 Book III. Chapter VIII of Armadale. Appointed Hours for the various domestic events of the day were things unknown at Thorpe Ambrose. A regular in all his habits Allen accommodated himself to no stated times, with a solitary exception of dinner time, at any hour of the day or night. He retired to rest early or late, and he rose early or late exactly as he felt inclined. The servants were forbidden to call him, and Mrs. Gripper was accustomed to improvise the breakfast as she best might, from the time when the kitchen fire was first lighted to the time when the clock stood on the stroke of noon. After nine o'clock on the morning after his return, Midwinner knocked at Allen's door, and on entering the room, found it empty. After inquiry among the servants, it appeared that Allen had risen that morning before the man who usually attended on him was up, and that his hot water had been brought to the door by one of the housemates, who was then still in ignorance of Midwinner's return. Nobody had chance to see the master, either on the stairs or in the hall. He had heard him ring the bell for breakfast, as usual. In brief, nobody knew anything about him except what was obviously clear to all that he was not in the house. Midwinner went out under the great portico. He stood at the head of the flight of steps, considering in which direction he should set forth to look for his friend. Allen's unexpected absence added one more to the desquieting influences which still perplexed his mind. He was in the mood in which trifles irritate a man, and fancies are all powerful to exalt or depress his spirits. The sky was cloudy, and the wind blew in puffs from the south. There was every prospect to weather wise eyes of coming rain, while Midwinner was still hesitating one of the grooms passed him on the drive below. The man proved, unbeen questioned, to be better informed about his master's movements than the servants indoors. He had seen Allen pass the stables more than an hour since, going out by the back way into the park with a nose-gay in his hand. A nose-gay in his hand? The nose-gay hung incomprehensibly on Midwinner's mind as he walked round on the chance of meeting Allen to the back of the house. What does the nose-gay mean, he asked himself, with an unintelligible sense of irritation and a petulant kick at a stone that stood in his way? It meant that Allen had been following his impulses as usual. The one pleasant impression left on his mind after his interview with pet-gift senior was the impression made by the lawyer's account of his conversation with Neely in the park. The anxiety that he should not misjudge her, which the major's daughter had so earnestly expressed, placed her before Allen's eyes in an irresistibly attractive character. The character of the one person among all his neighbors who had some respect still left for his good opinion. Acutely sensible of his social isolation, now that there was no Midwinner to keep him company in the house, hungry and thirsting in his solitude for a kind word and a friendly look, he began to think more and more regretfully and more and more longingly of the bright young face so pleasantly associated with his first happiest days at Thorpe Ambrose. To be conscious of such a feeling as it was with a character like Allen's to act on it headlong led him where it might. He had gone out on the previous morning to look for Neely with a peace offering of flowers, but with no very distinct idea of what he should say to her if they met, and failing to find her on the scene of her customary walks he had characteristically persisted the next morning in making a second attempt with another peace offering on a larger scale. Still ignorant of his friend's return, he was now at some distance from the house searching the park in a direction which he had not tried yet. After walking out a few hundred yards beyond the stables and failing to discover any signs of Allen, Midwinner retraced his steps and waited for his friend's return, pacing slowly to and fro on the little strip of garden ground at the back of the house. From time to time as he passed it he looked in absently at the room which had formerly been Mrs. Armadale's, which was now, through his interposition, habitually occupied by her son, the room with the statuette on the bracket and the French windows opening to the ground which had once recalled to him the second vision of the dream. The shadow of the man which Allen had seen standing opposite to him at the long window, the view over a lawn and flower garden, the pattering of the rain against the glass, the stretching out of the shadow's arm and the fall of the statue and fragments on the floor, these objects and events of the visionary scene so vividly present to his memory once were all superseded by later remembrances now, were all left to fade as they might in the dim background of time. He could pass the room again and again, alone and anxious, and never once think of the boat drifting away in the moonlight and the night's imprisonment on the wreck's ship. Toward ten o'clock the well-remembered sound of Allen's voice became suddenly audible in the direction of the stables. In a moment more he was visible from the garden. His second morning search for Neely had ended to all appearance in a second defeat of his object. The nose-gay was still in his hand and he was resignedly making a present of it to one of the coachman's children. Goodwinner impulsively took a step forward toward the stables and abruptly checked his further progress. Conscious that his position toward his friend was altered already in relation to Miss Quilt, the first sight of Allen filled his mind with a sudden distrust of the governess's influence over him, which was almost a distrust of himself. He knew that he had set forth from the Moors on his return to Thorpe Ambrose with the resolution of acknowledging the passion that had mastered him, and of insisting, if necessary, on a second and a longer absence in the interests of the sacrifice which he was bent on making to the happiness of his friend. What had become of that resolution now? The discovery of Miss Quilt's altered position and the declaration that she had voluntarily made of her indifference to Allen had scattered it to the winds. The first words with which he would have met his friend if nothing had happened to him on the homeward way were words already dismissed from his lips. He drew back as he felt it, and struggled with an instinctive loyalty toward Allen to free himself at the last moment from the influence of Miss Quilt. Having disposed of his useless nose-gay, Allen passed on into the garden, and the instant he entered it recognized Midwinter with a loud cry of surprise and delight. Am I awake or dreaming, he exclaimed, seizing his friend excitably by both hands? You dear old Midwinter, have you sprung up out of the ground or have you dropped from the clouds? It was not till Midwinter had explained the mystery of his unexpected appearance in every particular that Allen could be prevailed on to say a word about himself. When he did speak he shook his head ruefully, and subdued the hearty loudness of his voice with a preliminary look round to see if the servants were within hearing. I've learned to be cautious since she went away and left me, said Allen. My dear fellow, you haven't the least notion what things have happened and what an awful scrape I'm in at this very moment. You are mistaken, Allen. I have heard more of what has happened than you suppose. What! The dreadful mess I'm in with Miss Quilt. The row with the Major. The infernal scandal-mongering in the neighborhood. You don't mean to say, yes, interposed Midwinter, quietly. I have heard of it all. Good heavens, how? Did you stop at Thorpe Ambrose on your way back? Have you been in the coffee room at the hotel? Have you met Peadgift? Have you dropped into the reading rooms and seen what they called the freedom of the press in the town newspaper? Midwinter paused before he answered and looked up at the sky. The clouds had been gathering unnoticed over their heads, and the first raindrops were beginning to fall. Come in here, said Allen. We'll go up to breakfast this way. He led Midwinter through the open French window into his own sitting room. The wind blew toward that side of the house, and the rain followed them in. Midwinter, who was last, turned and closed the window. Allen was too eager for the answer which the weather had interrupted to wait for it till they reached the breakfast room. He stopped close at the window and added two more to his string of questions. How can you possibly have heard about me in Miss Quilt? He asked. Who told you? Miss Quilt herself replied Midwinter gravely. Allen's manner changed the moment the governess's name passed his friend's lips. I wish you had heard my story first, he said. Where did you meet with Miss Quilt? There was a momentary pause. They both stood at the window absorbed in the interest of the moment. They both forgot that their contemplated place of shelter from the rain had been the breakfast room upstairs. Before I answer your questions, said Midwinter, a little unstrainedly, I want to ask you something, Allen, on my side. Is it really true that you are in some way concerned in Miss Quilt's leaving Major Milroy's service? There was another pause. The disturbance which had begun to appear in Allen's manner palpably increased. It's a rather long story, he began. I have