‘Suppose Mr Armadale’s steward meets his employer at the terminus,’ I said. ‘May I ask once more how Mr Armadale is to be persuaded to come here?’
‘Don’t think me ungallant,’ rejoined the doctor in his gentlest manner, ‘if I ask, on my side, how are men persuaded to do nine-tenths of the foolish acts of their lives? They are persuaded by your charming sex. The weak side of every man is the woman’s side of him. We have only to discover the woman’s side of Mr Armadale – to tickle him on it gently – and to lead him our way with a silken string. I observe here,’ pursued the doctor, opening Armadale’s letter, ‘a reference to a certain young lady, which looks promising. Where is the note that Mr Armadale speaks of as addressed to Miss Milroy?’
Instead of answering him, I started, in a sudden burst of excitement, to my feet. The instant he mentioned Miss Milroy’s name, all that I had heard from Bashwood of her illness, and of the cause of it, rushed back into my memory. I saw the means of decoying Armadale into the Sanatorium, as plainly as I saw the doctor on the other side of the table, wondering at the extraordinary change in me. What a luxury it was to make Miss Milroy serve my interests at last!
‘Never mind the note,’ I said. ‘It’s burnt, for fear of accidents. I can tell you all (and more) than the note could have told you. Miss Milroy cuts the knot! Miss Milroy ends the difficulty! She is privately engaged to him. She has heard the false report of his death; and she has been seriously ill at Thorpe-Ambrose ever since. When Bash wood meets him at the station, the very first question he is certain to ask—’
‘I see!’ exclaimed the doctor, anticipating me. ‘Mr Bashwood has nothing to do but to help the truth with a touch of fiction. When he tells his master that the false report has reached Miss Milroy, he has only to add that the shock has affected her head, and that she is here under medical care. Perfect! perfect! We shall have him at the Sanatorium as fast as the fastest cab-horse in London can bring him to us. And mind! no risk – no necessity for trusting other people. This is not a madhouse; this is not a Licensed Establishment – no doctors’ certificates are necessary here! My dear lady, I congratulate you; I congratulate myself. Permit me to hand you the railway guide, with my best compliments to Mr Bashwood, and with the page turned down for him, as an additional attention, at the right place.’
Remembering how long I had kept Bashwood waiting for me, I took the book at once, and wished the doctor good evening without further ceremony. As he politely opened the door for me, he reverted, without the slightest necessity for doing so, and without a word from me to lead to it, to the outburst of virtuous alarm which had escaped him at the earlier part of our interview.
‘I do hope,’ he said, ‘that you will kindly forget and forgive my extraordinary want of tact and perception when – in short, when I caught the fly. I positively blush at my own stupidity in putting a literal interpretation on a lady’s little joke! Violence in My Sanatorium!’ exclaimed the doctor, with his eyes once more fixed attentively on my face, ‘violence in this enlightened nineteenth century! Was there ever anything so ridiculous? Do fasten your cloak before you go out – it is so cold and raw! Shall I escort you? Shall I send my servant? Ah, you were always independent! always, if I may say so, a host in yourself! May I call tomorrow morning, and hear what you have settled with Mr Bashwood?’
I said yes, and got away from him at last. In a quarter of an hour more I was back at my lodgings, and was informed by the servant that ‘the elderly gentleman’ was still waiting for me.
*
I have not got the heart, or the patience – I hardly know which – to waste many words on what passed between me and Bashwood. It was so easy, so degradingly easy, to pull the strings of the poor old puppet in any way I pleased! I met none of the difficulties which I should have been obliged to meet in the case of a younger man, or of a man less infatuated with admiration for me. I left the allusions to Miss Milroy in Armadale’s letter, which had naturally puzzled him, to be explained at a future time. I never even troubled myself to invent a plausible reason for wishing him to meet Armadale at the terminus, and to entrap him by a stratagem into the doctor’s Sanatorium. All that I found it necessary to do was to refer to what I had written to Mr Bashwood, on my arrival in London, and to what I had afterwards said to him, when he came to answer my letter personally at the hotel.
