Armadale (13 page)

There lies the way by which you may escape – if any way there be. Take it, if you prize your own innocence and your own happiness, through all your life to come!

I have done. If I could have trusted any weaker influence than the influence of this confession to incline you to my will, I would have spared you the disclosure which these pages contain. You are lying on my breast, sleeping the innocent sleep of a child, while a stranger's hand writes these words for you as they fall from my lips. Think what the strength of my conviction must be, when I can find the courage, on my death-bed, to darken all your young life at its outset with the shadow of your father's crime. Think – and be warned. Think – and forgive me if you can.

There, it ended. Those were the father's last words to the son.

Inexorably faithful to his forced duty, Mr Neal laid aside the pen, and read over aloud the lines he had just written. ‘Is there more to
add?' he asked, with his pitilessly steady voice. There was no more to add.

Mr Neal folded the manuscript, enclosed it in a sheet of paper, and sealed it with Mr Armadale's own seal. ‘The address?' he said, with his merciless business formality. ‘To Allan Armadale, junior,' he wrote, as the words were dictated from the bed. ‘Care of Godfrey Hammick, Esq., Offices of Messrs Hammick and Ridge, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London.' Having written the address, he waited, and considered for a moment. ‘Is your executor to open this?' he asked.

‘No! he is to give it to my son, when my son is of an age to understand it.'

‘In that case,' pursued Mr Neal, with all his wits in remorseless working order, ‘I will add a dated note to the address, repeating your own words as you have just spoken them, and explaining the circumstances under which my handwriting appears on the document.' He wrote the note in the briefest and plainest terms – read it over aloud as he had read over what went before – signed his name and address at the end, and made the doctor sign next, as witness of the proceedings, and as medical evidence of the condition in which Mr Armadale then lay. This done, he placed the letter in a second enclosure, sealed it as before, and directed it to Mr Hammick, with the superscription of ‘private,' added to the address.

‘Do you insist on my posting this?' he asked, rising with the letter in his hand.

‘Give him time to think,' said the doctor. ‘For the child's sake give him time to think! A minute may change him.'

‘I will give him five minutes,' answered Mr Neal, placing his watch on the table, implacably just to the very last.

They waited, both looking attentively at Mr Armadale. The signs of change which had appeared in him already, were multiplying fast. The movement which continued mental agitation had communicated to the muscles of his face, was beginning, under the same dangerous influence, to spread downwards. His once helpless hands lay still no longer; they struggled pitiably on the bed-clothes. At sight of that warning token the doctor turned with a gesture of alarm, and beckoned Mr Neal to come nearer. ‘Put the question at once,' he said; ‘if you let the five minutes pass, you may be too late.'

Mr Neal approached the bed. He, too, noticed the movement of the hands. ‘Is that a bad sign?' he asked.

The doctor bent his head gravely. ‘Put your question at once,' he repeated, ‘or you may be too late.'

Mr Neal held the letter before the eyes of the dying man. ‘Do you know what this is?'

‘My letter.'

‘Do you insist on my posting it?'

He mastered his failing speech for the last time, and gave the answer.

‘Yes!'

Mr Neal moved to the door, with the letter in his hand. The German followed him a few steps, opened his lips to plead for a longer delay, met the Scotchman's inexorable eye, and drew back again in silence. The door closed and parted them, without a word having passed on either side.

The doctor went back to the bed, and whispered to the sinking man, ‘Let me call him back; there is time to stop him yet!' It was useless. No answer came: nothing showed that he heeded, or even heard. His eyes wandered from the child, rested for a moment on his own struggling hand, and looked up entreatingly in the compassionate face that bent over him. The doctor lifted the hand – paused – followed the father's longing eyes back to the child – and, interpreting his last wish, moved the hand gently towards the boy's head. The hand touched it, and trembled violently. In another instant the trembling seized on the arm, and spread over the whole upper part of the body. The face turned from pale to red; from red to purple; from purple to pale again. Then the toiling hands lay still, and the shifting colour changed no more.
⁸

The window of the next room was open, when the doctor entered it from the death-chamber, with the child in his arms. He looked out as he passed by, and saw Mr Neal in the street below, slowly returning to the inn.

‘Where is the letter?' he asked.

Three words sufficed for the Scotchman's answer.

‘In the post.'

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK

On a warm May night, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-one,
¹
the Reverend Decimus Brock – at that time a visitor to the Isle of Man – retired to his bedroom, at Castletown, with a serious personal responsibility in close pursuit of him, and with no distinct idea of the means by which he might relieve himself from the pressure of his present circumstances.

The clergyman had reached that mature period of human life at which a sensible man learns to decline (as often as his temper will let him) all useless conflict with the tyranny of his own troubles. Abandoning any further effort to reach a decision in the emergency that now beset him, Mr Brock sat down placidly in his shirt-sleeves on the side of his bed, and applied his mind to consider next, whether the emergency itself was as serious as he had hitherto been inclined to think it. Following this new way out of his perplexities, Mr Brock found himself unexpectedly travelling to the end in view, by the least inspiriting of all human journeys – a journey through the past years of his own life.

One by one, the events of those years – all connected with the same little group of characters, and all more or less answerable for the anxiety which was now intruding itself between the clergyman and his night's rest – rose, in progressive series, on Mr Brock's memory. The first of the series took him back through a period of fourteen years, to his own rectory on the Somersetshire shores of the Bristol Channel, and closeted him at a private interview with a lady, who had paid him a visit in the character of a total stranger to the parson and the place.