been taken in, Midwinter. I have been imposed on by a person who, I can't help saying it, who cheated me into promising what I oughtn't to have promised, and doing what I had better not have done. It isn't breaking my promise to tell you. I can trust in your discretion, can't I? You will never say a word, will you? Stop, said Midwinter. Don't trust me with any secrets which are not your own. If you have given a promise, don't trifle with it, even in speak into such an intimate friend as I am. He laid his hand gently and kindly on Allen's shoulder. I can't help seeing that I have made you a little uncomfortable, he went on. I can't help seeing that my question is not so easy a one to answer as I had hoped and supposed. Shall we wait a little? Shall we go upstairs and breakfast first? Allen was far too earnestly bent on presenting his conduct to his friend in the right aspect to heed Midwinter's suggestion. He spoke eagerly on the instant without moving from the window. My dear fellow, it's a perfectly easy question to answer, only he hesitated, only it requires what I'm a bad hand at, it requires an explanation. Do you mean, asked Midwinter more seriously but not less gently than before, that you must first justify yourself and then answer my question? That's it, Allen said with an air of relief. You've hit the right nail on the head, just as usual. Midwinter's face darkened for the first time. I am sorry to hear it, he said, his voice sinking low in his eyes dropping to the ground as he spoke. The rain was beginning to fall thickly. It swept across the garden straight on the closed windows and pattered heavily against the glass. Sorry, repeated Allen, my dear fellow, you haven't heard the particulars yet, wait till I explain the thing first. You are a bad hand at explanation, said Midwinter, repeating Allen's own words. Don't place yourself at a disadvantage, don't explain it. Allen looked at him in silent perplexity and surprise. You are my friend, my best and dearest friend, Midwinter went on. I can't bear to let you justify yourself to me as if I was your judge, or as if I doubted you. He looked up again at Allen frankly and kindly as he said those words. Besides, he resumed, I think if I look into my memory I can anticipate your explanation. We had a moment's talk before I went away about some very delicate questions which you proposed putting to Major Milroy. I remember I warned you. I remember I had my misgivings. Should I be guessing right if I guess that those questions have been in some way the means of leading you into a false position? If it is true that you have been concerned and misquilted leaving her situation, is it also true? Is it only doing you justice to believe that any mischief for which you are responsible has been mischief innocently done? Yes, said Allen speaking for the first time a little constrainedly on his side. It is only doing me justice to say that. He stopped and began drawing lines absently with his finger on the blurred surface of the window pane. You're not like other people, Midwinter, he resumed suddenly with an effort, and I should have liked you to have heard the particulars all the same. I will hear them if you desire it, returned Midwinter. But I am satisfied, without another word, that you have not willingly been the means of depriving misquilt of her situation. If that is understood between you and me, I think we need say no more. Besides, I have another question to ask of much greater importance, a question that has been forced on me by what I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears last night. He stopped, recoiling in spite of himself. Shall we go upstairs first, he asked abruptly, leading the way to the door and trying to gain time? It was useless. Once again the room which they were both free to leave, the room which one of them had twice tried to leave already, held them as if they were prisoners. Without answering, without even appearing to have heard Midwinter's proposal to go upstairs, Allen followed him mechanically as far as the opposite side of the window. There he stopped. Midwinter, he burst out in a sudden panic of astonishment and alarm. There seems to be something strange between us. You're not like yourself. What is it? With his hand on the lock of the door Midwinter turned and looked back into the room. The moment had come. His haunting fear of doing his friend an injustice had shown itself in a restraint of word, look, and action which had been marked enough to force its way to Allen's notice. The one course left now, in the dearest interest of the friendship that united them, was to speak at once and to speak boldly. There's something strange between us, reiterated Allen. For God's sake, what is it? Midwinter took his hand from the door and came down again to the window, fronting Allen. He occupied the place of necessity which Allen had just left. It was the side of the window on which the statuette stood. The little figure, placed on its projecting bracket, was close by him on his right hand. No signs of change appeared in the stormy sky. The rain still swept slanting across the garden and pattered heavily against the glass. Give me your hand, Allen. Allen gave it and Midwinter held it firmly while he spoke. There is something strange between us, he said. There is something to be set right which touches you nearly, and it has not been set right yet. You asked me just now where I met with Miss Guilt. I met with her on my way back here, upon the high road on the further side of the town. She entreated me to protect her from a man who was following and frightening her. I saw the scoundrel with my own eyes, and I should have laid hands on him if Miss Guilt herself had not stopped me. She gave a very strange reason for stopping me. She said I didn't know who his employer was. Allen's ruddy color suddenly deepened. He looked aside quickly through the window at the pouring rain. At the same moment their hands fell apart and there was a pause of silence on either side. Midwinter was the first to speak again. Later in the evening he went on Miss Guilt explained herself. She told me two things. She declared that the man whom I had seen following her was a hired spy. I was surprised, but I could not dispute it. She told me next, Allen, what I believe with my whole heart and soul to be a falsehood which has been imposed on her as the truth. She told me that the spy was in your employment. Allen turned instantly from the window and looked Midwinter full in the face again. I must explain myself this time, he said resolutely. The ashy paleness peculiar to him in moments of strong emotion began to show itself on Midwinter's cheeks. More explanations, he said, and drew back a step with his eyes fixed in a sudden terror of inquiry on Allen's face. You don't know what I know, Midwinter. You don't know that what I have done has been done with a good reason. And what is more, I have not trusted to myself. I have had good advice. Did you hear what I said just now, said Midwinter incredulously? You can't, surely. You can't have been attending to me. I haven't missed a word, rejoined Allen. I tell you again, you don't know what I know of Miss Guilt. She has threatened Miss Millroy. Miss Millroy is in danger while her governance stops in this neighborhood. Midwinter dismissed the major's daughter from the conversation with the contemptuous gesture of his hand. I don't want to hear about Miss Millroy, he said. Don't mix up Miss Millroy. Good God, Allen! Am I to understand that the spy set to watch Miss Guilt was doing his vile work with your approval? Once and for all, my dear fellow, will you or will you not let me explain? Explain, cried Midwinter, his eyes aflame and his hot creole blood rushing crimson into his face. Explain the employment of a spy? What, after having driven Miss Guilt out of her situation by meddling with her private affairs, you meddle again by the vile list of all means, the means of a paid spy? You set a watch on the woman whom you yourself told me you loved, only a fortnight since, the woman you were thinking of as your wife. I don't believe it. I don't believe it. Is my head failing me? Is it Allen Armadale I am speaking to? Is it Allen Armadale's face looking at me? Stop! You are acting under some mistaken scruple, some low fellow who's crept into your confidence and has done this in your name without telling you first. Allen controlled himself with admirable patience and admirable consideration for the temper of his friend. If you persist in refusing to hear me, he said, I must wait as well as I can till my turn comes. Tell me you are a stranger to the employment of that man, and I will hear you willingly. Suppose there should be a necessity that you know nothing about for him blowing him. I acknowledge no necessity for the cowardly persecution of a helpless woman. A momentary flush of irritation, momentary and no more, passed over Allen's face. You mightn't think her quite so helpless, he said, if you knew the truth. Are you the man to tell the truth, retorted the other? You who have refused to hear her in her own defense? You who have closed the doors of this house against her? Allen still controlled himself, but the effort began at last to be visible. I know your temper is a hot one, he said, but for all that your violence quite takes me by surprise. I can't account for it unless—he hesitated for a moment, and then finished the sentence in his usual