment in
starting for the rectory by the first train.
“The hurried letter which tells me this tells
me also that, by the time I receive it, Midwin-
ter will be on his way to the west. He prom-
ised to write at greater length, after he had seen
Mr. Brock, by to-night's post.
“This news has an interest for me which
Midwinter little suspects. There is but one hu-
man creature besides myself who knows the se-
cret of his birth and his name—and that one is
the old man who now lies waiting for him at
the point of death. What will they say to each
other at the last moment? Will some chance
word take them back to the time when I was in
Mrs. Armadale's service at Madeira? Will they
speak of Me?
“August 7th.—The promised letter has just
reached me. No parting words have been ex-
changed between them—it was all over before
Midwinter reached Somersetshire. Armadale
met him at the rectory gate with the news that
Mr. Brock was dead.
“I try to struggle against it, but, coming
after the strange complication of circumstances
that has been closing round me for weeks past,
there is something in this latest event of all
that shakes my nerves. But one last chance
of detection stood in my way when I opened my
diary yesterday. When I open it to-day that
chance is removed by Mr. Brock's death. It
means something; I wish I knew what.
“The funeral is to be on Saturday morning.
Midwinter will attend it as well as Armadale.
But he proposes returning to London first; and
he writes word that he will call to-night, in the
hope of seeing me on his way from the station
to the hotel. Even if there was any risk in it,
I should see him, as things are now. But there
is no risk if he comes here from the station, in-
stead of coming from the hotel. *
“It is not ten o'clock yet—how am I to ge
through the long, lonely hours before Midwin-
ter comes? I can't read; I can't work. If I
had a piano-no, even if I had a piano I couldn't
touch it. Oh, the weariness of this empty, sol-
litary day ! If I could only sleep through it from
now to the evening!
“Five o’clock.—I was not mistaken in believ-
ing that my nerves were all unstrung. Trifles
that would not have cost me a second thought
at other times weigh heavily on my mind now.
“Two hours since, in despair of knowing how
to get through the day, I bethought myself of
the milliner who is making my summer dress.
I had intended to go and try it on yesterday,
but it slipped out of my memory in the excite-
ment of hearing about Mr. Brock. So I went
this afternoon, eager to do any thing that might
help me to get rid of myself. I have returned,
feeling more uneasy and more depressed than I
felt when I went out—for I have come back,
fearing that I may yet have reason to repent
not having left my unfinished dress on the mil-
liner's hands.
“Nothing happened to me, this time, in the
street. It was only in the trying-on room that
my suspicions were roused; and there it cer-
tainly did cross my mind that the attempt to
discover me, which I defeated at All Saints'
Terrace, was not given up yet, and that some
of the shopwomen had been tampered with, if
not the mistress herself.


246
ARMADALE.
*
address. The one useful thing to do now is to
set my wits to work in the interests of my own
security, and to step out of the false position in
which my own rashness has placed me—if I can.
“Seven o'clock.—My spirits have risen again.
I believe I am in a fair way of extricating my-
self already.
“I have just come back from a long round
in a cab. First, to the cloak-room of the Great
Western, to get the luggage which I sent there
from All Saints' Terrace. Next, to the cloak-
room of the South Eastern, to leave my luggage
(labeled in Midwinter's name), to wait for me
till the starting of the tidal train on Monday.
Next, to the General Post-office, to post a let-
ter to Midwinter at the rectory, which he will
receive to-morrow morning. Lastly, back again
to this house—from which I shall move no more
till Monday comes.
“My letter to Midwinter will, I have little
doubt, lead to his seconding (quite innocently)
the precautions that I am taking for my own
safety. The shortness of the time at our dis-
posal on Monday will oblige him to pay his bill
at the hotel and to remove his luggage before
the marriage ceremony takes place. All I ask
him to do beyond this is to take the luggage
himself to the South Eastern (so as to make
any inquiries useless which may address them-
selves to the servants at the hotel)—and, that
done, to meet me at the church door instead of
calling for me here. The rest concerns nobody
but myself. When Sunday night or Monday
morning comes, it will be hard indeed—freed as
I am now from all encumbrances—if I can't
give the people who are watching me the slip
for the second time.
“It seems needless enough to have written to
Midwinter to-day when he is coming back to me
to-morrow night. But it was impossible to ask
what I have been obliged to ask of him, without
making my false family circumstances once more
the excuse; and having this to do—I must own
the truth—I wrote to him because, after what I
suffered on the last occasion, I can never again
deceive him to his face.
“August 9th.—Two o'clock.—I rose early
this morning, more depressed in spirits than usu-
al. The re-beginning of one's life, at the re-
beginning of every day, has always been some-
thing weary and hopeless to me for years past.
I dreamed too all through the night—not of
Midwinter and of my married life, as I had
hoped to dream—but of the wretched conspiracy
to discover me, by which I have been driven
from one place to another like a hunted animal.
Nothing in the shape of a new revelation enlight-
ened me in my sleep. All I could guess, dream-
ing, was what I had guessed waking, that Mo-
ther Oldershaw is the enemy who is attacking
me in the dark.
“My restless night has, however, produced
one satisfactory result. It has led to my win-
ning the good graces of the servant here, and
securing all the assistance she can give me when
the time comes for making my escape.
“The girl noticed this morning that I looked
pale and anxious. I took her into my confi-
dence to the extent of telling her that I was
privately engaged to be married, and that I had
enemies who were trying to part me from my
sweet-heart. This instantly roused her sympa-
thy—and a present of a ten-shilling piece for her
kind services to me did the rest. In the inter-
vals of her house-work she has been with me
nearly the whole morning; and I have found
out, among other things, that her sweet-heart is
a private soldier in the Guards, and that she ex-
pects to see him to-morrow. I have got money
enough left, little as it is, to turn the head of
any Private in the British army—and, if the
person appointed to watch me to-morrow is a
man, I think it just possible that he may find
his attentions disagreeably diverted from Miss
Gwilt in the course of the evening.
“The last time Midwinter came here from
the railway he came at half past eight. How
am I to get through the weary, weary hours be-
tween this and the evening? I think I shall
darken my bedroom, and drink the blessing of
oblivion from my bottle of Drops.
“Eleven o'clock.—We have parted for the last
time before the day comes that makes us man
and wife.
“He has left me, as he left me before, with
an absorbing subject of interest to think of in
his absence. I noticed a change in him the mo-
ment he entered the room. When he told me
of the funeral, and of his parting with Armadale
on board the yacht, though he spoke with feelings
deeply moved, he spoke with a mastery over him-
self which is new to me in my experience of him.
It was the same when our talk turned next on our
own hopes and prospects. He was plainly dis-
appointed when he found that my family embar-
rassments would prevent our meeting to-morrow,
and plainly uneasy at the prospect of leaving me
to find my way by myself on Monday to the
church. But there was a certain hopefulness
and composure of manner underlying it all,
which produced so strong an impression on me
that I was obliged to notice it. ‘You know
what odd fancies take possession of me some-
times, I said. “Shall I tell you the fancy that
has taken possession of me now? I can't help
thinking that something has happened since we
last saw each other, which you have not told me
vet.”
“‘Something has happened, he answered.
‘And it is something which you ought to
know.’ -
“With these words he took out his pocket-
book, and produced two written papers from it.
One he looked at and put back. The bther he
placed on the table before me. Keeping his
hand on it for a moment, he spoke again.
“‘Before I tell you what this is, and how it
came into my possession, he said, ‘I must own
something that I have concealed from you. It


ARMADALE. 249
seemed to be capable of uttering that morning
|—“My son is coming to breakfast. My son is
very particular. I want every thing of the best
|-best things, and cold things—and tea and
coffee—and all the rest of it, waiter; all the
| rest of it.” For the fiftieth time he now reiter-
|ated those anxious words. For the fiftieth time
the impenetrable waiter had just returned his
one pacifying answer—“All right, Sir; you
R may leave it to me”—when the sound of leis-
#| |urely footsteps was heard on the stairs; the
door opened; and the long-expected son saun-
tered indolently into the room with a neat little
black leather bag in his hand.
|| || “Well done, old gentleman!" said Bashwood
the younger, surveying his father's dress with
a smile of sardonic encouragement. “You're
ready to be married to Miss Gwilt at a mo-
ment's notice l’’
| | The father took the son's hand and tried to
echo the son's laugh.
|| “You have such good spirits, Jemmy,” he
!, said, using the name in its familiar form, as he
had been accustomed to use it, in happier days.
| “You always had good spirits, my dear, from
§ a child. Come and sit down; I’ve ordered you
a nice breakfast. Every thing of the best! ev-
erything of the best! What a relief it is to
- see you! Oh, dear, dear, what a relief it is to
see you!” He stopped and sat down at the
chill of alternating hope and despair, prolonged table—his face flushed with the effort to con-
over day after day of unrelieved suspense, had trol the impatience that was devouring him.
dried and withered and wasted him. The an- “Tell me about her!” he burst out, giving up
gles of his figure had sharpened. The outline the effort with a sudden self-abandonment.
of his face had shrunk. His dress pointed the “I shall die, Jemmy, if I wait for it any longer.
melancholy change in him with a merciless Tell me! tell me!! tell me!!!”
and shocking emphasis. Never, even in his “One thing at a time,” said Bashwood the
youth, had he worn such clothes as he wore younger, perfectly unmoved by his father's im-
now. With the desperate resolution to leave patience. “We'll try the breakfast first, and
no chance untried of producing an impression come to the lady afterward? Gently does it,
on Miss Gwilt, he had cast aside his dreary old gentleman—gently does it!”
black garments; he had even mustered the cour- He put his leather bag on a chair and sat
age to wear his blue satin cravat. His coat was down opposite to his father, composed, and
a riding coat of light gray. He had ordered it, smiling, and humming a little tune.
with a vindictive subtlety of purpose, to be made | No ordinary observation, applying the ordi-
on the pattern of a coat that he had seen Allan
wear. His waistcoat was white; his trowsers
were of the gayest summer pattern, in the larg-
est check. His wig was oiled and scented, and
brushed round, on either side, to hide the wrink-
les on his temples. He was an object to laugh
at—he was an object to weep over. His ene-
mies, if a creature so wretched could have had
enemies, would have forgiven him on seeing
him in his new dress. His friends—had any
of his friends been left—would have been less
disturbed if they had looked at him in his coffin
than if they had looked at him as he was now.
Incessantly restless, he paced the room from
end to end. Now he looked at his watch; now
he looked out of window; now he looked at the
well-furnished breakfast-table—always with the
same wistful, uneasy inquiry in his eyes. The
waiter coming in, with the urn of boiling water,
was addressed for the fiftieth time in the one
form of words which the miserable creature,
nary rules of analysis, would have detected the
character of Bashwood the younger in his face.
His youthful look, aided by his light hair, and
his plump beardless cheeks; his easy manner,
and his ever-ready smile; his eyes which met
unshrinkingly the eyes of every one whom he
addressed, all combined to make the impression
of him a favorable impression in the general
mind. No eye for reading character, but such
an eye as belonged to one person, perhaps, in
ten thousand, could have penetrated the smooth-
deceptive surface of this man, and have seen
him for what he really was—the vile creature
whom the viler need of Society has fashioned
for its own use. There he sat—the Confiden-
tial Spy of modern times, whose business is
steadily enlarging, whose Private Inquiry Offi-
ces are steadily on the increase. There he sat
—the necessary Detective attendant on the pro-
gress of our national civilization; a man who was,
in this instance at least, the legitimate and in-


250
ARMADALE.
telligible product of the vocation that employed of the notes to his own keeping; and handed
him; a man professionally ready on the merest
suspicion (if the merest suspicion paid him) to
get under our beds, and to look through gimlet-
holes in our doors; a man who would have been
useless to his employers if he could have felt a
touch of human sympathy in his father's pres-
ence; and who would have deservedly forfeited
his situation, if, under any circumstances what-
ever, he had been personally accessible to a sense
of pity or a sense of shame.
“Gently does it, old gentleman,” he repeated,
lifting the covers from the dishes, and looking
under them one after the other all round the ta-
ble. “Gently does it!”
“Don’t be angry with me, Jemmy,” pleaded
his father. “Try, if you can, to think how
anxious I must be. I got your letter as long ago
as yesterday morning. I have had to travel all
the way from Thorpe-Ambrose—I have had to
get through the dreadful long evening, and the
dreadful long night, with your letter telling me
that you had found out who she is, and telling
me nothing more. Suspense is very hard to
bear, Jemmy, when you come to my age. What
was it prevented you, my dear, from coming to
me when I got here yesterday evening?”
“A little dinner at Richmond,” said Bash-
wood the younger. “Give me some tea.”
Mr. Bashwood tried to comply with the re-
quest; but the hand with which he lifted the
tea-pot trembled so unmanageably that the tea
missed the cup and streamed out on the cloth.
“I’m very sorry; I can't help trembling when
I'm anxious,” said the old man, as his son took
the tea-pot out of his hand. “I'm afraid you
bear me malice, Jemmy, for what happened
when I was last in town. I own I was ob-
stinate and unreasonable about going back
to Thorpe-Ambrose. I'm more sensible now.
You were quite right in taking it all on yourself,
as soon as I showed you the veiled lady, when
we saw her come out of the hotel; and you were
quite right to send me back the same day to my
business in the steward's office at the Great
House.” He watched the effect of these con-
cessions on his son, and ventured doubtfully on
another entreaty. “If you won't tell me any
thing else just yet,” he said, faintly, “will you
tell me how you found her out? Do, Jemmy-
do !” .
Bashwood the younger looked up from his
plate. “I’ll tell you that,” he said. “The
reckoning up of Miss Gwilt has cost more money
and taken more time than I expected; and the
sooner we come to a settlement about it the soon-
er we shall get to what you want to know.”
Without a word of expostulation the father
laid his dingy old pocket-book and his purse on
the table before the son. Bashwood the younger
looked into the purse; observed, with a con-
temptuous elevation of the eyebrows, that it held
no more than a sovereign and some silver; and
returned it intact. The pocket-book, on being
the pocket-book back to his father, with a bow
expressive of mock gratitude and sarcastic re-
spect.
“A thousand thanks,” he said. “Some of
it is for the people at our office, and the balance
is for myself. One of the few stupid things,
my dear Sir, that I have done in the course of
my life, was to write you word when you first
consulted me, that you might have my services
gratis. As you see, I hasten to repair the error.
An hour or two at odd times I was ready enough
to give you. But this business has taken days,
and has got in the way of other jobs. I told
you I couldn't be out of pocket by you—I put i.
in my letter, as plain as words could say it.”
“Yes, yes, Jemmy. I don't complain, my
dear, I don't complain. Never mind the money
—tell me how you found her out.”
“Besides,” pursued Bashwood the younger,
proceeding impenetrably with his justification
of himself, “I have given you the benefit of my
experience—I’ve done it cheap. It would have
cost double the money if another man had taken
this in hand. Another man would have kept
a watch on Mr. Armadale as well as Miss Gwilt.
I have saved you that expense. You are cer-
tain that Mr. Armadale is bent on marrying
her. Very good. In that case, while we have
our eye on her, we have, for all useful purposes,
got our eye on him. Know where the lady is,
and you know that the gentleman can't be far
Oft.”
“Quite true, Jemmy. But how was it Miss
Gwilt came to give you so much trouble?”
“She's a devilish clever woman,” said Bash-
wood the younger; “that's how it was. She gave
us the slip at a milliner's shop. We made it all
right with the milliner, and speculated on the
chance of her coming back to try on a gown she
had ordered. The cleverest women lose the use
of their wits in nine cases out of ten where
there's a new dress in the case—and even Miss
Gwilt was rash enough to go back. That was
all we wanted. One of the women from our of-
fice helped to try on her new gown, and put her
in the right position to be seen by one of our
men behind the door. He instantly suspected
who she was, on the strength of what he had been
told of her—for she's a famous woman in her
way. Of course, we didn't trust to that. We
traced her to her new address; and we got a
man from Scotland Yard, who was certain to
know her, if our own man's idea was the right
one. The man from Scotland Yard turned mil-
liner's lad for the occasion, and took her gown
home. He saw her in the passage and identified
her in an instant. You're in luck, I can tell
you. Miss Gwilt's a public character. If we
had had a less motorious woman to deal with
she might have cost us weeks of inquiry, and
you might have had to pay hundreds of pounds.
A day did it in Miss Gwilt's case; and another
day put the whole story of her life, in black and
opened next, proved to contain four five-pound white, into my hands. There it is at the present
notes. Bashwood the younger transferred three moment, old gentleman, in my black bag.”


ARMADALE.
lage school, while they staid at Thorpe-Ambrose,
when the proposal was made to them. The new
arrangement was carried out the next day. And
the day after that the Oldershaws had disap-
peared, and had left the little girl on the squire's
hands! She evidently hadn't answered as they
expected in the capacity of an advertisement—
and that was the way they took of providing for
her for life. There is the first act of the play for
you! Clear enough, so far, isn't it?”
“Clear enough, Jemmy, to clever people.
But I'm old and slow. I don't understand one
thing. Whose child was she?”
%.
%
|
“A very sensible question. Sorry to inform
you that nobody can answer it—Miss Gwilt her-
self included. These Instructions that I'm re-
ferring to are founded, of course, on her own
statements, sifted by her attorney. All she
could remember, on being questioned, was,
that she was beaten and half-starved, some-
where in the country, by a woman who took
in children at nurse. The woman had a card
with her, stating that her name was Lydia
Gwilt, and got a yearly allowance for taking
care of her (paid through a lawyer) till she
was eight years old. At that time the allow-


ARMADALE.
253
ance stopped; the lawyer had no explanation to
offer; nobody came to look after her; nobody
wrote. The Oldershaws saw her, and thought
she might answer to exhibit; and the woman
parted with her for a trifle to the Oldershaws;
and the Oldershaws parted with her for good
and all to the Blanchards. That's the story of
her birth, parentage, and education. She was
the daughter of a Duke, or the daughter of
a costermonger. The circumstances may be
highly romantic, or utterly commonplace. Fan-
cy anything you like—there's nothing to stop
you. When you've had your fancy out, say
the word, and I'll turn over the leaves and go
on.”
“Please to go on, Jemmy—please to go on.”
“The next glimpse of Miss Gwilt,” resumed
Bashwood the younger, turning over the papers,
“is a glimpse at a family mystery. The deserted
child was in luck's way at last. She had taken
the fancy of an amiable young lady with a rich
father; and she was petted and made much
of at the great house, in the character of Miss
Blanchard's last new plaything. Not long aft-
erward Mr. Blanchard and his daughter went
abroad, and took the girl with them in the ca-
pacity of Miss Blanchard's little maid. When
they came back, the daughter had married, and
become a widow, in the interval; and the pret-
ty little maid, instead of returning with them to
Thorpe-Ambrose, turns up suddenly, all alone,
as a pupil at a school in France. There she
was at a first-rate establishment, with her main-
tenance and education secured until she married
and settled in life, on this understanding—that
she never returned to England. These were all
the particulars she could be prevailed on to give
the lawyer who drew up these instructions. She
declined to say what had happened abroad; she
declined even, after all the years that had passed,
to mention her mistress's married name. It's
quite clear, of course, that she was in possession
of some family secret; and that the Blanchards
paid for her schooling on the Continent to keep
her out of the way. And it's equally plain that
she would never have kept her secret as she did
if she had not seen her way to trading on it for
her own advantage at some future time. A
clever woman, as I've told you already! A
devilish clever woman, who hasn't been knocked
about in the world, and seen the ups and downs
of life abroad and at home for nothing.”
“Yes, yes, Jemmy; quite true. How long
did she stop, please, at the school in France?”
Bashwood the younger referred to the pa-
pers.
“She stopped at the French school,” he re-
plied, “till she was seventeen.
something happened at the school which I find
mildly described in these papers as ‘something
unpleasant. The plain fact was, that the music-
master attached to the establishment fell in love
with Miss Gwilt. He was a respectable middle-
aged man, with a wife and family—and finding
the circumstances entirely hopeless, he took a
pistol, and rashly assuming that he had brains
At that time
| in his head, tried to blow them out. The doc-
tors saved his life, but not his reason—he ended,
where he had better have begun, in an asylum.
Miss Gwilt's beauty having been at the bottom
of the scandal, it was, of course, impossible—
though she was proved to have been otherwise
quite blameless in the matter—for her to re-
main at the school after what had happened.
Her ‘friends' (the Blanchards) were communi-
cated with. And her friends transferred her to
another school, at Brussels, this time.—What
are you sighing about? what's wrong now?”
“I can't help feeling a little for the poor mu-
sic-master, Jemmy. Go on.”
“According to her own account of it, dad,
Miss Gwilt seems to have felt for him, too.
She took a serious turn, and was ‘converted'
(as they call it) by the lady who had charge of
her in the interval before she went to Brussels.
The priest at the Belgian school appears to have
been a man of some discretion, and to have seen
that the girl's sensibilities were getting into a
dangerously-excited state. Before he could
quiet her down he fell ill, and was succeeded by
another priest, who was a fanatic. You will un-
derstand the sort of interest he took in the girl,
and the way in which he worked on her feel-
ings when I tell you that she announced it as
her decision, after having been nearly ten years
at the school, to end her days in a convent!
You may well stare ! Miss Gwilt, in the char-
acter of a Nun, is the sort of female phenome-
non you don't often set eyes on. Women are
queer creatures. Nine out of ten of the sex
don't know which end of them is uppermost
half their time.”
“Did she go into the convent?” asked Mr.
Bashwood. “Did they let her go in, so friend-
less and so young, with nobody to advise her
for the best ?”
“The Blanchards were consulted, as a mat-
ter of form,” pursued Bashwood the younger.
“They had no objection to her shutting herself
up in a convent, as you may well imagine. The
pleasantest letter they ever had from her, I'll
answer for it, was the letter in which she sol-
emnly took leave of them in this world forever.
The people at the convent were as careful as
usual not to commit themselves. Their rules
wouldn't allow her to take the veil till she had
lived the life for a year first, and then, if she
had any doubt, for another year after that. She
tried the life for the first year, accordingly—and
doubted. She tried it for the second year—and
was wise enough, by that time, to give it up
without further hesitation. Her position was
rather an awkward one when she found herself
at liberty again. The sisters at the convent had
lost their interest in her; the mistress at the
school declined to take her back as teacher, on
the ground that she was too nice-looking for the
place; the priest considered her to be possessed
iy the devil. There was nothing for it but to
| write to the Blanchards again, and ask them to
start her in life as a teacher of music on her own
account. She wrote to her former mistress ac-


254
ARMADALE.
cordingly. Her former mistress had evidently
doubted the genuineness of the girl's resolution
to be a nun, and had seized the opportunity of-
fered by the farewell letter of three years since
to cut off all further communication between her
ex-waiting maid and herself. Miss Gwilt's let-
ter was returned by the post-office.
inquiries to be made; and found that Mr. Blan-
chard was dead, and that his daughter had left
the great house for some place of retirement un-
known. The next thing she did, upon this, was
to write to the heir in possession of the estate.
The letter was answered by his solicitors, who
were instructed to put the law in force at the
first attempt she made to extort money from
any member of the family at Thorpe-Ambrose.
The last chance was to get at the address of her
mistress's place of retirement. The family bank-
ers, to whom she wrote, wrote back to say that they
were instructed not to give the lady's address to any
one applying for it, without being previously em-
powered to do so by the lady herself. That last
letter settled the question—Miss Gwilt could do
nothing more. With money at her command,
she might have gone to England, and made the
Blanchards think twice before they carried things
with too high a hand. Not having a half-penny
at command, she was helpless. Without money
and without friends, you may wonder how she
supported herself while the correspondence was
going on. She supported herself by playing the
piano-forte at a low concert-room in Brussels.
The men laid siege to her, of course, in all di-
rections—but they found her insensible as ada-
mant. One of these rejected gentlemen was a
Russian; and he was the means of making her
acquainted with a countrywoman of his—whose
name is unpronounceable by English lips. Let
us give her her title, and call her the Baroness.
The two women liked each other at their first
introduction; and a new scene opened in Miss
Gwilt's life. She became reader and companion
to the Baroness. Every thing was right, every
thing was smooth on the surface. Every thing
was rotten and every thing was wrong under it.”
“In what way, Jemmy? Please to wait a
little, and tell me in what way.”
“In this way. The Baroness was fond of
traveling, and she had a select set of friends
about her, who were quite of her way of think-
ing. They went from one city on the Continent
to another, and were such charming people that
they picked up acquaintances every where. The
acquaintances were invited to the Baroness's re-
ceptions—and card-tables were invariably a part
of the Baroness's furniture. Do you see it now?
or must I tell you, in the strictest confidence,
that cards were not considered sinful on these
festive occasions, and that the luck, at the end
of the evening, turned out to be almost invaria-
bly on the side of the Baroness and her friends
—swindlers, all of them—and there isn't a doubt
on my mind, whatever there may be on yours,
that Miss Gwilt's manners and appearance made
her a valuable member of this society in the ca-
pacity of a decoy. Her own statement is, that
She caused
she was innocent of all knowledge of what real-
ly went on; that she was quite ignorant of card-
playing; that she hadn't such a thing as a re-
spectable friend to turn to in the world; and
that she honestly liked the Baroness, for the
simple reason that the Baroness was a hearty
good friend to her from first to last—believe
that or not as you please. For five years she
traveled about all over the Continent with these
card-sharpers in high life, and she might have
been among them at this moment for any thing
I know to the contrary, if the Baroness had not
caught a Tartar at Naples, in the shape of a rich
traveling Englishman, named Waldron. Aha!
that name startles you, does it? You've read
the Trial of the famous Mrs. Waldron, like the
rest of the world? And you know who Miss
Gwilt is now, without my telling you?”
He paused, and looked at his father in sud-
den perplexity. Far from being overwhelmed
by the discovery which had just burst on him,
Mr. Bashwood, after the first natural movement
of surprise, faced his son with a self-possession
which was nothing short of extraordinary under
the circumstances. There was a new brightness
in his eyes, and a new color in his face, if it had
been possible to conceive such a thing of a man
in his position; he seemed to be absolutely en-
couraged instead of depressed by what he had
just heard. “Go on, Jemmy,” he said, quiet-
ly; “I am one of the few people who didn't
read the Trial—I only heard of it.”
Still wondering inwardly, Bashwood the youn-
ger recovered himself, and went on.
“You always were, and you always will be,
behind the age,” he said. “When we come
to the Trial, I can tell you as much about it as
you need know. In the mean time, we must
go back to the Baroness and Mr. Waldron. For
a certain number of nights the Englishman let
the card-sharpers have it all their own way—in
other words, he paid for the privilege of making
himself agreeable to Miss Gwilt. When he
thought he had produced the necessary impres-
sion on her, he exposed the whole confederacy
without mercy. The police interfered; the
Baroness found herself in prison; and Miss
Gwilt was put between the two alternatives of
accepting Mr. Waldron's protection, or being
thrown on the world again. She was amazingly
virtuous, or amazingly clever, which you please.
To Mr. Waldron's astonishment she told him
that she could face the prospect of being thrown
on the world, and that he must address her
honorably or leave her forever. The end of it
was what the end always is, where the man is
infatuated and the woman is determined. To
the disgust of his family and friends, Mr. Wal-
dron made a virtue of necessity and married
her.”
“How old was he?” asked Bashwood the eld-
er, eagerly.
Bashwood the younger cried out, laughing,
“He was about old enough, daddy, to be your
son, and rich enough to have burst that precious
pocket-book of yours with thousand-pound notes!


