MISS GWILT'S DIARY.
"All Saints' Terrace, New Road, London, July 28th, Monday
night.--I can hardly hold my head up, I am so tired. But in my
situation, I dare not trust anything 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 likely to continue. I succeeded in
forcing Armadale--the brute required nothing short of forcing!--
to leave Thorpe Ambrose for London, alone in the same carriage
with me, before all the people in the station. There was a full
attendance 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 slanders spoken
of him in Thorpe Ambrose; he was too happy to care what the
scandal-mongers said of him now, and he should soon stop their
mouths by appearing in a new character that would surprise them
all. So he blundered on, with the firm persuasion that he was
keeping me quite in the dark. It was hard not to laugh, when
I thought of my anonymous letter on its way to the major; but
I managed to control myself--though, I must own, with some
difficulty. As the time wore on, I began to feel a terrible
excitement; the position was, I think, a little too much for me.
There I was, alone with him, talking in the most innocent, easy,
familiar manner, and having it in my mind all the time to brush
his life out of my way, when the moment comes, as I might brush
a stain off my gown. It made my blood leap, and my cheeks flush.
I caught myself laughing once or twice much louder than I ought;
and long before we got to London I thought it desirable to put
my face in hiding by pulling down my veil.
"There was no difficulty, on reaching the terminus, in getting
him to come in the cab with me to the hotel where Midwinter
is staying. He was all eagerness to be reconciled with his dear
friend--principally, I have no doubt, because he wants the dear
friend to lend a helping hand to the elopement. The real
difficulty lay, of course, with Midwinter. My sudden journey
to London had allowed me no opportunity of writing to combat his
superstitious conviction that he and his former friend are better
apart. I thought it wise to leave Armadale in the cab at the
door, and to go into the hotel by myself to pave the way for him.
"Fortunately, Midwinter had not gone out. His delight at seeing
me some days sooner than he had hoped had something infectious in
it, I suppose. Pooh! I may own the truth to my own diary! There
was a moment when _I_ forgot everything in the world but our two
selves as completely as he did. I felt as if I was back in my
teens--until I remembered the lout in the cab at the door. And
then I was five-and-thirty again in an instant.
"His face altered when he heard who was below, and what it was
I wanted of him; he looked not angry, but distressed. He yielded,
however, before long, not to my reasons, for I gave him none, but
to my entreaties. His old fondness for his friend might possibly
have had some share in persuading him against his will; but my
own opinion is that he acted entirely under the influence of his
fondness for Me.
"I waited in the sitting-room while he went down to the door; so
I knew nothing of what passed between them when they first saw
each other again. But oh, the difference between the two men when
the interval had passed, and they came upstairs together and
joined me.
"They were both agitated, but in such different ways! The hateful
Armadale, so loud and red and clumsy; the dear, lovable
Midwinter, so pale and quiet, with such a gentleness in his voice
when he spoke, and such tenderness in his eyes every time they
turned my way. Armadale overlooked me as completely as if I had
not been in the room. _He_ referred to me over and over again
in the conversation; _he_ constantly looked at me to see what
I thought, while I sat in my corner silently watching them; _he_
wanted to go with me and see me safe to my lodgings, and spare me
all trouble with the cabman and the luggage. When I thanked him
and declined, Armadale looked unaffectedly relieved at the
prospect of seeing my back turned, and of having his friend all
to himself. I left him, with his awkward elbows half over the
table, scrawling a letter (no doubt to Miss Milroy), and shouting
to the waiter that he wanted a bed at the hotel. I had calculated
on his staying, as a matter of course, where he found his friend
staying. It was pleasant to find my anticipations realized, and
to know that I have as good as got him now under my own eye.
"After promising to let Midwinter know where he could see me
to-morrow, I went away in the cab to hunt for lodgings by myself.
"With some difficulty I have succeeded in getting an endurable
sitting-room and bedroom in this house, where the people are
perfect strangers to me. Having paid a week's rent in advance
(for I naturally preferred dispensing with a reference), I find
myself with exactly three shillings and ninepence left in my
purse. It is impossible to ask Midwinter for money, after he
has already paid Mrs. Oldershaw's note of hand. I must borrow
something to-morrow on my watch and chain at the pawnbroker's.
Enough to keep me going for a fortnight is all, and more than
all, that I want. In that time, or in less than that time,
Midwinter will have married me.
"July 29th.--Two o'clock.--Early in the morning I sent a line
to Midwinter, telling him that he would find me here at three
this afternoon. That done, I devoted the morning to two errands
of my own. One is hardly worth mentioning--it was only to raise
money on my watch and chain. I got more than I expected; and more
(even supposing I buy myself one or two little things in the way
of cheap summer dress) than I am at all likely to spend before
the wedding-day.
