My first proceeding, after putting my bonnet on, was to provide myself with money. I got what I wanted to fit me out for the character of Armadale’s widow, by nothing less than the sale of Armadale’s own present to me on my marriage – the ruby ring! It proved to be a more valuable jewel than I had supposed. I am likely to be spared all money anxieties for some time to come.
On leaving the jeweller’s, I went to the great mourning shop in Regent Street.13 In four and twenty hours (if I can give them no more) they have engaged to dress me in my widow’s costume from head to foot. I had another feverish moment when I left the shop; and, by way of further excitement on this agitating day, I found a surprise in store for me on my return to the hotel. An elderly gentleman was announced to be waiting to see me. I opened my sitting-room door – and there was old Bash wood!
He had got my letter that morning, and had started for London by the next train to answer it in person. I had expected a great deal from him, but I had certainly not expected that. It flattered me. For the moment, I declare it flattered me!
I pass over the wretched old creature’s raptures and reproaches, and groans and tears, and weary long prosings about the lonely months he had passed at Thorpe-Ambrose, brooding over my desertion of him. He was quite eloquent at times – but I don’t want his eloquence here. It is needless to say that I put myself right with him, and consulted his feelings before I asked him for his news. What a blessing a woman’s vanity is sometimes! I almost forgot my risks and responsibilities, in my anxiety to be charming. For a minute or two, I felt a warm little flutter of triumph. And it was a triumph – even with an old man! In a quarter of an hour, I had him smirking and smiling, hanging on my lightest words in an ecstacy, and answering all the questions I put to him, like a good little child.
Here is his account of affairs at Thorpe-Ambrose, as I gently extracted it from him bit by bit:
In the first place, the news of Armadale’s death has reached Miss Milroy. It has so completely overwhelmed her that her father has been compelled to remove her from the school. She is back at the cottage, and the doctor is in daily attendance. Do I pity her? Yes! I pity her exactly as much as she once pitied me!
In the next place, the state of affairs at the great house, which I expected to find some difficulty in comprehending, turns out to be quite intelligible, and certainly not discouraging so far. Only yesterday, the lawyers on both sides came to an understanding. Mr Darch (the family solicitor of the Blanchards, and Armadale’s bitter enemy in past times) represents the interests of Miss Blanchard, who is next heir to the estate, and who has, it appears, been in London on business of her own for some time past. Mr Smart, of Norwich (originally employed to overlook Bashwood in the steward’s office), represents the deceased Armadale. And this is what the two lawyers have settled between them.
Mr Darch, acting for Miss Blanchard, has claimed the possession of the estate and the right of receiving the rents at the Christmas audit, in her name. Mr Smart, on his side, has admitted that there is great weight in the family solicitor’s application. He cannot see his way, as things are now, to contesting the question of Armadale’s death, and he will consent to offer no resistance to the application, if Mr Darch will consent, on his side, to assume the responsibility of taking possession in Miss Blanchard’s name. This Mr Darch has already done; and the estate is now virtually in Miss Blanchard’s possession.
One result of this course of proceeding will be (as Bashwood thinks) to put Mr Darch in the position of the person who really decides on my claim to the widow’s place and the widow’s money. The income being charged on the estate, it must come out of Miss Blanchard’s pocket; and the question of paying it would appear therefore to be a question for Miss Blanchard’s lawyer. To-morrow will probably decide whether this view is the right one – for my letter to Armadale’s representatives will have been delivered at the great house this morning.
So much for what old Bashwood had to tell me. Having recovered my influence over him, and possessed myself of all his information so far, the next thing to consider was the right use to turn him to in the future. He was entirely at my disposal, for his place at the steward’s office has been already taken by Miss Blanchard’s man of business, and he pleaded hard to be allowed to stay and serve my interests in London. There would not have been the least danger in letting him stay, for I had, as a matter of course, left him undisturbed in his conviction that I really am the widow of Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose. But with the doctor’s resources at my command, I wanted no assistance of any sort in London; and it occurred to me that I might make Bashwood more useful by sending him back to Norfolk to watch events there in my interests.