256 ARMADALE.
her solicitor's experience (as it is in my experi- en on an innocent woman. The two legal
ence too) that when a woman is fond of a man, points relied on for the defense (after this prelim-
in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, risk or no, inary flourish) were: First, that there was no
risk, she keeps his letters. Having his suspicions evidence—as you said just now—to connect her
roused in this way, the lawyer privately made with the possession of poison; and, secondly,
some inquiries about the foreign captain—and that the medical witnesses, while positively de-
found that he was as short of money as a foreign claring that her husband died by poison, differed
captain could be. At the same time he put some in their conclusions as to the particular drug that
questions to his client about her expectations had killed him. Both good points, and both well
from her deceased husband. She answered, in worked; but the evidence on the other side bore
high indignation, that a will had been found down everything before it. The prisoner was
among her husband's papers, privately executed proved to have had no less than three excellent
only a few days before his death, and leaving her reasons for killing her husband. He had treat-
no more, out of all his immense fortune, than |ed her with almost unexampled barbarity; he
five thousand pounds. “Was there an older had left her in a will (unrevoked so far as she
will, then, says the lawyer, ‘which the new will knew) mistress of a fortune on his death; and
revoked ? Yes, there was; a will that he had she was by her own confession contemplating an
given into my own possession; a will made when elopement with another man. Having set forth
they were first married. ‘Leaving his widow these motives, the prosecution next showed by
well provided for?' Leaving her just ten times evidence, which was never once shaken on any
as much as the second will left her. “Had she single point, that the one person in the house
ever mentioned that first will, now revoked, to who could by any human possibility have admin-
Captain Manuel ?” She saw the trap set for istered the poison, was the prisoner at the bar.
her—and said, ‘No, never!' without an instant's What could the judge and jury do, with such
hesitation. That reply confirmed the lawyer's evidence before them as this? The verdict was
suspicions. He tried to frighten her by declar- Guilty, as a matter of course; and the judge
ing that her life might pay the forfeit of her de- declared that he agreed with it. The female part
ceiving him in this matter. With the usual ob-
stimacy of women, she remained just as immov-
able as ever. The captain, on his side, behaved
in the most exemplary manner. He confessed
to planning the elopement; he declared that he
had burned all the lady's letters as they reached
him, out of regard for her reputation; he re-
mained in the neighborhood; and he volunteered
to attend before the magistrates. Nothing was
discovered that could legally connect him with
the crime—or that could put him into court on
the day of the Trial, in any other capacity than
the capacity of a witness. I don't believe my-
self that there's any moral doubt (as they call it)
that Manuel knew of the will which left his mis-
tress fifty thousand pounds; and that he was
ready and willing, in virtue of that circumstance,
to marry her on Mr. Waldron's death. If any
body tempted her to effect her own release from
her savage husband by making herself a widow,
the captain must have been the man. And un-
less she contrived, guarded and watched as she
was, to get the poison for herself, the poison must
have come to her in one of the captain's letters.”
“They never traced the poison to her,” said
his father. “I remember hearing that at the
time of the Trial.”
Bashwood the younger, without noticing the
interruption, folded up the Instructions for the
Defense, which had now served their purpose;
put them back in his bag; and produced a print-
ed pamphlet in their place.
“Here is one of the published Reports of the
Trial,” he said, “which you can read at your
leisure, if you like. We needn't waste time
now by going into details. I have told you al-
ready how cleverly her counsel paved his way
for treating the charge of murder, as the crown-
ing calamity of the many that had already fall-
of the audience was in hysterics; and the male
part was not much better. The judge sobbed,
and the Bar shuddered. She was sentenced to
death in such a scene as had never been pre-
viously witnessed in an English Court of Justice.
And she is alive and hearty at the present mo-
ment; free to do any mischief she pleases, and
to poison at her own entire convenience, any
man, woman, or child that happens to stand in
her way. A most interesting woman : Keep
on good terms with her, my dear Sir, whatever
you do—for the Law has said to her in the plain-
est possible English, “My charming friend, I
have no terrors for you.””
“How was she pardoned?” asked Mr. Bash-
wood, breathlessly. “They told me at the time
—but I have forgotten. Was it the Home-
Secretary? If it was, I respect the Home-Sec-
retary ! I say the Home-Secretary was deserv-
ing of his place.”
“Quite right, old gentleman 1" rejoined
Bashwood the younger. “The Home-Secre-
tary was the obedient humble servant of an
enlightened Free Press—and he was deserving
of his place. Is it possible you don't know how
she cheated the gallows? If you don't I must
tell you. On the evening of the Trial, two or
three of the young Buccaniers of Literature
went down to two or three newspaper offices,
and wrote two or three heart-rending leading
articles on the subject of the proceedings in
court. The next morning the public caught
light like tinder; and the prisoner was tried
over again, before an amateur court of justice,
in the columns of the newspapers. All the peo-
ple who had no personal experience whatever
on the subject seized their pens, and rushed
(by kind permission of the editor) into print.
Doctors who had not attended the sick man, and


ARMADALE.
257
who had not been present at the examination of
the body, declared by dozens that he had died a
natural death. Barristers without business, who
had not heard the evidence, attacked the jury
who had heard it, and judged the judge, who had
sat on the bench before some of them was born.
The general public followed the lead of the bar-
risters and the doctors, and the young buccan-
iers who had set the thing going. Here was the
Law, that they all paid to protect them, actually
doing its duty in dreadful earnest! Shocking!
shocking! The British Public rose to protest
as one man against the working of its own ma-
chinery; and the Home-Secretary, in a state of
distraction, went to the judge. The judge held
firm. He had said it was the right verdict at the
time, and he said so still. “But suppose,” says
the Home-Secretary, “that the prosecution had
tried some other way of proving her guilty at the
trial than the way they did try—what would you
and the jury have done then? Of course it
was quite impossible for the judge to say. This
comforted the Home-Secretary, to begin with.
And, when he got the judge's consent, after that,
to having the conflict of medical evidence sub-
mitted to one great doctor; and when the one
great doctor took the merciful view, after ex-
pressly stating, in the first instance, that he
knew nothing practically of the merits of the
case, the Home-Secretary was perfectly satisfied.
The prisoner's death-warrant went into the waste-
paper basket, the verdict of the Law was re-
versed by general acclamation, and the verdict
of the newspapers carried the day. But the best
of it is to come. You know what happened
when the people found themselves with the pet
object of their sympathy suddenly cast loose on
their hands? A general impression prevailed
directly that she was not quite innocent enough,
after all, to be let out of prison then and there!
Punish her a little—that was the state of the
popular feeling—punish her a little, my Home-
Secretary, on general moral grounds. A small
course of gentle legal medicine, if you love us—
and then we shall feel perfectly easy on the sub-
ject to the end of our days.”
“Don’t joke about it!” cried his father.
“Don’t, don’t, don't, Jemmy! Did they try
her again? They couldn't! they durs'n't! No-
body can be tried twice over for the same of-
fense.”
“Pooh! pooh! she could be tried a second
time for a second offense,” retorted Bashwood
the younger—“and tried she was. Luckily for
the pacification of the public mind, she had
rushed headlong into redressing her own griev-
ance (as women will), when she discovered that
her husband had cut her down from a legacy of
fifty thousand pounds to a legacy of five thou-
sand by a stroke of his pen. The day before
the Inquest a locked drawer in Mr. Waldron's
dressing-room table, which contained some val-
uable jewelry, was discovered to have been open-
ed and emptied—and when the prisoner was
committed by the magistrates, the precious stones
were found torn out of their settings, and sewn
up in her stays. The lady considered it a case
of justifiable self-compensation. The Law de-
clared it to be a robbery committed on the exec-
utors of the dead man. The lighter offense—
which had been passed over, when such a charge
as murder was brought against her—was just the
thing to revive, to save appearances in the eyes
of the public. They had stopped the course of
justice, in the case of the prisoner, at one trial;
and now all they wanted was to set the course
of justice going again, in the case of the prison-
er, at another! She was arraigned for the rob-
bery, after having been pardoned for the mur-
der. And, what is more, if her beauty and her
misfortunes hadn't made a strong impression on
her lawyer, she would not only have had to stand
another trial, but would have had even the five
thousand pounds, to which she was entitled by
the second will, taken away from her, as a felon,
by the Crown.”
“I respect her lawyer! I admire her lawyer!”
exclaimed Mr. Bashwood. “I should like to
take his hand and tell him so.”
“He wouldn't thank you if you did,” remark-
ed Bashwood the younger. “He is under a
comfortable impression that nobody knows how
he saved Mrs. Waldron's legacy for her but him-
self.”
“I beg your pardon, Jemmy,” interposed his
father. “But don't call her Mrs. Waldron.
Speak of her, please, by her name when she was
innocent and young, and a girl at school. Would
you mind, for my sake, calling her Miss Gwilt?”
“Not I It makes no difference to me what
name I give her. Bother your sentiment! let's
get on with the facts. This is what the law-
yer did before the second trial came off. He
told her she would be found guilty again, to
a dead certainty. “And this time,” he said,
‘the public will let the law take its course. Have
you got an old friend whom you can trust?” She
hadn't such a thing as an old friend in the world.
“Very well, then, says the lawyer, “you must
trust me. Sign this paper; and you will have
executed a fictitious sale of all your property to
myself. When the right time comes, I shall
first carefully settle with your husband's execu-
tors; and I shall then reconvey the money to
you, securing it properly (in case you ever mar-
ry again) in your own possession. The Crown,
in other transactions of this kind, frequently
waives its right of disputing the validity of the sale
—and if the Crown is no harder on you than on
other people, when you come out of prison you
will have your five thousand pounds to begin the
world with again.”—Neat of the lawyer, when
she was going to be tried for robbing the execu-
tors, to put her up to a way of robbing the Crown,
wasn't it? Ha! ha! what a world it is !”
The last effort of the son's sarcasm passed un-
heeded by the father. “In prison '" he said
to himself. “Ah me, after all that misery, in
prison again!”
“Yes,” said Bashwood the younger, rising
and stretching himself, “that's how it ended.
The verdict was Guilty; and the sentence was


260
ARMADALE.
Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speech-
less and helpless dismay.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Bashwood the
younger, pushing his father back roughly into
the cab. “He’s safe enough. We shall find
him at Miss Gwilt's.”
The old man took his son's hand and kissed
it. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully.
“Thank you for comforting me.”
The cab was driven next to the second lodg-
ing which Miss Gwilt had occupied, in the neigh-
borhood of Tottenham Court Road.
“Stop here,” said the Spy, getting out, and
shutting his father into the cab. “I mean to
manage this part of the business myself.”
He knocked at the house door. “I have got
a note for Miss Gwilt,” he said, walking into
the passage the moment the door was opened.
“She's gone,” answered the servant. “She
went away last night.”
Bashwood the younger wasted no more words
with the servant. He insisted on seeing the
mistress. The mistress confirmed the an-
nouncement of Miss Gwilt's departure on the
previous evening. Where had she gone to?
The woman couldn't say. How had she left?
On foot. At what hour? Between nine and
ten. What had she done with her luggage?
She had no luggage. Had a gentleman been
to see her on the previous day? Not a soul,
gentle or simple, had come to the house to see
Miss Gwilt.
The father's face, pale and wild, was looking
out of the cab window, as the son descended the
house-steps. “Isn't she there, Jemmy?” he
asked, faintly—“isn't she there?”
“Hold your tongue!” cried the Spy, with
the native coarseness of his nature rising to the
surface at last. “I'm not at the end of my in-
quiries yet.”
He crossed the road, and entered a coffee-
shop situated exactly opposite the house he had
just left.
In the box nearest the window two men were
sitting talking together anxiously.
“Which of you was on duty yesterday even-
ing, between nine and ten o'clock?” asked
Bashwood the younger, suddenly joining them,
and putting his question in a quick, peremptory
whisper
“I was, Sir,” said one of the men, unwill-
ingly.
“Did you lose sight of the house?—Yes! I
see you did.” -
“Only for a minute, Sir. An infernal black-
guard of a soldier came in—”
“That will do,” said Bashwood the younger.
“I know what the soldier did, and who sent
him to do it. She has given us the slip again.
You are the greatest Ass living. Consider
yourself dismissed.” With these words, and
with an oath to emphasize them, he left the
coffee-shop and returned to the cab.
“She's gone!” cried his father. “Oh, Jem-
my, Jemmy, I see it in your face!” He fell
back into his own corner of the cab, with a
faint, wailing cry. “They're married,” he
moaned to himself, his hands falling helplessly
on his knees—his hat falling, unregarded, from
his head. “Stop them!” he exclaimed, sud-
denly rousing himself, and seizing his son, in a
frenzy, by the collar of the coat.
“Go back to the hotel!'” shouted Bashwood
the younger, to the cabman. “Hold your
noise!” he added, turning fiercely on his father.
“I want to think.”
The varnish of smoothness was all off him by
this time. His temper was roused. His pride
—even such a man has his pride!—was wounded
to the quick. Twice had he matched his wits
against a woman's, and twice the woman had
baffled him.
He got out, on reaching the hotel for the sec-
ond time, and privately tried the servants with
the offer of money. The result of the experiment
satisfied him that they had, in this instance, re-
ally and truly, no information to sell. After a
moment's reflection he stopped, before leaving
the hotel, to ask the way to the parish church.
“The chance may be worth trying,” he thought
to himself, as he gave the address to the driver.
“Faster!” he called out, looking first at his
watch and then at his father. “The minutes
are precious this morning, and the old one is be-
ginning to give in.”
It was true. Still capable of hearing and of
understanding, Mr. Bashwood was past speak-
ing by this time. He clung with both hands
to his son's grudging arm, and let his head fall
helplessly on his son's averted shoulder.
The parish church stood back from the street,
protected by gates and railings, and surrounded
by a space of open ground. Shaking off his fa-
ther's hold, Bashwood the younger made straight
for the vestry. The clerk, putting away the
books, and the clerk's assistant, hanging up a
surplice, were the only persons in the room
when he entered it, and asked leave to look at
the marriage Register for the day.
The clerk gravely opened the book, and stood
aside from the desk on which it lay.
The day's register comprised three marriages
solemnized that morning; and the first two sig-
natures on the page were “Allan Armadale”
and “Lydia Gwilt!”
Even the Spy—ignorant as he was of the truth
—unsuspicious as he was of the terrible future
consequences to which the act of that morning
might lead—even the Spy started when his eye
first fell on the page. It was done! Come
what might of it, it was done now. There, in
black and white, was the registered evidence of
the marriage, which was at once a truth in it-
self, and a lie in the conclusion to which it led!
There—through the fatal similarity in the names
—there, in Midwinter's own signature, was the
proof to persuade every body that, not Mid-
winter, but Allan, was the husband of Miss
Gwilt!
Bashwood the younger closed the book and
returned it to the clerk. He descended the
vestry steps with his hands thrust doggedly into


ARMADALE.
261
his pockets, and with a serious shock inflicted
on his professional self-esteem.
The beadle met him under the church-wall.
He considered for a moment whether it was
worth while to spend a shilling in questioning
the man, and decided in the affirmative. If
they could be traced and overtaken there might
be a chance of seeing the color of Mr. Arma-
dale's money even yet.
“How long is it,” he asked, “since the
first couple married here this morning left the
church P”
“About an hour,” said the beadle.
“How did they go away?”
The beadle deferred answering that second
question until he had first pocketed his fee.
“You won't trace them from here, Sir,” he
said, when he had got his shilling. “They
went away on foot.” -
“And that is all you know about it?”
“That, Sir, is all I know about it.”
Left by himself, even the Detective of the
Private Inquiry Office paused for a moment be-
fore he returned to his father at the gate. He
was roused from his hesitation by the sudden
appearance, within the church inclosure, of the
driver of the cab.
“I'm afraid the old gentleman is going to be
taken ill, Sir,” said the man.
Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and
walked back to the cab. As he opened the door
and looked in his father leaned forward and
confronted him, with lips that moved speech-
lessly, and with a white stillness over all the
rest of his face.
“She's done us,” said the Spy.
married here this morning.”
The old man's body swayed for a moment from
one side to the other. The instant after his
eyes closed, and his head fell forward toward the
front seat of the cab. “Drive to the hospital !”
cried his son. “He’s in a fit. That is what
comes of putting myself out of my way to please
my father,” he muttered, sullenly raising Mr.
Bashwood's head and loosening his cravat. “A
nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice
morning's work!”
The hospital was near, and the house-surgeon
was at his post.
“Will he come out of it?” asked Bashwood
the younger, roughly.
“Who are you?” asked the surgeon, sharply,
on his side.
“I am his son.”
“I shouldn't have thought it,” rejoined the
surgeon, taking the restoratives that were hand-
ed to him by the nurse, and turning from the
son to the father with an air of relief which he
was at no pains to conceal. “Yes,” he added,
after a minute or two. “Your father will come
out of it this time.” -
“When can he be moved away from here?”
“He can be moved from the hospital in an
hour or two.”
“They were
The Spy laid a card on the table. “I’ll come
back for him or send for him,” he said. “I
suppose I can go now, if I leave my name and
address?” With those words he put on his
hat and walked out.
“He’s a brute!” said the nurse.
“No,” said the surgeon, quietly.
man.”
* *k sk sk sk sk
Between nine and ten o'clock that night Mr.
Bashwood awoke in his bed at the inn in the
Borough. He had slept for some hours since
he had been brought back from the hospital,
and his mind and body were now slowly recov-
ering together.
A light was burning on the bedside-table, and
a letter lay on it, waiting for him till he was
awake. It was in his son's handwriting, and it
contained these words:
** He's a
“MY DEAR DAD,-Having seen you safe out
of the hospital, and back at your hotel, I think
I may fairly claim to have done my duty by you,
and may consider myself free to look after my
own affairs. Business will prevent me from see-
ing you to-night; and I don't think it at all like-
ly I shall be in your neighborhood to-morrow
morning. My advice to you is, to go back to
Thorpe-Ambrose, and to stick to your employ-
ment in the steward's office. Wherever Mr.
Armadale may be, he must, sooner or later,
write to you on business. I wash my hands of
the whole matter, mind, so far as I am concern-
ed, from this time forth. But if you like to go
on with it, my professional opinion is (though
you couldn't hinder his marriage), you may part
him from his wife.
“Pray take care of yourself.
“Your affectionate son,
“JAMES BASHwooD.”
The letter dropped from the old man's feeble
hands. “I wish Jemmy could have come to
see me to-night,” he thought. “But it's very
Kind of him to advise me all the same.”
He turned wearily on the pillow, and read
the letter a second time. “Yes,” he said,
“there's nothing left for me but to go back.
I'm too poor and too old to hunt after them all
by myself.” He closed his eyes: the tears trick-
led slowly over his wrinkled cheeks. “I’ve been
a trouble to Jemmy,” he murmured, faintly;
“I've been a sad trouble, I'm afraid, to poor
Jemmy!” In a minute more his weakness over-
powered him, and he fell asleep again.
The clock of the parish church struck. It
was ten. As the bell tolled the hour the tidal
train—with Midwinter and his wife among the
passengers—was speeding nearer and nearer to
Paris. As the bell tolled the hour the watch
on board Allan's outward-bound yacht had sight-
ed the light-house off the Land's End, and had
set the course of the vessel for Ushant and Fin-
isterre.


ARMADALE.
265
Beethoven's (I forget the number) which al-
ways suggests to me the agony of lost spirits
in a place of torment. Come, my fingers and
thumbs, and take me among the lost spirits this
morning!
“October 13th.—Our windows look out on the
sea. At noon to-day we saw a steamer coming
in with the English flag flying. Midwinter has
gone to the port, on the chance that this may
be the vessel from Gibraltar, with Armadale on
board.
“Two o'clock.—It is the vessel from Gibral-
tar. Armadale has kept his engagement to join
us at Naples. Half an hour since he walked
into the room—having contrived to miss Mid-
winter in his usual blundering way The first
two questions he asked me, after we had shaken
hands, were whether I had heard from Thorpe-
Ambrose, and whether I could tell him any news
of Miss Milroy.
“October 16th.—Two days missed out of my
Diary ! I can hardly tell why, unless it is that
Armadale irritates me beyond all endurance.
The mere sight of him takes me back to Thorpe-
Ambrose. I fancy I must have been afraid of
what I might write about him, in the course of
the last two days, if I indulged myself in the
dangerous luxury of opening these pages.
“This morning I am afraid of nothing—and
I take up my pen again accordingly.
“Is there any limit, I wonder, to the brutish
stupidity of some men? I thought I had dis-
covered Armadale's limit when I was his neigh-
bor in Norfolk; but my later experience at Na-
ples shows me that I was wrong. He is perpet-
ually in and out of this house (crossing over to
us in a boat from the hotel at Santa Lucia, where
he sleeps); and he has exactly two subjects of
conversation—the yacht for sale in the harbor
here, and Miss Milroy. Yes! he selects ME as
the confidante of his devoted attachment to the
major's daughter! “It's so nice to talk to a
woman about it! That is all the apology he
has thought it necessary to make for appealing
to my sympathies—my sympathies!—on the sub-
ject of ‘his darling Neelie,' fifty times a day.
He is evidently persuaded (if he thinks about it
at all) that I have forgotten, as completely as
he has forgotten, all that once passed between
us, when I was first at Thorpe-Ambrose. Such
an utter want of the commonest delicacy and
the commonest tact, in a creature who is, to all
appearance, possessed of a skin and not a hide,
and who does, unless my ears deceive me, talk
and not bray, is really quite incredible when one
comes to think of it. But it is, for all that,
quite true. He asked me—he actually asked
me, last night—how many hundreds a year the ||
wife of a rich man could spend on her dress.
‘Don’t put it too low, the idiot added, with his
intolerable grin. “Neelie shall be one of the
best-dressed women in England when I have
married her.” And this to ME, after having
R
had him at my feet, and then losing him again
through Miss Milroy! This to me, with an al-
paca gown on, and a husband whose income
must be helped by a newspaper!
“I had better not dwell on it any longer. I
had better think and write of something else.
“The yacht—as a relief from hearing about
Miss Milroy, I declare the yacht in the harbor
is quite an interesting subject to me! She (the
men call a vessel “She ; and I suppose if the
women took an interest in such things, they
would call a vessel ‘He'); she is a beautiful
model; and her “top-sides (whatever they may
be) are especially distinguished by being built
of mahogany. But, with these merits, she has
the defect, on the other hand, of being old-
which is a sad drawback—and the crew and the
sailing-master have been “paid off, and sent
home to England—which is additionally dis-
tressing. Still, if a new crew and a new sailing-
master can be picked up here, such a beautiful
creature (with all her drawbacks) is not to be
despised. It might answer to hire her for a
cruise, and to see how she behaves. (If she is
of my mind, her behavior will rather astonish
her new master!) The cruise will determine
what faults she has, and (' repairs, through
the unlucky circumstance of her age, she really
stands in need of. And then it will be time to
settle whether to buy her outright or not. Such
is Armadale's conversation, when he is not talk-
ing of ‘his darling Neelie.” And Midwinter,
who can steal no time from his newspaper-work
for his wife, can steal hours for his friend, and
can offer them unreservedly to my irresistible
rival, the new yacht.
“I shall write no more to-day. If so lady-
like a person as I am could feel a tigerish tin-
gling all over her to the very tips of her fingers,
I should suspect myself of being in that condi-
tion at the present moment. But, with my man-
ners and accomplishments, the thing is, of
course, out of the question. We all know that
a lady has no passions.
“October 17th.—A letter for Midwinter this
morning from the slave-owners— I mean the
newspaper-people in London—which has set
him at work again harder than ever. A visit
at luncheon-time, and another visit at dinner-
time from Armadale. Conversation at luncheon
about the yacht. Conversation at dinner about
Miss Milroy. I have been honored, in regard
to that young lady, by an invitation to go with
Armadale to-morrow to the Toledo, and help
him to buy some presents for the beloved object.
I didn't fly out at him—I only made an excuse.
Can words express the astonishment I feel at
my own patience? No words can express it.
“October 18th.—Armadale came to breakfast
this morning, by way of catching Midwinter be-
fore he shuts himself up over his work.
“Conversation the same as yesterday's con-
versation at lunch. Armadale has made his
bargain with the agent for hiring the yacht.


206
ARMADALE.
The agent (compassionating his total ignorance
“He was seated in the great, ugly, old-fash-
of the language) has helped him to find an in- ioned chair, which I ordered to be removed into
terpreter, but can't help him to find a crew. the dressing-room out of the way when we first
The interpreter is civil and willing, but doesn't came here.
Midwinter's assistance is hands hung listlessly over the arm of the chair,
understand the sea.
indispensable; and Midwinter is requested (and
consents') to work harder than ever, so as to
make time for helping his friend. When the
crew is formed, the merits and defects of the
vessel are to be tried by a cruise to Sicily, with
Midwinter on board to give his opinion. Last-
ly (in case she should feel lonely), the ladies'
cabin is most obligingly placed at the disposal
of Midwinter's wife. All this was settled at the
breakfast-table; and it ended with one of Ar-
madale's neatly-turned compliments, addressed
to myself: ‘I mean to take Neelie sailing with
me when we are married. And you have such
good taste, you will be able to tell me every
thing the ladies' cabin wants between that time
" and this.”
“If some women bring such men as this into
the world, ought other women to allow them to
live? It is a matter of opinion. I think not.
“What maddens me is to see, as I do see
plainly, that Midwinter finds in Armadale's
company, and in Armadale's new yacht, a ref-
uge from me. He is always in better spirits
when Armadale is here.
madale almost as completely as he forgets me
in his work. And I bear it! Oh, what a pat-
tern wife, what an excellent Christian I am!
“October 19th.—Nothing new.
over again.
Yesterday
“October 20th.—One piece of news. Mid-
winter is suffering from nervous headache, and
is working in spite of it, to make time for his
holiday with his friend.
“October 21st.—Midwinter is worse. An-
gry and wild and unapproachable, after bad
nights, and two uninterrupted days at his desk.
Under any other circumstances he would take
the warning, and leave off. But nothing warns
He is still working as hard as ever
How much longer will
him now.
for Armadale's sake.
my patience last?
“October 22d.—Signs, last night, that Mid-
winter is taxing his brains beyond what his
brains will bear. When he did fall asleep he
was frightfully restless, groaning and talking
and grinding his teeth. From some of the
words I heard he seemed at one time to be
dreaming of his life when he was a boy, roam-
ing the country with the dancing dogs. At an-
other time he was back again with Armadale,
imprisoned all night on the wrecked ship. To-
ward the early morning hours he grew quieter.
I fell asleep; and, waking after a short inter-
val, found myself alone. My first glance round
showed me a light burning in Midwinter's dress-
ing-room. I rose softly, and went to look at
him.
He forgets me in Ar-
His head lay back, and one of his
the other hand was on his lap. I stole a little
nearer, and saw that exhaustion had overpow-
ered him while he was either reading or writing
—for there were books, pens, ink, and paper on
the table before him. What had he got up to
do secretly at that hour of the morning? I
looked closer at the papers on the table. They
were all neatly folded (as he usually keeps
them), with one exception—and that exception,
lying open on the rest, was Mr. Brock's letter.
“I looked round at him again, after making
this discovery, and then noticed for the first time
another written paper lying under the hand that
rested on his lap. There was no moving it away
without the risk of waking him. Part of the
open manuscript, however, was not covered by"
his hand. I looked at it to see what he had
secretly stolen away to read besides Mr. Brock's
letter—and made out enough to tell me that it
was the Narrative of Armadale's dream.
“That second discovery sent me back at once
to my bed—with something serious to think of.
“Traveling through France, on our way to
this place, Midwinter's shyness was conquered
for once by a very pleasant man—an Irish doc-
tor—whom we met in the railway carriage, and
who quite insisted on being friendly and sociable
with us all through the day's journey. Finding
that Midwinter was devoting himself to literary
pursuits, our traveling companion warmed him
not to pass too many hours together at his desk.
‘Your face tells me more than you think,’ the
doctor said. “If you are ever tempted to over-
| work your brain you will feel it sooner than
most men. When you find your merves playing
you strange tricks don't neglect this warning—
drop your pen."
“After my last night's discovery in the dress-
ing-room, it looks as if Midwinter's nerves were
beginning already to justify the doctor's opinion
of them. If one of the tricks they are playing
him is the trick of tormenting him again with
his old superstitious terrors, there will be a
change in our lives here before long. I shall wait
curiously to see whether the convictions that we
two are destined to bring fatal danger to Arma-
dale takes possession of Midwinter's mind once
more. If it does, I know what will happen.
He will not stir a step toward helping his friend
to find a crew for his yacht; and he will cer-
tainly refuse to sail with Armadale, or to let me
sail with him, on the trial cruise.
“October 23d.—Mr. Brock's letter has, ap-
parently, not lost its influence yet, Midwinter is
working again to-day, and is as anxious as ever
for the holiday-time that he is to pass with his
friend.
“Two o'clock.—Armadale here as usual; ea-
ger to know when Midwinter will be at his serv-