frank, outspoken way, as you are, sweet yourself, on Miss Quilt. Those last words heaped fuel on the fire. They stripped the truth instantly of all concealments and disguises, and laid it bare to view. Allen's instinct had guessed, and the guiding influence stood revealed of Midwinner's interest in Miss Quilt. What right have you to say that, he asked, with raised voice and threatening eyes? I told you, said Allen simply, when I thought I was sweet on her myself. Come, come. It's a little hard, I think, even if you are in love with her to believe everything she tells you, and not to let me say a word. Is that the way you decide between us? Yes it is, cried the other, infuriated by Allen's second allusion to Miss Quilt. When I am asked to choose between the employer of a spy and the victim of a spy, I side with the victim. Don't try me too hard, Midwinner. I have a temper to lose, as well as you. He stopped struggling with himself. The torture of passion in Midwinner's face, from which a less simple and less generous nature might have recoiled in horror, touched Allen suddenly with an artless distress, which at that moment was little less than sublime. He advanced with his eyes moistening and his hand held out. You asked me for my hand just now, he said, and I gave it you. Do you remember old times and give me yours before it's too late? No, retorted Midwinner furiously. I may meet Miss Quilt again, and I may want my hand free to deal with your spy. He had drawn back along the wall as Allen advanced, until the bracket which supported the statuette was before instead of behind him. In the madness of his passion he saw nothing but Allen's face confronting him. In the madness of his passion he stretched out his right hand as he answered, and shook it threateningly in the air. It struck the forgotten projection of the bracket, and the next instant the statuette lay in fragments on the floor. The rain drove slanting over flowerbed and lawn, and pattered heavily against the glass, and the two armadales stood by the window, as the two shadows had stood in the second vision of the dream, with the wreck of the image between them. Allen stooped over the fragments of the little figure and lifted them one by one from the floor. Leave me, he said, without looking up, or we shall both repent it. Without a word Midwinner moved back slowly. He stood for the second time with his hand on the door, and looked his last at the room. The horror of the night on the wreck had got him once more, and the flame of his passion was quenched in an instant. The dream, he whispered under his breath, the dream again. The door was tried from the outside, and a servant appeared with a trivial message about the breakfast. Midwinner looked at the man with a blank, dreadful helplessness in his face. Show me the way out, he said. The place is dark, and the room turns round with me. The servant took him by the arm, and silently led him out. As the door closed on them, Allen picked up the last fragment of the broken figure. He sat down alone at the table, and hid his face in his hands. The self-control which he had bravely preserved under exasperation renewed again and again, now failed him at last in the friendless solitude of his room, and in the first bitterness of feeling that Midwinner had turned against him like the rest he burst into tears. The moments followed each other, the slow time wore on. Little by little the signs of a new elemental disturbance began to show themselves in the summer storm. The shadow of a swiftly deepening darkness swept over the sky. The pattering of the rain lessened with the lessening wind. There was a momentary hush of stillness. Then on a sudden the rain poured down again like a cataract, and the low roll of thunder came up solemnly on the dying air. End of Chapter 8 Book the Third, Chapter 9 of Armadale. From Mr. Bashwood to Miss Guilt. Thorpe Ambrose, July 20, 1851 Dear Madam, I received yesterday by private messenger your obliging note, in which you direct me to communicate with you through the post only, as long as there is reason to believe that any visitors who may come to you are likely to be observed. May I be permitted to say that I look forward with respectful anxiety to the time when I shall again enjoy the only real happiness I have ever experienced, the happiness of personally addressing you. In compliance with your desire that I should not allow this day, the Sunday, to pass without privately noticing what went on at the Great House, I took the keys, and went this morning to the steward's office. I accounted for my appearance to the servants, by informing them that I had work to do which was important to complete in the shortest possible time. The same excuse would have done for Mr. Armadale if we had met, but no such meeting happened. Although I was at Thorpe Ambrose in what I thought could time, I was too late to see or hear anything myself of a serious quarrel which appeared to have taken place just before I arrived, between Mr. Armadale and Mr. Midwinter. All the little information I can give you in this matter is derived from one of the servants. The man told me that he heard the voices of the two gentlemen loud in Mr. Armadale's sitting-room. He went in to announce breakfast shortly afterward, and found Mr. Midwinter in such a dreadful state of agitation that he had to be helped out of the room. The servant tried to take him upstairs to lie down and compose himself. He declined, saying he would wait a little first in one of the lower rooms, and begging that he might be left alone. The man had hardly got downstairs again when he heard the front door opened and closed. He ran back, and found that Mr. Midwinter was gone. The rain was pouring at the time, and thunder and lightning came soon afterward. Dreadful weather certainly to go out in. The servant thinks Mr. Midwinter's mind was unsettled. I sincerely hope not. Mr. Midwinter is one of the few people I have met within the course of my life who have treated me kindly. Hearing that Mr. Armadale still remained in the sitting-room, I went into the steward's office, which, as you may remember, is on the same side of the house, and left the door ajar, and set the window open, waiting and listening for anything that might happen. Dear madam, there was a time when I might have thought such a position in the house of my employer not a very becoming one. Let me hasten to assure you that this is far from being my feeling now. I glory in any position which makes me serviceable to you. The state of the weather seemed hopelessly adverse to that renewal of intercourse between Mr. Armadale and Ms. Milroy, which you so confidently anticipate, and of which you are so anxious to be made aware. Strangely enough, however, it is actually in consequence of the state of the weather that I am now in a position to give you the very information you require. Mr. Armadale and Ms. Milroy met about an hour since. The circumstances were as follows. Just at the beginning of the thunderstorm, I saw one of the grooms run across from the stables, and heard him tap at his master's window. Mr. Armadale opened the window and asked what was the matter. The groom said he came with a message from the coachman's wife. She had seen from her room over the stables, which looks out onto the park, Ms. Milroy quite alone, standing for shelter under one of the trees. As that part of the park was at some distance from the major's cottage, she had thought that her master might wish to send and ask the young lady into the house, especially as she had placed herself with a thunderstorm coming on in what might turn out to be a very dangerous position. The moment Mr. Armadale understood the man's message, he called for the waterproof things and the umbrellas, and ran out himself, instead of leaving it to the servants. In a little time he and the groom came back with Ms. Milroy between them, as well protected as could be from the rain. I ascertained from one of the women's servants, who had taken the young lady into a bedroom, and had supplied her with such dry things as she wanted, that Ms. Milroy had been afterwards shown into the drawing-room, and that Mr. Armadale was there with her. The only way of following your instructions, and finding out what passed between them, was to go round the house in the pelting rain, and get into the conservatory, which opens into the drawing-room, by the outer door. I hesitated nothing, dear madam, in your service. I would cheerfully get wet every day to please you. Besides, though I may at first sight be thought rather an elderly man, a wetting is of no very serious consequence to me. I assure you I am not so old as I look, and I am of a stronger constitution than appears. It was impossible for me to get near enough in the conservatory to see what went on in the drawing-room, without the risk of being discovered. But most of the conversation reached me, except when they dropped their voices. This is the substance of what I heard. I gathered that Ms. Milroy had been prevailed on against her will to take refuge from the thunderstorm in Mr. Armadale's house. She said so at least, and she gave two reasons. The first was that her father had forbidden all intercourse between the cottage and the great house. Mr. Armadale met this objection by declaring that her father had issued his orders under a total misconception of the truth, and by entreating her not to treat him as cruelly as the major had treated him. He