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Armadale by Wilkie Collins

Part 14 out of 17

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the money to pay his traveling expenses. It turned out that
he had got it from the second Mrs. Manuel herself. She had filled
his empty pockets; and there she was, waiting confidently in
a miserable London lodging, to hear from him and join him as soon
as he was safely settled in foreign parts! Where had _she_ got
the money, you may ask naturally enough? Nobody could tell at the
time. My own notion is, now, that her former mistress must have
been still living, and that she must have turned her knowledge
of the Blanchards' family secret to profitable account at last.
This is mere guess-work, of course; but there's a circumstance
that makes it likely guess-work to my mind. She had an elderly
female friend to apply to at the time, who was just the woman to
help her in ferreting out her mistress's address. Can you guess
the name of the elderly female friend? Not you! Mrs. Oldershaw,
of course!"

Mr. Bashwood suddenly looked up. "Why should she go back," he
asked, "to the woman who had deserted her when she was a child?"

"I can't say," rejoined his son, "unless she went back in the
interests of her own magnificent head of hair. The
prison-scissors, I needn't tell you, had made short work of it
with Miss Gwilt's love-locks, in every sense of the word
and Mrs. Oldershaw, I beg to add, is the most eminent woman in
England, as restorer-general of the dilapidated heads and faces
of the female sex. Put two and two together; and perhaps you'll
agree with me, in this case, that they make four."

"Yes, yes; two and two make four," repeated his father,
impatiently. "But I want to know something else. Did she hear
from him again? Did he send for her after he had gone away
to foreign parts?"

"The captain? Why, what on earth can you be thinking of? Hadn't
he spent every farthing of her money? and wasn't he loose on the
Continent out of her reach? She waited to hear from him. I dare
say, for she persisted in believing in him. But I'll lay you any
wager you like, she never saw the sight of his handwriting again.
We did our best at the office to open her eyes; we told her
plainly that he had a first wife living, and that she hadn't the
shadow of a claim on him. She wouldn't believe us, though we met
her with the evidence. Obstinate, devilish obstinate. I dare say
she waited for months together before she gave up the last hope
of ever seeing him again."

Mr. Bashwood looked aside quickly out of the cab window. "Where
could she turn for refuge next?" he said, not to his son, but
to himself. "What, in Heaven's name, could she do?"

"Judging by my experience of women," remarked Bashwood the
younger, overhearing him, "I should say she probably tried
to drown herself. But that's only guess-work again: it's all
guess-work at this part of her story. You catch me at the end
of my evidence, dad, when you come to Miss Gwilt's proceedings
in the spring and summer of the present year. She might, or
she might not, have been desperate enough to attempt suicide;
and she might, or she might not, have been at the bottom of those
inquiries that I made for Mrs. Oldershaw. I dare say you'll see
her this morning; and perhaps, if you use your influence, you may
he able to make her finish her own story herself."

Mr. Bashwood, still looking out of the cab window, suddenly laid
his hand on his son's arm.

"Hush! hush!" he exclaimed, in violent agitation. "We have got
there at last. Oh, Jemmy, feel how my heart beats! Here is the
hotel."

"Bother your heart," said Bashwood the younger. "Wait here while
I make the inquiries."

"I'll come with you!" cried his father. "I can't wait! I tell
you, I can't wait!"

They went into the hotel together, and asked for "Mr. Armadale."

The answer, after some little hesitation and delay, was that Mr.
Armadale had gone away six days since. A second waiter added that
Mr. Armadale's friend--Mr. Midwinter--had only left that morning.
Where had Mr. Armadale gone? Somewhere into the country. Where
had Mr. Midwinter gone? Nobody knew.

Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speechless and helpless dismay.

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bashwood the younger, pushing his
father back roughly into the cab. "He's safe enough. We shall
find him at Miss Gwilt's."

The old man took his son's hand and kissed it. "Thank you, my
dear," he said, gratefully. "Thank you for comforting me."

The cab was driven next to the second lodging which Miss Gwilt
had occupied, in the neighborhood of Tottenham Court Road.

"Stop here," said the spy, getting out, and shutting his father
into the cab. "I mean to manage this part of the business
myself."

He knocked at the house door. "I have got a note for Miss Gwilt,"
he said, walking into the passage, the moment the door was
opened.

"She's gone," answered the servant. "She went away last night."

Bashwood the younger wasted no more words with the servant.
He insisted on seeing the mistress. The mistress confirmed the
announcement of Miss Gwilt's departure on the previous evening.
Where had she gone to? The woman couldn't say. How had she left?
On foot. At what hour? Between nine and ten. What had she done
with her luggage? She had no luggage. Had a gentleman been to see
her on the previous day? Not a soul, gentle or simple, had come
to the house to see Miss Gwilt.

The father's face, pale and wild, was looking out of the cab
window as the son descended the house steps. "Isn't she there,
Jemmy?" he asked, faintly--"isn't she there?"

"Hold your tongue," cried the spy, with the native coarseness
of his nature rising to the surface at last. "I'm not at the end
of my inquiries yet."

He crossed the road, and entered a coffee-shop situated exactly
opposite the house he had just left.

In the box nearest the window two men were sitting talking
together anxiously.

"Which of you was on duty yesterday evening, between nine and ten
o'clock?" asked Bashwood the younger, suddenly joining them, and
putting his question in a quick, peremptory whisper.

"I was, sir," said one of the men, unwillingly.

"Did you lose sight of the house?--Yes! I see you did."

"Only for a minute, sir. An infernal blackguard of a soldier
came in--"

"That will do," said Bashwood the younger. "I know what the
soldier did, and who sent him to do it. She has given us the slip
again. You are the greatest ass living. Consider yourself
dismissed." With those words, and with an oath to emphasize them,
he left the coffee-shop and returned to the cab.

"She's gone!" cried his father. "Oh, Jemmy, Jemmy, I see it in
your face!" He fell back into his own corner of the cab, with
a faint, wailing cry. "They're married," he moaned to himself;
his hands falling helplessly on his knees; his hat falling
unregarded from his head. "Stop them!" he exclaimed, suddenly
rousing himself, and seizing his son in a frenzy by the collar
of the coat.

"Go back to the hotel," shouted Bashwood the younger to the
cabman. "Hold your noise!" he added, turning fiercely on his
father. "I want to think."

The varnish of smoothness was all off him by this time. His
temper was roused. His pride--even such a man has his pride!
--was wounded to the quick. Twice had he matched his wits against
a woman's; and twice the woman had baffled him.

He got out, on reaching the hotel for the second time, and
privately tried the servants with the offer of money. The result
of the experiment satisfied him that they had, in this instance,
really and truly no information to sell. After a moment's
reflection, he stopped, before leaving the hotel, to ask
the way to the parish church. "The chance may be worth trying,"
he thought to himself, as he gave the address to the driver.
"Faster!" he called out, looking first at his watch, and then at
his father. "The minutes are precious this morning; and the old
one is beginning to give in."

It was true. Still capable of hearing and of understanding, Mr.
Bashwood was past speaking by this time. He clung with both hands
to his son's grudging arm, and let his head fall helplessly on
his son's averted shoulder.

The parish church stood back from the street, protected by gates
and railings, and surrounded by a space of open ground. Shaking
off his father's hold, Bashwood the younger made straight for
the vestry. The clerk, putting away the books, and the clerk's
assistant, hanging up a surplice, were the only persons in the
room when he entered it and asked leave to look at the marriage
register for the day.

The clerk gravely opened the book, and stood aside from the desk
on which it lay.

The day's register comprised three marriages solemnized that
morning; and the first two signatures on the page were "Allan
Armadale" and "Lydia Gwilt!"

Even the spy--ignorant as he was of the truth, unsuspicious as he
was of the terrible future consequences to which the act of that
morning might lead--even the spy started, when his eye first fell
on the page. It was done! Come what might of it, it was done now.
There, in black and white, was the registered evidence of the
marriage, which was at once a truth in itself, and a lie in the
conclusion to which it led! There--through the fatal similarity
in the names--there, in Midwinter's own signature, was the proof
to persuade everybody that, not Midwinter, but Allan, was the
husband of Miss Gwilt!

Bashwood the younger closed the book, and returned it to the
clerk. He descended the vestry steps, with his hands thrust
doggedly into his pockets, and with a serious shock inflicted
on his professional self-esteem.

The beadle met him under the church wall. He considered for
a moment whether it was worth while to spend a shilling in
questioning the man, and decided in the affirmative. If they
could be traced and overtaken, there might be a chance of seeing
the color of Mr. Armadale's money even yet.

"How long is it," he asked, "since the first couple married here
this morning left the church?"

"About an hour," said the beadle.

"How did they go away?"

The beadle deferred answering that second question until he had
first pocketed his fee.

"You won't trace them from here, sir," he said, when he had got
his shilling. "They went away on foot."

"And that is all you know about it?"

"That, sir, is all I know about it."

Left by himself, even the Detective of the Private Inquiry Office
paused for a moment before he returned to his father at the gate.
He was roused from his hesitation by the sudden appearance,
within the church inclosure, of the driver of the cab.

"I'm afraid the old gentleman is going to be taken ill, sir,"
said the man.

Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and walked back to the cab.
As he opened the door and looked in, his father leaned forward
and confronted him, with lips that moved speechlessly, and with
a white stillness over all the rest of his face.

"She's done us," said the spy. "They were married here this
morning."

The old man's body swayed for a moment from one side to the
other. The instant after, his eyes closed and his head fell
forward toward the front seat of the cab. "Drive to the
hospital!" cried his son. "He's in a fit. This is what comes of
putting myself out of my way to please my father," he muttered,
sullenly raising Mr. Bashwood's head, and loosening his cravat.
"A nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice morning's work!"

The hospital was near, and the house surgeon was at his post.

"Will he come out of it?" asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.

"Who are _you_?" asked the surgeon, sharply, on his side.

"I am his son."

"I shouldn't have thought it," rejoined the surgeon, taking the
restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse, and turning
from the son to the father with an air of relief which he was
at no pains to conceal. "Yes," he added, after a minute or two;
"your father will come out of it this time."