"The other errand was of a far more serious kind. It led me
into an attorney's office.
"I was well aware last night (though I was too weary to put it
down in my diary), that I could not possibly see Midwinter this
morning--in the position he now occupies toward me--without at
least _appearing_ to take him into my confidence on the subject
of myself and my circumstances. Excepting one necessary
consideration which I must be careful not to overlook. there
is not the least difficulty in my drawing on my invention, and
telling him any story I please--for thus far I have told no story
to anybody. Midwinter went away to London before it was possible
to approach the subject. As to the Milroys (having provided them
with the customary reference), I could fortunately keep them
at arms-length on all questions relating purely to myself. And
lastly, when I affected my reconciliation with Armadale on
the drive in front of the house, he was fool enough to be too
generous to let me defend my character. When I had expressed my
regret for having lost my temper and threatened Miss Milroy, and
when I had accepted his assurance that my pupil had never done or
meant to do me any injury, he was too magnanimous to hear a word
on the subject of my private affairs. Thus I 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 attached 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 inform myself, before I saw Midwinter
later in the day, of any awkward consequences that may follow
the marriage of a widow if she conceals her widow's name.
"Knowing of no other professional person whom I could trust,
I went boldly to the lawyer 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 detect, by no means pleased to see me.
I had hardly opened my lips before he said he hoped I was not
consulting him _again_ (with a strong emphasis 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 toward 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 arms-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 everything 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 marriage
in my lifetime. That is the lawyer's answer in the lawyer's own
words. It relieves me at once--in this direction, at any rate--of
all apprehension about the future. The only imposture my husband
will ever discover--and then only if he happens to be on the
spot--is the imposture that puts me in the place, and gives me
the income, of Armadale's widow; and by that time I shall have
invalidated my own marriage forever.
"Half-past two! Midwinter 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! 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 Midwinter has been here, that concerns me nearly.
"Let me begin with what I hate most to remember, and so be
the sooner done with it--let me begin with the paltry string
of falsehoods which 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 Armadale. 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 Midwinter
turned me cold when I saw that he believed it! I felt a dreadful
hysterical choking in the throat when he entreated me not to
reveal 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-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 wretchedest 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 hundreds, cleverer
men by dozens. 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 something 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 asking? 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 have been of some use to me then--it might have got me
a good master.
"Here is a whole page of my diary filled; and nothing written yet
that is of the slightest use to me! My miserable made-up story
must be told over again here, while the incidents are fresh
in my memory--or how am I to refer to it consistently on
after-occasions when I may be obliged to speak of it again?
"There was nothing new in what I told him; it was the commonplace
rubbish of the circulating libraries. A dead father; a lost
fortune; vagabond brothers, whom I dread ever seeing again;
a bedridden mother dependent on my exertions--No! I can't write
it down! I hate myself, I despise myself, when I remember that
_he_ believed it because I said it--that _he_ was distressed
by it because it was my story! I will face the chances of
contradicting myself--I will risk discovery and ruin--anything
rather than dwell on that contemptible deception of him a moment
longer.
"My lies came to an end at last. And then he talked to me of
himself and of his prospects. Oh, what a relief it was to turn
to that at the time! What a relief it is to come to it now!
"He has accepted the offer about which he wrote to me at Thorpe
Ambrose; and he is now engaged as occasional foreign
correspondent to the new newspaper. His first destination is
Naples. I wish it had been some other place, for I have certain
past associations with Naples which I am not at all anxious to
renew. It has been arranged that he is to leave England not later
than the eleventh of next month. By that time, therefore, I, who
am to go with him, must go with him as his wife.
"There is not the slightest difficulty about the marriage. All
this part of it is so easy that I begin to dread an accident.
"The proposal to keep the thing strictly private--which it might
have embarrassed me to make--comes from Midwinter. Marrying me
in his own name--the name that he has kept concealed from every
living creature but myself and Mr. Brock--it is his interest
that not a soul who knows him should be present at the ceremony;
his friend Armadale least of all. He has been a week in London
already. When another week has passed, he proposes to get the
License, and to be married in the church belonging to the parish
in which the hotel is situated. These are the only necessary
formalities. I had but to say 'Yes' (he told me), and to feel
no further anxiety about the future. I said 'Yes' with such
a devouring anxiety about the future that I was afraid he would
see it. What minutes the next few minutes were, when he whispered
delicious words to me, while I hid my face on his breast!
"I recovered myself first, and led him back to the subject of
Armadale, having my own reasons for wanting to know what they
said to each other after I had left them yesterday.
