Here is the account cut out of this morning’s newspaper:
DISASTER AT SEA. – Intelligence has reached the Royal Yacht Squadron3 and the insurers, which leaves no reasonable doubt, we regret to say, of the total loss, on the fifth of the present month, of the yacht Dorothea, with every soul on board. The particulars are as follow: At daylight, on the morning of the sixth, the Italian brig Speranza, bound from Venice to Marsala for orders, encountered some floating objects off Cape Spartivento (at the southernmost extremity of Italy) which attracted the curiosity of the people of the brig. The previous day had been marked by one of the most severe of the sudden and violent storms, peculiar to these southern seas, which has been remembered for years. The Speranza herself having been in danger while the gale lasted, the captain and crew concluded that they were on the traces of a wreck, and a boat was lowered for the purpose of examining the objects in the water. A hencoop, some broken spars, and fragments of shattered plank were the first evidences discovered of the terrible disaster that had happened. Some of the lighter articles of cabin furniture, wrenched and shattered, were found next. And, lastly, a memento of melancholy interest turned up, in the shape of a life-buoy, with a corked botde attached to it. These latter objects, with the relics of cabin-furniture, were brought on board the Speranza. On the buoy the name of the vessel was painted as follows: – ‘Dorothea, R.Y.S.’ (meaning Royal Yacht Squadron). The bottle, on being uncorked, contained a sheet of note-paper, on which the following lines were hurriedly traced in pencil: – ‘Off Cape Spartivento; two days out from Messina. Nov. 5th, 4 P.M.’ (being the hour at which the log of the Italian brig showed the storm to have been at its height). ‘Both our boats are stove in by the sea. The rudder is gone, and we have sprung a leak astern which is more than we can stop. The Lord help us all – we are sinking. (Signed) John Mitchenden, mate.’ On reaching Marsala, the captain of the brig made his report to the British consul, and left the objects discovered in that gentleman’s charge. Inquiry at Messina showed that the ill-fated vessel had arrived there from Naples. At the latter port it was ascertained that the Dorothea had been hired from the owner’s agent, by an English gentleman, Mr Armadale, of Thorpe-Ambrose, Norfolk. Whether Mr Armadale had any friends on board with him has not been clearly discovered. But there is unhappily no doubt that the ill-fated gentleman himself sailed in the yacht from Naples, and that he was also on board of the vessel when she left Messina.
Such is the story of the wreck, as the newspaper tells it in the plainest and fewest words. My head is in a whirl; my confusion is so great that I think of fifty different things, in trying to think of one. I must wait – a day more or less is of no consequence now – I must wait till I can face my new position, without feeling bewildered by it.
November 23rd, Eight in the Morning. – I rose an hour ago, and saw my way clearly to the first step that I must take, under present circumstances.
It is of the utmost importance to me to know what is doing at Thorpe-Ambrose; and it would be the height of rashness, while I am quite in the dark in this matter, to venture there myself. The only other alternative is to write to somebody on the spot for news; and the only person I can write to is – Bashwood.
I have just finished the letter. It is headed ‘private and confidential’, and signed ‘Lydia Armadale’. There is nothing in it to compromise me, if the old fool is mortally offended by my treatment of him, and if he spitefully shows my letter to other people. But I don’t believe he will do this. A man at his age forgives a woman anything, if the woman only encourages him. I have requested him, as a personal favour, to keep our correspondence for the present strictly private. I have hinted that my married life with my deceased husband has not been a happy one; and that I feel the injudiciousness of having married a young man. In the postscript I go farther still, and venture boldly on these comforting words, – ‘I can explain, dear Mr Bashwood, what may have seemed false and deceitful in my conduct towards you, when you give me a personal opportunity.’ If he was on the right side of sixty I should feel doubtful of results. But he is on the wrong side of sixty, and I believe he will give me my personal opportunity.
Ten o’clock. – I have been looking over the copy of my marriage-certificate, with which I took care to provide myself on the wedding-day; and I have discovered, to my inexpressible dismay, an obstacle to my appearance in the character of Armadale’s widow, which I now see for the first time.
