Armadale (11 page)

As I had surmised, we were in pursuit of the vessel in which Ingleby and his wife had left the island that afternoon. The ship
was French, and was employed in the timber-trade: her name was
La Grace de Dieu.
Nothing more was known of her than that she was bound for Lisbon; that she had been driven out of her course; and that she had touched at Madeira, short of men and short of provisions. The last want had been supplied, but not the first. Sailors distrusted the seaworthiness of the ship, and disliked the look of the vagabond crew. When those two serious facts had been communicated to Mr Blanchard, the hard words he had spoken to his child in the first shock of discovering that she had helped to deceive him, smote him to the heart. He instantly determined to give his daughter a refuge on board his own vessel, and to quiet her by keeping her villain of a husband out of the way of all harm at my hands. The yacht sailed three feet and more to the ship's one. There was no doubt of our overtaking
La Grace de Dieu;
the only fear was that we might pass her in the darkness.

After we had been some little time out, the wind suddenly dropped, and there fell on us an airless, sultry calm. When the order came to get the topmasts on deck, and to shift the large sails, we all knew what to expect. In little better than an hour more, the storm was upon us, the thunder was pealing over our heads, and the yacht was running for it. She was a powerful schooner-rigged vessel of three hundred tons, as strong as wood and iron could make her; she was handled by a sailing-master who thoroughly understood his work, and she behaved nobly. As the new morning came, the fury of the wind, blowing still from the south-west quarter, subsided a little, and the sea was less heavy. Just before daybreak we heard faintly, through the howling of the gale, the report of a gun. The men, collected anxiously on deck, looked at each other and said, ‘There she is!'

With the daybreak we saw the vessel, and the timber-ship it was. She lay wallowing in the trough of the sea, her foremast and her mainmast both gone – a waterlogged wreck. The yacht carried three boats; one amidships, and two slung to davits on the quarters; and the sailing-master seeing signs of the storm renewing its fury before long, determined on lowering the quarter-boats while the lull lasted. Few as the people were on board the wreck, they were too many for one boat, and the risk of trying two boats at once was thought less, in the critical state of the weather, than the risk of making two separate trips from the yacht to the ship. There might be time to make one trip in safety, but no man could look at the heavens and say there would be time enough for two.

The boats were manned by volunteers from the crew, I being in the second of the two. When the first boat was got alongside of the timber-ship – a service of difficulty and danger which no words can describe – all the men on board made a rush to leave the wreck together. If the boat had not been pulled off again before the whole of them had crowded in, the lives of all must have been sacrificed. As our boat approached the vessel in its turn, we arranged that four of us should get on board – two (I being one of them) to see to the safety of Mr Blanchard's daughter, and two to beat back the cowardly remnant of the crew, if they tried to crowd in first. The other three – the coxswain and two oarsmen – were left in the boat to keep her from being crushed by the ship. What the others saw when they first boarded
La Grace de Dieu
, I don't know: what
I
saw was the woman whom I had lost, the woman vilely stolen from me, lying in a swoon on the deck. We lowered her, insensible, into the boat. The remnant of the crew – five in number – were compelled by main force to follow her in an orderly manner, one by one, and minute by minute, as the chance offered for safely taking them in. I was the last who left; and, at the next roll of the ship towards us, the empty length of the deck, without a living creature on it from stem to stern, told the boat's crew that their work was done. With the louder and louder howling of the fast-rising tempest to warn them, they rowed for their lives back to the yacht.

