SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.
1. _From Mr. Bashwood to Miss Gwilt_.
"Thorpe Ambrose, July 20th, 1851.
"DEAR MADAM--I received yesterday, by private messenger, your
obliging note, in which you direct me to communicate with you
through the post only, as long as there is reason to believe that
any visitors who may come to you are likely to be observed. May
I be permitted to say that I look forward with respectful anxiety
to the time when I shall again enjoy the only real happiness
I have ever experienced--the happiness of personally addressing
you?
"In compliance with your desire that I should not allow this day
(the Sunday) to pass without privately noticing what went on at
the great house, I took the keys, and went this morning to the
steward's office. I accounted for my appearance to the servants
by informing them that I had work to do which it was important
to complete in the shortest possible time. The same excuse would
have done for Mr. Armadale if we had met, but no such meeting
happened.
"Although I was at Thorpe Ambrose in what I thought good time, I
was too late to see or hear anything myself of a serious quarrel
which appeared to have taken place, just before I arrived,
between Mr. Armadale and Mr. Midwinter.
"All the little information I can give you in this matter
is derived from one of the servants. The man told me that he
heard the voices of the two gentlemen loud in Mr. Armadale's
sitting-room. He went in to announce breakfast shortly afterward,
and found Mr. Midwinter in such a dreadful state of agitation
that he had to be helped out of the room. The servant tried to
take him upstairs to lie down and compose himself. He declined,
saying he would wait a little first in one of the lower rooms,
and begging that he might be left alone. The man had hardly got
downstairs again when he heard the front door opened and closed.
He ran back, and found that Mr. Midwinter was gone. The rain
was pouring at the time, and thunder and lightning came soon
afterward. Dreadful weather certainly to go out in. The servant
thinks Mr. Midwinter's mind was unsettled. I sincerely hope not.
Mr. Midwinter is one of the few people I have met with in the
course of my life who have treated me kindly.
"Hearing that Mr. Armadale still remained in the sitting-room,
I went into the steward's office (which, as you may remember, is
on the same side of the house), and left the door ajar, and set
the window open, waiting and listening for anything that might
happen. Dear madam, there was a time when I might have thought
such a position in the house of my employer not a very becoming
one. Let me hasten to assure you that this is far from being my
feeling now. I glory in any position which makes me serviceable
to you.
"The state of the weather seemed hopelessly adverse to that
renewal of intercourse between Mr. Armadale and Miss Milroy which
you so confidently anticipate, and of which you are so anxious
to be made aware. Strangely enough, however, it is actually
in consequence of the state of the weather that I am now in
a position to give you the very information you require.
Mr. Armadale and Miss Milroy met about an hour since. The
circumstances were as follows:
"Just at the beginning of the thunder-storm, I saw one of the
grooms run across from the stables, and heard him tap at his
master's window. Mr. Armadale opened the window and asked what
was the matter. The groom said he came with a message from the
coachman's wife. She had seen from her room over the stables
(which looks on to the park) Miss Milroy quite alone, standing
for shelter under one of the trees. As that part of the park was
at some distance from the major's cottage, she had thought that
her master might wish to send and ask the young lady into the
house--especially as she had placed herself, with a thunder-storm
coming on, in what might turn out to be a very dangerous
position.
"The moment Mr. Armadale understood the man's message, he called
for the water-proof things and the umbrellas, and ran out
himself, instead of leaving it to the servants. In a little time
he and the groom came back with Miss Milroy between them, as well
protected as could be from the rain.
"I ascertained from one of the women-servants, who had taken the
young lady into a bedroom, and had supplied her with such dry
things as she wanted, that Miss Milroy had been afterward shown
into the drawing-room, and that Mr. Armadale was there with her.
The only way of following your instructions, and finding out what
passed between them, was to go round the house in the pelting
rain, and get into the conservatory (which opens into the
drawing-room) by the outer door. I hesitate at nothing, dear
madam, in your service; I would cheerfully get wet every day,
to please you. Besides, though I may at first sight be thought
rather an elderly man, a wetting is of no very serious
consequence to me. I assure you I am not so old as I look, and
I am of a stronger constitution than appears.
"It was impossible for me to get near enough in the conservatory
to see what went on in the drawing-room, without the risk of
being discovered. But most of the conversation reached me, except
when they dropped their voices. This is the substance of what
I heard:
"I gathered that Miss Milroy had been prevailed on, against her
will, to take refuge from the thunder-storm in Mr. Armadale's
house. She said so, at least, and she gave two reasons. The first
was that her father had forbidden all intercourse between the
cottage and the great house. Mr. Armadale met this objection by
declaring that her father had issued his orders under a total
misconception of the truth, and by entreating her not to treat
him as cruelly as the major had treated him. He entered, I
suspect, into some explanations at this point, but as he dropped
his voice I am unable to say what they were. His language, when I
did hear it, was confused and ungrammatical. It seemed, however,
to be quite intelligible enough to persuade Miss Milroy that
her father had been acting under a mistaken impression of the
circumstances. At least, I infer this; for, when I next heard
the conversation, the young lady was driven back to her second
objection to being in the house--which was, that Mr. Armadale had
behaved very badly to her, and that he richly deserved that she
should never speak to him again.
"In this latter case, Mr. Armadale attempted no defense of any
kind. He agreed with her that he had behaved badly; he agreed
with her that he richly deserved she should never speak to him
again. At the same time he implored her to remember that he
had suffered his punishment already. He was disgraced in the
neighborhood; and his dearest friend, his one intimate friend
in the world, had that very morning turned against him like
the rest. Far or near, there was not a living creature whom he
was fond of to comfort him, or to say a friendly word to him.
He was lonely and miserable, and his heart ached for a little
kindness--and that was his only excuse for asking Miss Milroy
to forget and forgive the past.