The description of Midwinter (under his own name) which the certificate presents, answers in every important particular, to what would have been the description of Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose, if I had really married him. ‘Name and Surname’ – Allan Armadale. ‘Age’ – twenty-one, instead of twenty-two, which might easily pass for a mistake. ‘Condition’ – Bachelor. ‘Rank or Profession’ – Gentleman.
‘Residence at the time of Marriage’ – Frant’s Hotel, Darley-street. ‘Father’s Name and Surname’ – Allan Armadale. ‘Rank or Profession of Father’ – Gentleman. Every particular (except the year’s difference in their two ages) which answers for the one, answers for the other. But, suppose when I produce my copy of the certificate, that some meddlesome lawyer insists on looking at the original register? Midwinter’s writing is as different as possible from the writing of his dead friend. The hand in which he has written ‘Allan Armadale’ in the book, has not a chance of passing for the hand in which Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose was accustomed to sign his name.
Can I move safely in the matter, with such a pitfall as I see here, open under my feet? How can I tell? Where can I find an experienced person to inform me?4 I must shut up my diary, and think.
Seven o’clock. – My prospects have changed again since I made my last entry. I have received a warning to be careful in the future, which I shall not neglect; and I have (I believe) succeeded in providing myself with the advice and assistance of which I stand in need.
After vainly trying to think of some better person to apply to in the difficulty which embarrassed me, I made a virtue of necessity, and set forth to surprise Mrs Oldershaw by a visit from her darling Lydia! It is almost needless to add that I determined to sound her carefully, and not to let any secret of importance out of my own possession.
A sour and solemn old maid-servant admitted me into the house. When I asked for her mistress, I was reminded with the bitterest emphasis, that I had committed the impropriety of calling on a Sunday. Mrs Oldershaw was at home, solely in consequence of being too unwell to go to church! The servant thought it very unlikely that she would see me. I thought it highly probable, on the contrary, that she would honour me with an interview in her own interests, if I sent in my name as ‘Miss Gwilt’, – and the event proved that I was right. After being kept waiting some minutes I was shown into the drawing-room.
There sat mother Jezebel, with the air of a woman resting on the high-road to heaven, dressed in a slate-coloured gown, with grey mittens on her hands, a severely simple cap on her head, and a volume of sermons on her lap. She turned up the whites of her eyes devoutly at the sight of me, and the first words she said were – ‘Oh, Lydia! Lydia! why are you not at church?’5
If I had been less anxious, the sudden presentation of Mrs Oldershaw, in an entirely new character, might have amused me. But I was in no humour for laughing, and (my notes-of-hand being all paid), I was under no obligation to restrain my natural freedom of speech. ‘stuff and nonsense!’ I said. ‘Put your Sunday face in your pocket. I have got some news for you, since I last wrote from Thorpe-Ambrose.’
The instant I mentioned ‘Thorpe-Ambrose’, the whites of the old hypocrite’s eyes showed themselves again, and she flatly refused to hear a word more from me on the subject of my proceedings in Norfolk. I insisted – but it was quite useless. Mother Oldershaw only shook her head and groaned, and informed me that her connection with the pomps and vanities of the world was at an end for ever. ‘I have been born again, Lydia,’ said the brazen old wretch, wiping her eyes. ‘Nothing will induce me to re
turn to the subject of that wicked speculation of yours on the folly of a rich young man.’
After hearing this, I should have left her on the spot, but for one consideration which delayed me a moment longer.
It was easy to see, by this time, that the circumstances (whatever they might have been) which had obliged Mother Oldershaw to keep in hiding, on the occasion of my former visit to London, had been sufficiently serious to force her into giving up, or appearing to give up, her old business. And it was hardly less plain that she had found it to her advantage – everybody in England finds it to their advantage, in some way – to cover the outer side of her character carefully with a smooth varnish of Cant. This was, however, no business of mine; and I should have made these reflections outside, instead of inside the house, if my interests had not been involved in putting the sincerity of Mother Oldershaw’s reformation to the test – so far as it affected her past connection with myself. At the time when she had fitted me out for our enterprise, I remembered signing a certain business-document which gave her a handsome pecuniary interest in my success, if I became Mrs Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose. The chance of turning this mischievous morsel of paper to good account, in the capacity of a touchstone, was too tempting to be resisted. I asked my devout friend’s permission to say one last word, before I left the house.