"The manner in which Midwinter replied showed me that he was
speaking under the restraint of respecting a confidence placed
in him by his friend. Long before he had done, I detected what
the confidence was. Armadale had been consulting him (exactly
as I anticipated) on the subject of the elopement. Although he
appears to have remonstrated against taking the girl secretly
away from her home, Midwinter seems to have felt some delicacy
about speaking strongly, remembering (widely different as the
circumstances are) that he was contemplating a private marriage
himself. I gathered, at any rate, that he had produced very
little effect by what he had said; and that Armadale had already
carried out his absurd intention of consulting the head-clerk
in the office of his London lawyers.
"Having got as far as this, Midwinter put the question which
I felt must come sooner or later. He asked if I objected to our
engagement being mentioned, in the strictest secrecy, to his
friend.
"'I will answer,' he said, 'for Allan's respecting any confidence
that I place in him. And I will undertake, when the time comes,
so to use my influence over him as to prevent his being present
at the marriage, and discovering (what he must never know) that
my name is the same as his own. It would help me,' he went on,
'to speak more strongly about the object that has brought him
to London, if I can requite the frankness with which he has
spoken of his private affairs to me by the same frankness on
my side.'
"I had no choice but to give the necessary permission, and I gave
it. It is of the utmost importance to me to know what course
Major Milroy takes with his daughter and Armadale after receiving
my anonymous letter; and, unless I invite Armadale's confidence
in some way, I am nearly certain to be kept in the dark. Let him
once be trusted with the knowledge that I am to be Midwinter's
wife, and what he tells his friend about his love affair he will
tell me.
"When it had been understood between us that Armadale was to
be taken into our confidence, we began to talk about ourselves
again. How the time flew! What a sweet enchantment it was to
forget everything in his arms! How he loves me!--ah, poor fellow,
how he loves me!
"I have promised to meet him to-morrow morning in the Regent's
Park. The less he is seen here the better. The people in this
house are strangers to me, certainly; but it may be wise to
consult appearances, as if I was still at Thorpe Ambrose, and not
to produce the impression, even on their minds, that Midwinter
is engaged to me. If any after-inquiries are made, when I have
run my grand risk, the testimony of my London landlady might be
testimony worth having.
"That wretched old Bashwood! Writing of Thorpe Ambrose reminds
me of him. What will he say when the town gossip tells him that
Armadale has taken me to London, in a carriage reserved for
ourselves? It really is too absurd in a man of Bashwood's age
and appearance to presume to be in love!....
"July 30th.---News at last! Armadale has heard from Miss Milroy.
My anonymous letter 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 acquaintance 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. Milroy'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 everybody?'
"'He seemed greatly surprised,' said Midwinter, 'to hear that we
were going to be married. All he said when I told him it must
be kept a secret was that he supposed there were reasons on your
side for making the marriage a private one.'
"'What did you say,' I inquired, 'when he made that remark?'
"'I said the reasons were on my side,' answered Midwinter. 'And
I thought it right to add--considering that Allan had allowed
himself to be misled by the ignorant distrust of you at Thorpe
Ambrose--that you had confided to me the whole of your sad family
story, and that you had amply justified your unwillingness; under
any ordinary circumstances, to speak of your private affairs.'
("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 Midwinter. 'He is in great
distress, poor fellow--distress which I have done my best to
soothe, but which, I believe, would yield far more readily to
a woman's sympathy than to mine.'
"'Where is he now?' I asked.
"He was at the hotel; and to the hotel I instantly 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 behavior 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
congratulated me on my coming marriage, and execrated 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 anything but his mechanics 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 tender 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 outbursts of affection, and nauseous 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 gentleman 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 everything.
"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
Armadale. The discovery evidently distressed as well as surprised
him. He appears to have hesitated, 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 gentleman!) shook him at last. Though he firmly
refused to allow of any marriage engagement at present, he
consented to overlook the clandestine meetings in the park, and
to put Armadale'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, between Armadale and Miss Milroy. That space of time is
to be occupied by the young gentleman 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 conduct 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 Milroy's suitor, and,
in six months more, if all goes well, the marriage may take
place.
"I declare I could kiss the dear old major, if I was only within
reach of him! If I had been at his elbow, and had dictated the
conditions myself, I could have asked for nothing better than
this. Six months of total separation between Armadale and Miss
Milroy! In half that time--with all communication cut off between
the two--it must go hard with me, indeed, if I don't find myself
dressed in the necessary mourning, and publicly recognized as
Armadale's widow.
"But I am forgetting the girl's letter. She gives her father's
reasons for making his conditions, in her father's own words.