"When can he be moved away from here?"

"He can be moved from the hospital in an hour or two."

The spy laid a card on the table. "I'll come back for him or send
for him," he said. "I suppose I can go now, if I leave my name
and address?" With those words, he put on his hat, and walked
out.

"He's a brute!" said the nurse.

"No," said the surgeon, quietly. "He's a man."

* * * * * * *

Between nine and ten o'clock that night, Mr. Bashwood awoke in
his bed at the inn in the Borough. He had slept for some hours
since he had been brought back from the hospital; and his mind
and body were now slowly recovering together.

A light was burning on the bedside table, and a letter lay on it,
waiting for him till he was awake. It was in his son's
handwriting, and it contained these words:

"MY DEAR DAD--Having seen you safe out of the hospital, and back
at your hotel, I think I may fairly claim to have done my duty by
you, and may consider myself free to look after my own affairs.
Business will prevent me from seeing you to-night; and I don't
think it at all likely I shall be in your neighborhood to-morrow
morning. My advice to you is to go back to Thorpe Ambrose, and
to stick to your employment in the steward's office. Wherever
Mr. Armadale may be, he must, sooner or later, write to you on
business. I wash my hands of the whole matter, mind, so far as
I am concerned, from this time forth. But if _you_ like to go on
with it, my professional opinion is (though you couldn't hinder
his marriage), you may part him from his wife.

"Pray take care of yourself.

"Your affectionate son,

"JAMES BASHWOOD."

The letter dropped from the old man's feeble hands. "I wish Jemmy
could have come to see me to-night," he thought. "But it's very
kind of him to advise me, all the same."

He turned wearily on the pillow, and read the letter a second
time. "Yes," he said, "there's nothing left for me but to go
back. I'm too poor and too old to hunt after them all by myself."
He closed his eyes: the tears trickled slowly over his wrinkled
cheeks. "I've been a trouble to Jemmy," he murmured, faintly;
"I've been a sad trouble, I'm afraid, to poor Jemmy!" In a minute
more his weakness overpowered him, and he fell asleep again.

The clock of the neighboring church struck. It was ten. As the
bell tolled the hour, the tidal train--with Midwinter and his
wife among the passengers--was speeding nearer and nearer to
Paris. As the bell tolled the hour, the watch on board Allan's
outward-bound yacht had sighted the light-house off the Land's
End, and had set the course of the vessel for Ushant and
Finisterre.

THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER I.

MISS GWILT'S DIARY.

"NAPLES, October 10th.--It is two months to-day since I declared
that I had closed my Diary, never to open it again.

"Why have I broken my resolution? Why have I gone back to this
secret friend of my wretchedest and wickedest hours? Because I am
more friendless than ever; because I am more lonely than ever,
though my husband is sitting writing in the next room to me. My
misery is a woman's misery, and it _will_ speak--here, rather
than nowhere; to my second self, in this book, if I have no one
else to hear me.

"How happy I was in the first days that followed our marriage,
and how happy I made _him_! Only two months have passed, and that
time is a by-gone time already! I try to think of anything I
might have said or done wrongly, on my side--of anything he might
have said or done wrongly, on his; and I can remember nothing
unworthy of my husband, nothing unworthy of myself. I cannot even
lay my finger on the day when the cloud first rose between us.

"I could bear it, if I loved him less dearly than I do. I could
conquer the misery of our estrangement, if he only showed the
change in him as brutally as other men would show it.

"But this never has happened--never will happen. It is not
in his nature to inflict suffering on others. Not a hard word,
not a hard look, escapes him. It is only at night, when I hear
him sighing in his sleep, and sometimes when I see him dreaming
in the morning hours, that I know how hopelessly I am losing
the love he once felt for me. He hides, or tries to hide, it in
the day, for my sake. He is all gentleness, all kindness; but
his heart is not on his lips when he kisses me now; his hand
tells me nothing when it touches mine. Day after day the hours
that he gives to his hateful writing grow longer and longer;
day after day he becomes more and more silent in the hours that
he gives to me.

"And, with all this, there is nothing that I can complain
of--nothing marked enough to justify me in noticing it. His
disappointment shrinks from all open confession; his resignation
collects itself by such fine degrees that even my watchfulness
fails to see the growth of it. Fifty times a day I feel the
longing in me to throw my arms round his neck, and say: 'For
God's sake, do anything to me, rather than treat me like this!'
and fifty times a day the words are forced back into my heart
by the cruel considerateness of his conduct; which gives me no
excuse for speaking them. I thought I had suffered the sharpest
pain that I could feel when my first husband laid his whip across
my face. I thought I knew the worst that despair could do on the
day when I knew that the other villain, the meaner villain still,
had cast me off. Live and learn. There is sharper pain than
I felt under Waldron's whip; there is bitterer despair than
the despair I knew when Manuel deserted me.

"Am I too old for him? Surely not yet! Have I lost my beauty?
Not a man passes me in the street but his eyes tell me I am as
handsome as ever.

"Ah, no! no! the secret lies deeper than _that_! I have thought
and thought about it till a horrible fancy has taken possession
of me. He has been noble and good in his past life, and I have
been wicked and disgraced. Who can tell what a gap that dreadful
difference may make between us, unknown to him and unknown to me?
It is folly, it is madness; but, when I lie awake by him in
the darkness, I ask myself whether any unconscious disclosure
of the truth escapes me in the close intimacy that now unites us?
Is there an unutterable Something left by the horror of my past
life, which clings invisibly to me still? And is he feeling the
influence of it, sensibly, and yet incomprehensibly to himself?
Oh me! is there no purifying power in such love as mine? Are
there plague-spots of past wickedness on my heart which no
after-repentance can wash out?

"Who can tell? There is something wrong in our married life--
I can only come back to that. There is some adverse influence
that neither he nor I can trace which is parting us further and
further from each other day by day. Well! I suppose I shall be
hardened in time, and learn to bear it.

"An open carriage has just driven by my window, with a nicely
dressed lady in it. She had her husband by her side, and her
children on the seat opposite. At the moment when I saw her
she was laughing and talking in high spirits--a sparkling,
light-hearted, happy woman. Ah, my lady, when you were a few
years younger, if you had been left to yourself, and thrown
on the world like me--

"October 11th.--The eleventh day of the month was the day (two
months since) when we were married. He said nothing about it
to me when we woke, nor I to him. But I thought I would make it
the occasion, at breakfast-time, of trying to win him back.

"I don't think I ever took such pains with my toilet before.
I don't think I ever looked better than I looked when I went
downstairs this morning. He had breakfasted by himself, and
I found a little slip of paper on the table with an apology
written on it. The post to England, he said, went out that day
and his letter to the newspaper must be finished. In his place
I would have let fifty posts go out rather than breakfast without
him. I went into his room. There he was, immersed body and soul
in his hateful writing! 'Can't you give me a little time this
morning?' I asked. He got up with a start. 'Certainly, if you
wish it.' He never even looked at me as he said the words.
The very sound of his voice told me that all his interest
was centered in the pen that he had just laid down. 'I see you
are occupied,' I said; 'I don't wish it.' Before I had closed
the door on him he was back at his desk. I have often heard that
the wives of authors have been for the most part unhappy women.
And now I know why.

"I suppose, as I said yesterday, I shall learn to bear it. (What
_stuff_, by-the-by, I seem to have written yesterday! How ashamed
I should be if anybody saw it but myself!) I hope the trumpery
newspaper he writes for won't succeed! I hope his rubbishing
letter will be well cut up by some other newspaper as soon as
it gets into print!

"What am I to do with myself all the morning? I can't go out,
it's raining. If I open the piano, I shall disturb the
industrious journalist who is scribbling in the next room.
Oh, dear, it was lonely enough in my lodging in Thorpe Ambrose,
but how much lonelier it is here! Shall I read? No; books don't
interest me; I hate the whole tribe of authors. I think I shall
look back through these pages, and live my life over again when
I was plotting and planning, and finding a new excitement to
occupy me in every new hour of the day.

"He might have looked at me, though he _was_ so busy with his
writing.--He might have said, 'How nicely you are dressed this
morning!' He might have remembered--never mind what! All he
remembers is the newspaper.

"Twelve o'clock.--I have been reading and thinking; and, thanks
to my Diary, I have got through an hour.

"What a time it was--what a life it was, at Thorpe Ambrose!
I wonder I kept my senses. It makes my heart beat, it makes
my face flush, only to read about it now!

"The rain still falls, and the journalist still scribbles.
I don't want to think the thoughts of that past time over
again. And yet, what else can I do?

"Supposing--I only say supposing--I felt now, as I felt when
I traveled to London with Armadale; and when I saw my way to
his life as plainly as I saw the man himself all through the
journey...?

"I'll go and look out of the window. I'll go and count the people
as they pass by.

"A funeral has gone by, with the penitents in their black hoods,
and the wax torches sputtering in the wet, and the little bell
ringing, and the priests droning their monotonous chant.
A pleasant sight to meet me at the window! I shall go back to
my Diary.

"Supposing I was not the altered woman I am--I only say,
supposing--how would the Grand Risk that I once thought of
running look now? I have married Midwinter in the name that
is really his own. And by doing that I have taken the first of
those three steps which were once to lead me, through Armadale's
life, to the fortune and the station of Armadale's widow. No
matter how innocent my intentions might have been on the wedding-
day--and they _were_ innocent--this is one of the unalterable
results of the marriage. Well, having taken the first step, then,
whether I would or no, how--supposing I meant to take the second
step, which I don't--how would present circumstances stand toward
me? Would they warn me to draw back, I wonder? or would they
encourage me to go on?

"It will interest me to calculate the chances; and I can easily
tear the leaf out, and destroy it, if the prospect looks too
encouraging.

"We are living here (for economy's sake) far away from the
expensive English quarter, in a suburb of the city, on the
Portici side. We have made no traveling acquaintances among
our own country people. Our poverty is against us; Midwinter's
shyness is against us; and (with the women) my personal
appearance is against us. The men from whom my husband gets
his information for the newspaper meet him at the cafe, and never
come here. I discourage his bringing any strangers to see me;
for, though years have passed since I was last at Naples,
I cannot be sure that some of the many people I once knew in
this place may not be living still. The moral of all this is
(as the children's storybooks say), that not a single witness
has come to this house who could declare, if any after-inquiry
took place in England, that Midwinter and I had been living here
as man and wife. So much for present circumstances as they
affect me.