"I must leave you, I fear, to judge for yourself of the effect
of this on the young lady; for, though I tried hard, I failed
to catch what she said. I am almost certain I heard her crying,
and Mr. Armadale entreating her not to break his heart. They
whispered a great deal, which aggravated me. I was afterward
alarmed by Mr. Armadale coming out into the conservatory to pick
some flowers. He did not come as far, fortunately, as the place
where I was hidden; and he went in again into the drawing-room,
and there was more talking (I suspect at close quarters), which
to my great regret I again failed to catch. Pray forgive me for
having so little to tell you. I can only add that, when the storm
cleared off, Miss Milroy went away with the flowers in her hand,
and with Mr. Armadale escorting her from the house. My own humble
opinion is that he had a powerful friend at court, all through
the interview, in the young lady's own liking for him.
"This is all I can say at present, with the exception of one
other thing I heard, which I blush to mention. But your word is
law, and you have ordered me to have no concealments from you.
"Their talk turned once, dear madam, on yourself. I think I heard
the word 'creature' from Miss Milroy; and I am certain that
Mr. Armadale, while acknowledging that he had once admired you,
added that circumstances had since satisfied him of 'his folly.'
I quote his own expression; it made me quite tremble with
indignation. If I may be permitted to say so, the man who admires
Miss Gwilt lives in Paradise. Respect, if nothing else, ought to
have closed Mr. Armadale's lips. He is my employer, I know; but
after his calling it an act of folly to admire you (though I _am_
his deputy-steward), I utterly despise him.
"Trusting that I may have been so happy as to give you
satisfaction thus far, and earnestly desirous to deserve the
honor of your continued confidence in me, I remain, dear madam,
"Your grateful and devoted servant,
"FELIX BASHWOOD."
2. _From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt_.
"Diana Street, Monday, July 21st.
"MY DEAR LYDIA--I trouble you with a few lines. They are written
under a sense of the duty which I owe to myself, in our present
position toward each other.
"I am not at all satisfied with the tone of your last two
letters; and I am still less pleased at your leaving me this
morning without any letter at all--and this when we had arranged,
in the doubtful state of our prospects, that I was to hear from
you every day. I can only interpret your conduct in one way. I
can only infer that matters at Thorpe Ambrose, having been all
mismanaged, are all going wrong.
"It is not my present object to reproach you, for why should I
waste time, language, and paper? I merely wish to recall to your
memory certain considerations which you appear to be disposed
to overlook. Shall I put them in the plainest English? Yes; for,
with all my faults, I am frankness personified.
"In the first place, then, I have an interest in your becoming
Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe Ambrose as well as you. Secondly, I have
provided you (to say nothing of good advice) with all the money
needed to accomplish our object. Thirdly, I hold your notes of
hand, at short dates, for every farthing so advanced. Fourthly
and lastly, though I am indulgent to a fault in the capacity of
a friend--in the capacity of a woman of business, my dear, I am
not to be trifled with. That is all, Lydia, at least for the
present.
"Pray don't suppose I write in anger; I am only sorry and
disheartened. My state of mind resembles David's. If I had
the wings of a dove, I would flee away and be at rest.
"Affectionately yours, MARIA OLDERSHAW."
3. _From Mr. Bashwood to Miss Gwilt_.
"Thorpe Ambrose, July 21st.
"DEAR MADAM--You will probably receive these lines a few hours
after my yesterday's communication reaches you. I posted my first
letter last night, and I shall post this before noon to-day.
"My present object in writing is to give you some more news from
this house. I have the inexpressible happiness of announcing that
Mr. Armadale's disgraceful intrusion on your privacy is at an
end. The watch set on your actions is to be withdrawn this day.
I write, dear madam, with the tears in my eyes--tears of joy,
caused by feelings which I ventured to express in my previous
letter (see first paragraph toward the end). Pardon me this
personal reference. I can speak to you (I don't know why) so much
more readily with my pen than with my tongue.
"Let me try to compose myself, and proceed with my narrative.
"I had just arrived at the steward's office this morning, when
Mr. Pedgift the elder followed me to the great house to see
Mr. Armadale by special appointment. It is needless to say that
I at once suspended any little business there was to do, feeling
that your interests might possibly be concerned. It is also
most gratifying to add that this time circumstances favored me.
I was able to stand under the open window and to hear the whole
interview.
"Mr. Armadale explained himself at once in the plainest terms.
He gave orders that the person who had been hired to watch you
should be instantly dismissed. On being asked to explain this
sudden change of purpose, he did not conceal that it was owing
to the effect produced on his mind by what had passed between
Mr. Midwinter and himself on the previous day. Mr. Midwinter's
language, cruelly unjust as it was, had nevertheless convinced
him that no necessity whatever could excuse any proceeding so
essentially base in itself as the employment of a spy, and on
that conviction he was now determined to act.
"But for your own positive directions to me to conceal nothing
that passes here in which your name is concerned, I should really
be ashamed to report what Mr. Pedgift said on his side. He has
behaved kindly to me, I know. But if he was my own brother, I
could never forgive him the tone in which he spoke of you, and
the obstinacy with which he tried to make Mr. Armadale change
his mind.
"He began by attacking Mr. Midwinter. He declared that Mr.
Midwinter's opinion was the very worst opinion that could be
taken; for it was quite plain that you, dear madam, had twisted
him round your finger. Producing no effect by this coarse
suggestion (which nobody who knows you could for a moment
believe), Mr. Pedgift next referred to Miss Milroy, and asked Mr.
Armadale if he had given up all idea of protecting her. What this
meant I cannot imagine. I can only report it for your private
consideration. Mr. Armadale briefly answered that he had his own
plan for protecting Miss Milroy, and that the circumstances were
altered in that quarter, or words to a similar effect. Still Mr.