The major seems to have spoken so sensibly and so feelingly
that he left his daughter no decent alternative--and he leaves
Armadale no decent alternative--but to submit. As well as I can
remember, he seems to have expressed himself to Miss Neelie
in these, or nearly in these terms:
"'Don't think I am behaving cruelly to you, my dear: I am merely
asking you to put Mr. Armadale to the proof. It is not only
right, it is absolutely necessary, that you should hold no
communication with him for some time to come; and I will show you
why. In the first place, if you go to school, the necessary rules
in such places--necessary for the sake of the other girls--would
not permit you to see Mr. Armadale or to receive letters from
him; and, if you are to become mistress of Thorpe Ambrose, to
school you must go, for you would be ashamed, and I should be
ashamed, if you occupied the position of a lady of station
without having the accomplishments which all ladies of station
are expected to possess. In the second place, I want to see
whether Mr. Armadale will continue to think of you as he thinks
now, without being encouraged in his attachment by seeing you, or
reminded of it by hearing from you. If I am wrong in thinking him
flighty and unreliable, and if your opinion of him is the right
one, this is not putting the young man to an unfair test--true
love survives much longer separations than a separation of six
months. And when that time is over, and well over; and when I
have had him under my own eye for another six months, and have
learned to think as highly of him as you do--even then, my dear,
after all that terrible delay, you will still be a married woman
before you are eighteen. Think of this, Neelie, and show that you
love me and trust me, by accepting my proposal. I will hold no
communication with Mr. Armadale myself. I will leave it to you
to write and tell him what has been decided on. He may write back
one letter, and one only, to acquaint you with his decision.
After that, for the sake of your reputation, nothing more is to
be said, and nothing more is to be done, and the matter is to be
kept strictly private until the six months' interval is at an
end.'
"To this effect the major spoke. His behavior to that little slut
of a girl has produced a stronger impression on me than anything
else in the letter. It has set me thinking (me, of all the people
in the world!) of what they call 'a moral difficulty.' We are
perpetually told that there can be no possible connection between
virtue and vice. Can there not? Here is Major Milroy doing
exactly what an excellent father, at once kind and prudent,
affectionate and firm, would do under the circumstances; and by
that very course of conduct he has now smoothed the way for _me_,
as completely as if he had been the chosen accomplice of that
abominable creature, Miss Gwilt. Only think of my reasoning in
this way! But I am in such good spirits, I can do anything
to-day. I have not looked so bright and so young as I look now
for months past!
"To return to the letter, for the last time--it is so excessively
dull and stupid that I really can't help wandering away from it
into reflections of my own, as a mere relief.
"After solemnly announcing that she meant to sacrifice herself to
her beloved father's wishes (the brazen assurance of her setting
up for a martyr after what has happened exceeds anything I ever
heard or read of!), Miss Neelie next mentioned that the major
proposed taking her to the seaside for change of air, during
the few days that were still to elapse before she went to school.
Armadale was to send his answer by return of post, and to address
her, under cover to her father, at Lowestoft. With this, and with
a last outburst of tender protestation, crammed crookedly into
a corner of the page, the letter ended. (N.B.--The major's object
in taking her to the seaside is plain enough. He still privately
distrusts Armadale, and he is wisely determined to prevent any
more clandestine meetings in the park before the girl is safely
disposed of at school.)
"When I had done with the letter--I had requested permission
to read parts of it which I particularly admired, for the second
and third time!--we all consulted together in a friendly way
about what Armadale was to do.
"He was fool enough, at the outset, to protest against submitting
to Major Milroy's conditions. He declared, with his odious red
face looking the picture of brute health, that he should never
survive a six months' separation from his beloved Neelie.
Midwinter (as may easily be imagined) seemed a little ashamed of
him, and joined me in bringing him to his senses. We showed him,
what would have been plain enough to anybody but a booby, that
there was no honorable or even decent alternative left but to
follow the example of submission set by the young lady. 'Wait,
and you will have her for your wife,' was what I said. 'Wait,
and you will force the major to alter his unjust opinion of you,'
was what Midwinter added. With two clever people hammering common
sense into his head at that rate, it is needless to say that
his head gave way, and he submitted.
"Having decided him to accept the major's conditions (I was
careful to warn him, before he wrote to Miss Milroy, that my
engagement to Midwinter was to be kept as strictly secret from
her as from everybody else), the next question we had to settle
related to his future proceedings. 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 associated 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 cheerful 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. After staying a few days more
in London with Midwinter, he would gladly go to Somersetshire.
But what after that?
"Seeing my opportunity, _I_ came to the rescue this time.
'You have got a yacht, Mr. Armadale,' I said; 'and you know that
Midwinter is going to Italy. When you are tired of Somersetshire,
why not make a voyage to the Mediterranean, 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
people's 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 desirable to hire a larger vessel. 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 had got
Armadale's future movements completely under my own control
made me so restless, when I returned to my lodgings, that I was
obliged to go out again, and do something. 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. Upsetting 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 afternoon.