"Armadale next. Has any unforeseen accident led him to
communicate with Thorpe Ambrose? Has he broken the conditions
which the major imposed on him, and asserted himself in the
character of Miss Milroy's promised husband since I saw him last?

"Nothing of the sort has taken place. No unforeseen accident
has altered his position--his tempting position--toward myself.
I know all that has happened to him since he left England,
through the letters which he writes to Midwinter, and which
Midwinter shows to me.

"He has been wrecked, to begin with. His trumpery little yacht
has actually tried to drown him, after all, and has failed! It
happened (as Midwinter warned him it might happen with so small
a vessel) in a sudden storm. They were blown ashore on the coast
of Portugal. The yacht went to pieces, but the lives, and papers,
and so on, were saved. The men have been sent back to Bristol,
with recommendations from their master which have already got
them employment on board an outward-bound ship. And the master
himself is on his way here, after stopping first at Lisbon, and
next at Gibraltar, and trying ineffectually in both places to
supply himself with another vessel. His third attempt is to be
made at Naples, where there is an English yacht 'laid up,' as
they call it, to be had for sale or hire. He has had no occasion
to write home since the wreck; for he took away from Coutts's the
whole of the large sum of money lodged there for him, in circular
notes. And he has felt no inclination to go back to England
himself; for, with Mr. Brock dead, Miss Milroy at school, and
Midwinter here, he has not a living creature in whom he is
interested to welcome him if he returned. To see us, and to see
the new yacht, are the only two present objects he has in view.
Midwinter has been expecting him for a week past, and he may walk
into this very room in which I am writing, at this very moment,
for all I know to the contrary.

"Tempting circumstances, these--with all the wrongs I have
suffered at his mother's hands and at his, still alive in my
memory; with Miss Milroy confidently waiting to take her place
at the head of his household; with my dream of living happy and
innocent in Midwinter's love dispelled forever, and with nothing
left in its place to help me against myself. I wish it wasn't
raining; I wish I could go out.

"Perhaps something may happen to prevent Armadale from coming to
Naples? When he last wrote, he was waiting at Gibraltar for an
English steamer in the Mediterranean trade to bring him on here.
He may get tired of waiting before the steamer comes, or he may
hear of a yacht at some other place than this. A little bird
whispers in my ear that it may possibly be the wisest thing
he ever did in his life if he breaks his engagement to join us
at Naples.

"Shall I tear out the leaf on which all these shocking things
have been written? No. My Diary is so nicely bound--it would be
positive barbarity to tear out a leaf. Let me occupy myself
harmlessly with something else. What shall it be? My
dressing-case--I will put my dressing-case tidy, and polish up
the few little things in it which my misfortunes have still left
in my possession.

"I have shut up the dressing-case again. The first thing I found
in it was Armadale's shabby present to me on my marriage--the
rubbishing little ruby ring. That irritated me, to begin with.
The second thing that turned up was my bottle of Drops. I caught
myself measuring the doses with my eye, and calculating how many
of them would be enough to take a living creature over the
border-land between sleep and death. Why I should have locked
the dressing-case in a fright, before I had quite completed my
calculation, I don't know; but I did lock it. And here I am back
again at my Diary, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to write
about. Oh, the weary day! the weary day! Will nothing happen to
excite me a little in this horrible place?

"October 12th.--Midwinter's all-important letter to the newspaper
was dispatched by the post last night. I was foolish enough
to suppose that I might be honored by having some of his spare
attention bestowed on me to-day. Nothing of the sort! He had
a restless night, after all his writing, and got up with his head
aching, and his spirits miserably depressed. When he is in
this state, his favorite remedy is to return to his old vagabond
habits, and go roaming away by himself nobody knows where.
He went through the form this morning (knowing I had no riding
habit) of offering to hire a little broken-kneed brute of a pony
for me, in case I wished to accompany him! I preferred remaining
at home. I will have a handsome horse and a handsome habit, or
I won't ride at all. He went away, without attempting to persuade
me to change my mind. I wouldn't have changed it, of course; but
he might have tried to persuade me all the same.

"I can open the piano in his absence--that is one comfort. And
I am in a fine humor for playing--that is another. There is
a sonata of Beethoven's (I forget the number), which always
suggests to me the agony of lost spirits in a place of torment.
Come, my fingers and thumbs, and take me among the lost spirits
this morning!

"October 13th.--Our windows look out on the sea. At noon to-day
we saw a steamer coming in, with the English flag flying.
Midwinter has gone to the port, on the chance that this may be
the vessel from Gibraltar, with Armadale on board.

"Two o'clock.--It is the vessel from Gibraltar. Armadale has
added one more to the long list of his blunders: he has kept
his engagement to join us at Naples.

"How will it end _now_?

"Who knows?

"October 16th.--Two days missed out of my Diary! I can hardly
tell why, unless it is that Armadale irritates me beyond all
endurance. The mere sight of him takes me back to Thorpe Ambrose.
I fancy I must have been afraid of what I might write about him,
in the course of the last two days, if I indulged myself in
the dangerous luxury of opening these pages.

"This morning I am afraid of nothing, and I take up my pen again
accordingly.

"Is there any limit, I wonder, to the brutish stupidity of some
men? I thought I had discovered Armadale's limit when I was
his neighbor in Norfolk; but my later experience at Naples shows
me that I was wrong. He is perpetually in and out of this house
(crossing over to us in a boat from the hotel at Santa Lucia,
where he sleeps); and he has exactly two subjects of conversation
--the yacht for sale in the harbor here, and Miss Milroy. Yes!
he selects ME as the _confidante_ of his devoted attachment to
the major's daughter! 'It's so nice to talk to a woman about it!'
That is all the apology he has thought it necessary to make for
appealing to my sympathies--_my_ sympathies!--on the subject
of 'his darling Neelie,' fifty times a day. He is evidently
persuaded (if he thinks about it at all) that I have forgotten,
as completely as he has forgotten, all that once passed between
us when I was first at Thorpe Ambrose. Such an utter want of
the commonest delicacy and the commonest tact, in a creature
who is, to all appearance, possessed of a skin, and not a hide,
and who does, unless my ears deceive me, talk, and not bray,
is really quite incredible when one comes to think of it. But
it is, for all that, quite true. He asked me--he actually asked
me, last night--how many hundreds a year the wife of a rich man
could spend on her dress. 'Don't put it too low,' the idiot
added, with his intolerable grin. 'Neelie shall be one of
the best-dressed women in England when I have married her.'
And this to me, after having had him at my feet, and then losing
him again through Miss Milroy! This to me, with an alpaca gown
on, and a husband whose income must be helped by a newspaper!

"I had better not dwell on it any longer. I had better think
and write of something else.

"The yacht. As a relief from hearing about Miss Milroy, I declare
the yacht in the harbor is quite an interesting subject to me!
She (the men call a vessel 'She'; and I suppose, if the women
took an interest in such things, _they_ would call a vessel
'He')--she is a beautiful model; and her 'top-sides' (whatever
they may be) are especially distinguished by being built of
mahogany. But, with these merits, she has the defect, on the
other hand, of being old--which is a sad drawback--and the crew
and the sailing-master have been 'paid off,' and sent home to
England--which is additionally distressing. Still, if a new crew
and a new sailing-master can be picked up here, such a beautiful
creature (with all her drawbacks), is not to be despised.
It might answer to hire her for a cruise, and to see how she
behaves. (If she is of _my_ mind, her behavior will rather
astonish her new master!) The cruise will determine what faults
she has, and what repairs, through the unlucky circumstance of
her age, she really stands in need of. And then it will be time
to settle whether to buy her outright or not. Such is Armadale's
conversation when he is not talking of 'his darling Neelie.' And
Midwinter, who can steal no time from his newspaper work for
his wife, can steal hours for his friend, and can offer them
unreservedly to my irresistible rival, the new yacht.

"I shall write no more to-day. If so lady-like a person as I am
could feel a tigerish tingling all over her to the very tips
of her fingers, I should suspect myself of being in that
condition at the present moment. But, with _my_ manners and
accomplishments, the thing is, of course, out of the question.
We all know that a lady has no passions.

"October 17th.--A letter for Midwinter this morning from the
slave-owners--I mean the newspaper people in London--which has
set him at work again harder than ever. A visit at luncheon-time
and another visit at dinner-time from Armadale. Conversation
at luncheon about the yacht. Conversation at dinner about Miss
Milroy. I have been honored, in regard to that young lady, by an
invitation to go with Armadale to-morrow to the Toledo, and help
him to buy some presents for the beloved object. I didn't fly out
at him--I only made an excuse. Can words express the astonishment
I feel at my own patience? No words can express it.

"October 18th.--Armadale came to breakfast this morning, by way
of catching Midwinter before he shuts himself up over his work.

"Conversation the same as yesterday's conversation at lunch.
Armadale has made his bargain with the agent for hiring
the yacht. The agent (compassionating his total ignorance of
the language) has helped him to find an interpreter, but can't
help him to find a crew. The interpreter is civil and willing,
but doesn't understand the sea. Midwinter's assistance is
indispensable; and Midwinter is requested (and consents!) to work
harder than ever, so as to make time for helping his friend. When
the crew is found, the merits and defects of the vessel are to be
tried by a cruise to Sicily, with Midwinter on board to give
his opinion. Lastly (in case she should feel lonely), the ladies'
cabin is most obligingly placed at the disposal of Midwinter's
wife. All this was settled at the breakfast-table; and it ended
with one of Armadale's neatly-turned compliments, addressed
to myself: 'I mean to take Neelie sailing with me, when we are
married. And you have such good taste, you will be able to tell
me everything the ladies' cabin wants between that time and
this.'

"If some women bring such men as this into the world, ought other
women to allow them to live? It is a matter of opinion. _I_ think
not.