ARMADALE.
267
ice. No definite answer to be given to the ques-
tion yet—seeing that it all depends on Midwin-
ter's capacity to continue at his desk. Armadale
sat down disappointed—he yawned, and put his
great clumsy hands in his pockets. I took up
a book. The brute didn't understand that I
wanted to be left alone; he began again on the
unendurable subject of Miss Milroy, and of all
the fine things she was to have when he married
her. Her own riding horse; her own pony-
carriage; her own beautiful little sitting-room
up stairs at the great house, and so on. All
that I might have had once Miss Milroy is to
have it now—if I let her.
“Six o'clock.—More of the everlasting Arma-
dale ! Half an hour since Midwinter came in
from his writing, giddy and exhausted. I had
been pining all day for a little music, and I knew
they were giving Norma at the theatre here. It
struck me that an hour or two at the opera might
do Midwinter good as well as me; and I said,
“Why not take a box at the San Carlo to-night?”
He answered in a dull, uninterested manner,
that he was not rich enough to take a box.
Armadale was present, and flourished his well-
filled purse in his usual insufferable way. “I’m
rich enough, old boy, and it comes to the same
thing. With those words he took up his hat,
and trampled out on his great elephant's feet, to
get the box. I looked after him from the win-
dow as he went down the street. “Your wid-
ow, with her twelve hundred a year, I thought
to myself, “might take a box at the San Carlo
whenever she pleased, without being beholden
to any body. The empty-headed wretch whis-
tled as he went his way to the theatre, and tossed
his loose silver magnificently to every beggar
who ran after him.
“Midnight.—I am alone again at last. Have
I nerve enough to write the history of this terri-
ble evening, just as it has passed? I have nerve
enough, at any rate, to turn to a new leaf, and
-o-
CHAPTER II.
THE DIARY-continued.
“WE went to the San Carlo. Armadale's
stupidity showed itself, even in such a simple
matter as taking a box. He had confounded
an opera with a play, and had chosen a box
close to the stage, with the idea that one's chief
object at a musical performance is to see the
faces of the singers as plainly as possible! For-
tunately for our ears, Bellini's lovely melodies
are for the most part tenderly and delicately
accompanied—or the orchestra might have deaf-
ened us.
“I sat back in the box at first, well out of
sight; for it was impossible to be sure that
some of my old friends of former days at Naples |
might not be in the theatre. But the sweet mu-
sic gradually tempted me out of my seclusion.
I was so charmed and interested that I leaned
forward without knowing it, and looked at the
stage.
“I was made aware of my own imprudence
by a discovery which, for the moment, literally
chilled my blood. One of the singers among
the chorus of Druids was looking at me, while
he sang with the rest. His head was disguised
in the long white hair, and the lower part of his
face was completely covered with the flowing
white beard, proper to the character... But the
eyes with which he looked at me were the eyes
of the one man on earth whom I have most rea-
son to dread ever seeing again—Manuel!
“If it had not been for my smelling-bottle, I
believe I should have lost my senses. As it
was I drew back again into the shadow. Even
Armadale noticed the sudden change in me; he,
as well as Midwinter, asked if I was ill. I said
I felt the heat, but hoped I should be better
presently—and then leaned back in the box,
and tried to rally my courage. I succeeded in
recovering self-possession enough to be able to
look again at the stage (without showing my-
self) the next time the chorus appeared. There
was the man again! But to my infinite relief
he never once looked toward our box a second
time. This welcome indifference on his part
helped to satisfy me that I had seen an ex-
traordinary accidental resemblance, and nothing
more. I still held to this conclusion, after hav-
ing had leisure to think; but my mind would
be more completely at ease than it is if I had
seen the rest of the man's face, without the stage
disguises that hid it from all investigation.
“When the curtain fell on the first act there
was a tiresome ballet to be performed (according
to the absurd Italian custom) before the opera
went on. Though I had got over my first fright,
I had been far too seriously startled to feel com-
fortable in the theatre. I dreaded all sorts of
impossible accidents; and when Midwinter and
Armadale put the question to me I told them I
was not well enough to stay through the rest of
the performance.
“At the door of the theatre Armadale pro-
posed to say good-night. But Midwinter—evi-
dently dreading the evening with me—asked him
to come back to supper, if I had no objection.
I said the necessary words, and we all three re-
turned together to this house.
“Ten minutes quiet in my own room (assist-
ed by a little dose of Eau-de-Cologne and water)
restored me to myself. I joined the men at the
supper-table. They received my apologies for
taking them away from the opera, with the com-
plimentary assurance that I had not cost either
of them the slightest sacrifice of his own pleas-
ure. Midwinter declared that he was too com-
pletely worn out to care for any thing but the
two great blessings unattainable at the theatre,
of quiet and fresh air. Armadale said—with an
Englishman's exasperating pride in his own stu-
pidity wherever a matter of Art is concerned—
that he couldn't make head or tail of the per-
formance. The principal disappointment, he


268
ARMADALE.
was good enough to add, was mine, for I evi-
dently understood foreign music and enjoyed it.
Ladies generally did. His darling little Neelie—
“I was in no humor to be persecuted with
his ‘Darling Neelie,' after what I had gone
through at the theatre. It might have been
the irritated state of my nerves, or it might have
been the Eau-de-Cologne flying to my head,
but the bare mention of the girl seemed to set
me in a flame. I tried to turn Armadale's at-
tention in the direction of the supper-table. He
was much obliged, but he had no appetite for
more. I offered him wine next—the wine of the
country, which is all that our poverty allows us'
to place on our table. He was much obliged
again. The foreign wine was very little more
to his taste than the foreign music; but he
would take some because I asked him; and
he would drink my health in the old-fashioned
way—with his best wishes for the happy time
when we should all meet again at Thorpe-Am-
brose, and when there would be a mistress to
welcome me at the great house.
“Was he mad to persist in this way? No;
his face answered for him he was under the im-
pression that he was making himself particularly
agreeable to me.
“I looked at Midwinter. He might have
seen some reason for interfering to change the
conversation if he had looked at me in return.
But he sat silent in his chair, irritable and over-
worked, with his eyes on the ground, thinking.
“I got up and went to the window. Still
impenetrable to a sense of his own clumsiness,
Armadale followed me. If I had been strong
enough to toss him out of the window into the
sea I should certainly have done it that moment.
Not being strong enough I looked steadily at the
view over the bay, and gave him a hint, the broad-
est and rudest I could think of, to go.
“‘A lovely night for a walk, I said, “if you
are tempted to walk back to the hotel.”
“I doubt if he heard me. At any rate I pro-
duced no sort of effect on him. He stood star-
ing sentimentally at the moonlight, and—there
is really no other word to express it—blew a
sigh. I felt a presentiment of what was com-
ing, unless I stopped his mouth by speaking first.
“‘With all your fondness for England, I
said, ‘you must own that we have no such
moonlight as that at home.”
“He looked at me vacantly and blew another
sigh.
“‘I wonder whether it's as fine to-night in
England as it is here?" he said. “I wonder
whether my dear little girl at home is looking
at the moonlight and thinking of ME?”
“I could endure it no longer. I flew out at
him at last.
“‘Good Heavens, Mr. Armadale ! I ex-
claimed, “is there only one subject worth men-
tioning, in the narrow little world you live in?
I'm sick to death of Miss Milroy. Do pray talk
of something else!”
“His great broad stupid face colored up to
the roots of his hideous yellow hair. “I beg
your pardon, he stammered, with a kind of
sulky surprise. “I didn't suppose— He stopped
confusedly, and looked from me to Midwinter.
I understood what the look meant. “I didn't
suppose she could be jealous of Miss Milroy aft-
er marrying you ! That—I am absolutely cer-
tain of it—that is what he would have said to
Midwinter if I had left them alone together in
the room.
“As it was, Midwinter had heard us. Be-
fore I could speak again—before Armadale could
add another word—he finished his friend's un-
completed sentence in a tone that I now heard,
and with a look that I now saw, for the first
time.
“‘You didn't suppose, Allan,” he said, “that
a lady's temper could be so easily provoked.”
“The first bitter word of irony, the first hard
look of contempt I had ever had from him.
And Armadale the cause of it!
“My anger suddenly left me. Something
came in its place which steadied me in an in-
stant, and took me silently out of the room.
“I sat down alone. I had a few minutes of
thought with myself, which I don't choose to put
into words, even in these secret pages. I got
up and unlocked—never mind what. I went
round to Midwinter's side of the bed and took
—no matter what I took. The last thing I did
before I left my room was to look at my watch.
It was half past ten-Armadale's usual time for
leaving us. I went back at once and joined the
two men again.
“I approached Armadale good-humoredly,
and said to him—
“No! It makes my head burn, and sets my
hands trembling again to think of it. Reckless
as I am now about the future, still I can't pre-
vail on myself to recall what happened in the
course of the next hour—the hour between half
past ten and half past eleven. Can I take up
my story again, I wonder, at the time when Ar-
madale had left us? Can I tell what took place
between Midwinter and me in our own room?
Why should I try? There is no fear of my for-
getting such words as we said to each other to-
night. Why agitate myself by writing them
down? I don't know! Why do I keep a di-
ary at all? Why did the clever thief the other
day (in the English newspapers) keep the very
thing to convict him, in the shape of a record of
everything he stole? Why are we not perfectly
reasonable in all that we do? Why am I not al-
ways on my guard, and never inconsistent with
myself, like a wicked character in a novel?
Why? why? why?
“I don't care why? I must write down what
happened between Midwinter and me to-night
because I must. There's a reason that nobody
can answer—myself included.
*
* *k * sk
“It was half past eleven. I had put on my
dressing-gown and had just sat down to arrange
my hair for the night, when I was surprised by a
knock at the door—and Midwinter came in.
“He was frightfully pale. His eyes looked
*


270
ARMADALE,
Armadale. Let me make you something which
may be more to your taste. I have a recipe of
my own for lemonade. Will you favor me by
trying it?” In those words you made your pro-
posal to him, and he accepted it. Did he also
ask leave to look on and learn how the lemon-
ade was made? and did you tell him that he
would only confuse you, and that you would
give him the recipe in writing, if he wanted
it?”
“This time the words did really die on my
lips. I could only bow my head, and answer
‘Yes' mutely in that way. Midwinter went on:
“‘Allan laughed, and went to the window to
look out at the Bay (were the next words he
said), ‘and I went with him. After a while
Allan remarked, jocosely, that the mere sound
of the liquids you were pouring out made him
thirsty. When he said this I turned round
from the window. I approached you and said
the lemonade took a long time to make. You
touched me as I was walking away again, and
handed me the tumbler filled to the brim. At
the same time Allan turned round from the
window, and I, in my turn, handed the tumbler
to him.–Is there any mistake so far?'
“The quick throbbing of my heart almost
choked me. I could just shake my head—I
could do no more.
“‘I saw Allan raise the tumbler to his lips.
—Did you see it? I saw his face turn white in
an instant.—Did you? I saw the glass fall from
his hand on the floor! I saw him stagger, and
caught him before he fell. Are these things
true? For God's sake search your memory,
and tell me—are these things true?”
“The throbbing at my heart seemed, for one
breathless instant, to stop. The next moment
something fiery, something maddening, flew
through me. I started to my feet, with my
temples in a flame, reckless of all consequen-
ces, desperate enough to say any thing.
“‘Your questions are an insult! Your looks
are an insult!' I burst out. “Do you think I tried
to poison him?”
“The words rushed out of my lips in spite
of me. They were the last words under heaven
that any woman, in such a situation as mine,
ought to have spoken. And yet I spoke them :
“He rose in alarm, and gave me my smell-
ing-bottle. ‘Hush, hush!” he said. “You, too,
are overwrought—you, too, are over-excited by
all that has happened to-night. You are talk-
ing wildly and shockingly. Good God! how
can you have so utterly misunderstood me?
Compose yourself; pray, compose yourself.”
“He might as well have told a wild animal
to compose herself. Having been mad enough
to say the words, I was mad enough next to re-
turn to the subject of the lemonade, in spite of
his entreaties to me to be silent.
“‘I told you what I had put in the glass the
moment Mr. Armadale fainted.' I went on, in-
sisting furiously on defending myself, when no
attack was made on me. “I told you I had
taken the flask of brandy which you keep at
your bedside, and mixed some of it with the
lemonade. How could I know that he had a
nervous horror of the smell and taste of brandy?
Didn't he say to me himself when he came to
his senses, “It's my fault; I ought to have
warned you to put no brandy in it?” Didn't
he remind you afterward of the time when you
and he were in the Isle of Man together, and
when the Doctor there innocently made the
same mistake with him that I made to-night?”
“I laid a great stress on my innocence—and
with the same reason, too. Whatever else I
maybe I pride myself on not being a hypocrite.
I was innocent—so far as the brandy was con-
cerned. I had put it into the lemonade, in pure
ignorance of Armadale's nervous peculiarity, to
disguise the taste of—never mind what! An-
other of the things I pride myself on is, that I
never wander from my subject. What Midwin-
ter said next is what I ought to be writing about
now.
“He looked at me for a moment, as if he
thought I had taken leave of my senses. Then
he came round to my side of the table, and stood
over me again.
“‘If nothing else will satisfy you that you
are entirely misinterpreting my motives, he
said, ‘and that I haven't an idea of blaming
you in this matter, read this.’
“He took a paper from the breast-pocket of
his coat, and spread it open under my eyes. It
was the Narrative of Armadale's Dream.
“In an instant the whole weight on my mind
was lifted off it. I felt mistress of myself again
—I understood him at last.
“‘Do you know what this is?" he asked.
“Do you remember what I said to you at Thorpe-
Ambrose about Allan's Dream? I told you
then that two out of the three Visions had al-
ready come true. 'I tell you now that the
third Vision has been fulfilled in this house to-
night.”
“He turned over the leaves of the manu-
script, and pointed with his finger to the lines
that he wished me to read.
“I read these, or nearly these words from
the Narrative of the Dream, as Midwinter had
taken it down from Armadale's own lips:
“‘The darkness opened for the third time,
and showed me the Shadow of the Man and the
Shadow of the Woman together. The Man-
Shadow was the nearest; the Woman-Shadow
stood back. From where she stood I heard a
sound like the pouring out of a liquid softly. I
saw her touch the Shadow of the Man with one
hand, and give him a glass with the other. He
took the glass and handed it to me. At the mo-
ment when I put it to my lips a deadly faintness
overcame me. When I recovered my senses
again the Shadows had vanished, and the Vision
was at an end.”
“For the moment I was as completely stag-
gered by this extraordinary coincidence as Mid-
winter himself.
“He put one hand on the open Narrative,
and laid the other heavily on my arm.


ARMADALE.
271
“‘Now do you understand my motive in
coming here?' he asked. “Now do you see that
the last hope I had to cling to was the hope that
your memory of the night's events might prove
my memory to be wrong? Now do you know
why I won't help Allan? Why I won't sail
with him? Why I am plotting and lying,
and making you plot and lie too, to keep the
best and dearest friend I have out of the house?”
“‘Have you forgotten Mr. Brock's letter?' I
asked.
“He struck his hand passionately on the
open manuscript. ‘If Mr. Brock had lived
to see what we have seen to-night he would
have felt what I feel, he would have said what
I say! His voice sank mysteriously, and his
great black eyes glittered at me as he made that
answer. ‘Thrice the Shadows of the Vision
warned Allan in his sleep,” he went on; ‘and
thrice those Shadows have been embodied in the
after-time by You and by Me! You, and no
other, stood in the Woman's place at the pool.
I, and no other, stood in the Man's place at the
window. And you and I together, when the
last Vision shaded the Shadows together, stand
in the Man's place and the Woman's place still !
For this the miserable day dawned when you and
I first met. For this your influence drew me to
you when my better angel warmed me to fly the
sight of your face. There is a curse on our
lives! there is a fatality in our footsteps! Al-
lan's future depends on his separation from us
at once and forever. Drive him from the place
we live in, and the air we breathe. Force him
among strangers; the worst and wickedest of
them will be more harmless to him than we are !
Let his yacht sail, though he goes on his knees
to ask us, without You and without Me—and
let him know how I loved him in another world
than this, where the wicked cease from trou-
bling, and the weary are at rest!’
“His grief conquered him—his voice broke
into a sob when he spoke those last words. He
took the Narrative of the Dream from the table,
and left the room.
“As I heard his door locked between us my
mind went back to what he had said to me about
myself. In remembering the miserable day when
we first saw each other, and ‘the better angel'
that had warned him to “fly the sight of my
face' I forgot all else. It doesn't matter what I
felt. I wouldn’t own it even if I had a friend
to speak to. Who cares for the misery of such
a woman as I am—who believes in it? Besides,
he spoke under the influence of the mad super-
stition that has got possession of him again.
There is every excuse for him—there is no ex-
cuse for me. If I can't help being fond of him
through it all I must take the consequences and
suffer. I deserve to suffer; I deserve neither
love nor pity from any body. Good Heavens,
what a fool I am | And how unnatural all this
would be if it was written in a book!
“It has struck one. I can hear Midwinter
still, walking, and moving, and pacing to and
fro in his room.
“He is thinking, I suppose. Well, I can
think too! What am I to do next? I shall
wait and see. Events take odd turns, some-
times—and events may justify the fatalism of
the amiable man in the next room, who curses
the day when he first saw my face. He may
live to curse it for other reasons than he has
now. If I am the Woman pointed at in the
Dream there will be another temptation put in
my way before long—and there will be no bran-
dy in Armadale's lemonade if I mix it for him
a second time.
“October 24th.—Barely twelve hours have
passed since I wrote my yesterday's entry, and
that other temptation has come, tried, and con-
quered me already!
“This time there was no alternative. Instant
exposure and ruin stared me in the face—I had
no choice but to yield in my own defense. In
plainer words still, it was no accidental resem-
blance that startled me at the theatre last night.
The chorus-singer at the opera was Manuel him-
self.
“Not ten minutes after Midwinter had left
the sitting-room for his study the woman of the
house came in with a dirty little three-cornered
note in her hand. One look at the writing on
the address was enough. He had recognized me
in the box; and the ballet between the acts of
the opera had given him time to trace me home.
I drew that plain conclusion in the moment that
elapsed before I opened the letter. It informed
me, in two lines, that he was waiting in a by-
street, leading to the beach; and that if I fail-
ed to make my appearance in ten minutes he
should interpret my absence as an invitation to
him to call at the house.
“What I went through yesterday must have
hardened me, I suppose. At any rate, after
reading the letter I felt more like the woman I
once was than I have felt for months past. I
put on my bonnet and went down stairs, and
left the house as if nothing had happened.
“He was waiting for me at the entrance to
the street.
“In the instant when we stood face to face,
all my wretched life with him came back to me.
I thought of my trust that he had betrayed; I
thought of the cruel mockery of a marriage that
he had practiced on me, when he knew that he
had a wife living; I thought of the time when I
had felt despair enough at his desertion of me
to attempt my own life. When I recalled all
this, and when the comparison between Midwin-
ter and the mean, miserable villain whom I had
once believed in forced itself into my mind, I
knew for the first time what a woman feels when
every atom of respect for herself has left her.
If he had personally insulted me at that mo-
ment, I believe I should have submitted to it.
“But he had no idea of insulting me, in the
more brutal meaning of the word. He had me
at his mercy, and his way of making me feel it
was to behave with an elaborate mockery of pen-
itence and respect. I let him speak as he pleased,


272
ARMADALE.
without interrupting him, without looking at him
a second time, without even allowing my dress
to touch him as we walked together toward the
quieter part of the beach. I had noticed the
wretched state of his clothes, and the greedy
glitter in his eyes, in my first look at him. And
I knew it would end—as it did end—in a de-
mand on me for money.
“Yes! After taking from me the last far-
thing I possessed of my own, and the last far-
thing I could extort for him from my old mis-
tress, he turned on me as we stood by the mar-
gin of the sea, and asked if I could reconcile it
to my conscience to let him be wearing such a
coat as he then had on his back, and earning his
miserable living as a chorus-singer at the opera!
“My disgust, rather than my indignation,
roused me into speaking to him at last.
“‘You want money, I said. “Suppose I am
too poor to give it to you?”
“‘In that case, he replied, ‘I shall be forced
to remember that you are a treasure in yourself.
And I shall be under the painful necessity of
pressing my claim to you on the attention of one
of those two gentlemen whom I saw with you at
the opera—the gentleman, of course, who is now
honored by your preference, and who lives pro-
visionally in the light of your smiles.’
“I made him no answer—for I had no an-
swer to give. Disputing his right to claim me
from any body would have been a mere waste
of words. He knew as well as I did that he
had not the shadow of a claim on me.
mere attempt to raise it would, as he was well
aware, lead necessarily to the exposure of my
whole past life.
“Still keeping silence, I looked out over the
sea. I don't know why—except that I instinct-
ively looked any where rather than look at
him.
“A little sailing boat was approaching the
shore. The man steering was hidden from me
by the sail; but the boat was so neat that I
thought I recognized the flag on the mast. I
looked at my watch. Yes! It was Armadale
coming over from Santa Lucia, at his usual
time, to visit us in his usual way.
“Before I had put my watch back in my belt
the means of extricating myself from the fright-
ful position I was placed in showed themselves
to me as plainly as I see them now.
“I turned and led the way to the higher part
of the beach, where some fishing-boats were
drawn up, which completely screened us from
the view of any one landing on the shore below.
Seeing probably that I had a purpose of some
kind, Manuel followed me without uttering a
word. As soon as we were safely under the
shelter of the boats I forced myself, in my own
defense, to look at him again.
“‘What should you say, I asked, “if I was
rich instead of poor? What should you say if
I could afford to give you a hundred pounds?'
“He started. I saw plainly that he had not
expected so much as half the sum I had men-
tioned. It is needless to add that his tongue
But the
lied, while his face spoke the truth; and that
when he replied to me, the answer was, ‘No-
thing like enough."
“‘Suppose, I went on, without taking any
notice of what he had said, ‘that I could show
you a way of helping yourself to twice as much
—three times as much-five times as much as a
hundred pounds, are you bold enough to put
out your hand and take it?”
“The greedy glitter came into his eyes once
more. His voice dropped low, in breathless ex-
pectation of my next words.
“‘Who is the person?' he asked.
what is the risk?'
“I answered him at once, in the plainest
terms. I threw Armadale to him as I might
have thrown a piece of meat to a wild beast who
was pursuing me.
“‘The person is a rich young Englishman,'
I said. “He has just hired the yacht called the
Dorothea, in the harbor here; and he stands in
need of a sailing-master and a crew. You were
once an officer in the Spanish navy—you speak
English and Italian perfectly—you are thorough-
ly well acquainted with Naples and all that be-
longs to it. The rich young Englishman is
ignorant of the language; and the interpreter
who assists him knows nothing of the sea. He
is at his wit's end for want of useful help in this
strange place; he has no more knowledge of
the world than that child who is digging holes
there with a stick in the sand; and he carries
all his money with him in circular notes. So
much for the person. As for the risk, estimate
it for yourself.”
“The greedy glitter in his eyes grew brighter
and brighter with every word I said. He was
plainly ready to face the risk before I had done
speaking.
“‘When can I see the Englishman?' he
asked, eagerly.
“I stole to the seaward end of the fishing-
boat, and saw that Armadale was at that mo-
ment disembarking on the shore.
“‘You can see him now,' I answered, and
pointed to the place.
“After a long look at Armadale walking
carelessly up the slope of the beach, Manuel
drew back again under the shelter of the boat.
He waited a moment, considering something
carefully with himself, and put another question
to me—in a whisper this time.
“‘When the vessel is manned, he said, ‘and
the Englishman sails from Naples, how many
friends sail with him?”
“‘He has but two friends here, I replied;
‘that other gentleman whom you saw with me
at the opera, and myself. He will invite us
both to sail with him—and when the time
comes we shall both refuse.'
“Do you answer for that?'
“‘I answer for it positively.”
“He walked a few steps away, and stood with
his face hidden from me, thinking again. All
I could see was, that he took off his hat and
passed his handkerchief over his forehead. All
*"And


ARMADALE.
275
hearing this, was to perform the promise I had
made to Midwinter, when he gave me my direc-
tions how to act in the matter. Armadale's vex-
ation on finding me resolved not to interfere ex-
pressed itself in the form of all others that is most
personally offensive to me. He declined to be-
lieve my reiterated assurances that I possessed
no influence to exert in his favor. ‘If I was
married to Neelie, he said, “she could do any
thing she liked with me; and I am sure when
you choose you can do anything you like with
Midwinter.” If the infatuated fool had actually
tried to stifle the last faint struggles of remorse
and pity left stirring in my heart, he could have
said nothing more fatally to the purpose than
this! I gave him a look which effectually si-
lenced him, so far as I was concerned. He went
out of the room grumbling and growling to him-
self. “It's all very well to talk about manning
the yacht. I don't speak a word of their gibber-
ish here—and the interpreter thinks a fisherman
and a sailor mean the same thing. Hang me
if I know what to do with the vessel now I have
got her!'
“He will probably know by to-morrow. And
if he only comes here as usual, I shall know too!
“October 25th, Ten at night.—Manuel has got
him
“He has just left us, after staying here more
than an hour, and talking the whole time of no-
thing but his own wonderful luck in finding the
very help he wanted, at the time when he need-
ed it most.
“At noon to-day he was on the Mole, it
seems, with his interpreter trying vainly to
make himself understood by the vagabond pop-
ulation of the water side. Just as he was giving
it up in despair, a stranger standing by (Manu-
el had followed him, I suppose, to the Mole
from his hotel) kindly interfered to put things
right. He said, ‘I speak your language and
their language, Sir. I know Naples well; and
I have been professionally accustomed to the
sea. Can I help you?' The inevitable result
followed. Armadale shifted all his difficulties
on to the shoulders of the polite stranger in his
usual helpless, headlong way. His new friend
however, insisted, in the most honorable man-
ner, on complying with the customary formali-
ties before he would consent to take the matter
into his own hands. He begged leave to wait
on Mr. Armadale with his testimonials to char-
acter and capacity. The same afternoon he had
come by appointment to the hotel with all his
papers, and with ‘the saddest story of his suf-
ferings and privations as a “political refugee'
that Armadale had ever heard. The interview
was decisive. Manuel left the hotel commis-
sioned to find a crew for the yacht, and to fill
the post of sailing-master on the trial cruise.
“I watched Midwinter anxiously while Ar-
madale was telling us these particulars; and af-
terward, when he produced the new sailing-mas-
ter's testimonials, which he had brought with
him for his friend to see.
“For the moment Midwinter's superstitions
and misgivings seemed to be all lost in his nat-
ural anxiety for his friend. He examined the
stranger's papers—after having told me that the
sooner Armadale was in the hands of strangers
the better!—with the closest scrutiny and the
most business-like distrust. It is needless to
say that the credentials were as perfectly reg-
ular and satisfactory as credentials could be.
When Midwinter handed them back his color
rose—he seemed to feel the inconsistency of his
conduct, and to observe for the first time that I
was present noticing it. ‘There is nothing to
object to in the testimonials, Allan: I am glad
you have got the help you want at last. That
was all he said at parting. As soon as Arma-
dale's back was turned I saw no more of him.
He has locked himself up again for the night in
his own room.
“There is now—so far as I am concerned-
but one anxiety left. When the yacht is ready
for sea, and when I decline to occupy the ladies'
cabin, will Midwinter hold to his resolution, and
refuse to sail without me?
“October 26th.—Warnings already of the
coming ordeal. A letter from Armadale to
Midwinter, which Midwinter has just sent into
me. Here it is:
“‘DEAR MID,-I am too busy to come to-
day. Get on with your work, for Heaven's sake!
The new sailing-master is a man of ten thou-
sand. He has got an Englishman whom he
knows to serve as mate on board already; and
he is positively certain of getting the crew to-
gether in three or four days' time. I am dying
for a whiff of the sea, and so are you or you are
no sailor. The rigging is set up, the stores are
coming on board, and we shall bend the sails
to-morrow or next day. I never was in such
spirits in my life. Remember me to your wife,
and tell her she will be doing me a favor if she
will come at once and order every thing she
wants in the ladies' cabin.
“‘Yours affectionately, A. A.”
“Under this was written in Midwinter's hand,
—“Remember what I told you. Write (it will
break it to him more gently in that way), and
beg him to accept your apologies, and to excuse
you from sailing on the trial cruise.”
“I have written without a moment's loss of
time. The sooner Manuel knows (which he is
certain to do through Armadale) that the en-
gagement not to sail in the yacht is performed
already—so far as I am concerned—the safer
I shall feel.
“October 27th.—A letter from Armadale, in
answer to mine. He is full of ceremonious re-
gret at the loss of my company on the cruise;
and he politely hopes that Midwinter may yet
induce me to alter my mind. Wait a little, till
he finds that Midwinter won't sail with him ei-
ther!......