entered, I suspect, into some explanations at this point, but as he dropped his voice I am unable to say what they were. His language when I did hear it was confused and ungrammatical. It seemed, however, to be quite intelligible enough to persuade Ms. Milroy that her father had been acting under a mistaken impression of the circumstances. At least I infer this, for when I next heard the conversation the young lady was driven back to her second objection to being in the house, which was that Mr. Armadale had behaved very badly to her, and that he richly deserved that she should never speak to him again. In this latter case Mr. Armadale attempted no defense of any kind. He agreed with her that he had behaved badly. He agreed with her that he richly deserved she should never speak to him again. At the same time he implored her to remember that he had suffered his punishment already. He was disgraced in the neighborhood, and his dearest friend, his one intimate friend in the world, at that very morning turned against him like the rest. Far or near there was not a living creature whom he was fond of to comfort him, or to say a friendly word to him. He was lonely and miserable, and his heart ached for a little kindness, and that was his only excuse for asking Miss Milroy to forget and forgive the past. I must leave you, I fear, to judge for yourself of the effect of this on the young lady, for though I tried hard I failed to catch what she said. I am almost certain I heard her crying, and Mr. Armadale in treating her not to break his heart. They whispered a great deal, which aggravated me. I was afterward alarmed by Mr. Armadale coming out into the conservatory to pick some flowers. He did not come as far, fortunately, as the place where I was hidden, and he went in again into the drawing-room, and there was more talking, I suspect, at close quarters, which to my great regret I again failed to catch. Pray forgive me for having so little to tell you. I can only add that when the storm cleared off, Miss Milroy went away with the flowers in her hand, and with Mr. Armadale escorting her from the house. My own humble opinion is that he had a powerful friend at court, all through the interview, in the young lady's own liking for him. This is all I can say at present, with the exception of one other thing I heard which I blushed to mention, but your word is law, and you have ordered me to have no concealments from you. Their talk turned once, dear madam, on yourself. I think I heard the word creature from Miss Milroy, and I am certain that Mr. Armadale, while acknowledging that he had once admired you, added that circumstances had since satisfied him of his folly. I quote his own expression. It made me quite tremble with indignation. If I may be permitted to say so, the man who admires Miss Guilt lives in paradise. Respect if nothing else ought to have closed Mr. Armadale's lips. He is my employer, I know. But after his calling it an act of folly to admire you, though I am his deputy-steward, I utterly despise him. Trusting that I may have been so happy as to give you satisfaction thus far, and earnestly desire us to deserve the honour of your continued confidence in me, I remain dear madam, your grateful and devoted servant, Felix Bashwood. 2. From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Guilt Diana Street, Monday, July 21st My dear Lydia, I trouble you with a few lines. They are written under a sense of the duty which I owe to myself in our present position toward each other. I am not at all satisfied with the tone of your last two letters, and I am still less pleased that you are leaving me this morning without any letter at all. And this when we had arranged in the doubtful state of our prospects that I was to hear from you every day. I can only interpret your conduct in one way. I can only infer that matters at Thorpe Ambrose, having been all mismanaged, are all going wrong. It is not my present object to reproach you, for why should I waste time, language, and paper? I merely wish to recall to your memory certain considerations which you appear to be disposed to overlook. Shall I put them in the plainest English? Yes, for with all my faults I am frankness personified. In the first place, then, I have an interest in your becoming, Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe Ambrose, as well as you. Secondly I have provided you, to say nothing of good advice, with all the money needed to accomplish our object. Thirdly I hold your notes of hand at short dates, for every farthing so advanced. Fourthly and lastly, though I am indulgent to a fault in the capacity of a friend, in the capacity of a woman of business, my dear, I am not to be trifled with. That is all, Lydia, at least for the present. I don't suppose I write in anger. I am only sorry and disheartened. My state of mind resembles David's. If I had the wings of a dove, I would flee away and be at rest. Affectionately yours, Mariah Oldershaw. Three from Mr. Bashwood to Miss Guilt. Thorpe Ambrose, July the twenty-first. Dear Madam, you will probably receive these lines a few hours after my yesterday's communication reaches you. I posted my first letter last night, and I shall post this before noon to-day. My present object in writing is to give you some more news from this house. I have the inexpressible happiness of announcing that Mr. Armadale's disgraceful intrusion on your privacy is at an end. The watch set on your actions is to be withdrawn this day. I write, dear Madam, with the tears in my eyes, tears of joy caused by feelings which I ventured to express in my previous letter. See first paragraph toward the end. Pardon me this personal reference. I can speak to you, I don't know why, so much more readily with my pen than with my tongue. Let me try to compose myself, and proceed with my narrative. I had just arrived at the Stuart's office this morning when Mr. Pedgift the Elder followed me to the Great House to see Mr. Armadale by special appointment. It is needless to say that I at once suspended any little business there was to do, feeling that your interests might possibly be concerned. It is also most gratifying to add that this time circumstances favoured me. I was able to stand under the open window and to hear the whole interview. Mr. Armadale explained himself at once in the plainest terms. He gave orders that the person who had been hired to watch you should be instantly dismissed. On being asked to explain this sudden change of purpose he did not conceal that it was owing to the effect produced on his mind by what had passed between Mr. Midwinter and himself on the previous day. Mr. Midwinter's language, cruelly unjust as it was, had nevertheless convinced him that no necessity whatever could excuse any proceeding so essentially base in itself as the employment of a spy, and on that conviction he was now determined to act. But for your own positive directions to me to conceal nothing that passes here in which your name is concerned, I should really be ashamed to report what Mr. Pedgift said on his side. He has behaved kindly to me, I know, but if he was my own brother I could never forgive him the tone in which he spoke of you, and the obstinacy with which he tried to make Mr. Armadale change his mind. He began by attacking Mr. Midwinter. He declared that Mr. Midwinter's opinion was the very worst opinion that could be taken, for it was quite plain that you, dear madam, had twisted him round your finger. Producing no effect by this coarse suggestion, which nobody who knows you could for a moment believe, Mr. Pedgift next referred to Miss Milroy, and asked Mr. Armadale if he had given up all idea of protecting her. What this meant I cannot imagine, I can only report it for your private consideration. Mr. Armadale briefly answered that he had his own plan for protecting Miss Milroy, and that the circumstances were altered in that quarter, or words to a similar effect. Still Mr. Pedgift persisted. He went on, I blush to mention, from bad to worse. He tried to persuade Mr. Armadale next to bring an action at law against one or other of the persons who had been most strongly condemning his conduct in the neighbourhood. For the purpose, I really hardly know how to write it, of getting you into the witness-box. And worse yet, when Mr. Armadale still said no, Mr. Pedgift, after having, as I suspected by the sound of his voice, been on the point of leaving the room, artfully came back, and proposed sending for a detective officer from London simply to look at you. The whole of this mystery about Miss Guilt's true character, he said, may turn on a question of identity. It won't cost much to have a man down from London, and it's worth trying whether her face is or is not known at headquarters to the police. I again and again assure you, dearest lady, that I only repeat those abominable words from a sense of duty toward yourself. I shirk, I declare, I shirk from head to foot when I heard them. To resume, for there is more to tell you. Mr. Armadale, to his credit, I don't deny it, though I don't like him, still said no. He appeared to be getting irritated under Mr. Pedgift's persistence, and he spoke in a somewhat hasty way. You persuaded me on the last occasion when we talked about this, he said, to do something that I have been since heartily ashamed of. You won't succeed in persuading me, Mr. Pedgift, a second time. These were his words. Mr. Pedgift took him up short. Mr. Pedgift