"What maddens me is to see, as I do see plainly, that Midwinter
finds in Armadale's company, and in Armadale's new yacht,
a refuge from me. He is always in better spirits when Armadale
is here. He forgets me in Armadale almost as completely as he
forgets me in his work. And I bear it! What a pattern wife,
what an excellent Christian I am!

"October 19th.--Nothing new. Yesterday over again.

"October 20th.--One piece of news. Midwinter is suffering from
nervous headache; and is working in spite of it, to make time
for his holiday with his friend.

"October 21st.--Midwinter is worse. Angry and wild and
unapproachable, after two bad nights, and two uninterrupted
days at his desk. Under any other circumstances he would take
the warning and leave off. But nothing warns him now. He is still
working as hard as ever, for Armadale's sake. How much longer
will my patience last?

"October 22d.--Signs, last night, that Midwinter is taxing his
brains beyond what his brains will bear. When he did fall asleep,
he was frightfully restless; groaning and talking and grinding
his teeth. From some of the words I heard, he seemed at one time
to be dreaming of his life when he was a boy, roaming the country
with the dancing dogs. At another time he was back again with
Armadale, imprisoned all night on the wrecked ship. Toward the
early morning hours he grew quieter. I fell asleep; and, waking
after a short interval, found myself alone. My first glance round
showed me a light burning in Midwinter's dressing-room. I rose
softly, and went to look at him.

"He was seated in the great, ugly, old-fashioned chair, which
I ordered to be removed into the dressing-room out of the way
when we first came here. His head lay back, and one of his hands
hung listlessly over the arm of the chair. The other hand was
on his lap. I stole a little nearer, and saw that exhaustion had
overpowered him while he was either reading or writing, for there
were books, pens, ink, and paper on the table before him. What
had he got up to do secretly, at that hour of the morning?
I looked closer at the papers on the table. They were all neatly
folded (as he usually keeps them), with one exception; and that
exception, lying open on the rest, was Mr. Brock's letter.

"I looked round at him again, after making this discovery, and
then noticed for the first time another written paper, lying
under the hand that rested on his lap. There was no moving it
away without the risk of waking him. Part of the open manuscript,
however, was not covered by his hand. I looked at it to see what
he had secretly stolen away to read, besides Mr. Brock's letter;
and made out enough to tell me that it was the Narrative of
Armadale's Dream.

"That second discovery sent me back at once to my bed--with
something serious to think of.

"Traveling through France, on our way to this place, Midwinter's
shyness was conquered for once, by a very pleasant man--an Irish
doctor--whom we met in the railway carriage, and who quite
insisted on being friendly and sociable with us all through
the day's journey. Finding that Midwinter was devoting himself to
literary pursuits, our traveling companion warned him not to pass
too many hours together at his desk. 'Your face tells me more
than you think,' the doctor said: 'If you are ever tempted to
overwork your brain, you will feel it sooner than most men. When
you find your nerves playing you strange tricks, don't neglect
the warning--drop your pen.'

"After my last night's discovery in the dressing-room, it looks
as if Midwinter's nerves were beginning already to justify
the doctor's opinion of them. If one of the tricks they are
playing him is the trick of tormenting him again with his old
superstitious terrors, there will be a change in our lives here
before long. I shall wait curiously to see whether the conviction
that we two are destined to bring fatal danger to Armadale takes
possession of Midwinter's mind once more. If it does, I know what
will happen. He will not stir a step toward helping his friend to
find a crew for the yacht; and he will certainly refuse to sail
with Armadale, or to let me sail with him, on the trial cruise.

"October 23d.--Mr. Brock's letter has, apparently, not lost
its influence yet. Midwinter is working again to-day, and is
as anxious as ever for the holiday-time that he is to pass with
his friend.

"Two o'clock.--Armadale here as usual; eager to know when
Midwinter will be at his service. No definite answer to be given
to the question yet, seeing that it all depends on Midwinter's
capacity to continue at his desk. Armadale sat down disappointed;
he yawned, and put his great clumsy hands in his pockets. I took
up a book. The brute didn't understand that I wanted to be left
alone; he began again on the unendurable subject of Miss Milroy,
and of all the fine things she was to have when he married her.
Her own riding-horse; her own pony-carriage; her own beautiful
little sitting-room upstairs at the great house, and so on. All
that I might have had once Miss Milroy is to have now--_if I let
her_.

"Six o'clock.--More of the everlasting Armadale! Half an hour
since, Midwinter came in from his writing, giddy and exhausted.
I had been pining all day for a little music, and I knew they
were giving 'Norma' at the theater here. It struck me that
an hour or two at the opera might do Midwinter good, as well as
me; and I said: 'Why not take a box at the San Carlo to-night?'
He answered, in a dull, uninterested manner, that he was not
rich enough to take a box. Armadale was present, and flourished
his well-filled purse in his usual insufferable way. '_I'm_
rich enough, old boy, and it comes to the same thing.' With
those words he took up his hat, and trampled out on his great
elephant's feet to get the box. I looked after him from
the window as he went down the street. 'Your widow, with her
twelve hundred a year,' I thought to myself, 'might take a box
at the San Carlo whenever she pleased, without being beholden
to anybody.' The empty-headed wretch whistled as he went his way
to the theater, and tossed his loose silver magnificently
to every beggar who ran after him.

* * * * *

"Midnight.--I am alone again at last. Have I nerve enough to
write the history of this terrible evening, just as it has
passed? I have nerve enough, at any rate, to turn to a new leaf,
and try.

CHAPTER II.

THE DIARY CONTINUED.

"We went to the San Carlo. Armadale's stupidity showed itself,
even in such a simple matter as taking a box. He had confounded
an opera with a play, and had chosen a box close to the stage,
with the idea that one's chief object at a musical performance
is to see the faces of the singers as plainly as possible!
Fortunately for our ears, Bellini's lovely melodies are, for the
most part, tenderly and delicately accompanied--or the orchestra
might have deafened us.

"I sat back in the box at first, well out of sight; for it was
impossible to be sure that some of my old friends of former days
at Naples might not be in the theater. But the sweet music
gradually tempted me out of my seclusion. I was so charmed and
interested that I leaned forward without knowing it, and looked
at the stage.

"I was made aware of my own imprudence by a discovery which,
for the moment, literally chilled my blood. One of the singers,
among the chorus of Druids, was looking at me while he sang with
the rest. His head was disguised in the long white hair, and the
lower part of his face was completely covered with the flowing
white beard proper to the character. But the eyes with which
he looked at me were the eyes of the one man on earth whom I have
most reason to dread ever seeing again--Manuel!

"If it had not been for my smelling-bottle, I believe I should
have lost my senses. As it was, I drew back again into the
shadow. Even Armadale noticed the sudden change in me: he, as
well as Midwinter, asked if I was ill. I said I felt the heat,
but hoped I should be better presently; and then leaned back in
the box, and tried to rally my courage. I succeeded in recovering
self-possession enough to be able to look again at the stage
(without showing myself) the next time the chorus appeared. There
was the man again! But to my infinite relief he never looked
toward our box a second time. This welcome indifference, on his
part, helped to satisfy me that I had seen an extraordinary
accidental resemblance, and nothing more. I still hold to this
conclusion, after having had leisure to think; but my mind would
be more completely at ease than it is if I had seen the rest of
the man's face without the stage disguises that hid it from all
investigation.

"When the curtain fell on the first act, there was a tiresome
ballet to be performed (according to the absurd Italian custom),
before the opera went on. Though I had got over my first fright,
I had been far too seriously startled to feel comfortable in the
theater. I dreaded all sorts of impossible accidents; and when
Midwinter and Armadale put the question to me, I told them I was
not well enough to stay through the rest of the performance.

"At the door of the theater Armadale proposed to say good-night.
But Midwinter--evidently dreading the evening with _me_--asked
him to come back to supper, if I had no objection. I said the
necessary words, and we all three returned together to this
house.

"Ten minutes' quiet in my own room (assisted by a little dose of
eau-de-cologne and water) restored me to myself. I joined the men
at the supper-table. They received my apologies for taking them
away from the opera, with the complimentary assurance that
I had not cost either of them the slightest sacrifice of his own
pleasure. Midwinter declared that he was too completely worn out
to care for anything but the two great blessings, unattainable
at the theater, of quiet and fresh air. Armadale said--with an
Englishman's exasperating pride in his own stupidity wherever
a matter of art is concerned--that he couldn't make head or tail
of the performance. The principal disappointment, he was good
enough to add, was mine, for I evidently understood foreign
music, and enjoyed it. Ladies generally did. His darling little
Neelie--

"I was in no humor to be persecuted with his 'Darling Neelie'
after what I had gone through at the theater. It might have been
the irritated state of my nerves, or it might have been the
eau-de-cologne flying to my head, but the bare mention of the
girl seemed to set me in a flame. I tried to turn Armadale's
attention in the direction of the supper-table. He was much
obliged, but he had no appetite for more. I offered him wine
next, the wine of the country, which is all that our poverty
allows us to place on the table. He was much obliged again. The
foreign wine was very little more to his taste than the foreign
music; but he would take some because I asked him; and he would
drink my health in the old-fashioned way, with his best wishes
for the happy time when we should all meet again at Thorpe
Ambrose, and when there would be a mistress to welcome me at
the great house.

"Was he mad to persist in this way? No; his face answered for
him. He was under the impression that he was making himself
particularly agreeable to me.

"I looked at Midwinter. He might have seen some reason for
interfering to change the conversation, if he had looked at me in
return. But he sat silent in his chair, irritable and overworked,
with his eyes on the ground, thinking.

"I got up and went to the window. Still impenetrable to a sense
of his own clumsiness, Armadale followed me. If I had been strong
enough to toss him out of the window into the sea, I should
certainly have done it at that moment. Not being strong enough,
I looked steadily at the view over the bay, and gave him a hint,
the broadest and rudest I could think of, to go.

"'A lovely night for a walk,' I said, 'if you are tempted to walk
back to the hotel.'

"I doubt if he heard me. At any rate, I produced no sort of
effect on him. He stood staring sentimentally at the moonlight;
and--there is really no other word to express it--_blew_ a sigh.
I felt a presentiment of what was coming, unless I stopped his
mouth by speaking first.

