Armadale

by Wilkie Collins

  Midwinter caught eagerly at the suggestion; too eagerly, as it might have occurred to a harder critic on humanity than Mr Brock.

  ‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and I am quite wrong. Tens of thousands of women answer the description, as you say. I have been wasting time on my own idle fancies, when I ought to have been carefully gathering up facts. If this woman ever attempts to find her way to Allan, I must be prepared to stop her.’ He began searching restlessly among the manuscript leaves scattered about the table, paused over one of the pages, and examined it attentively. ‘This helps me to something positive’ he went on; ‘this helps me to a knowledge of her age. She was twelve at the time of Mrs Armadale’s marriage; add a year, and bring her to thirteen; add Allan’s age (twenty-two), and we make her a woman of five-and-thirty at the present time. I know her age; and I know that she has her own reasons for being silent about her married life. This is something gained at the outset, and it may lead, in time, to something more’; He looked up brightly again at Mr Brock.‘Am I in the right way now, sir? Am I doing my best to profit by the caution which you have kindly given me?’

  ‘You are vindicating your own better sense’ answered the rector, encouraging him to trample down his own imagination, with an Englishman’s ready distrust of the noblest of the human faculties. ‘You are paving the way for your own happier life.’

  ‘Am I?’ said the other, thoughtfully.

  He searched among the papers once more, and stopped at another of the scattered pages.

  ‘The Ship!’ he exclaimed suddenly, his colour changing again, and his manner altering on the instant.

  ‘What ship?’ asked the rector.

  ‘The ship in which the deed was done’ Midwinter answered, with the first signs of impatience that he had shown yet.‘The ship in which my father’s murderous hand turned the lock of the cabin door.’

  ‘What of it?’ said Mr Brock.

  He appeared not to hear the question; his eyes remained fixed intently on the page that he was reading.

  ‘A French vessel, employed in the timber-trade’ he said, still speaking to himself; ‘a French vessel, named La Grace de Dieu. If my father’s belief had been the right belief – if the Fatality had been following me, step by step, from my father’s grave – in one or other of my voyages, I should have fallen in with that ship’ He looked up again at Mr Brock. ‘I am quite sure about it now’ he said. ‘Those women are two – and not one.’

  Mr Brock shook his head.

  ‘I am glad you have come to that conclusion’ he said. ‘But I wish you had reached it in some other way.’

  Midwinter started passionately to his feet, and seizing on the pages of the manuscript with both hands, flung them into the empty fireplace.

  ‘For God’s sake, let me burn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘As long as there is a page left, I shall read it. And, as long as I read it, my father gets the better of me, in spite of myself!’

  Mr Brock pointed to the match-box. In another moment, the confession was in flames. When the fire had consumed the last morsel of paper, Midwinter drew a deep breath of relief.

  ‘I may say, like Macbeth: “Why, so, being gone, I am a man again!”’ he broke out with a feverish gaiety. ‘You look fatigued, sir; and no wonder’ he added in a lower tone. ‘I have kept you too long from your rest – I will keep you no longer. Depend on my remembering what you have told me; depend on my standing between Allan and any enemy, man or woman, who comes near him. Thank you, Mr Brock; a thousand, thousand times, thank you! I came into this room the most wretched of living men; I can leave it now as happy as the birds that are singing outside!’

  As he turned to the door, the rays of the rising sun streamed through the window, and touched the heap of ashes lying black in the black fireplace. The sensitive imagination of Midwinter kindled instantly at the sight.

  ‘Look!’ he said, joyously. ‘The promise of the Future shining over the ashes of the Past!’

  An inexplicable pity for the man, at the moment of his life when he needed pity least, stole over the rector’s heart, when the door had closed, and he was left by himself again.

  ‘Poor fellow!’ he said, with an uneasy surprise at his own compassionate impulse. ‘Poor fellow!’

  CHAPTER III

  DAY AND NIGHT

  The morning hours had passed; the noon had come and gone; and Mr Brock had started on the first stage of his journey home.