276
ARMADALE.
“October 30th.—Nothing new to record until
“I went back into the sitting-room. Who
to-day. To-day the change in our lives here can understand women?—we don't even under-
has come at last!
“Armadale presented himself this morning,
in his noisiest high spirits, to announce that the
yacht was ready for sea, and to ask when Mid-
winter would be able to go on board. I told
him to make the inquiry himself in Midwinter's
room. He left me with a last request that I
would reconsider my refusal to sail with him.
I asswered by a last apology for persisting in
my resolution; and then took a chair alone at
the window to wait the event of the interview
in the next room.
“My whole future depended, now, on what
passed between Midwinter and his friend! Ev-
erything had gone smoothly up to this time.
The one danger to dread was the danger of Mid-
winter's resolution, or rather of Midwinter's fa-
talism, giving way at the last moment. If he
allowed himself to be persuaded into accompany-
ing Armadale on the cruise, Manuel's exaspera-
tion against me would hesitate at nothing—he
would remember that I had answered to him for
Armadale's sailing from Naples alone; and he
would be capable of exposing my whole past life
to Midwinter before the vessel left the port. As
I thought of this, and as the slow minutes fol-
lowed each other, and nothing reached my ears
but the hum of voices in the next room, my sus-
pense became almost unendurable. It was vain
to try and fix my attention on what was going
on in the street. I sat looking mechanically out
of the window and seeing nothing.
“Suddenly—I can't say in how long or how
short a time—the hum of voices ceased; the
door opened; and Armadale showed himself on
the threshold, alone.
“‘I wish you good-by, he said, roughly.
‘And I hope, when I am married, my wife may
never cause Midwinter the disappointment that
Midwinter's wife has caused me!”
“He gave me an angry look, and made me
an angry bow—and, turning sharply, left the
room.
“I saw the people in the street again! I saw
the calm sea, and the masts of the shipping in
the harbor where the yacht lay! I could think,
I could breathe freely once more! The few
words that saved me from Manuel—the words
that might be Armadale's sentence of death-
had been spoken. The yacht was to sail with-
out Midwinter, as well as without ME!
“My first feeling of exultation was almost
maddening. But it was the feeling of a mo-
ment only. My heart sank in me again when
I thought of Midwinter alone in the next room.
“I went out into the passage to listen, and
heard nothing. I tapped gently at his door,
and got no answer. I opened the door, and
looked in. He was sitting at the table, with
his face hidden in his hands. I looked at him
in silence—and saw the glistening of the tears
as they trickled through his fingers.
“‘Leave me, he said, without moving his
hands. “I must get over it by myself.'
stand ourselves. His sending me away from
him in that manner cut me to the heart. I
don't believe the most harmless and most gentle
woman living could have felt it more acutely
than I felt it. And this, after what I have been
doing! this, after what I was thinking of the
moment before I went into his room ' Who
can account for it? Nobody—I, least of all!
“Half an hour later his door opened, and I
heard him hurrying down the stairs. I ran out
without waiting to think, and asked if I might
go with him. He neither stopped nor answered.
I went back to the window, and saw him pass,
walking rapidly away, with his back turned on
Naples and the sea. -
“I can understand now that he might not
have heard me. At the time I thought him in-
excusably and brutally unkind to me. I put
on my bonnet in a frenzy of rage with him; I
sent out for a carriage, and I told the man to
take me where he liked. He took me, as he
took other strangers, to the Museum to see the
statues and the pictures. I flounced from room
to room, with my face in a flame, and the peo-
ple all staring at me. I came to myself again,
I don't know how. I returned to the carriage,
and made the man drive me back in a violent
hurry, I don't know why. I tossed off my cloak
and bonnet, and sat down once more at the
window. The sight of the sea cooled me. I
forgot Midwinter, and thought of Armadale and
his yacht. There wasn't a breath of wind;
there wasn't a cloud in the sky—and the wide
waters of the Bay were as smooth as the surface
of a glass.
“The sun sank; the short twilight came and
went. I had some tea, and sat at the table
thinking and dreaming over it. When I roused
myself and went back to the window, the moon
was up—but the quiet sea was as quiet as
eVer.
“I was still looking out, when I saw Mid-
winter in the street below, coming back. I was
composed enough by this time to remember his
habits, and to guess that he had been trying to
relieve the oppression on his mind by one of his
long solitary walks. When I heard him go into
his own room I was too prudent to disturb him
again—I waited his pleasure, where I was.
“Before long I heard his window opened, and
I saw him, from my window, step into the bal-
cony, and, after a look at the sea, hold up his
hand to the air. I was too stupid, for the mo-
ment, to remember that he had once been a
sailor, and to know what this meant. I waited,
and wondered what would happen next,
“He went in again; and, after an interval,
came out once more, and held up his hand as
before, to the air. This time he waited, lean-
ing on the balcony rail, and looking out steadi-
ly, with all his attention absorbed by the sea.
“For a long, long time, he never moved.
Then, on a sudden, I saw him start. The next
moment he sank on his knees with his clasped


ARMADALE.
277
hands resting on the balcony rail. ‘God Al-
mighty bless and keep you, Allan' he said, fer-
vently. “Good-by forever!'
“I thought over it carefully when Midwinter
had left me alone again after reading it. My
idea was then (and is still) that Manuel had not
“I looked out to the sea. A soft steady persuaded Armadale to cruise in a sea like the
breeze was blowing, and the rippled surface of
the water was sparkling in the quiet moonlight.
Adriatic, so much less frequented by ships than
the Mediterranean, for nothing. The terms,
I looked again—and there passed slowly, be- too, in which the trifling loss of the cigar-case
tween me and the track of the moon, a long was mentioned, struck me as being equally sug-
black vessel with tall shadowy ghost-like sails,
gliding smooth and noiseless through the water
like a snake.
“The wind had come fair with the night;
and the yacht had sailed on the trial cruise.
-e-
CHAPTER III.
T H E D I A R Y EN DE D.
“London, November 19th.—I am alone again
in the Great City; alone, for the first time,
since our marriage. Nearly a week since I
started on my homeward journey, leaving Mid-
winter behind me at Turin.
“The days have been so full of events since
the month began, and I have been so harassed,
in mind and body both, for the greater part of
the time, that my Diary has been wretchedly
neglected. A few notes, written in such hurry
and confusion that I can hardly understand
them myself, are all that I possess to remind
me of what has happened since the night when
Armadale's yacht left Naples. Let me try if I
can set this right without more loss of time—let
me try if I can recall the circumstances in their
order as they have followed each other from the
beginning of the month.
“On the second of November—being then
still at Naples—Midwinter received a hurried
letter from Armadale, dated ‘Messina.’ ‘The
weather, he said, “had been lovely, and the
yacht had made one of the quickest passages on
record. The crew were rather a rough set to
look at; but Captain Manuel and his English
mate (the latter described as ‘the best of good
fellows') ‘managed them admirably. After
this prosperous beginning Armadale had ar-
ranged, as a matter of course, to prolong the
cruise; and, at the sailing-master's suggestion,
he had decided to visit some of the ports in the
Adriatic, which the captain had described as full
of character, and well worth seeing.
“A postscript followed, explaining that Ar-
madale had written in a hurry to catch the
steamer to Naples, and that he had opened his
letter again, before sending it off, to add some-
thing that he had forgotten On the day be-
fore the yacht sailed he had been at the bank-
er's to get “a few hundreds in gold, and he be-
lieved he had left his cigar-case there. It was
an old friend of his, and he begged that Mid-
winter would oblige him by endeavoring to re-
cover it, and keeping it for him till they met
again.
“This was the substance of the letter.
| gestive of what was coming.
I concluded that
Armadale's circular notes had not been trans-
formed into those “few hundreds in gold'
through any forethought or business-knowledge
of his own. Manuel's influence, I suspected,
had been exerted in this matter also—and once
more not without reason. At intervals, through
the wakeful night, these considerations came
back again and again to me; and time after
time they pointed obstinately (so far as my next
movements were concerned) in one and the
same way—the way back to England.
“How to get there, and especially how to get
there unaccompanied by Midwinter, was more
than I had wit enough to discover that night.
I tried and tried to meet the difficulty, and fell
asleep exhausted toward the morning without
having met it.
“Some hours later, as soon as I was dressed,
Midwinter came in with news received by that
morning's post from his employers in London.
The proprietors of the newspaper had received
from the editor so favorable a report of his cor-
respondence from Naples, that they had determ-
ined on advancing him to a place of greater re-
sponsibility and greater emolument at Turin.
His instructions were inclosed in the letter;
and he was requested to lose no time in leaving
Naples for his new post.
“On hearing this I relieved his mind, before
he could put the question, of all anxiety about
my willingness to remove. Turin had the great
attraction, in my eyes, of being on the road to
England. I assured him at once that I was
ready to travel as soon as he pleased.
“He thanked me for suiting myself to his
plans, with more of his old gentleness and kind-
ness than I had seen in him for some time past.
The good news from Armadale on the previous
day seemed to have raised him a little from the
dull despair in which he had been sunk since
the sailing of the yacht. And now, the pros-
pect of advancement in his profession, and,
more than that, the prospect of leaving the fatal
place in which the third Vision of the Dream
had come true, had (as he owned himself) ad-
ditionally cheered and relieved him. He asked,
before he went away to make the arrangements
for our journey, whether I expected to hear from
my ‘family in England, and whether he should
give instructions for the forwarding of my letters
with his own to the poste restante at Turin. I
instantly thanked him and accepted the offer.
His proposal had suggested to me, the moment
he made it, that my fictitious ‘family circum-
stances' might be turned to good account once
more as a reason for unexpectedly summoning
me from Italy to England.


278
ARMADALE.
“On the eighth of the month we were in-
stalled at Turin.
“On the 14th, Midwinter—being then very
busy—asked if I would save him a loss of time
by applying at the poste restante for any letters
which might have followed us from Naples. I
had been waiting for the opportunity he now
offered me; and I determined to snatch at it
without allowing myself time to hesitate. There
were no letters at the poste restante for either of
us. But when he put the question on my re-
turn, I told him that there had been a letter
for me with alarming news from ‘home.’ My
‘mother was dangerously ill; and I was en-
treated to lose no time in hurrying back to En-
gland to see her.
“It seems quite unaccountable—now that I
am away from him—but it is none the less true
that I could not, even yet, tell him a downright
premeditated falsehood without a sense of shrink-
ing and shame, which other people would think,
and which I think myself, utterly inconsistent
with such a character as mine. Inconsistent
or not I felt it. And what is stranger—per-
haps, I ought to say, madder—still, if he had
persisted in his first resolution to accompany
me himself to England, rather than allow me
to travel alone, I firmly believe I should have
turned my back on temptation for the second
time, and have lulled myself to rest once more
in the old dream of living out my life happy
and harmless in my husband's love.
“Am I deceiving myself in this? It doesn't
matter—I dare say I am. Never mind what
might have happened. What did happen is the
only thing of any importance now.
“It ended in Midwinter's letting me persuade
him that I was old enough to take care of my-
self on the journey to England, and that he owed
it to the newspaper people, who had trusted their
interests in his hands, not to leave Turin just as
he was established there. He didn't suffer at
taking leave of me as he suffered when he saw
the last of his friend. I saw that, and set down
the anxiety he expressed that I should write to
him at its proper value. I have quite got over
my weakness for him at last. No man who
really loved me would have put what he owed
to a pack of newspaper people before what he
owed to his wife. I hate him for letting me
convince him | I believe he was glad to get
rid of me. I believe he has seen some woman
whom he likes at Turin. Well, let him follow
his new fancy, if he pleases! I shall be the
widow of Mr. Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose be-
fore long—and what will his likes or dislikes
matter to me then?
“The events on the journey were not worth
mentioning, and my arrival in London stands
recorded already on the top of the new page.
“As for to-day, the one thing of any import-
ance that I have done, since I got to the cheap
and quiet hotel at which I am now staying, was
to send for the landlord and ask him to help me
to a sight of the back numbers of the Times
newspaper. He has politely offered to accom-
pany me himself to-morrow morning to some
place in the City where all the papers are kept,
as he calls it, in file. Till to-morrow, then, I
must control my impatience for news of Arma-
dale as well as I can. And so good-night to
the pretty reflection of myself that appears in
these pages!
“November 20th.—Not a word of news yet
either in the obituary column or in any other
part of the paper. I looked carefully through
each number in succession, dating from the day
when Armadale's letter was written at Messina,
to this present 20th of the month—and I am
certain, whatever may have happened, that no-
thing is known in England as yet. Patience!
The newspaper is to meet me at the breakfast-
table every morning till further notice—and any
day now may show me what I most want to see.
“November 21st.—No news again. I wrote
to Midwinter to-day to keep up appearances.
“When the letter was done I fell into wretch-
edly low spirits—I can't imagine why—and felt
such a longing for a little company, that, in de-
spair of knowing where else to go, I actually
went to Pimlico on the chance that Mother
Oldershaw might have returned to her old
quarters.
“There were changes since I had seen the
place during my former stay in London. The
doctor's side of the house was still empty. But
the shop was being brightened up for the occu-
pation of a milliner and dress-maker. The peo-
ple, when I went in to make inquiries, were all
strangers to me. They showed, however, no
hesitation in giving me Mrs. Oldershaw's ad-
dress when I asked for it—from which I infer
that the little ‘difficulty' which forced her to be
in hiding in August last is at an end, so far as
she is concerned. As for the doctor the people
at the shop either were, or pretended to be, quite
unable to tell me what had become of him.
“I don't know whether it was the sight of
the place at Pimlico that sickened me, or wheth-
er it was my own perversity, or what. But now
that I had got Mrs. Oldershaw's address, I felt
as if she was the very last person in the world
that I wanted to see. I took a cab and told
the man to drive to the street she lived in, and
then told him to drive the other way. We
passed a piano-forte-maker's. I went in and
talked to the man, and got permission to try
his instruments, and played myself into a more
reasonable state of mind, and went back to the
hotel. I hardly know what is the matter with
me—unless it is that I am getting more impa-
tient every hour for information about Arma-
dale. When will the future look a little less
dark, I wonder? To-morrow is Saturday.
Will to-morrow's newspaper lift the veil?
“November 22d.—Saturday's newspaper has
lifted the veil! Words are vain to express the
panic of astonishment in which I write. I
never once anticipated it—I can't believe it or


280
ARMADALE.
ceived a warning to be careful in the future,
which I shall not neglect; and I have succeeded
in providing myself with the advice and assist-
ance of which I stand in need.
“After vainly trying to think of some better
person to apply to in the difficulty which em.
barrassed me, I made a virtue of necessity, and
set forth to surprise Mrs. Oldershaw by a visit
from her darling Lydia! On the way to the
house I carefully considered what I should say,
with a view to getting the help I wanted, of
course without trusting any secrets of importance
out of my own possession. As the event turned
out I might have saved myself the trouble of ar-
ranging my conversation before I knocked at the
door.
“A sour and solemn old maid-servant admit-
ted me into the house. When I asked for her
mistress I was reminded with the bitterest em-
phasis that I had committed the impropriety of
calling on a Sunday. Mrs. Oldershaw was at
home, solely in consequence of being too unwell
to go to church! The servant thought it very
unlikely that she would see me. I thought it
highly probable, on the contrary, that she would
honor me with an interview in her own inter-
ests if I sent in my name as “Miss Gwilt'—and
the event proved that I was right. After being
kept waiting some minutes (during which the
old wretch was no doubt composing her conver-
sation beforehand, just like me!) I was shown
into the drawing-room.
“There sat mother Jezebel, with the air of
a woman resting on the high-road to heaven,
dressed in a slate-colored gown, with gray mit-
1°ns on her hands, a severely simple cap on her
head, and a volume of sermons on her lap. She
turned up the whites of her eyes devoutly at
the sight of me, and the first words she said
were—‘Oh, Lydia! Lydia! why are you no
at church?’ -
“If I had been less anxious the sudden pre-
sentation of Mrs. Oldershaw, in an entirely new
character, might have amused me. But I was
in no humor for laughing, and (my notes-of-hand
being all paid) I was under no obligation to re-
strain my natural freedom of speech. ‘Stuff
and nonsense!' I said. “Put your Sunday face
in your pocket. I have got some news for you
since I last wrote from Thorpe-Ambrose.”
“The instant I mentioned “Thorpe-Ambrose'
the whites of the old hypocrite's eyes showed
themselves again, and she flatly refused to hear
a word more from me on the subject of my pro-
ceedings in Norfolk. I insisted—but it was
quite useless. "Mother Oldershaw only shook
her head and groaned, and informed me that
her connection with the pomps and vanities of
the world was at an end forever. “I have been
born again, Lydia, said the brazen old wretch,
wiping her eyes. “Nothing will induce me to
return to the subject of that wicked speculation
of yours on the folly of a rich young man.”
“After hearing this I should have left her
on the spot, but for one consideration which de-
layed me a moment longer.
“It was easy to see by this time that the
circumstances (whatever they might have been)
which had obliged Mother Oldershaw to keep in
hiding, on the occasion of my former visit to
London, had been sufficiently serious to force
her into giving up, or appearing to give up, her
old business. And it was hardly less plain that
she had found it to her advantage—every body
in England finds it to their advantage, in some
way—to cover the outer side of her character
carefully with a smooth varnish of Cant. This
was, however, no business of mine; and I should
have made these reflections outside, instead of
inside the house, if my interests had not been
involved in putting the sincerity of Mother
Oldershaw's reformation to the test—so far as it
affected her past connection with myself. At
the time when she had fitted me out for our en-
terprise, I remembered signing a certain busi-
ness-document which gave her a handsome pe-
cuniary interest in my success, if I became Mrs.
Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose. The chance of
turning this mischievous morsel of paper to good
account, in the capacity of a touch-stone, was
too tempting to be resisted. I asked my devout
friend's permission to say one last word before I
left the house.
“As you have no further interest in my
wicked speculation at Thorpe-Ambrose, I said,
“perhaps you will give me back the written pa-
per that I signed, when you were not quite such
an exemplary person as you are now?'
“The shameless old hypocrite instantly shut
her eyes and shuddered.
*** Does that mean Yes or No P” I asked.
“‘On moral and religious grounds, Lydia,”
said Mrs. Oldershaw, “it means No.’
“‘On wicked and worldly grounds, I re-
joined, “I beg to thank you for showing me your
hand.”
“There could, indeed, be no doubt now
about the pbject she really had in view. She
would run no more risks and lend no more
money—she would leave me to win or lose,
single-handed. If I lost, she would not be
compromised. If I won, she would produce
the paper I had signed, and profit by it without
remorse. In my present situation it was mere
waste of time and words to prolong the matter
by any useless recrimination on my side. I put
the warning away privately in my memory for
future use, and got up to go.
“At the moment when I left my chair there
was a sharp double knock at the street-door.
Mrs. Oldershaw evidently recognized it. She
rose in a violent hurry and rang the bell. “I
am too unwell to see any body, she said, when
the servant appeared. “Wait a moment, if
you please, she added, turning sharply on me,
when the woman had left us to answer the
door.
“It was small, very small, spitefulness on
my part, I know—but the satisfaction of thwart-
ing Mother Jezebel, even in a trifle, was not to
be resisted. ‘I can't wait,' I said; “you re-
minded me just now that I ought to be at


282
ARMADALE.
I might) to the commission of a Fraud—a fraud room. The very fire itself was dying of damp
of the sort that no professional man would think in the grate.
of assisting if he had a character to lose.
The only books on the table were
Was the doctor's Works, in sober drab colors; and
there any other competent person I could think the only object that ornamented the walls was
of? There was one, and one only—the doctor the foreign Diploma (handsomely framed and
who had died at Pimlico, and had revived
again at Hampstead.
“I knew him to be entirely without scru-
ples; to have the business experience that I
wanted myself; and to be as cunning, as clever,
and as far-seeing a man as could be found in all
London. Beyond this, I had made two import-
ant discoveries in connection with him that
morning. In the first place, he was on bad
terms with Mrs. Oldershaw—which would pro-
tect me from all danger of the two leaguing to-
gether against me if I trusted him. In the
second place, circumstances still obliged him to
keep his identity carefully disguised—which
gave me a hold over him in no respect inferior
to any hold that I might give him over me. In
every way he was the right man, the only man,
for my purpose; and yet I hesitated at going
to him—hesitated for a full hour and more,
without knowing why !
“It was two o'clock before I finally decided
on paying the doctor a visit. Having, after this,
occupied nearly another hour in settling care-
fully beforehand what I should say to him, and
having determined to a hair's-breadth how far
I should take him into my confidence, I sent
for a cab at last, and set off toward three in the
afternoon for Hampstead.
little
be a
“I found the Sanatorium with some
difficulty. Fairweather Vale proved to
new neighborhood, situated below the high
ground of Hampstead, on the southern side.
The day was overcast, and the place looked
very dreary. We approached it by a new road
running between trees, which might once have
been the park-avenue of a country house. At
the end we came upon a wilderness of open
ground, with half-finished villas dotted about,
and a hideous litter of boards, wheel-barrows,
and building materials of all sorts scattered in
every direction. At one corner of this scene of
desolation stood a great overgrown dismal house,
plastered with drab-colored stucco, and surround-
ed by a naked unfinished garden, without a
shrub or a flower in it—frightful to behold. On
the open iron gate that led into this inclosure
was a new brass plate, with ‘Sanatorium' in-
scribed on it in great black letters. The bell,
when the cabman rang it, pealed through the
empty house like a knell; and the pallid with-
ered old man-servant in black who answered
the door looked as if he had stepped up out of
his grave to perform that service. He let out
on me a smell of damp plaster and new varnish,
and he let in with me a chilling draught of the
damp November air. I didn't notice it at the
time, but writing of it now I remember that I
shivered as I crossed the threshold.
“I gave my name to the servant as ‘Mrs.
Armadale,' and was shown into the waiting-
| glazed), of which the doctor had possessed him-
self by purchase, along with the foreign name.
“After a moment or two the proprietor of the
Sanatorium came in, and held up his hands in
cheerful astonishment at the sight of me.
“‘I hadn't an idea who “Mrs. Armadale”
was!" he said. “My dear lady, have you changed
your name too? How sly of you not to tell me
when we met this morning! Come into my pri-
vate snuggery—I can't think of keeping an old
and dear friend like you in the patients wait-
ing-room.’
“The doctor's private snuggery was at the
back of the house, looking out on fields and trees
doomed but not yet destroyed by the builder.
Horrible objects in brass and leather and glass,
twisted and turned as if they were sentient things
writhing in agonies of pain, filled up one end of
the room. A great book-case with glass doors
extended over the whole of the opposite wall,
and exhibited on its shelves long rows of glass
jars, in which shapeless dead creatures of a dull
white color floated in yellow liquid. Above the
fire-place hung a collection of photographic
portraits of men and women, inclosed in two
large frames hanging side by side with a space
between them. The left-hand frame illustrated
the effects of nervous suffering as seen in the
face; the right-hand frame exhibited the rav-
ages of insanity from the same point of view;
while the space between was occupied by an el-
egantly-illuminated scroll, bearing inscribed on
it in fancifully-shaped letters the time-honored
motto, “Prevention is better than Cure."
“‘Here I am, with my galvanic apparatus,
and my preserved specimens, and all the rest of
it,” said the doctor, placing me in a chair by the
fireside. “And there is my System mutely ad-
dressing you just above your head, under a form
of exposition which I venture to describe as
frankness itself. This is no mad-house, my
dear lady. Let other men treat insanity, if
they like—I stop it! No patients in this house
as yet. But we live in an age when nervous
derangement (parent of insanity) is steadily on
the increase; and in due time the sufferers will
come. I can wait, as Harvey waited, as Jenner
waited. And now, do put your feet up on the
'fender and tell me about yourself. You are
married, of course? And what a pretty name!
Accept my best and most heart-felt congratula-
tions! You have the two greatest blessings that
can fall to a woman's lot—the two capital H's,
as I call them-Husband and Home.”
“I interrupted the genial flow of the doctor's
congratulations at the first opportunity.
“‘I am married; but the circumstances are
by no means of the ordinary kind, I said, seri-
ously. “My present position includes none of
the blessings that are usually supposed to fall to
a woman's lot. I am already in a situation of


ARMADALE.
283
very serious difficulty—and before long I may
be in a situation of very serious danger as well.'
“The doctor drew his chair a little nearer to
me, and fell at once into his old professional
manner and his old confidential tone.
“If you wish to consult me, he said, softly,
“you know that I have kept some dangerous
secrets in my time, and you also know that I
possess two valuable qualities as an adviser. I
am not easily shocked; and I can be implicitly
trusted.”
“I hesitated even now at the eleventh hour,
sitting alone with him in his own room. It
was so strange to me to be trusting to any body
but myself! And yet how could I help myself
in a difficulty which turned on a matter of law?
“‘Just as you please, you know,” added the
doctor. ‘I never invite confidences. I merely
receive them.”
“There was no help for it; I had come there
not to hesitate, but to speak. I risked it and
spoke.
“‘The matter on which I wish to consult
you,' I said, “is not (as you seem to think)
within your experience as a professional man.
But I believe you may be of assistance to me,
if I trust myself to your larger experience as a
man of the world. I warn you, beforehand,
that I shall certainly surprise and possibly
alarm you before I have done.”
“With that preface I entered on my story,
telling him what I had settled to tell him—and
no more.
“I made no secret, at the outset, of my in-
tention to personate Armadale's widow; and I
mentioned without reserve (knowing that the
doctor could go to the office and examine the
will for himself) the handsome income that
would be settled on me in the event of my suc-
cess. Some of the circumstances that followed
next in succession I thought it desirable to alter
or conceal. I showed him the newspaper ac-
count of the loss of the yacht—but I said no-
thing about events at Naples. I informed him
of the exact similarity of the two names; leav-
ing him to imagine that it was accidental. I
told him, as an important element in the mat-
ter, that my husband had kept his real name a
profound secret from every body but myself;
but (to prevent any communication between
them) I carefully concealed from the doctor
what the assumed name under which Midwinter
had lived all his life really was. I acknowl-
edged that I had left my husband behind me on
the Continent; but when the doctor put the
question I led him to conclude—I couldn't with
“all my resolution tell him positively l—that
Midwinter knew of the contemplated Fraud,
and that he was staying away purposely so as
not to compromise me by his presence. This
difficulty smoothed over—or, as I feel it now,
this baseness committed-I reverted to myself,
and came back again to the truth. One after
another I mentioned all the circumstances con-
nected with my private marriage, and with the
movements, while in London, of Armadale and
Midwinter, which rendered any discovery of the
false personation (through the evidence of other
people) a downright impossibility. “So much,'
I said, in conclusion, “for the object in view.
The next thing is to tell you plainly of a very
serious obstacle that stands in my way.”
“The doctor, who had listened thus far with-
out interrupting me, begged permission here to
say a few words on his side before I went on.
“The ‘few words' proved to be all questions
-clever, reaching, suspicious questions—which
I was, however, able to answer with little or no
reserve, for they related, in almost every in-
stance, to the circumstances under which I had
been married, and to the chances for and against
my lawful husband if he chose to assert his claim
to me at any future time. My replies informed
the doctor, in the first place, that I had so man-
aged matters in Armadale's house and in the
neighborhood as to lead to a general impression
that he intended to marry me; in the second
place, that my husband's early life had not been
of a kind to exhibit him favorably in the eyes
of the world; in the third place, that we had
been married without any witnesses present
who knew us, at a large parish church in which
two other couples had been married the same
morning, to say nothing of the dozens on dozens
of other couples (confusing all remembrance of
us in the minds of the officiating people) who
had been married since. When I had put the
doctor in possession of these facts, and when he
had further ascertained that Midwinter and I
had gone abroad among strangers immediately
after leaving the church, and that the men em-
ployed on board the yacht in which Armadale
had sailed from Somersetshire (before my mar-
riage) were now away in other ships voyaging
to the other end of the world, his confidence in
my prospects showed itself plainly in his face.
“So far as I can see,” he said, ‘your husband's
claim to you—after you have stepped into the
place of the dead Mr. Armadale's widow—would
rest on nothing but his own bare assertion. And
that I think you might safely set at defiance.
Excuse my apparent distrust of the gentleman.
But there might be a misunderstanding between
you in the future, and it is highly desirable to
ascertain beforehand exactly what he could or
could not do under those circumstances. And
now that we have done with the main obstacle
that I see in the way of your success, let us by
all means come to the obstacle that you see next!"
“I was willing enough to come to it. The
tone in which he spoke of Midwinter, though I
myself was responsible for it, jarred on me hor-
ribly, and roused for the moment some of the
old folly of feeling which I fancied I had laid
aside forever. I rushed at the chance of chang-
ing the subject, and mentioned the discrepancy
in the register between the hand in which Mid-
winter had signed the name of Allan Armadale
and the hand in which Armadale of Thorpe-
Ambrose had been accustomed to write his
name, with an eagerness which it quite divert-
ed the doctor to see.