‘You know already,’ I said, ‘that my marriage has not been a happy one. Draw your own conclusions from that – and don’t press me to tell you whether the news of Mr Armadale’s rescue from the sea is, or is not, the welcome news that it ought to be to his wife!’ That was enough to put his withered old face in a glow, and to set his withered old hopes growing again. I had only to add, ‘If you will do what I ask you to do, no matter how incomprehensible and how mysterious my request may seem to be; and if you will accept my assurances that you shall run no risk yourself, and that you shall receive the proper explanations at the proper time – you will have such a claim on my gratitude and my regard as no man living has ever had yet!’ I had only to say those words, and to point them by a look and a stolen pressure of his hand; and I had him at my feet, blindly eager to obey me. If he could have seen what I thought of myself – but that doesn’t matter: he saw nothing.
Hours have passed since I sent him away (pledged to secrecy, possessed of his instructions, and provided with his time-table) to the hotel near the terminus, at which he is to stay till Armadale appears on the railway platform. The excitement of the earlier part of the evening has all worn off; and the dull, numbed sensation has got me again. Are my energies wearing out, I wonder, just at the time when I most want them?
Or is some foreshadowing of disaster creeping over me which I don’t yet understand?
I might be in a humour to sit here for some time longer, thinking thoughts like these, and letting them find their way into words at their own will and pleasure – if my Diary would only let me. But my idle pen has been busy enough to make its way to the end of the volume. I have reached the last morsel of space left on the last page; and whether I like it or not, I must close the book this time for good and all, when I close it to-night.
Good-by, my old friend and companion of many a miserable day! Having nothing else to be fond of, I half suspect myself of having been unreasonably fond of you.
What a fool I am!
THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK
BOOK THE LAST
CHAPTER I
AT THE TERMINUS
On the night of the second of December, Mr Bashwood took up his post of observation at the terminus of the South Eastern Railway for the first time. It was an earlier date, by six days, than the date which Allan had himself fixed for his return. But the doctor, taking counsel of his medical experience, had considered it just probable that ‘Mr Armadale might be perverse enought, at his enviable age, to recover sooner than his medical advisers might have anticipated.’ For caution’s sake, therefore, Mr Bashwood was instructed to begin watching the arrival of the tidal trains, on the day after he had received his employer’s letter.
From the second to the seventh of December, the steward waited punctually on the platform, saw the trains come in, and satisfied himself, evening after evening, that the travellers were all strangers to him. From the second to the seventh of December, Miss Gwilt (to return to the name under which she is best known in these pages) received his daily report, sometimes delivered personally, sometimes sent by letter. The doctor, to whom the reports were communicated, received them in his turn with unabated confidence in the precautions that had been adopted, up to the morning of the eighth. On that date, the irritation of continued suspense had produced a change for the worse in Miss Gwilt’s variable temper, which was perceptible to every one about her, and which, strangely enough, was reflected by an equally marked changed in the doctor’s manner when he came to pay his usual visit. By a coincidence so extraordinary, that his enemies might have suspected it of not being a coincidence at all, the morning on which Miss Gwilt lost h
er patience, proved to be also the morning on which the doctor lost his confidence for the first time.
‘No news, of course,’ he said, sitting down with a heavy sigh. ‘Well! well!’
Miss Gwilt looked up at him irritably, from her work.
‘You seem strangely depressed this morning,’ she said. ‘What are you afraid of now?’1
‘The imputation of being afraid, madam,’ answered the doctor, solemnly, ‘is not an imputation to cast rashly on any man – even when he belongs to such an essentially peaceful profession as mine. I am not afraid. I am (as you more correctly put it in the first instance) strangely depressed. My nature is, as you know, naturally sanguine, and I only see to-day, what, but for my habitual hopefulness, I might have seen, and ought to have seen, a week since.’
