He spoke quietly, almost sadly. The terrible conviction of the supernatural origin of the dream, from which he had tried to escape, had possessed itself of him again. All his interest in the argument was at an end; all his sensitiveness to its irritating influences was gone. In the case of any other man, Mr Hawbury would have been mollified by such a concession as his adversary had now made to him; but he disliked Midwinter too cordially to leave him in the peaceable enjoyment of an opinion of his own.
‘Do you admit,’ asked the doctor, more pugnaciously than ever, ‘that I have traced back every event of the dream to a waking impression which preceded it in Mr Armadale’s mind?’
‘I have no wish to deny that you have done so,’ said Midwinter, resignedly.
‘Have I identified the Shadows with their living originals?’
‘You have identified them to your own satisfaction, and to my friend’s satisfaction. Not to mine.’
‘Not to yours? Can you identify them?’
‘No. I can only wait till the living originals stand revealed in the future.’
‘Spoken like an oracle, Mr Midwinter! Have you any idea at present of who those living originals may be?’
‘I have. I believe that coming events will identify the Shadow of the Woman with a person whom my friend has not met with yet; and the Shadow of the Man with myself.’
Allan attempted to speak. The doctor stopped him.
‘Let us clearly understand this,’ he said to Midwinter. ‘Leaving your own case out of the question for the moment, may I ask how a shadow, which has no distinguishing mark about it, is to be identified with a living woman whom your friend doesn’t know?’
Midwinter’s colour rose a little. He began to feel the lash of the doctor’s logic.
‘The landscape-picture of the dream has its distinguishing marks,’ he replied. ‘And, in that landscape, the living woman will appear when the living woman is first seen.’
‘The same thing will happen, I suppose,’ pursued the doctor, ‘with the man-shadow which you persist in identifying with yourself. You will be associated in the future with a statue broken in your friend’s presence, with a long window looking out on a garden, and with a shower of rain pattering against the glass? Do you say that?’
‘I say that.’
‘And so again, I presume, with the next vision? You and the mysterious woman will be brought together in some place now unknown, and will present to Mr Armadale some liquid yet unnamed, which will turn him faint? – Do you seriously tell me you believe this?’
‘I seriously tell you I believe it.’
‘And, according to your view, these fulfilments of the dream will mark the progress of certain coming events, in which Mr Armadale’s happiness, or Mr Armadale’s safety, will be dangerously involved?’
‘That is my firm conviction.’
The doctor rose – laid aside his moral dissecting-knife – considered for a moment – and took it up again.
‘One last question,’ he said. ‘Have you any reason to give3 for going out of your way to adopt such a mystical view as this, when an unanswerably rational explanation of the dream lies straight before you?’
‘No reason,’ replied Midwinter, ‘that I can give, either to you or to my friend.’
The doctor looked at his watch with the air of a man who is suddenly reminded that he has been wasting his time.
‘We have no common ground to start from,’ he said; ‘and if we talked till doomsday, we should not agree. Excuse my leaving you rather abruptly. It is later than I thought; and my morning’s batch of sick people are waiting for me in the surgery. I have convinced your mind, Mr Armadale, at any rate; so the time we have given to this discussion has not been altogether lost. Pray stop here, and smoke your cigar. I shall be at your service again in less than an hour.’ He nodded cordially to Allan, bowed formally to Midwinter, and quitted the room.
As soon as the doctor’s back was turned, Allan left his place at the table, and appealed to his friend, with that irresistible heartiness of manner which had always found its way to Midwinter’s sympathies, from the first day when they met at the Somersetshire inn.
‘Now the sparring-match between you and the doctor is over,’ said Allan, ‘I have got two words to say on my side. Will you do something for my sake which you won’t do for your own?’
Midwinter’s face brightened instantly. ‘I will do anything you ask me,’ he said.
‘Very well. Will you let the subject of the dream drop out of our talk altogether, from this time forth?’
‘Yes, if you wish it.’
‘Will you go a step further? Will you leave off thinking about the dream?’
‘It’s hard to leave off thinking about it, Allan. But I will try.’