seemed to be netled on his side. If that is the light in which you see my advice, sir," he said, the less you have of it for the future, the better. Your character and position are publicly involved in this matter between yourself and Miss Guilt, and you persist at a most critical moment in taking a course of your own which I believe will end badly. After what I have already said and done in this very serious case, I can't consent to go on with it with both my hands tied, and I can't drop it with credit to myself while I remain publicly known as your solicitor. You leave me no alternative, sir, but to resign the honour of acting as your legal adviser." I am sorry to hear it, says Mr. Armadale, but I have suffered enough already through interfering with Miss Guilt. I can't and won't stir any further in the matter. You may not stir any further in it, sir," said Mr. Pedgift, and I shall not stir any further in it, for it has ceased to be a question of professional interest to me. But mark my words, Mr. Armadale, you are not at the end of this business yet. Some other person's curiosity may go on from the point where you and I have stopped, and some other person's hand may let the broad daylight in yet on Miss Guilt. I report their language, dear madam, almost word for word, I believe, as I heard it. It produced an indescribable impression on me. It filled me, I hardly know why, with quite a panic of alarm. I don't at all understand it, and I understand still less what happened immediately afterward. Mr. Pedgift's voice, when he said those last words, sounded dreadfully close to me. He must have been speaking at the open window, and he must, I fear, have seen me under it. I had time before he left the house to get out quietly from among the laurels, but not to get back to the office. Accordingly, I walked away along the drive toward the lodge, as if I was going on some errand connected with the steward's business. Before long Mr. Pedgift overtook me in his gig, and stopped. So you feel some curiosity about Miss Guilt, do you? He said, gratify your curiosity by all means, I don't object to it. I felt naturally nervous, but I managed to ask him what he meant. He didn't answer. He only looked down at me from the gig in a very odd manner, and laughed. I have known stranger things happen even than that, he said to himself suddenly, and drove off. I have ventured to trouble you with this last incident, though it may seem of no importance in your eyes, in the hope that your superior ability may be able to explain it. My own poor faculties I confess are quite unable to penetrate Mr. Pedgift's meaning. All I know is that he has no right to accuse me of any such impertinent feeling as curiosity in relation to a lady whom I ardently esteem and admire. I dare not put it in warmer words. I have only to add that I am in a position to be of continued service to you here if you wish it. Mr. Armadale has just been into the office, and has told me briefly that in Mr. Midwinter's continued absence I am still to act as Steward's deputy till further notice. Believe me, dear madam, anxiously and devotedly yours, Elix Bashwood. 4. From Alan Armadale to the Reverend Decimus Brock Thorpe Ambrose Tuesday My dear Mr. Brock, I am in sad trouble. Midwinter has quarrelled with me and left me, and my lawyer has quarrelled with me and left me. And except dear little Miss Milroy, who has forgiven me, all the neighbours have turned their backs on me. There is a good deal about me in this, but I can't help it. I am very miserable alone in my own house. Do pray come and see me. You are the only old friend I have left, and I do long so to tell you about it. N.B., on my word of honour as a gentleman, I am not to blame. Yours affectionately, Alan Armadale. P.S., I would come to you, for this place has grown quite hateful to me, but I have a reason for not going too far away from Miss Milroy just at present. 5. From Robert Stapleton to Alan Armadale, Esquire Bass-comrectory Thursday morning. Respected sir, I see a letter in your writing on the table along with the others, which I am sorry to say my master is not well enough to open. He is down with a sort of low fever. The doctor says it has been brought on by worry and anxiety which the master was not strong enough to bear. This seems likely, for I was with him when he went to London last month, and what with his own business, and the business of looking after that person who afterward gave us the slip, he was worried and anxious all the time, and for the matter of that so was I. My master was talking of you a day or two since. He seemed unwilling that you should know of his illness unless he got worse. But I think you ought to know of it. At the same time he is not worse, perhaps a trifle better. The doctor says he must be kept very quiet and not agitated on any account. So be pleased to take no notice of this. I mean in the way of coming to the rectory. I have the doctor's orders to say it is not needful, and it would only upset my master in the state he is in now. I will write again if you wish it. Please accept of my duty, and believe me to remain, sir, your humble servant, Robert Stapleton. P.S. The yut has been rigged and repainted waiting your orders. She looks beautiful. 6. From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Guilt Diana Street, July the twenty-fourth. Miss Guilt. The post-hour has passed for three mornings following, and has brought me no answer to my letter. Were you purposely bent on insulting me? Or have you left Thorpe Ambrose? In either case I won't put up with your conduct any longer. The law shall bring you to book, if I can't. Your first note of hand, for thirty pounds, falls due on Tuesday next, the twenty-ninth. If you had behaved with common consideration towards me, I would have let you renew it with pleasure. As things are, I shall have the note presented, and if it is not paid, I shall instruct my man of business to take the usual course. Yours, Mariah Oldershaw. 7. From Miss Guilt to Mrs. Oldershaw. 5. Paradise Place, Thorpe Ambrose, July the twenty-fifth. Mrs. Oldershaw. The time of your man of business being no doubt of some value, I write a line to assist him when he takes the usual course. He will find me waiting to be arrested in the first-floor apartments at the above address. In my present situation, and with my present thoughts, the best service you can possibly render me is to lock me up. LG. 8. From Mrs. Oldershaw to Miss Guilt. Diana Street, July the twenty-sixth. My darling Lydia, the longer I live in this wicked world, the more plainly I see that women's own tempers are the worst enemies women have to contend with. What a truly regretful style of correspondence we have fallen into! What a sad want of self-restraint, my dear, on your side and on mine. Let me as the oldest in years be the first to make the needful excuses, the first to blush for my own want of self-control. Your cruel neglect, Lydia, stung me into writing as I did. I am so sensitive to ill-treatment when it is inflicted on me by a person whom I love and admire. And though turned sixty, I am still, unfortunately for myself, so young at heart. Accept my apologies for having made use of my pen, when I ought to have been content to take refuge in my pocket handkerchief. Forgive your attached Mariah for being still young at heart. But oh, my dear, though I own I threaten to you, how hard of you to take me at my word. How cruel of you, if your debt had been ten times what it is, to suppose me capable, whatever I might say, of the odious inhumanity of arresting my bosom friend. Heavens, have I deserved to be taken at my word in this unmercifully exact way, after the years of tender intimacy that have united us. But I don't complain. I only mourn over the frailty of our common human nature. Let us expect as little of each other as possible, my dear. We are both women, and we can't help it. I declare, when I reflect on the origin of our unfortunate sex, when I remember that we were all originally made of no better material than the rib of a man, and that the rib of so little importance to its possessor that he never appears to have missed it afterward, I am quite astonished at our virtues, and not in the least surprised at our faults. I am wondering a little, I am losing myself in serious thought, like that sweet character in Shakespeare, who was fancy free. One last word, dearest, to say that my longing for an answer to this precedes entirely from my wish to hear from you again in your old friendly tone, and is quite unconnected with any curiosity to know what you are doing at Thorpe Ambrose, except such curiosity as you yourself might approve. Need I add that I beg you as a favour to me to renew, on the customary terms, I refer to the little bill due on Tuesday next, and I venture to suggest that day six weeks. Yours with a truly motherly feeling, Mariah Aldershaw. 