 Book 3, CHAPTER X, PART 1 OF ARMADAL July 21, Monday night, eleven o'clock. Midwinter has just left me. We parted by my desire at the path out of the coppers. He is going his way to the hotel, and I am going to mine to my lodgings. I have managed to avoid making another appointment with him by arranging to write to him to-morrow morning. This gives me the night's interval to compose myself and to coax my mind back, if I can, to my own affairs. Will the night pass and the morning find me still thinking of the letter that came to him from his father's deathbed? Of the night he watched through on the wreck's ship, and more than all of the first breathless moment when he told me his real name? Would it help me to shake off these impressions, I wonder, if I made the effort of writing them down? There would be no danger in that case of my forgetting anything important. And perhaps, after all, it may be the fear of forgetting something which I ought to remember that keeps this story of midwinter's weighing as it does on my mind. At any rate, the experiment is worth trying. In my present situation I must be free to think of other things, or I shall never find my way through all the difficulties at Thorpe Ambrose that are still to come. Let me think. What haunts me to begin with? The names haunt me. I keep saying and saying to myself, both alike, Christian name and surname, both alike, a light-haired Alan Armadale whom I have long since known of, and who is the son of my old mistress, a dark-haired Alan Armadale whom I only know of now, and who is only known to others under the name of Ozzie as midwinter. Stranger still, it is not relationship, it is not chance that has made them namesakes. The father of the light Armadale was the man who was born to the family name, and who lost the family inheritance. The father of the dark Armadale was the man who took the name on condition of getting the inheritance, and who got it. So there are two of them. I can't help thinking of it, both unmarried. The light-haired Armadale who offers to the woman who can secure him, eight thousand a year while he lives, who leaves her twelve hundred a year when he dies, who must and shall marry me for those two golden reasons, and whom I hate and loathe as I never hated and loathe the man yet. And the dark-haired Armadale, who has a poor little income which might perhaps pay his wife's milliner if his wife was careful, who has just left me, persuaded that I mean to marry him, and whom, well, whom I might have loved once before I was the woman I am now. And Alan the Fair doesn't know he has a namesake, and Alan the Dark has kept the secret from everybody but the Somerset Shire clergyman whose discretion he can depend on and myself. And there are two Alan Armadales. Two Alan Armadales. Two Alan Armadales. There, three is a lucky number. Haunt me again after that if you can. What next? The murder in the Timbership. No, the murder is a good reason why the Dark Armadale whose father committed it should keep his secret from the Fair Armadale whose father was killed. But it doesn't concern me. I remember there was a suspicion in Madeira at the time of something wrong. Was it wrong? Was the man who had been tricked out of his wife to blame for shutting the cabin door and leaving the man who had tricked him to drown in the wreck? Yes, the woman wasn't worth it. What am I sure of that really concerns myself? I am sure of one very important thing. I am sure that midwinter I must call him by his ugly false name, or I may confuse the two Armadales before I have done. I am sure that midwinter is perfectly ignorant that I and the little imp of twelve years old who waited on Mrs Armadale in Madeira and copied the letters that were supposed to arrive from the West Indies are one and the same. There are not many girls of twelve who could have imitated a man's handwriting and held their tongues about afterward, as I did. But that doesn't matter now. What does matter is that midwinter's belief in the dream is midwinter's only reason for trying to connect with me and Alain Armadale by associating me with Alain Armadale's father and mother. I asked him if he actually thought me old enough to have known either of them. And he said no, poor fellow, in the most innocent bewildered way. Would he say no if he saw me now? Shall I turn to the glass and see if I look my five and thirty years, or shall I go on writing? I will go on writing. There is one thing more that haunts me almost as obstinately as the names. I wonder whether I am right in relying on midwinter superstition, as I do, to help me in keeping him at arm's length. After having let the excitement of the moment hurry me into saying more than I need have said, he is certain to press me. He is certain to come back, with a man's hateful selfishness and impatience in such things, to question of marrying me. Will the dream help me check him? After alternately believing and disbelieving in it, he has got, by his own confession, to believing in it again. Can I say I believe in it too? I have better reasons for doing so than he knows of. I am not the only person who helped Mrs. Armadale's marriage by helping her to impose on her own father. I am the woman who tried to drown herself, the woman who started the series of accidents which put young Armadale in possession of his fortune, the woman who has come thawp ambros to marry him for his fortune. Now he has got it. And more extraordinary still, the woman who stood in the shadow's place at the pool. These may be coincidences, but they are strange coincidences. I declare I begin to fancy that I believe in the dream too. Suppose I say to him, I think as you think. I say what you said in your letter to me. Let us part before the harm is done. Leave me before the third vision of the dream comes true. Leave me and put the mountains and the seas between you and the man who bears your name. Suppose on the other side that his love for me makes him reckless of everything else. Suppose he says those desperate words again which I understand now. What is to be will be. What have I to deal with it? And what is she? Suppose, suppose I won't write any more. I hate writing. It doesn't relieve me. It makes me worse. I'm further from being able to think of all that I must think of than I was when I sat down. It is past midnight. Tomorrow has come already and here I am as helpless as the stupidest woman living. Bed is the only fit place for me. Bed, if it was ten years since instead of today, and if I had married midwinter for love, I might be going to bed now with nothing heavier on my mind than a visit on tiptoe to the nursery and a last look at night to see if my children were sleeping quietly in their cribs. I wonder whether I should have loved my children if I had ever had any. Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. No, it doesn't matter. Tuesday morning, ten o'clock. Who was the man who invented Lordenham? I thank him from the bottom of my heart, whoever he is. If all the miserable wretches in pain of body and mind, whose comforter he has been, could meet together to sing his praises, what a chorus it would be. I have had six delicious hours of oblivion. I have woke up with my mind composed. I have written a perfect little letter to midwinter. I have drunk my nice cup of tea with a real relish of it. I have dawdled over my morning toilet with an exquisite sense of relief, and all through the modest little bottle of drops which I see on my bedroom chimney piece at this moment. Drops, you are a darling. If I love nothing else, I love you. My letter to midwinter has been sent through the post, and I have told him to reply to me in the same manner. I feel no anxiety about his answer. He can only answer in one way. I have asked for a little time to consider, because my family's circumstances require some consideration, in his interest as well as in mine. I have engaged to tell him what those circumstances are. What shall I say? I wonder. When we meet next, and I have requested him in the meantime to keep all that has passed between us a secret for the present. As to what he is to do himself in the interval, while I am supposed to be considering, I have left it to his own discretion, merely reminding him that he is attempting to see me again, while our positions towards each other cannot be openly avowed, might injure my reputation. I have offered to write to him if he wishes it, and I have ended by promising to make the interval of our necessary separation as short as I can. This sort of plain unaffected letter, which I might have written to him last night, if his story had not been running in my head as it did, has one defect I know. It certainly keeps him out of the way while I am casting my net and catching my goldfish at the Great House for the second time, but it also leaves an awkward day of reckoning to come with Midwinter if I succeed. How am I to manage him? What am I to do? I ought to face those two questions as boldly as usual, but somehow my courage seems to fail me, and I don't quite fancy meeting that difficulty till the time comes when it must be met. Shall I confess to my diary that I am sorry for Midwinter, and that I shrink a little from thinking of the day when he hears that I am going to be mistress at the Great House? But I am not mistress yet, and I can't take a step in that direction of the Great House till I have got the answer to my letter, and till I know that Midwinter is out of the way. Patience, patience. I must go and forget myself at my piano. There is the moonlight sonata open and tempting me on the music stand. Have I nerve enough to play it? I wonder. Or will it set me shuddering with the mystery and terror offered as it did the other day? Five o'clock. I have got his answer. The slightest request I can make is a command to him. He has gone, and he sends me his address in London. There are two considerations, he says, which help to reconcile me to leaving you. The first is that you wish it, and that is only to be for a little while. The second is that I think I can make some arrangements in London for adding to my income by my own labour. I have never cared for money for myself, but you don't know how I am beginning already to price the luxuries and refinements that money can provide, for my wife's sake. Poff, fellow. I almost wish I had not written to him as I did. I almost wish I had not sent him away from him. Fancy if Mother Older Shore saw this page in my diary. I have had a letter from her this morning, a letter to remind me of my obligations, and to tell me she suspects things are all going wrong. Let her suspect. I shan't trouble myself to answer. I can't be worried with that old wretch in the state I am in now. It is a lovely afternoon. I want to walk. I mustn't think of midwinter. Suppose I put on my bonnet and try my experiment at once at the great house. Everything is in my favour. There is no spy to follow me, and no lawyer to keep me out this time. Am I handsome enough today? Well, yes, handsome enough to be a match for a little dowdy, awkward, freckled creature, or to be perched on a form at school and strapped to a backboard to straighten her crooked shoulders. The nursery lisp out in all they utter. Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. How admirably Byron has described girls in their teens. Eight o'clock. I have just got back from Armadale's house. I have seen him and spoken to him, and the end of it may be sat down in three plain words. I have failed. There is no more chance of my being Mrs Armadale of Thorpe Ambrose than there is of me being Queen of England. Shall I write and tell old ashore? Shall I go back to London? Not till I have had time to think a little. Not just yet. Let me think. I have failed completely. Bailed, with all the circumstances in favour of success. I caught him alone on the drive in front of the house. He was excessively disconcerted, but at the same time quite willing to hear me. I tried him first quietly, then with tears, and the rest of it. I introduced myself in the character of the poor innocent woman whom he had been the means of injuring. I confused. I interested. I convinced him. I went on the purely Christian part of my errand, and spoke with such feeling of his separation from his friend, for which I was innocently responsible, that I turned his odious, rosy face quite pale, and made him beg me at last not to distress him. But whatever other feelings I roused in him, I never once roused his old feeling for me. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me. I fell to in his fingers when we shook hands. We parted friends, and nothing more. It is for this, is that, Ms Millroy, that I resisted temptation, morning after morning, when I knew you were out alone in the park. I have just left you time to slip in and take my place in Armadale's good graces, have I? I never resisted temptation yet, without suffering for it in some such way as this. If I had only followed my first thoughts on the day when I took leave of you, my young lady, well, well, never mind that now. I have got the future before me. You are not Mrs Armadale yet. And I can tell you one other thing. Whoever else he marries, he will never marry you. If I am even with you in no other way, trust me, whatever comes of it, to be even with you there. I am not, to my own surprise, in one of my furious passions. The last time I was in this perfectly cool state, under serious provocation, something came of it, which I dared write down, even in my own private diary. I shouldn't be surprised if something comes of it now. On my way back I called at Mr Bashwood's lodgings in the town. He was not at home, and I left a message telling him to come here tonight and speak to me. I mean to relieve him at once off the duty of looking after Armadale and Ms Millroy. I may not see my way yet to ruining her prospects or thought-ambros as completely as she has ruined mine, but when the time comes and I do see it, I don't know to what lengths my sense of injury may take me. And there may be inconvenience and possibly danger in having such a chicken-hearted creature as Mr Bashwood in my confidence. I suspect I am more upset by all this than I supposed. Midwinter's story is beginning to haunt me again, without rhyme or reason. A soft quick trembling knock at the street door. I know who it is. No hand but old Bashwood's could knock in that way. Nine o'clock. I have just got rid of him. He has surprised me by coming out in a new character. It seems, though I didn't detect him, he was at the great house while I was in company with Armadale. He saw us talking on the drive, and he afterward heard what the servants said, who saw us too. The wise opinion below stairs is that we have made it up, and that the master is likely to marry me after all. His sweet on her red hair was the elegant expression they used in the kitchen. Little Missy can't match her there, and Little Missy will get the worst of it. How I hate the coarse ways of the lower orders. While old Bashwood was telling me this, I thought he looked even more confused and nervous than usual. But I failed to see what was really the matter until after I had told him that he was to leave all further observation of Mr Armadale and Miss Milroy to me. Every drop of the little blood there is in the feeble old creature's body seemed to fly up into his face. He made quite an overpowering effort. He really looked as if he would drop down dead of fright at his own boldness. But he forced out the question for all that, stammering and stuttering and kneading desperately with both hands at the brim of his hideous great hat. I beg your pardon, Miss Guilt. You are not really going to marry Mr Armadale, are you? Jealous, if I ever saw it in a man's face yet, I saw it in his. Actually jealous of Armadale at his age? If I had been in the humour for it I should have burst out laughing in his face. As it was I was angry and lost all patience with him. I told him he was an old fool and ordered him to go on quietly with his usual business until I sent word that he was wanted again. He submitted as usual. But there was an indescribable something in his watery old eyes when he took leave of me, which I have never noticed in them before. Love has the credit of working all sorts of strange transformations. Can it be really possible that love has made Mr Bashwood man enough to be angry with me? Wednesday. My experience of Miss Milroy's habits suggested a suspicion to me last night, which I thought it desirable to clear up this morning. It was always her way, when I was at the cottage, to take a walk early in the morning before breakfast, considering that I used often to choose that very time for my private meetings with Armadale. It struck me as likely that my former pupil might be taking a leaf out of my book, and that I might make some desirable discoveries if I turn my steps in the direction of the major garden at the right hour. I deprived myself of my drops to make sure of waking, passed a miserable night in consequence, and was ready enough to get up at six o'clock and walk the distance from my lodgings to the cottage in the fresh morning air. I had not been five minutes on the park side of the garden in closure before I sat a come out. She seemed to have had a bad night too. Her eyes were heavy and red, and her lips and cheeks looked swollen as if she had been crying. There was something on her mind evidently, something as it soon appeared to take her out of the garden into the park. She walked, if one can call it walking, with such legs as hers, straight to the summerhouse and opened the door and crossed the bridge and went on quicker and quicker toward the low ground in the park where the trees are thickest. I followed her over the open space with perfect impunity in the preoccupied state she was in, and when she began to slacken her pace among the trees, I was among the trees too, and was not afraid of her seeing me. Before long there was a crackling and trampling of heavy feet coming up towards us through the underwood in a deep dip of the ground. I knew that step as well as she knew it. Here I am, she said in a faint little voice. I kept behind the trees a few yards off in some doubt on which side Armadale would come out of the underwood to join her. He came out up the side of the dell opposite to the tree behind which I was standing. They sat down together on the bank. I sat down behind the tree and looked at them through the underwood and heard without the slightest difficulty every word that they said. The talk began by his noticing that she looked out of spirits and asking if anything had gone wrong at the cottage. The artful little minx lost no time in making the necessary impression on him. She began to cry. He took her hand, of course, and tried in his brutishly straightforward way to comfort her. No, she was not to be comforted. A miserable prospect was before her. She had not slept the whole night for thinking of it. Her father had called her into his room the previous evening, had spoken about the state of her education, and had told her in so many words that she was to go to school. The place had been found and the terms had been settled. And as soon as her clothes could be got ready, Miss was to go. While that hateful Miss Guilt was in my house, says his model young person, I would have gone to school willingly. I wanted to go. But it's all different now. I don't think of it in the same way. I feel too old for school. I'm quite heartbroken, Mr. Armadale. There she stopped as if she had meant to say more, and gave him a look which finished the sentence plainly. I'm quite heartbroken, Mr. Armadale. Now we are friendly again at going away from you. For downright brace and impudence, which a grown woman would be ashamed of, give me the young girls whose modesty is so pertinaciously insisted on by the nauseous domestic sentimentalist of the present day. Even Armadale, booby as he is, understood her, after bewildering himself in a labyrinth of words that led nowhere. He took her, one can hardly say round the waist, for she hasn't got one. He took her around the last hooker nigh of her dress, and by way of offering her a refuge from the indignity of being sent to school at her age, made her a proposal of marriage in so many words. If I could have killed them both at that moment by lifting up my little finger, I have not the least out that I should have lifted it. As things were, I only waited to see what Miss Milrow would do. She appeared to think it necessary, feeling, I suppose, that she had met him without her father's knowledge, and not forgetting that I had had the start of her as the favourite object of Mr Armadale's good opinion, to assert herself by an explosion of virtuous indignation. She wondered how he could think of such a thing after his conduct with Miss Guilt, and after her father had forbidden him the house. Did he want to make her feel how inexcusably she had forgotten what was due to herself? Was it worthy of a gentleman to propose what he knew as well as she did was impossible? And so on and so on. Any man with brains in his head would have known what all this road of monitor really meant. Armadale took it so seriously that he actually attempted to justify himself. He declared in his headlong blundering way that he was quite in earnest. He and her father might make it up and be friends again, and if the major persisted in treating him as a stranger. Young ladies and gentlemen in their situation had made runaway marriages before now, and fathers and mothers who wouldn't forgive them before had forgiven them afterward. Such outrageously straightforward love-making assist left Miss Mulroy, of course, but two alternatives, to confess that she had been saying no when she meant yes, or to take refuge in another explosion. She was hypocrite enough to prefer another explosion. How dare you, Mr. Armadale! Go away directly! It's inconsiderate, it's heartless, it's perfectly disgraceful to say such things to me, and so on and so on. It seems incredible, but it is not the less true, that he was positively full enough to take her at her word. He begged her pardon and went away like a child that is put in the corner, the most contemptible object in the form of a man that eyes ever looked on. She waited after he had gone to compose herself, and I waited behind the trees to see how she would succeed. Her eyes wandered round slyly to the path by which he had left her. She smiled. Grind would be the truer way of putting it, with such a mouth as hers. Took a few steps on tiptoe to look after him, turned back again, and suddenly burst into a violent fit of crying. I am not quite so easily taken in as Armadale, and I saw what it all meant plainly enough. Tomorrow, I thought to myself, you will be in the park again, miss, by pure accident. The next day, you will lead him on into proposing to you for the second time. The day after, he will venture back to the subject of runaway marriages, and you will only be becomingly confused. And the day after that, if he has got a plan to propose, and if you're closer ready to be packed for school, you will listen to him. Yes, yes. Time is always on the man's side, where a woman is concerned, if the man is only patient enough to let time help him. I let her leave the place and go back to the cottage, quite unconscious, that I had been looking at her. I waited among the trees, thinking. The truth is, I was impressed by what I had heard and seen, in a manner that is not very easy to describe. I put the whole thing before me in a new light. It showed me what I had never even suspected till this morning. That she is really fond of him. Heavy as my debt of obligation