  After parting from the rector in Douglas Harbour, the two young men had returned to Castletown, and had there separated at the hotel door, – Allan walking down to the waterside to look after his yacht, and Midwinter entering the house, to get the rest that he needed after a sleepless night.

  He darkened his room; he closed his eyes – but no sleep came to him. On this first day of the rector’s absence, his sensitive nature extravagantly exaggerated the responsibility which he now held in trust for Mr Brock. A nervous dread of leaving Allan by himself, even for a few hours only, kept him waking and doubting until it became a relief, rather than a hardship, to rise from the bed again, and following in Allan’s footsteps, to take the way to the waterside which led to the yacht.

  The repairs of the little vessel were nearly completed. It was a breezy, cheerful day; the land was bright, the water was blue, the quick waves leapt crisply in the sunshine, the men were singing at their work. Descending to the cabin, Midwinter discovered his friend busily occupied in attempting to set the place to rights. Habitually the least systematic of mortals, Allan now and then awoke to an overwhelming sense of the advantages of order – and on such occasions a perfect frenzy of tidiness possessed him. He was down on his knees, hotly and wildly at work, when Midwinter looked in on him; and was fast reducing the neat little world of the cabin to its original elements of chaos, with a misdirected energy wonderful to see.

  ‘Here’s a mess!’ said Allan, rising composedly on the horizon of his own accumulated litter. ‘Do you know, my dear fellow, I begin to wish I had let well alone.’

  Midwinter smiled, and came to his friend’s assistance with the natural neat-handedness of a sailor.

  The first object that he encountered was Allan’s dressing-case, turned upside down, with half the contents scattered on the floor, and with a duster and a hearth-broom lying among them. Replacing the various objects which formed the furniture of the dressing-case one by one, Midwinter lighted unexpectedly on a miniature portrait, of the old-fashioned oval form, primly framed in a setting of small diamonds.

  ‘You don’t seem to set much value on this,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  Allan bent over him, and looked at the miniature.

  ‘It belonged to my mother,’ he answered; ‘and I set the greatest value on it. It is a portrait of my father.’

  Midwinter put the miniature abruptly into Allan’s hands, and withdrew to the opposite side of the cabin.

  ‘You know best where the things ought to be put in your own dressing-case,’ he said, keeping his back turned on Allan. ‘I’ll make the place tidy on this side of the cabin, and you shall make the place tidy on the other.’

  He began setting in order the litter scattered about him, on the cabin table and on the floor. But it seemed as if fate had decided that his friend’s personal possessions should fall into his hands that morning, employ them where he might. One among the first objects which he took up was Allan’s tobacco-jar, with the stopper missing, and with a letter (which appeared by the bulk of it to contain enclosures) crumpled into the mouth of the jar in the stopper’s place.

  ‘Did you know that you had put this here?’ he asked. ‘Is the letter of any importance?’

  Allan recognized it instantly. It was the first of the little series of letters which had followed the cruising party to the Isle of Man – the letter which young Armadale had briefly referred to as bringing him ‘more worries from those everlasting lawyers,’ and had then dismissed from further notice as recklessly as usual.

  ‘This is what comes of being
particularly careful,’ said Allan; ‘here is an instance of my extreme thoughtfulness. You may not think it, but I put the letter there on purpose. Every time I went to the jar, you know, I was sure to see the letter; and every time I saw the letter, I was sure to say to myself, “This must be answered.” There’s nothing to laugh at; it was a perfectly sensible arrangement – if I could only have remembered where I put the jar. Suppose I tie a knot in my pocket-handkerchief this time? You have a wonderful memory, my dear fellow. Perhaps you’ll remind me in the course of the day, in case I forget the knot next.’

  Midwinter saw his first chance, since Mr Brock’s departure, of usefully filling Mr Brock’s place.

  ‘Here is your writing-case,’ he said; ‘why not answer the letter at once? If you put it away again, you may forget it again.’