"When I got to Pimlico, a surprise was in store for we. 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 handwriting, and it told me (as I had
supposed) that the doctor had got into a serious difficulty--that
she was herself most 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 warning that I have not heard the last
of Mrs. Oldershaw 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 between 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 pretext that my reputation might suffer
if he called 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, Midwinter took the
opportunity of speaking to him about the necessary business
arrangements during 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 re-appearance 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 Mr. 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
further 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. Bashwood had not turned up again in the conversation, and
prolonged it in an entirely new direction.
"On reflection, it seems to have struck Midwinter 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
objection 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 Ambrose might have been
employed, but Armadale 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 question; 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 respect and regard that he felt for
a lady who was soon to be his friend's wife. After some further
discussion, Midwinter hit on a new suggestion which appeared to
meet the difficulty. He proposed that Armadale should write to a
respectable solicitor at Norwich, stating his position in general
terms, and requesting that gentleman to act as Mr. Bashwood's
adviser and superintendent 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. Fearing that he might make some mistake if he wrote
without assistance, Midwinter had drawn him out a draft of the
necessary letter, and Armadale was now engaged in copying the
draft, and also in writing to Mr. Bashwood to lodge the money
immediately in Coutts's Bank.
"These details are so dry and uninteresting in themselves that
I hesitated at first about putting them down in my diary. But
a little reflection has convinced me that they are too important
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
communication with Thorpe Ambrose, even by letter. _He is as good
as dead already to everybody 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 Midwinter. He hired a carriage, and we
drove to Richmond, and dined there. After to-day's experience,
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 something oppressing me
to-night, which is more than the oppression of the heavy London
air.
"August 2d.--Three o'clock.--My presentiments, like other
people's, 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, and thence to Midwinter's hotel
to arrange with him for another day in the country. 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
(somebody 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 cannot say. Nor am I quite certain whether
he did or did not track me to this door. I only know that I lost
sight of him before I got back. There is no help for it but to
wait till events enlighten me. If there is anything 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 communicates with the sitting-room. I was
just coming out, when I heard a strange voice on the landing
outside--a woman's voice. The next instant the sitting-room
door was suddenly opened; the woman's voice said, 'Are these
the apartments 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 identify 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 probably
somebody in the background whose interests they are serving. Is
Mother Oldershaw attacking 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
mother' 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 forfeit 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 station,
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 another, with a few things for the night in my little
hand-bag.
"I drove straight to the milliner'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 woman again.
"Having now cut off all communication between me and my last
lodgings, the next precaution (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. Doubtful
as I still am of who my hidden enemy really is, I can do no more
to defend myself than I have done now.
"August 4th.--The two friends at the hotel had both written
to me. Midwinter expresses his regret at our separation, in
the tenderest terms. Armadale writes an entreaty for help under
very awkward circumstances. 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 seaside, 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
believe 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 letter as an excuse for violating the terms
agreed on between us, by writing again to my daughter. 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 circumstances, 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 indiscretion
in the matter, and to say that he could not, in common
politeness, do otherwise than accompany me to London.
"I forgive the impudence of his request, in consideration of the
news that he sends me. It is certainly another circumstance 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 compromise 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 interests, of not keeping my word.
"Nothing in the least suspicious has happened 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 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 clearly than I see it now.
"August 5th.--Two letters again from the hotel. Midwinter writes
to remind me, in the prettiest possible manner, 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 Doctors' Commons. Now, if I am ever to say it,
is the time to say No. I can't say No. There is the plain truth
--and there is an end of it!
"Armadale's letter is a letter of farewell. He thanks me for
my kindness in consenting to write to the major, 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
Somersetshire by to-night's train; and, after staying some time
with Mr. Brock, he will sail for the Mediterranean 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 would 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 opinion, than a miserly young man. I wonder whether 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--!
"August 6th.--If anything 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, 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 entreated 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, Midwinter will be on his way to the West.
He promises to write at greater length, after he has seen Mr.
Brock, by to-night's post.
"This news has an interest for me, which Midwinter little
suspects. There is but one human creature, besides myself, who
knows the secret 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 exchanged 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 instead
of coming from the hotel.
"Five o'clock.--I was not mistaken in believing 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 excitement of hearing about Mr.
Brock. So I went this afternoon, eager to do anything 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 milliner'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 certainly 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 shop-women had been tampered with, if not
the mistress herself.
"Can I give myself anything in the shape of a reason for this
impression? Let me think a little.