Pedgift persisted. He went on (I blush to mention) from bad to
worse. He tried to persuade Mr. Armadale next to bring an action
at law against one or other of the persons who had been most
strongly condemning his conduct in the neighborhood, for the
purpose--I really hardly know how to write it--of getting you
into the witness-box. And worse yet: when Mr. Armadale still said
No, Mr. Pedgift, after having, as I suspected by the sound of his
voice, been on the point of leaving the room, artfully came back,
and proposed sending for a detective officer from London, simply
to look at you. 'The whole of this mystery about Miss Gwilt's
true character,' he said, 'may turn on a question of identity.
It won't cost much to have a man down from London; and it's
worth trying whether her face is or is not known at headquarters
to the police.' I again and again assure you, dearest lady, that
I only repeat those abominable words from a sense of duty toward
yourself. I shook--I declare I shook from head to foot when
I heard them.
"To resume, for there is more to tell you.
"Mr. Armadale (to his credit--I don't deny it, though I don't
like him) still said No. He appeared to be getting irritated
under Mr. Pedgift's persistence, and he spoke in a somewhat hasty
way. 'You persuaded me on the last occasion when we talked about
this,' he said, 'to do something that I have been since heartily
ashamed of. You won't succeed in persuading me, Mr. Pedgift,
a second time.' Those were his words. Mr. Pedgift took him up
short; Mr. Pedgift seemed to be nettled on his side.
"'If that is the light in which you see my advice, sir,' he
said, 'the less you have of it for the future, the better. Your
character and position are publicly involved in this matter
between yourself and Miss Gwilt; and you persist, at a most
critical moment, in taking a course of your own, which I believe
will end badly. After what I have already said and done in this
very serious case, I can't consent to go on with it with both
my hands tied, and I can't drop it with credit to myself while
I remain publicly known as your solicitor. You leave me no
alternative, sir, but to resign the honor of acting as your legal
adviser.' 'I am sorry to hear it,' says Mr. Armadale, 'but I have
suffered enough already through interfering with Miss Gwilt.
I can't and won't stir any further in the matter.' '_You_ may not
stir any further in it, sir,' says Mr. Pedgift, 'and _I_ shall
not stir any further in it, for it has ceased to be a question
of professional interest to me. But mark my words, Mr. Armadale,
you are not at the end of this business yet. Some other person's
curiosity may go on from the point where you (and I) have
stopped; and some other person's hand may let the broad daylight
in yet on Miss Gwilt.'
"I report their language, dear madam, almost word for word,
I believe, as I heard it. It produced an indescribable impression
on me; it filled me, I hardly know why, with quite a panic of
alarm. I don't at all understand it, and I understand still less
what happened immediately afterward.
"Mr. Pedgift's voice, when he said those last words, sounded
dreadfully close to me. He must have been speaking at the open
window, and he must, I fear, have seen me under it. I had time,
before he left the house, to get out quietly from among the
laurels, but not to get back to the office. Accordingly I walked
away along the drive toward the lodge, as if I was going on some
errand connected with the steward's business.
"Before long, Mr. Pedgift overtook me in his gig, and stopped.
'So _you_ feel some curiosity about Miss Gwilt, do you?' he said.
'Gratify your curiosity by all means; _I_ don't object to it.'
I felt naturally nervous, but I managed to ask him what he meant.
He didn't answer; he only looked down at me from the gig in
a very odd manner, and laughed. 'I have known stranger things
happen even than _that_!' he said to himself suddenly, and drove
off.
"I have ventured to trouble you with this last incident, though
it may seem of no importance in your eyes, in the hope that
your superior ability may be able to explain it. My own poor
faculties, I confess, are quite unable to penetrate Mr. Pedgift's
meaning. All I know is that he has no right to accuse me of any
such impertinent feeling as curiosity in relation to a lady whom
I ardently esteem and admire. I dare not put it in warmer words.
"I have only to add that I am in a position to be of continued
service to you here if you wish it. Mr. Armadale has just been
into the office, and has told me briefly that, in Mr. Midwinter's
continued absence, I am still to act as steward's deputy till
further notice.
"Believe me, dear madam, anxiously and devotedly yours, FELIX
BASHWOOD."
4. _From Allan Armadale to the Reverend Decimus Brock_.
Thorpe Ambrose, Tuesday.
"MY DEAR MR. BROCK--I am in sad trouble. Midwinter has quarreled
with me and left me; and my lawyer has quarreled with me and left
me; and (except dear little Miss Milroy, who has forgiven me) all
the neighbors have turned their backs on me. There is a good deal
about 'me' in this, but I can't help it. I am very miserable
alone in my own house. Do pray come and see me! You are the only
old friend I have left, and I do long so to tell you about it.
"N. B.--On my word of honor as a gentleman, I am not to blame.
Yours affectionately,
"ALLAN ARMADALE.
"P. S.--I would come to you (for this place is grown quite
hateful to me), but I have a reason for not going too far away
from Miss Milroy just at present."
5. _From Robert Stapleton to Allan Armadale, Esq._
"Bascombe Rectory, Thursday Morning.
"RESPECTED SIR--I see a letter in your writing, on the table
along with the others, which I am sorry to say my master is not
well enough to open. He is down with a sort of low fever. The
doctor says it has been brought on with worry and anxiety which
master was not strong enough to bear. This seems likely; for
I was with him when he went to London last month, and what with
his own business, and the business of looking after that person
who afterward gave us the slip, he was worried and anxious all
the time; and for the matter of that, so was I.
