Armadale

by Wilkie Collins

  At a quarter to eight o’clock that night, Mr Bashwood took up his post of observation as usual on the platform of the terminus at London Bridge.

  He was in the highest good spirits; he smiled and smirked in irrepressible exultation. The sense that he held in reserve a means of influence over Miss Gwilt, in virtue of his knowledge of her past career, had had no share in effecting the transformation that now appeared in him. It had upheld his courage in his forlorn life at Thorpe-Ambrose, and it had given him that increased confidence of manner which Miss Gwilt herself had noticed; but, from the moment when he had regained his old place in her favour, it had vanished as a motive power in him, annihilated by the electric shock of her touch and her look. His vanity – the vanity which in men at his age is only despair in disguise – had now lifted him to the seventh heaven of fatuous happiness once more. He believed in her again as he believed in the smart new winter over-coat that he wore – as he believed in the dainty little cane (appropriate to the dawning dandyism of lads in their teens) that he flourished in his hand. He hummed! The worn-out old creature who had not sung since his childhood, hummed as he paced the platform the few fragments he could remember of a worn-out old song.

  The train was due as early as eight o’clock that night. At five minutes past the hour, the whistle sounded. In less than five minutes more, the passengers were getting out on the platform.

  Following the instructions that had been given to him, Mr Bashwood made his way as well as the crowd would let him, along the line of carriages; and discovering no familiar face on that first investigation, joined the passengers for a second search among them in the customhouse waiting-room next.

  He had looked round the room, and had satisfied himself that the persons occupying it were all strangers, when he heard a voice behind him, exclaiming, ‘Can that be Mr Bashwood!’

  He turned in eager expectation; and found himself face to face with the last man under heaven whom he had expected to see.

  The man was MIDWINTER.

  CHAPTER II1

  IN THE HOUSE

  Noticing Mr Bashwood’s confusion (after a moment’s glance at the change in his personal appearance), Midwinter spoke first.

  ‘I see I have surprised you,’ he said. ‘You were looking, I suppose, for somebody else? Have you heard from Allan? Is he on his way home again already?’

  The inquiry about Allan, though it would naturally have suggested itself to any one in Midwinter’s position at that moment, added to Mr Bashwood’s confusion. Not knowing how else to extricate himself from the critical position in which he was placed, he took refuge in simple denial.

  ‘I know nothing about Mr Armadale – oh dear, no, sir, I know nothing about Mr Armadale,’ he answered with needless eagerness and hurry. ‘Welcome back to England, sir,’ he went on, changing the subject in his nervously talkative manner. ‘I didn’t know you had been abroad. It’s so long since we have had the pleasure – since I have had the pleasure. – Have you enjoyed yourself, sir, in foreign parts? Such different manners from ours – yes, yes, yes, – such different manners from ours! Do you make a long stay in England, now you have come back?’

  ‘I hardly know,’ said Midwinter. ‘I have been obliged to alter my plans, and to come to England unexpectedly.’ He hesitated a little; his manner changed, and he added in lower tones, ‘A serious anxiety has brought me back. I can’t say what my plans will be until that anxiety is set at rest.’

  The light of a lamp fell on his face while he spoke, and Mr Bashwood observed, for the first time, that he looked sadly worn and changed.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir – I’m sure I’m very sorry. If I could be of any use—?’ suggested Mr Bashwood, speaking under the influence, in some degree of his nervous politeness, and in some degree of his remembrance of what Midwinter had done for him at Thorpe-Ambrose in the bygone time.

  Midwinter thanked him, and turned away sadly. ‘I am afraid you can be of no use Mr Bashwood – but I am obliged to you for your offer, all the same.’ He stopped, and considered a little, ‘Suppose she should not be ill? Suppose some misfortune should have happened?’ he resumed, speaking to himself, and turning again towards the steward. ‘If she has left her mother, some trace of her might be found by inquiring at Thorpe-Ambrose.’

  Mr Bashwood’s curiosity was instantly aroused. The whole sex was interesting to him now, for the sake of Miss Gwilt.