"'With all your fondness for England,' I said, 'you must own
that we have no such moonlight as that at home.'

"He looked at me vacantly, and blew another sigh.

"'I wonder whether it is fine to-night in England as it is here?'
he said. 'I wonder whether my dear little girl at home is looking
at the moonlight, and thinking of me?'

"I could endure it no longer. I flew out at him at last.

"'Good heavens, Mr. Armadale!' I exclaimed, 'is there only one
subject worth mentioning, in the narrow little world you live in?
I'm sick to death of Miss Milroy. Do pray talk of something
else?'

"His great, broad, stupid face colored up to the roots of
his hideous yellow hair. 'I beg your pardon,' he stammered,
with a kind of sulky surprise. 'I didn't suppose--' He stopped
confusedly, and looked from me to Midwinter. I understood what
the look meant. 'I didn't suppose she could be jealous of Miss
Milroy after marrying _you_!' That is what he would have said
to Midwinter, if I had left them alone together in the room!

"As it was, Midwinter had heard us. Before I could speak
again--before Armadale could add another word--he finished
his friend's uncompleted sentence, in a tone that I now heard,
and with a look that I now saw, for the first time.

"'You didn't suppose, Allan,' he said, 'that a lady's temper
could be so easily provoked.'

"The first bitter word of irony, the first hard look of contempt,
I had ever had from him! And Armadale the cause of it!

"My anger suddenly left me. Something came in its place which
steadied me in an instant, and took me silently out of the room.

"I sat down alone in the bedroom. I had a few minutes of thought
with myself, which I don't choose to put into words, even in
these secret pages. I got up, and unlocked--never mind what.
I went round to Midwinter's side of the bed, and took--no matter
what I took. The last thing I did before I left the room was
to look at my watch. It was half-past ten, Armadale's usual time
for leaving us. I went back at once and joined the two men again.

"I approached Armadale good-humoredly, and said to him:

"No! On second thoughts. I won't put down what I said to him,
or what I did afterward. I'm sick of Armadale! he turns up at
every second word I write. I shall pass over what happened in
the course of the next hour--the hour between half-past ten and
half-past eleven--and take up my story again at the time when
Armadale had left us. Can I tell what took place, as soon as our
visitor's back was turned, between Midwinter and me in our own
room? Why not pass over what happened, in that case as well as in
the other? Why agitate myself by writing it down? I don't know!
Why do I keep a diary at all? Why did the clever thief the other
day (in the English newspaper) keep the very thing to convict him
in the shape of a record of everything he stole? Why are we not
perfectly reasonable in all that we do? Why am I not always on my
guard and never inconsistent with myself, like a wicked character
in a novel? Why? why? why?

"I don't care why! I must write down what happened between
Midwinter and me to-night, _because_ I must. There's a reason
that nobody can answer--myself included.

* * * * * * *

"It was half-past eleven. Armadale had gone. I had put on
my dressing-gown, and had just sat down to arrange my hair
for the night, when I was surprised by a knock at the door,
and Midwinter came in.

"He was frightfully pale. His eyes looked at me with a terrible
despair in them. He never answered when I expressed my surprise
at his coming in so much sooner than usual; he wouldn't even
tell me, when I asked the question, if he was ill. Pointing
peremptorily to the chair from which I had risen on his entering
the room, he told me to sit down again; and then, after a moment,
added these words: 'I have something serious to say to you.'

"I thought of what I had done--or, no, of what I had tried to
do--in that interval between half-past ten and half-past eleven,
which I have left unnoticed in my diary--and the deadly sickness
of terror, which I never felt at the time, came upon me now.
I sat down again, as I had been told, without speaking to
Midwinter, and without looking at him.

"He took a turn up and down the room, and then came and stood
over me.

"'If Allan comes here to-morrow,' he began, 'and if you see
him--'

"His voice faltered, and he said no more. There was some dreadful
grief at his heart that was trying to master him. But there are
times when his will is a will of iron. He took another turn
in the room, and crushed it down. He came back, and stood over me
again.

"'When Allan comes here to-morrow,' he resumed, 'let him come
into my room, if he wants to see me. I shall tell him that I find
it impossible to finish the work I now have on hand as soon as
I had hoped, and that he must, therefore, arrange to find a crew
for the yacht without any assistance on my part. If he comes,
in his disappointment, to appeal to you, give him no hope of my
being free in time to help him if he waits. Encourage him to take
the best assistance he can get from strangers, and to set about
manning the yacht without any further delay. The more occupation
he has to keep him away from this house, and the less you
encourage him to stay here if he does come, the better I shall be
pleased. Don't forget that, and don't forget one last direction
which I have now to give you. When the vessel is ready for sea,
and when Allan invites us to sail with him, it is my wish that
you should positively decline to go. He will try to make you
change your mind; for I shall, of course, decline, on my side,
to leave you in this strange house, and in this foreign country,
by yourself. No matter what he says, let nothing persuade you
to alter your decision. Refuse, positively and finally! Refuse,
I insist on it, to set your foot on the new yacht!'

"He ended quietly and firmly, with no faltering in his voice,
and no signs of hesitation or relenting in his face. The sense
of surprise which I might otherwise have felt at the strange
words he had addressed to me was lost in the sense of relief
that they brought to my mind. The dread of _those other words_
that I had expected to hear from him left me as suddenly as it
had come. I could look at him, I could speak to him once more.

"'You may depend,' I answered, 'on my doing exactly what you
order me to do. Must I obey you blindly? Or may I know your
reason for the extraordinary directions you have just given
to me?'

"His, face darkened, and he sat down on the other side of
my dressing-table, with a heavy, hopeless sigh.

"'You may know the reason,' he said, 'if you wish it.' He waited
a little, and considered. 'You have a right to know the reason,'
he resumed, 'for you yourself are concerned in it.' He waited a
little again, and again went on. 'I can only explain the strange
request I have just made to you in one way,' be said. 'I must ask
you to recall what happened in the next room, before Allan left
us to-night.'

"He looked at me with a strange mixture of expressions in his
face. At one moment I thought he felt pity for me. At another,
it seemed more like horror of me. I began to feel frightened
again; I waited for his next words in silence.

"'I know that I have been working too hard lately,' he went on,
'and that my nerves are sadly shaken. It is possible, in the
state I am in now, that I may have unconsciously misinterpreted,
or distorted, the circumstances that really took place. You
will do me a favor if you will test my recollection of what
has happened by your own. If my fancy has exaggerated anything,
if my memory is playing me false anywhere, I entreat you to stop
me, and tell me of it.'

"I commanded myself sufficiently to ask what the circumstances
were to which he referred, and in what way I was personally
concerned in them.

"'You were personally concerned in them in this way,' he
answered. 'The circumstances to which I refer began with your
speaking to Allan about Miss Milroy, in what I thought a very
inconsiderate and very impatient manner. I am afraid I spoke just
as petulantly on my side, and I beg your pardon for what I said
to you in the irritation of the moment. You left the room. After
a short absence, you came back again, and made a perfectly proper
apology to Allan, which he received with his usual kindness and
sweetness of temper. While this went on, you and he were both
standing by the supper-table; and Allan resumed some conversation
which had already passed between you about the Neapolitan wine.
He said he thought he should learn to like it in time, and he
asked leave to take another glass of the wine we had on the
table. Am I right so far?'

"The words almost died on my lips; but I forced them out, and
answered him that he was right so far.

"'You took the flask out of Allan's hand,' he proceeded. 'You
said to him, good-humoredly, "You know you don't really like the
wine, Mr. Armadale. Let me make you something which may be more
to your taste. I have a recipe of my own for lemonade. Will you
favor me by trying it?" In those words, you made your proposal
to him, and he accepted it. Did he also ask leave to look on,
and learn how the lemonade was made? and did you tell him that
he would only confuse you, and that you would give him the recipe
in writing, if he wanted it?'

"This time the words did really die on my lips. I could only bow
my head, and answer 'Yes' mutely in that way. Midwinter went on.

"'Allan laughed, and went to the window to look out at the Bay,
and I went with him. After a while Allan remarked, jocosely,
that the mere sound of the liquids you were pouring out made him
thirsty. When he said this, I turned round from the window.
I approached you, and said the lemonade took a long time to make.
You touched me, as I was walking away again, and handed me the
tumbler filled to the brim. At the same time, Allan turned round
from the window; and I, in my turn, handed the tumbler to _him_.
--Is there any mistake so far?'

"The quick throbbing of my heart almost choked me. I could just
shake my head--I could do no more.

"'I saw Allan raise the tumbler to his lips.--Did _you_ see it?
I saw his face turn white in an instant.--Did _you_? I saw the
glass fall from his hand on the floor. I saw him stagger, and
caught him before he fell. Are these things true? For God's sake,
search your memory, and tell me--are these things true?'

"The throbbing at my heart seemed, for one breathless instant,
to stop. The next moment something fiery, something maddening,
flew through me. I started to my feet, with my temper in a flame,
reckless of all consequences, desperate enough to say anything.

"'Your questions are an insult! Your looks are an insult!'
I burst out. '_Do you think I tried to poison him_?'

"The words rushed out of my lips in spite of me. They were the
last words under heaven that any woman, in such a situation as
mine, ought to have spoken. And yet I spoke them!

"He rose in alarm and gave me my smelling-bottle. 'Hush! hush!'
he said. 'You, too, are overwrought--you, too, are overexcited
by all that has happened to-night. You are talking wildly and
shockingly. Good God! how can you have so utterly misunderstood
me? Compose yourself--pray, compose yourself.'

"He might as well have told a wild animal to compose herself.
Having been mad enough to say the words, I was mad enough next to
return to the subject of the lemonade, in spite of his entreaties
to me to be silent.

"'I told you what I had put in the glass, the moment Mr.
Armadale fainted,' I went on; insisting furiously on defending
myself, when no attack was made on me. 'I told you I had taken
the flask of brandy which you kept at your bedside, and mixed
some of it with the lemonade. How could I know that he had a
nervous horror of the smell and taste of brandy? Didn't he say
to me himself, when he came to his senses, It's my fault; I ought
to have warned you to put no brandy in it? Didn't he remind you
afterward of the time when you and he were in the Isle of Man
together, and when the doctor there innocently made the same
mistake with him that I made to-night?'