is to her, there is no fear now of my failing to pay it to the last farthing. It would have been no small triumph for me to stand between Miss Millroy and her ambition to be one of the leading ladies of the county. But it is infinitely more where her first love is concerned, to stand between Miss Millroy and her heart's desire. Shall I remember my own youth and spare her? No. She has deprived me of the one chance I had of breaking the chain that binds me to a past life too horrible to be thought of. I am thrown back into a position compared to which the position of an outcast who walks the streets is endurable and enviable. No, Miss Millroy. No, Mr. Armadale. I will spare neither of you. End of Chapter 10, Part 1 Book 3, Chapter 10, Part 2 of Armadale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Magdalena Cook. Armadale by Wilkie Collins. Chapter 10, Part 2 I have been back some hours. I have been thinking and nothing has come of it. Ever since I got that strange letter of midwinter's last Sunday, my usual readiness in emergencies has deserted me. When I am not thinking of him or his story, my mind feels quite stupefied. I, who have always known what to do on other occasions, don't know what to do now. It would be easy enough, of course, to warn Major Millroy of his daughter's proceedings. But the Major is fond of his daughter. Armadale is anxious to be reconciled with him. Armadale is rich and prosperous and ready to submit to the elder man, and sooner or later they will be friends again, and the marriage will follow. Warning Major Millroy is only the way to embarrass them for the present. It is not the way to part them for good and all. What is the way? I can't see it. I could tear my own hair off my head. I could burn the house down. If there was a train of gunpowder under the whole world, I could light it and blow the whole world to destruction. I am in such a rage, such a frenzy with myself for not seeing it. Poor dear midwinter. Yes, dear, I don't care. I'm lonely and helpless. I want somebody who is gentle and loving to make much of me. I wish I had his head on my bosom again. I have a good mind to go to London and marry him. Am I mad? Yes, all people who are as miserable as I am are mad. I must go to the window and get some air. Shall I jump out? No, it disfigures one so. And the coroner's inquest lets so many people see it. The air has revived me. I begin to remember that I have time on my side at any rate. Nobody knows but me of their secret meetings in the park the first thing in the morning. If jealous old Bashwood, who is slinking and sly enough for anything, tries to look privately after Armadale in his own interest, he will try at the usual time when he goes to the steward's office. He knows nothing of Miss Milroy's early habits, and he won't be on the spot till Armadale has got back to the house. For another week to come, I may wait and watch them, and choose my own time and way of interfering. The moment I see a chance of his getting the better of her hesitation. And making her say yes. So here I wait, without knowing how things will end with midwinter in London, with my purse getting emptier and emptier, and no appearance so far of any new pupils to fill it. With mother older sure certain to insist on having her money back the moment she knows I have failed, without prospects, friends, or hopes of any kind, a lost woman if ever there was a lost woman yet. Well, I say it again and again and again, I don't care. Here I stop, if I sell the clothes off my back, if I hire myself at the public house to play the broods in the taproom. Here I stop till the time comes, and I see the way to parting Armadale and Miss Milroy forever. Seven o'clock, any signs that the time is coming yet? I hardly know. There are signs of a change at any rate in my position in the neighbourhood. Two of the oldest and ugliest of the many old and ugly ladies who took up my case when I left Major Milroy's service have just called, announcing themselves with the insufferable impudence of charitable English women as the deputation from my patroness. It seems that the news of my reconciliation with Armadale has spread from the servants' offices at the Great House, and has reached the town with this result. It is the unanimous opinion of my patroness, and the opinion of Major Milroy also, who has been consulted, that I have acted with the most inexcusable imprudence in going to Armadale's house, and in there speaking on friendly terms with a man whose conduct toward myself has made his name a byword in the neighbourhood. My total want of self-respect in this matter has given rise to a report that I am trading as clever as ever on my good looks, and that I am as likely as not to end in making Armadale marry me after all. My patronesses are, of course, too charitable to believe this. They merely feel it necessary to remonstrate with me in a Christian spirit, and to warn me that any second and similar imprudence on my part would force all my best friends in the plate to withdraw the countenance and protection which I now enjoy. Having addressed me turn and turn about, in these terms, evidently all rehearse beforehand, my two gorgon visitors straighten themselves in their chairs and looked at me as much as to say, you may often have heard of virtue, Miss Guilt, but we don't believe you ever really saw it in full bloom till we came and called on you. Seeing they were bent on provoking me, I kept my temper and answered them in my smoothest, sweetest and most ladylike manner. I have noticed that the Christianity of a certain class of respectable people begins when they open their prayer books at 11 o'clock on Sunday morning, and ends when they shut them up again at one o'clock on Sunday afternoon. Nothing so astonishes and insults Christians of this sort as reminding them of their Christianity on a weekday. On this hint, as the man says in the play, I spoke. What have I done that is wrong, I asked innocently. Mr. Armadale has injured me, and I have been to his house and forgiven him the injury. Surely there must be some mistake, ladies. You can't have really come here to remonstrate with me in a Christian spirit for performing an act of Christianity. The two gorgons got up. I firmly believe some women have cats' tails as well as cats' faces. I firmly believe the tails of those two particular cats wagged slowly under their petticoats, and swelled to four times their proper size. Tempor we were prepared for, Miss Guilt, they said, but not profanity. We wish you good evening. So they left me, and so Miss Guilt sinks out of the patronising notice of the neighbourhood. I wonder what will come of this Trumpary little quarrel. One thing will come of it which I can see already. The report will reach Miss Milroy's ears. She will insist on Armadale's justifying himself, and Armadale will end in satisfying her of his innocence by making another proposal. This will be quite likely to hasten matters between them, at least it would with me. If I was in her place, I should say to myself, I will make sure of him while I can. Supposing it doesn't rain tomorrow morning, I think I will take another early walk in the direction of the park. Midnight. As I can't take my drops with a morning walk before me, I may as well give up all hope of sleeping and go on with my diary. Even with my drops, I doubt if my head would be very quiet on my pillow tonight. Since the little excitement of the scene with my Lady Patronesses has worn off, I have been troubled with misgivings which would leave me but a poor chance under any circumstances of getting much rest. I can't imagine why, but the parting words spoken to Armadale by the old brute of a lawyer have come back to my mind. Here they are, as reported in Mr Bashwood's letter. 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. What does he mean by that? What did he mean afterward when he overtook old Bashwood in the drive, by telling him to gratify his curiosity? Does this hateful pet-gift actually suppose there is any chance? Ridiculous. Why, I have only to look at the feeble old creature, and he dant lift his little finger unless I tell him. He tried to pry into my past life, indeed. Why, people with ten times his brains and a hundred times his courage have tried, and have left off as wise as they began. I don't know, though. It might have been better if I had kept my temper when Bashwood was here the other night. And it might be better still if I saw him tomorrow and took him back into my good-graces by giving him something to do for me. Suppose I tell him to look after the two pet-gifts, and to discover whether there is any chance of their attempting to renew their connection with Armadale. No such thing is at all likely, but if I gave old Bashwood this commission, it would flatter his senses of his own importance to me, and would at the same time serve the excellent purpose of keeping him out of my way. Thursday morning, nine o'clock, I have just got back from the park. For once I have proved the true prophet. There they were together, at the same early hour, in the same secluded situation among the trees, and there was miss in full possession of the report of my visit to the Great House, and taking her tone accordingly. After saying one or two things about me, which I promise him not to forget, Armadale took the way to convince her of his constancy, which I felt beforehand he would be driven to take. He repeated his proposal of marriage with excellent effect this time. Tears and kisses and protestations followed, and my late pupil opened her heart at last in the most innocent manner. Home, she confessed, was getting so miserable to her now, that it was only less miserable than going to school. Her mother's temper was becoming more violent and unmanageable every day. The nurse, who was the only person with any influence over her, had gone away in disgust. Her father was becoming more and more immersed in this clock, and was made more and more resolute to send her away from home by the distressing scenes which now took place with her mother almost day by day. I waited through these domestic disclosures, on the chance of hearing any plans they might have for the future discussed between them. And my patience, after no small exercise of it, was rewarded at last. The first suggestion, as was only natural where such a fool as Armadale was concerned, came from the girl. She started an idea which I own I had not anticipated. She proposed that Armadale should write to her father, and cleverer still, she prevented all fear of his blundering by telling him what he was to say. He was to express himself as deeply distressed at his estrangement from the major, and to request permission to call at the cottage, and say a few words in his own justification. That was all. The letter was not to be sent that day, for the applicants for the vacant place of Mrs. Milroy's nurse was coming. And seeing them and questioning them would put her father, with this dislike of such things, in no humour to receive Armadale's application indulgently. The Friday would be the day to send the letter, and on the Saturday morning if the answer was unfortunately not favourable, they might meet again. I don't like deceiving my father, he has always been so kind to me, and there will be no need to deceive him, Allent, if we can only make you friends again. Those were the last words the little hypocrite said when I left them. What will major do? Saturday morning will show. I won't think of it till Saturday morning has come and gone. They are not man and wife yet, and again and again I say it, though my brains are still as helpless as ever, man and wife they shall never be. On my way home again I caught Bashwood at his breakfast, with his poor old black teapot, and his little penny loaf, and his one cheap morsel of oily butter, and his darn