"My master was talking of you a day or two since. He seemed
unwilling that you should know of his illness, unless he got
worse. But I think you ought to know of it. At the same time he
is not worse; perhaps a trifle better. The doctor says he must be
kept very quiet, and not agitated on any account. So be pleased
to take no notice of this--I mean in the way of coming to the
rectory. I have the doctor's orders to say it is not needful,
and it would only upset my master in the state he is in now.
"I will write again if you wish it. Please accept of my duty,
and believe me to remain, sir, your humble servant,
"ROBERT STAPLETON.
"P. S.--The yacht has been rigged and repainted, waiting your
orders. She looks beautiful."
6. _From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt_.
"Diana Street, July 24th.
"MISS GWILT--The post hour has passed for three mornings
following, and has brought me no answer to my letter. Are you
purposely bent on insulting me? or have you left Thorpe Ambrose?
In either case, I won't put up with your conduct any longer.
The law shall bring you to book, if I can't.
"Your first note of hand (for thirty pounds) falls due on Tuesday
next, the 29th. If you had behaved with common consideration
toward me, I would have let you renew it with pleasure. As things
are, I shall have the note presented; and, if it is not paid,
I shall instruct my man of business to take the usual course.
"Yours, MARIA OLDERSHAW."
7. _From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw_.
"5 Paradise Place, Thorpe Ambrose, July 25th.
MRS. OLDERSHAW--The time of your man of business being, no doubt,
of some value, I write a line to assist him when he takes the
usual course. He will find me waiting to be arrested in the
first-floor apartments, at the above address. In my present
situation, and with my present thoughts, the best service you
can possibly render me is to lock me up.
"L. G."
8. _From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Gwilt_.
"Diana Street, July 26th.
"MY DARLING LYDIA--The longer I live in this wicked world
the more plainly I see that women's own tempers are the worst
enemies women have to contend with. What a truly regretful
style of correspondence we have fallen into! What a sad want
of self-restraint, my dear, on your side and on mine!
"Let me, as the oldest in years, be the first to make the needful
excuses, the first to blush for my own want of self-control. Your
cruel neglect, Lydia, stung me into writing as I did. I am so
sensitive to ill treatment, when it is inflicted on me by a
person whom I love and admire; and, though turned sixty, I am
still (unfortunately for myself) so young at heart. Accept my
apologies for having made use of my pen, when I ought to have
been content to take refuge in my pocket-handkerchief. Forgive
your attached Maria for being still young at heart!
"But oh, my dear--though I own I threatened you--how hard of you
to take me at my word! How cruel of you, if your debt had been
ten times what it is, to suppose me capable (whatever I might
say) of the odious inhumanity of arresting my bosom friend!
Heavens! have I deserved to be taken at my word in this
unmercifully exact way, after the years of tender intimacy
that have united us? But I don't complain; I only mourn over
the frailty of our common human nature. Let us expect as little
of each other as possible, my dear; we are both women, and we
can't help it. I declare, when I reflect on the origin of our
unfortunate sex--when I remember that we were all originally made
of no better material than the rib of a man (and that rib of so
little importance to its possessor that he never appears to have
missed it afterward), I am quite astonished at our virtues, and
not in the least surprised at our faults.
"I am wandering a little; I am losing myself in serious thought,
like that sweet character in Shakespeare who was 'fancy free.'
One last word, dearest, to say that my longing for an answer
to this proceeds entirely from my wish to hear from you again
in your old friendly tone, and is quite unconnected with any
curiosity to know what you are doing at Thorpe Ambrose--except
such curiosity as you yourself might approve. Need I add that
I beg you as a favor to _me_ to renew, on the customary terms?
I refer to the little bill due on Tuesday next, and I venture
to suggest that day six weeks.
"Yours, with a truly motherly feeling,
"MARIA OLDERSHAW."
9. _From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw_.
"Paradise Place, July 27th.
"I have just got your last letter. The brazen impudence of it
has roused me. I am to be treated like a child, am I?--to be
threatened first, and then, if threatening fails, to be coaxed
afterward? You _shall_ coax me; you shall know, my motherly
friend, the sort of child you have to deal with.
"I had a reason, Mrs. Oldershaw, for the silence which has so
seriously offended you. I was afraid--actually afraid--to let
you into the secret of my thoughts. No such fear troubles me
now. My only anxiety this morning is to make you my best
acknowledgments for the manner in which you have written to me.
After carefully considering it, I think the worst turn I can
possibly do you is to tell you what you are burning to know. So
here I am at my desk, bent on telling it. If you don't bitterly
repent, when you are at the end of this letter, not having held
to your first resolution, and locked me up out of harm's way
while you had the chance, my name is not Lydia Gwilt.
"Where did my last letter end? I don't remember, and don't care.
Make it out as you can--I am not going back any further than this
day week. That is to say, Sunday last.
"There was a thunder-storm in the morning. It began to clear off
toward noon. I didn't go out: I waited to see Midwinter or to
hear from him. (Are you surprised at my not writing 'Mr.' before
his name? We have got so familiar, my dear, that 'Mr.' would be
quite out of place.) He had left me the evening before, under
very interesting circumstances. I had told him that his friend
Armadale was persecuting me by means of a hired spy. He had
declined to believe it, and had gone straight to Thorpe Ambrose
to clear the thing up. I let him kiss my hand before he went.
He promised to come back the next day (the Sunday). I felt I had
secured my influence over him; and I believed he would keep his
word.
"Well, the thunder passed away as I told you. The weather cleared
up; the people walked out in their best clothes; the dinners came
in from the bakers; I sat dreaming at my wretched little hired
piano, nicely dressed and looking my best--and still no Midwinter
appeared. It was late in the afternoon, and I was beginning to
feel offended, when a letter was brought to me. It had been left
by a strange messenger who went away again immediately. I looked
at the letter. Midwinter at last--in writing, instead of in
person. I began to feel more offended than ever; for, as I told
you, I thought I had used my influence over him to better
purpose.
