She rose, and, turning from him, noticed the Purple Flask in the place where she had left it since the fourth Pouring. ‘Ah,’ she thought quietly, ‘I had forgotten my best friend – I had forgotten that there is more to pour in yet.’
With a steady hand, with a calm, attentive face, she fed the funnel for the fifth time. ‘Five minutes more,’ she said, when she had put the Flask back, after a look at the clock.
She fell into thought – thought that only deepened the grave and gentle composure of her face. ‘Shall I write him a farewell word?’ she asked herself. ‘Shall I tell him the truth before I leave him for ever?’
Her little gold pencil-case hung with the other toys at her watch-chain. After looking about her for a moment, she knelt over her husband, and put her hand into the breast-pocket of his coat.
His pocket-book was there. Some papers fell from it as she unfastened the clasp. One of them was the letter which had come to him from Mr Brock’s death-bed. She turned over the two sheets of note-paper on which the rector had written the words that had now come true – and found the last page of the last sheet a blank. On that page she wrote her farewell words, kneeling at her husband’s side.
I am worse than the worst you can think of me. You have saved Armadale by changing rooms with him to-night – and you have saved him from Me. You can guess now whose widow I should have claimed to be, if you had not preserved his life; and you will know what a wretch you married when you married the woman who writes these lines. Still, I had some innocent moments – and then I loved you dearly. Forget me, my darling, in the love of a better woman than I am. I might, perhaps, have been that better woman myself, if I had not lived a miserable life before you met with me. It matters little now. The one atonement I can make for all the wrong I have done you is the atonement of my death. It is not hard for me to die, now I know you will live. Even my wickedness has one merit – it has not prospered. I have never been a happy woman.’7
She folded the letter again, and put it into his hand, to attract his attention in that way when he came to himself. As she gently closed his fingers on the paper and looked up, the last minute of the last interval faced her, recorded on the clock.
She bent over him, and gave him her farewell kiss.
‘Live, my angel, live!’ she murmured tenderly, with her lips just touching his. ‘All your life is before you – a happy life, and an honoured life, if you are freed from me!’
With a last, lingering tenderness, she parted the hair back from his forehead. ‘It is no merit to have loved you,’ she said. ‘You are one of the men whom women all like.’ She sighed and left him. It was her last weakness. She bent her head affirmatively to the clock, as if it had been a living creature speaking to her – and fed the funnel for the last time, to the last drop left in the Flask.
The waning moon shone in faintly at the window. With her hand on the door of the room, she turned and looked at the light that was slowly fading out of the murky sky.
‘Oh, God, forgive me!’ she said. ‘Oh, Christ, bear witness that I have suffered!’
One moment more she lingered on the threshold; lingered for her last look in this world – and turned that look on him.
‘Good-by!’ she said softly.
The door of the room opened – and closed on her. There was an interval of silence.
Then, a sound came dull and sudden, like the sound of a fall.
Then, there was silence again.
The hands of the clock, following their steady course, reckoned the minutes of the morning as one by one they lapsed away. It was the tenth minute since the door of the room had opened and closed, before Midwinter stirred on his pillow, and, struggling to raise himself, felt the letter in his hand.
At the same moment, a key was turned in the staircase-door. And the doctor, looking expectantly towards the fatal room, saw the Purple Flask on the window-sill, and the prostrate man trying to raise himself from the floor.
THE END OF THE LAST BOOK
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER I
NEWS FROM NORFOLK
From Mr Pedgift Senior (Thorpe-Ambrose) to Mr Pedgift Junior (Paris)
High Street, December 20th.
MY DEAR AUGUSTUS, Your letter reached me yesterday. You seem to be making the most of your youth (as you call it) with a vengeance. Well! enjoy your holiday. I made the most of my youth, when I was your age; and, wonderful to relate, I haven’t forgotten it yet!
You ask me for a good budget of news, and especially, for more information about that mysterious business at the Sanatorium.
