Armadale

by Wilkie Collins

  Midwinter stepped past her, without uttering a word. Faint as the light was, the spy saw what was coming in his face, and turning instantly, leapt the ditch by the roadside. Before Midwinter could follow, Miss Gwilt’s hand was on his shoulder.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t know who his employer is.’

  Midwinter stopped, and looked at her.

  ‘Strange things have happened since you left us,’ she went on. ‘I have been forced to give up my situation, and I am followed and watched by a paid spy. Don’t ask who forced me out of my situation, and who pays the spy – at least not just yet. I can’t make up my mind to tell you till I am a little more composed. Let the wretch go. Do you mind seeing me safe back to my lodging? It’s in your way home. May I – may I ask for the support of your arm? My little stock of courage is quite exhausted.’ She took his arm and clung close to it. The woman who had tyrannized over Mr Bashwood was gone, and the woman who had tossed the spy’s hat into the pool was gone. A timid, shrinking, interesting creature filled the fair skin, and trembled on the symmetrical limbs of Miss Gwilt. She put her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘They say necessity has no law,’ she murmured faintly. ‘I am treating you like an old friend. God knows I want one!’

  They went on towards the town. She recovered herself with a touching fortitude – she put her handkerchief back in her pocket, and persisted in turning the conversation on Midwinter’s walking tour. ‘It is bad enough to be a burden on you,’ she said, gently pressing on his arm as she spoke. ‘I mustn’t distress you as well. Tell me where you have been, and what you have seen. Interest me in your journey; help me to escape from myself.’

  They reached the modest little lodging, in the miserable little suburb. Miss Gwilt sighed, and removed her glove before she took Midwinter’s hand. ‘I have taken refuge here,’ she said, simply. ‘It is clean and quiet – I am too poor to want or expect more. We must say good-by, I suppose, unless—’ she hesitated modestly, and satisfied herself by a quick look round that they were unobserved – ‘unless you would like to come in and rest a little? I feel so gratefully towards you, Mr Midwinter! Is there any harm, do you think, in my offering you a cup of tea?’

  The magnetic influence of her touch was thrilling through him while she spoke. Change and absence to which he had trusted to weaken her hold on him, had treacherously strengthened it instead. A man exceptionally sensitive, a man exceptionally pure in his past life, he stood hand in hand in the tempting secresy of the night, with the first woman who had exercised over him the all-absorbing influence of her sex. At his age and in his position, who could have left her? The man (with a man’s temperament) doesn’t live who could have left her. Midwinter went in.

  A stupid, sleepy lad opened the house-door. Even he, being a male creature, brightened under the influence of Miss Gwilt. ‘The urn, John,’ she said, kindly, ‘and another cup and saucer. I’ll borrow your candle to light my candles upstairs – and then I won’t trouble you any more tonight.’ John was wakeful and active in an instant. ‘No trouble, miss,’ he said, with awkward civility. Miss Gwilt took his candle with a smile. ‘How good people are to me!’ she whispered innocently to Midwinter, as she led the way upstairs to the little drawing-room on the first floor.

  She lit the candles, and, turning quickly on her guest, stopped him at the first attempt he made to remove the knapsack from his shoulders. ‘No,’ she said, gently. ‘In the good old times, there were occasions when the ladies unarmed their knights. I claim the privilege of unarming my knight.’ Her dexterous fingers intercepted his at the straps and buckles; and she had the dusty knapsack off, before he could protest against her touching it.

  They sat down at the one little table in the room. It was very poorly furnished – but there was something of the dainty neatness of the woman who inhabited it in the arrangement of the few poor ornaments on the chimney-piece, in the one or two prettily-bound volumes on the cheffonier, in the flowers on the table, and the modest little work-basket in the window. ‘Women are not all coquettes,’ she said, as she took off her bonnet and mantilla, and laid them carefully on a chair. ‘I won’t go into my room, and look in my glass, and make myself smart – you shall take me just as I am.’ Her hands moved about among the tea-things with a smooth, noiseless activity. Her magnificent hair flashed crimson in the candle-light, as she turned her head hither and thither, searching, with an easy grace, for the things she wanted in the tray. Exercise had heightened the brilliancy of her complexion, and had quickened the rapid alternations of expression in her eyes – the delicious languor that stole over them when she was listening or thinking, the bright intelligence that flashed from them softly when she spoke. In the lightest word she said, in the least thing she did, there was something that gently solicited the heart of the man who sat with her. Perfectly modest in her manner, possessed to perfection of the graceful restraints and refinements of a lady, she had all the allurements that feast the eye, all the Siren-invitations that seduce the sense – a subtle suggestiveness in her silence, and a sexual sorcery in her smile.