"The letter, when I read it, set my mind off in a new direction.
It surprised, it puzzled, it interested me. I thought, and
thought, and thought of him, all the rest of the day.
"He began by asking my pardon for having doubted what I told him.
Mr. Armadale's own lips had confirmed me. They had quarreled (as
I had anticipated they would); and he, and the man who had once
been his dearest friend on earth, had parted forever. So far,
I was not surprised. I was amused by his telling me in his
extravagant way that he and his friend were parted forever; and
I rather wondered what he would think when I carried out my plan,
and found my way into the great house on pretense of reconciling
them.
"But the second part of the letter set me thinking. Here it is,
in his own words.
"'It is only by struggling against myself (and no language
can say how hard the struggle has been) that I have decided
on writing, instead of speaking to you. A merciless necessity
claims my future life. I must leave Thorpe Ambrose, I must leave
England, without hesitating, without stopping to look back.
There are reasons--terrible reasons, which I have madly trifled
with--for my never letting Mr. Armadale set eyes on me, or hear
of me again, after what has happened between us. I must go, never
more to live under the same roof, never more to breathe the same
air with that man. I must hide myself from him under an assumed
name; I must put the mountains and the seas between us. I have
been warned as no human creature was ever warned before.
I believe--I dare not tell you why--I believe that, if the
fascination you have for me draws me back to you, fatal
consequences will come of it to the man whose life has been so
strangely mingled with your life and mine--the man who was once
_your_ admirer and _my_ friend. And yet, feeling this, seeing it
in my mind as plainly as I see the sky above my head, there is
a weakness in me that still shrinks from the one imperative
sacrifice of never seeing you again. I am fighting with it as
a man fights with the strength of his despair. I have been near
enough, not an hour since, to see the house where you live, and
have forced myself away again out of sight of it. Can I force
myself away further still, now that my letter is written--now,
when the useless confession escapes me, and I own to loving you
with the first love I have ever known, with the last love I shall
ever feel? Let the coming time answer the question; I dare not
write of it or think of it more.'
"Those were the last words. In that strange way the letter ended.
"I felt a perfect fever of curiosity to know what he meant. His
loving me, of course, was easy enough to understand. But what did
he mean by saying he had been warned? Why was he never to live
under the same roof, never to breathe the same air again, with
young Armadale? What sort of quarrel could it be which obliged
one man to hide himself from another under an assumed name, and
to put the mountains and the seas between them? Above all, if
he came back, and let me fascinate him, why should it be fatal
to the hateful lout who possesses the noble fortune and lives
in the great house?
"I never longed in my life as I longed to see him again and put
these questions to him. I got quite superstitious about it as
the day drew on. They gave me a sweet-bread and a cherry pudding
for dinner. I actually tried if he would come back by the stones
in the plate! He will, he won't, he will, he won't--and so on.
It ended in 'He won't.' I rang the bell, and had the things taken
away. I contradicted Destiny quite fiercely. I said, 'He will!'
and I waited at home for him.
"You don't know what a pleasure it is to me to give you all
these little particulars. Count up--my bosom friend, my second
mother--count up the money you have advanced on the chance of
my becoming Mrs. Armadale, and then think of my feeling this
breathless interest in another man. Oh, Mrs. Oldershaw, how
intensely I enjoy the luxury of irritating you!
"The day got on toward evening. I rang again, and sent down to
borrow a railway time-table. What trains were there to take him
away on Sunday? The national respect for the Sabbath stood my
friend. There was only one train, which had started hours before
he wrote to me. I went and consulted my glass. It paid me the
compliment of contradicting the divination by cherry-stones.
My glass said: 'Get behind the window-curtain; he won't pass
the long lonely evening without coming back again to look at
the house.' I got behind the window-curtain, and waited with
his letter in my hand.
"The dismal Sunday light faded, and the dismal Sunday quietness
in the street grew quieter still. The dusk came, and I heard
a step coming with it in the silence. My heart gave a little
jump--only think of my having any heart left! I said to myself:
'Midwinter!' And Midwinter it was.
"When he came in sight he was walking slowly, stopping
and hesitating at every two or three steps. My ugly little
drawing-room window seemed to be beckoning him on in spite
of himself. After waiting till I saw him come to a standstill,
a little aside from the house, but still within view of my
irresistible window, I put on my things and slipped out by the
back way into the garden. The landlord and his family were at
supper, and nobody saw me. I opened the door in the wall, and
got round by the lane into the street. At that awkward moment
I suddenly remembered, what I had forgotten before, the spy set
to watch me, who was, no doubt, waiting somewhere in sight of
the house.
"It was necessary to get time to think, and it was (in my state
of mind) impossible to let Midwinter go without speaking to him.
In great difficulties you generally decide at once, if you decide
at all. I decided to make an appointment with him for the next
evening, and to consider in the interval how to manage the
interview so that it might escape observation. This, as I felt
at the time, was leaving my own curiosity free to torment me
for four-and-twenty mortal hours; but what other choice had I?
It was as good as giving up being mistress of Thorpe Ambrose
altogether, to come to a private understanding with Midwinter
in the sight and possibly in the hearing of Armadale's spy.
"Finding an old letter of yours in my pocket, I drew back into
the lane, and wrote on the blank leaf, with the little pencil
that hangs at my watch-chain: 'I must and will speak to you.
It is impossible tonight, but be in the street tomorrow at this
time, and leave me afterward forever, if you like. When you have
read this, overtake me, and say as you pass, without stopping or
looking round, "Yes, I promise."'
"I folded up the paper, and came on him suddenly from behind.
