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 composed than
usual. To Allan's surprise he approached the subject of the
previous night's conversation of his own accord as soon as the
servant 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. "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. Late 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 _you_?"
"You won't think me vain?" returned Allan. "I told you yesterday
I had had private opportunities 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 anything 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 anything 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 myself 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'm a blundering
sort of fellow; and I'm horribly afraid, if I can't get some hint
at the truth to help me at starting, of saying something to
distress her. Family misfortunes are such tender subjects to
touch on, especially with such a refined woman, such a
tender-hearted woman, as Miss Gwilt. There may have been some
dreadful 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 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
better 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, Midwinter," 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 anything 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 strikingly 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
noticed it, and may have thought I meant--well, what I didn't
mean. It might be rather awkward, 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 recollections of the
major's daughter which the conversation had called up, rose from
the table and shortened the interview a little impatiently.
"Come! come!" he said, "don't sit there looking unutterable
things; don't make mountains out of mole-hills. 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 cannot possibly be wrong in
entreating you to do two things."
"What are they?"
"If you speak to Major Milroy, pray remember 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 discovered 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 conscious 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; 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 confided to him, and to look resolutely at the
future through his own grateful remembrances of the past.
Steadfastly, through the sleepless hours of the night, 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 after-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 trustworthy hands--still, admitting
these considerations, his mind was not easy at the thought of
leaving Allan, at a time when a crisis was approaching in Allan's
life.
He slung the knapsack loosely over his shoulder 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 friendship 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 herself of his power
of self-sacrifice and his sense of gratitude as well.
He looked round the room mechanically before 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 conscience had warned him, to go.
Had he honestly mentioned any one of the objections which he, or
any man, must have seen to Allan's attachment? Had he--as his
knowledge of his friend's facile character bound him to
do--warned 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 whether, in speaking of these things, he could feel
that he was speaking disinterestedly, had closed his lips, and
would close his lips for the future, 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 gypsy 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 Midwinter. "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
latter 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 kindness, 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 walking 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 exposure. Night and day, sometimes for
months together, I never had my head under a roof. For years and
years, the life of a wild animal--perhaps I ought to say, the
life of a savage--was the life I led, while you were at home and
happy. I have the leaven of the vagabond--the vagabond animal, or
the vagabond man, I hardly 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 breakfasts 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 weather
as I used to meet them when I was a boy; let me feel weary again
for a little while, without a carriage near to pick me up; and
hungry when the night falls, with miles of walking between 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 go!"
"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 the horses
in the stables are at your disposal. At all events, you can't
possibly go to-day. Look at the rain!"
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 anything of it now? _My_ getting wet, and _your_ getting
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," persisted 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 our
head, you're the most obstinate man alive. There's no persuading
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 agitation 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 made a clean breast of it? What did you say
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! There's the rain pattering against
the window-there's the lawn and the garden outside--here am I
where I stood in the Dream--and there are you where the Shadow
stood. The whole scene complete, out-of-doors and in; and _I've_
discovered it this time!"
A moment's life stirred again in the dead remains of Midwinter's
superstition. His color changed, and he eagerly, almost fiercely,
disputed Allan's conclusion.
"No!" he said, pointing to the little marble figure on the
bracket, "the scene is _not_ complete--you have forgotten
something, as usual. The Dream is wrong this time, thank
God--utterly wrong! In the vision you saw, the statue 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 confused
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 Midwinter, 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 fortnight. 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 follow 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 resolved to take refuge in the major's
cottage.
"I might have gone a little way with him," thought Allan, his
mind still running on Midwinter as he put on his hat. "I should
like to have seen the dear old fellow fairly started on 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 have heard some news to interest him in his present
frame of mind. As it was, he went out without looking at the man,
and without suspecting that his servants knew more of Midwinter's
last moments at Thorpe Ambrose than he knew himself. Not ten
minutes since, the grocer and butcher had called in to receive
payment of their bills, and the grocer and the butcher had seen
how Midwinter started on his journey.
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 unrestrainedly than usual at
the sight of the gentleman's knapsack. And what had the gentleman
done in return? He had stopped and looked distressed, 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 here-abouts," said the grocer,
touching his forehead. "That's my opinion of Mr. Armadale's
friend!"
The butcher had seen him further 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 doorstep. "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 doorstep, 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, addressing 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 natures _are_ judged from the grocer and the
butcher point of view.
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.