  ‘Very true,’ returned Allan. ‘But the worst of it is, I can’t quite make up my mind what answer to write. I want a word of advice. Come and sit down here, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  With his loud boyish laugh – echoed by Midwinter, who caught the infection of his gaiety – he swept a heap of miscellaneous encumbrances off the cabin sofa, and made room for his friend and himself to take their places. In the high flow of youthful spirits, the two sat down to their trifling consultation over a letter lost in a tobacco-jar. It was a memorable moment to both of them, lightly as they thought of it at the time. Before they had risen again from their places, they had taken the first irrevocable step together on the dark and tortuous road of their future lives.

  Reduced to plain facts, the question on which Allan now required his friend’s advice, may be stated as follows:

  While the various arrangements connected with the succession to Thorpe-Ambrose were in progress of settlement, and while the new possessor of the estate was still in London, a question had necessarily arisen relating to the person who should be appointed to manage the property. The steward employed by the Blanchard family had written, without loss of time, to offer his services. Although a perfectly competent and trustworthy man, he failed to find favour in the eyes of the new proprietor. Acting, as usual, on his first impulses, and resolved, at all hazards, to install Midwinter as a permanent inmate at Thorpe-Ambrose, Allan had determined that the steward’s place was the place exactly fitted for his friend – for the simple reason, that it would necessarily oblige his friend to live with him on the estate. He had accordingly written to decline the proposal made to him, without consulting Mr Brock, whose disapproval he had good reason to fear; and without telling Midwinter, who would probably (if a chance were allowed him of choosing) have declined taking a situation which his previous training had by no means fitted him to fill. Further correspondence had followed this decision, and had raised two new difficulties which looked a little embarrassing on the face of them, but which Allan, with the assistance of his lawyers, easily contrived to solve. The first difficulty, of examining the outgoing steward’s books, was settled by sending a professional accountant to Thorpe-Ambrose; and the second difficulty, of putting the steward’s empty cottage to some profitable use (Allan’s plans for his friend comprehending Midwinter’s residence under his own roof), was met by placing the cottage on the list of an active house-agent in the neighbouring county town. In this state the arrangements had been left when Allan quitted London. He had heard and thought nothing more of the matter, until a letter from the lawyers had followed him to the Isle of Man, enclosing two proposals to occupy the cottage – both received on the same day – and requesting to hear, at his earliest convenience, which of the two he was prepared to accept.

  Finding himself, after having conveniently forgotten the subject for some days past, placed face to face once more with the necessity for decision, Allan now put the two proposals into his friend’s hands, and, after a rambling explanation of the circumstances of the case, requested to be favoured with a word of advice. Instead of examining the proposals, Midwinter unceremoniously put them aside, and asked the two very natural and very awkward questions of who the new steward was to be, and why he was to live in Allan’s house?

  ‘I’ll tell you who, and I’ll tell you why, when we get to Thorpe-Ambrose,’ said Allan. ‘In the meantime, we’ll call the steward X. Y. Z., and we’ll say he lives with me, because I’m devilish sharp, and I mean to keep him under my own eye. You needn’t look surprised. I know the man thoroughly well; he requires a good deal of management. If I offered him the steward’s place beforehand, his modesty would get in his way, and he would say – “No.” If I pitch him into it neck and crop, without a word of warning and with nobody at hand to relieve him of the situation, he’ll have nothing for it but to consult my interests, and say – “Yes.” X. Y. Z. is not at all a bad fellow, I can tell you. You’ll see him when we go to Thorpe-Ambrose; and I rather think you and he will get on uncommonly well together.’

  The humorous twinkle in Allan’s eye, the sly significance in Allan’s voice, would have betrayed his secret to a prosperous man. Midwinter was as far from suspecting it as the carpenters who were at work above them on the deck of the yacht.

  ‘Is there no steward now on the estate?’ he asked, his face showing plainly that he was far from feeling satisfied with Allan’s answer. ‘Is the business neglected all this time?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort!’ returned Allan. ‘The business is going with “a wet sheet and a flowing sail, and a wind that follows free”.1I’m not joking – I’m only metaphorical. A regular accountant has poked his nose into the books, and a steady-going lawyer’s clerk attends at the office once a week. That doesn’t look like neglect, does it? Leave the new steward alone for the present, and just tell me which of those two tenants you would take, if you were in my place.’