  ‘A lady, sir?’ he inquired. ‘Are you looking for a lady?’

  ‘I am looking,’ said Midwinter simply, ‘for my wife.’

  ‘Married, sir!’ exclaimed Mr Bashwood. ‘Married since I last had the pleasure of seeing you! Might I take the liberty of asking—?’

  Midwinter’s eyes dropped uneasily to the ground.

  ‘You knew the lady in former times,’ he said. ‘I have married Miss Gwilt.’

  The steward started back, as he might have started back from a loaded pistol, levelled at his head. His eyes glared as if he had suddenly lost his senses, and the nervous trembling to which he was subject shook him from head to foot.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Midwinter. There was no answer. ‘What is there so very startling,’ he went on, a little impatiently, ‘in Miss Gwilt’s being my wife?’

  ‘Your wife?’ repeated Mr Bashwood, helplessly. ‘Mrs Armadale—!’ He checked himself by a desperate effort, and said no more.

  The stupor of astonishment which possessed the steward was instantly reflected in Midwinter’s face. The name in which he had secretly married his wife had passed the lips of the last man in the world whom he would have dreamed of admitting into his confidence! He took Mr Bashwood by the arm, and led him away to a quieter part of the terminus than the part of it in which they had hitherto spoken to each other.

  ‘You referred to my wife just now,’ he said; ‘and you spoke of Mrs Armadale in the same breath. What do you mean by that?’

  Again there was no answer. Utterly incapable of understanding more than that he had involved himself in some serious complication which was a complete mystery to him, Mr Bashwood struggled to extricate himself from the grasp that was laid on him, and struggled in vain.

  Midwinter sternly repeated the question. ‘I ask you again,’ he said, ‘what do you mean by it?’

  ‘Nothing, sir! I give you my word of honour I meant nothing!’ He felt the hand on his arm tightening its grasp; he saw, even in the obscurity of the remote corner in which they stood, that Midwinter’s fiery temper was rising, and was not to be trifled with. The extremity of his danger inspired him with the one ready capacity that a timid man possesses when he is compelled by main force to face an emergency – the capacity to lie. ‘I only meant to say, sir,’ he burst out, with a desperate effort to look and speak confidently, ‘that Mr Armadale would be surprised—’

  ‘You said Mrs Armadale!’

  ‘No, sir – on my word of honour, on my sacred word of honour, you are mistaken – you are indeed! I said Mr Armadale – how could I say anything else? Please to let me go, sir – I’m pressed for time. I do assure you I’m dreadfully pressed for time!’

  For a moment longer Midwinter maintained his hold, and in that moment he decided what to do.

  He had accurately stated his motive for returning to England as proceeding from anxiety about his wife – anxiety naturally caused (after the regular receipt of a letter from her every other, or every third day) by the sudden cessation of the correspondence between them on her side for a whole week. The first vaguely-terrible suspicion of some other reason for her silence than the reason of accident or of illness, to which he had hitherto attributed it, had struck through him like a sudden chill the instant he heard the steward associate the name of ‘Mrs Armadale’ with the idea of his wife. Little irregularities in her correspondence with him, which he had thus far only thought strange, now came back on his mind and proclaimed themselves to be suspicious as well. He had hitherto believed the reasons she had given for referring him, when he answered her letters, to no more
definite address than an address at a post-office. Now he suspected her reasons of being excuses, for the first time. He had hitherto resolved, on reaching London, to inquire at the only place he knew of at which a clue to her could be found – the address she had given him as the address at which ‘her mother’ lived. Now (with a motive which he was afraid to define even to himself, but which was strong enough to overbear every other consideration in his mind), he determined, before all things, to solve the mystery of Mr Bashwood’s familiarity with a secret, which was a marriage-secret between himself and his wife. Any direct appeal to a man of the steward’s disposition, in the steward’s present state of mind, would be evidently useless. The weapon of deception was, in this case, a weapon literally forced into Midwinter’s hands. He let go of Mr Bashwood’s arm, and accepted Mr Bashwood’s explanation.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I have no doubt you are right. Pray attribute my rudeness to over-anxiety and over-fatigue. I wish you good evening.’