9. From Miss Guilt to Mrs. Aldershaw. Paradise Place, July the 27th. I have just got your last letter. The brazen impudence of it has roused me. I am to be treated like a child, am I, to be threatened first, and then, if threatening fails, to be coaxed afterward. You shall coax me. You shall know my motherly friend, the sort of child you have to deal with. I had a reason, Mrs. Aldershaw, for the silence which has so seriously offended you. I was afraid, actually afraid to let you into the secret of my thoughts. No such fear troubles me now. My only anxiety this morning is to make you my best acknowledgements for the manner in which you have written to me. After carefully considering it, I think the worst turn I can possibly do you is to tell you what you are burning to know. So here I am at my desk, bent on telling it. If you don't bitterly repent when you are at the end of this letter, not having held to your first resolution, and locked me up out of harm's way while you had the chance, my name is not Lydia Guilt. End of Chapter 9, Part 1 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere, Surrey. Book III, Chapter 9, Part 2 of Armadale This is LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. Armadale by Wilkie Collins. Book III, Chapter 9, Part 2 Where did my last letter end? I don't remember, and don't care. Make it out as you can. I'm not going back any further than this day week. That is to say, Sunday last. There was a thunderstorm in the morning. It began to clear off toward noon. I didn't go out. I waited to see mid-winter, or to hear from him. Are you surprised at my not writing Mr. before his name? We have got so familiar, my dear, that Mr. would be quite out of place. He had left me the evening before, under very interesting circumstances. I had told him that his friend Armadale was persecuting me by means of a hired spy. He had declined to believe it, and had gone straight to Thorpe Ambrose to clear the thing up. I let him kiss my hand before he went. He promised to come back the next day, the Sunday. I felt I had secured my influence over him, and I believed he would keep his word. Well, the thunder passed away as I told you. The weather cleared up. The people walked out in their best clothes. The dinners came in from the bakers. I sat dreaming at my wretched little hired piano, nicely dressed and looking my best, and still no mid-winter appeared. It was late in the afternoon, and I was beginning to feel offended when a letter was brought to me. It had been left by a strange messenger who went away again immediately. I looked at the letter, mid-winter at last, in writing instead of in person. I began to feel more offended than ever, for as I told you, I thought I had used my influence over him to better purpose. The letter, when I read it, set my mind off in a new direction. It surprised, it puzzled, it interested me. I thought and thought and thought of him all the rest of the day. He began by asking my pardon for having doubted what I had told him. Mr. Armadale's own lips had confirmed me. They had quarrelled, as I had anticipated they would, and he and the man who had once been his dearest friend on earth, had parted for ever. So far I was not surprised. I was amused by his telling me in his extravagant way that he and his friend were parted for ever. And I rather wondered what he would think when I carried out my plan and found my way into the great house on pretense of reconciling them. But the second part of the letter set me thinking. Here it is, in his own words. It is only by struggling against myself, and no language can say how hard the struggle has been, that I have decided on writing instead of speaking to you. A merciless necessity claims my future life. I must leave Thorpe Ambrose. I must leave England, without hesitating, without stopping to look back. There are reasons, terrible reasons, which I have madly trifled with, for my never letting Mr. Armadale set eyes on me, or hear of me again, after what has happened between us. I must go, never more to live under the same roof. Never more to breathe the same air with that man. I must hide myself from him under an assumed name. I must put the mountains and the seas between us. I have been warned as no human creature was ever warned before. I believe, I dare not tell you why, I believe that if the fascination you have for me draws me back to you, fatal consequences will come of it to the man whose life has been so strangely mingled with your life and mine, the man who is once your admirer and my friend. And yet, feeling this, seeing it in my mind as plainly as I see the sky above my head, there is a weakness in me that still shrinks from the one imperative sacrifice of never seeing you again. I am fighting with it as a man fights with the strength of his despair. I have been near enough, not an hour since, to see the house where you live and have forced myself away again out of sight of it. Can I force myself away further still, now that my letter is written? Now when the useless confession escapes me, and I own to loving you with the first love I have ever known, with the last love I shall ever feel. Let the coming time answer the question. I dare not write of it or think of it more. Those were the last words. In that strange way the letter ended. I felt a perfect fever of curiosity to know what he meant. His loving me, of course, was easy enough to understand. But what did he mean by saying he had been warned? Why was he never to live under the same roof, never to breathe the same air again with young armadale? What sort of quarrel could it be which obliged one man to hide himself from another under an assumed name, and to put the mountains and the seas between them? Above all, if he came back, and let me fascinate him, why should it be fatal to the hateful lout who possesses the noble fortune and lives in the Great House? I never longed in my life as I longed to see him again and put these questions to him. I got quite superstitious about it as the day drew on. They gave me a sweet bread and a cherry pudding for dinner. I actually tried if he would come back by the stones in the plate. He will, he won't. He will, he won't, and so on. It ended in he won't. I rang the bell, and had the things taken away. I contradicted destiny quite fiercely. I said he will, and I waited at home for him. You don't know what a pleasure it is to me to give you all these little particulars. Count up, my bosom friend, my second mother! Count up the money you have advanced on the chance of my becoming Mrs. Armadale, and then think of my feeling this breathless interest in another man. Oh, Mrs. Aldershaw, how intensely I enjoyed the luxury of irritating you! The day got on toward evening. I rang again, and sent down to borrow a railway timetable. What trains were there to take him away on Sunday? The national respect for the Sabbath stood, my friend. There was only one train, which had started hours before he wrote to me. I went and consulted my glass. It paid me the compliment of contradicting the divination by cherry stones. My glass said, Get behind the window-curtain. He won't pass the long lonely evening without coming back again to look at the house. I got behind the window-curtain and waited with his letter in my hand. The dismal Sunday light faded, and the dismal Sunday quietness in the street grew quieter still. The dusk came, and I heard a step coming with it in the silence. My heart gave a little jump. Only think of my having any heart left. I said to myself, Midwinter! And Midwinter it was! When he came in sight he was walking slowly, stopping and hesitating at every two or three steps. My ugly little drawing-room window seemed to be beckoning him on, in spite of himself. After waiting till I saw him come to a standstill, a little aside from the house, but still within view of my irresistible window, I put on my things and slipped out by the back way into the garden. The landlord and his family were at supper, and nobody saw me. I opened the door in the wall, and got round by the lane into the street. At that awkward moment I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten before. The spy set to watch me. It was no doubt waiting somewhere inside of the house. It was necessary to get time to think, and it was, in my state of mind, impossible to let Midwinter go without speaking to him. In great difficulties you generally decide at once, if you decide at all. I decided to make an appointment with him for the next evening, and to consider in the interval how to manage the interview so that it might escape observation. This as I felt at the time was leaving my own curiosity free to torment me for four and twenty mortal hours, but what other choice had I? It was as good as giving up being the mistress of Thorpe Ambrose altogether, to come to a private understanding with Midwinter in the sight and possibly in the hearing of Armadale's spy. Finding an old letter of yours in my pocket I drew back into the lane, and wrote on the blank leaf with a little pencil that hangs at my watch-chain. I must and will speak to you. It is impossible to-night, but be in the street to-morrow at this time, and leave me afterward for ever if you like. When you have read this, overtake me, and say as you pass, without stopping or looking round, yes, I promise." I folded up the paper, and came on him suddenly from behind. As he started and turned round I put the note into his hand, pressed his hand and passed on. Before I had taken ten steps I heard him behind me. I can't say he didn't look round. I saw his big black eyes, bright and glittering in the dusk devour me from head to foot in a moment, but otherwise he did what I told him. I can deny you nothing," he whispered. I promise. I couldn't help thinking at the time how that brute and booby Armadale would have spoiled everything in the same situation. I tried hard all night to think of a way of making our interview of the next evening safe from discovery, and tried in vain. Even as early