"I certainly noticed two things which were out of the ordinary
routine, under the circumstances. In the first place, there were
twice as many women as were needed in the trying-on room. This
looked suspicious; and yet I might have accounted for it in more
ways than one. Is it not the slack time now? and don't I know by
experience that I am the sort of woman about whom other women are
always spitefully curious? I thought again, in the second place,
that one of the assistants persisted rather oddly in keeping me
turned in a particular direction, with my face toward the glazed
and curtained door that led into the work-room. But, after all,
she gave a reason when I asked for it. She said the light fell
better on me that way; and, when I looked round, there was the
window to prove her right. Still, these trifles produced such an
effect on me, at the time, that I purposely found fault with the
dress, so as to have an excuse for trying it on again, before I
told them where I lived, and had it sent home. Pure fancy, I dare
say. Pure fancy, perhaps, at the present moment. I don't care;
I shall act on instinct (as they say), and give up the dress.
In plainer words still, I won't go back.
"Midnight.--Midwinter came to see me as he promised. An hour has
passed since we said good-night; and here I still sit, with my
pen in my hand, thinking of him. No words of mine can describe
what has passed between us. The end of it is all I can write
in these pages; and the end of it is that he has shaken my
resolution. For the first time since I saw the easy way to
Armadale's life at Thorpe Ambrose, I feel as if the man whom
I have doomed in my own thoughts had a chance of escaping me.
"Is it my love for Midwinter that has altered me? Or is it _his_
love for _me_ that has taken possession not only of all I wish to
give him, but of all I wish to keep from him as well? I feel as
if I had lost myself--lost myself, I mean, in _him_--all through
the evening. He was in great agitation about what had happened
in Somersetshire; and he made me feel as disheartened and as
wretched about it as he did. Though he never confessed it in
words, I know that Mr. Brock's death has startled him as an ill
omen for our marriage--I know it, because I feel Mr. Brock's
death as an ill omen too. The superstition--_his_ superstition--
took so strong a hold on me, that when we grew calmer and he
spoke of time future--when he told me that he must either break
his engagement with his new employers or go abroad, as he is
pledged to go, on Monday next--I actually shrank at the thought
of our marriage following close on Mr. Brock's funeral; I
actually said to him, in the impulse of the moment, 'Go, and
begin your new life alone! go, and leave me here to wait for
happier times.'
"He took me in his arms. He sighed, and kissed me with an angelic
tenderness. He said--oh, so softly and so sadly!--I have no life
now, apart from _you_.' As those words passed his lips, the
thought seemed to rise in my mind like an echo, 'Why not live out
all the days that are left to me, happy and harmless in a love
like this!' I can't explain it--I can't realize it. That was the
thought in me at the time; and that is the thought in me still. I
see my own hand while I write the words--and I ask myself whether
it is really the hand of Lydia Gwilt!
"Armadale--
"No! I will never write, I will never think of Armadale again.
"Yes! Let me write once more--let me think once more of him,
because it quiets me to know that he is going away, and that
the sea will have parted us before I am married. His old home
is home to him no longer, now that the loss of his mother has
been followed by the loss of his best and earliest friend. When
the funeral is over, he has decided to sail the same day for
the foreign seas. We may, or we may not, meet at Naples. Shall
I be an altered woman if we do? I wonder; I wonder!
"August 8th.--A line from Midwinter. He has gone back to
Somersetshire to be in readiness for the funeral to-morrow; and
he will return here (after bidding Armadale good-by) to-morrow
evening.
"The last forms and ceremonies preliminary to our marriage have
been complied with. I am to be his wife on Monday next. The hour
must not be later than half-past ten--which will give us just
time, when the service is over, to get from the church door to
the railway, and to start on our journey to Naples the same day.
"To-day--Saturday--Sunday! I am not afraid of the time; the time
will pass. I am not afraid of myself, if I can only keep all
thoughts but one out of my mind. I love him! Day and night, till
Monday comes, I will think of nothing but that. I love him!
"Four o'clock.--Other thoughts are forced into my mind in spite
of me. My suspicions of yesterday were no mere fancies; the
milliner has been tampered with. My folly in going back to her
house has led to my being traced here. I am absolutely certain
that I never gave the woman my address; and yet my new gown was
sent home to me at two o'clock to-day!
"A man brought it with the bill, and a civil message, to say
that, as I had not called at the appointed time to try it on
again, the dress had been finished and sent to me. He caught me
in the passage; I had no choice but to pay the bill, and dismiss
him. Any other proceeding, as events have now turned out, would
have been pure folly. The messenger (not the man who followed me
in the street, but another spy sent to look at me, beyond all
doubt) would have declared he knew nothing about it, if I had
spoken to him. The milliner would tell me to my face, if I went
to her, that I had given her my 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 myself 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
Southeastern, 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 letter 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 disposal 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
Southeastern (so as to make any inquiries useless which may
address themselves 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 incumbrances--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 usual. The re-beginning of one's life,
at the re-beginning of every day, has already been something
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
enlightened me in my sleep. All I could guess dreaming was what
I had guessed waking, that Mother 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 winning 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 confidence, 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 sweetheart. This instantly roused
her sympathy, and a present of a ten-shilling piece for her kind
services to me did the rest. In the intervals of her housework
she has been with me nearly the whole morning; and I found out,
among other things, that _her_ sweetheart is a private soldier
in the Guards, and that she expects 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 attention disagreeably diverted from Miss Gwilt in the
course of the evening.