The lady's complexion was fair, the lady's figure was well-preserved; she was still a young woman, and she looked even younger than her age. There was a shade of melancholy in her expression, and an undertone of suffering in her voice – enough, in each case, to indicate that she had known trouble, but not enough to obtrude that trouble on the notice of others. She brought with her a fine, fair-haired boy of eight years old, whom she presented as her son, and who was sent out of the way, at the beginning of the interview, to amuse himself in the rectory garden. Her card had preceded her entrance into the study, and had announced her under the name of ‘Mrs Armadale'. Mr Brock began to
feel interested in her before she had opened her lips; and when the son had been dismissed, he waited, with some anxiety, to hear what the mother had to say to him.
²

Mrs Armadale began by informing the rector that she was a widow. Her husband had perished by shipwreck, a short time after their union, on the voyage from Madeira to Lisbon. She had been brought to England, after her affliction, under her father's protection; and her child – a posthumous son – had been born on the family estate in Norfolk. Her father's death, shortly afterwards, had deprived her of her only surviving parent, and had exposed her to neglect and misconstruction on the part of her remaining relatives (two brothers), which had estranged her from them, she feared, for the rest of her days. For some time past, she had lived in the neighbouring county of Devonshire, devoting herself to the education of her boy – who had now reached an age at which he required other than his mother's teaching. Leaving out of the question her own unwillingness to part with him, in her solitary position, she was especially anxious that he should not be thrown among strangers by being sent to school. Her darling project was to bring him up privately at home, and to keep him, as he advanced in years, from all contact with the temptations and the dangers of the world. With these objects in view, her longer sojourn in her own locality (where the services of the resident clergyman, in the capacity of tutor, were not obtainable) must come to an end. She had made inquiries, had heard of a house that would suit her in Mr Brock's neighbourhood, and had also been told that Mr Brock himself had formerly been in the habit of taking pupils. Possessed of this information, she had ventured to present herself, with references that vouched for her respectability, but without a formal introduction; and she had now to ask whether (in the event of her residing in the neighbourhood) any terms that could be offered would induce Mr Brock to open his doors once more to a pupil, and to allow that pupil to be her son.

If Mrs Armadale had been a woman of no personal attractions, or if Mr Brock had been provided with an entrenchment to fight behind, in the shape of a wife, it is probable that the widow's journey might have been taken in vain. As things really were, the rector examined the references which were offered to him, and asked time for consideration. When the time had expired, he did what Mrs Armadale wished him to do – he offered his back to the burden, and let the mother load him with the responsibility of the son.
³

This was the first event of the series; the date of it being the year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven. Mr Brock's memory, travelling
forward towards the present from that point, picked up the second event in its turn, and stopped next at the year eighteen hundred and forty-five.

The fishing village on the Somersetshire coast was still the scene; and the characters were once again – Mrs Armadale and her son. Through the eight years that had passed, Mr Brock's responsibility had rested on him lightly enough. The boy had given his mother and his tutor but little trouble. He was certainly slow over his books – but more from a constitutional inability to fix his attention on his tasks than from want of capacity to understand them. His temperament, it could not be denied, was heedless to the last degree: he acted recklessly on his first impulses, and rushed blindfold at all his conclusions. On the other hand, it was to be said in his favour, that his disposition was open as the day; a more generous, affectionate, sweet-tempered lad it would have been hard to find anywhere. A certain quaint originality of character, and a natural healthiness in all his tastes, carried him free of most of the dangers to which his mother's system of education inevitably exposed him. He had a thoroughly English love of the sea and of all that belongs to it; and, as he grew in years, there was no luring him away from the waterside, and no keeping him out of the boat-builder's yard. In course of time his mother caught him actually working there, to her infinite annoyance and surprise, as a volunteer. He acknowledged that his whole future ambition was to have a yard of his own, and that his one present object was to learn to build a boat for himself. Wisely foreseeing that such a pursuit as this for his leisure hours was exactly what was wanted to reconcile the lad to a position of isolation from companions of his own rank and age, Mr Brock prevailed on Mrs Armadale, with no small difficulty, to let her son have his way. At the period of that second event in the clergyman's life with his pupil which is now to be related, young Armadale had practised long enough in the builder's yard to have reached the summit of his wishes, by laying with his own hands the keel of his own boat.

Late on a certain summer day, not long after Allan had completed his sixteenth year, Mr Brock left his pupil hard at work in the yard, and went to spend the evening with Mrs Armadale, taking
The Times
newspaper with him in his hand.

The years that had passed since they had first met, had long since regulated the lives of the clergyman and his neighbour. The first advances which Mr Brock's growing admiration for the widow had led him to make, in the early days of their intercourse, had been met, on
her side, by an appeal to his forbearance which had closed his lips for the future. She had satisfied him, at once and for ever, that the one place in her heart which he could hope to occupy was the place of a friend. He loved her well enough to take what she would give him: friends they became, and friends they remained from that time forth. No jealous dread of another man's succeeding where he had failed, embittered the clergyman's placid relations with the woman whom he loved. Of the few resident gentlemen in the neighbourhood, none were ever admitted by Mrs Armadale to more than the merest acquaintance with her. Contentedly self-buried in her country retreat, she was proof against every social attraction that would have tempted other women in her position, and at her age. Mr Brock and his newspaper, appearing with monotonous regularity at her tea-table three times a week, told her all she knew, or cared to know, of the great outer world which circled round the narrow and changeless limits of her daily life.

On the evening in question, Mr Brock took the arm-chair in which he always sat, accepted the one cup of tea which he always drank, and opened the newspaper which he always read aloud to Mrs Armadale, who invariably listened to him reclining on the same sofa, with the same sort of needlework everlastingly in her hand.

‘Bless my soul!' cried the rector, with his voice in a new octave, and his eyes fixed in astonishment on the first page of the newspaper.