dirty tablecloth. It sickens me to think of it. I coaxed and comforted the miserable old creature till the tear stored in his eyes, and he quite blushed with pleasure. He undertakes to look after the pet-gifts with the utmost alacrity. Pet-gifts the elder, he described, when once roused as the most obstinate man living. Nothing will induce him to give way, unless Armadol gives way also on his side. Pet-gifts the younger is much more the likely of the two to make attempts at a reconciliation. Such, at least, is Bashwood's opinion. It is of very little consequence now what happens either way. The only important thing is to tie my elder admira safely again to my apron-string, and this is done. The post is late this morning. It has only just come in, and has brought me a letter from midwinter. It is a charming letter. It flatters me and flutters me as if I was a young girl again. No reproaches for my never having written to him. No hateful hurrying off me. In plain words, to marry him. He only writes to tell me a piece of news. He has obtained, through his lawyer, a prospect of being employed as occasional correspondent to a newspaper, which is about to be started in London. The employment will require him to leave England for the continent, which would exactly meet his own wishes for the future. But he cannot consider the proposal seriously, until he has first ascertained whether it would meet my wishes too. He knows no will but mine, and he leaves me to decide. After first mentioning the time allowed him before his answer must be sent in. It is the time, of course, if I agree to his going abroad, in which I must marry him. But there is not a word about this in his letter. He asks for nothing but a sight of my handwriting to help him through the interval while we are separated from each other. That is the letter, not very long, but so prettily expressed. I think I can penetrate the secret of his fancy for going abroad. That wild idea of putting the mountains and the seas between Armadale and himself is still in his mind. As if either he or I could escape doing what we are fated to do, supposing we really are fated, by putting a few hundred or a few thousand miles between Armadale and ourselves. What strange absurdity and inconsistency. And yet how I like him for being absurd and inconsistent. For don't I see plainly that I am at the bottom of it all? Who leaves this clever man astray in spite of himself? Who makes him too blind to see the contradiction in his own conduct, which he would see plainly in the conduct of another person? How I interested I do feel in him. How dangerously near I am to shutting my eyes on the past and letting myself love him. Was he fonder of Adam than ever? I wonder, after she had coaxed him into eating the apple, I should have quite doted on him if I had been in her place. Memorandum, to write midwinter charming little letter on my side, with a kiss in it, and as time is allowed him before he sends in his answer, to ask for time too, before I tell him whether I will or will not go abroad. Five o'clock. A tiresome visit from my landlady, eager for a little gossip, and full of news which she thinks will interest me. She is acquainted, I find, with Mrs. Milroy's late nurse, and she has been seeing her friend off at the station this afternoon. They talked, of course, of affairs at the cottage, and my name found its way into the conversation. I am quite wrong, it seems, if the nurse's authority is to be trusted, in believing Mrs. Milroy to be responsible for sending Mr. Armadale to my reference in London. Mrs. Milroy really knew nothing about it, and it all originated in her mother's mad jealousy of me. The present wretched state of things at the cottage is due entirely to the same cause. Mrs. Milroy is firmly persuaded that my remaining at Thorpe Ambrose is referable to my having some private means of communicating with the major, which it is impossible for her to discover. With this conviction in her mind she has become so unmanageable that no person, with any chance of bettering herself, could possibly remain in attending her, and sooner or later the major, object to her as he may, will be obliged to place her under proper medical care. That is the summoned substance of what the wearisome lady had to tell me. Unnecessary to say that I was not in the least interested by it, even if the nurse's assertion is to be depended on, which I persist in doubting, it is of no importance now. I know that Miss Milroy, and nobody but Miss Milroy, has utterly ruined my prospect of becoming Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe Ambrose. I care to know nothing more. If her mother was really alone in the attempt to expose my false reference, her mother seems to be suffering for it at any rate. And so good-bye to Mrs. Milroy, and heaven defend me from any more last glimpses at the cottage seen through the medium of my landlady's spectacles. Nine o'clock. Bashford has just left me, having come with news from the Great House. Pet Gift the Younger has made his attempt at bringing about a reconciliation this very day, and has failed. I am the sole cause of the failure. Armadale is quite willing to be reconciled if Pet Gift the Elder will avoid all future occasion of disagreement between them, by never recurring to the subject of misguilt. This, however, happens to be exactly the condition which Pet Gift's father, with his opinion of me and my doings, should consider it his duty to Armadale not to accept. So lawyer and client remain as far apart as ever, and the obstacle of the Pet Gift's is cleared out of my way. It might have been a very awkward obstacle, so far as Pet Gift the Elder is concerned, if one of his suggestions had been carried out. I mean, if an officer of the London Police had been brought down here to look at me. It is a question, even now, whether I had better not take to the thick veil again, which I always wear in London and other large places. The only difficulty is that it would excite remark in this inquisitive little town to see me wearing a thick veil for the first time in summer weather. It is close on ten o'clock. I have been dawdling over my diary longer than I supposed. No words can describe how weary and languid I feel. Why don't I take my sleeping drops and go to bed? There is no meeting between Armadale and Miss Milroy to force me into early rising tomorrow morning. Am I trying for the hundredth time to see my way clearly into the future? Trying in my present state of fatigue, to be the quick-witted woman I once was, before all these anxieties came together and overpowered me? Or am I perversely afraid of my bed when I want it most? I don't know. I am tired and miserable. I am looking wretchedly haggard and old. With a little encouragement, I might be full enough to burst out crying. Luckily, there is no one to encourage me. What sort of a night is it, I wonder? A cloudy night with the moon showing at intervals and the wind rising. I can just hear it moaning the ins and outs of the unfinished cottages at the end of the street. One nerves must be a little shaken, I think. I was startled just now by a shadow on the wall. It was only after a moment or two that I musted sense enough to notice where the candle was, and to see that the shadow was my own. Shadows remind me of midwinter. Or, if the shadows don't, something else does. I must have another look at his letter. And then I will positively go to bed. I shall end in getting fond of him, if I remain much longer in this lonely, uncertain state. So irresolute, so unlike my usual self, I shall end in getting fond of him. What madness, as if I could ever be really fond of a man again. Suppose I took one of my sudden resolutions and married him. Poor as he is, he would give me a name and a position if I became his wife. Let me see how the name, his own name, would look if I really did consent to it for mine. Mrs. Armadale. Pretty. Mrs. Alan Armadale. Pretty as still. My nerves must be shaken. Here is my own handwriting startling me now. It is so strange it is enough to startle anybody. The similarity in the two names never struck me in this light before. Marry which of the two I might. My name would, of course, be the same. I should have been Mrs. Armadale if I had married the light-haired Alan at the Great House. And I can be Mrs. Armadale still if I married the dark-haired Alan in London. It is almost maddening to write it down, to feel that something ought to come of it, and to find nothing come. How can anything come of it? If I did go to London and marry him, as of course I must marry him under his real name, would he let me be known by it afterward? With all his reasons for concealing his real name, he would insist. No. He is too fond of me to do that. He would entreat me to take the name which he has assumed. Mrs. Midwinter. Hideous. Oseous too, when I wanted to address him familiarly. As his wife should. Worse than hideous. And yet there would be some reason for humoring him in this if he asked me. Suppose the brute at the Great House happened to leave this neighbourhood as a single man. And suppose in his absence any of the people who know him heard of a Mrs. Alan Armadale. They would set her down at once as his wife. Even if they actually saw me, if I actually came among them with that name, and if he was not present to contradict it, his own servants would be the first to say. We knew she would marry him, after all. And my lady, patronesses, who will be ready to believe anything of me now we have quarrelled, would join the chorus, Sotto Voici. Only think, my dear, the report that so shocked us actually turns out to be true. No. If I marry Midwinter, I must either be perpetually putting my husband and myself in a false position. Or I must leave his real name, his pretty romantic name, behind me at the church door. My husband, as if I was really going to marry him. I am not going to marry him, and there's an end of it. Half past ten, oh dear, oh dear, how my temples throb, and how hot my weary eyes feel. There is the moon looking at me through the window. How fast the little scattered clouds are flying before the wind. Now they let the moon in, and now they shut the moon out. What strange shapes the patches of yellow light take, and lose again. All in a moment. No peace and quiet for me, look where I may. The candles keep flickering, and the very sky itself is restless tonight. To bed, to bed, as Lady Macbeth says. I wonder, by the by, what Lady Macbeth would have done in my position. She would have killed somebody when her difficulties first began. Probably Armadale. Friday morning. A night's rest, thanks again to my drops. I went to breakfast in bed of spirits, and received a morning welcome in the shape of a letter from Mrs. Aldershaw. My silence has produced its effect on Mother Jezebel. She attributes it to the right course, and she shows her claws at last. If I am not in a position to pay my note of hand for thirty pounds, which is due on Tuesday next, her lawyer is instructed to take the usual course. If I am not in a position to pay it. Why, when I have settled today with my landlord, I shall have barely five pounds left. There is not the shadow of a prospect between now and Tuesday of my earning any money, and I don't possess a friend in this place who would trust me with six pence. The difficulties that are swarming around me wanted but one more to complete them, and that one has come. Midwinter would assist me, of course, if I could bring myself to ask him for assistance. But that means marrying him. Am I really desperate enough and helpless enough to end it in that way? No, not yet. My head feels heavy. I must get out into the fresh air and think about it. Two o'clock. I believe I have caught the infection of midwinter superstition. I begin to think that events are forcing me nearer and nearer to