["I laid a great stress on my innocence--and with some reason
too. Whatever else I may be, I pride myself on not being a
hypocrite. I _was_ innocent--so far as the brandy was concerned.
I had put it into the lemonade, in pure ignorance of Armadale's
nervous peculiarity, to disguise the taste of--never mind what!
Another of the things I pride myself on is that I never wander
from my subject. What Midwinter said next is what I ought to be
writing about now.]

"He looked at me for a moment, as if he thought I had taken
leave of my senses. Then he came round to my side of the table
and stood over me again.

"'If nothing else will satisfy you that you are entirely
misinterpreting my motives,' he said, 'and that I haven't
an idea of blaming _you_ in the matter--read this.'

"He took a paper from the breast-pocket of his coat, and spread
it open under my eyes. It was the Narrative of Armadale's Dream.

"In an instant the whole weight on my mind was lifted off it.
I felt mistress of myself again--I understood him at last.

"'Do you know what this is?' he asked. 'Do you remember what
I said to you at Thorpe Ambrose about Allan's Dream? I told you
then that two out of the three Visions had already come true.
I tell you now that the third Vision has been fulfilled in this
house to-night.'

"He turned over the leaves of the manuscript, and pointed to
the lines that he wished me to read.

"I read these, or nearly read these words, from the Narrative
of the Dream, as Midwinter had taken it down from Armadale's own
lips:

"'The darkness opened for the third time, and showed me
the Shadow of the Man and the Shadow of the Woman together.
The Man-Shade was the nearest; the Woman-Shadow stood back. From
where she stood, I heard a sound like the pouring out of a liquid
softly. I saw her touch the Shadow of the Man with one hand, and
give him a glass with the other. He took the glass and handed it
to me. At the moment when I put it to my lips, a deadly faintness
overcame me. When I recovered my senses again, the Shadows had
vanished, and the Vision was at an end.'

"For the moment, I was as completely staggered by this
extraordinary coincidence as Midwinter himself.

"He put one hand on the open narrative and laid the other heavily
on my arm.

"'_Now_ do you understand my motive in coming here?' he asked.
'_Now_ do you see that the last hope I had to cling to was the
hope that your memory of the night's events might prove my memory
to be wrong? _Now_ do you know why I won't help Allan? Why
I won't sail with him? Why I am plotting and lying, and making
you plot and lie too, to keep my best and dearest friend out of
the house?'

"'Have you forgotten Mr. Brock's letter?' I asked.

"He struck his hand passionately on the open manuscript. 'If Mr.
Brook had lived to see what we have seen to-night he would have
felt what I feel, he would have said what I say!' His voice sank
mysteriously, and his great black eyes glittered at me as he made
that answer. 'Thrice the Shadows of the Vision warned Allan
in his sleep,' he went on; 'and thrice those Shadows have been
embodied in the after-time by You and by Me! You, and no other,
stood in the Woman's place at the pool. I, and no other, stood
in the Man's place at the window. And you and I together, when
the last Vision showed the Shadows together, stand in the Man's
place and the Woman's place still! For _this_, the miserable day
dawned when you and I first met. For _this_, your influence drew
me to you, when my better angel warned me to fly the sight of
your face. There is a curse on our lives! there is a fatality
in our footsteps! Allan's future depends on his separation from
us at once and forever. Drive him from the place we live in,
and the air we breathe. Force him among strangers--the worst and
wickedest of them will be more harmless, to him than we are! Let
his yacht sail, though he goes on his knees to ask us, without
you and without me; and let him know how I loved him in another
world than this, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest!'

"His grief conquered him; his voice broke into a sob when he
spoke those last words. He took the Narrative of the Dream from
the table, and left me as abruptly as he had come in.

"As I heard his door locked between us, my mind went back to what
he had said to me about myself. In remembering 'the miserable
day' when we first saw each other, and 'the better angel' that
had warned him to 'fly the sight of my face,' I forgot all else.
It doesn't matter what I felt--I wouldn't own it, even if I had
a friend to speak to. Who cares for the misery of such a woman as
I am? who believes in it? Besides, he spoke under the influence
of a mad superstition that has got possession of him again. There
is every excuse for _him_--there is no excuse for _me_. If I
can't help being fond of him through it all, I must take the
consequences and suffer. I deserve to suffer; I deserve neither
love nor pity from anybody.--Good heavens, what a fool I am! And
how unnatural all this would be, if it was written in a book!

"It has struck one. I can hear Midwinter still, pacing to and fro
in his room.

"He is thinking, I suppose? Well! I can think too. What am I to
do next? I shall wait and see. Events take odd turns sometimes;
and events may justify the fatalism of the amiable man in the
next room, who curses the day when he first saw my face. He may
live to curse it for other reasons than he has now. If I am the
Woman pointed at in the Dream, there will be another temptation
put in my way before long; and there will be no brandy in
Armadale's lemonade if I mix it for him a second time.

"October 24th.--Barely twelve hours have passed since I wrote
my yesterday's entry; and that other temptation has come, tried,
amid conquered me already!

"This time there was no alternative. Instant exposure and ruin
stared me in the face: I had no choice but to yield in my own
defense. In plainer words still, it was no accidental resemblance
that startled me at the theater last night. The chorus-singer
at the opera was Manuel himself!

"Not ten minutes after Midwinter had left the sitting-room for
his study, the woman of the house came in with a dirty little
three-cornered note in her hand. One look at the writing on the
address was enough. He had recognized me in the box; and the
ballet between the acts of the opera had given him time to trace
me home. I drew that plain conclusion in the moment that elapsed
before I opened the letter. It informed me, in two lines, that he
was waiting in a by-street leading to the beach; and that, if I
failed to make my appearance in ten minutes, he should interpret
my absence as my invitation to him to call at the house.

"What I went through yesterday must have hardened me, I suppose.
At any rate, after reading the letter, I felt more like the woman
I once was than I have felt for months past. I put on my bonnet
and went downstairs, and left the house as if nothing had
happened.

"He was waiting for me at the entrance to the street.

"In the instant when we stood face to face, all my wretched life
with him came back to me. I thought of my trust that he had
betrayed; I thought of the cruel mockery of a marriage that
he had practiced on me, when he knew that he had a wife living;
I thought of the time when I had felt despair enough at his
desertion of me to attempt my own life. When I recalled all this,
and when the comparison between Midwinter and the mean, miserable
villain whom I had once believed in forced itself into my mind,
I knew for the first time what a woman feels when every atom of
respect for herself has left her. If he had personally insulted
me at that moment, I believe I should have submitted to it.

"But he had no idea of insulting me, in the more brutal meaning
of the word. He had me at his mercy, and his way of making me
feel it was to behave with an elaborate mockery of penitence and
respect. I let him speak as he pleased, without interrupting him,
without looking at him a second time, without even allowing my
dress to touch him, as we walked together toward the quieter part
of the beach. I had noticed the wretched state of his clothes,
and the greedy glitter in his eyes, in my first look at him. And
I knew it would end--as it did end--in a demand on me for money.

"Yes! After taking from me the last farthing I possessed of my
own, and the last farthing I could extort for him from my old
mistress, he turned on me as we stood by the margin of the sea,
and asked if I could reconcile it to my conscience to let him
be wearing such a coat as he then had on his back, and earning
his miserable living as a chorus-singer at the opera!

"My disgust, rather than my indignation, roused me into speaking
to him at last.

"'You want money,' I said. 'Suppose I am too poor to give it
to you?'

"'In that case,' he replied, 'I shall be forced to remember that
you are a treasure in yourself. And I shall be under the painful
necessity of pressing my claim to you on the attention of one
of those two gentlemen whom I saw with you at the opera--the
gentleman, of course, who is now honored by your preference,
and who lives provisionally in the light of your smiles.'

"I made him no answer, for I had no answer to give. Disputing
his right to claim me from anybody would have been a mere waste
of words. He knew as well as I did that he had not the shadow
of a claim on me. But the mere attempt to raise it would, as he
was well aware, lead necessarily to the exposure of my whole past
life.

"Still keeping silence, I looked out over the sea. I don't know
why, except that I instinctively looked anywhere rather than look
at _him_.

"A little sailing-boat was approaching the shore. The man
steering was hidden from me by the sail; but the boat was so near
that I thought I recognized the flag on the mast. I looked at
my watch. Yes! It was Armadale coming over from Santa Lucia at
his usual time, to visit us in his usual way.

"Before I had put my watch back in my belt, the means of
extricating myself from the frightful position I was placed
in showed themselves to me as plainly as I see them now.

"I turned and led the way to the higher part of the beach, where
some fishing-boats were drawn up which completely screened us
from the view of any one landing on the shore below. Seeing
probably that I had a purpose of some kind, Manuel followed me
without uttering a word. As soon as we were safely under the
shelter of the boats, I forced myself, in my own defense, to look
at him again.

"'What should you say,' I asked, 'if I was rich instead of poor?
What should you say if I could afford to give you a hundred
pounds?'

"He started. I saw plainly that he had not expected so much as
half the sum I had mentioned. It is needless to add that his
tongue lied, while his face spoke the truth, and that when he
replied to me the answer was, 'Nothing like enough.'

"'Suppose,' I went on, without taking any notice of what he had
said, 'that I could show you a way of helping yourself to twice
as much--three times as much--five times as much as a hundred
pounds, are you bold enough to put out your hand and take it?'

"The greedy glitter came into his eyes once more. His voice
dropped low, in breathless expectation of my next words.

"'Who is the person?' he asked. 'And what is the risk?'

"I answered him at once, in the plainest terms. I threw Armadale
to him, as I might have thrown a piece of meat to a wild beast
who was pursuing me.

