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Armadale

W >> Wilkie Collins >> Armadale




"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 chamber-maid, 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
further 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 enameled 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 favorite
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, Sen.

"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."



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 by-gone 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 may 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 fulfillment 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 learned 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?"

They shook hands in silence. Allan was the first to recover
himself. He answered in the few words of kindly assurance which
were the best words that he could address to his friend.

"I have heard all I ever want to hear about the past," he said;
"and I know what I most wanted to know about the future.
Everybody says, Midwinter, you have a career before you, and
I believe that everybody is right. Who knows what great things
may happen before you and I are many years older?"

"Who _need_ know?" said Midwinter, calmly. "Happen what may, God
is all-merciful, God is all-wise. In those words your dear old
friend once wrote to me. In that faith I can look back without
murmuring at the years that are past, and can look on without
doubting to the years that are to come."

He rose, and walked to the window. While they had been speaking
together the darkness had passed. The first light of the new day
met him as he looked out, and rested tenderly on his face.


APPENDIX.


NOTE--My readers will perceive that I have purposely left them,
with reference to the Dream in this story, in the position which
they would occupy in the case of a dream in real life: they are
free to interpret it by the natural or the supernatural theory,
as the bent of their own minds may incline them. Persons disposed
to take the rational view may, under these circumstances, be
interested in hearing of a coincidence relating to the present
story, which actually happened, and which in the matter of
"extravagant improbability" sets anything of the same kind that
a novelist could imagine at flat defiance.

In November, 1865, that is to say, when thirteen monthly parts
of "Armadale" had been published, and, I may add, when more than
a year and a half had elapsed since the end of the story, as it
now appears, was first sketched in my notebook--a vessel lay in
the Huskisson Dock at Liverpool which was looked after by one man,
who slept on board, in the capacity of shipkeeper. On a certain
day in the week this man was found dead in the deck-house. On the
next day a second man, who had taken his place, was carried dying
to the Northern Hospital. On the third day a third ship-keeper
was appointed, and was found dead in the deck-house which had
already proved fatal to the other two. _The name of that ship was
"The Armadale."_ And the proceedings at the Inquest proved that
the three men had been all suffocated _by sleeping in poisoned
air_!

I am indebted for these particulars to the kindness of the
reporters at Liverpool, who sent me their statement of the facts.
The case found its way into most of the newspapers. It was
noticed--to give two instances in which I can cite the dates--in
the _Times_ of November 30th, 1865, and was more fully described
in the _Daily News_ of November 28th, in the same year.

Before taking leave of "Armadale," I may perhaps be allowed
to mention, for the benefit of any readers who may be curious
on such points, that the "Norfolk Broads" are here described
after personal investigation of them. In this, as in other cases,
I have spared no pains to instruct myself on matters of fact.
Wherever the story touches on questions connected with Law,
Medicine, or Chemistry, it has been submitted before publication
to the experience of professional men. The kindness of a friend
supplied me with a plan of the doctor's apparatus, and I saw
the chemical ingredients at work before I ventured on describing
the action of them in the closing scenes of this book.

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