286
ARMADALE.
daily attendance. Do I pity her? Yes! I
pity her exactly as much as she once pitied me!
“In the next place, the state of affairs at the
great house, which I expected to find some dif-
ficulty in comprehending, turns out to be quite
intelligible, and certainly not discouraging so
far. Only yesterday the lawyers on both sides
came to an understanding. Mr. Darch (the fam-
ily solicitor of the Blanchards, and Armadale's
bitter enemy in past times) represents the in-
terests of Miss Blanchard, who is next heir to
the estate, and who has, it appears, been in Lon-
don on business of her own for some time past.
Mr. Smart of Norwich (originally employed to
overlook Bashwood in the steward's office) rep-
resents the deceased Armadale. And this is
what the two lawyers have settled between them.
“Mr. Darch, acting for Miss Blanchard, has
claimed the possession of the estate and the right
of receiving the rents at the Christmas audit in
her name. Mr. Smart, on his side, has admit-
ted that there is great weight in the family so-
licitor's application. He can not see his way,
as things are now, to contesting the question of
Armadale's death, and he will consent to offer
no resistance to the application if Mr. Darch
will consent, on his side, to assume the respons-
ibility of taking possession in Miss Blanchard's
name. This Mr. Darch has already done; and
the estate is now virtually in Miss Blanchard's
possession.
“One result of this course of proceeding will
be (as Bashwood thinks) to put Mr. Darch in
the position of the person who really decides on
my claim to the widow's place and the widow's
money. The income being charged on the
estate, it must come out of Miss Blanchard's
pocket; and the question of paying it would ap-
pear therefore to be a question for Miss Blan-
chard's lawyer. To-morrow will probably decide
whether this view is the right one—for my let-
ter to Armadale's representatives will have been
delivered at the great house this morning.
“So much for what old Bashwood had to tell
me. Having recovered my influence over him,
and possessed myself of all his information so
far, the next thing to consider was the right use
to turn him to in the future. He was entirely
at my disposal, for his place at the steward's of.
fice has been already taken by Miss Blanchard's
man of business, and he pleaded hard to be al-
lowed to stay and serve my interests in London.
There would not have been the least danger in
letting him stay, for I had, as a matter of course,
left him undisturbed in his conviction that I re-
ally am the widow of Armadale of Thorpe-Am-
brose. But with the doctor's resources at my
- command, I wanted no assistance of any sort
in London; and it occurred to me that I might
possibly make Bashwood more useful by send-
ing him back to Norfolk to watch the progress
of events there in my interests. He looked
sorely disappointed (having had an eye evident-
ly to paying his court to me in my widowed
condition :) when I told him of the conclusion
at which I had arrived. But a few words of
persuasion, and a modest hint that he might
cherish hopes in the future if he served me
obediently in the present, did wonders in rec-
onciling him to the necessity of meeting my
wishes. He asked helplessly for “instructions'
when it was time for him to leave me and trav-
el back by the evening train. I could give him
none, for I had no idea as yet of what the legal
people might or might not do. “But suppose
something happens, he persisted, ‘that I don't
understand, what am I to do, so far away from
you?' I could only give him one answer. “Do
nothing,' I said. “Whatever it is, hold your
tongue about it, and write, or come up to Lon-
don immediately to counsel me. With those
parting directions, and with an understanding
that we were to correspond regularly, I let him
kiss my hand, and sent him off to the train.
“Now that I am alone again, and able to
think calmly of the interview between me and
my elderly admirer, I find myself recalling a
certain change in old Bashwood's manner which
puzzled me at the time, and which puzzles me
still.
“Even in his first moments of agitation at
seeing me, I thought that his eyes rested on my
face with a new kind of interest while I was
speaking to him. Besides this, he dropped a
word or two afterward, telling me of his lonely
life at Thorpe-Ambrose, which seemed to imply
that he had been sustained in his solitude by
something like a feeling of confidence about his
future relations with me when we next met. If
he had been a younger and a bolder man (and
if any such discovery had been possible), I should
almost have suspected him of having found out
something about my past life which had made
him privately confident of exercising a power of
control over me if I showed any disposition to
deceive and desert him again. But such an
idea as this in connection with old Bashwood is
simply absurd. Perhaps I am over-excited by
the suspense and anxiety of my present posi-
tion? Perhaps the merest fancies and sus-
picions are leading me astray? Let this be as
it may, I have at any rate more serious subjects
than the subject of old Bashwood to occupy me
now. To-morrow's post may tell me what Ar-
madale's representatives think of the claim of
Armadale's widow.
“November 26th.—The answer has arrived
this morning in the form (as Bashwood sup-
posed) of a letter from Mr. Darch. The crab-
bed old lawyer acknowledges my letter in three
lines. Before he takes any steps or expresses
any opinion on the subject he wants evidence
of identity as well as the evidence of the certifi-
cate, and he ventures to suggest that it may
be desirable before we go any further to refer
him to my legal advisers.
“Two o'clock. — The doctor called shortly
after twelve to say that he had found a lodging
for me within twenty minutes' walk of the San-
atorium. In return for his news I showed him


290
ARMADALE.
opposite to me. His eyes were fixed on my
face, with the eager inquiring expression of a
man who was trying to read my thoughts. His
eyes fell guiltily when they met mine, and he
shrank away to his chair. Believing, as he did,
that I was really married to Armadale, was he
trying to discover whether the news of Arma-
dale's rescue from the sea was good news or bad
news in my estimation? It was no;ime then
for entering into explanations with him. The
first thing to be done was to communicate in-
stantly with the doctor. I called Bashwood
back to me, and gave him my hand.
“‘You have done me a service, I said,
‘which makes us closer friends than ever. I
shall say more about this, and about other mat-
ters of some interest to both of us, later in the
day. I want you now to lend me Mr. Arma-
dale's letter (which I promise to bring back)
and to wait here till I return. Will you do
that for me, Mr. Bashwood?”
“He would do any thing I asked him, he
said. I went into the bedroom, and put on my
bonnet and shawl.
“‘Let me be quite sure of the facts before I
leave you, I resumed, when I was ready to go
out. “You have not shown this letter to any
body but me?’ -
“‘Not a living soul has seen it but our two
selves.” *
“‘What have you done with the note inclosed
to Miss Milroy?"
“He produced it from his pocket. I ran it
over rapidly—saw that there was nothing in it
of the slightest importance—and put it in the
fire on the spot. That done, I left Bashwood
in the sitting-room, and went to the Sanatorium
with Armadale's letter in my hand.
“The doctor had gone out; and the servant
was unable to say positively at what time he
would be back. I went into his study, and
wrote a line preparing him for the news I had
brought with me, which I sealed up, with Ar-
madale's letter, in an envelope, to await his re-
turn. That done, I told the servant I would
call again in an hour, and left the place.
“It was useless to go back to my lodgings
and speak to Bashwood until I knew first what
the doctor meant to do. I walked about the
neighborhood, up and down new streets and
crescents and squares, with a kind of dull,
numbed feeling in me, which prevented not only
all voluntary exercise of thought but all sensa-
tion of bodily fatigue. I remembered the same
feeling overpowering me, years ago, on the morn-
ing when the people of the prison came to take
me into court to be tried for my life. All that
frightful scene came back again to my mind, in
the strangest manner, as if it had been a scene
in which some other person had figured. Once
or twice I wondered, in a heavy, senseless way,
why they had not hanged me !
“When I went back to the Sanatorium I was
informed that the doctor had returned half an
hour since, and that he was in his own room
anxiously waiting to see me.
“I went into the study, and found him sit-
ting close by the fire, with his head down and
his hands on his knees. On the table near
him, besides Armadale's letter and my note, I
saw, in the little circle of light thrown by the
reading lamp, an open railway guide. Was he
meditating flight? It was impossible to tell
from his face, when he looked up at me, what
he was meditating, or how the shock had struck
him when he first discovered that Armadale was
a living man.
“‘Take a seat near the fire, he said.
very raw and cold to-day.”
“I took a chair in silence. In silence, on
his side, the doctor sat rubbing his knees before
the fire.
“‘Have you nothing to say to me?' I asked.
“He rose, and suddenly removed the shade
from the reading-lamp, so that the light fell on
my face.
“‘You are not looking well, he said. “What's
the matter?'
“‘My head feels dull, and my eyes are heavy
and hot, I replied. “The weather, I suppose.”
“It was strange how we both got farther and
farther from the one vitally important subject
which we had both come together to discuss!
“‘I think a cup of tea would do you good,'
remarked the doctor.
“I accepted his suggestion, and he ordered
the tea. While it was coming he walked up
and down the room, and I sat by the fire—and
not a word passed between us on either side.
“The tea revived me; and the doctor no-
ticed a change for the better in my face. He
sat down opposite to me at the table and spoke
out at last.
“‘If I had ten thousand pounds at this mo-
ment, he began, ‘I would give the whole of it
never to have compromised myself in your des-
perate speculations on Mr. Armadale's death!"
“He said these words with an abruptness,
almost with a violence, which was strangely un-
characteristic of his ordinary manner. Was he
frightened himself, or was he trying to frighten .
me? I determined to make him explain him-
self at the outset, so far as I was concerned.
“Wait a moment, doctor, Isaid. “Do you hold
me responsible for what has happened?”
“‘Certainly not, he replied, stiffly. “Nei-
ther you nor any body could have foreseen what
has happened. When I say I would give ten
thousand pounds to be out of this business I am
blaming nobody but myself. And when I tell
you next that I, for one, won't allow Mr. Arma-
dale's resurrection from the sea to be the ruin
of me without a fight for it, I tell you, my dear
madam, one of the plainest truths I ever told to
man or woman in the whole course of my life.
Don't suppose I am invidiously separating my
interests from yours in the common danger that
now threatens us both. I simply indicate the
difference in the risk that we have respectively
run. You have not sunk the whole of your re-
sources in establishing a Sanatorium; and you
have not made a false declaration before a mag-
*It's


ARMADALE.
291
istrate, which is punishable as perjury by the
law.”
“I interrupted him again. His selfishness
did me more good than his tea—it roused my
temper effectually. “Suppose we let your risk
and my risk alone, and come to the point, I
said.
for it? I see a railway guide on your table.
Does making a fight for it mean-running
away?”
“‘Running away?’ repeated the doctor.
‘You appear to forget" that every farthing I
have in the world is embarked in this establish-
ment.”
“‘You stop here then?' I said.
“‘Unquestionably l’
“‘And what do you mean to do when Mr.
Armadale comes to England?”
“A solitary fly, the last of his race whom the
winter had spared, was buzzing feebly about the
doctor's face. He caught it before he answered
me, and held it out across the table in his closed
hand.
“‘If this fly's name was Armadale, he said,
‘and if you had got him as I have got him now,
what would you do?”
“His eyes, fixed on my face up to this time,
turned significantly, as he ended his question,
to my widow's dress. I, too, looked at it when
he looked. A thrill of the old deadly hatred
and the old deadly determination ran through
me again.
“‘I should kill him,” I said.
“The doctor started to his feet (with the fly
still in his hand) and looked at me—a little too
theatrically—with an expression of the utmost
horror. -
“‘Kill him !’ repeated the doctor, in a parox-
ysm of virtuous alarm. “Violence—murderous
violence—in My Sanatorium! You take my
breath away!”
“I caught his eye while he was expressing
himself in this elaborately indignant manner,
scrutinizing me with a searching curiosity which
was, to say the least of it, a little at variance
with the vehemence of his language and the
warmth of his tone. He laughed uneasily when
our eyes met, and recovered his smooth confi-
dential manner in that instant that elapsed be-
fore he spoke again.
“‘I beg a thousand pardons, he said. “I
ought to have known better than to take a lady
too literally at her word. Permit me to remind
you, however, that the circumstances are too
serious for any thing in the nature of—let us
say, an exaggeration or a joke. You shall hear
what I propose without further preface.” He
paused, and resumed his figurative use of the fly
imprisoned in his hand. ‘Here is Mr. Arma-
dale. I can let him out or keep him in, just as
I please—and he knows it. I say to him, con-
tinued the doctor, facetiously addressing the
fly, “Give me proper security, Mr. Armadale,
that no proceedings of any sort shall be taken
against either this lady or myself, and I will let
you out of the hollow of my hand. Refuse-
‘What do you mean by making a fight
and be the risk what it may, I will keep you in.”
Can you doubt, my dear madam, what Mr.
Armadale's answer is, sooner or later, certain to
be? Can you doubt, said the doctor, suiting
the action to the word and letting the fly go,
‘that it will end to the entire satisfaction of all
parties in this way?”
“‘I won't say at present,” I answered, “wheth-
er I doubt or not. Let me make sure that I
understand you first. You propose, if I am not
mistaken, to shut the doors of this place on Mr.
Armadale, and not to let him out again until he
has agreed to the terms which it is our interest
to impose on him? May I ask, in that case,
: you mean to make him walk into the trap
hat you have set for him here?'
“‘I propose,” said the doctor, with his hand
on the railway guide, ‘ascertaining first, at what
time during every evening of this month the
tidal trains from Dover and Folkestone reach
the London Bridge terminus. And I propose
next posting a person whom Mr. Armadale
knows, and whom you and I can trust, to wait
the arrival of the trains, and to meet our man at
the moment when he steps out of the railway
carriage.”
“‘Have you thought,' I inquired, ‘of who the
person is to be?”
“‘I have thought,” said the doctor, taking up
Armadale's letter, “of the person to whom this
letter is addressed.”
“The answer startled me. Was it possible
that he and Bashwood knew one another? I
put the question immediately.
“‘Until to-day I never so much as heard of
the gentleman's name,” said the doctor. “I
have simply pursued the inductive process of
reasoning, for which we are indebted to the im-
mortal Bacon. How does this very important
letter come into your possession? I can't insult
you by supposing it to have been stolen. Con-
sequently it has come to you with the leave and
license of the person to whom it is addressed.
Consequently that person is in your confidence.
Consequently he is the first person I think of.
You see the process? Very good. Permit me
a question or two, on the subject of Mr. Bash-
wood, before we go on any further.’
“The doctor's questions went as straight to
the point as usual. My answers informed him
that Mr. Bashwood stood toward Armadale in
the relation of steward—that he had received
the letter at Thorpe-Ambrose that morning, and
had brought it straight to me by the first train
—that he had not shown it or spoken of it be-
fore leaving to Major Milroy or to any one else
—and that I had not obtained this service at
his hands by trusting him with my secret—that
I had communicated with him in the character
of Armadale's widow—that he had suppressed
the letter, under these circumstances, solely in
obedience to a general caution I had given him
to keep his own counsel if any thing strange
happened at Thorpe-Ambrose until he had first
consulted me—and lastly, that the reason why
he had done as I told him in this matter was,


292
ARMADALE.
that in this matter, and in all others, Mr. Bash-
wood was blindly devoted to my interests.
“At this point in the interrogatory the doc-
tor's eyes began to look at me distrustfully be-
hind the doctor's spectacles.
*** What is the secret of this blind devotion
of Mr. Bashwood's to your interests?” he asked.
“I hesitated for a moment—in pity to Bash-
wood, not in pity to myself. “If you must
know, I answered, “Mr. Bashwood is in love
with me.”
“‘Ay! ay!’ exclaimed the doctor, with an
air of relief. “I begin to understand now. Is
he a young man?”
“‘He is an old man.”
“The doctor laid himself back in his chair
and chuckled softly. ‘Better and better, he
said. “Here is the very man we want. Who
so fit as Mr. Armadale's steward to meet Mr.
Armadale on his return to London ? And who
so capable of influencing Mr. Bashwood in the
proper way as the charming object of Mr. Bash-
wood's admiration?”
“There could be no doubt that Bashwood
was the man to serve the doctor's purpose, and
that my influence was to be trusted to make
him serve it. The difficulty was not here—the
difficulty was in the unanswered question that
I had put to the doctor a minute since. I put
it to him again.
“‘Suppose Mr. Armadale's steward meets his
employer at the terminus,” I said. ‘May I ask
once more how Mr. Armadale is to be persuaded
to come here?’
“‘Don’t think me ungallant, rejoined the
doctor, in his gentlest manner, “if I ask, on my
side, how are men persuaded to do nine-tenths
of the foolish acts of their lives? They are
persuaded by your charming sex. The weak
side of every man is the woman's side of him.
We have only to discover the woman's side of
Mr. Armadale—to tickle him on it gently—and
to lead him our way with a silken string. I
observe here, pursued the doctor, opening Ar-
madale's letter, ‘a reference to a certain young
lady, which looks promising. Where is the
note that Mr. Armadale speaks of as addressed
to Miss Milroy?"
“Instead of answering him I started, in a
sudden burst of excitement, to my feet. The
instant he mentioned Miss Milroy's name all
that I had heard from Bashwood of her illness
and of the cause of it rushed back into my
memory. I saw the means of decoying Arma-
dale into the Sanatorium as plainly as I saw
the doctor on the other side of the table, won-
dering at the extraordinary change in me.
What a luxury it was to make Miss Milroy
serve my interests at last!
“‘Never mind the note, I said. “It's burnt,
for fear of accidents. I can tell you all (and
more) than the note could have told you. Miss
Milroy cuts the knot! Miss Milroy ends the
difficulty! She is privately engaged to him.
She has heard the false report of his death, and
she has been seriously ill at Thorpe-Ambrose
ever since. When Bashwood meets him at the
station the very first question he is certain to
ask—' -
“‘I see!’ exclaimed the doctor, anticipating
me. “Mr. Bashwood has nothing to do but to
help the truth with a touch of fiction. When
he tells his master that the false report has
reached Miss Milroy he has only to add that
the shock has affected her head, and that she
is here under medical care. Perfect! perfect!
We shall have him at the Sanatorium as fast
as the fastest cab-horse in London can bring
him to us. And mind: no risk—no necessity
for trusting other people. This is not a mad-
house; this is not a Licensed Establishment—
no doctors' certificates are necessary here! My
dear lady, I congratulate you; I congratulate
myself. Permit me to hand you the railway
guide, with my best compliments to Mr. Bash-
wood, and with the page turned down for him,
as an additional attention, at the right place.'
“Remembering how long I had kept Bash-
wood waiting for me I took the book at once,
and wished the doctor good-evening without
further ceremony. As he politely opened the
door for me he reverted, without the slightest
necessity for doing so, and without a word from
me to lead to it, to the outburst of virtuous
alarm which had escaped him at the earlier
part of our interview.
“‘I do hope, he said, ‘that you will kindly
forget and forgive my extraordinary want of
tact and perception when—in short, when I
caught the fly. I positively blush at my own
stupidity in putting a literal interpretation on a
lady's little joke! Violence in My Sanatori-
um! exclaimed the doctor, with his eyes once
more fixed attentively on my face; ‘violence
in this enlightened nineteenth century! Was
there ever anything so ridiculous? Do fasten
your cloak before you go out—it is so cold and
raw ! : Shall I escort you? Shall I send my
servant? Ah! you were always independent
—always, if I may say so, a host in yourself!
May I call to-morrow morning and hear what
you have settled with Mr. Bashwood?”
“I said yes, and got away from him at last.
In a quarter of an hour more I was back at my
lodgings, and was informed by the servant that
‘the elderly gentleman was still waiting for me.
“I have not got the heart or the patience-
I hardly know which—to waste many words on
what passed between me and Bashwood. It
was so easy, so degradingly easy, to pull the
strings of the poor old puppet in any way I
pleased ! I met none of the difficulties which
I should have been obliged to meet in the case
of a younger man, or of a man less infatuated
with admiration for me. I left the allusions to
Miss Milroy in Armadale's letter, which had
naturally puzzled him, to be explained at a fu-
ture time. I never even troubled myself to in-
vent a plausible reason for wishing him to meet
Armadale at the terminus, and to entrap him
by a stratagem into the doctor's Sanatorium.


ARMADALE.
293
All that I found it necessary to do was to refer
him to what I had written, in the first place,
and to what I had afterward said to him when
he came to answer my letter personally at the
hotel.
“‘You know already, Mr. Bashwood,' I said,
‘that my marriage has not been a happy one.
Draw your own conclusions from that, and don't
press me to tell you whether the news of Mr.
Armadale's rescue from the sea is or is not the
welcome news that it ought to be to his wife!”
That was enough to put his withered old face
in a glow, and to set his withered old hopes
growing again. I had only to add: “If you
will do what I ask you to do, no matter how
incomprehensible and how mysterious my re-
quest may seem to be; and if you will accept
my assurances that you shall run no risk your-
self, and that you shall have the proper expla-
nations at the proper time, you will have such
a claim on my gratitude and my regard as no
man living has ever had yet!' I had only to say
these words, and to point them by a look and a
stolen pressure of his hand, and I had him at
my feet, blindly eager to obey me. If he could
have seen what I thought of myself—but that
doesn't matter: he saw nothing.
“Hours have passed since I sent him away
(pledged to secrecy, possessed of his instruc-
tions, and provided with his time-table) to the
hotel near the terminus, at which he is to stay
till Armadale appears on the railway platform.
The excitement of the earlier part of the even-
ing has all worn off, and the dull, numbed sen-
sation has got me again. Are my energies
wearing out, I wonder, just at the time when I
most wan; them? Or is some foreshadowing
of disaster creeping over me which I don't yet
understand?
“I might be in a humor to sit here for some
time longer, thinking thoughts like these, and
letting them find their way into words at their
own will and pleasure—if my Diary would only
let me. But my idle pen has been busy enough
to make its way to the end of the volume. I
have reached the last morsel of space left on
the last page; and whether I like it or not, I
must close the book this time for good and all
when I close it to-night.
“Good-by, my old friend and companion of
many a miserable day! Having nothing else
to be fond of, I half suspect myself of having
been unreasonably fond of you.
“What a fool I am!”


ARMADALE.
B O O K. T H E L A.S.T.
CHAPTER I.
AT THE STATION.
ON the night of the second of December Mr.
Bashwood took up his post of observation at the
terminus of the South Eastern Railway for the
first time. It was an earlier date, by six days,
than the date which Allan had himself fixed for
his return. But the doctor, taking counsel of
his medical experience, had considered it just
probable that “Mr. Armadale might be perverse
enough, at his enviable age, to recover sooner
than his medical advisers might have antici-
pated.” For caution's sake, therefore, Mr.
Bashwood was instructed to begin watching the
arrival of the tidal trains on the day after he
had received his employer's letter.
From the second to the seventh of December
the steward waited punctually on the platform,
saw the trains come in, and satisfied himself,
evening after evening, that the travelers were
all strangers to him. From the second to the
seventh of December Miss Gwilt (to return to
the name under which she is best known in
these pages) received his daily report, some-
times delivered personally, sometimes sent by
letter. The doctor, to whom the reports were
communicated, received them in his turn with
unabated confidence in the precautions that had
been adopted up to the morning of the eighth.
On that date the irritation of continued sus-
pense had produced a change for the worse in
Miss Gwilt's variable temper, which was per-
ceptible to every one about her, and which,
strangely enough, was reflected by an equally
marked change in the doctor's manner when he
came to pay his usual visit. By a coincidence
so remarkable that his enemies might have sus-
pected it of not being a coincidence at all, the
morning on which Miss Gwilt lost her patience
proved to be also the morning on which the
doctor lost his confidence for the first time.
“No news, of course,” he said, sitting down
with a heavy sigh. “Well! well!”
Miss Gwilt looked up at him irritably from
her work.
“You seem strangely depressed this morning,”
she said. “What are you afraid of now?”
“The imputation of being afraid, madam,”
answered the doctor, solemnly, “is not an im-
putation to cast rashly on any man—even when
he belongs to such an essentially peaceful pro-
fession as mine. I am not afraid. I am (as
you more correctly put it in the first instance)
strangely depressed. My nature is, as you
know, naturally sanguine, and I only see to-
day what, but for my habitual hopefulness, I
might have seen, and ought to have seen, a
week since.”
Miss Gwilt impatiently threw down her work.
“If words cost money,” she said, “the luxury
of talking, doctor, would be rather an expensive
luxury in your case!”
“Which I might have seen, and ought to
have seen,” pursued the doctor, without taking
the slightest notice of the interruption, “a
week since. To put it plainly, I feel by no
means so certain as I did that Mr. Armadale
will consent without a struggle to the terms
which it is my interest (and in a minor degree
yours) to impose on him. Observe! I don't
question our entrapping him successfully into
the Sanatorium—I only doubt whether he will
prove quite as manageable as I originally an-
ticipated when we have got him there. Say,”
remarked the doctor, raising his eyes for the
first time, and fixing them in steady inquiry on
Miss Gwilt; “say that he is bold, obstinate,
what you please; and that he holds out—holds
out for weeks together, for months together, as
men in similar situations to his have held out
before him. What follows? The risk of keep-
ing him forcibly in concealment—of suppressing
him, if I may so express myself—increases at
compound interest, and becomes Enormous!
My house is, at this moment, virtually ready for
patients. Patients may present themselves in a
week's time. Patients may communicate with
Mr. Armadale, or Mr. Armadale may communi-
cate with patients. A note may be smuggled
out of the house and may reach the Commis-
sioners in Lunacy. Even in the case of an un-
licensed establishment like mine, those gentle-
men--no! those chartered despots in a land of
liberty—have only to apply to the Lord Chan-
cellor for an order and to enter (by Heavens, to
enter My Sanatorium !) and search it from top
to bottom at a moment's notice I don't wish
to despond; I don't wish to alarm you; I don't
pretend to say that the means we are taking to
secure our own safety are any other than the
best means at our disposal. All I ask you to
do is to imagine the Commissioners in the
house—and then to conceive the consequences.
The consequences!” repeated the doctor, getting
sternly on his feet, and taking up his hat as if
he meant to leave the house.
“Have you anything more to say?” asked
Miss Gwilt.
“Have you any remarks,” rejoined the doctor,
“to offer on your side?”
He stood hat in hand, waiting. For a full
minute the two looked at each other in silence,
Miss Gwilt spoke first.