"'The person is a rich young Englishman,' I said. 'He has just
hired the yacht called the _Dorothea_, in the harbor here; and
he stands in need of a sailing-master and a crew. You were once
an officer in the Spanish navy--you speak English and Italian
perfectly--you are thoroughly well acquainted with Naples and all
that belongs to it. The rich young Englishman is ignorant of the
language, and the interpreter who assists him knows nothing of
the sea. He is at his wits' end for want of useful help in this
strange place; he has no more knowledge of the world than that
child who is digging holes with a stick there in the sand; and
he carries all his money with him in circular notes. So much for
the person. As for the risk, estimate it for yourself.'

"The greedy glitter in his eyes grew brighter and brighter with
every word I said. He was plainly ready to face the risk before
I had done speaking.

"'When can I see the Englishman?' he asked, eagerly.

"I moved to the seaward end of the fishing-boat, and saw that
Armadale was at that moment disembarking on the shore.

"'You can see him now,' I answered, and pointed to the place.

"After a long look at Armadale walking carelessly up the slope of
the beach, Manuel drew back again under the shelter of the boat.
He waited a moment, considering something carefully with himself,
and put another question to me, in a whisper this time.

"'When the vessel is manned,' he said, 'and the Englishman sails
from Naples, how many friends sail with him?'

"'He has but two friends here,' I replied; 'that other gentleman
whom you saw with me at the opera, and myself. He will invite us
both to sail with him; and when the time comes, we shall both
refuse.'

"'Do you answer for that?'

"'I answer for it positively.'

"He walked a few steps away, and stood with his face hidden from
me, thinking again. All I could see was that he took off his hat
and passed his handkerchief over his forehead. All I could hear
was that he talked to himself excitedly in his own language.

"There was a change in him when he came back. His face had turned
to a livid yellow, and his eyes looked at me with a hideous
distrust.

"'One last question,' he said, and suddenly came closer to me,
suddenly spoke with a marked emphasis on his next words: '_What
is your interest in this_?'

"I started back from him. The question reminded me that I _had_
an interest in the matter, which was entirely unconnected with
the interest of keeping Manuel and Midwinter apart. Thus far
I had only remembered that Midwinter's fatalism had smoothed the
way for me, by abandoning Armadale beforehand to any stranger who
might come forward to help him. Thus far the sole object I had
kept in view was to protect myself, by the sacrifice of Armadale,
from the exposure that threatened me. I tell no lies to my Diary.
I don't affect to have felt a moment's consideration for the
interests of Armadale's purse or the safety of Armadale's life.
I hated him too savagely to care what pitfalls my tongue might be
the means of opening under his feet. But I certainly did not see
(until that last question was put to me) that, in serving his own
designs, Manuel might--if he dared go all lengths for the
money--be serving my designs too. The one overpowering anxiety
to protect myself from exposure before Midwinter had (I suppose)
filled all my mind, to the exclusion of everything else.

"Finding that I made no reply for the moment, Manuel reiterated
his question, putting it in a new form.

"'You have cast your Englishman at me,' he said, 'like the sop
to Cerberus. Would you have been quite so ready to do that if you
had not had a motive of your own? I repeat my question. You have
an interest in this--what is it?'

"'I have two interests,' I answered. 'The interest of forcing
you to respect my position here, and the interest of ridding
myself of the sight of you at once and forever!' I spoke with
a boldness he had not yet heard from me. The sense that I was
making the villain an instrument in my hands, and forcing him
to help my purpose blindly, while he was helping his own, roused
my spirits, and made me feel like myself again.

"He laughed. 'Strong language, on certain occasions, is a lady's
privilege,' he said. 'You may, or may not, rid yourself of the
sight of me, at once and forever. We will leave that question to
be settled in the future. But your other interest in this matter
puzzles me. You have told me all I need know about the Englishman
and his yacht, and you have made no conditions before you opened
your lips. Pray, how are you to force me, as you say, to respect
your position here?'

"'I will tell you how,' I rejoined. 'You shall hear my conditions
first. I insist on your leaving me in five minutes more. I insist
on your never again coming near the house where I live; and
I forbid your attempting to communicate in any way either
with me or with that other gentleman whom you saw with me at
the theater--'

"'And suppose I say no?' he interposed. 'In that case, what will
you do?'

"'In that case,' I answered, 'I shall say two words in private
to the rich young Englishman, and you will find yourself back
again among the chorus at the opera.'

"'You are a bold woman to take it for granted that I have
my designs on the Englishman already, and that I am certain
to succeed in them. How do you know--?'

"'I know _you_,' I said. 'And that is enough.'

"There was a moment's silence between us. He looked at me, and
I looked at him. We understood each other.

"He was the first to speak. The villainous smile died out of his
face, and his voice dropped again distrustfully to its lowest
tones.

"'I accept your terms,' he said. 'As long as your lips are
closed, my lips shall be closed too--except in the event of
my finding that you have deceived me; in which case the bargain
is at an end, and you will see me again. I shall present myself
to the Englishman to-morrow, with the necessary credentials to
establish me in his confidence. Tell me his name?'

"I told it.

"'Give me his address?'

"I gave it, and turned to leave him. Before I had stepped out
of the shelter of the boats, I heard him behind me again.

"'One last word,' he said. 'Accidents sometimes happen at sea.
Have you interest enough in the Englishman--if an accident
happens in his case--to wish to know what has become of him?'

"I stopped, and considered on my side. I had plainly failed to
persuade him that I had no secret to serve in placing Armadale's
money and (as a probable consequence) Armadale's life at his
mercy. And it was now equally clear that he was cunningly
attempting to associate himself with my private objects (whatever
they might be) by opening a means of communication between us in
the future. There could be no hesitation about how to answer him
under such circumstances as these. If the 'accident' at which
he hinted did really happen to Armadale, I stood in no need of
Manuel's intervention to give me the intelligence of it. An easy
search through the obituary columns of the English papers would
tell me the news--with the great additional advantage that the
papers might be relied on, in such a matter as this, to tell
the truth. I formally thanked Manuel, and declined to accept his
proposal. 'Having no interest in the Englishman,' I said, 'I have
no wish whatever to know what becomes of him.'

"He looked at me for a moment with steady attention, and with
an interest in me which he had not shown yet.

"'What the game you are playing may be,' he rejoined, speaking
slowly and significantly, 'I don't pretend to know. But I venture
on a prophecy, nevertheless--_you will win it_! If we ever meet
again, remember I said that.' He took off his hat, and bowed to
me gravely. 'Go your way, madam. And leave me to go mine!'

"With those words, he released me from the sight of him. I waited
a minute alone, to recover myself in the air, and then returned
to the house.

"The first object that met my eyes, on entering the sitting-room,
was--Armadale himself!

"He was waiting on the chance of seeing me, to beg that I would
exert my influence with his friend. I made the needful inquiry as
to what he meant, and found that Midwinter had spoken as he had
warned me he would speak when he and Armadale next met. He had
announced that he was unable to finish his work for the newspaper
as soon as he had hoped; and he had advised Armadale to find a
crew for the yacht without waiting for any assistance on his
part.

"All that it was necessary for me to do, on hearing this, was
to perform the promise I had made to Midwinter, when he gave me
my directions how to act in the matter. Armadale's vexation on
finding me resolved not to interfere expressed itself in the form
of all others that is most personally offensive to me. He
declined to believe my reiterated assurances that I possessed no
influence to exert in his favor. 'If I was married to Neelie,'
he said, 'she could do anything she liked with me; and I am sure,
when you choose, you can do anything you like with Midwinter.' If
the infatuated fool had actually tried to stifle the last faint
struggles of remorse and pity left stirring in my heart, he could
have said nothing more fatally to the purpose than this! I gave
him a look which effectually silenced him, so far as I was
concerned. He went out of the room grumbling and growling to
himself. 'It's all very well to talk about manning the yacht.
I don't speak a word of their gibberish here; and the interpreter
thinks a fisherman and a sailor means the same thing. Hang me if
I know what to do with the vessel, now I have got her!'

"He will probably know by to-morrow. And if he only comes here
as usual, I shall know too!

"October 25th.--Ten at night.--Manuel has got him!

"He has just left us, after staying here more than an hour, and
talking the whole time of nothing but his own wonderful luck in
finding the very help he wanted, at the time when he needed it
most.

"At noon to-day he was on the Mole, it seems, with his
interpreter, trying vainly to make himself understood by the
vagabond population of the water-side. Just as he was giving it
up in despair, a stranger standing by (Manuel had followed him,
I suppose, to the Mole from his hotel) kindly interfered to put
things right. He said, 'I speak your language and their language,
sir. I know Naples well; and I have been professionally
accustomed to the sea. Can I help you?' The inevitable result
followed. Armadale shifted all his difficulties on to the
shoulders of the polite stranger, in his usual helpless, headlong
way. His new friend, however, insisted, in the most honorable
manner, on complying with the customary formalities before he
would consent to take the matter into his own hands. He begged
leave to wait on Mr. Armadale, with his testimonials to character
and capacity. The same afternoon he had come by appointment
to the hotel, with all his papers, and with 'the saddest story'
of his sufferings and privations as 'a political refugee' that
Armadale had ever heard. The interview was decisive. Manuel left
the hotel, commissioned to find a crew for the yacht, and to fill
the post of sailing-master on the trial cruise.

"I watched Midwinter anxiously, while Armadale was telling us
these particulars, and afterward, when he produced the new
sailing-master's testimonials, which he had brought with him
for his friend to see.

"For the moment, Midwinter's superstitious misgivings seemed
to be all lost in his natural anxiety for his friend. He examined
the stranger's papers--after having told me that the sooner
Armadale was in the hands of strangers the better!--with the
closest scrutiny and the most business-like distrust. It is
needless to say that the credentials were as perfectly regular
and satisfactory as credentials could be. When Midwinter handed
them back, his color rose: he seemed to feel the inconsistency of
his conduct, and to observe for the first time that I was present
noticing it. 'There is nothing to object to in the testimonials,
Allan: I am glad you have got the help you want at last.' That
was all he said at parting. As soon as Armadale's back was
turned, I saw no more of him. He has locked himself up again
for the night, in his own room.

"There is now--so far as I am concerned--but one anxiety left.
When the yacht is ready for sea, and when I decline to occupy the
lady's cabin, will Midwinter hold to his resolution, and refuse
to sail without me?