Miss Gwilt impatiently threw down her work. ‘If words cost money,’ she said, ‘the luxury of talking would be rather an expensive luxury, in your case!’
‘Which I might have seen, and ought to have seen,’ reiterated the doctor, without taking the slightest notice of the interruption, ‘a week since. To put it plainly, I feel by no means so certain as I did, that Mr Armadale will consent, without a struggle, to the terms which it is my interest (and in a minor degree yours) to impose on him. Observe! I don’t question our entrapping him successfully into the Sanatorium – I only doubt whether he will prove quite as manageable as I originally anticipated, when we have got him there. Say,’ remarked the doctor, raising his eyes for the first time, and fixing them in steady inquiry on Miss Gwilt; ‘say that he is bold, obstinate, what you please; and that he holds out – holds out for weeks together, for months together, as men in similar situations to his have held out before him. What follows? The risk of keeping him forcibly in concealment – of suppressing him, if I may so express myself – increases at compound interest, and becomes, Enormous! My house is, at this moment, virtually ready for patients. Patients may present themselves in a week’s time. Patients may communicate with Mr Armadale, or Mr Armadale may communicate with patients. A note may be smuggled out of the house, and may reach the Commissioners in Lunacy.2 Even in the case of an unlicensed establishment like mine, those gentlemen – no! those chartered despots in a land of liberty – have only to apply to the Lord Chancellor for an order, and to enter (by heavens, to enter My Sanatorium!) and search the house from top to bottom at a moment’s notice! I don’t wish to despond; I don’t wish to alarm you; I don’t pretend to say that the means we are taking to secure our own safety are any other than the best means at our disposal. All I ask you to do is to imagine the Commissioners in the house – and then to conceive the consequences. The consequences!’ repeated the doctor, getting sternly on his feet, and taking up his hat as if he meant to leave the room.3
‘Have you anything more to say?’ asked Miss Gwilt.
‘Have you any remarks,’ rejoined the doctor, ‘to offer on your side?’
He stood hat in hand, waiting. For a full minute the two looked at each other in silence.
Miss Gwilt spoke first.
‘I think I understand you,’ she said, suddenly recovering her composure.
‘I beg your pardon,’ returned the doctor, with his hand to his ear. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘If you happened to catch another fly this morning,’ said Miss Gwilt, with a bitterly sarcastic emphasis on the words, ‘I might be capable of shocking you by another “little joke”.’
The doctor held up both hands, in polite deprecation, and looked as if he was beginning to recover his good humour again.
‘Hard,’ he murmured gently, ‘not to have forgiven me that unlucky blunder of mine, even yet!’
‘What else have you to say? I am waiting for you,’ said Miss Gwilt. She turned her chair to the window scornfully, and took up her work again, as she spoke.
The doctor came behind her, and put his hand on the back of her chair.
‘I have a question to ask, in the first place,’ he said; ‘and a measure of necessary precaution to suggest in the second. If you will honour me with your attention, I will put the question first.’
‘I am listening.’
‘You know that Mr Armadale is alive,’ pursued the doctor; ‘and you know that he is coming back to England. Why do you continue to wear your widow’s dress?’
She answered him without an instant’s hesitation, steadily going on with her work.
‘Because I am of a sanguine disposition, like you. I mean to trust to the chapter of accidents to the very last. Mr Armadale may die yet, on his way home.’
‘And suppose he gets home alive – what then?’
‘Then there is another chance still left.’
‘What is it, pray?’
‘He may die in your Sanatorium.’
‘Madam!’ remonstrated the doctor in the deep bass which he reserved for his outbursts of virtuous indignation. ‘Wait! you spoke of the chapter of accidents,’ he resumed, gliding back into his softer conversational tones. ‘Yes! yes! of course. I understand you this time. Even the healing art is at the mercy of accidents – even such a Sanatorium as mine is liable to be surprised by Death. Just so! just so!’ said the doctor, conceding the question with the utmost impartiality. ‘There is the chapter of accidents, I admit – if you choose to trust to it. Mind! I say emphatically, if you choose to trust to it.’