He looked sorely disappointed (having had an eye evidently to paying his court to me in my widowed condition!) when I told him of the conclusion at which I had arrived. But a few words of persuasion, and a modest hint that he might cherish hopes in the future if he served me obediently in the present, did wonders in reconciling him to the necessity of meeting my wishes. He asked helplessly for ‘instructions’ when it was time for him to leave me and travel back by the evening train. I could give him none, for I had no idea as yet of what the legal people might or might not do. ‘But suppose something happens,’ he persisted, ‘that I don’t understand, what am I to do, so far away from you?’ I could only give him one answer. ‘Do nothing,’ I said. ‘Whatever it is, hold your tongue about it, and write, or come up to London immediately to consult me.’ With those parting directions, and with an understanding that we were to correspond regularly, I let him kiss my hand, and sent him off to the train.
Now that I am alone again, and able to think calmly of the interview between me and my elderly admirer, I find myself recalling a certain change in old Bashwood’s manner which puzzled me at the time, and which puzzles me still.
Even in his first moments of agitation at seeing me, I thought that his eyes rested on my face with a new kind of interest while I was speaking to him. Besides this, he dropped a word or two afterwards, in telling me of his lonely life at Thorpe-Ambrose, which seemed to imply that he had been sustained in his solitude by a feeling of confidence about his future relations with me when we next met. If he had been a younger and a bolder man (and if any such discovery had been possible), I should almost have suspected him of having found out something about my past life which had made him privately confident of controlling me, if I showed any disposition to deceive and desert him again. But such an idea as this in connection with old Bashwood is simply absurd. Perhaps I am over-excited by the suspense and anxiety of my present position? Perhaps the merest fancies and suspicions are leading me astray? Let this be as it may, I have at any rate more serious subjects than the subject of old Bashwood to occupy me now. To-morrow’s post may tell me what Armadale’s representatives think of the claim of Armadale’s widow.
November 26th. – The answer has arrived this morning, in the form (as Bashwood supposed) of a letter from Mr Darch. The crabbed old lawyer acknowledges my letter in three lines. Before he takes any steps, or expresses any opinion on the subject, he wants evidence of identity as well as the evidence of the certificate; and he ventures to suggest that it may be desirable, before we go any further, to refer him to my legal advisers.
Two o’clock. – The doctor called shortly after twelve to say that he had found a lodging for me within twenty minutes’ walk of the Sanatorium. In return for his news, I showed him Mr Darch’s letter. He took it away at once to his lawyers, and came back with the necessary information for my guidance. I have answered Mr Darch by sending him the address of my legal advisers – otherwise, the doctor’s lawyers – without making any comment on the desire that he has expressed for additional evidence of the marriage. This is all that can be done to-day. To-morrow will bring with it events of greater interest – for to-morrow the doctor is to make his Declaration before the magistrate, and tomorrow I am to move to my new lodging in my widow’s weeds.
November 27th. – Fairweather V
ale Villas. – The Declaration has been made, with all the necessary formalities. And I have taken possession, in my widow’s costume, of my new rooms.
I ought to be excited by the opening of this new act in the drama, and by the venturesome part that I am playing in it myself. Strange to say, I am quiet and depressed. The thought of Midwinter has followed me to my new abode, and is pressing on me heavily at this moment. I have no fear of any accident happening, in the interval that must still pass before I step publicly into the place of Armadale’s widow. But when that time comes, and when Midwinter finds me (as sooner or later find me he must!) figuring in my false character, and settled in the position that I have usurped – then, I ask myself, What will happen? The answer still comes as it first came to me this morning, when I put on my widow’s dress. Now, as then, the presentiment is fixed in my mind that he will kill me. If it was not too late to draw back— Absurd! I shall shut up my journal.
November 28th. – The lawyers have heard from Mr Darch, and have sent him the Declaration by return of post.