Curiosity, my dear boy, is a quality, which (in our profession especially) sometimes leads to great results. I doubt, however, if you will find it leading to much on this occasion. All I know of the mystery at the Sanatorium, I know from Mr Armadale; and he is entirely in the dark on more than one point of importance. I have already told you how they were entrapped into the house, and how they passed the night there. To this I can now add that something did certainly happen to Mr Midwinter, which deprived him of consciousness; and that the doctor, who appears to have been mixed up in the matter, carried things with a high hand, and insisted on taking his own course in his own Sanatorium. There is not the least doubt that the miserable woman (however she might have come by her death) was found dead – that a coroner’s inquest inquired into the circumstances – that the evidence showed her to have entered the house as a patient – and that the medical investigation ended in discovering that she had died of apoplexy. My idea is, that Mr Midwinter had a motive of his own for not coming forward with the evidence that he might have given. I have also reason to suspect that Mr Armadale, out of regard for him, followed his lead, and that the verdict at the inquest (attaching no blame to anybody), proceeded, like many other verdicts of the same kind, from an entirely superficial investigation of the circumstances.
The key to the whole mystery is to be found, I firmly believe, in that wretched woman’s attempt to personate the character of Mr Armadale’s widow, when the news of his death appeared in the papers. But what first set her on this, and by what inconceivable process of deception, she can have induced Mr Midwinter to marry her (as the certificate proves), under Mr Armadale’s name, is more than Mr Armadale himself knows. The point was not touched at the inquest, for the simple reason that the inquest only concerned itself with the circumstances attending her death. Mr Armadale, at his friend’s request, saw Miss Blanchard, and induced her to silence old Darch on the subject of the claim that had been made relating to the widow’s income. As the claim had never been admitted, even our stiff-necked brother practitioner consented for once to do as he was asked. The doctor’s statement that his patient was the widow of a gentleman named Armadale, was accordingly left unchallenged, and so the matter has been hushed up. She is buried in the great cemetery, near the place where she died. Nobody but Mr Midwinter and Mr Armadale (who insisted on going with him), followed her to the grave; and nothing has been inscribed on the tombstone, but the initial letter of her Christian name, and the date of her death. So, after all the harm she has done, she rests at last – and so the two men whom she has injured have forgiven her.
Is there more to say on this subject before we leave it? On referring to your letter, I find you have raised one other point, which may be worth a moment’s notice.
You ask if there is reason to suppose that the doctor comes out of the matter with hands which are really as clean as they look? My dear Augustus, I believe the doctor to have been at the bottom of more of this mischief than we shall ever find out; and to have profited by the self-imposed silence of Mr Midwinter and Mr Armadale, as rogues perpetually profit by the misfortunes and necessities of honest men. It is an ascertained fact that he connived at the false statement about Miss Milroy, which entrapped the two gentlemen into his house, – and that one circumstance (after my Old Bailey experience) is enough for me. As to evidence against him, there is not a jot, – and as to Retribution overtaking him, I can only say I he
artily hope Retribution may prove in the long run to be the more cunning customer of the two. There is not much prospect of it at present. The doctor’s friends and admirers are, I understand, about to present him with a Testimonial, ‘expressive of their sympathy under the sad occurrence which has thrown a cloud over the opening of his Sanatorium, and of their undiminished confidence in his integrity and ability as a medical man.’ We live, Augustus, in an age eminently favourable to the growth of all roguery which is careful enough to keep up appearances. In this enlightened nineteenth century, I look upon the doctor as one of our rising men.
To turn now to pleasanter subjects than Sanatoriums, I may tell you that Miss Neelie is as good as well again, and is, in my humble opinion, prettier than ever. She is staying in London, under the care of a female relative – and Mr Armadale satisfies her of the fact of his existence (in case she should forget it) regularly every day. They are to be married in the spring – unless Mrs Milroy’s death causes the ceremony to be postponed. The medical men are of opinion that the poor lady is sinking at last. It may be a question of weeks or a question of months, they can say no more. She is greatly altered – quiet and gentle, and anxiously affectionate with her husband and her child. But, in her case, this happy change is, it seems, a sign of approaching dissolution, from the medical point of view. There is a difficulty in making the poor old major understand this. He only sees that she has gone back to the likeness of her better self when he first married her; and he sits for hours by her bedside, now, and tells her about his wonderful clock.