  ‘Should I be wrong,’ she asked, suddenly suspending the conversation which she had thus far persistently restricted to the subject of Midwinter’s walking tour, ‘if I guessed that you have something on your mind – something which neither my tea nor my talk can charm away? Are men as curious as women? Is the something – Me?’

  Midwinter struggled against the fascination of looking at her and listening to her. ‘I am very anxious to hear what has happened since I have been away,’ he said. ‘But I am still more anxious, Miss Gwilt, not to distress you by speaking of a painful subject.’

  She looked at him gratefully. ‘It is for your sake that I have avoided the painful subject,’ she said, toying with her spoon among the dregs in her empty cup. ‘But you will hear about it from others, if you don’t hear about it from me; and you ought to know why you found me in that strange situation, and why you see me here. Pray remember one thing to begin with. I don’t blame your friend Mr Armadale – I blame the people whose instrument he is.’

  Midwinter started. ‘Is it possible,’ he began, ‘that Allan can be in any way answerable—?’ He stopped, and looked at Miss Gwilt in silent astonishment.

  She gently laid her hand on his. ‘Don’t be angry with me for only telling the truth,’ she said. ‘Your friend is answerable for everything that has happened to me – innocently answerable, Mr Midwinter, I firmly believe. We are both victims. He is the victim of his position as the richest single man in the neighbourhood; and I am the victim of Miss Milroy’s determination to marry him.’

  ‘Miss Milroy?’ repeated Midwinter, more and more astonished. ‘Why, Allan himself told me—’ He stopped again.

  ‘He told you that I was the object of his admiration? Poor fellow, he admires everybody – his head is almost as empty as this,’ said Miss Gwilt, smiling indicatively into the hollow of her cup. She dropped the spoon, sighed, and became serious again. ‘I am guilty of the vanity of having let him admire me,’ she went on penitently, ‘without the excuse of being able, on my side, to reciprocate even the passing interest that he felt in me. I don’t undervalue his many admirable qualities, or the excellent position he can offer to his wife. But a woman’s heart is not to be commanded – no, Mr Midwinter, not even by the fortunate master of Thorpe-Ambrose who commands everything else.’

  She looked him full in the face as she uttered that magnanimous sentiment. His eyes dropped before hers, and his dark colour deepened. He had felt his heart leap in him at the declaration of her indifference to Allan. For the first time since they had known each other, his interests now stood self-revealed before him as openly adverse to the interests of his friend.

  ‘I have been guilty of the vanity of letting Mr Armadale admire me, and I have suffered for it,’ resumed Miss Gwilt. ‘If there had been any confidence between my pupil and me, I might have easily satisfied her that she might become Mrs Armadale – if she could – without having any rivalry to fear o
n my part. But Miss Milroy disliked and distrusted me from the first. She took her own jealous view, no doubt, of Mr Armadale’s thoughtless attentions to me. It was her interest to destroy the position, such as it was, that I held in his estimation; and it is quite likely her mother assisted her. Mrs Milroy had her motive also (which I am really ashamed to mention) for wishing to drive me out of the house. Anyhow, the conspiracy has succeeded. I have been forced (with Mr Armadale’s help) to leave the major’s service. Don’t be angry, Mr Midwinter! don’t form a hasty opinion! I dare say Miss Milroy has some good qualities, though I have not found them out; and I assure you again and again that I don’t blame Mr Armadale – I only blame the people whose instrument he is.’

  ‘How is he their instrument? How can he be the instrument of any enemy of yours?’ asked Midwinter. ‘Pray excuse my anxiety, Miss Gwilt – Allan’s good name is as dear to me as my own!’