‘That’s a good fellow! Now give me that trumpery bit of paper, and let’s tear it up, and have done with it.’
He tried to snatch the manuscript out of his friend’s hand; but Midwinter was too quick for him, and kept it beyond his reach.
‘Come! come!’ pleaded Allan. ‘I’ve set my heart on lighting my cigar with it.’
Midwinter hesitated painfully. It was hard to resist Allan; but he did resist him. ‘I’ll wait a little,’ he said, ‘before you light your cigar with it.’
‘How long? Till to-morrow?’
‘Longer.’
‘Till we leave the Isle of Man?’
‘Longer.’
‘Hang it – give me a plain answer to a plain question! How long will you wait?’
Midwinter carefully restored the paper to its place in his pocket-book.
‘I’ll wait,’ he said, ‘till we get to Thorpe-Ambrose.’
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK
BOOK THE THIRD
CHAPTER I
LURKING MISCHIEF
1. – From Ozias Midwinter to Mr Brock
Thorpe-Ambrose, June 15th, 1851.
DEAR MR BROCK, – Only an hour since, we reached this house, just as the servants were locking up for the night. Allan has gone to bed, worn out by our long day’s journey, and has left me in the room they call the library, to tell you the story of our journey to Norfolk. Being better seasoned than he is to fatigues of all kinds, my eyes are quite wakeful enough for writing a letter, though the clock on the chimneypiece points to midnight, and we have been travelling since ten in the morning.
The last news you had of us was news sent by Allan from the Isle of Man. If I am not mistaken, he wrote to tell you of the night we passed on board the wrecked ship. Forgive me, dear Mr Brock, if I say nothing on that subject until time has helped me to think of it with a quieter mind. The hard fight against myself must all be fought over again; but I will win it yet, please God; I will indeed.
There is no need to trouble you with any account of our journeyings about the northern and western districts of the island; or of the short cruises we took when the repairs of the yacht were at last complete. It will be better if I get on at once to the morning of yesterday – the fourteenth. We had come in with the night-tide to Douglas harbour; and, as soon as the post-office was open, Allan, by my advice, sent on shore for letters. The messenger returned with one letter only; and the writer of it proved to be the former mistress of Thorpe-Ambrose – Mrs Blanchard.
You ought to be informed, I think, of the contents of this letter; for it has seriously influenced Allan’s plans. He loses everything, sooner or later, as you know, and he has lost the letter already. So I must give you the substance of what Mrs Blanchard wrote to him, as plainly as I can.
The first page announced the departure of the ladies from Thorpe-Ambrose. They left on the day before yesterday – the thirteenth – having, after much hesitation, finally decided on going abroad, to visit some old friends settled in Italy, in the neighbourhood of Florence. It appears to be quite possible that Mrs Blanchard and her niece may settle there too, if they can find a suitable house and grounds to let. They both like the Italian country and the Italian people, and they are well enou
gh off to please themselves. The elder lady has her jointure, and the younger is in possession of all her father’s fortune.
The next page of the letter was, in Allan’s opinion, far from a pleasant page to read. After referring, in the most grateful terms, to the kindness which had left her niece and herself free to leave their old home at their own time, Mrs Blanchard added that Allan’s considerate conduct had produced such a strongly favourable impression among the friends and dependants of the family, that they were desirous of giving him a public reception on his arrival among them. A preliminary meeting of the tenants on the estate and the principal persons in the neighbouring town, had already been held to discuss the arrangements; and a letter might be expected shortly from the clergyman, inquiring when it would suit Mr Armadale’s convenience to take possession personally and publicly of his estates in Norfolk.