As he started and turned round, I put the note into his hand,
pressed his hand, and passed on. Before I had taken ten steps I
heard him behind me. I can't say he didn't look round--I saw his
big black eyes, bright and glittering in the dusk, devour me from
head to foot in a moment; but otherwise he did what I told him.
'I can deny you nothing,' he whispered; 'I promise.' He went on
and left me. I couldn't help thinking at the time how that brute
and booby Armadale would have spoiled everything in the same
situation.
"I tried hard all night to think of a way of making our interview
of the next evening safe from discovery, and tried in vain. Even
as early as this, I began to feel as if Midwinter's letter had,
in some unaccountable manner, stupefied me.
"Monday morning made matters worse. News came from my faithful
ally, Mr. Bashwood, that Miss Milroy and Armadale had met and
become friends again. You may fancy the state I was in! An hour
or two later there came more news from Mr. Bashwood--good news
this time. The mischievous idiot at Thorpe Ambrose had shown
sense enough at last to be ashamed of himself. He had decided
on withdrawing the spy that very day, and he and his lawyer had
quarreled in consequence.
"So here was the obstacle which I was too stupid to remove for
myself obligingly removed for me! No more need to fret about the
coming interview with Midwinter; and plenty of time to consider
my next proceedings, now that Miss Milroy and her precious swain
had come together again. Would you believe it, the letter, or
the man himself (I don't know which), had taken such a hold on me
that, though I tried and tried, I could think of nothing else;
and this when I had every reason to fear that Miss Milroy was in
a fair way of changing her name to Armadale, and when I knew that
my heavy debt of obligation to her was not paid yet? Was there
ever such perversity? I can't account for it; can you?
"The dusk of the evening came at last. I looked out of the
window--and there he was!
"I joined him at once; the people of the house, as before, being
too much absorbed in their eating and drinking to notice anything
else. 'We mustn't be seen together here,' I whispered. 'I must go
on first, and you must follow me.'
"He said nothing in the way of reply. What was going on in
his mind I can't pretend to guess; but, after coming to his
appointment, he actually hung back as if he was half inclined
to go away again.
"'You look as if you were afraid of me,' I said.
"'I _am_ afraid of you,' he answered--'of you, and of myself.'
"It was not encouraging; it was not complimentary. But I was
in such a frenzy of curiosity by this time that, if he had been
ruder still, I should have taken no notice of it. I led the way
a few steps toward the new buildings, and stopped and looked
round after him.
"'Must I ask it of you as a favor,' I said, 'after your giving
me your promise, and after such a letter as you have written
to me?'
"Something suddenly changed him; he was at my side in an instant.
'I beg your pardon, Miss Gwilt; lead the way where you please.'
He dropped back a little after that answer, and I heard him say
to himself, 'What _is_ to be _will_ be. What have I to do with
it, and what has she?'
"It could hardly have been the words, for I didn't understand
them--it must have been the tone he spoke in, I suppose, that
made me feel a momentary tremor. I was half inclined, without
the ghost of a reason for it, to wish him good-night, and go
in again. Not much like me, you will say. Not much, indeed!
It didn't last a moment. Your darling Lydia soon came to her
senses again.
"I led the way toward the unfinished cottages, and the country
beyond. It would have been much more to my taste to have had him
into the house, and have talked to him in the light of the
candles. But I had risked it once already; and in this
scandal-mongering place, and in my critical position, I was
afraid to risk it again. The garden was not to be thought of
either, for the landlord smokes his pipe there after his supper.
There was no alternative but to take him away from the town.
"From time to time, I looked back as I went on. There he was,
always at the same distance, dim and ghost-like in the dusk,
silently following me.
"I must leave off for a little while. The church bells have
broken out, and the jangling of them drives me mad. In these
days, when we have all got watches and clocks, why are bells
wanted to remind us when the service begins? We don't require
to be rung into the theater. How excessively discreditable to
the clergy to be obliged to ring us into the church!
----------
"They have rung the congregation in at last; and I can take up
my pen, and go on again.
"I was a little in doubt where to lead him to. The high-road was
on one side of me; but, empty as it looked, somebody might be
passing when we least expected it. The other way was through
the coppice. I led him through the coppice.
"At the outskirts of the trees, on the other side, there was
a dip in the ground with some felled timber lying on it, and a
little pool beyond, still and white and shining in the twilight.
The long grazing-grounds rose over its further shore, with the
mist thickening on them, and a dim black line far away of cattle
in slow procession going home. There wasn't a living creature
near; there wasn't a sound to be heard. I sat down on one
of the felled trees and looked back for him. 'Come,' I said,
softly--'come and sit by me here.'
"Why am I so particular about all this? I hardly know. The place
made an unaccountably vivid impression on me, and I can't help
writing about it. If I end badly--suppose we say on the
scaffold?--I believe the last thing I shall see, before the
hangman pulls the drop, will be the little shining pool, and the
long, misty grazing-grounds, and the cattle winding dimly home in
the thickening night. Don't be alarmed, you worthy creature! My
fancies play me strange tricks sometimes; and there is a little
of last night's laudanum, I dare say, in this part of my letter.
"He came--in the strangest silent way, like a man walking in
his sleep--he came and sat down by me. Either the night was very
close, or I was by this time literally in a fever: I couldn't
bear my bonnet on; I couldn't bear my gloves. The want to look
at him, and see what his singular silence meant, and the
impossibility of doing it in the darkening light, irritated my
nerves, till I thought I should have screamed. I took his hand,
to try if that would help me. It was burning hot; and it closed
instantly on mine--you know how. Silence, after _that_, was not
to be thought of. The one safe way was to begin talking to him
at once.
"'Don't despise me,' I said. 'I am obliged to bring you to this
lonely place; I should lose my character if we were seen
together.'
"I waited a little. His hand warned me once more not to let the
silence continue. I determined to _make_ him speak to me this
time.
