“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,’ he 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, and
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 ceremonious 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.”