"When Midwinter came here last from the railway, he came at
half-past eight. How am I to get through the weary, weary hours
between 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 moment 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
himself 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 disappointed when he found that my family
embarrassments 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 sometimes,' 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 yet.
" Something _has_ happened,' he answered. 'And it is something
which you ought to know.'
"With those words he took out his pocket-book, and produced two
written papers from it. One he looked at and put back. The other
he placed on the table.
"'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 is no more serious confession than the confession
of my own weakness.'
"He then acknowledged to me that the renewal of his friendship
with Armadale had been clouded, through the whole period of their
intercourse in London, by his own superstitious misgivings. He
had obeyed the summons which called him to the rector's bedside,
with the firm intention of confiding his previsions of coming
trouble to Mr. Brock; and he had been doubly confirmed in his
superstition when he found that Death had entered the house
before him, and had parted them, in this world, forever. More
than this, he had traveled back to be present at the funeral,
with a secret sense of relief at the prospect of being parted
from Armadale, and with a secret resolution to make the
after-meeting agreed on between us three at Naples a meeting
that should never take place. With that purpose in his heart,
he had gone up alone to the room prepared for him on his arrival
at the rectory, and had opened a letter which he found waiting
for him on the table. The letter had only that day been
discovered--dropped and lost--under the bed on which Mr. Brock
had died. It was in the rector's handwriting throughout; and
the person to whom it was addressed was Midwinter himself.
"Having told me this, nearly in the words in which I have written
it, he gave me the written paper that lay on the table between
us.
" 'Read it,' he said; 'and you will not need to be told that my
mind is at peace again, and that I took Allan's hand at parting
with a heart that was worthier of Allan's love.'
"I read the letter. There was no superstition to be conquered
in _my_ mind; there were no old feelings of gratitude toward
Armadale to be roused in _my_ heart; and yet, the effect which
the letter had had on Midwinter was, I firmly believe, more than
matched by the effect that the letter now produced on me.
"It was vain to ask him to leave it, and to let me read it again
(as I wished) when I was left by myself. He is determined to keep
it side by side with that other paper which I had seen him take
out of his pocket-book, and which contains the written narrative
of Armadale's Dream. All I could do was to ask his leave to copy
it; and this he granted readily. I wrote the copy in his
presence; and I now place it here in my diary, to mark a day
which is one of the memorable days in my life.
"Boscombe Rectory, August 2d.
"MY DEAR MIDWINTER--For the first time since the beginning of
my illness, I found strength enough yesterday to look over my
letters. One among them is a letter from Allan, which has been
lying unopened on my table for ten days past. He writes to me
in great distress, to say that there has been dissension between
you, and that you have left him. If you still remember what
passed between us, when you first opened your heart to me in
the Isle of Man, you will be at no loss to understand how I have
thought over this miserable news, through the night that has now
passed, and you will not be surprised to hear that I have roused
myself this morning to make the effort of writing to you.
"I want no explanation of the circumstances which have parted
you from your friend. If my estimate of your character is not
founded on an entire delusion, the one influence which can have
led to your estrangement from Allan is the influence of that evil
spirit of Superstition which I have once already cast out of your
heart--which I will once again conquer, please God, if I have
strength enough to make my pen speak my mind to you in this
letter.
"It is no part of my design to combat the belief which I know you
to hold, that mortal creatures may be the objects of supernatural
intervention in their pilgrimage through this world. Speaking
as a reasonable man, I own that I cannot prove you to be wrong.
Speaking as a believer in the Bible, I am bound to go further,
and to admit that you possess a higher than any human warrant for
the faith that is in you. The one object which I have it at heart
to attain is to induce you to free yourself from the paralyzing
fatalism of the heathen and the savage, and to look at the
mysteries that perplex, and the portents that daunt you, from
the Christian's point of view. If I can succeed in this, I shall
clear your mind of the ghastly doubts that now oppress it, and
I shall reunite you to your friend, never to be parted from him
again.
"I have no means of seeing and questioning you. I can only
send this letter to Allan to be forwarded, if he knows, or can
discover, your present address. Placed in this position toward
you, I am bound to assume all that _can_ be assumed in your
favor. I will take it for granted that something has happened
to you or to Allan which to your mind has not only confirmed
the fatalist conviction in which your father died, but has added
a new and terrible meaning to the warning which he sent you in
his death-bed letter.
