Armadale

by Wilkie Collins

  ‘I can’t say I should think it too old, if—’

  ‘If you were really fond of her?’

  Once more there was no answer.

  ‘Well,’ resumed Allan, ‘if there’s no harm in her being only a governess, and no harm in her being a little older than I am, what’s the objection to Miss Gwilt?’

  ‘I have made no objection.’

  ‘I don’t say you have. But you don’t seem to like the notion of it, for all that.’

  There was another pause. Midwinter was the first to break the silence this time.

  ‘Are you sure of yourself, Allan?’ he asked, with his face bent once more over the book; ‘are you really attached to this lady? Have you thought seriously already of asking her to be your wife?’

  ‘I am thinking seriously of it at this moment,’ said Allan. ‘I can’t be happy – I can’t live without her. Upon my soul, I worship the very ground she treads on.’

  ‘How long—?’ His voice faltered, and he stopped. ‘How long,’ he reiterated, ‘have you worshipped the very ground she treads on?’

  ‘Longer than you think for. I know I can trust you with all my secrets—’

  ‘Don’t trust me!’

  ‘Nonsense! I will trust you. There is a little difficulty in the way, which I haven’t mentioned yet. It’s a matter of some delicacy, and I want to consult you about it. Between ourselves, I have had private opportunities with Miss Gwilt—’

  Midwinter suddenly started to his feet, and opened the door.

  ‘We’ll talk of this to-morrow,’ he said. ‘Good-night.’

  Allan looked round in astonishment. The door was closed again, and he was alone in the room.

  ‘He has never shaken hands with me!’ exclaimed Allan, looking bewildered at the empty chair.

  As the words passed his lips the door opened, and Midwinter appeared again.

  ‘We haven’t shaken hands,’ he said, abruptly. ‘God bless you, Allan! We’ll talk of it to-morrow. Good-night.’

  Allan stood alone at the window, looking out at the pouring rain. He felt ill at ease, without knowing why.2 ‘Midwinter’s ways get stranger and stranger,’ he thought. ‘What can he mean by putting me off till tomorrow, when I wanted to speak to him to-night?’ He took up his bedroom candle a little impatiently – put it down again – and, walking back to the open window, stood looking out in the direction of the cottage. ‘I wonder if she’s thinking of me?’ he said to himself softly.

  She was thinking of him. She had just opened her desk to write to Mrs Oldershaw; and her pen had that moment traced the opening line: ‘Make your mind easy. I have got him!’

  CHAPTER XIII

  EXIT

  It rained all through the night; and when the morning came, it was raining still.

  Contrary to his ordinary habit, Midwinter was waiting in the breakfast-room when Allan entered it. He looked worn and weary, but his smile was gentler, and his manner more 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. Later in the morning I shall have something to say to you about this. Let us get back first to what you were talking of last night. You were speaking of some difficulty—’ He hesitated, and finished the sentence in a tone so low that Allan failed to hear him. ‘Perhaps it would be better,’ he went on, ‘if, instead of speaking to me, you spoke to Mr Brock?’

  ‘I would rather speak to you,’ said Allan. ‘But tell me first, was I right or wrong last night in thinking you disapproved of my falling in love with Miss Gwilt?’

  Midwinter’s lean nervous fingers began to crumble the bread in his plate. His eyes looked away from Allan for the first time.

  ‘If you have any objection,’ persisted Allan, ‘I should like to hear it.’

  Midwinter suddenly looked up again, his cheeks turning ashy pale, and his glittering black eyes fixed full on Allan’s face.

  ‘You love her,’ he said. ‘Does she love 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, afterwards. 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 afterwards. 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 towards 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 afterwards, 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 molehills. You have such an old, old head, Midwinter, on those young shoulders of yours. Let’s have done with all these pros and cons. Do you mean to tell me in plain words, that it won’t do to speak to the major?’

  ‘I can’t take the responsibility, Allan, of telling you that. To be plainer still, I can’t feel confident of the soundness of any advice I may give you, in – in our present position towards 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 travelling. As he stood at the window thinking, with the knapsack in his hand, a strangely old, careworn 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; he had been conscious of his growing interest thenceforth in her society, and his growing admiration of her beauty – but he had never until now known the passion that she had roused in him for what it really was. Knowing it at last, feeling it consciously in full possession of him, he had the courage which no man with a happier experience of life would have possessed – the courage to recall what Allan had said to him, and to look resolutely at the future through his own grateful remembrances of the past.

  Steadfastly, through the sleepless hours of the night, he had contemplated the sacrifice of himself to the dearest interest of his friend, as part of the great debt of gratitude that he owed to Allan. Steadfastly he had bent his mind to the conviction that he must conquer the passion which had taken possession of him, for Allan’s sake; and that the one way to conquer it was – to go. No after-doubt as to 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 lizps, 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 gipsy master’s stick; as he had fought down the misery of his lonely youth-time in the country bookseller’s shop. ‘I must go,’ he said, as he turned wearily from the window, ‘before she comes to the house again. I must go before another hour is over my head.’

  With that resolution he left the room; and, in leaving it, took the irrevocable step from Present to Future.

  The rain was still falling. The sullen sky, all round the horizon, still lowered watery and dark, when Midwinter, equipped for travelling, 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 later time has come. I have been out of sorts, as the phrase is, for some time past. You have remarked it yourself, Allan, more than once; and, with your usual kindness, you have allowed it to excuse many things in my conduct which would have been otherwise unpardonable, even in your friendly eyes.’