some end, which I don't see yet, but which I am firmly persuaded is now not far off. I have been insulted, deliberately insulted before witness, by Miss Milroy. After walking, as usual, in the most unfrequited place I could pick out, and after trying, not very successfully, to think to some good purpose of what I am to do next, I remembered that I needed some note, paper and pens, and went back to town to the station or shop. It might have been wiser to have sent for what I wanted, but I was weary of myself and weary of my lonely rooms, and I did not own errand. For no better reason than that, it was something to do. I had just got into the shop and was asking for what I wanted, when another customer came in. We both looked up and recognized each other at the same moment, Miss Milroy. A woman and a lad were behind the counter, besides the man who was serving me. The woman civilly addressed the new customer. What can we have the pleasure of doing for you, Miss? After pointing at first, by looking me straight in the face, she answered. Nothing, thank you, at present. I'll come back when the shop is empty. She went out. The three people in the shop looked at me in silence. In silence, on my side, I paid for my purchases and left the place. I don't know how I might have felt if I had been in my usual spirits. In the anxious, unsettled state I am in now, I can't deny it, the girl stung me. In the weakness of the moment, for it was nothing else, I was on the point of matching her petty spitefulness by spitefulness quite as petty on my side. I had actually got as far as the whole length of the street, on my way to the Major's cottage, bet on telling him the secret of his daughter's morning walks, before my better sense came back to me. When I did cool down, I turned round at once and took the way home. No, no, Miss Millroy, mere temporary mischief-making at the cottage, which would only end in your father forgiving you and an armadale profiting by his indulgence, will nothing like pay the debt I owe you. I don't forget that your heart is set on armadale, and that the Major, however he may talk, has always ended hitherto in giving you your own way. My head may be getting duller and duller, but it has not quite failed me yet. In the meantime, there is Mother Older Shaw's letter waiting obstinately to be answered. And here am I, not knowing what to do about it yet. Shall I answer it or not? It doesn't matter for the present. There are some hours still to spare before the post goes out. Suppose I asked armadale to lend me the money. I should enjoy getting something out of him, and I believe in his present situation with Miss Millroy he would do anything to be rid of me. Mean enough this, on my part. Who? When you hate and despise a man, as I hate and despise armadale, who cares for looking mean in his eyes? And yet, my pride or something else, I don't know what, shrinks from it. Half past two. Only half past two. Oh, the dreadful weariness of these long summer days. I can't keep thinking and thinking any longer. I must do something to relieve my mind. Can I go to my piano? No, I'm not fit for it. Work? No, I shall get thinking again if I try to take to my needle. A man in my place would find refuge and drink. I am not a man, and I can't drink. I'll dawdle over my dresses and put my things tidy. Has an hour passed? More than an hour. It seems like a minute. I can't look back through these leaves, but I know I wrote somewhere that I felt myself getting nearer and nearer to some end that was still hidden from me. The end is hidden no longer. The cloud is off my mind. The blindness has gone from my eyes. I see it. I see it. It came to me. I never saw it. If I was lying on my death bed, I could swear with a safe conscience I never saw it. I was only looking over my things. I was as idly and as frivolously employed as the most idle and most frivolous woman living. I went through my dresses and my linen. What could be more innocent? Children go through their dresses and their linen. It was such a long summer day and I was so tired of myself. I went to my boxes next. I looked over the large box first, which I usually leave open, and then I tried the small box, which I always keep locked. From one thing to the other, I came at last to the bundle of letters at the bottom. The letters of the man for whom I once sacrificed and suffered everything. The man who has made me what I am. A hundred times I had determined to burn his letters, but I have never burned them. This time all I said was, I won't read his letters, and I did read them. The villain. The false, cowardly, heartless villain. What have I to do with his letters now? Oh, the misery of being a woman. Oh, the meanness that our memory of a man can tempt us to, when our love for him is dead and gone. I read the letters. I was so lonely and so miserable, I read the letters. I came to the last, the letter he wrote to encourage me, when I hesitated, as the terrible time came nearer and nearer. The letter that revived me when my resolution failed at the eleventh hour. I read on, line after line, till I came to these words. I really have no patience with such absurdities as you have written to me. You say I am driving you on to do what is beyond a woman's courage. Am I? I might refer you to any collection of trials, English or foreign, to show you that you are utterly wrong. But such collections may be beyond your reach. And I will only refer you to a case in yesterday's newspaper. The circumstances are totally different from our circumstances, but the example of resolution in a woman is an example worth your notice. You will find among the law reports a married woman charged with fraudulently representing herself to be the missing widow of an officer in the merchant service, who was supposed to have been drowned. The name of the prisoner's husband, living, and the name of the officer, a very common one, both as to Christian and surname, happened to be identically the same. There was money to be got by it, sorely wanted by the prisoner's husband, to whom she was devotedly attached, if the fraud had succeeded. The woman took it all on herself, her husband was hapless and ill, and the bailiffs were after him. The circumstances, as you may read for yourself, were all in her favor, and were so well managed by her that the lawyers themselves acknowledged she might have succeeded if the supposed drowned man had not turned up alive and well in the nick of time to confront her. The scene took place at the lawyer's office and came out in the evidence at the police court. The woman was handsome. And the sailor was a good-natured man. He wanted at first, if the lawyers would have allowed him, to let her off. He said to her, among other things, you didn't count on the drowned man coming back alive and hardy, did you, ma'am? It was lucky for you, she said, I didn't count on it. You escaped the sea, but you wouldn't have escaped me. Why, what would you have done if you had known I was coming back, says the sailor? She looked him steadily in the face and answered, I would have killed you. There. Do you think such a woman as that would have written to tell me I was pressing her further than she had courage to go? A handsome woman, too, like yourself. You would drive some men in my position to wish they had her now in your place. I read no further. When I had got on, line by line, to those words, it burst on me like a flash of lightning. In an instant I saw it as plainly as I see it now. It is horrible. It is unheard of. It out-dares all daring. But, if I can only nerve myself to face one terrible necessity, it is to be done. I may personate the richly provided widow of Alan Armadale of Thorpe Ambrose, if I can count on Alan Armadale's death in a given time. There, in plain words is the frightful temptation under which I now feel myself sinking. It is frightful in more ways than one, for it has come straight out of that other temptation to which I yielded in the bygone time. Yes, there the letter has been waiting for me in my box to serve a purpose never thought of by the villain who wrote it. There is the case, as he called it, only quoted to taunt me, utterly unlike my own case at the time. There it has been waiting and lurking for me through all the changes in my life till it has come to be like my case at last. It might startle any woman to see this, and even this is not the worst. The whole thing has been in my diary for days past without my knowing it. Every idle fancy that escaped me has been tending secretly that one way, and I never saw, never suspected it, till the reading of the letter put my own thoughts before me in a new light, till I saw the shadow of my own circumstances suddenly reflected in one special circumstance of that other woman's case. It is to be done if I can but look the necessity in the face. It is to be done if I can count on Alan Armadale's death in a given time. All but his death is easy. The whole series of events under which I have been blindly chafing and fretting for more than a week past have been, one and all, though I was too stupid to see it, events in my favor, events paving the way smoothly and more smoothly straight to the end. In three bold steps only three that end might be reached. Let midwinter marry me privately, under his real name. Step the first. Let Armadale leave Thorpe Ambrose a single man, and die in some distant place among strangers. Step the second. Why am I hesitating? Why not go on to step the third and last? I will go on. Step the third and last is my appearance after the announcement of Armadale's death has reached this neighborhood in the character of Armadale's widow, with my marriage certificate in my hand, to prove my claim. It is as clear as the sun at noonday, thanks to the exact similarity between the two names, and thanks to the careful manner in which the secret of that similarity has been kept. I may be the wife of the dark Alan Armadale, known as such to nobody but my husband and myself, and I may, out of that very position, claim the character of widow of the light Alan Armadale, with proof to support me in the shape of my marriage certificate, which would be proof in the estimation of the most incredulous person living. To think of my having put all this in my diary, to think of my having actually contemplated this very situation, and having seen nothing more in it at the time than a reason, if I married midwinter, for consenting to appear in the world under my husband's assumed name. What is it daunts me? The dread of obstacles? The fear of discovery? Where are the obstacles? Where is the fear of discovery? I am actually suspected all over the neighborhood of intriguing to be mistress of Thorpe Ambrose. I am the only person who knows the real turn that Armadale's inclinations have taken. Not a creature but myself is as yet aware of his early morning meetings with Miss Milroy. If it is necessary to part them, I can do it at any moment by an anonymous line to the major. If it is necessary to remove Armadale from Thorpe Ambrose, I can get him away at three days notice. His own lips informed me, when I last spoke to him, that he would go to the ends of the earth to be friends again with midwinter, if midwinter would let him. I have only to tell midwinter to write from London and ask to be reconciled, and midwinter would obey me, and to London Armadale would go. Every difficulty at starting is smoothed over ready to my hand. Every after difficulty I could manage for myself. In the whole venture, desperate as it looks to pass myself off for the widow of one man, while I am all the while the wife of the other, there is absolutely no necessity that wants twice considering, but the one terrible necessity of Armadale's death. His death it might be a terrible necessity to any other woman, but is it ought it to be terrible to me? I hate