Mr Midwinter, of whom you will next expect me to say something, is improving rapidly. After causing some anxiety at first to the medical men (who declared that he was suffering from a serious nervous shock, produced by circumstances about which their patient’s obstinate silence kept them quite in the dark), he has rallied, as only men of his sensitive temperament (to quote the doctors again) can rally. He and Mr Armadale are together in a quiet lodging. I saw him last week, when I was in London. His face showed signs of wear and tear, very sad to see in so young a man. But he spoke of himself and his future with a courage and hopefulness, which men of twice his years (if he has suffered, as I suspect him to have suffered) might have envied. If I know anything of humanity, this is no common man – and we shall hear of him yet in no common way.
You will wonder how I came to be in London. I went up, with a return ticket (from Saturday to Monday) about that matter in dispute at our agent’s. We had a tough fight – but, curiously enough, a point occurred to me just as I got up to go; and I went back to my chair, and settled the question in no time. Of course I stayed at Our Hotel in Covent Garden. William, the waiter, asked after you with the affection of a father; and Matilda, the chambermaid, said you almost persuaded her, that last time, to have the hollow tooth taken out of her lower jaw. I had the agent’s second son (the young chap you nicknamed Mustapha, when he made that dreadful mess about the Turkish Securities) to dine with me on Sunday. A little incident happened in the evening which may be worth recording, as it connected itself with a certain old lady, who was not ‘at home’ when you and Mr Armadale blundered on that house in Pimlico in the bygone time.
Mustapha was like all the rest of you young men of the present day – he got restless after dinner. ‘Let’s go to a public amusement, Mr Pedgift,’ says he. ‘Public amusement? Why, it’s Sunday evening!’ says I. ‘All right, sir,’ says Mustapha. ‘They stop acting on the stage, I grant you, on Sunday evening – but they don’t stop acting in the pulpit. Come and see the last new Sunday performer of our time.’ As he wouldn’t have any more wine, there was nothing else for it, but to go.
We went to a street at the West End, and found it blocked up with carriages. If it hadn’t been Sunday night, I should have thought we were going to the opera. ‘What did I tell you?’ says Mustapha, taking me up to an open door with a gas star outside and a bill of the performance. I had just time to notice that I was going to one of a series of ‘sunday Evening Discourses on the Pomps and Vanities of the World, by A Sinner Who Has Served Them,’ when Mustapha jogged my elbow, and whispered, ‘Half-a-crown is the fashionable tip.’ I found myself between two demure and silent gentlemen, with plates in their hands, uncommonly well-filled already with the fashionable tip. Mustapha patronized one plate, and I the other. We passed through two doors into a long room, crammed with people. And there, on a platform at the farther end holding forth to the audience, was – not a man as I had expected – but a Woman, and that woman, MOTHER OLDERSHAW! YOU never listened to anything more eloquent in your life. As long as I heard her she was never once at a loss for a word anywhere. I shall think less of oratory as a human accomplishment, for the rest of my days, after that Sunday evening. As for the matter of the sermon, I may describe it as a narrative of Mrs Oldershaw’s experience among dilapidated women, profusely illustrated in the pious and penitential style. You will ask what sort of audience it was. Principally women, Augustus – and, as I hope to be saved, all the old harridans of the world of fashion, whom Mother Oldershaw had enamelled in her time, sitting boldly in the front places, with their cheeks ruddled with paint, in a state of devout enjoyment wonderful to see! I left Mustapha to hear the end of it. And I thought to myself, as I went out, of what Shakespeare says somewhere, – ‘Lord, what fools we mortals be!’
Have I anything more to tell you, before I leave off? Only one thing that I can remember.