When the doctor brought me this news, I asked him whether his lawyers were aware of my present address; and, finding that he had not yet mentioned it to them, I begged that he would continue to keep it a secret for the future. The doctor laughed. ‘Are you afraid of Mr Darch’s stealing a march on us, and coming to attack you personally?’ he asked. I accepted the imputation, as the easiest way of making him comply with my request. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am afraid of Mr Darch.’
My spirits have risen since the doctor left me. There is a pleasant sensation of security in feeling that no strangers are in possession of my address. I am easy enough in my mind to-day to notice how wonderfully well I look in my widow’s weeds, and to make myself agreeable to the people of the house.
Midwinter disturbed me a little again last night; but I have got over the ghastly delusion which possessed me yesterday. I know better now than to dread violence from him when he discovers what I have done. And there is still less fear of his stooping to assert his claim to a woman who has practised on him such a deception as mine. The one serious trial that I shall be put to when the day of reckoning comes, will be the trial of preserving my false character in his presence. I shall be safe in his loathing and contempt for me, after that. On the day when I have denied him to his face, I shall have seen the last of him for ever.
Shall I be able to deny him to his face? Shall I be able to look at him and speak to him as if he had never been more to me than a friend? How do I know till the time comes! Was there ever such an infatuated fool as I am, to be writing of him at all, when writing only encourages me to think of him? I will make a new resolution. From this time forth his name shall appear no more in these pages.
Monday, December 1st. – The last month of the worn-out old year, eighteen hundred and fifty-one! If I allowed myself to look back, what a miserable year I should see added to all the other miserable years that are gone! But I have made my resolution to look forward only, and I mean to keep it.
I have nothing to record of the last two days, except that on the twenty-ninth I remembered Bashwood, and wrote to tell him of my new address. This morning the lawyers heard again from Mr Darch. He acknowledges the receipt of the Declaration, but postpones stating the decision at which he has arrived until he has communicated with the trustees under the late Mr Blanchard’s will, and has received his final instructions from his client, Miss Blanchard. The doctor’s lawyers declare that this last letter is a mere device for gaining time – with what object they are of course not in a position to guess. The doctor himself says, facetiously, it is the usual lawyer’s object of making a long bill. My own idea is that Mr Darch has his suspicions of something wrong, and that his purpose in trying to gain time—
Ten, at night. – I had written as far as that last unfinished sentence (towards four in the afternoon) when I was startled by hearing a cab drive up to the door. I went to the window, and got there just in time to see old Bashwood getting out with an activity of which I should never have supposed him capable. So little did I anticipate the tremendous discovery that was going to burst on me in another minute, that I turned to the glass, and wondered what the susceptible old gentleman would say to me in my widow’s cap.
The instant he entered the room, I saw that some serious disaster had happened. His eyes were wild, his wig was awry. He approached me with a strange mixture of eagerness and dismay. ‘I’ve done as you told me,’ he whispered breathlessly. ‘I’ve held my tongue about it, and come straight to you!’ He caught me by the hand before I could speak, with a boldness quite new in my experience of him. ‘Oh, how can I break it to you!’ he burst out. ‘I’m beside myself when I think of it!’
‘When you can speak,’ I said, putting him into a chair, ‘speak out. I see in your face that you bring me news I don’t look for from Thorpe-Ambrose.’
He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out a letter. He looked at the letter, and looked at me. ‘New-new-news you don’t look for,’ he stammered; ‘but not from Thorpe-Ambrose!’
‘Not from Thorpe-Ambrose!’
‘No. From the sea!’
The first dawning of the truth broke on me at those words. I couldn’t speak – I could only hold out my hand to him for the letter.
He still shrank from giving it to me. ‘I daren’t! I daren’t!’ he said to himself vacantly. ‘The shock of it might be the death of her.’
I snatched the letter from him. One glance at the writing on the address was enough. My hands fell on my lap, with the letter fast held in them. I sat petrified, without moving, without speaking, without hearing a word of what Bashwood was saying to me, and slowly realized the terrible truth. The man whose widow I had claimed to be, was a living man to confront me! In vain I had mixed the drink at Naples – in vain I had betrayed him into Manuel’s hands. Twice I had set the deadly snare for him, and twice Armadale had escaped me!