him for his mother's sake. I hate him for his own sake. I hate him for going to London behind my back, and making inquiries about me. I hate him for forcing me out of my situation before I wanted to go. I hate him for destroying all my hopes of marrying him, and throwing me back helpless on my own miserable life. But oh, after what I have done already in the past time, how can I? How can I? The girl, too. The girl who has come between us, who has taken him away from me, who has openly insulted me this very day. How the girl whose heart is set on him would feel if he died. What a vengeance on her if I did it. And when I was received as Armadale's widow, what a triumph for me. Triumph, it is more than triumph, it is the salvation of me. A name that can't be assailed, a station that can't be assailed, to hide myself in from my past life. Comfort, luxury, wealth, an income of twelve hundred a year, secured to me, secured by a will which has been looked at by a lawyer, secured independently of anything Armadale can say or do himself. I never had twelve hundred a year. At my luckiest time I never had half as much, really my own. What have I got now? Just five pounds left in the world and the prospect next week of a debtor's prison. But oh, after what I have done already in the past time, how can I? How can I? Some women in my place and with my recollections to look back on would feel differently. Some women would say it's easier the second time than the first. Why can't I? Why can't I? Oh, you devil tempting me! Is there no angel near to raise some timely obstacle between this and tomorrow which might help me give it up? I shall sink under it. I shall sink if I write or think of it any more. I'll shut up these leaves and go out again. I'll get some common person to come with me and we will talk of common things. I'll take out the woman of the house and her children. We will go and see something. There is a show of some kind in the town. I'll treat them to it. I'm not such an ill-natured woman when I try, and the landlady has really been kind to me. Surely I might occupy my mind a little in seeing her and her children enjoying themselves. A minute since I shut up these leaves as I said I would, and now I have opened them again. I don't know why. I think my brain is turned. I feel as if something was lost out of my mind. I feel as if I ought to find it here. I have found it. Midwinter. Is it possible that I can have been thinking of the reasons for and against for an hour past writing Midwinter's name over and over again, speculating seriously on marrying him, and all the time not once remembering that even, with every other impediment removed, he alone, when the time came, would be an insurmountable obstacle in the way? Has the effort to face the consideration of Armadale's death absorbed me to that degree? I suppose it has. I can't account for such extraordinary forgetfulness on my part in any other way. Shall I stop and think it out as I have thought out all the rest? Shall I ask myself if the obstacle of Midwinter would, after all, when the time came, be the unmanageable obstacle that it looks at present? No. What need is there to think of it? I have made up my mind to get the better of the temptation. I have made up my mind to give my landlady and her children a treat. I have made up my mind to close my diary, and closed it shall be. Six o'clock. The landlady's gossip is unendurable. The landlady's children distract me. I have left them to run back here before post-time and write a line to Mrs. Oldershaw. The dread that I shall sink under the temptation has grown stronger and stronger on me. I have determined to put it beyond my power to have my own way and follow my own will. Mother Oldershaw shall be the salvation of me for the first time since I have known her. If I can't pay my note of hand she threatens me with an arrest. Well, she shall arrest me. In the state my mind is in now. The best thing that can happen to me is to be taken away from Thorpe Ambrose, whether I like it or not. I will write and say that I am to be found here. I will write and tell her, in so many words, that the best service she can render me is to lock me up. Seven o'clock. The letter has gone to the post. I have begun to feel a little easier when the children came in to thank me for taking them to the show. One of them is a girl, and the girl upset me. She is a forward child, and her hair is nearly the color of mine. She said, I shall be like you when I have grown bigger, shan't I? Her idiot of a mother said, please excuse her miss and took her out of the room laughing. Like me I don't pretend to be fond of the child, but think of her being like me. Saturday morning. I have done well for once in acting on impulse and writing as I did to Mrs. Oldershaw. The only new circumstance that has happened is another circumstance in my favor. Major Millroy has answered Armadale's letter in treating permission to call at the cottage and justify himself. His daughter read it in silence when Armadale handed it to her at their meeting this morning in the park. But they talked about it afterward loud enough for me to hear them. The Major persists in the course he has taken. He says his opinion of Armadale's conduct has been formed, not on common report, but on Armadale's own letters, and he sees no reason to alter the conclusion at which he arrived when the correspondence between them was closed. This little matter had, I confessed, slipped out of my memory. It might have ended awkward for me if Major Millroy had been less obstinately wedded to his own opinion. Armadale might have justified himself. The marriage engagement might have been acknowledged, and all my power of influencing the matter might have been at an end. As it is, they must continue to keep the engagement strictly secret, and Miss Millroy, who has never ventured herself near the Great House since the thunderstorm forced her into it for shelter, will be less likely than ever to venture there now. I can part them when I please, with an anonymous line to the Major. I can part them when I please. After having discussed the letter, the talk between them turned on what they were to do next. Major Millroy's severity, as it soon appeared, produced the usual results. Armadale returned to the subject of the elopement, and this time she listened to him. There is everything to drive her to it. Her outfit of clothes is nearly ready, and the summer holidays at the school which has been chosen for her, and at the end of next week. When I left them, they had decided to meet again and settle something on Monday. The last words I heard him address to her before I went away shook me a little. He said, There is one difficulty, nearly, that needn't trouble us at any rate. I have got plenty of money, and then he kissed her. The way to his life began to look an easier way to me when he talked of his money and kissed her. Some hours have passed, and the more I think of it, the more I fear the blanks interval between this time and the time when Mrs. Odershaw calls in the law and protects me against myself. It might have been better if I had stopped at home this morning. But how could I? After the insult she offered me yesterday, I tingled all over to go and look at her. Today, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, they can't arrest me for the money before Wednesday, and my miserable five pounds are dwindling to four. And he told her he had plenty of money, and she blushed and trembled when he kissed her. It might have been better for him, better for her, and better for me, if my debt had fallen due yesterday and if the bailiffs had their hands on me at this moment. Suppose I had the means of leaving Thorpe Ambrose by the next train and going somewhere abroad and absorbing myself in some new interest among new people. Could I do it, rather than look again at that easy way to his life, which would smooth the way to everything else? Perhaps I might. But where is the money to come from? Surely some way of getting it struck me a day or two since. Yes, that mean idea of asking Armadale to help me. Well, I will be mean for once. I'll give him the chance of making a generous use of that well-filled purse which it is such a comfort to him to reflect on in his present circumstances. It would soften my heart toward any man if he lent me money in my present extremity, and if Armadale lends me money it might soften my heart toward him. When shall I go? At once I won't give myself time to feel the degradation of it and to change my mind. Three o'clock I mark the hour. He has sealed his own doom. He has insulted me. Yes, I have suffered it once from Miss Millroy, and I have now suffered it a second time from Armadale himself—an insult, a marked, merciless, deliberate insult, in the open day. I had got through the town and had advanced a few hundred yards along the road that leads to the Great House when I saw Armadale at a little distance coming toward me. He was walking fast, evidently with some errand of his own to take him to the town. The instant he caught sight of me he stopped, colored up, took off his hat, hesitated, and turned aside down a lane behind him which I happened to know would take him exactly in the contrary direction to the direction in which he was walking when he first saw me. His conduct said, in so many words, Miss Millroy may hear of it. I dare not run the risk of being seen speaking to you. Men have used me heartlessly. Men have done and said hard things to me, but no man living ever yet treated me as if I was plague-struck and as if the very air about me was infected by my presence. I say no more. When he walked away from me down that lane, he walked to his death. I have written to midwinter to expect me in London next week and to be ready for our marriage soon afterward. Four o'clock. Half an hour since I put on my bonnet to go out and post the letter to midwinter myself, and here I am, still in my room, with my mind torn by doubts and my letter on the table. Armadale counts for nothing in the perplexities that are now torturing me. It is midwinter that makes me hesitate. Can I take the first of those three steps that lead to the end without the common caution of looking at consequences? Can I marry midwinter without knowing beforehand how to meet the obstacle of my husband when the time comes which transforms me from the living Armadale's wife to the dead Armadale's widow? Why can't I think of it when I know I must think of it? Why can't I look at it steadily as I have looked at all the rest? I feel his kisses on my lips. I feel his tears on my bosom. I feel his arms around me again. He is far away in London, and yet he is here and won't let me think of it. Why can't I wait a little? Why can't I let time help me? Time, it's Saturday. What need is there to think of it unless I like? There is no post to London today. I must wait. If I posted the letter, it wouldn't go. Besides, tomorrow I may hear from Mrs. Oldershaw. I ought to wait to hear from Mrs. Oldershaw. I can't consider myself a free woman till I know what Mrs. Oldershaw means to do. There is a necessity for waiting till tomorrow. I shall take my bonnet off and lock the letter up in my desk. Sunday morning. There is no resisting it. One after another the circumstances crowd on me. They come thicker and thicker, and they all force me one way. I have got, Mother Oldershaw's answer. The wretch fawns on me and cringes to me. I can see, as plainly as if she had acknowledged it, that she suspects me of seeing my own way to success at Thorpe Ambrose without her assistance. Having found threatening me useless, she tries coaxing me now. I am her darling Lydia again. She is quite shocked that I could imagine that she ever really intended to arrest her bosom friend, and she has only to entreat me as a favour to herself to renew the