ARMADALE.
2.95
“I think I understand you,” she said, sud-
denly recovering her composure.
“I beg your pardon,” returned the doctor,
with his hand to his ear. “What did you
say ?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“If you happened to catch another fly this
morning,” said Miss Gwilt, with a bitterly sar-
castic emphasis on the words, “I might be capa-
ble of shocking you by another ‘little joke.’”
The doctor held up both hands, in polite dep-
recation, and looked as if he was beginning to
recover his good-humor again.
“Hard,” he murmured gently, “not to have
forgiven me that unlucky blunder of mine even
et !”
y “What else have you to say? I am waiting
for you,” said Miss Gwilt. She turned her chair
to the window, scornfully, and took up her work
again as she spoke.
The doctor came behind her and put his
hand on the back of her chair.
“I have a question to ask, in the first place,”
he said; “and a measure of necessary precau-
tion to suggest in the second. If you will honor
me with your attention I will put the question
first.”
“I am listening.”
“You know that Mr. Armadale is alive,” pur-
sued the doctor; “and you know that he is
coming back to England. Why do you con-
tinue to wear your widow's dress?”
She answered him without an instant's hesi-
tation, steadily going on with her work.
“Because I am of a sanguine disposition,
like you,” she said “I mean to trust to the
chapter of accidents to the very last. Mr. Ar-
madale may die yet on his way home.”
“And suppose he gets home alive—what
then **
“Then there is another chance still left.”
“What is it, pray?”
“He may die in your Sanatorium.”
“Madam !” remarked the doctor, in the deep
bass which he reserved for his outbursts of vir-
tuous indignation. “Stop! you spoke of the
chapter of accidents,” he resumed, gliding back
into his softer conversational tones. “Yes!
yes! of course. I understand you this time.
Even the healing art is at the mercy of accidents
—even My Sanatorium, otherwise the Fortress
of Health, is liable at any day to be surprised
by Death. Just so! just so!” said the doctor,
conceding the questions with the utmost impar-
tiality. “There is the chapter of accidents, I
admit—if you choose to trust to it. Mind? I
say emphatically, if you choose to trust to it.”
There was another moment of silence—silence
so profound that nothing was audible in the
room but the rapid click of Miss Gwilt's needle
through her work.
“Go on,” she said; “you haven't done yet.”
“True!” said the doctor. “Having put my
question, I have my measure of precaution to
impress on you next. You will see, my dear
madam, that I am not disposed to trust to the
chapter of accidents on my side. Reflection has
convinced me that you and I are not (locally
speaking) so conveniently situated as we might
be, in case of emergency. Cabs are, as yet, rare
in this rapidly-improving neighborhood. I am
a quarter of an hour's walk from you; you are
a quarter of an hour's walk from me. I know
nothing of Mr. Armadale's character; you know
it well. It might be necessary—vitally neces-
sary—to appeal to your superior knowledge of
him at a moment's notice. And how am I to
do that unless we are within easy reach of each
other, under the same roof? For both our in-
terests, I beg to invite you, my dear madam, to
become for a limited period an inmate of My
Sanatorium.”
Miss Gwilt's rapid needle suddenly stopped.
“I understand you,” she said again, as quietly
as before.
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, with
another attack of deafness, and with his hand
once more at his ear.
She laughed to herself—a low, terrible laugh,
which startled even the dector into taking his
hand off the back of her chair. -
“An inmate of your Sanatorium?” she re-
peated. “You consult appearances in every
thing else—do you propose to consult appear-
ances in receiving me into your house?”
“Most assuredly!” replied the doctor, with
enthusiasm. “I am surprised at your asking
me the question: Did you ever know a man
of the highest eminence in my profession who
set appearances at defiance? If you honor me
by accepting my invitation, you enter My Sana-
torium—”
“In what character?”
“In the most unimpeachable of all possible
characters,” replied the doctor. “In the char-
acter of—a Patient.”
“When do you want my answer?”
“Can you decide to-day?”
‘‘No.”
“To-morrow 2”
“Yes. Have you any thing more left to
say?”
“Nothing more.”
“Leave me then. I don't keep up appear.
ances. I wish to be alone—and Isay so. Good-
morning.” -
“Oh, the sex! the sex 1" said the doctor,
wn:h his excellent temper in perfect working
order again. “So delightfully impulsive so
charmingly reckless of what they say, or how
they say it! ‘Oh, woman, in our hours of
ease, coy, diffident, and hard to please!' There!
there! there! Good-morning!”
Miss Gwilt rose and looked after him from
the window, when the street-door had closed
and he had left the house.
“Armadale himself drove me to it the first
time,” she said. “Manuel drove me to it the
second time.—You cowardly scoundrel; shall I
let you drive me to it for the third time and the
| last?”


296
ARMADALE.
She turned from the window and looked
thoughtfully at her widow's dress in the glass.
The hours of the day passed—and she de-
cided nothing. The night came—and she hes-
itated still. The new morning dawned—and
the terrible question was still unanswered, Yes
or No.
By the early post there came a letter for her.
It was Mr. Bashwood's usual report. Again he
had watched for Allan's arrival, and again in
Wain.
“I’ll have more time!” she said to herself,
passionately. “No man alive shall hurry me
faster than I like '"
At breakfast that morning (the morning of
the ninth) the doctor was surprised in his study
at the Sanatorium by a visit from Miss Gwilt.
“I want another day,” she said, the moment
the servant had closed the door on her.
The doctor looked at her before he answered,
and saw the danger of driving her to extremi-
ties plainly expressed in her face.
“The time is getting on,” he remonstrated,
in his most persuasive manner. “For all we
know to the contrary, Mr. Armadale may be
here to-night.” -
“I want another day!” she repeated, loudly
and passionately.
“Granted!” said the doctor, looking nerv-
ously toward the door. “Don't be too loud—
the servants may hear you. Mind I" he added,
“I depend on your honor not to press me for
any further delay.”
“You had better depend on my despair,” she
said—and left him.
The doctor chipped the shell of his egg, and
laughed softly.
“Quite right, my dear!” he said. “I re-
member where your despair led you in past
times; and I think I may trust it to lead you
the same way now.”
At a quarter to eight that night Mr. Bashwood
took up his post of observation, as usual, on the
platform of the terminus at London Bridge.
He was in the highest good spirits; he smiled
and smirked in irrepressible exultation. The
sense that he held in reserve a means of influ-
ence over Miss Gwilt, in virtue of his knowl-
edge of her past career, had had no share in
effecting the transformation that now appeared
in him. It had upheld him in his forlorn life
at Thorpe-Ambrose, and it had given him that
increased confidence of manner which Miss
Gwilt herself had noticed; but it had vanished
as a motive power in him from the moment that
had restored him to Miss Gwilt's favor—it had
vanished, annihilated by the electric shock of
her touch and her look. His vanity—the van-
ity which in men at his age is only despair in
disguise—had now lifted him to the seventh
heaven of fatuous happiness once more. He
believed in her again as he believed in the smart,
new winter over-coat that he wore—as he be-
lieved in the dainty little came (appropriate to
the dawning dandyism of lads in their teens)
that he flourished in his hand. He hummed-
the worn-out old creature who had not sung
since his childhood—hummed, as he paced the
platform, the few fragments he could remember
of a worn-out old song.
The train was due as early as eight o'clock
that night. At five minutes past the hour the
whistle sounded. In less than five minutes
more the passengers were getting out on the
platform.
Following the instructions that had been given
to him, Mr. Bashwood made his way as well as
the crowd would let him along the line of car-
riages; and discovering no familiar face on that
first investigation, joined the passengers for a
second search among them in the custom-house
waiting-room next.
He had looked round the room, and had sat-
isfied himself that the persons occupying it were
all strangers, when he heard a voice behind him,
exclaiming, “Can that be Mr. Bashwood :"
He turned in eager expectation, and found
himself face to face with the last man under
heaven whom he had expected to see.
The man was—MIDw1NTER!
--
CHAPTER II.
IN THE HOU SE.
NoTICING Mr. Bashwood's confusion (after a
moment's glance at the change in his person-.
al appearance), Midwinter spoke first.
“I see I have surprised you,” he said. “You
were looking, I suppose, for somebody else?
Have you heard from Allan Is he on his way
home again already ?”
The inquiry about Allan, though it would nat-
urally have suggested itself to any one in Mid-
winter's position at that moment, added to Mr.
Bashwood's confusion. Not knowing how else
to extricate himself from the critical position in
which he was placed he took refuge in simple
denial.
“I know nothing about Mr. Armadale—oh
dear, no, Sir, I know nothing about Mr. Arma-
dale,” he answered, with needless eagerness and
hurry. “Welcome back to England, Sir,” he
went on, changing the subject in his nervously
talkative manner. “I didn't know you had
been abroad. It's so long since we have had
the pleasure—since I have had the pleasure—
Have you enjoyed yourself, Sir, in foreign
parts? Such different manners from ours—
yes, yes, yes—such different manners from ours!
Do you make a long stay in England, now you
have come back?”
“I hardly know,” said Midwinter. “I have
been obliged to alter my plans, and to come to
England unexpectedly.” He hesitated a little;
his manner changed, and he added in lower
tones, “A serious anxiety has brought me back.
I can't say what my plans will be until that
anxiety is set at rest.”
The light of a lamp fell on his face while he


ARMADALE.
297
spoke, and Mr. Bashwood observed, for the first
time, that he looked sadly worn and changed.
“I’m sorry, Sir—I'm sure I'm very sorry. If
I could be of any use—?” suggested Mr. Bash-
wood, speaking under the influence in some de-
gree of his nervous politeness, and in some de-
gree of his remembrance of what Midwinter had
done for him at Thorpe-Ambrose in the by-gone
time.
Midwinter thanked him, and turned away sad-
ly. “I am afraid you can be of no use, Mr.
Bashwood; but I am obliged to you for your
offer, all the same.” He stopped, and consid-
ered a little: “Suppose she should not be ill?
Suppose some misfortune should have hap-
pened?” he resumed, speaking to himself, and
turning again toward the steward. “If she
has left her mother, some trace of her might be
, found by inquiring at Thorpe-Ambrose.”
Mr. Bashwood's curiosity was instantly aroused.
The whole sex was interesting to him now for
the sake of Miss Gwilt.
“A lady, Sir?” he inquired.
looking for a lady?” *
“I am looking,” said Midwinter simply, “for
my wife.”
“Married, Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Bashwood.
“Married since I last had the pleasure of seeing
you ! Might I take the liberty of asking—?”
Midwinter's eyes dropped uneasily to the
ground.
“You knew the lady in former times,” he
said. “I have married Miss Gwilt.”
The steward started back as he might have
started back from a loaded pistol leveled at his
head. His eyes glared as if he had suddenly
lost his senses, and the nervous trembling to
which he was subject shook him from head to
foot.
“What's the matter?” asked Midwinter.
There was no answer. “What is there so very
startling,” he went on, a little impatiently, “in
Miss Gwilt's being my wife?”
“Your wife?” repeated Mr. Bashwood, help-
lessly. “Mrs. Armadale-l" He checked him-
self by a desperate effort, and said no more.
The stupor of astonishment which possessed
the steward was instantly reflected in Midwin-
ter's face. The name in which he had secretly
married his wife had passed the lips of the last
man in the world whom he would have dreamed
of admitting into his confidence! He took Mr.
Bashwood by the arm, and led him away to a
quieter part of the terminus than the part of
it in which they had hitherto spoken to each
other.
“You referred to my wife just now,” he said;
“and you spoke of Mrs. Armadale in the same
breath. What do you mean by that?”
Again there was no answer. Utterly incapa-
ble of understanding more than that he had
involved himself in some serious complication
which was a complete mystery to him, Mr. Bash-
wood struggled to extricate himself from the
grasp that was laid on him, and struggled in
Wain.
“Are you
T
Midwinter sternly repeated the question. “I
ask you again,” he said, “what do you mean
by it?”
“Nothing, Sir! I give you my word of
honor I meant nothing!” He felt the hand on
his arm tightening its grasp; he saw, even in
the obscurity of the remote corner in which they
stood, that Midwinter's fiery temper was rising
and was not to be trifled with. The extremity
of his danger inspired him with the one ready
capacity that a timid man possesses when he is
compelled by main force to face an emergency
—the capacity to lie. “I only meant to say,
Sir,” he burst out, with a desperate effort to
look and speak confidently, “that Mr. Arma-
dale would be surprised—”
“You said Mrs. Armadale !”
“No, Sir—on my word of honor, on my sa-
cred word of honor, you are mistaken—you are
indeed! I said Mr. Armadale—how could I
say any thing else? Please to let me go, Sir–
I'm pressed for time. I do assure you I'm dread-
fully pressed for time !”
For a moment longer Midwinter maintained
his hold, and in that moment he decided what
to do.
He had accurately stated his motive for re-
turning to England as proceeding from anxiety
about his wife—anxiety naturally caused (after
the regular receipt of a letter from her every
other, or every third day) by the sudden cessa-
tion of the correspondence between them on her
side for a whole week. The first vaguely-terri-
ble suspicion of some other reason for her si-
lence than the reason of accident or of illness,
to which he had hitherto attributed it, had struck
through him like a sudden chill the instant he
heard the steward associate the name of “Mrs.
Armadale” with the idea of his wife. Little
irregularities in her correspondence with him,
which he had thus far only thought strange,
now came back on his mind and proclaimed
themselves to be suspicious as well. He had
hitherto believed the reasons she had given for
referring him, when he answered her letters, to
no more definite address than an address at a
post-office. Now he suspected her reasons of
being excuses for the first time. He had hith-
erto resolved, on reaching London, to inquire
at the only place he knew of at which a clew to
her could be found—the address she had given
him as the address at which “her mother” lived.
Now (with a motive which he was afraid to de-
fine even to himself, but which was strong
enough to overbear every other consideration in
his mind), he determined, before all things, to
solve the mystery of Mr. Bashwood's familiarity
with a secret, which was a marriage-secret be-
tween himself and his wife. Any direct appeal
to a man of the steward's disposition, in the
steward's present state of mind, would be evi-
dently useless. The weapon of deception was,
in this case, a weapon literally forced into Mid-
winter's hands. He let go of Mr. Bashwood's
arm and accepted Mr. Bashwood's explanation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I have no


ARMADALE.
301
took his arm and led him aside a few steps, out
of the cabman's hearing.
“Think what you like of me,” she said, keep-
ing her thick black veil down over her face,
“but don't speak to me to-night. Drive back
to your hotel as if nothing had happened. Meet
the tidal train to-morrow as usual, and come to
me afterward at the Sanatorium. Go without a
word, and I shall believe there is one man in the
world who really loves me. Stay and ask ques-
tions, and I shall bid you good-by at once and
forever!”
She pointed to the cab. In a minute more it
had left the Sanatorium and was taking Mr.
Bashwood back to his hotel.
She opened the iron gate and walked slowly
up to the house door. A shudder ran through
her as she rang the bell. She laughed bitterly.
“Shivering again!” she said to herself. “Who
would have thought I had so much feeling left
in me?”
For once in his life the doctor's face told the
truth, when the study door opened between ten
and eleven at night, and Miss Gwilt entered the
100m.
“Mercy on me!” he exclaimed, with a look
of the blankest bewilderment, “what does this
mean?”
“It means,” she answered, “that I have de-
cided to-night instead of deciding to-morrow.
You, who know women so well, ought to know
that they act on impulse. I am here on an
impulse. Take me or leave me, just as you
like.”
“Take you or leave you?” repeated the doc-
tor, recovering his presence of mind. “My
dear lady, what a dreadful way of putting it!
Your room shall be got ready instantly | Where
is your luggage? Will you let me send for it?
No? You can do without your luggage to-
night? What admirable fortitude! You will
fetch it yourself to-morrow? What extraordi-
mary independence! Do take off your bonnet.
Do draw in to the fire! What can I offer
you?”
“Offer me the strongest sleeping-draught you
ever made in your life,” she replied. “And
leave me alone till the time comes to take it. I
shall be your patient in earnest!” she added,
fiercely, as the doctor attempted to remonstrate.
“I shall be the maddest of the mad if you irri-
tate me to-night!”
The Principal of the Sanatorium became
gravely and briefly professional in an instant.
“Sit down in that dark corner,” he said.
“Not a soul shall disturb you. In half an hour
you will find your room ready, and your sleep-
ing-draught on the table. It's been a harder
struggle for her than I anticipated,” he thought,
as he left the room and crossed to his Dispensary
on the opposite side of the hall. “Good Heav-
ens, what business has she with a conscience,
after such a life as hers has been '"
The Dispensary was elaborately fitted up with
all the latest improvements in medical furniture.
But one of the four walls of the room was un-
occupied by shelves, and here the vacant space
was filled by a handsome antique cabinet of
carved wood, curiously out of harmony, as an
object, with the unornamented utilitarian aspect
of the place generally. On either side of the
cabinet two speaking-tubes were inserted in the
wall, communicating with the upper regions of
the house, and labeled respectively, “Resident
Dispenser,” and “Head Nurse.” Into the sec-
ond of these tubes the doctor spoke on entering
the room. An elderly woman appeared, took
her orders for preparing Mrs. Armadale's bed-
chamber, courtesied, and retired.
Left alone again in the Dispensary, the doc-
tor unlocked the centre compartment of the
cabinet, and disclosed a collection of bottles in-
side, containing the various poisons used in medi-
cine. After taking out the laudanum wanted
for the sleeping-draught, and placing it on the
dispensary-table, he went back to the cabinet—
looked into it for a little while—shook his head
doubtfully—and crossed to the open shelves on
the opposite side of the room. Here, after more
consideration, he took down one out of the row
of large chemical bottles before him, filled with
a yellow liquid: placing the bottle on the table,
he returned to the cabinet, and opened a side
compartment, containing some specimens of
Bohemian glass-work. After measuring it with
his eye, he took from the specimens a handsome
purple flask, high and narrow in form, and closed
by a glass stopper. This he filled with the yel-
low liquid, leaving a small quantity only at the
bottom of the bottle, and locking up the flask
again in the place from which he had taken it.
The bottle was next restored to its place, after
having been filled up with water from the cistern
in the Dispensary, mixed with certain chemical
liquids in small quantities, which restored it (so
far as appearances went) to the condition in
which it had been when it was first removed
from the shelf. Having completed these mys-
terious proceedings, the doctor laughed softly,
and went back to his speaking-tubes to summon
the Resident Dispenser next.
The Resident Dispenser made his appearance •
shrouded in the necessary white apron from his
waist to his feet. The doctor solemnly wrote
a prescription for a composing draught and
handed it to his assistant. - -
“Wanted immediately, Benjamin,” he said,
in a soft and melancholy voice. “A lady-pa-
tient—Mrs. Armadale, room No. 1, Second
floor. Ah, dear, dear!” groaned the doctor,
absently; “an anxious case, Benjamin — an
anxious case.” He opened the bran-new ledger
of the establishment and entered the Case at full
length, with a brief abstract of the prescription.
“Have you done with the laudanum? Put it
back, and lock the cabinet, and give me the key.
Is the draught ready? Label it ‘to be taken at
bedtime, and give it to the nurse, Benjamin-
give it to the nurse.”
While the doctor's lips were issuing these di-
rections, the doctor's hands were occupied in
opening a drawer under the desk on which the


304
ARMADALE.
accommodation of the poorer class of patients,
whom I receive on terms which simply cover
my expenditure—nothing more. In the cases
of these poorer persons among my suffering fel-
low-creatures, personal piety and the recom-
mendation of two clergymen are indispensable
to admission. Those are the only conditions I
make; but those I insist on. Pray observe
that the rooms are all ventilated, and the bed-
steads all iron; and kindly notice as we descend
again to the second floor, that there is a door
shutting off all communication between the sec-
ond story and the top story, when necessary.
The rooms on the second floor, which we have
now reached, are (with the exception of my
own room) entirely devoted to the reception of
lady inmates—experience having convinced me
that the greater sensitiveness of the female con-
stitution necessitates the higher position of the
sleeping apartment, with a view to the greater
purity and freer circulation of the air. Here the
ladies are established immediately under my
care, while my assistant-physician (whom I
expect to arrive in a week's time) looks after
the gentlemen on the floor beneath. Observe,
again—as we descend to this lower, or first
floor—a second door, closing all communication
at night between the two stories to every one
but the assistant-physician and myself. And
now that we have reached the gentlemen's part
of the house, and that you have observed for
yourselves the regulations of the establishment,
permit me to introduce you to a specimen of
my system of treatment next. I can exemplify
it practically by introducing you to a room fit-
ted up, under my own directions, for the accom-
modation of the most complicated cases of nerv-
ous suffering and nervous delusion that can
come under my care.”
He threw open the door of a room at one ex-
tremity of the corridor, numbered 4. “Look
in, ladies and gentlemen,” he said; “and if
you see anything remarkable pray mention it.”
The room was not very large, but it was well
lit by one broad window. Comfortably fur-
mished as a bedroom, it was only remarkable
among other rooms of the same sort in one way.
It had no fire-place. The visitors having no-
ticed this, were informed that the room was
warmed in winter by means of hot-water; and
were then invited back again into the corridor,
to make the discoveries, under professional di-
rection, which they were unable to make for
themselves.
“A word, ladies and gentlemen,” said the
doctor; “literally a word, on nervous derange-
ment first. What is the process of treatment
when, let us say, mental anxiety has broken
you down, and you apply to your doctor? He
sees you, heat-you, and gives you two prescrip-
tions. One is written on paper, and made up
at the chemist's. The other is administered by
word of mouth, at the propitious moment when
the fee is ready; and consists in a general rec-
ommendation to you to keep your mind easy.
That excellent advice given, your doctor leaves
you to spare yourself all earthly annoyances by
your own, unaided efforts until he calls again.
Here my System steps in and helps you! When
I see the necessity of keeping your mind easy, I
take the bull by the horns and do it for you. I
place you in a sphere of action in which the ten
thousand trifles which must, and do, irritate
nervous people at home, are expressly consid-
ered and provided against. I throw up impreg-
nable moral intrenchments between Worry and
You. Find a door banging in this house if you
can Catch a servant in this house rattling the
tea-things when he takes away the tray ! Dis-
cover barking dogs, crowing cocks, hammering
workmen, screeching children here—and I en-
gage to close My Sanatorium to-morrow! Are
these nuisances laughing matters to nervous
people? Ask them Can they escape these
nuisances at home? Ask them! Will ten min-
utes' irritation from a barking dog or a screech-
ing child undo every atom of good done to a
nervous sufferer by a month's medical treat-
ment? There isn't a competent doctor in En-
gland who will venture to deny it! On those
plain grounds my System is based. I assert the
medical treatment of nervous suffering to be en-
tirely subsidiary to the moral treatment of it.
That moral treatment of it you find here. That
moral treatment sedulously pursued throughout
the day, follows the sufferer into his room at
night, and soothes, helps, and cures him, with-
out his own knowledge—you shall see how.”
The doctor paused to take breath, and looked
for the first time since the visitors had entered
the house at Miss Gwilt. For the first time, on
her side, she stepped forward among the aud-
ience and looked at him in return. After a
momentary obstruction in the shape of a cough,
the doctor went on :
“Say, ladies and gentlemen,” he proceeded,
“that my patient has just come in. His mind
is one mass of nervous fancies and caprices,
which his friends (with the best possible inten-
tions) have been ignorantly irritating at home.
They have been afraid of him, for instance, at
night. They have forced him to have somebody
to sleep in the room with him, or they have for-
bidden him, in case of accidents, to lock his
door. He comes to me the first night, and says,
‘Mind, I won't have any body in my room l’—
“Certainly not!”—“I insist on locking my door!'
—“By all means!' In he goes, and locks his
door; and there he is, soothed and quieted, pre-
disposed to confidence, predisposed to sleep, by
having his own way. “This is all very well,'
you may say; ‘but suppose something hap-
pens—suppose he has a fit in the night, what
then?’ You shall see! Hullo, my young
friend!” cried the doctor, suddenly addressing
the sleepy little boy. “Let's have a game.
You shall be the poor sick man, and I'll be the
good doctor. Go into that room and lock the
door. There's a brave boy! Have you locked
it? Very good. Do you think I can't get at
you if I like? I wait till you're asleep—I press
this little white button, hidden here in the sten-


ARMADALE.
305
ciled pattern of the outer wall—the mortice of
the lock inside falls back silently against the
door-post—and I walk into the room whenever
I like. The same plan is pursued with the win-
dow. My capricious patient won't open it at
night, when he ought. I humor him again.
‘Shut it, dear Sir, by all means !” As soon as
he is asleep I pull the black handle hidden here,
in the corner of the wall. The window of the
room inside noiselessly opens, as you see. Say
the patient's caprice is the other way—he per-
sists in opening the window when he ought to
shut it. Let him by all means let him; I
pull a second handle when he is snug in his bed,
and the window noiselessly closes in a moment.
Nothing to irritate him, ladies and gentlemen—
absolutely nothing to irritate him! But I
haven't done with him yet. Epidemic disease,
in spite of all my precautions, may enter this
Sanatorium, and may render the purifying of
the sick-room necessary. Or the patient's case
may be complicated by other than nervous mal-
ady—say, for instance, asthmatic difficulty of
breathing. In the one case, fumigation is nec-
essary; in the other, additional oxygen in the
air will give relief. The epidemic nervous pa-
tient says, “I won't be smoked under my own
nose!” The asthmatic nervous patient gasps
with terror at the idea of a chemical explosion
in his room. I noiselessly fumigate one of
them; I noiselessly oxygenize the other, by
means of a simple Apparatus fixed outside in
the corner here. It is protected by this wooden
casing; it is lockèd with my own key, and it
communicates by means of a tube with the in-
terior of the room. Look at it!” -
With a preliminary glance at Miss Gwilt, the
doctor unlocked the lid of the wooden casing,
and disclosed inside nothing more remarkable
than a large stone jar, having a glass funnel,
and a pipe communicating with the wall, insert-
ed in the cork which closed the mouth of it.
With another look at Miss Gwilt the doctor
locked the lid again, and asked in the blandest
manner whether his System was intelligible
now 2
“I might introduce you to all sorts of other
contrivances of the same kind,” he resumed,
leading the way down stairs, “but it would be
only the same thing over and over again. A
nervous patient who always has his own way is
a nervous patient who is never worried—and a
nervous patient who is never worried is a nerv-
ous patient cured. There it is in a nut-shell !
Come and see the Dispensary, ladies; the Dis-
pensary and the kitchen next!”
Once more Miss Gwilt dropped behind the
visitors, and waited alome—looking steadfastly
at the Room which the doctor had opened, and
at the Apparatus which the doctor had unlocked.
Again, without a word passing between them,
she had understood him. She knew as well as
if he had confessed it, that he was craftily put-
ting the necessary temptation in her way, before
witnesses who could speak to the superficially-
innocent act, which they had seen, if any thing
serious happened. The Apparatus, originally
constructed to serve the purpose of the doctor's
medical crotchets, was evidently to be put to
some other use, of which the doctor himself
had probably never dreamed till now. And the
chances were that before the day was over that
other use would be privately revealed to her at
the right moment, in the presence of the right
witness. “Armadale will die this time,” she
said to herself as she went slowly down the stairs.
“The doctor will kill him by my hands.”
The visitors were in the Dispensary when she
joined them. All the ladies were admiring the
beauty of the antique cabinet; and, as a neces-
sary consequence, all the ladies were desirous of
seeing what was inside. The doctor—after a
preliminary look at Miss Gwilt—good-humored-
ly shook his head. “There is nothing to in-
terest you inside,” he said. “Nothing but rows
of little shabby bottles containing the poisons
used in medicine which I keep under lock and
key. Come to the kitchen, ladies, and honor
me with your advice on domestic matters below
stairs.” He glanced again at Miss Gwilt as
the company crossed the hall, with a look which
said plainly, “Wait here.”
In another quarter of an hour the doctor had
expounded his views on cookery and diet, and
the visitors (duly furnished with prospectuses)
were taking leave of him at the door. “Quite
an intellectual treat!” they said to each other,
as they streamed out again in neatly-dressed
procession through the iron gates. “And what
a very superior man!”
The doctor turned back to the Dispensary,
humming absently to himself, and failing en-
tirely to observe the corner of the hall in which
Miss Gwilt stood retired. After an instant's
hesitation she followed him. The assistant was
in the room when she entered it—summoned by
his employer the moment before.
“Doctor,” she said, coldly and mechanical-
ly, as if she was repeating a lesson, “I am as
curious as the other ladies about that pretty cab-
inet of yours. Now they are all gone won't
you show the inside of it to me?”
The doctor laughed in his pleasantest manner.
“The old story,” he said. “Blue-Beard's
locked chamber, and female curiosity' (Don't
go, Benjamin, don't go.) My dear lady, what
interest can you possibly have in looking at a
medical bottle, simply because it happens to be
a bottle of poison?”
She repeated her lesson for the second time.
“I have the interest of looking at it,” she
said, “and of thinking if it got into some peo-
ple's hands, of the terrible things it might do.”
The doctor glanced at his assistant with a
compassionate smile.
“Curious, Benjamin,” he said; “the ro-
mantic view taken of these drugs of ours by the
unscientific mind. My dear lady,” he added,
turning again to Miss Gwilt, “if that is the in-
terest you attach to looking at poisons, you
needn't ask me to unlock my cabinet—you need
only look about you round the shelves of this