A succession of heavy squalls had brought round the course of the new storm that was coming, from the south to the north; and the sailing-master, watching his opportunity, had wore the yacht, to be ready for it. Before the last of our men had got on board again, it burst on us with the fury of a hurricane. Our boat was swamped, but not a life was lost. Once more, we ran before it, due south, at the mercy of the wind. I was on deck with the rest, watching the one rag of sail we could venture to set, and waiting to supply its place with another, if it blew out of the bolt-ropes, when the mate came close to me, and shouted in my ear through the thunder of the storm, ‘She has come to her senses in the cabin, and has asked for her husband. Where is he?' Not a man on board knew. The yacht was searched from one end to another, without finding him. The men were mustered in defiance of the weather – he was not among them. The crews of the two boats were questioned. All the first crew could say, was that they had pulled away from the wreck when the rush into their boat took
place, and that they knew nothing of who they let in or who they kept out. All the second crew could say was, that they had brought back to the yacht every living soul left by the first boat on the deck of the timber-ship. There was no blaming anybody; but at the same time, there was no resisting the fact, that the man was missing.

All through that day the storm, raging unabatedly, never gave us even the shadow of a chance of returning and searching the wreck. The one hope for the yacht was to scud. Towards evening the gale, after having carried us to the southward of Madeira, began at last to break – the wind shifted again – and allowed us to bear up for the island. Early the next morning we got back into port. Mr Blanchard and his daughter were taken ashore; the sailing-master accompanying them, and warning us that he should have something to say on his return, which would nearly concern the whole crew.

We were mustered on deck, and addressed by the sailing-master as soon as he came on board again. He had Mr Blanchard's orders to go back at once to the timber-ship and to search for the missing man. We were bound to do this for his sake, and for the sake of his wife, whose reason was despaired of by the doctors if something was not done to quiet her. We might be almost sure of finding the vessel still afloat, for her lading of timber would keep her above water as long as her hull held together. If the man was on board – living or dead – he must be found and brought back. And if the weather continued to moderate, there was no reason why the men, with proper assistance, should not bring the ship back too, and (their master being quite willing) earn their share of the salvage with the officers of the yacht.

Upon this the crew gave three cheers, and set to work forthwith to get the schooner to sea again. I was the only one of them who drew back from the enterprise. I told them the storm had upset me – I was ill, and wanted rest. They all looked me in the face as I passed through them on my way out of the yacht, but not a man of them spoke to me.

I waited through that day at a tavern on the port for the first news from the wreck. It was brought towards nightfall by one of the pilot-boats which had taken part in the enterprise for saving the abandoned ship.
La Grace de Dieu
had been discovered still floating, and the body of Ingleby had been found on board, drowned in the cabin. At dawn the next morning, the dead man
was brought back by the yacht; and on the same day the funeral took place in the Protestant cemetery.

‘Stop!' said the voice from the bed, before the reader could turn to a new leaf and begin the next paragraph.

There was a change in the room, and there were changes in the audience, since Mr Neal had last looked up from the narrative. A ray of sunshine was crossing the death-bed; and the child, overcome by drowsiness, lay peacefully asleep in the golden light. The father's countenance had altered visibly. Forced into action by the tortured mind, the muscles of the lower face, which had never moved yet, were moving distortedly now. Warned by the damps gathering heavily on his forehead, the doctor had risen to revive the sinking man. On the other side of the bed the wife's chair stood empty. At the moment when her husband had interrupted the reading, she had drawn back behind the bed-head, out of his sight. Supporting herself against the wall, she stood there in hiding, her eyes fastened in hungering suspense on the manuscript in Mr Neal's hand.

In a minute more the silence was broken again by Mr Armadale.

‘Where is she?' he asked, looking angrily at his wife's empty chair. The doctor pointed to the place. She had no choice but to come forward. She came slowly and stood before him.

‘You promised to go when I told you,' he said. ‘Go now.'

Mr Neal tried hard to control his hand as it kept his place between the leaves of the manuscript, but it trembled in spite of him. A suspicion which had been slowly forcing itself on his mind, while he was reading, became a certainty when he heard those words. From one revelation to another the letter had gone on, until it had now reached the brink of a last disclosure to come. At that brink the dying man had pre-determined to silence the reader's voice, before he had permitted his wife to hear the narrative read.
There
was the secret which the son was to know in after years, and which the mother was never to approach. From that resolution, his wife's tenderest pleadings had never moved him an inch – and now, from his own lips, his wife knew it.