as this I began to feel as if Midwinter's letter had in some unaccountable manner stupified me. Monday morning made matters worse. News came from my faithful ally, Mr. Bashwood, that Miss Millroy and Armadale had met and become friends again. You may fancy the state I was in. An hour or two later there came more news from Mr. Bashwood. Good news this time. The mischievous idiot at Thorpe Ambrose had shown sense enough at last to be ashamed of himself. He had decided on withdrawing the spy that very day, and he and his lawyer had quarrelled in consequence. So here was the obstacle which I was too stupid to remove for myself, obligingly removed for me. No more need to fret about the coming interview with Midwinter, and plenty of time to consider my next proceedings, now that Miss Millroy and her precious swain had come together again. Would you believe it the letter or the man himself, I don't know which, had taken such a hold on me, that though I tried and tried I could think of nothing else. And this when I had every reason to fear that Miss Millroy was in a fair way of changing her name to Armadale, and when I knew that my heavy debt of obligation to her was not paid yet. Was there ever such perversity? I can't account for it, can you? The dusk of the evening came at last. I looked out of the window, and there he was. I joined him at once. The people of the house as before being too much absorbed in their eating and drinking to notice anything else. We mustn't be seen together here," I whispered. I must go on first, and you must follow me. He said nothing in the way of reply. What was going on in his mind I can't pretend to guess. And after coming to his appointment he actually hung back as if he was half inclined to go away again. You look as if you were afraid of me," I said. I am afraid of you," he answered, of you and of myself. It was not encouraging, it was not complementary. But I was in such a frenzy of curiosity by this time that if he had been rude or still I should have taken no notice of it. I led the way a few steps toward the new buildings, and stopped and looked round after him. Must I ask it of you as a favour, I said, after you're giving me your promise, and after such a letter as you have written to me? Something suddenly changed him. He was at my side in an instant. I beg your pardon, Miss Guilt, lead the way where you please. He dropped back a little after that answer, and I heard him say to himself, What is to be will be, what have I to do with it, and what is she? It could hardly have been the words, for I didn't understand them. It must have been the tone he spoke in, I suppose, that made me feel a momentary tremor. I was half inclined, without the ghost of a reason for it, to wish him good night, and go in again. Not much like me, he will say. Not much indeed. It didn't last a moment. Your darling Lydia soon came to her senses again. I led the way toward the unfinished cottages, and the country beyond. It would have been much more to my taste to have had him into the house, and have talked to him in the light of the candles. But I had risked it once already, and in this scandal-mongering place, and in my critical position I was afraid to risk it again. The garden was not to be thought of either, for the landlord smokes his pipe there after supper. There was no alternative but to take him away from the town. From time to time I looked back as I went on. There he was, always at the same distance, dim and ghost-like in the dusk, silently following me. I must leave off for a little while. The church bells have broken out, and the jangling of them drives me mad. In these days when we have all got watches and clocks, why are bells wanted to remind us when the service begins? We don't require to be rung into the theatre, how excessively discreditable to the clergy to be obliged to ring us into the church. They have rung the congregation in at last, and I can take up my pen and go on again. I was in a little doubt where to lead him to. The high-road was on one side of me, but empty as it looked, somebody might be passing when we least expected it. The other way was through the coppice. I led him through the coppice. At the outskirts of the trees, on the other side, there was a dip in the ground with some felled timber lying on it, and a little pool beyond, still and white and shining in the twilight. The long grazing grounds rose over its furthest shore, with the mist thickening on them, and a dim black line far away of cattle in slow procession going home. There wasn't a living creature near, there wasn't a sound to be heard. I sat down on one of the felled trees and looked back for him. Come, I said softly, come and sit by me here. Why am I so particular about all this, I hardly know. The place made an unaccountably vivid impression on me, and I can't help writing about it. If I end badly, suppose we say on the scaphold, I believe the last thing I shall see, before the hangman pulls the drop, will be the little shining pool, and the long misty grazing grounds, and the cattle winding dimly home in the thickening night. Don't be alarmed, you worthy creature! My fancies play me strange tricks sometimes, and there is a little of last night's lodnum, I dare say, in this part of my letter. He came in the strangest silent way, like a man walking in his sleep. He came and sat down by me. Either the night was very close, or I was by this time literally in a fever. I couldn't bear my bonnet on. I couldn't bear my gloves. The want to look at him and see what his singular silence meant, and the impossibility of doing it in the darkening light irritated my nerves, till I thought I should have screamed. I took his hand to try if that would help me. It was burning hot, and it closed instantly on mine. You know how. Silence after that was not to be thought of. The one safe way was to begin talking to him at once. Don't despise me, I said. I'm obliged to bring you to this lonely place. I should lose my character if we were seen together. I waited a little. His hand warned me once more not to let the silence continue. I determined to make him speak to me this time. You have interested me and frightened me, I went on. You have written me a very strange letter. I must know what it means. It is too late to ask. You have taken the way, and I have taken the way, from which there is no turning back. He made that strange answer in a tone that was quite new to me, a tone that made me even more uneasy than his silence had made me the moment before. Too late, he repeated, too late. There is only one question to ask me now. What is it? As I said the words, a sudden trembling passed from his hand to mine, and told me instantly that I had better have held my tongue, before I could move, before I could think he had me in his arms. Ask me if I love you, he whispered. At the same moment his head sank on my bosom, and some unutterable torture that was in him burst its way out, as it does with us, in a passion of sobs and tears. My first impulse was the impulse of a fool. I was on the point of making our usual protest and defending myself in our usual way. Luckily or unluckily I don't know which, I have lost the fine edge of the sensitiveness of youth, and I checked the first movement of my hands and the first word on my lips. Oh, dear, how old I felt, while he was sobbing his heart out on my breast, how I thought of the time when he might have possessed himself of my love. All he had possessed himself of now was my waist. I wonder whether I pitied him. It doesn't matter if I did. At any rate my hand lifted itself somehow, and my fingers twined themselves softly in his hair. Horrible recollections came back to me of other times, and made me shudder as I touched him. And yet I did it. What fools women are! I won't reproach you, I said gently. I won't say this is a cruel advantage to take of me in such a position as mine. You are dreadfully agitated. I will let you wait a little and compose yourself. Having got as far as that, I stopped to consider how I should put the questions to him that I was burning to ask. But I was too confused, I suppose, or perhaps too impatient to consider. I let out what was uppermost in my mind. In the words that came first. I don't believe you love me. I said, you write strange things to me. You frighten me with mysteries. What did you mean by saying in your letter that it would be fatal to Mr. Armadale if you came back to me? What danger can there be to Mr. Armadale? Before I could finish the question he suddenly lifted his head and unclasped his arms. I had apparently touched some painful subject which recalled him to himself. Instead of my shrinking from him, it was he who shrank from me. I felt offended with him—why, I don't know, but offended I was, and I thanked him with my bitterest emphasis for remembering what was due to me at last. Do you believe in dreams? He burst out in the most strangely abrupt manner without taking the slightest notice of what I had said to him. Tell me," he went on without allowing me time to answer, were you or was any relation of yours ever connected with Alan Armadale's father or mother? Were you or was anybody belonging to you ever in the island of Madeira? Conceive my astonishment, if you can, I turned cold. In an instant I turned cold all over. He was plainly in the secret of what had happened when I was in Mrs. Armadale's service in Madeira. In all probability before he was born. That was startling