  Midwinter opened the proposals, and read them attentively.

  The first proposal was from no less a person than the solicitor at Thorpe-Ambrose, who had first informed Allan at Paris of the large fortune that had fallen into his hands. This gentleman wrote personally, to say that he had long admired the cottage, which was charmingly situated within the limits of the Thorpe-Ambrose grounds. He was a bachelor, of studious habits, desirous of retiring to a country seclusion after the wear and tear of his business hours; and he ventured to say that Mr Armadale, in accepting him as a tenant, might count on securing an unobtrusive neighbour, and on putting the cottage into responsible and careful hands.

  The second proposal came through the house-agent, and proceeded from a total stranger. The tenant who offered for the cottage, in this case, was a retired officer in the army – one Major Milroy. His family merely consisted of an invalid wife and an only child – a young lady. His references were unexceptionable; and he, too, was especially anxious to secure the cottage, as the perfect quiet of the situation was exactly what was required by Mrs Milroy in her feeble state of health.

  ‘Well! which profession shall I favour?’ asked Allan. ‘The army or the law?’

  ‘There seems to me to be no doubt about it,’ said Midwinter. ‘The lawyer has been already in correspondence with you; and the lawyer’s claim is, therefore, the claim to be preferred.’

  ‘I knew you would say that. In all the thousands of times I have asked other people for advice, I never yet got the advice I wanted. Here’s this business of letting the cottage as an instance. I’m all on the other side myself. I want to have the major.’

  ‘Why?’

  Young Armadale laid his forefinger on that part of the agent’s letter which enumerated Major Milroy’s family, and which contained the three words – ‘a young lady’.

  ‘A bachelor of studious habits walking about my grounds,’ said Allan, ‘is not an interesting object; a young lady is. I have not the least doubt Miss Milroy is a charming girl. Ozias Midwinter of the serious countenance! think of her pretty muslin dress flitting about among your trees and committing trespasses on your property; think of her adorable feet trotting into your fruit-garden, and her delicious fresh lips kissing your ripe peaches; think of her
dimpled hands among your early violets, and her little cream-coloured nose buried in your blush-roses! What does the studious bachelor offer me, in exchange for the loss of all this? He offers me a rheumatic brown object in gaiters and a wig. No! no! Justice is good, my dear friend; but, believe me, Miss Milroy is better.’

  ‘Can you be serious about any mortal thing, Allan?’

  ‘I’ll try to be, if you like. I know I ought to take the lawyer; but what can I do if the major’s daughter keeps running in my head?’

  Midwinter returned resolutely to the just and the sensible view of the matter, and pressed it on his friend’s attention with all the persuasion of which he was master. After listening with exemplary patience until he had done, Allan swept a supplementary accumulation of litter off the cabin table, and produced from his waistcoat-pocket a half-crown coin.

  ‘I’ve got an entirely new idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it to chance.’

  The absurdity of the proposal – as coming from a landlord – was irresistible. Midwinter’s gravity deserted him.

  ‘I’ll spin,’ continued Allan, ‘and you shall call. We must give precedence to the army, of course; so we’ll say Heads, the major; Tails, the lawyer. One spin to decide. Now, then, look out!’

  He spun the half-crown on the cabin table.

  ‘Tails!’ cried Midwinter, humouring what he believed to be one of Allan’s boyish jokes.

  The coin fell on the table with the Head uppermost.

  ‘You don’t mean to say you are really in earnest!’ said Midwinter, as the other opened his writing-case and dipped his pen in the ink.

  ‘Oh, but I am, though!’ replied Allan. ‘Chance is on my side, and Miss Milroy’s; and you’re outvoted, two to one. It’s no use arguing. The major has fallen uppermost, and the major shall have the cottage. I won’t leave it to the lawyers – they’ll only be worrying me with more letters; I’ll write myself.’