She made him no answer. She stood there and looked at him; looked her last entreaty – perhaps her last farewell. His eyes gave her back no answering glance: they wandered from her mercilessly to the sleeping boy. She turned speechless from the bed. Without a look at the child – without a word to the two strangers breathlessly watching her – she kept the promise she had given, and in dead silence left the room.

There was something in the manner of her departure which shook the
self-possession of both the men who witnessed it. When the door closed on her, they recoiled instinctively from advancing farther in the dark. The doctor's reluctance was the first to express itself. He attempted to obtain the patient's permission to withdraw until the letter was completed. The patient refused.

Mr Neal spoke next at greater length and to more serious purpose.

‘The doctor is accustomed in his profession,' he began, ‘and I am accustomed in mine, to have the secrets of others placed in our keeping. But it is my duty, before we go farther, to ask if you really understand the extraordinary position which we now occupy towards one another. You have just excluded Mrs Armadale, before our own eyes, from a place in your confidence. And you are now offering that same place to two men who are total strangers to you.'

‘Yes,' said Mr Armadale – ‘
because
you are strangers.'

Few as the words were, the inference to be drawn from them was not of a nature to set distrust at rest. Mr Neal put it plainly into words.

‘You are in urgent need of my help and of the doctor's help,' he said. ‘Am I to understand (so long as you secure our assistance) that the impression which the closing passages of this letter may produce on us is a matter of indifference to you?'

‘Yes. I don't spare you. I don't spare myself. I
do
spare my wife.'

‘You force me to a conclusion, sir, which is a very serious one,' said Mr Neal. ‘If I am to finish this letter under your dictation, I must claim permission – having read aloud the greater part of it already – to read aloud what remains, in the hearing of this gentleman, as a witness.'

‘Read it.'

Gravely doubting, the doctor resumed his chair. Gravely doubting, Mr Neal turned the leaf, and read the next words:

There is more to tell before I can leave the dead man to his rest. I have described the finding of his body. But I have not described the circumstances under which he met his death.

He was known to have been on deck when the yacht's boats were seen approaching the wreck; and he was afterwards missed in the confusion caused by the panic of the crew. At that time the water was five feet deep in the cabin, and was rising fast. There was little doubt of his having gone down into that water of his own accord. The discovery of his wife's jewel-box, close under him, on the floor, explained his presence in the cabin. He was known to have seen help approaching, and it was quite likely that he had thereupon gone below to make an effort at saving the box.

It was less probable – though it might still have been inferred – that his death was the result of some accident in diving, which had for the moment deprived him of his senses. But a discovery made by the yacht's crew, pointed straight to a conclusion, which struck the men, one and all, with the same horror. When the course of their search brought them to the cabin, they found the scuttle bolted, and the door locked on the outside. Had some one closed the cabin, not knowing he was there? Setting the panic-stricken condition of the crew out of the question, there was no motive for closing the cabin before leaving the wreck. But one other conclusion remained. Had some murderous hand purposely locked the man in, and left him to drown as the water rose over him?

Yes. A murderous hand had locked him in, and left him to drown. That hand was mine.

The Scotchman started up from the table; the doctor shrank from the bedside. The two looked at the dying wretch, mastered by the same loathing, chilled by the same dread. He lay there, with the child's head on his breast; abandoned by the sympathies of man, accursed by the justice of God – he lay there, in the isolation of Cain, and looked back at them.

At the moment when the two men rose to their feet, the door leading into the next room was shaken heavily on the outer side, and a sound like the sound of a fall, striking dull on their ears, silenced them both. Standing nearest to the door, the doctor opened it, passed through, and closed it instantly. Mr Neal turned his back on the bed, and waited the event in silence. The sound, which had failed to awaken the child, had failed also to attract the father's notice. His own words had taken him far from all that was passing at his death-bed. His helpless body was back on the wreck, and the ghost of his lifeless hand was turning the lock of the cabin door.