I came to my sense of outward things again, and found Bashwood on his knees at my feet, crying.
‘You look angry,’ he murmured helplessly. ‘Are you angry with me? Oh, if you only knew what hopes I had when we last saw each other, and how cruelly that letter has dashed them all to the ground!’
I put the miserable old creature back from me – but very gently. ‘Hush!’ I said. ‘Don’t distress me now. I want composure – I want to read the letter.’
He went away submissively to the other end of the room. As soon as my eye was off him, I heard him say to himself, with impotent malignity, ‘If the sea had been of my mind, the sea would have drowned him!’
One by one, I slowly opened the folds of the letter; feeling, while I did so, the strangest incapability of fixing my attention on the very lines that I was burning to read. But why dwell any longer on sensations which I can’t describe? It will be more to the purpose if I place the letter itself, for future reference, on this page of my journal.
MR BASHWOOD, Fiume, Illyria, November 21st, 1851.
The address I date from will surprise you – and you will be more surprised still when you hear how it is that I come to write to you from a port on the Adriatic Sea.
I have been the victim of a rascally attempt at robbery and murder. The robbery has succeeded; and it is only through the mercy of God that the murder did not succeed too.
I hired a yacht rather more than a month ago at Naples; and sailed (I am glad to think now) without any friend with me, for Messina. From Messina I went for a cruise in the Adriatic. Two days out, we were caught in a storm. Storms get up in a hurry, and go down in a hurry, in those parts. The vessel behaved nobly – I declare I feel the tears in my eyes now, when I think of her at the bottom of the sea! Towards sunset it began to moderate; and by midnight, except for a long smooth swell, the sea was as quiet as need be. I went below, a little tired (having helped in working the yacht while the gale lasted), and fell asleep in five minutes. About two hours after, I was woke by something falling into my cabin through a chink of
the ventilator in the upper part of the door. I jumped up, and found a bit of paper with a key wrapped in it, and with writing on the inner side, in a hand which it was not very easy to read.
‘Up to this time I had not had the ghost of a suspicion that I was alone at sea with a gang of murderous vagabonds (excepting one only) who would stick at nothing. I had got on very well with my sailing-master (the worst scoundrel of the lot), and better still with his English mate. The sailors being all foreigners, I had very little to say to. They did their work, and no quarrels and nothing unpleasant happened. If anybody had told me, before I went to bed on the night after the storm, that the sailing-master and the crew and the mate (who had been no better than the rest of them at starting) were all in a conspiracy to rob me of the money I had on board, and then to drown me in my own vessel afterwards, I should have laughed in his face. Just remember that; and then fancy for yourself (for I’m sure I can’t tell you) what I must have thought when I opened the paper round the key, and read what I now copy (from the mate’s writing) as follows:
SIR, – Stay in your bed till you hear a boat shove off from the starboard side – or you are a dead man. Your money is stolen; and in five minutes’ time the yacht will be scuttled, and the cabin-hatch will be nailed down on you. Dead men tell no tales – and the sailing-master’s notion is to leave proofs afloat that the vessel has foundered with all on board. It was his doing to begin with, and we were all in it. I can’t find it in my heart not to give you a chance for your life. It’s a bad chance, but I can do no more. I should be murdered myself if I didn’t seem to go with the rest. The key of your cabin-door is thrown back to you, inside this. Don’t be alarmed when you hear the hammer above. I shall do it, and I shall have short nails in my hand as well as long, and use the short ones only. Wait till you hear the boat with all of us shove off, and then prize up the cabin-hatch with your back. The vessel will float a quarter of an hour after the holes are bored in her. Slip into the sea on the port side, and keep the vessel between you and the boat. You will find plenty of loose lumber, wrenched away on purpose, drifting about to hold on by. It’s a fine night and a smooth sea, and there’s a chance that a ship may pick you up while there’s life left in you. I can do no more. – Yours truly, J. M.
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