"October 26th.--Warnings already of the coming ordeal. A letter
from Armadale to Midwinter, which Midwinter has just sent in
to me. Here it is:

"'DEAR MID--I am too busy to come to-day. Get on with your work,
for Heaven's sake! The new sailing-master is a man of ten
thousand. He has got an Englishman whom he knows to serve as mate
on board already; and he is positively certain of getting the
crew together in three or four days' time. I am dying for a whiff
of the sea, and so are you, or you are no sailor. The rigging
is set up, the stores are coming on board, and we shall bend the
sails to-morrow or next day. I never was in such spirits in my
life. Remember me to your wife, and tell her she will be doing me
a favor if she will come at once, and order everything she wants
in the lady's cabin. Yours affectionately, A. A.'

"Under this was written, in Midwinter's hand: 'Remember what
I told you. Write (it will break it to him more gently in that
way), and beg him to accept your apologies, and to excuse you
from sailing on the trial cruise.'

"I have written without a moment's loss of time. The sooner
Manuel knows (which he is certain to do through Armadale) that
the promise not to sail in the yacht is performed already, so far
as I am concerned, the safer I shall feel.

"October 27th.--A letter from Armadale, in answer to mine. He
is full of ceremonio us regrets at the loss of my company on
the cruise; and he politely hopes that Midwinter may yet induce
me to alter my mind. Wait a little, till he finds that Midwinter
won't sail with him either!....

"October 30th.--Nothing new to record until to-day. To-day
the change in our lives here has come at last!

"Armadale presented himself this morning, in his noisiest high
spirits, to announce that the yacht was ready for sea, and to ask
when Midwinter would be able to go on board. I told him to make
the inquiry himself in Midwinter's room. He left me, with a last
request that I would consider my refusal to sail with him.
I answered by a last apology for persisting in my resolution,
and then took a chair alone at the window to wait the event of
the interview in the next room.

"My whole future depended now on what passed between Midwinter
and his friend! Everything had gone smoothly up to this time.
The one danger to dread was the danger of Midwinter's resolution,
or rather of Midwinter's fatalism, giving way at the last moment.
If he allowed himself to be persuaded into accompanying Armadale
on the cruise, Manuel's exasperation against me would hesitate
at nothing--he would remember that I had answered to him for
Armadale's sailing from Naples alone; and he would be capable of
exposing my whole past life to Midwinter before the vessel left
the port. As I thought of this, and as the slow minutes followed
each other, and nothing reached my ears but the hum of voices in
the next room, my suspense became almost unendurable. It was vain
to try and fix my attention on what was going on in the street.
I sat looking mechanically out of the window, and seeing nothing.

"Suddenly--I can't say in how long or how short a time--the hum
of voices ceased; the door opened; and Armadale showed himself
on the threshold, alone.

"'I wish you good-by,' he said, roughly. 'And I hope, when I am
married, my wife may never cause Midwinter the disappointment
that Midwinter's wife has caused _me_!'

"He gave me an angry look, and made me an angry bow, and, turning
sharply, left the room.

"I saw the people in the street again! I saw the calm sea, and
the masts of the shipping in the harbor where the yacht lay!
I could think, I could breathe freely once more! The words that
saved me from Manuel--the words that might be Armadale's sentence
of death--had been spoken. The yacht was to sail without
Midwinter, as well as without me!

"My first feeling of exultation was almost maddening. But it was
the feeling of a moment only. My heart sank in me again when
I thought of Midwinter alone in the next room.

"I went out into the passage to listen, and heard nothing.
I tapped gently at his door, and got no answer. I opened the door
and looked in. He was sitting at the table, with his face hidden
in his hands. I looked at him in silence, and saw the glistening
of the tears as they trickled through his fingers.

"'Leave me,' he said, without moving his hands. 'I must get over
it by myself.'

"I went back into the sitting-room. Who can understand women?
we don't even understand ourselves. His sending me away from him
in that manner cut me to the heart. I don't believe the most
harmless and most gentle woman living could have felt it more
acutely than I felt it. And this, after what I have been doing!
this, after what I was thinking of, the moment before I went
into his room! Who can account for it? Nobody--I least of all!

"Half an hour later his door opened, and I heard him hurrying
down the stairs. I ran on without waiting to think, and asked
if I might go with him. He neither stopped nor answered. I went
back to the window, and saw him pass, walking rapidly away, with
his back turned on Naples and the sea.

"I can understand now that he might not have heard me. At the
time I thought him inexcusably and brutally unkind to me. I put
on my bonnet, in a frenzy of rage with him; I sent out for a
carriage, and told the man to take me where he liked. He took me,
as he took other strangers, to the Museum to see the statues and
the pictures. I flounced from room to room, with my face in a
flame, and the people all staring at me. I came to myself again,
I don't know how. I returned to the carriage, and made the man
drive me back in a violent hurry, I don't know why. I tossed off
my cloak and bonnet, and sat down once more at the window. The
sight of the sea cooled me. I forgot Midwinter, and thought of
Armadale and his yacht. There wasn't a breath of wind; there
wasn't a cloud in the sky; the wide waters of the Bay were as
smooth as the surface of a glass.

"The sun sank; the short twilight came and went. I had some tea,
and sat at the table thinking and dreaming over it. When I roused
myself and went back to the window, the moon was up; but the
quiet sea was as quiet as ever.

"I was still looking out, when I saw Midwinter in the street
below, coming back. I was composed enough by this time to
remember his habits, and to guess that he had been trying to
relieve the oppression on his mind by one of his long solitary
walks. When I heard him go into his own room, I was too prudent
to disturb him again: I waited his pleasure where I was.

"Before long I heard his window opened, and I saw him, from my
window, step into the balcony, and, after a look at the sea, hold
up his hand to the air. I was too stupid, for the moment, to
remember that he had once been a sailor, and to know what this
meant. I waited, and wondered what would happen next.

"He went in again; and, after an interval, came out once more,
and held up his hand as before to the air. This time he waited,
leaning on the balcony rail, and looking out steadily, with all
his attention absorbed by the sea.

"For a long, long time he never moved. Then, on a sudden, I saw
him start. The next moment he sank on his knees, with his clasped
hands resting on the balcony rail. 'God Almighty bless and keep
you, Allan!' he said, fervently. 'Good-by, forever!'

"I looked out to the sea. A soft, steady breeze was blowing,
and the rippled surface of the water was sparkling in the quiet
moonlight. I looked again, and there passed slowly, between me
and the track of the moon, a long black vessel with tall,
shadowy, ghostlike sails, gliding smooth and noiseless through
the water, like a snake.

"The wind had come fair with the night; and Armadale's yacht
had sailed on the trial cruise.

CHAPTER III.

THE DIARY BROKEN OFF.

"London, November 19th.--I am alone again in the Great City;
alone, for the first time since our marriage. Nearly a week since
I started on my homeward journey, leaving Midwinter behind me
at Turin.

"The days have been so full of events since the month began, and
I have been so harassed, in mind and body both, for the greater
part of the time, that my Diary has been wretchedly neglected. A
few notes, written in such hurry and confusion that I can hardly
understand them myself, are all that I possess to remind me of
what has happened since the night when Armadale's yacht left
Naples. Let me try if I can set this right without more loss or
time; let me try if I can recall the circumstances in their order
as they have followed each other from the beginning of the month.

"On the 3d of November--being then still at Naples--Midwinter
received a hurried letter from Armadale, date 'Messina.' 'The
weather,' he said, 'had been lovely, and the yacht had made one
of the quickest passages on record. The crew were rather a rough
set to look at; but Captain Manuel and his English mate' (the
latter described as 'the best of good fellows') 'managed them
admirably.' After this prosperous beginning, Armadale had
arranged, as a matter of course, to prolong the cruise; and,
at the sailing-master's suggestion, he had decided to visit some
of the ports in the Adriatic, which the captain had described
as full of character, and well worth seeing.

"A postscript followed, explaining that Armadale had written in
a hurry to catch the steamer to Naples, and that he had opened
his letter again, before sending it off, to add something that he
had forgotten. On the day before the yacht sailed, he had been
at the banker's to get 'a few hundreds in gold,' and he believed
he had left his cigar-case there. It was an old friend of his,
and he begged that Midwinter would oblige him by endeavoring
recover it, and keeping it for him till they met again.

"That was the substance of the letter.

"I thought over it carefully when Midwinter had left me alone
again, after reading it. My idea was then (and is still)
that Manuel had not persuaded Armadale to cruise in a sea
like the Adriatic, so much less frequented by ships than the
Mediterranean, for nothing. The terms, too, in which the trifling
loss of the cigar-case was mentioned struck me as being equally
suggestive of what was coming. I concluded that Armadale's
circular notes had not been transformed into those 'few hundreds
in gold' through any forethought or business knowledge of his
own. Manuel's influence, I suspected, had been exerted in this
matter also, and once more not without reason. At intervals
through the wakeful night these considerations came back again
and again to me; and time after time they pointed obstinately
(so far as my next movements were concerned) in one and the same
way--the way back to England.

"How to get there, and especially how to get there unaccompanied
by Midwinter, was more than I had wit enough to discover that
night. I tried and tried to meet the difficulty, and fell asleep
exhausted toward the morning without having met it.

"Some hours later, as soon as I was dressed, Midwinter came in,
with news received by that morning's post from his employers in
London. The proprietors of the newspaper had received from the
editor so favorable a report of his correspondence from Naples
that they had determined on advancing him to a place of greater
responsibility and greater emolument at Turin. His instructions
were inclosed in the letter, and he was requested to lose no time
in leaving Naples for his new post.

"On hearing this, I relieved his mind, before he could put the
question, of all anxiety about my willingness to remove. Turin
had the great attraction, in my eyes, of being on the road to
England. I assured him at once that I was ready to travel as soon
as he pleased.

"He thanked me for suiting myself to his plans, with more of his
old gentleness and kindness than I had seen in him for some time
past. The good news from Armadale on the previous day seemed to
have roused him a little from the dull despair in which he had
been sunk since the sailing of the yacht. And now the prospect of
advancement in his profession, and, more than that, the prospect

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