‘As you have no further interest in my wicked speculation at Thorpe-Ambrose,’ I said, ‘perhaps you will give me back the written paper that I signed, when you were not quite such an exemplary person as you are now?’
The shameless old hypocrite instantly shut her eyes and shuddered.
‘Does that mean Yes, or No?’ I asked.
‘On moral and religious grounds, Lydia,’ said Mrs Oldershaw, ‘it means No.’
‘On wicked and worldly grounds,’ I rejoined, ‘I beg to thank you for showing me your hand.’
There could, indeed, be no doubt, now, about the object she really had in view. She would run no more risks and lend no more money – she would leave me to win or lose, single-handed. If I lost, she would not be compromised. If I won, she would produce the paper I had signed, and profit by it without remorse. In my present situation it was mere waste of time and words to prolong the matter by any useless recrimination on my side. I put the warning away privately in my memory for future use, and got up to go.
At the moment when I left my chair, there was a sharp double knock at the street-door. Mrs Oldershaw evidently recognized it. She rose in a violent hurry and rang the bell. ‘I am too unwell to see anybody,’ she said, when the servant appeared. ‘Wait a moment, if you please,’ she added, turning sharply on me, when the woman had left us to answer the door.
It was small, very small, spitefulness on my part, I know – but the satisfaction of thwarting Mother Jezebel, even in a trifle, was not to be resisted. ‘I can’t wait,’ I said; ‘you reminded me just now that I ought to be at church.’ Before she could answer, I was out of the room.
As I put my foot on the first stair the street-door was opened; and a man’s voice inquired whether Mrs Oldershaw was at home.
I instantly recognized the voice. Doctor Downward!6
The doctor repeated the servant’s message in a tone which betrayed unmistakable irritation at finding himself admitted no farther than the door.
‘Your mistress is not well enough to see visitors? Give her that card,’ said the doctor, ‘and say I expect her, the next time I call, to be well enough to see me.’
If his voice had not told me plainly that he felt in no friendly mood towards Mrs Oldershaw, I daresay I should have let him go without claiming his acquaintance. But, as things were, I felt an impulse to speak to him or to anybody who had a grudge against Mother Jezebel. There was more of my small spitefulness in this, I suppose. Anyway, I slipped downstairs; and, following the doctor out quietly, overtook him in the street.
I had recognized his voice, and I recognized his back as I walked behind him. But when I called him by his name, and when he turned round with a start and confronted me, I followed his example, and started on my side. The doctor’s face was transformed into the face of a perfect stranger! His baldness had hidden itself under an artfully grizzled wig. He had allowed his whiskers to grow, and had dyed them to match his new head of hair. Hideous circular spectacles bestrode his nose in place of the neat double eyeglass that he used to carry in his hand; and a black neckerchief, surmounted by immense shirt-collars, appeared as the unworthy successor of the clerical white cravat of former times. Nothing remained of the man I once knew but the comfortable plumpness of his figure, and the confidential courtesy and smoothness of his manner and his voice.
‘Charmed to see you again,’ said the doctor, looking about him a little anxiously, and producing his card-case in a very precipitate manner. ‘But my dear Miss Gwilt, permit me to rectify a slight mistake on your part. Doctor Downward of Pimlico is dead and buried; and you will infinitely oblige me if you will never, on any consideration, mention him again!’
I took the card he offered me, and discovered that I was now supposed to be speaking to ‘Doctor Le Doux, of the Sanatorium, Fairweather Vale, Hampstead’!
‘You seem to have found it necessary,’ I said, ‘to change a great many things since I last saw you? Your name, your residence, your personal appearance,—?’
‘And my branch of practice,’ interposed the doctor. ‘I have purchased of the original possessor (a person of feeble enterprise and no resources) a name, a diploma, and a partially completed sanatorium for the reception of nervous invalids. We are open already to the inspection of a few privileged friends – come and see us. Are you walking my way? Pray take my arm, and tell me to what happy chance I am indebted for the pleasure of seeing you again?’