306
ARMADALE.
room. There are all sorts of medical liquids
and substances in those bottles—most innocent,
most useful in themselves—which, in combina-
tion with other substances and other liquids, be-
come poisons as terrible and as deadly as any
that I have in my cabinet under lock and key.”
She looked at him for a moment, and crossed
to the opposite side of the room.
“Show me one,” she said.
Still smiling as good-humoredly as ever, the
doctor humored his nervous patient. He pointed
to the bottle from which he had privately re-
moved the yellow liquid on the previous day,
and which he had filled up again with a care-
fully-colored imitation, in the shape of a mixture
of his own.
“Do you see that bottle?” he said; “that
plump, round, comfortable looking bottle? Nev-
er mind the name of what is inside it; let us
stick to the bottle, and distinguish it, if you like,
by giving it a name of our own. Suppose we
call it “our Stout Friend!’ Very good. Our
Stout Friend, by himself, is a most harmless
and useful medicine. He is freely dispeused
every day to tens of thousands of patients all
over the civilized world. He has made no ro-
mantic appearances in courts of law; he has ex-
cited no breathless interest in romances; he has
played no terrifying part on the stage. There
he is, an innocent, inoffensive creature, who
troubles nobody with the responsibility of lock-
ing him up! But bring him into contact with
something else—introduce him to the acquaint-
ance of a certain common mineral Substance,
of a universally accessible kind, broken into
fragments; provide yourself with (say) six doses
of our Stout Friend, and pour those doses con-
secutively on the fragments I have mentioned,
at intervals of not less than five minutes. Quan-
tities of little bubbles will rise at every pouring;
collect the gas in those bubbles, and convey it
into a closed chamber—and let Samson himself
be in that closed chamber, our Stout Friend will
kill him in half an hour? Will kill him slowly,
without his seeing anything, without his smell-
ing anything, without his feeling any thing but
sleepiness. Will kill him and tell the whole
College of Surgeons nothing, if they examine
him after death, but that he died of apoplexy or
congestion of the lungs! What do you think
of that, my dear lady, in the way of mystery and
romance? Is our harmless Stout Friend as in-
teresting now as if he rejoiced in the terrible
popular fame of the Arsenic and the Strychnine
which I keep locked up there. Don't suppose
I am exaggerating! Don't suppose I'm invent-
ing a story to put you off with, as the children
say. Ask Benjamin, there,” said the doctor,
appealing to his assistant, with his eyes fixed on
Miss Gwilt. “Ask Benjamin,” he repeated,
with the steadiest emphasis on the next words,
“if six doses from that bottle, at intervals of
five minutes each, would not, under the condi-
tions I have stated, produce the results I have
described?" .
The Resident Dispenser, modestly admiring
Miss Gwilt at a distance, started and colored up.
He was plainly gratified by the little attention
which had included him in the conversation.
“The doctor is quite right, ma'am,” he said,
addressing Miss Gwilt, with his best bow, “the
production of the gas, extended over half an
hour, would be quite gradual enough. And,”
added the Dispenser, silently appealing to his
employer to let him exhibit a little chemical
knowledge on his own account, “the volume of
the gas would be sufficient at the end of the
time—if I am not mistaken, Sir?—to be fatal to
any person entering the room in less than five
minutes.”
“Unquestionably, Benjamin,” rejoined the
doctor. “But I think we have had enough of
chemistry for the present,” he added, turning to
Miss Gwilt. “With every desire, my dear lady,
to gratify every passing wish you may form, I
venture to propose trying a more cheerful sub-
ject. Suppose we leave the Dispensary, before
it suggests any more inquiries to that active
mind of yours? No? You want to see an ex-
periment? You want to see how the little bub-
bles are made? Well, well! there is no harm
in that. We will let Mrs. Armadale see the
bubbles,” continued the Doctor, in the tone of a
parent humoring a spoiled child. “Try if you
can find a few of those fragments that we want,
Benjamin. I dare say the workmen (slovenly
fellows!) have left something of the sort about
the house or the grounds.”
The Resident Dispenser left the room.
As soon as his back was turned the doctor
began opening and shutting drawers in various
parts of the Dispensary, with the air of a man
who wants something in a hurry, and doesn't
know where to find it. “Bless my soul!” he
exclaimed, suddenly stopping at the drawer from
which he had taken his cards of invitation on
the previous day, “what's this? A key? A
duplicate key, as I'm alive, of my Fumigating
Apparatus up stairs! Oh dear, dear, how care-
less I get!” said the doctor, turning round brisk-
ly to Miss Gwilt. “I hadn't the least idea that
I possessed this second key. I should never
have missed it. I do assure you I should never
have missed it, if any body had taken it out of
the drawer!” He bustled away to the other end
of the room—without closing the drawer, and
without taking away the duplicate key.
In silence Miss Gwilt listened till he had
done. In silence she glided to the drawer. In
silence she took the key and hid it in her apron
pocket.
The Dispenser came back, with the fragments
required of him, collected in a basin. “Thank
you, Benjamin,” said the doctor. “Kindly
cover them with water, while I get the bottle
down.”
As accidents sometimes happen in the most
perfectly regulated families, so clumsiness some-
times possesses itself of the most perfectly disci-
plined hands. In the process of its transfer from
the shelf to the doctor the bottle slipped, and
fell smashed to pieces on the floor.


ARMADALE.
307
“Oh, my fingers and thumbs!” cried the ratus of which she alone (besides the doctor)
doctor, with an air of comic vexation, “ what
in the world do you mean by playing me such a
wicked trick as that? Well, well, well—it can't
be helped. Have we got any more of it, Benja-
min 2" -
“Not a drop, Sir.”
“Not a drop !” echoed the doctor. “My
dear Madam, what excuses can I offer you?
My clumsiness has made our little experiment
impossible for to-day. Remind me to order
some more to-morrow, Benjamin—and don't
think of troubling yourself to put that mess to
rights. I'll send the man here to mop it all up.
Our Stout Friend is harmless enough now, my
dear lady-in combination with a boarded floor
and a coming mop ! I'm so sorry; I really am
so sorry to have disappointed you.” With those
soothing words he offered his arm, and led Miss
Gwilt out of the dispensary.
“Have you done with me for the present?”
she asked, when they were in the hall.
“Oh dear, dear, what a way of putting it!”
exclaimed the doctor. “Dinner at six,” he
added, with his politest emphasis, as she turned
from him in disdainful silence and slowly mount-
ed the stairs to her own room.
A clock of the noiseless sort—incapable of
offending irritable nerves—was fixed in the wall,
above the first-floor landing, at the Sanatorium.
At the moment when the hands pointed to a
quarter before six, the silence of the lonely up-
per regions was softly broken by the rustling of
Miss Gwilt's dress. She advanced along the
corridor of the first floor—paused at the covered
Apparatus fixed outside the room numbered 4–
listened for a moment—and then unlocked the
cover with the duplicate key.
The open lid cast a shadow over the inside
of the casing. All she saw at first was what
she had seen already—the jar, and the pipe and
glass funnel inserted in the cork. She removed
the funnel; and, looking about her, observed on
the window-sill close by a wax-tipped wand used
for lighting the gas. She took the wand, and,
introducing it through the aperture occupied by
the funnel, moved it to and fro in the jar. The
faint splash of some liquid, and the grating noise
of certain hard substances which she was stirring
about, were the two sounds that caught her ear.
She drew out the wand, and cautiously touched
the wet left on it with the tip of her tongue.
Caution was quite needless in this case.
The
liquid was—water.
In putting the funnel back in its place she
possessed the key.
She put back the Flask, and locked the cover
of the casing. For a moment she stood look-
ing at it with the key in her hand. On a sud-
den her lost color came back. On a sudden its
natural animation returned, for the first time
that day, to her face. She turned and hur-
ried breathlessly up stairs to her room on the
second floor. With eager hands she snatched
her cloak out of the wardrobe and took her bon-
net from the box. “I'm not in prison ''” she
burst out, impetuously. “I’ve got the use of
my limbs I can go—no matter where, as long
as I am out of this house!”
With her cloak on her shoulders, with her
bonnet in her hand, she crossed the room to the
door. A moment more—and she would have
been out in the passage. In that moment the
remembrance flashed back on her of the husband
whom she had denied to his face. She stopped
instantly, and threw the cloak and bonnet from
her on the bed. “No!” she said; “the gulf is
dug between us—the worst is done!”
There was a knock at the door. The doctor's
voice outside politely reminded her that it was
six o'clock.
She opened the door and stopped him on his
way down stairs.
“What time is the train due to-night?” she
asked, in a whisper.
“At ten,” answered the doctor, in a voice
which all the world might hear and welcome.
“What room is Mr. Armadale to have when
he comes?”
“What room would you like him to have?”
** No.4.”
The doctor kept up appearances to the very
last.
“No. 4 let it be,” he said, graciously. “Pro-
vided, of course, that No. 4 is unoccupied at the
time.”
*
The evening wore on, and the night came.
At a few minutes before ten Mr. Bashford
was again at his post; once more on the watch
for the coming of the tidal train.
The inspector on duty, who knew him by sight,
and who had personally ascertained that his reg-
ular attendance at the terminus implied no de-
signs on the purses and portmanteaus of the pas-
sengers, noticed two new circumstances in con-
nection with Mr. Bashwood that night. In the
first place, instead of exhibiting his customary
cheerfulness, he looked anxious and depressed.
In the second place, while he was watching for
* * * sk *
noticed something faintly shining in the obscure- the train, he was to all appearance being watched
ly-lit vacant space at the side of the jar. She
drew it out, and produced a Purple Flask. The
liquid with which it was filled showed dark
*
in his turn by a slim, dark, undersized man,
who had left his luggage (marked with the name
of Midwinter,) at the custom-house department
through the transparent coloring of the glass; the evening before, and who had returned to
and, fastened at regular intervals down one side
of the Flask, were six thin strips of paper which
divided the contents into six equal parts.
There was no doubt now that the Apparatus
had been secretly prepared for her—the Appa-
have it examined about half an hour since.
What had brought Midwinter to the terminus?
and why was he, too, waiting for the tidal train?
After straying as far as Hendon during his
lonely walk of the previous night he had taken


308
ARMADALE.
refuge at the village inn, and had fallen asleep
back was turned toward him. Forgetful of all
(from sheer exhaustion) toward those later hours the cautions and restraints which he had im-
of the morning, which were the hours that his
wife's foresight had turned to account.
he returned to the lodging the landlady could
only inform him that her tenant had settled
every thing with her, and had left (for what
destination neither she nor her servant could
tell) more than two hours since.
Having given some little time to inquiries,
the result of which convinced him that the clew
was lost so far, Midwinter had quitted the house,
and had pursued his way mechanically to the
busier and more central parts of the metropolis.
With the light now thrown on his wife's char-
acter, to call at the address she had given him
as the address at which her mother lived would
be plainly useless. He went on through the
streets, resolute to discover her, and trying vain-
ly to see the means to his end, till the sense of
fatigue forced itself on him once more. Stop-
ping to rest and recruit his strength at the first
hotel he came to, a chance dispute between the
waiter and a stranger about a lost portmanteau
reminded him of his own luggage, left at the
terminus, and instantly took his mind back to
the circumstances under which he and Mr.
Bashwood had met. In a moment more the
idea that he had been vainly seeking on his
way through the streets flashed on him. In a
moment more he had determined to try the
chance of finding the steward again on the
watch for the person whose arrival he had evi-
dently expected by the previous evening's train.
Ignorant of the report of Allan's death at
sea; uninformed, at the terrible interview with
his wife, of the purpose which her assumption
of a widow's dress really had in view, Midwin-
ter's first vague suspicions of her fidelity had
now inevitably developed into the conviction
that she was false. He could place but one in-
terpretation on her open disavowal of him, and
on her taking the name under which he had
secretly married her. Her conduct forced the
conclusion on him that she was engaged in some
infamous intrigue; and that she had basely se-
cured herself beforehand in the position of all
others in which she knew it would be most
odious and most repellent to him to claim his
authority over her. With that conviction he
was now watching Mr. Bashwood, firmly per-
suaded that his wife's hiding-place was known
to the vile servant of his wife's vices—and dark-
ly suspecting, as the time wore on, that the un-
known man who had wronged him, and the un-
known traveler for whose arrival the steward
was waiting, were one and the same.
The train was late that night, and the car-
riages were more than usually crowded when
they arrived at last. Midwinter became in-
volved in the confusion on the platform, and in
the effort to extricate himself he lost sight of
Mr. Bashwood for the first time.
A lapse of some few minutes had passed be-
fore he again discovered the steward talking
eagerly to a man in a loose shaggy coat, whose
When | Midwinter instantly advanced on them.
|posed on himself before the train appeared,
Mr.
Bashwood saw his threatening face as he came
on and fell back in silence. The man in the
loose coat turned to look where the steward was
looking and disclosed to Midwinter, in the full
light of the station-lamp, Allan's face!
For the moment they both stood speechless,
hand in hand, looking at each other. Allan
was the first to recover himself.
“Thank God for this!” he said, fervently.
“I don't ask how you came here—it's enough
for me that you have come. Miserable news
has met me already, Midwinter. Nobody but
you can comfort me and help me to bear it.”
His voice faltered over those last words, and he
said no more.
The tone in which he had spoken roused Mid-
winter to meet the circumstances as they were
by appealing to the old grateful interest in his
friend which had once been the foremost inter-
est of his life. He mastered his personal mis-
ery for the first time since it had fallen on him,
and gently taking Allan aside, asked what had
happened.
The answer— after informing him of his
friend's reported death at sea—announced (on
Mr. Bashwood's authority) that the news had
reached Miss Milroy, and that the deplorable
result of the shock thus inflicted had obliged
the major to place his daughter in the neighbor-
hood of London under medical care.
Before saying a word on his side Midwinter
looked distrustfully behind him. Mr. Bash-
wood had followed them. Mr. Bashwood was
watching to see what they did next.
“Was he waiting your arrival here to tell
you this about Miss Milroy?” asked Midwinter,
looking back again from the steward to Allan.
“Yes,” said Allan. “He has been kindly
waiting here, night after night, to meet me and
break the news to me.”
Midwinter paused once more. The attempt
to reconcile the conclusion he had drawn from
his wife's conduct with the discovery that Allan
was the man for whose arrival Mr. Bashwood
had been waiting was hopeless. The one pres-
ent chance of discovering a truer solution of the
mystery was to press the steward on the one
available point in which he had laid himself
open to attack. He had positively denied on
the previous evening that he knew any thing
of Allan's movements, or that he had any inter-
est in Allan's return to England. Having de-
tected Mr. Bashwood in one lie told to himself,
Midwinter instantly suspected him of telling an-
other to Allan. He seized the opportunity of
sifting the statement about Miss Milroy on the
Spot.
P. How have you become acquainted with this
sad news?” he inquired, turning suddenly on
Mr. Bashwood.
“Through the major, of course,” said Allan,
before the steward could answer.


ARMADALE.
309
‘‘Who is the doctor who has the care of Miss
Milroy?” persisted Midwinter, still addressing
Mr. Bashwood. -
For the second time the steward made no re-
ply. For the second time Allan answered for
him : -
“He is a man with a foreign name,” said Al-
lan. “He keeps a Sanatorium near Hamp-
stead. What did you say the place was called,
Mr. Bashwood P”
“Fairweather Vale, Sir,” said the steward,
answering his employer as a matter of necessi-
ty, but answering very unwillingly.
The address of the Sanatorium instantly re-
minded Midwinter that he had traced his wife
to Fairweather Vale Villas the previous night.
He began to see light through the darkness,
dimly, for the first time. The instinct which
comes with emergency, before the slower pro-
cess of reason can assert itself, brought him at
a leap to the conclusion that Mr. Bashwood—
who had been certainly acting under his wife's
influence the previous day—might be acting
again under his wife's influence now. He per-
sisted in sifting the steward's statement, with
the conviction growing firmer and firmer in his
mind that the statement was a lie, and that his
wife was concerned in it.
“Is the major in Norfolk?” he asked, “or is
he near his daughter in London?”
“In Norfolk,” said Mr. Bashwood. Having
answered Allan's look of inquiry, instead of
Midwinter's spoken question, in those words, he
hesitated, looked Midwinter in the face for the
first time, and added, suddenly, “I object, if
you please, to be cross-examined, Sir. I know
what I have told Mr. Armadale, and I know no
more.”
The words, and the voice in which they were
spoken, were alike at variance with Mr. Bash-
wood's usual language and Mr. Bashwood's us-
ual tone. There was a sullen depression in his
face—there was a furtive distrust and dislike in
his eyes when they looked at Midwinter, which
Midwinter himself now moticed for the first time.
Before he could answer the steward's extraordi-
nary outbreak, Allan interfered.
“Don’t think me impatient,” he said. “But
it's getting late; it's a long way to Hampstead.
I'm afraid the Sanatorium will be shut up.”
Midwinter started. “You are not going to
the Sanatorium to-night!” he exclaimed.
Allan took his friend's hand and wrung it
hard. “If you were as fond of her as I am,”
he whispered, “you would take no rest, you
could get no sleep, till you had seen the doctor,
and heard the best and the worst he had to tell
you. Poor dear little soul! who knows, if she
could only see me alive and well—" The tears
came into his eyes, and he turned away his head
in silence,
Midwinter looked at the steward.
back,” he said. “I want to speak to Mr. Ar-
madale.” There was something in his eye which
it was not safe to trifle with. Mr. Bashwood
drew back out of hearing, but not out of sight.
*Stand.
Midwinter laid his hand fondly on his friend's
shoulder.
“Allan,” he said, “I have reasons—” He
stopped. Could the reasons be given before he
had fairly realized them himself; at that time,
too, and under those circumstances? Impossi-
ble! “I have reasons,” he resumed, “for ad-
vising you not to believe too readily what Mr.
Bashwood may say. Don't tell him this, but
take the warning.”
Allan looked at his friend in astonishment.
“It was you who always liked Mr. Bashwood I"
he exclaimed. “It was you who trusted him,
when he first came to the great house!”
“Perhaps I was wrong, Allan, and perhaps
you were right. Will you only wait till we can
telegraph to Major Milroy and get his answer?
Will you only wait over the night?”
“I shall go mad if I wait over the night,”
said Allan. “You have made me more anx-
ious than I was before. If I am not to speak
about it to Bashwood, I must and will go to the
Sanatorium, and find out whether she is or is
not there from the doctor himself.”
Midwinter saw that it was useless. In Allan's
interests there was only one other course left to
take. “Will you let me go with you?” he
asked.
Allan's face brightened for the first time.
“You dear, good fellow !” he exclaimed. “It
was the very thing I was going to beg of you my-
self.”
Midwinter beckoned to the steward. “Mr.
Armadale is going to the Sanatorium,” he said,
“and I mean to accompany him. Get a cab
and come with us.”
He waited to see whether Mr. Bashwood
would comply. Having been strictly ordered,
when Allan did arrive, not to lose sight of him,
and having, in his own interests, Midwinter's un-
expected appearance to explain to Miss Gwilt,
the steward had no choice but to comply. In
sullen submission he did as he had been told.
The keys of Allan's baggage were given to the
foreign traveling servant whom he had brought
with him, and the man was instructed to wait
his master's orders at the terminus hotel. In
a minute more the cab was on its way out of the
station—with Midwinter and Allan inside, and
with Mr. Bashwood by the driver on the box.
* * * * * sk
Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night
Miss Gwilt, standing alone at the window which
lit the corridor of the Sanatorium on the second
floor, heard the roll of wheels coming toward
her. The sound, gathering rapidly in volume
through the silence of the lonely neighborhood,
stopped at the iron gates. In another minute
she saw the cab draw up beneath her, at the
house door.
The earlier night had been cloudy, but the
sky was clearing now, and the moon was out.
She opened the window to see and hear more
clearly. By the light of the moon she saw
|Allan get out of the cab and turn round to
speak to some other person inside. The an-


310
ARMADALE.
swering voice told her, before he appeared in
his turn, that Armadale's companion was her
husband.
The same petrifying influence that had fallen
on her at the interview with him of the previous
day fell on her now. She stood by the window,
white and still, and haggard and old—as she
had stood when she first faced him in her wid-
ow's weeds.
Mr. Bashwood, stealing up alone to the sec-
ond floor to make his report, knew, the instant
he set eyes on her, that the report was needless.
“It's not my fault,” was all he said, as she
slowly turned her head and looked at him.
“They met together, and there was no parting
them.”
She drew a long breath and motioned him to
be silent. “Wait a little,” she said; “I know
all about it.”
Turning from him at those words she slowly
paced the corridor to its furthest end; turned,
and slowly came back to him with frowning
brow and drooping head—with all the grace
and beauty gone from her but the inbred grace
and beauty in the movement of her limbs.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” she asked,
her mind far away from him, and her eyes
looking at him vacantly as she put the ques-
tion.
He roused his courage as he had never roused
it in her presence yet.
“Don’t drive me to despair!” he cried, with
a startling abruptness. “Don’t look at me in
that way, now I have found it out!”
“What have you found out?” she asked, with
a momentary surprise in her face, which faded
from it again before he could gather breath
enough to go on.
“Mr. Armadale is not the man who took
you away from me,” he answered. “Mr. Mid-
winter is the man. I found it out in your face
yesterday. I see it in your face now. Why
did you sign your name ‘Armadale' when you
wrote to me? Why do you call yourself “Mrs.
Armadale still?”
He spoke those bold words at long intervals,
with an effort to resist her influence over him
pitiable and terrible to see.
She looked at him for the first time with soft-
ened eyes. “I wish I had pitied you when we
first met,” she said, gently, “as I pity you now.”
He struggled desperately to go on and say
the words to her which he had strung himself
to the pitch of saying on the drive from the
terminus. They were words which hinted dark-
ly at his knowledge of her past life; words which
warned her—do what else she might, commit
what crimes she pleased—to think twice before
she deceived and deserted him again. In those
terms he had vowed to himself to address her.
He had the phrases picked and chosen; he had
the sentences ranged and ordered in his mind;
nothing was wanting but to make the one crown-
ing effort of speaking them; and even now, aft-
er all he had said and all he had dared, the ef-
fort was more than he could compass. In help-
less gratitude, even for so little as her pity, he
stood looking at her, and wept the silent, wo-
manish tears that fall from old men's eyes.
She took his hand and spoke to him—with
marked forbearance, but without the slightest
sign of emotion on her side.
“You have waited already at my request,”
she said. “Wait till to-morrow, and you will
know all. If you trust nothing else that I have
told you, you may trust what I tell you now.
It will end to-night.”
As she said the words the doctor's step was
heard on the stairs. Mr. Bashwood, drew back
from her, with his heart beating fast in unutter-
able expectation. “It will end to-night!” he
repeated to himself, under his breath, as he
moved away toward the far end of the corri-
dor.
“Don’t let me disturb you, Sir,” said the
doctor, cheerfully, as they met. “I have no-
thing to say to Mrs. Armadale but what you or
any body may hear.”
*Mr. Bashwood went on, without answering,
to the far end of the corridor, still repeating to
himself, “It will end to-night!” The doctor,
passing him in the opposite direction, joined
Miss Gwilt.
“You have heard, no doubt,” he began, in
his blandest manner and his roundest tones,
“that Mr. Armadale has arrived. Permit me
to add, my dear lady, that there is not the least
reason for any nervous agitation on your part.
He has been carefully humored, and he is as
quiet and manageable as his best friends could
wish. I have informed him that it is impossi-
ble to allow him an interview with the young
lady to-night, but that he may count on seeing
her (with the proper precautions) at the earliest
propitious hour after she is awake to-morrow
morning. As there is no hotel near, and as
the propitious hour may occur at a moment's
notice, it was clearly incumbent on me, under
the peculiar circumstances, to offer him the hos-
pitality of the Sanatorium. He has accepted it
with the utmost gratitude; and has thanked me
in a most gentlemanly and touching manner for
the pains I have taken to set his mind at ease.
Perfectly gratifying, perfectly satisfactory so far.
But there has been a little hitch—now happily
got over—which I think it right to mention to
you before we all retire for the night.”
Having paved the way in those words (and
in Mr. Bashwood's hearing) for the statement
which he had previously announced his inten-
tion of making, in the event of Allan's dying
in the Sanatorium, the doctor was about to pro-
ceed, when his attention was attracted by a
sound below like the trying of a door.
He instantly descended the stairs and un-
locked the door of communication between the
first and second floors, which he had locked be-
hind him on his way up. But the person who
had tried the door—if such a person there really
had been—was too quick for him. He looked
along the corridor, and over the staircase into
the hall, and, discovering nothing, returned to


ARMADALE.
311
Miss Gwilt, after securing the door of commu-
nication behind him once more.
“Pardon me,” he resumed; “I thought I
heard something down stairs. With regard to
the little hitch that I adverted to just now, per-
mit me to inform you that Mr. Armadale has
brought a friend here with him, who bears the
strange name of Midwinter. Do you know the
gentleman at all?” asked the doctor, with a sus-
picious anxiety in his eyes which strangely be-
lied the elaborate indifference of his tone.
“I know him to be an old friend of Mr. Ar-
madale's,” she said. “Does he—?” Her voice
failed her, and her eyes fell before the doctor's
steady scrutiny. She mastered the momentary
weakness, and finished her question. “Does he,
too, stay here to-night?” •
“Mr. Midwinter is a person of coarse man-
ners and suspicious temper,” rejoined the doc-
tor, steadily watching her. “He was rude
enough to insist on staying here as soon as Mr.
Armadale had accepted my invitation.”
He paused to note the effect of those words
on her. Left utterly in the dark by the caution
with which she had avoided mentioning her hus-
band's assumed hame to him at their first inter-
view, the doctor's distrust of her was necessari-
ly of the vaguest kind. He had heard her voice
fail her—he had seen her color change. He
suspected her of a mental reservation on the sub-
ject of Midwinter—and of nothing more.
“Did you permit him to have his way?” she
asked. “In your place I should have shown
him the door.”
The impenetrable composure of her tone
warned the doctor that her self-command was
not to be further shaken that night. He re-
sumed the character of Mrs. Armadale's medical
referee on the subject of Mr. Armadale's mental
health.
“If I had only had my own feelings to con-
sult,” he said, “I don't disguise from you that
I should (as you say) have shown Mr. Midwin-
ter the door. But on appealing to Mr. Arma-
dale, I found he was himself anxious not to be
parted from his friend. Under those circum-
stances but one alternative was left, the altern-
ative of humoring him again. The responsibili-
ty of thwarting him—to say nothing,” added the
doctor, drifting for the moment toward the truth,
“of my natural apprehension, with such a tem-
per as his friend's, of a scandal and disturbance
in the house—was not to be thought of for a
moment. Mr. Midwinter accordingly remains
here for the night; and occupies (I ought to say,
insists on occupying) the next room to Mr. Ar-
madale. Advise me, my dear Madam, in this
emergency,” concluded the doctor, with his loud-
est emphasis. “What rooms shall we put them
in, on the first floor?”
“Put Mr. Armadale in No. 4.”
“And his friend next to him, in No. 3?”
said the doctor. “Well! well! well! perhaps
they are the most comfortable rooms. I'll give
my orders immediately. Don't hurry away,
Mr. Bashwood,” he called out, cheerfully, as he
reached the top of the staircase. “I have left
the assistant-physician's key on the window-sill
yonder, and Mrs. Armadale can let you out at
the staircase-door whenever she pleases. Don't
sit up late, Mrs. Armadale! Yours is a nerv-
ous system that requires plenty of sleep. ‘Tired
nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep. Grand
line ! God bless you—good night!”
Mr. Bashwood came back from the far end of
the corridor—still pondering, in unutterable ex-
pectation, on what was to come with the night.
“Am I to go now?” he asked.
“No. You are to stay. I said you should
know all if you waited till the morning. Wait
here.”
He hesitated and looked about him. “The
doctor,” he faltered. “I thought the doctor
said—” -
“The doctor will interfere with nothing that
I do in this house to-night. I tell you to stay.
There are empty rooms on the floor above this.
Take one of them.”
Mr. Bashwood felt the trembling fit coming
on him again as he looked at her. “May I
ask—?” he began.
“Ask nothing. I want you.”
“Will you please to tell me—?”
“I will tell you nothing till the night is over
and the morning has come.”
His curiosity conquered his fear. He per-
sisted. -
“Is it something dreadful?” he whispered.
“Too dreadful to tell me?”
She stamped her foot with a sudden outbreak
of impatience. “Go!” she said, snatching the
key of the staircase-door from the window-sill.
“You do quite right to distrust me—you do quite
right to follow me no farther in the dark. Go
before the house is shut up. I can do without
you.” She led the way to the stairs, with the
key in one hand and the candle in the other.
Mr. Bashwood followed her in silence. No
one, knowing what he knew of her earlier life,
could have failed to perceive that she was a wo-
man driven to the last extremity, and standing
consciously on the brink of a Crime. In the
first terror of the discovery he broke free from
the hold she had on him—he thought and acted
like a man who had a will of his own again.
She put the key in the door and turned to
him before she opened it with the light of the
candle on her face. “Forget me and forgive
me,” she said. “We meet no more.”
She opened the door, and, standing inside it,
after he had passed her gave him her hand. He
had resisted her look, he had resisted her words,
but the magnetic fascination of her touch con-
quered him at the final moment. “I can't leave
you!” he said, holding helplessly by the hand
she had given him. “What must I do?”
“Come and see,” she answered, without al-
lowing him an instant to reflect.
Closing her hand firmly on his she led him
along the first-floor corridor to the room num-
bered 4. “Notice that room,” she whispered.
After a look over the stairs to see that they were