"'You have interested me, and frightened me,' I went on. 'You
have written me a very strange letter. I must know what it
means.'
"'It is too late to ask. _You_ have taken the way, and _I_ have
taken the way, from which there is no turning back.' He made that
strange answer in a tone that was quite new to me--a tone that
made me even more uneasy than his silence had made me the moment
before. 'Too late,' he repeated--'too late! There is only one
question to ask me now.'
"'What is it?'
"As I said the words, a sudden trembling passed from his hand
to mine, and told me instantly that I had better have held my
tongue. Before I could move, before I could think, he had me
in his arms. 'Ask me if I love you,' he whispered. At the same
moment his head sank on my bosom; and some unutterable torture
that was in him burst its way out, as it does with _us_, in
a passion of sobs and tears.
"My first impulse was the impulse of a fool. I was on the point
of making our usual protest and defending myself in our usual
way. Luckily or unluckily, I don't know which, I have lost the
fine edge of the sensitiveness of youth; and I checked the first
movement of my hands, and the first word on my lips. Oh, dear,
how old I felt, while he was sobbing his heart out on my breast!
How I thought of the time when he might have possessed himself
of my love! All he had possessed himself of now was--my waist.
"I wonder whether I pitied him? It doesn't matter if I did. At
any rate, my hand lifted itself somehow, and my fingers twined
themselves softly in his hair. Horrible recollections came back
to me of other times, and made me shudder as I touched him. And
yet I did it. What fools women are!
"'I won't reproach you,' I said, gently. 'I won't say this is
a cruel advantage to take of me, in such a position as mine. You
are dreadfully agitated; I will let you wait a little and compose
yourself.'
"Having got as far as that, I stopped to consider how I should
put the questions to him that I was burning to ask. But I was too
confused, I suppose, or perhaps too impatient to consider. I let
out what was uppermost in my mind, in the words that came first.
"'I don't believe you love me,' I said. 'You write strange
things to me; you frighten me with mysteries. What did you mean
by saying in your letter that it would be fatal to Mr. Armadale
if you came back to me? What danger can there be to Mr.
Armadale--?'
"Before I could finish the question, he suddenly lifted his head
and unclasped his arms. I had apparently touched some painful
subject which recalled him to himself. Instead of my shrinking
from _him_, it was he who shrank from _me_. I felt offended with
him; why, I don't know--but offended I was; and I thanked him
with my bitterest emphasis for remembering what was due to me,
_at last_!
"'Do you believe in Dreams?' he burst out, in the most strangely
abrupt manner, without taking the slightest notice of what I had
said to him. 'Tell me,' he went on, without allowing me time to
answer, 'were you, or was any relation of yours, ever connected
with Allan Armadale's father or mother? Were you, or was anybody
belonging to you, ever in the island of Madeira?'
"Conceive my astonishment, if you can. I turned cold. In an
instant I turned cold all over. He was plainly in the secret
of what had happened when I was in Mrs. Armadale's service
in Madeira--in all probability before he was born! That was
startling enough of itself. And he had evidently some reason
of his own for trying to connect _me_ with those events--which
was more startling still.
"'No,' I said, as soon as I could trust myself to speak. 'I know
nothing of his father or mother.'
"'And nothing of the island of Madeira?'
"'Nothing of the island of Madeira.'
"He turned his head away, and began talking to himself.
"'Strange!' he said. 'As certainly as I was in the Shadow's
place at the window, _she_ was in the Shadow's place at the
pool!'
"Under other circumstances, his extraordinary behavior might have
alarmed me. But after his question about Madeira, there was some
greater fear in me which kept all common alarm at a distance.
I don't think I ever determined on anything in my life as I
determined on finding out how he had got his information, and who
he really was. It was quite plain to me that I had roused some
hidden feeling in him by my question about Armadale, which was
as strong in its way as his feeling for _me_. What had become
of my influence over him?
"I couldn't imagine what had become of it; but I could and did
set to work to make him feel it again.
"'Don't treat me cruelly,' I said; 'I didn't treat _you_ cruelly
just now. Oh, Mr. Midwinter, it's so lonely, it's so dark--don't
frighten me!'
"'Frighten you!' He was close to me again in a moment. 'Frighten
you!' He repeated the word with as much astonishment as if I had
woke him from a dream, and charged him with something that he had
said in his sleep.
"It was on the tip of my tongue, finding how I had surprised
him, to take him while he was off his guard, and to ask why my
question about Armadale had produced such a change in his
behavior to me. But after what had happened already, I was
afraid to risk returning to the subject too soon. Something or
other--what they call an instinct, I dare say--warned me to let
Armadale alone for the present, and to talk to him first about
himself. As I told you in one of my early letters, I had noticed
signs and tokens in his manner and appearance which convinced me,
young as he was, that he had done something or suffered something
out of the common in his past life. I had asked myself more and
more suspiciously every time I saw him whether he was what he
appeared to be; and first and foremost among my other doubts was
a doubt whether he was passing among us by his real name. Having
secrets to keep about my own past life, and having gone myself
in other days by more than one assumed name, I suppose I am all
the readier to suspect other people when I find something
mysterious about them. Any way, having the suspicion in my mind,
I determined to startle him, as he had startled me, by an
unexpected question on my side--a question about his name.
"While I was thinking, he was thinking; and, as it soon appeared,
of what I had just said to him. 'I am so grieved to have
frightened you,' he whispered, with that gentleness and humility
which we all so heartily despise in a man when he speaks to other
women, and which we all so dearly like when he speaks to
ourselves. 'I hardly know what I have been saying,' he went on;
'my mind is miserably disturbed. Pray forgive me, if you can;
I am not myself to-night.'