  The station was by this time almost a solitude; the passengers by the train being assembled at the examination of their luggage in the custom-house waiting-room. It was no easy matter, ostensibly to take leave of Mr Bashwood, and really to keep him in view. But Midwinter’s early life with his gipsy master had been of a nature to practise him in such stratagems as he was now compelled to adopt. He walked away towards the waiting-room by the line of empty carriages – opened the door of one of them, as if to look after something that he had left behind – and detected Mr Bashwood making for the cab-rank on the opposite side of the platform. In an instant, Midwinter had crossed, and had passed through the long row of vehicles, so as to skirt it on the side farthest from the platform. He entered the second cab by the left-hand door, the moment after Mr Bashwood had entered the first cab by the right-hand door. ‘Double your fare, whatever it is,’ he said to the driver, ‘if you keep the cab before you in view, and follow it wherever it goes.’ In a minute more both vehicles were on their way out of the station.

  The clerk sat in his sentry-box at the gate, taking down the destinations of the cabs as they passed. Midwinter heard the man who was driving him, call out ‘Hampstead!’ as he went by the clerk’s window.

  ‘Why did you say “Hampstead”? he asked when they had left the station.

  ‘Because the man before me said “Hampstead,” sir,’ answered the driver.

  Over and over again, on the wearisome journey to the north-western suburb, Midwinter asked if the cab was still in sight. Over and over again, the man answered, ‘Right in front of us.’

  It was between nine and ten o’clock, when the driver pulled up his horses at last. Midwinter got out, and saw the cab before them, waiting at a house-door. As soon as he had satisfied himself that the driver was the man whom Mr Bashwood had hired, he paid the promised reward, and dismissed his own cab.

  He took a turn backwards and forwards before the door. The vaguely terrible suspicion which had risen in his mind at the terminus, had forced itself by this time into a definite form which was abhorrent to him. Without the shadow of an assignable reason for it, he found himself blindly distrusting his wife’s fidelity, and blindly suspecting Mr Bashwood of serving her in the capacity of go-between. In sheer horror of his own morbid fancy, he determined to take down the number of the house, and the name of the street in which it stood – and then, in justice to his wife, to return at once to the address which she had given him as the address at which her mother lived. He had taken out his pocket-book, and was on his way to the corner of the street, when he observed the man who had driven Mr Bashwood, looking at him with an expression of inquisitive surprise. The idea of questioning the cab-driver, while he had the opportunity, instantly occurred to him. He took a half-crown from his pocket and put it into the man’s ready hand.

  ‘Has the gentleman whom you drove from the station, gone into that house?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear him inquire for anybody when the door was opened?’

  ‘He asked for a lady, sir. Mrs –’ The man hesitated. ‘It wasn’t a common name, sir; I should know it again if I heard it.’

  ‘Was it “Midwinter”?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘“Armadale”?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. Mrs Armadale.’

  ‘Are you sure it was “Mrs” and not “Mr”?’

  ‘I’m as sure as a man can be who hasn’t taken any particular notice, sir.’

  The doubt implied in that last answer decided Midwinter to investigate the matter on the spot. He ascended the house-steps. As he raised his hand to the bell at the side of the door, the violence of his agitation mastered him physically for the moment. A strange sensation as of something leaping up from his heart to his brain, turned his head wildly giddy. He held by the house-railings, and kept his face to the air, and resolutely waited till he was steady again. Then he rang the bell.

  ‘Is?’ – he tried to ask for ‘Mrs Armadale’, when the maid-servant had opened the door, but not even his resolution could force the name to pass his lips, – ‘Is your mistress at home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The girl showed him into a back parlour, and presented him to a little old lady, with an obliging manner and a bright pair of eyes.

  ‘There is some mistake,’ said Midwinter. ‘I wished to see—’ Once more he tried to utter the name, and once more he failed to force it to his lips.