"On this common ground I meet you. On this common ground I appeal
to your higher nature and your better sense.
"Preserve your present conviction that the events which have
happened (be they what they may) are not to be reconciled with
ordinary mortal coincidences and ordinary mortal laws; and view
your own position by the best and clearest light that your
superstition can throw on it. What are you? You are a helpless
instrument in the hands of Fate. You are doomed, beyond all human
capacity of resistance, to bring misery and destruction blindfold
on a man to whom you have harmlessly and gratefully united
yourself in the bonds of a brother's love. All that is morally
firmest in your will and morally purest in your aspirations
avails nothing against the hereditary impulsion of you toward
evil, caused by a crime which your father committed before you
were born. In what does that belief end? It ends in the darkness
in which you are now lost; in the self-contradictions in which
you are now bewildered; in the stubborn despair by which a man
profanes his own soul, and lowers himself to the level of the
brutes that perish.
"Look up, my poor suffering brother--look up, my hardly tried,
my well-loved friend, higher than this! Meet the doubts that now
assail you from the blessed vantage-ground of Christian courage
and Christian hope; and your heart will turn again to Allan, and
your mind will be at peace. Happen what may, God is all-merciful,
God is all-wise: natural or supernatural, it happens through Him.
The mystery of Evil that perplexes our feeble minds, the sorrow
and the suffering that torture us in this little life, leave the
one great truth unshaken that the destiny of man is in the hands
of his Creator, and that God's blessed Son died to make us
worthier of it. Nothing that is done in unquestioning submission
to the wisdom of the Almighty is done wrong. No evil exists out
of which, in obedience to his laws, Good may not come. Be true
to what Christ tells you is true. Encourage in yourself, be the
circumstances what they may, all that is loving, all that is
grateful, all that is patient, all that is forgiving, toward your
fellow-men. And humbly and trustfully leave the rest to the God
who made you, and to the Saviour who loved you better than his
own life.
"This is the faith in which I have lived, by the Divine help
and mercy, from my youth upward. I ask you earnestly, I ask you
confidently, to make it your faith, too. It is the mainspring of
all the good I have ever done, of all the happiness I have ever
known; it lightens my darkness, it sustains my hope; it comforts
and quiets me, lying here, to live or die, I know not which.
Let it sustain, comfort, and enlighten you. It will help you
in your sorest need, as it has helped me in mine. It will show
you another purpose in the events which brought you and Allan
together than the purpose which your guilty father foresaw.
Strange things, I do not deny it, have happened to you already.
Stranger things still may happen before long, which I may not
live to see. Remember, if that time comes, that I died firmly
disbelieving in your influence over Allan being other than an
influence for good. The great sacrifice of the Atonement--I say
it reverently--has its mortal reflections, even in this world. If
danger ever threatens Allan, you, whose father took his father's
life--YOU, and no other, may be the man whom the providence of
God has appointed to save him.
"Come to me if I live. Go back to the friend who loves you,
whether I live or die.
"Yours affectionately to the last,
"DECIMUS BROCK."
"'You, and no other, may be the man whom the providence of God
has appointed to save him!'
"Those are the words which have shaken me to the soul. Those
are the words which make me feel as if the dead man had left
his grave, and had put his hand on the place in my heart where
my terrible secret lies hidden from every living creature but
myself. One part of the letter has come true already. The danger
that it foresees threatens Armadale at this moment--and threatens
him from Me!
"If the favoring circumstances which have driven me thus far
drive me on to the end, and if that old man's last earthly
conviction is prophetic of the truth, Armadale will escape me,
do what I may. And Midwinter will be the victim who is sacrificed
to save his life.
"It is horrible! it is impossible! it shall never be! At the
thinking of it only, my hand trembles and my heart sinks. I bless
the trembling that unnerves me! I bless the sinking that turns me
faint! I bless those words in the letter which have revived the
relenting thoughts that first came to me two days since! Is it
hard, now that events are taking me, smoothly and safely, nearer
and nearer to the End--is it hard to conquer the temptation to go
on? No! If there is only a chance of harm coming to Midwinter,
the dread of that chance is enough to decide me--enough to
strengthen me to conquer the temptation, for his sake. I have
never loved him yet, never, never, never as I love him now!
"Sunday, August 10th.--The eve of my wedding-day! I close and
lock this book, never to write in it, never to open it again.
"I have won the great victory; I have trampled my own wickedness
under foot. I am innocent; I am happy again. My love! my angel!
when to-morrow gives me to you, I will not have a thought in my
heart which is not _your_ thought, as well as mine!"