"'I am not angry,' I said; 'I have nothing to forgive. We
are both imprudent; we are both unhappy.' I laid my head
on his shoulder. 'Do you really love me?' I asked him, softly,
in a whisper.
"His arm stole round me again; and I felt the quick beat of his
heart get quicker and quicker. 'If you only knew!' he whispered
back; 'if you only knew--' He could say no more. I felt his face
bending toward mine, and dropped my head lower, and stopped him
in the very act of kissing me.
"'No,' I said; 'I am only a woman who has taken your fancy.
You are treating me as if I was your promised wife.'
"'_Be_ my promised wife!' he whispered, eagerly, and tried
to raise my head. I kept it down. The horror of these old
remembrances that you know of came back and made me tremble
a little when he asked me to be his wife. I don't think I was
actually faint; but something like faintness made me close my
eyes. The moment I shut them, the darkness seemed to open as if
lightning had split it; and the ghosts of _those other men_ rose
in the horrid gap, and looked at me.
"'Speak to me!' he whispered, tenderly. 'My darling, my angel,
speak to me!'
"His voice helped me to recover myself. I had just sense enough
left to remember that the time was passing, and that I had not
put my question to him yet about his name.
"'Suppose I felt for you as you feel for me?' I said. 'Suppose
I loved you dearly enough to trust you with the happiness of all
my life to come?'
"I paused a moment to get my breath. It was unbearably still
and close; the air seemed to have died when the night came.
"'Would you be marrying me honorably,' I went on, 'if you
married me in your present name?'
"His arm dropped from my waist, and I felt him give one great
start. After that he sat by me, still, and cold, and silent, as
if my question had struck him dumb. I put my arm round his neck,
and lifted my head again on his shoulder. Whatever the spell was
I had laid on him, my coming closer in that way seemed to break
it.
"'Who told you?' He stopped. 'No,' he went on, 'nobody can have
told you. What made you suspect--?' He stopped again.
"'Nobody told me,' I said; 'and I don't know what made me
suspect. Women have strange fancies sometimes. Is Midwinter
really your name?'
"'I can't deceive you,' he answered, after another interval
of silence; 'Midwinter is _not_ really my name.'
"I nestled a little closer to him.
" What _is_ your name?' I asked.
"He hesitated.
"I lifted my face till my cheek just touched his. I persisted,
with my lips close at his ear:
"'What, no confidence in me even yet! No confidence in the woman
who has almost confessed she loves you--who has almost consented
to be your wife!'
"He turned his face to mine. For the second time he tried to kiss
me, and for the second time I stopped him.
"'If I tell you my name,' he said, 'I must tell you more.'
"I let my cheek touch his again.
"'Why not?' I said. 'How can I love a man--much less marry
him--if he keeps himself a stranger to me?'
"There was no answering that, as I thought. But he did answer
it.
"'It is a dreadful story,' he said. 'It may darken all your
life, if you know it, as it has darkened mine.'
"I put my other arm round him, and persisted. 'Tell it me;
I'm not afraid; tell it me.'
"He began to yield to my other arm.
"'Will you keep it a sacred secret?' he said. 'Never to be
breathed--never to be known but to you and me?'
"I promised him it should be a secret. I waited in a perfect
frenzy of expectation. Twice he tried to begin, and twice his
courage failed him.
"'I can't!' he broke out in a wild, helpless way. I can't tell
it!'
"My curiosity, or more likely my temper, got beyond all control.
He had irritated me till I was reckless what I said or what
I did. I suddenly clasped him close, and pressed my lips to his.
'I love you!' I whispered in a kiss. '_Now_ will you tell me?'
"For the moment he was speechless. I don't know whether I did it
purposely to drive him wild. I don't know whether I did it
involuntarily in a burst of rage. Nothing is certain but that
I interpreted his silence the wrong way. I pushed him back from
me in a fury the instant after I had kissed him. 'I hate you!'
I said. 'You have maddened me into forgetting myself. Leave me.
I don't care for the darkness. Leave me instantly, and never see
me again!'
"He caught me by the hand and stopped me. He spoke in a new
voice; he suddenly _commanded_, as only men can.
"'Sit down,' he said. 'You have given me back my courage--you
shall know who I am.'
"In the silence and the darkness all round us, I obeyed him,
and sat down.
"In the silence and the darkness all round us, he took me
in his arms again, and told me who he was.
----------
"Shall I trust you with his story? Shall I tell you his real
name? Shall I show you, as I threatened, the thoughts that have
grown out of my interview with him and out of all that has
happened to me since that time?
"Or shall I keep his secret as I promised? and keep my own secret
too, by bringing this weary, long letter to an end at the very
moment when you are burning to hear more!
"Those are serious questions, Mrs. Oldershaw--more serious than
you suppose. I have had time to calm down, and I begin to see,
what I failed to see when I first took up my pen to write to you,
the wisdom of looking at consequences. Have I frightened myself
in trying to frighten _you_? It is possible--strange as it may
seem, it is really possible.
"I have been at the window for the last minute or two, thinking.
There is plenty of time for thinking before the post leaves. The
people are only now coming out of church.
"I have settled to put my letter on one side, and to take a look
at my diary. In plainer words I must see what I risk if I decide
on trusting you; and my diary will show me what my head is too
weary to calculate without help. I have written the story of my
days (and sometimes the story of my nights) much more regularly
than usual for the last week, having reasons of my own for being
particularly careful in this respect under present circumstances.
If I end in doing what it is now in my mind to do, it would be
madness to trust to my memory. The smallest forgetfulness of the
slightest event that has happened from the night of my interview
with Midwinter to the present time might be utter ruin to me.
"'Utter ruin to her!' you will say. 'What kind of ruin does she
mean?'
"Wait a little, till I have asked my diary whether I can safely
tell you."