  Miss Gwilt’s eyes turned full on him again, and Miss Gwilt’s heart abandoned itself innocently to an outburst of enthusiasm. ‘How I admire your earnestness!’ she said. ‘How I like your anxiety for your friend! Oh, if women could only form such friendships! Oh, you happy, happy men!’ Her voice faltered, and her convenient teacup absorbed her for the third time. ‘I would give all the little beauty I possess,’ she said, ‘if I could only find such a friend as Mr Armadale has found in you. I never shall, Mr Midwinter, I never shall. Let us go back to what we were talking about. I can only tell you how your friend is concerned in my misfortunes, by telling you something first about myself. I am like many other governesses; I am the victim of sad domestic circumstances. It may be weak of me, but I have a horror of alluding to them among strangers. My silence about my family and my friends exposes me to misinterpretation in my dependent position. Does it do me any harm, Mr Midwinter, in your estimation?’

  ‘God forbid!’ said Midwinter, fervently. ‘There is no man living,’ he went on, thinking of his own family story, ‘who has better reason to understand and respect your silence than I have.’

  Miss Gwilt seized his hand impulsively. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I knew it, the first moment I saw you! I knew that you, too, had suffered, that you too had sorrows which you kept sacred! Strange, strange sympathy! I believe in mesmerism1 – do you?’ She suddenly recollected herself and shuddered. ‘Oh, what have I done? what must you think of me?’ she exclaimed, as he yielded to the magnetic fascination of her touch, and forgetting everything but the hand that lay warm in his own, bent over it and kissed it. ‘Spare me!’ she said, faintly, as she felt the burning touch of his lips. ‘I am so friendless, I am so completely at your mercy!’

  He turned away from her, and hid his face in his hands – he was trembling, and she saw it. She looked at him, while his face was hidden from her – she looked at him with a furtive interest and surprise. ‘How that man loves me!’ she thought. ‘I wonder whether there was a time once when I might have loved him?’

  The silence between them remained unbroken for some minutes. He had felt her appeal to his consideration as she had never expected or intended him to feel it – he shrank from looking at her or from speaking to her again.

  ‘Shall I go on with my story?’ she asked. ‘Shall we forget and forgive on both sides?’ A woman’s inveterate indulgence for every expression of a man’s admiration which keeps within the limits of personal respect, curved her lips gently into a charming smile. She looked down meditatively at her dress, and brushed a crumb off her lap with a little fluttering sigh. ‘I was telling you,’ she went on, ‘of my reluctance to speak to strangers of my sad family story. It was in that way, as I afterwards found out, that I laid myself open to Miss Milroy’s malice and Miss Milroy’s suspicion. Private inquiries about me were addressed to the lady who was my reference – at Miss Milroy’s suggestion, in the first instance, I have no doubt. I am sorry to say, this is not the worst of it. By some underhand means of which I am quite ignorant, Mr Armadale’s simplicity was imposed on – and when application was made secretly to my reference in London, it was made, Mr Midwinter, through your friend.’

  Midwinter suddenly rose from his chair and looked at her. The fascination that she exercised over him, powerful as it was, became a suspended influence, now that the plain disclosure came plainly at last from her lips. He looked at her, and sat down again like a man bewildered, without uttering a word.