You will now be able to guess the cause of our sudden departure from the Isle of Man. The first and foremost idea in your old pupil’s mind, as soon as he had read Mrs Blanchard’s account of the proceedings at the meeting, was the idea of escaping the public reception; and the one certain way he could see of avoiding it, was to start for Thorpe-Ambrose before the clergyman’s letter could reach him. I tried hard to make him think a little before he acted on his first impulse in this matter; but he only went on packing his portmanteau in his own impenetrably good-humoured way. In ten minutes his luggage was ready; and in five minutes more he had given the crew their directions for taking the yacht back to Somersetshire. The steamer to Liverpool was alongside of us in the harbour, and I had really no choice but to go on board with him, or to let him go by himself. I spare you the account of our stormy voyage, of our detention at Liverpool, and of the trains we missed on our journey across the country. You know that we have got here safely, and that is enough. What the servants think of the new squire’s sudden appearance among them, without a word of warning, is of no great consequence. What the committee for arranging the public reception may think of it, when the news flies abroad to-morrow, is, I am afraid, a more serious matter.
Having already mentioned the servants, I may proceed to tell you that the latter part of Mrs Blanchard’s letter was entirely devoted to instructing Allan on the subject of the domestic establishment which she has left behind her. It seems that all the servants, indoors and out (with three exceptions), are waiting here, on the chance that Allan will continue them in their places. Two of these exceptions are readily accounted for: Mrs Blanchard’s maid and Miss Blanchard’s maid go abroad with their mistresses. The third exceptional case is the case of the upper housemaid: and here there is a little hitch. In plain words, the housemaid has been sent away at a moment’s notice, for what Mrs Blanchard rather mysteriously describes as ‘levity of conduct with a stranger’.
I am afraid you will laugh at me, but I must confess the truth. I have been made so distrustful (after what happened to us in the Isle of Man) of even the most trifling misadventures which connect themselves in any way with Allan’s introduction to his new life and prospects, that I have already questioned one of the men-servants here about this apparently unimportant matter of the housemaid’s going away in disgrace. All I can learn is, that a strange man had been noticed hanging suspiciously about the grounds; that the housemaid was so ugly a woman as to render it next to a certainty that he had some underhand purpose to serve in making himself agreeable to her; and that he has not as yet been seen again in the neighbourhood since the day of her dismissal. So much for the one servant who has been turned out at Thorpe-Ambrose. I can only hope there is no trouble for Allan brewing in that quarter. As for the other servants who remain, Mrs Blanchard describes them, both men and women, as perfectly trustworthy; and they will all, no doubt, continue to occupy their present places.
Having now done with Mrs Blanchard’s letter, my next duty is to beg you, in Allan’s name and with Allan’s love, to come here and stay with him at the earliest moment when you can leave Somersetshire. Although I cannot presume to think that my own wishes will have any special influence in determining you to accept this invitation, I must nevertheless acknowledge that I have a reason of my own for earnestly desiring to see you here. Allan has innocently caused me a new anxiety about my future relations with him; and I sorely need your advice to show me the right way of setting that anxiety at rest.
The difficulty which now perplexes me relates to the steward’s place at Thorpe-Ambrose. Before to-day, I only knew that Allan had hit on some plan of his own for dealing with this matter; rather strangely involving, among other results, the letting of the cottage which was the old steward’s place of abode, in consequence of the new steward’s contemplated residence in the great house. A chance word in our conversation on the journey here, led Allan into speaking out more plainly than he had spoken yet; and I heard, to my unutterable astonishment, that the person who was at the bottom of the whole arrangement about the steward was no other than myself!
It is needless to tell you how I felt this new instance of Allan’s kindness. The first pleasure of hearing from his own lips that I had deserved the strongest proof he could give of his confidence in me, was soon dashed by the pain which mixes itself with all pleasure – at least, with all that I have ever known. Never has my past life seemed so dreary to look back on as it seems now, when I feel how entirely it has unfitted me to take the place of all others that I should have liked to occupy in my friend’s service. I mustered courage to tell him that I had none of the business knowledge and business experience which his steward ought to possess. He generously met the objection by telling me that I could learn; and he promised to send to London for the person who had already been employed for the time being in the steward’s office, and who would, therefore, be perfectly competent to teach me. Do you, too, think I can learn? If you do, I will work day and night to instruct myself. But if (as I am afraid) the steward’s duties are of far too serious a kind to be learnt off-hand by a man so young and so inexperienced as I am – then, pray hasten your journey to Thorpe-Ambrose, and exert your influence over Allan personally. Nothing less will induce him to pass me over, and to employ a steward who is really fit to take the place. Pray, pray, act in this matter as you think best for Allan’s interests. Whatever disappointment I may feel, he shall not see it.