bill. I say once more no mortal creature could resist it. Time after time I have tried to escape the temptation, and time after time the circumstances drive me back again. I can struggle no longer. The post that takes the letters tonight shall take my letter to midwinter among the rest. Tonight, if I give myself till tonight, something else may happen. If I give myself till tonight, I may hesitate again. I am weary of the torture of hesitating. I must and will have relief in the present. Cost what it may in the future. My letter to midwinter will drive me mad if I see it staring and staring at me at my desk any longer. I can post it in ten minutes time, and I will. It is done. The first of the three steps that leads me to the end is a step taken. My mind is quieter. The letter is in the post. By tomorrow midwinter will receive it. Before the end of the week Armadale must be publicly seen to leave Thorpe Ambrose, and I must be publicly seen to leave with him. Have I looked at the consequences of my marriage to midwinter? No. Do I know how to meet the obstacle of my husband when the time comes which transforms me from the living Armadale's wife to the dead Armadale's widow? No. When the time comes I must meet the obstacle as best I may. I am going blindfold then, so far as midwinter is concerned, into this frightful risk. Yes, blindfold. Am I out of my senses? Very likely. Or am I a little too fond of him to look the thing in the face? I dare say. Who cares? I won't. I won't. I won't think of it. Have I a will of my own? And can't I think if I like of something else? Here is Mother Jezebel's cringing letter. That is something else to think of. I'll answer it. I am in a fine humor for writing to Mother Jezebel. Conclusion of Miss Wilt's letter to Mrs. Oldershaw I told you, when I broke off, that I would wait before I finished this and asked my diary if I could safely tell you what I have now got it in my mind to do. Well, I have asked, and my diary says, don't tell her. Under these circumstances I close my letter with my best excuses for leaving you in the dark. I shall probably be in London before long, and I may tell you, by word of mouth, what I don't think it's safe to write here. Mind, I make no promise. It all depends on how I feel towards you at the time. I don't doubt your discretion, but, under certain circumstances, I am not so sure of your courage. LG PS. My best thanks for your permission to renew the bill. I decline profiting by the proposal. The money will be ready when the money is due. I have a friend now in London who will pay it if I ask him. Do you wonder who the friend is? You will wonder at one or two other things, Mrs. Oldershaw, before many weeks more are over your head and mine. END OF BOOK III. CHAPTER X On the morning of Monday, the twenty-eighth of July, Ms. Quilt, once more on the watch for Alan and Neely, reached her customary post of observation in the park by the usual roundabout way. She was a little surprised to find Neely alone at the place of meeting. She was more seriously astonished when the tardy Alan made his appearance ten minutes later to see him mounting the side of the dell with a large volume under his arm, and to hear him say, as an apology for being late, that he had muddled away his time in hunting for the books, and that he had only found one, after all, which seemed in the least likely to repay either Neely or himself for the trouble of looking into it. If Ms. Quilt had waited long enough in the park, on the previous Saturday, to hear the lover's parting words on that occasion, she would have been at no loss to explain the mystery of the volume under Alan's arm, and she would have understood the apology which she now offered for being late, as readily as Neely herself. There is a certain exceptional occasion in life, the occasion of marriage, on which even girls in their teens sometimes become capable, more or less hysterically, of looking at consequences. At the farewell moment of the interview on Saturday, Neely's mind had suddenly precipitated itself into the future, and she had utterly confounded Alan by inquiring whether the contemplated elopement was an offense punishable by the law. Her memory satisfied her that she had certainly read somewhere, at some former period, in some book or other, possibly a novel, of an elopement with a dreadful end, of the bride dragged home in hysterics and of a bridegroom sentenced to languish in prison with all his beautiful hair cut off by act of parliament close to his head. Supposing she could bring herself to consent to the elopement at all, when she positively declined to promise, she must first insist on discovering whether there was any fear of the police being concerned in her marriage as well as the parson and the clerk. Alan being a man ought to know, and to Alan she looked for information. With this preliminary assurance to assist him in laying down the law, that she would die of a broken heart a thousand times over, rather than be the innocent means of sending him to languish in prison and of cutting his hair off by act of parliament close to his head. It's no laughing matter, said Neely, resolutely, in conclusion. I decline even to think of our marriage till my mind is made easy first on the subject of the law. But I don't know anything about the law, not even as much as you do, said Alan. Hang the law. I don't mind my head being cropped. Let's risk it. Risk it, repeated Neely indignantly. Have you no consideration for me? I won't risk it. Where there's a will, there's a way. We must find out the law for ourselves. With all my heart said Alan, how? Out of books, to be sure. There must be quantities of information in that enormous library of yours at the Great House. If you really love me, you won't mind going over the backs of a few thousand books for my sake. I'll go over the backs of ten thousand, cried Alan warmly. Would you mind telling me what I'm looking for? For law, to be sure. When it says law on the back, open it, and look inside for marriage. Read every word of it, and then come here and explain it to me. What, you don't think your head is to be trusted to do such a simple thing as that? I'm certain it isn't, said Alan. Can't you help me? Of course I can, if you can't manage without me. Law may be hard, but it can't be harder than music, and I must, and will, satisfy my mind. Bring me all the books you can find on Monday morning, in a wheelbarrow, if there are a good many of them, and if you can't manage it any other way. The result of this conversation was Alan's appearance in the park, with a volume of Blackstone's commentaries under his arm, on the fatal Monday morning, when Miss Wilt's written engagement of marriage was placed in midwinter's hands. Here again, in this, as in all other human instances, the widely discordant elements of the grotesque and the terrible were forced together by that subtle law of contrast, which is one of the laws of mortal life. Amid all the thickening complications now impending over their heads, with the shadow of meditated murder stealing toward one of them already, from the lurking place that hid Miss Wilt, the two sat down unconscious of the future, with the book between them, and applied themselves to the study of the law of marriage, with a grave resolution to understand it, which, in two such students, was nothing less than a burlesque in itself. Find the place, said Neely, as soon as they were comfortably established. We must manage this by what they call division of labor. You shall read, I'll take notes. She produced forthwith a smart little pocket-book in pencil, and opened the book in the middle, where there was a blank page on the right hand and the left. At the top of the right-hand page she wrote the word good. At the top of the left-hand page she wrote the word bad. Good means where the law is on our side, she explained, and bad means where the law is against us. We will have good and bad opposite each other, all down the two pages, and when we get to the bottom we'll add them up, and act accordingly. They say girls have no heads for business. Haven't they? Don't look at me, look at Blackstone and begin. Would you mind giving me a kiss first, asked Allen? I should mind it very much. In our serious situation, when we have both got to exert our intellects, I wonder you can ask for such a thing. That's why I asked for it, said the unblushing Allen. I feel as if it would clear my head. Oh, if it would clear your head, that's quite another thing. I must clear your head, of course, at any sacrifice. Only one mind, she whispered coquettishly, and pray be careful of Blackstone, or you'll lose the place. There was a pause in the conversation. Blackstone and the pocketbook both rolled on the ground together. If this happens again, said Neely, picking up the pocketbook with her eyes and her complexion at their brightest and best, I shall sit with my back to you for the rest of the morning. Will you go on? Allen found his place for the second time, and fell headlong into the bottomless abyss of English law. Page 280 he began, Law of Husband and Wife Here's a bit I don't understand to begin with. It may be observed generally that the law considers marriage in the light of a contract. What does that mean? I thought a contract was the sort of thing a builder signs when he promises to have the workman out of the house in a given time, and when the time comes, as my poor mother used to say, the workmen never go. Is there nothing about love, asked Neely? Look a little lower down. Not a word. He sticks to his confounded contract all the way through. Then he's a brute. Go on to something else that's more in our way. Here's a bit that's more in our way. Incapacities. If any persons under legal incapacities come together, it is a meretricious and not a matrimonial union. Blackstone's a good one for long words, isn't he? I wonder what he means by meretricious. The first of these legal disabilities is a prior marriage, and having another husband or wife living. Stop, said Neely. I must make a note of that. She gravely made her first entry on the page headed good, as follows. I have no husband, and Alan has no wife. We are both entirely unmarried at the present time. All right, so far, remarked Alan, looking over her shoulder. Go on, said Neely, what next? The next disability, proceeded Alan, is want of age. The age for consent to matrimony is fourteen in males and twelve in females. Come! cried Alan cheerfully. Blackstone begins early enough at any rate. Neely was too business-like to make any other remark, on her side, than the necessary remark in the pocket-book. She made another entry under the head of good. I am old enough to consent, and so is Alan, too. Go on, resumed Neely, looking over the reader's shoulder. Never mind all that prosing of Blackstone's, about the husband being of years of discretion, and the wife under twelve, abominable wretch, the wife under twelve. Skip to the third in capacity, if there is one. The third in capacity, Alan went on, is want of reason. Neely immediately made a third entry on the side of good. Alan and I are both perfectly reasonable. Skip to the next page. Alan skipped. A fourth in capacity is in respect of proximity of relationship. A fourth entry, followed instantly on the cheering side of the pocket-book. He loves me, and I love him, without our being in the slightest degree related to each other. Any more, asked Neely, tapping her chin impatiently with the end of the pencil? Plenty more rejoined Alan. All in hieroglyphics. Look here. Marriage acts. Four. Geo. Four. C. Six. Seventy-six. And six and seven will. Four. C. Eighty-five. Q. Blackstone's intellect seems to be wandering here. Shall we take another skip, and see if he picks himself up again on the next page? Wait a little, said Neely. What's that I see in the middle? She read