enough of itself, and he had evidently some reason of his own for trying to connect me with those events, which was more startling still. No, I said, as soon as I could trust myself to speak I know nothing of his father or mother, and nothing of the island of Madeira, nothing of the island of Madeira. He turned his head away and began talking to himself. Strange," he said, as certainly as I was in the shadow's place at the window, she was in the shadow's place at the pool. Under other circumstances his extraordinary behaviour might have alarmed me, but after his question about Madeira there was some greater fear in me which kept all common alarm at a distance. I don't think I ever determined on anything in my life as I determined on finding out how he had got his information, and who he really was. It was quite plain to me that I had roused some hidden feeling in him by my question about Armadale, which was as strong in its way as his feeling for me. What had become of my influence over him? I couldn't imagine what had become of it, but I could and did set to work to make him feel it again. Don't treat me cruelly," I said, I didn't treat you cruelly just now. Oh, Mr. Midwinter, it's so lonely, it's so dark, don't frighten me. Frightened you? He was close to me again in a moment. Frightened you? He repeated the word with as much astonishment as if I'd woke him from a dream, and charged him with something he had said in his sleep. It was on the tip of my tongue, finding how I had surprised him to take him while he was off his guard, and to ask why my question about Armadale had produced such a change in his behaviour to me. But after what had happened already, I was afraid to risk returning to the subject too soon. Nothing or other, what they call an instinct, I daresay, warned me to let Armadale alone for the present, and to talk to him first about himself. As I told you in one of my early letters, I had noticed signs and tokens in his manner and appearance which convinced me, young as he was, that he had done something or suffered something out of the common in his past life. I had asked myself more and more suspiciously every time I saw him whether he was what he appeared to be, and first and foremost among my other doubts was a doubt whether he was passing among us by his real name. Having secrets to keep about my own past life, and having gone myself in other days by more than one assumed name, I suppose I am all the readyer to suspect other people when I find something mysterious about them. Anyway, having the suspicion in my mind, I determined to startle him as he had startled me by an unexpected question on my side, a question about his name. While I was thinking, he was thinking, and as it soon appeared of what I had just said to him, I am so grieved to have frightened you. He whispered, with that gentleness and humility, which we all so heartily despise in a man when he speaks to other women, and which we all so dearly like when he speaks to ourselves. I hardly know what I have been saying, he went on. My mind is miserably disturbed. May forgive me if you can, I am not myself to-night. I am not angry, I said. I have nothing to forgive. We are both imprudent, we are both unhappy. I laid my head on his shoulder. Do you really love me? I asked him softly in a whisper. His arms stole round me again, and I felt the quick beat of his heart get quicker and quicker. If you only knew, he whispered back. If you only knew. He could say no more. I felt his face bending towards mine, and dropped my head lower, and stopped him in the very act of kissing me. No, I said. I am only a woman who has taken your fancy. You was treating me as if I was your promised wife. Be my promised wife! He whispered eagerly, and tried to raise my head. I kept it down. The horror of these old remembrances that you know of came back and made me tremble a little when he asked me to be his wife. I don't think I was actually faint, but something like faintness made me close my eyes. The moment I shut them, the darkness seemed to open as if lightning had split it, and the ghosts of those other men rose in the horrid gap and looked at me. Speak to me! He whispered tenderly. My darling, my angel, speak to me! His voice helped me to recover myself. I had just sense enough left to remember that the time was passing, and that I had not put my question to him yet about his name. Suppose I felt for you as you feel for me! I said, suppose I loved you dearly enough to trust you with the happiness of all my life to come. I paused for a moment to get my breath. It was still unbearably still and close. The air seemed to have died when the night came. Would you be marrying me honorably? I went on, if you married me in your present name. His arm dropped from my waist, and I felt him give one great start. After that he sat by me still and cold and silent, as if my question had struck him dumb. I put my arm round his neck, and lifted my head again on his shoulder. Whatever the spell was I had laid on him, my coming closer in that way seemed to break it. Who told you? He stopped. No, he went on. Nobody can have told you. What made you suspect? He stopped again. Nobody told me, I said, and I don't know what made me suspect. Women have strange fancies sometimes. Is Midwinter really your name? I can't deceive you, he answered after another interval of silence. Midwinter is not really my name. I nestled a little closer to him. What is your name? I asked. He hesitated. I lifted my face till my cheek just touched his. I persisted, with my lips close at his ear. What! No confidence in me even yet! No confidence in the woman who has almost confessed she loves you, who has almost consented to be your wife! He turned his face to mine, for the second time he tried to kiss me, and for the second time I stopped him. If I tell you my name, he said, I must tell you more. I let my cheek touch his again. Why not? I said, how can I love a man much less marry him if he keeps himself a stranger to me? There was no answering that, as I thought, but he did answer it. It is a dreadful story, he said. It may darken all your life, if you know it, as it has darkened mine. I put my other arm around him and persisted. Tell it me, I am not afraid, tell it me. He began to yield to my other arm. Will you keep it a sacred secret, he said? Never to be breathed, never to be known but to you and me. I promised him it should be a secret. I waited in a perfect frenzy of expectation. Twice he tried to begin, and twice his courage failed him. I can't! He broke out in a wild, helpless way. I can't tell it. My curiosity, or more likely my temper, got beyond control. He had irritated me till I was reckless what I said or what I did. I suddenly clasped him close, and pressed my lips to his. I love you! I whispered in a kiss, now will you tell me? For the moment he was speechless. I don't know whether I did it purposely to drive him wild. I don't know whether I did it involuntarily in a burst of rage. Nothing is certain but that I interpreted his silence the wrong way. I pushed him back from me in a fury, the instant after I had kissed him. I hate you, I said. You have maddened me into forgetting myself. Leave me. I don't care for the darkness. Leave me instantly, and never see me again. He caught me by the hand and stopped me. He spoke in a new voice. He suddenly commanded, as only men can, sit down, he said, you have given me back my courage. You shall know who I am. In the silence and the darkness all around us I obeyed him, and sat down. In the silence and the darkness all around us he took me in his arms again, and told me who he was. Shall I trust you with his story? Shall I tell you his real name? Shall I show you as I threatened the thoughts that have grown out of my interview with him and out of all that has happened to me since that time? Or shall I keep his secret as I promised, and keep my own secret, too, by bringing this weary long letter to an end at the very moment when you are burning to hear more? Those are serious questions, Mrs. Oldershaw, more serious than you suppose. I've had time to calm down, and I begin to see what I failed to see when I first took up my pen to write to you, the wisdom of looking at consequences. Have I frightened myself in trying to frighten you? It is possible. As strange as it may seem, it is really possible. I have been at the window for the last minute or two, thinking. There is plenty of time for thinking before the post leaves. The people are only now coming out of church. I have settled to put my letter on one side and to take a look at my diary. In plainer words I must see what I risk if I decide on trusting you, and my diary will show me what my head is too weary to calculate without help. I have written the story of my days, sometimes the story of my nights, much more regularly than usual for the last week, having reasons of my own for being particularly careful in this respect under present circumstances. If I end in doing what is now in my mind to do, it would be madness to trust to my memory. The smallest forgetfulness of the slightest event that has happened from the night of my interview with Midwinter to the present time might be utter ruin to me. Utter ruin to her, you will say. What kind of ruin does she mean? Wait a little till I have asked my diary whether I can safely tell you. End of Book the 3rd Chapter 9 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere, Surrey.