ARMADALE.
313
tively watching him through the grating, could
have seen him at that moment in the mind as
well as in the body, Mr. Bashwood's heart might
have throbbed even faster than it was throbbing
now, in expectation of the next event which
Midwinter's decision of the next minute was to
bring forth.
On what was his mind occupied as he stood
alone at the dead of night in the strange house?
His mind was occupied in drawing its discon-
nected impressions together, little by little, to
one point. Convinced, from the first, that some
hidden danger threatened Allan in the Sanato-
rium, his distrust—vaguely associated thus far
with the place itself; with his wife (whom he
firmly believed to be now under the same roof
with him); with the doctor, who was as plain-
ly in her confidence as Mr. Bashwood himself-
now narrowed its range, and centred itself ob-
stinately in Allan's room. Resigning all fur-
ther effort to connect his suspicion of a conspir-
acy against his friend, with the outrage which
had the day before been offered to himself—an
effort which would have led him, if he could
have maintained it, to a discovery of the Fraud
really contemplated by his wife—his mind, cloud-
ed and confused by disturbing influences, in-
stinctively took refuge in its impressions of facts
as they had shown themselves, since he had en-
tered the house. Every thing that he had no-
ticed below stairs suggested that there was some
secret purpose to be answered by getting them
to sleep in the Sanatorium. Every thing that
he had noticed above stairs associated the lurk-
ing-place in which the danger lay hid with Al-
lan's room. To reach this conclusion, and to
decide on baffling the conspiracy, whatever it
might be, by taking Allan's place, was with Mid-
winter the work of an instant. Confronted by
actual peril the great nature of the man intui-
tively freed itself from the weaknesses that had
beset it in happier and safer times. Not even
the shadow of the old superstition rested on his
mind now—no fatalist suspicion of himself dis-
turbed the steady resolution that was in him.
The one last doubt that troubled him, as he
stood at the window thinking, was the doubt
whether he could persuade Allan to change
rooms with him, without involving himself in
an explanation which might lead Allan to sus-
pect the truth.
In the minute that elapsed, while he waited
with his eyes on the room, the doubt was re-
solved—he found the trivial yet sufficient ex-
cuse of which he was in search. Mr. Bash-
wood saw him rouse himself, and go to the door.
Mr. Bashwood heard him knock softly, and whis-
per, “Allan, are you in bed ?”
“No,” answered the voice inside, “come in.”
He appeared to be on the point of entering
the room when he checked himself as if he had
suddenly remembered something. “Wait a min-
ute,” he said, through the door, and, turning
away, went straight to the end room. “If there
is any body watching us in there,” he said, aloud,
“let him watch us through this!” He took out
U -
his handkerchief and stuffed it into the wires
of the grating so as completely to close the
aperture. Having thus forced the spy inside
(if there was one) either to betray himself by
moving the handkerchief, or to remain blinded
to all view of what might happen next, Midwin-
ter presented himself in Allan's room.
“You know what poor nerves I have,” he
said, “and what a wretched sleeper I am at the
best of times. I can't sleep to-night. The win-
dow in my room rattles every time the wind
blows. I wish it was as fast as your window
here.”
“My dear fellow!” cried Allan, “I don't mind
a rattling window. Let's change rooms. Non-
sense! Why should you make excuses to me?
Don't I know how easily trifles upset those ex-
citable nerves of yours? Now the doctor has
quieted my mind about my poor little Neelie, I
begin to feel the journey—and I'll answer for
sleeping any where till to-morrow eomes.” He
took up his traveling-bag. “We must be quick
about it,” he added, pointing to his candle.
“They haven't left me much candle to go to
bed by.”
“Be very quiet, Allan,” said Midwinter, open-
ing the door for him. “We mustn't disturb the
house at this time of night.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Allan, in a whisper.
“Good-night—I hope you'll sleep as well as I
shall.”
Midwinter saw him into No. 3, and noticed
that his own candle (which he had left there)
was as short as Allan's. “Good-night,” he
said, and came out again into the corridor.
He went straight to the grating, and looked
and listened once more. The handkerchief re-
mained exactly as he had left it, and still there
was no sound to be heard within. He returned
slowly along the corridor, and thought of the
precautions he had taken for the last time. Was
there no other way than the way he was trying
now? There was none. Any openly-avowed
posture of defense—while the nature of the dan-
ger, and the quarter from which it might come,
were alike unknown—would be useless in itself,
and worse than useless in the consequences which
it might produce by putting the people of the
house on their guard. Without a fact that could
justify to other minds his distrust of what might
happen with the night; incapable of shaking
Allan's ready faith in the fair outside which the
doctor had presented to him, the one safeguard
in his friend's interests that Midwinter could set
up was the safeguard of changing the rooms—
the one policy he could follow, come what might
of it, was the policy of waiting for events. “I
can trust to one thing,” he said to himself, as he
looked for the last time up and down the corri-
dor—“I can trust myself to keep awake.”
After a glance at the clock on the wall op-
posite he went into No. 4. The sound of the
closing door was heard, the sound of the turning
lock followed it. Then the dead silence fell
over the house once more.
Little by little the steward's, horror of the


314
ARMADALE.
stillness and the darkness overcame his dread
of moving the handkerchief. He cautiously drew
aside one corner of it—waited—looked—and took
courage at last to draw the whole handkerchief
through the wires of the grating. After first
hiding it in his pocket, he thought of the conse-
quences if it was found on him, and threw it
down in a corner of the room. He trembled
when he had cast it from him, as he looked at
his watch and placed himself again at the grat-
ing to wait for Miss Gwilt.
It was a quarter to one. The moon had come
round from the side to the front of the Sanato-
rium. From time to time her light gleamed on
the window of the corridor, when the gaps in the
flying clouds let it through. The wind had risen,
and sung its mournful song faintly, as it swept
at intervals over the desert ground in front of
the house.
The minute-hand of the clock traveled on
half-way round the circle of the dial. As it
touched the quarter past one Miss Gwilt stepped
noiselessly into the corridor. “Let yourself
out,” she whispered through the grating, “and
follow me.” She returned to the stairs by which
she had just descended; pushed the door to soft-
ly after Mr. Bashwood had followed her; and
led the way up to the landing of the second
floor. There she put the question to him which
she had not ventured to put below stairs:
“Was Mr. Armadale shown into No. 4?”
she asked.
He bowed his head without speaking.
“Answer me in words. Has Mr. Armadale
left the room since P”
He answered, “No.”
“Have you never lost sight of No. 4 since I
left you?”
He answered, “Never.”
Something strange in his manner, something
unfamiliar in his voice, as he made that last re-
ply, attracted her attention. She took her can-
dle from a table near, on which she had left it,
and threw its light on him. His eyes were
staring, his teeth chattered. There was every
thing to betray him to her as a terrified man—
there was nothing to tell her that the terror was
caused by his consciousness of deceiving her, for
the first time in his life, to her face. If she had
threatened him less openly; if she had spoken
less unreservedly of the interview which was to
reward him in the morning, he might have owned
the truth. As it was, his strongest fears and
his dearest hopes were alike interested in telling
her the fatal lie that he had now told—the fatal
lie which he reiterated when she put her ques-
tion for the second time.
She looked at him, deceived by the last man
on earth whom she would have suspected of de-
ception—the man whom she had deceived her-
self. -
“You seem to be over-excited,” she said,
quietly. “The night has been too much for
you. Go up stairs and rest. You will find the
door of one of the rooms left open. That is the
room you are to occupy. Good-night.”
She put the candle (which she had left burn-
ing for him) on the table, and gave him her
hand. He held her back by it desperately as
she turned to leave him. His horror of what
might happen when she was left by herself
forced the words to his lips which he would
have feared to speak to her at any other time.
“Don’t,” he pleaded in a whisper; “oh,
don’t, don’t, don't go down stairs to-night!”
She released her hand, and signed to him to
take the candle. “You shall see me to-mor-
row,” she said. “Not a word more now !”
Her stronger will conquered him at that last
moment, as it had conquered him throughout.
He took the candle and waited—following her
eagerly with his eyes as she descended the stairs.
The cold of the December night seemed to have
found its way to her through the warmth of the
house. She had put on a long, heavy black
shawl, and had fastened it close over her breast.
The plated coronet in which she wore her hair
seemed to have weighed too heavily on her head.
She had untwisted it, and thrown it back over
her shoulders. The old man looked at her
flowing hair, as it lay red over the black shawl
—at her supple, long-fingered hand, as it slid
down the balusters—at the smooth, seductive
grace of every movement that took her farther
and farther away from him. “The night will
go quickly,” he said to himself as she passed from
his view; “I shall dream of her till the morn-
ing comes!”
She locked the staircase-door after she had
passed through it—listened, and satisfied her-
self that nothing was stirring—then went on
slowly along the corridor to the window. Lean-
ing on the window-sill she looked out at the
night. The clouds were over the moon at that
moment; nothing was to be seen through the
darkness but the scattered gaslights in the sub-
urb. Turning from the window she looked at
the clock. It was twenty minutes past one.
For the last time the resolution that had
come to her in the earlier night, with the knowl-
edge that her husband was in the house, forced
itself uppermost in her mind. For the last time
the voice within her said, “Think if there is no
other way!”
She pondered over it till the minute-hand of
the clock pointed to the half hour. “No!” she
said, still thinking of her husband. “The one
chance left is to go through with it to the end.
He will leave the thing undone which he has
come here to do; he will leave the words un-
spoken which he has come here to say—when
he knows that the act may make me a public
scandal, and that the words may send me to the
scaffold!” Her color rose, and she smiled with
a terrible irony as she looked for the first time
at the door of the Room. “I shall be your
widow,” she said, “in half an hour!”
She opened the case of the apparatus, and
took the Purple Flask in her hand. After mark-
ing the time by a glance at the clock she dropped
into the glass funnel the first of the six separate


ARMADALE.
315
Pourings that were measured for her by the pa-
per slips.
When she had put the Flask back she list-
ened at the mouth of the funnel. Not a sound
reached her ear: the deadly process did its
work in the silence of death itself. When she
rose and looked up the moon was shining in at
the window, and the moaning wind was quiet.
Oh, the time! the time! If it could only
have been begun and ended with the first Pour-
ing!
She went down stairs into the hall – she
walked to and fro, and listened at the open door
that led to the kitchen stairs. She came up
again; she went down again. The first of the
intervals of five minutes was endless. The time
stood still. The suspense was maddening.
The interval passed. As she took the Flask
for the second time and dropped in the second
Pouring the clouds floated over the moon, and
the night-view through the window slowly dark-
ened.
The restlessness that had driven her up and
down the stairs, and backward and forward in
the hall, left her as suddenly as it had come.
She waited through the second interval, leaning
on the window-sill, and staring, without con-
scious thought of any kind, into the black night.
The howling of a belated dog was borne toward
her on the wind at intervals from some distant
part of the suburb. She found herself follow-
ing the faint sound as it died away into silence
with a dull attention, and listening for its com-
ing again with an expectation that was duller
still. Her arms lay like lead on the window-
sill; her forehead rested against the glass with-
out feeling the cold. It was not till the moon
struggled out again that she was startled into
sudden self-remembrance. She turned quick-
ly, and looked at the clock; seven minutes had
passed since the second Pouring.
As she snatched up the Flask, and fed the
funnel for the third time, the full consciousness
of her position came back to her. The fever-
heat throbbed again in her blood, and flushed
fiercely in her cheeks. Swift, smooth, and noise-
less, she paced from end to end of the corridor,
with her arms folded in her shawl, and her eye.
moment after moment on the clock.
Three out of the next five minutes passed,
and again the suspense began to madden her.
The space in the corridor grew too confined for
the illimitable restlessness. that possessed her
limbs. She went down into the hall again, and
circled round and round it like a wild creature
in a cage. At the third turn she felt something
moving softly against her dress. The house-cat
had come up through the open kitchen-door—a
large, tawny, companionable cat that purred in
high good temper, and followed her for company.
She took the animal up in her arms—it rubbed
dropped the cat with a shudder; she drove it be-
low again with threatening hands. For a mo-
ment after she stood still—then, in headlong
haste, suddenly mounted the stairs. Her hus-
band had forced his way back again into her
thoughts; her husband threatened her with a
danger which had never entered her mind till
now. What if he were not asleep? What if
he came out upon her and found her with the
Purple Flask in her hand?
She stole to the door of No. 3, and listened.
The slow, regular breathing of a sleeping man
was just audible. After waiting a moment to
let the feeling of relief quiet her she took a step
toward No. 4, and checked herself. It was need-
less to listen at that door. The doctor had told
her that Sleep came first, as certainly as Death
afterward, in the poisoned air. She looked aside
at the clock. The time had come for the fourth
Pouring.
Her hand began to tremble violently as she
fed the funnel for the fourth time. The fear
of her husband was back again in her heart.
What if some noise disturbed him before the
sixth Pouring? What if he woke on a sudden
(as she had often seen him wake) without any
noise at all?
She looked up and down the corridor. The
end room, in which Mr. Bashwood had been
concealed, offered itself to her as a place of ref-
uge. “I might go in there!” she thought.
“Has he left the key?” She opened the door
to look, and saw the handkerchief thrown down
on the floor. Was it Mr. Bashwood's handker-
chief, left there by accident? She examined it
at the corners. In the second corner she found
her husband's name!
Her first impulse hurried her to the staircase-
door to rouse the steward and insist on an ex-
planation. The next moment she rentembered
the Purple Flask, and the danger of leaving the
corridor. She turned and looked at the door
of No. 3. Her husband, on the evidence of the
handkerchief, had unquestionably been out of
his room—and Mr. Bashwood had not told her.
Was he in his room now? In the violence of
her agitation, as the question passed through
her mind, she forgot the discovery which she
had herself made not a minute before. Again
she listened at the door; again she heard the
slow regular breathing of the sleeping man.
The first time, the evidence of her ears had been
enough to quiet her. This time, in the tenfold
aggravation of her suspicion and her alarm, she
was determined to have the evidence of her eyes
as well. “All the doors open softly in this
house,” she said to herself; “there's no fear of
my waking him.” Noiselessly, by an inch at a
time, she opened the unlocked door, and looked
in the moment the aperture was wide enough.
In the little light she had let into the room the
its sleek head luxuriously against her chin as sleeper's head was just visible on the pillow.
she bent her face over it.
cats,” she whispered in the creature's ear; “come
up and see Armadale killed !”
ment her own frightful fancy horrified her. She
“Armadale hates | Was it quite as dark against the white pillow as
her husband's head looked when he was in bed ?
The next mo-' Was the breathing as light as her husband's
breathing when he was asleep?


318
ARMADALE.
tioner consented for once to do as he was asked.
The doctor's statement that his patient was the
widow of a gentleman named Armadale was
accordingly left unchallenged, and so the mat-
ter has been hushed up. She is buried in the
great cemetery, near the place where she died.
Nobody but Mr. Midwinter and Mr. Armadale
(who insisted on going with him) followed her
to the grave; and nothing has been inscribed on
the tombstone but the initial letter of her Chris-
tian name and the date of her death. So,
after all the harm she has done, she rests at last
—and so the two men whom she has injured
have forgiven her.
“Is there more to say on this subject before
we leave it? On referring to your letter I find
you have raised one other point, which may be
worth a moment's notice.
“You ask if there is reason to suppose that
the doctor comes out of the matter with hands
which are really as clean as they look? My
dear Augustus, I believe the doctor to have been
at the bottom of more of this mischief than we
shall ever find out; and to have profited by the
self-imposed silence of Mr. Midwinter and Mr.
Armadale, as rogues perpetually profit by the
misfortunes and necessities of honest men. It
is an ascertained fact that he connived at the
false statement about Miss Milroy, which en-
trapped the two gentlemen into his house—and
that one circumstance (after my Old Bailey ex-
perience) is enough for me. As to evidence
against him, there is not a jot—and as to Retri-
bution overtaking him, I can only say I heartily
hope Retribution may prove in the long-run to
be the more cunning customer of the two. There
is not much prospect of it at present. The doc-
tor's friends and admirers are, I understand,
about to present him with a Testimonial, ‘ex-
pressive of their sympathy under the sad occur-
rence which has thrown a cloud over the open-
ing of his Sanatorium, and of their undiminished
confidence in his integrity and ability as a med-
ical man. We live, Augustus, in an age emi-
nently favorable to the growth of all roguery
which is careful enough to keep up appearances.
In this enlightened ninteenth century, I look
upon the doctor as one of our rising men.
“To turn now to pleasanter subjects than San-
atoriums, I may tell you that Miss Neelie is as
good as well again, and is, in my humble opin-
ion, prettier than ever. She is staying in Lon-
don, under the care of a female relative—and
Mr. Armadale satisfies her of the fact of his ex-
istence (in case she should forget it) regularly
every day. They are to be married in the
spring—unless Mrs. Milroy's death causes the
ceremony to be postponed. The medical men
are of opinion that the poor lady is sinking at
last. It may be a question of weeks or a ques-
tion of months—they can say no more. She is
greatly altered—quiet and gentle, and anxious-
ly affectionate with her husband and her child.
But in her case this happy change is, it seems,
a sign of approaching dissolution, from the med-
ical point of view. There is a difficulty in mak-
ing the poor old major understand this. He
only sees that she has gone back to the likeness
of her better self when he first married her; and
he sits for hours by her bedside now, and tells
her about his wonderful clock.
“Mr. Midwinter, of whom you will next ex-
pect me to say something, is improving rapidly.
After causing some anxiety at first to the med-
ical men (who declared that he was suffering
from a serious nervous shock, produced by cir-
cumstances about which their patient's obsti-
nate silence kept them quite in the dark), he
has rallied, as only men of his sensitive temper-
ament (to quote the doctors again) can rally.
He and Mr. Armadale are together in a quiet
lodging. I saw him last week, when I was in
London. His face showed signs of wear and
tear, very sad to see in so young a man. But
he spoke of himself and his future with a cour-
age and hopefulness which men of twice his
years (if he has suffered as I suspect him to
have suffered) might have envied. If I know
any thing of humanity this is no common man
—and we shall hear of him yet in no common
way.
“You will wonder how I came to be in Lon-
don. I went up with a return ticket (from Sat-
urday to Monday) about that matter in dispute
at our agent's. We had a tough fight; but,
curiously enough, a point occurred to me just
as I got up to go, and I went back to my chair,
and settled the question in no time. Of course
I staid at Our Hotel in Covent Garden. Will-
liam, the waiter, asked after you with the affec-
tion of a father; and Matilda, the chamber-maid,
said you almost persuaded her that last time to
have the hollow tooth taken out of her lower
jaw. I had the agent's second son (the young
chap you nick-named Mustapha, when he made
that dreadful mess about the Turkish Securities)
to dine with me on Sunday. A little incident
happened in the evening which may be worth
recording, as it connected itself with a certain
old lady who was not “at home when you and
Mr. Armadale blundered on that house in Pim-
lico in the by-gone time.
“Mustapha was like all the rest of you young
men of the present day—he got restless after
dinner. ‘Let's go to a public amusement, Mr.
Pedgift,” says he. ‘Public amusement? Why,
it's Sunday evening!' says I. “All right, Sir,"
says Mustapha. “They stop acting on the stage,
I grant you, on Sunday evening—but they don't
stop acting in the pulpit. Come and see the
last new Sunday performer of our time. As
he wouldn't have any more wine there was no-
thing else for it but to go.
“We went to a street at the West End, and
found it blocked up with carriages. If it hadn't
been Sunday night I should have thought we
were going to the opera. “What did I tell
you?” says Mustapha, taking me up to an open
door with a gas star outside and a bill of the
performance. I had just time to notice that I
was going to one of a series of ‘Sunday Evening


ARMADALE.
319
Discourses on the Pomps and Vanities of the
World, by A Sinner Who Has Served Them,'
when Mustapha jogged my elbow, and whisper-
ed, “Half a crown is the fashionable tip. I
found myself between two demure and silent
gentlemen, with plates in their hands, uncom-
monly well filled already with the fashionable
tip. Mustapha patronized one plate, and I the
other. We passed through two doors into a
long room crammed with people. And there,
on a platform at the farther end holding forth to
the audience, was—not a man, as I had expect-
ed, but a Woman, and that woman Mother
OLDERSHAw! You never listened to any thing
more eloquent in your life. As long as I heard
her she was never once at a loss for a word any
where. I shall think less of oratory as a hu-
man accomplishment for the rest of my days
after that Sunday evening. As for the matter
of the sermon, I may describe it as a narrative
of Mrs. Oldershaw's experience among dilapi-
dated women, profusely illustrated in the pious
and penitential style. You will ask what sort
of audience it was. Principally women, Au-
gustus—and, as I hope to be saved, all the old
harridans of the world of fashion, whom Mother
Oldershaw had enameled in her time, sitting
boldly in the front places, with their cheeks rud-
dled with paint, in a state of devout enjoyment
wonderful to see! I left Mustapha to hear the
end of it. And I thought to myself, as I went
out, of what Shakspeare says somewhere—‘Lord,
what fools we mortals be!’
“Have I anything more to tell you before I
leave off? Only one thing that I can remember.
“That wretched old Bashwood has confirmed
the fears I told you I had about him when he
was brought back here from London. There is
no kind of doubt that he has really lost all the
little reason he ever had. He is perfectly harm-
less, and perfectly happy. And he would do
very well if we could only prevent him from go-
ing out in his last new suit of clothes, smirking
and smiling, and inviting every body to his ap-
proaching marriage with the handsomest woman
in England. It ends, of course, in the boys
pelting him, and in his coming here crying to
me, covered with mud. The moment his clothes
are cleaned again he falls back into his favorite
delusion, and struts about before the church
gates, in the character of a bridegroom, waiting
for Miss Gwilt. We must get the poor wretch
taken care of somewhere for the rest of the little
time he has to live. Who would ever have
thought of a man at his age falling in love?
and who would ever have believed that the mis-
chief that woman's beauty has done could have
reached as far in the downward direction as our
superannuated old clerk?
“Good-by, for the present, my dear boy. If
you see a particularly handsome snuff-box in
Paris, remember—though your father scorns
Testimonials—he doesn't object to receive a
present from his son.
“Yours affectionately,
“A. PEDGIFT, SENR.
“Postscript.—I think it likely that the ac-
count you mention, in the French papers, of a
fatal quarrel among some foreign sailors in one
of the Lipari Islands, and of the death of their
captain, among others, may really have been a
quarrel among the scoundrels who robbed Mr.
Armadale, and scuttled his yacht. Those fel-
lows, luckily for society, can't always keep up
appearances; and, in their case, Rogues and
Retribution do occasionally come into collision
with each other.”
-e-
CHAPTER II.
MIDWINTER.
THE spring had advanced to the end of April.
It was the eve of Allan's wedding-day. Mid-
winter and he had sat talking together at the
great house till far into the night—till so far
that it had struck twelve long since, and the
wedding-day was already some hours old.
For the most part the conversation had turned
on the bridegroom's plans and projects. It was
not till the two friends rose to go to rest that
Allan insisted on making Midwinter speak of
himself. “We have had enough, and more
than enough, of my future,” he began, in his
bluntly straightforward way. “Let's say some-
thing now, Midwinter, about yours. You have
promised me, I know, that if you take to Litera-
ture, it sha'n't part us, and that if you go on a
sea voyage you will remember when you come
back that my house is your home. But this is
the last chance we have of being together in our
old way; and I own I should like to know—”
His voice faltered, and his blue eyes moistened
a little. He left the sentence unfinished.
Midwinter took his hand and helped him, as
he had often helped him to the words that he
wanted in the by-gone time.
“You would like to know, Allan,” he said,
“that I shall not bring an aching heart with me
to your wedding-day? If you will let me go
back for a moment to the past, I think I can
satisfy you.”
They took their chairs again. Allan saw
that Midwinter was moved. - “Why distress
yourself?” he asked, kindly—“why go back to
the past?”
“For two reasons, Allan. I ought to have
thanked you long since for the silence you have
observed, for my sake, on a matter that must
have seemed very strange to you. You know
what the name is which appears on the register
of my marriage—and yet you have forborne to
speak of it, from the fear of distressing me. Be-
fore you enter on your new life, let us come to
a first and last understanding about this. I ask
you—as one more kindness to me—to accept
my assurance (strange as the thing must seem
to you) that I am blameless in this matter; and
I entreat you to believe that the reasons I have
for leaving it unexplained are reasons which,
if Mr. Brock was living, Mr. Brock himself
would approve.”


320
ARMADALE.
In those words he kept the secret of the two
names—and left the memory of Allan's mother,
what he had found it, a sacred memory in the
heart of her son.
“One word more,” he went on—“a word
which will take us, this time, from past to fu-
ture. It has been said, and truly said, that out
of Evil may come Good. Out of the horror and
the misery of that night you know of has come
the silencing of a doubt which once made my
life miserable with groundless anxiety about you
and about myself. No clouds, raised by my
superstition, will ever come between us again.
I can't honestly tell you that I am more willing
now than I was when we were in the Isle of
Man, to take what is called the rational view of
your Dream. Though I know what extraordi-
nary coincidences are perpetually happening in
the experience of all of us, still I can not accept
coincidences as explaining the fulfillment of the
Visions which our own eyes have seen. All I
can sincerely say for myself is, what I think it
will satisfy you to know, that I have learned to
view the purpose of the Dream with a new mind.
I once believed that it was sent to rouse your
distrust of the friendless man whom you had
taken as a brother to your heart. I now know
that it came to you as a timely warning to take
THE
him closer still. Does this help to satisfy you
that I, too, am standing hopefully on the brink
of a new life, and that while we live, broth-
er, your love and mine will never be divided
again?”
They shook hands in silence. Allan was the
first to recover himself. He answered in the
few words of kindly assurance which were the
best words that he could address to his friend.
“I have heard all I ever want to hear about
the past,” he said; “and I know what I most
wanted to know about the future. Every body
says, Midwinter, you have a career before you
—and I believe that everybody is right. Who
knows what great things may happen before you
and I are many years older?”
“Who need know?” said Midwinter, calmly.
“Happen what may, God is all-merciful, God
is all-wise. In those words, your dear old friend
once wrote to me. In that faith, I can look
back without murmuring at the years that are
past, and can look on without doubting to the
years that are to come.”
He rose, and walked to the window. While
they had been speaking together the darkness
had passed. The first light of the new day met
him as he looked out, and rested tenderly on his
face.
END,











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