  ‘Mrs Armadale?’ suggested the little old lady, with a smile.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show the gentleman upstairs, Jenny.’

  The girl led the way to the drawing-room floor.

  ‘Any name, sir?’

  ‘No name.’

  *

  Mr Bashwood had barely completed his report of what had happened at the terminus; Mr Bashwood’s imperious mistress was still sitting speechless under the shock of the discovery that had burst on her – when the door of the room opened; and, without a word of warning to precede him, Midwinter appeared on the threshold. He took one step into the room; and mechanically pushed the door to behind him. He stood in dead silence, and confronted his wife, with a scrutiny that was terrible in its unnatural self-possession, and that enveloped her steadily in one comprehensive look from head to foot.

  In dead silence on her side, she rose from her chair. In dead silence she stood erect on the hearth-rug, and faced her husband in widow’s weeds.

  He took one step nearer to her and stopped again. He lifted his hand and pointed with his lean brown finger at her dress.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asked, without losing his terrible self-possession, and without moving his outstretched hand.

  At the sound of his voice, the quick rise and fall of her bosom – which had been the one outward betrayal thus far of the inner agony that tortured her – suddenly stopped. She stood impenetrably silent, breathlessly still – as if his question had struck her dead, and his pointing hand had petrified her.

  He advanced one step nearer and reiterated his words, in a voice even lower and quieter than the voice in which he had spoken first.

  One moment more of silence, one moment more of inaction might have been the salvation of her. But the fatal force of her character triumphed at the crisis of her destiny, and his. White and still, and haggard and old, she met the dreadful emergency with a dreadful courage, and spoke the irrevocable words which renounced him to his face.

  ‘Mr Midwinter,’ she said, in tones unnaturally hard and unnaturally clear, ‘our acquaintance hardly entitles you to speak to me in that manner.’ Those were her words. She never lifted her eyes from the ground while she spoke them. When she had done, the last faint vestige of colour in her cheeks faded out.

  There was a pause. Still steadily looking at her, he set himself to fix the language she had used to him in his mind. ‘She calls me “Mr Midwinter”,’ he said slowly, in a whisper. ‘She speaks of “our acquaintance”.’ He waited a little and looked round the room. His
wandering eyes encountered Mr Bashwood for the first time. He saw the steward standing near the fireplace, trembling, and watching him.

  ‘I once did you a service,’ he said; ‘and you once told me you were not an ungrateful man. Are you grateful enough to answer me if I ask you something?’

  He waited a little again. Mr Bashwood still stood trembling at the fireplace, silently watching him.

  ‘I see you looking at me,’ he went on. ‘Is there some change in me that I am not conscious of myself? Am I seeing things that you don’t see? Am I hearing words that you don’t hear? Am I looking or speaking like a man out of his senses?’

  Again he waited, and again the silence was unbroken. His eyes began to glitter; and the savage blood that he had inherited from his mother rose dark and slow in his ashy cheeks.

  ‘Is that woman,’ he asked, ‘the woman whom you once knew, whose name was Miss Gwilt?’

  Once more his wife collected her fatal courage. Once more his wife spoke her fatal words.

  ‘You compel me to repeat,’ she said, ‘that you are presuming on our acquaintance, and that you are forgetting what is due to me.’

  He turned upon her, with a savage suddenness which forced a cry of alarm from Mr Bashwood’s lips.

  ‘Are you, or are you not My Wife?’ he asked, through his set teeth.

  She raised her eyes to his for the first time. Her lost spirit looked at him, steadily defiant, out of the hell of its own despair.

  ‘I am not your wife,’ she said.

  He staggered back, with his hand groping for something to hold by, like the hands of a man in the dark. He leaned heavily against the wall of the room, and looked at the woman who had slept on his bosom, and who had denied him to his face.

  Mr Bashwood stole panic-stricken to her side. ‘Go in there!’ he whispered, trying to draw her towards the folding-doors which led into the next room. ‘For God’s sake be quick! He’ll kill you!’