I told him the circumstances exactly as they had happened, and I added (with a view to making sure of his relations with his former ally at Pimlico) that I had been greatly surprised to hear Mrs Oldershaw’s door shut on such an old friend as himself. Cautious as he was, the doctor’s manner of receiving my remark satisfied me at once that my suspicions of an estrangement were well founded. His smile vanished, and he settled his hideous spectacles irritably on the bridge of his nose.
‘Pardon me if I leave you to draw your own conclusions,’ he said. ‘The subject of Mrs Oldershaw is, I regret to say, far from agreeable to me under existing circumstances. A business difficulty connected with our late partnership at Pimlico, entirely without interest for a young and brilliant woman like yourself. Tell me your news! Have you left your situation at Thorpe-Ambrose? Are you residing in London? Is there anything, professional or otherwise, that I can do for you?’
That last question was a more important one than he supposed. Before I answered it, I felt the necessity of parting company with him and of getting a little time to think.
‘You have kindly asked me, doctor, to pay you a visit,’ I said. ‘In your quiet house at Hampstead, I may possibly have something to say to you which I can’t say in this noisy street. When are you at home at the Sanatorium? Should I find you there later in the day?’
The doctor assured me that he was then on his way back, and begged that I would name my own hour. I said, ‘Towards the afternoon;’ and, pleading an engagement, hailed the first omnibus that passed us. ‘Don’t forget the address,’ said the doctor, as he handed me in. ‘I have got your card,’ I answered – and so we parted.
I returned to the hotel, and went up into my room, and thought over it very anxiously.
The serious obstacle of the signature on the marriage register still stood in my way as unmanageably as ever. All hope of getting assistance from Mrs Oldershaw was at an end. I could only regard her henceforth as an enemy hidden in the dark – the enemy, beyond all doubt now, who had had me followed and watched when I was last in London. To what other counsellor could I turn for the advice which my unlucky ignorance of law and business obliged me to seek from some one more experienced than myself? Could I go to the lawyer whom I consulted when I was
about to marry Midwinter in my maiden name? Impossible! To say nothing of his cold reception of me when I had last seen him, the advice I wanted this time, related (disguise the facts as I might) to the commission of a Fraud – a fraud of the sort that no prosperous lawyer would consent to assist, if he had a character to lose. Was there any other competent person I could think of? There was one, and one only – the doctor who had died at Pimlico, and had revived again at Hampstead.
I knew him to be entirely without scruples; to have the business experience that I wanted myself; and to be as cunning, as clever, and as far-seeing a man as could be found in all London. Beyond this, I had made two important discoveries in connection with him that morning. In the first place, he was on bad terms with Mrs Oldershaw, – which would protect me from all danger of the two leaguing together against me, if I trusted him. In the second place, circumstances still obliged him to keep his identity carefully disguised, – which gave me a hold over him in no respect inferior to any hold that I might give him over me. In every way he was the right man, the only man, for my purpose; and yet I hesitated at going to him – hesitated for a full hour and more, without knowing why!
It was two o’clock before I finally decided on paying the doctor a visit. Having, after this, occupied nearly another hour in determining to a hair’s breadth how far I should take him into my confidence, I sent for a cab at last, and set off towards three in the afternoon for Hampstead.
I found the Sanatorium with some little difficulty.
Fairweather Vale proved to be a new neighbourhood,7 situated below the high ground of Hampstead, on the southern side. The day was overcast, and the place looked very dreary. We approached it by a new road running between trees, which might once have been the park-avenue of a country house. At the end we came upon a wilderness of open ground, with half-finished villas dotted about, and a hideous litter of boards, wheel-barrows, and building materials of all sorts scattered in every direction. At one corner of this scene of desolation stood a great overgrown dismal house, plastered with drab-coloured stucco, and surrounded by a naked unfinished garden, without a shrub or a flower in it – frightful to behold. On the open iron gate that led into this enclosure was a new brass plate, with ‘sanatorium’ inscribed on it in great black letters. The bell, when the cabman rang it, pealed through the empty house like a knell; and the pallid withered old manservant in black, who answered the door, looked as if he had stepped up out of his grave to perform that service. He let out on me a smell of damp plaster and new varnish; and he let in with me a chilling draught of the damp November air. I didn’t notice it at the time – but writing of it now, I remember that I shivered as I crossed the threshold.
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