There was another moment of silence – silence so profound that nothing was audible in the room but the rapid click of Miss Gwilt’s needle through her work.
‘Go on,’ she said; ‘you haven’t done yet.’
‘True!’ said the doctor. ‘Having put my question, I have my measure of precaution to impress on you next. You will see, my dear madam, that I am not disposed to trust to the chapter of accidents on my side. Reflection has convinced me that you and I are not (locally speaking) so conveniently situated as we might be, in case of emergency. Cabs are, as yet, rare in this rapidly-improving neighbourhood. I am twenty minutes’ walk from you; you are twenty minutes’ walk from me. I know nothing of Mr Armadale’s character; you know it well. It might be necessary – vitally necessary – to appeal to your superior knowledge of him at a moment’s notice. And how am I to do that unless we are within easy reach of each other, under the same roof? In both our interests, I beg to invite you, my dear madam, to become for a limited period an inmate of My Sanatorium.’
Miss Gwilt’s rapid needle suddenly stopped. ‘I understand you,’ she said again, as quietly as before.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the doctor, with another attack of deafness, and with his hand once more at his ear.
She laughed to herself – a low, terrible laugh, which startled even the doctor into taking his hand off the back of her chair.
‘An inmate of your Sanatorium?’ she repeated. ‘You consult appearances in everything else – do you propose to consult appearances in receiving me into your house?’
‘Most assuredly!’ replied the doctor, with enthusiasm. ‘I am surprised at your asking me the question! Did you ever know a man of any eminence in my profession who set appearances at defiance? If you honour me by accepting my invitation, you enter My Sanatorium in the most unimpeachable of all possible characters – in the character of a Patient.’
‘When do you want my answer?’
‘Can you decide to-day?’
‘No.’
‘To-morrow?’
‘Yes. Have you anything more to say?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘Leave me then. I don’t keep up appearances. I wish to be alone – and I say so. Good morning.’
‘Oh, the sex! the sex!’ said the doctor, with his excellent temper in perfect working order again. ‘so delightfully impulsive! so charmingly reckless of what thay say, or how they say it! “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please!”4 There! there! there! Good morning!’
Miss Gwilt rose and looked after him contemptuously from the
window, when the street-door had closed, and he had left the house.
‘Armadale himself drove me to it the first time,’ she said. ‘Manuel drove me to it the second time. – You cowardly scoundrel! shall I let you drive me to it for the third time and the last?’
She turned from the window, and looked thoughtfully at her widow’s dress in the glass.
The hours of the day passed – and she decided nothing. The night came – and she hesitated still. The new morning dawned – and the terrible question was still unanswered.
By the early post there came a letter for her. It was Mr Bashwood’s usual report. Again he had watched for Allan’s arrival, and again in vain.
‘I’ll have more time!’ she determined passionately. ‘No man alive shall hurry me faster than I like!’
At breakfast that morning (the morning of the ninth) the doctor was surprised in his study by a visit from Miss Gwilt.
‘I want another day,’ she said, the moment the servant had closed the door on her.
The doctor looked at her before he answered, and saw the danger of driving her to extremities plainly expressed in her face.
‘The time is getting on,’ he remonstrated in his most persuasive manner. ‘For all we know to the contrary, Mr Armadale may be here to-night.’
‘I want another day!’ she repeated, loudly and passionately.
‘Granted!’ said the doctor, looking nervously towards the door. ‘Don’t be too loud – the servants may hear you. Mind!’ he added, ‘I depend on your honour not to press me for any further delay.’
‘You had better depend on my despair,’ she said – and left him.’
The doctor chipped the shell of his egg, and laughed softly.
‘Quite right, my dear!’ he thought. ‘I remember where your despair led you in past times; and I think I may trust it to lead you the same way now.’
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