  ‘Remember how weak he is,’ pleaded Miss Gwilt gently, ‘and make allowances for him as I do. The trifling accident of his failing to find my reference at the address given him seems, I can’t imagine why, to have excited Mr Armadale’s suspicion. At any rate, he remained in London. What he did there, it is impossible for me to say. I was quite in the dark; I knew nothing; I distrusted nobody; I was as happy in my little round of duties as I could be with a pupil whose affections I had failed to win – when, one morning, to my indescribable astonishment, Major Milroy showed me a correspondence between Mr Armadale and himself. He spoke to me in his wife’s presence. Poor creature, I make no complaint of her – such affliction as she suffers excuses everything. I wish I could give you some idea of the letters between Major Milroy and Mr Armadale – but my head is only a woman’s head, and I was so confused and distressed at the time! All I can tell you is, that Mr Armadale chose to preserve silence about his proceedings in London, under circumstances which made that silence a reflection on my character. The major was most kind; his confidence in me remained unshaken – but could his confidence protect me against his wife’s prejudice and his daughter’s ill-will? Oh, the hardness of women to each other! Oh, the humiliation if men only knew some of us as we really are! What could I do? I couldn’t defend myself against mere imputations; and I couldn’t remain in my situation after a slur had been cast on me. My pride (Heaven help me. I was brought up like a gentlewoman, and I have sensibilities that are not blunted even yet!) – my pride got the better of me, and I left my place. Don’t let it distress you, Mr Midwinter! There’s a bright side to the picture. The ladies in the neighbourhood have overwhelmed me with kindness; I have the prospect of getting pupils to teach; I am spared the mortification of going back to be a burden on my friends. The only complaint I have to make is I think a just one? Mr Armadale has been back at Thorpe-Ambrose for some days. I have entreated him, by letter, to grant me an interview; to tell me what dreadful suspicions he has of me, and to let me set myself right in his estimation. Would you believe it? he has declined to see me – under the influence of others; not of his own free will, I am sure! Cruel, isn’t it? But he has even used me more cruelly still – he persists in suspecting me – it is he who is having me watched. Oh, Mr Midwinter, don’t hate me for telling you what you must know! The man you found persecuting me and frightening me to-night was only earning his money after all as Mr Armadale’s spy.’

  Once more Midwinter started to his feet; and this time the thoughts that were in him found their way into words.

  ‘I can’t believe it; I won’t believe it!’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘If the man told you that, the man lied. I beg your pardon, Miss Gwilt; I beg your pardon from the bottom of my heart. Don’t, pray don’t think I doubt you; I only say there is some dreadful mistake. I am not sure that I understand as I ought all that you have told me. But this last infamous meanness of which you think Allan guilty, I do understand. I swear to you, he is incapable of it! Some scoundrel has been taking advantage of him; some scoundrel has been using his name. I’ll prove it to you if you will only give me time. Let me go and clear it up at once. I can’t rest; I can’t bear to think of it; I can’t even enjoy the pleasure of being here. Oh,’ he burst out desperately, ‘I’m sure you feel for me, after what you have said — I feel so for you!’

  He stopped in confusion. Miss Gwilt’s eyes were looking at him again; and Miss Gwilt’s hand had found its way once more into his own.

  ‘You are the most generous of living men,’ she said softly; ‘I will believe what you tell me to believe. Go,’ she added in a whisper, suddenly releasing his han
d and turning away from him. ‘For both our sakes, go!’

  His heart beat fast; he looked at her as she dropped into a chair and put her handkerchief to her eyes. For one moment he hesitated – the next, he snatched up his knapsack from the floor, and left her precipitately without a backward look, or a parting word.

  She rose when the door closed on him. A change came over her the instant she was alone. The colour faded out of her cheeks; the beauty died out of her eyes; her face hardened horribly with a silent despair. ‘It’s even baser work than I bargained for,’ she said, ‘to deceive him.’ After pacing to and fro in the room for some minutes, she stopped wearily before the glass over the fireplace. ‘You strange creature!’ she murmured, leaning her elbows on the mantel-piece, and languidly addressing the reflection of herself in the glass. ‘Have you got any conscience left? And has that man roused it?’

  The reflection of her face changed slowly. The colour returned to her cheeks, the delicious languor began to suffuse her eyes again. Her lips parted gently, and her quickening breath began to dim the surface of the glass. She drew back from it, after a moment’s absorption in her own thoughts, with a start of terror. ‘What am I doing?’ she asked herself in a sudden panic of astonishment. ‘Am I mad enough to be thinking of him in that way?’

  She burst into a mocking laugh, and opened her desk on the table recklessly with a bang. ‘It’s high time I had some talk with mother Jezebel,’ she said, and sat down to write to Mrs Oldershaw.

  ‘I have met with Mr Midwinter,’ she began, ‘under very lucky circumstances; and I have made the most of my opportunity. He has just left me for his friend Armadale; and one of two good things will happen to-morrow. If they don’t quarrel, the doors of Thorpe-Ambrose will be opened to me again at Mr Midwinter’s intercession. If they do quarrel, I shall be the unhappy cause of it, and I shall find my way in for myself, on the purely Christian errand of reconciling them.’