Believe me, dear Mr Brock,
Gratefully yours,
OZIAS MIDWINTER
P.S. – I open the envelope again, to add one word more. If you have heard or seen anything since your return to Somersetshire of the woman in the black dress and the red shawl, I hope you will not forget, when you write, to let me know it. – O. M.
2. – From Mrs Older show to Miss Gwilt
Ladies’ Toilette Repository, Diana Street,
Pimlico: Wednesday.
MY DEAR LYDIA, – To save the post, I write to you, after a long day’s worry at my place of business, on the business letter-paper, having news since we last met, which it seems advisable to send you at the earliest opportunity.
To begin at the beginning. After carefully considering the thing, I am quite sure you will do wisely with young Armadale if you hold your tongue about Madeira and all that happened there. Your position was, no doubt, a very strong one with his mother. You had privately helped her in playing a trick on her own father – you had been ungratefully dismissed, at a pitiably tender age, as soon as you had served her purpose – and when you came upon her suddenly, after a separation of more than twenty years, you found her in failing health, with a grown-up son, whom she had kept in total ignorance of the true story of her marriage. Have you any such advantages as these with the young gentleman who has survived her? If he is not a born idiot, he will decline to believe your shocking aspersions on the memory of his mother; and – seeing that you have no proofs at this distance of time to meet him with – there is an end of your money-grubbing in the golden Armadale diggings. Mind! I don’t dispute that the old lady’s heavy debt of obligation, after what you did for her in Madeira, is n
ot paid yet; and that the son is the next person to settle with you, now the mother has slipped through your fingers. Only squeeze him the right way, my dear, that’s what I venture to suggest – squeeze him the right way.
And which is the right way? This brings me to my news. Have you thought again of that other notion of yours of trying your hand on this lucky young gentleman, with nothing but your own good looks and your own quick wits to help you? The idea hung on my mind so strangely after you were gone, that it ended in my sending a little note to my lawyer, to have the will under which young Armadale has got his fortune, examined at Doctors’ Commons.1 The result turns out to be something infinitely more encouraging than either you or I could possibly have hoped for. After the lawyer’s report to me, there cannot be a moment’s doubt of what you ought to do. In two words, Lydia, take the bull by the horns – and marry him!!!
I am quite serious. He is much better worth the venture than you suppose. Only persuade him to make you Mrs Armadale, and you may set all after-discoveries at flat defiance. As long as he lives, you can make your own terms with him; and, if he dies, the will entitles you, in spite of anything he can say or do – with children, or without them – to an income chargeable on his estate, of twelve hundred a year for life. There is no doubt about this – the lawyer himself has looked at the will. Of course Mr Blanchard had his son, and his son’s widow in his eye, when he made the provision. But, as it is not limited to any one heir by name, and not revoked anywhere, it now holds as good with young Armadale as it would have held under other circumstances with Mr Blanchard’s son. What a chance for you, after all the miseries and the dangers you have gone through, to be mistress of Thorpe-Ambrose, if he lives; to have an income for life, if he dies! Hook him, my poor dear; hook him at any sacrifice.
I dare say you will make the same objection when you read this, which you made when we were talking about it the other day – I mean the objection of your age. Now, my good creature, just listen to me. The question is – not whether you were five-and-thirty last birthday; we will own the dreadful truth, and say you were – but whether you do look, or don’t look, your real age. My opinion on this matter ought to be, and is, one of the best opinions in London. I have had twenty years’ experience among our charming sex in making up battered old faces and worn-out old figures to look like new – and I say positively you don’t look a day over thirty, if as much. If you will follow my advice about dressing, and use one or two of my applications privately, I guarantee to put you back three years more. I will forfeit all the money I shall have to advance for you in this matter, if, when I have ground you young again in my wonderful mill, you look more than seven-and-twenty in any man’s eyes living – except, of course, when you wake anxious in the small hours of the morning; and then, my dear, you will be old and ugly in the retirement of your own room, and it won’t matter.