That wretched old Bashwood has confirmed the fears I told you I had about him, when he was brought back here from London. There is no kind of doubt that he has really lost all the little reason he ever had. He is perfectly harmless, and perfectly happy. And he would do very well, if we could only prevent him from going out in his last new suit of clothes, smirking and smiling, and inviting everybody to his approaching marriage with the handsomest woman in England. It ends of course in the boys pelting him, and in his coming here crying to me, covered with mud. The moment his clothes are cleaned again, he falls back into his favourite delusion, and struts about before the church gates, in the character of a bridegroom, waiting for Miss Gwilt. We must get the poor wretch taken care of somewhere for the rest of the little time he has to live. Who would ever have thought of a man at his age falling in love? and who would ever have believed that the mischief that woman’s beauty has done, could have reached as far in the downward direction as our superannuated old clerk?
Good-by, for the present, my dear boy. If you see a particularly handsome snuff-box in Paris, remember – though your father scorns Testimonials – he doesn’t object to receive a present from his son.
Yours affectionately,
A. PEDGIFT Senr.
POSTSCRIPT. – I think it likely that the account you mention, in the French papers, of a fatal quarrel among some foreign sailors in one of the Lipari Islands, and of the death of their captain, among others, may really have been a quarrel among the scoundrels who robbed Mr Armadale, and scuttled his yacht. Those fellows, luckily for society, can’t always keep up appearances; and, in their case, Rogues and Retribution do occasionally come into collision with each other.1
CHAPTER II
MIDWINTER
The spring had advanced to the end of April. It was the eve of Allan’s wedding-day. Midwinter and he had sat talking together at the great house till far into the night – till so far that it had struck twelve long since, and the wedding-day was already some hours old.
For the most part, the conversation had turned on the bridegroom’s plans and projects. It was not till the two friends rose to go to rest, that Allan insisted on making Midwinter speak of himself. ‘We have had enough, and more than enough, of my future,’ he began, in his bluntly straightforward way. ‘Let’s say something now, Midwinter, about yours. You have promised me, I know, that if you take to Literature, it shan’t part us, and that if you go on a sea voyage, you will remember when you come back that my house is your home. But this is the last chance we have of being together in our old way; and I own I
should like to know—’ His voice faltered, and his eyes moistened a little. He left the sentence unfinished.
Midwinter took his hand and helped him, as he had often helped him to the words that he wanted, in the bygone time.
‘You would like to know, Allan,’ he said, ‘that I shall not bring an aching heart with me to your wedding-day? If you will let me go back for a moment to the past, I think I can satisfy you.’
They took their chairs again. Allan saw that Midwinter was moved. ‘Why distress yourself?’ he asked kindly – ‘why go back to the past!’
‘For two reasons, Allan. I ought to have thanked you long since for the silence you have observed, for my sake, on a matter that must have seemed very strange to you. You know what the name is which appears on the register of my marriage – and yet you have forborne to speak of it, from the fear of distressing me. Before you enter on your new life, let us come to a first and last understanding about this. I ask you – as one more kindness to me – to accept my assurance (strange as the thing must seem to you) that I am blameless in this matter; and I entreat you to believe that the reasons I have for leaving it unexplained, are reasons which, if Mr Brock was living, Mr Brock himself would approve.’
In those words, he kept the secret of the two names – and left the memory of Allan’s mother, what he had found it, a sacred memory in the heart of her son.
‘One word more,’ he went on – ‘a word which will take us, this time, from past to future. It has been said, and truly said, that out of Evil may come Good. Out of the horror and the misery of that night you know of, has come the silencing of a doubt which once made my life miserable with groundless anxiety about you and about myself. No clouds, raised by my superstition, will ever come between us again. I can’t honestly tell you that I am more willing now than I was when we were in the Isle of Man, to take what is called the rational view of your Dream. Though I know what extraordinary coincidences are perpetually happening in the experience of all of us, still I cannot accept coincidences as explaining the fulfilment of the Visions which our own eyes have seen. All I can sincerely say for myself is, what I think it will satisfy you to know, that I have learnt to view the purpose of the Dream with a new mind. I once believed that it was sent to rouse your distrust of the friendless man whom you had taken as a brother to your heart. I now know that it came to you as a timely warning to take him closer still. Does this help to satisfy you that I, too, am standing hopefully on the brink of a new life, and that while we live, brother, your love and mine will never be divided again?’