for a minute in silence over Alan's shoulder, and suddenly clasped her hands into spare. I knew I was right, she exclaimed. O heavens, here it is. Where? asked Alan. I see nothing about languishing in prison and cropping a fellow's hair close to his head, unless it's in the hieroglyphics. Is four Geo. Four short for lock him up, and a C. Eighty-five. Q. Mean send for the haircutter? Pray be serious, remonstrated Neely. We are both sitting on a volcano. There, she said, pointing to the place, read it. If anything can bring you to a proper sense of our situation, that will. Alan cleared his throat, and Neely held the point of her pencil ready on the depressing side of the account, otherwise the bad page of the pocketbook. And as it is the policy of our law, Alan began, to prevent the marriage of persons under the age of twenty-one without the consent of parents and guardians, Neely made her first entry on the side of bad. I'm only seventeen next birthday, and circumstances forbid me to confide my attachment to papa. It is provided that in the case of the publication of bans of a person under twenty-one, not being a widower or a widow who are deemed emancipated, Neely made another entry on the depressing side. Alan is not a widower, and I am not a widow. Consequently, we are neither of us emancipated. If the parent or guardian openly signifies his dissent at the time the bans are published, which papa would be certain to do, such publication would be void. I'll take a breath here if you'll allow me, said Alan. Blackstone might put it in shorter sentences, I think. If he can't put it in fewer words. Cheer up, Neely. There must be ways of marrying, besides this roundabout way that ends in the publication and a void. Infernal gibberish. I could write better English myself. We are not at the end of it yet, said Neely. The void is nothing to what is to come. Whatever it is, rejoined Alan, we'll treat it like a dose of physics, we'll take it at once and be done with it. He went on reading, And no license to marry without bans shall be granted unless oath shall first be made by one of the parties that he or she believes that there is no impediment of kindred or alliance, while I can take my oath on that with a safe conscience. What's next? And one of said parties must, for the space of fifteen days immediately preceding such license, have had his or her usual place of abode within the parish or chapelry, within which such marriage is to be solemnized. Chapelry. I'd live fifteen days in a dog kennel with the greatest pleasure. I say, Neely, all this seems like plain sailing enough. What are you shaking your head about? Go on, and I shall see. Oh, all right, I'll go on. Here we are. And where one of said parties, not being a widower or widow, shall be under the age of twenty-one years, oath must first be made that the consent of the person or persons whose consent is required has been obtained, or that there is no person having authority to give such consent. The consent required by this act is that of the father. At those last formidable words Allen came to a full stop. The consent of the father, he repeated, with all needful seriousness of look and manner. I couldn't exactly swear to that, could I? Neely answered in expressive silence. She handed in the pocketbook with the final entry completed on the side of bad. In these terms, our marriage is impossible unless Allen commits perjury. The lovers looked at each other across the insuperable obstacle of Blackstone in speechless dismay. Shut up the book, said Neely resignedly. I have no doubt we should find the police and the prison and the haircutting, all punishments for perjury, exactly as I told you, if we looked at the next page. But we needn't trouble ourselves to look. We have found out quite enough already. It's all over with us. I must go to school on Saturday, and you must manage to forget me as soon as you can. Perhaps we may meet in afterlife, and you may be a widower, and I may be a widow, and this cruel law may consider us emancipated. When it's too late to be of the slightest use. By that time, no doubt, I shall be old and ugly, and you will naturally have ceased to care about me, and will all end in the grave, and the sooner the better. Good-bye, concluded Neely, rising mournfully with the tears in her eyes. It's only prolonging our misery to stop here, unless—unless you have anything to propose. I've got something to propose, cried the headlong Allen. It's an entirely new idea. Would you mind trying the blacksmith at Gretna Green? No earthly consideration, answered Neely indignantly, would induce me to be married by a blacksmith. Don't be offended, pleaded Allen. I meant it for the best. Lots of people in our situation have tried the blacksmith, and found him quite as good as a clergyman, and a most amiable man, I believe, into the bargain. Never mind. We must try another string in our bow. We haven't got another to try, said Neely. Take my word for it, persisted Allen stoutly. There must be ways and means of circumventing Blackstone, without perjury, if we only knew of them. It's a matter of law, and we must consult somebody in the profession. I dare say it's a risk, but nothing venture, nothing have. What do you say to young Pedgift? He's a thorough good fellow. I'm sure we could trust young Pedgift to keep our secret. Not for worlds, exclaimed Neely. You may be willing to trust your secrets to the vulgar little wretch. I won't have him trusted with mine. I hate him. No, she concluded, with a mounting color, and a peremptory stamp of her foot on the grass. I positively forbid you to take any of the Thorpe Ambrose people into your confidence. They would instantly suspect me, and it would be all over the place in a moment. My attachment may be an unhappy one, remarked Neely, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and Papa may nip it in the bud, but I won't have it profaned by town gossip. Hush, hush, said Allen. I won't say a word at Thorpe Ambrose. I won't, indeed. He paused and considered for a moment. There's another way, he burst out, brightening up on the instant. We've got a whole week before us. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go to London. There was a sudden rustling, heard by neither one nor the other, among the trees behind them that screened Miss Wilt. One more of the difficulties in her way, the difficulty of getting Allen to London, now promised to be removed by an act of Allen's own will. To London, repeated Neely, looking up in astonishment. To London, reiterated Allen. That's far enough away from Thorpe Ambrose, surely. Wait a minute, and don't forget that this is a question of law. Very well. I know some lawyers in London who managed all my business for me when I first came in for this property. They are just the men to consult. And if they decline to be mixed up in it, there's their head clerk, who is one of the best fellows I ever met with in my life. I asked him to go yachting with me, I remember, and though he couldn't go, he said he felt the obligation all the same. That's the man to help us. Blackstone's a mere infant to him. Don't say it's absurd. Don't say it's exactly like me. Do pray hear me out. I won't breathe your name or your father's. I'll describe you as a young lady to whom I am devotedly attached. And if my friend the clerk asks where you live, I'll say the north of Scotland, or the west of Ireland, or the Channel Islands, or anywhere else you like. My friend the clerk is a total stranger to Thorpe Ambrose and everybody in it, which is one recommendation, and in five minutes' time he'd put me up to what to do, which is another. If you only knew him, he's one of those extraordinary men who appear once or twice in a century, the sort of man who won't allow you to make a mistake if you try. All I have got to say to him, putting it short, is, My dear fellow, I want to be privately married without perjury. All he has got to say to me, putting it short, is you must do so and so and so and so, and you must be careful to avoid this, that, and the other. I have nothing in this world to do but to follow his directions, and you have nothing in the world to do but what the bride always does when the bride-room is ready and willing. His arm stole around Neely's waist, and his lips pointed the moral of the last sentence with that inarticulate eloquence which is so uniformly successful in persuading a woman against her will. All Neely's meditated objections dwindled, in spite of her, to one feeble little question. Suppose I allow you to go, Alan, she whispered, toying nervously with the stud in the bosom of his shirt. Shall you be very long away? I'll be off to-day, said Alan, by the eleven o'clock train, and I'll be back to-morrow, if I and my friend the clerk can settle it all in time. If not, Wednesday at the latest. You'll write to me every day, pleaded Neely, clinging a little closer to him. I shall sink under the suspense if you don't promise to write to me every day. Alan promised to write twice a day, if she liked, letter-writing, which was such an effort for other men, was no effort to him. And mind, whatever those people may say to you in London, preceded Neely, I insist on your coming back for me. I positively declined to run away, unless you promised to fetch me. Alan promised, for the second time, on his sacred word of honour, and at the full compass of his voice. But Neely was not satisfied even yet. She reverted to first principles, and insisted on knowing whether Alan was quite sure he loved her. Alan called heaven to witness how sure he was, and got another question directly for his pains. Could he solemnly declare that he would never regret taking Neely away from home? Alan called heaven to witness again, louder than ever, all to no purpose. The ravenous female appetite for tender protestations still hungered for more. I know what will happen one of these days, persisted Neely. You will see some other girl who is prettier than I am, and you will wish you had married her instead of me. As Alan opened his lips for a final outburst of asseveration, the stable clock at the Great House was faintly audible in the distance, striking the hour. Neely started guiltily. It was breakfast time at the cottage. In other words, time to take her leave. At the last moment her heart went back to her father, and her head sank on Alan's bosom as she tried to say goodbye. Papa has always been so kind to me, Alan, she whispered, holding him back tremulously as he turned to leave her. It seems so guilty and so heartless to go away from him and be married in secret. Oh, do, do think before you really go to London. Is there a way of making him a little kinder and juster to you? The question was useless. The major's resolutely unfavorable reception of Alan's letter rose in Neely's memory and answered her as the words passed her lips. With a girl's impulsiveness she pushed Alan away before he could speak and signed to him impatiently to go. The conflict of contending emotions which he had mastered thus far burst its way outward in spite of her after he had waved his hand for the last time and had disappeared in the depths of the dell. When she turned from the place on her side, her long restrained tears fell freely at last and made the lonely way back to the cottage the dimmest prospect that Neely had seen for many a long day past. As she hurried homeward the leaves parted behind her and this wilt stepped softly into the open space. She stood there in triumph, tall, beautiful and resolute. Her lovely color brightened while she watched Neely's retreating figure hastening lightly away from her over the grass. Cry, you little fool, she said in her quiet clear tones and her steady smile of contempt. Cry as you have never cried yet. You have seen the last of your sweetheart. End of book the third, chapter 11 of Armadale