Armadale (14 page)

No such introduction to the evening readings as this had ever happened before in all Mrs Armadale's experience as a listener. She looked up from the sofa, in a flutter of curiosity, and besought her reverend friend to favour her with an explanation.

‘I can hardly believe my own eyes,' said Mr Brock. ‘Here is an advertisement, Mrs Armadale, addressed to your son.'

Without further preface, he read the advertisement, as follows:

If this should meet the eye of A
LLAN
A
RMADALE
, he is desired to communicate, either personally or by letter, with Messrs Hammick and Ridge (Lincoln's Inn Fields, London), on business of importance which seriously concerns him. Any one capable of informing Messrs H. and R. where the person herein advertised can be found, would confer a favour by doing the same. To prevent mistakes, it is further notified that the missing Allan Armadale is a youth aged fifteen years, and that this advertisement is inserted at the instance of his family and friends.

‘Another family, and other friends,' said Mrs Armadale. ‘The person whose name appears in that advertisement is not my son.'

The tone in which she spoke surprised Mr Brock. The change in her face, when he looked up, shocked him. Her delicate complexion had faded away to a dull white; her eyes were averted from her visitor with a strange mixture of confusion and alarm; she looked an older woman than she was, by ten good years at least.

‘The name is so very uncommon,' said Mr Brock, imagining he had offended her, and trying to excuse himself. ‘It really seemed impossible there could be two persons—'

‘There
are
two,' interposed Mrs Armadale. ‘Allan, as you know, is sixteen years old. If you look back at the advertisement, you will find the missing person described as being only fifteen. Although he bears the same surname and the same Christian name, he is, I thank God, in no way whatever related to my son. As long as I live it will be the object of my hopes and prayers, that Allan may never see him, may never even hear of him. My kind friend, I see I surprise you; will you bear with me if I leave these strange circumstances unexplained? There is past misfortune and misery in my early life too painful for me to speak of, even
to you
. Will you help me to bear the remembrance of it, by never referring to this again? Will you do even more – will you promise not to speak of it to Allan, and not to let that newspaper fall in his way?'

Mr Brock gave the pledge required of him, and considerately left her to herself.

The rector had been too long and too truly attached to Mrs Armadale to be capable of regarding her with any unworthy distrust. But it would be idle to deny that he felt disappointed by her want of confidence in him, and that he looked inquisitively at the advertisement more than once, on his way back to his own house. It was clear enough, now, that Mrs Armadale's motive for burying her son as well as herself in the seclusion of a remote country village, was not so much to keep him under her own eye, as to keep him from discovery by his namesake. Why did she dread the idea of their ever meeting? Was it a dread for herself, or a dread for her son? Mr Brock's loyal belief in his friend rejected any solution of the difficulty which pointed at some past misconduct of Mrs Armadale's, and which associated it with those painful remembrances to which she had alluded, or with the estrangement from her brothers which had now kept her parted for years from her relatives and her home. That night, he destroyed the advertisement with his own hand; that night he resolved that the subject should never be suffered to enter his mind again. There was another Allan Armadale about the world, a stranger to his pupil's blood, and a vagabond
advertised in the public newspapers. So much, accident had revealed to him. More, for Mrs Armadale's sake, he had no wish to discover – and more, he would never seek to know.

This was the second in the series of events which dated from the rector's connection with Mrs Armadale and her son. Mr Brock's memory, travelling on nearer and nearer to present circumstances, reached the third stage of its journey through the bygone time, and stopped at the year eighteen hundred and fifty, next.

The five years that had passed had made little, if any, change in Allan's character. He had simply developed (to use his tutor's own expression) from a boy of sixteen to a boy of twenty-one. He was just as easy and open in his disposition as ever; just as quaintly and inveterately good-humoured; just as heedless in following his own impulses, lead him where they might. His bias towards the sea had strengthened with his advance to the years of manhood. From building a boat, he had now got on – with two journeymen at work under him – to building a decked vessel of five-and-thirty tons. Mr Brock had conscientiously tried to divert him to higher aspirations; had taken him to Oxford, to see what college life was like; had taken him to London, to expand his mind by the spectacle of the great metropolis. The change had diverted Allan, but had not altered him in the least. He was as impenetrably superior to all worldly ambition as Diogenes himself. ‘Which is best,' asked this unconscious philosopher, ‘to find out the way to be happy for yourself, or to let other people try if they can find it out for you?' From that moment, Mr Brock permitted his pupil's character to grow at its own rate of development, and Allan went on uninterruptedly with the work of his yacht.

Time, which had wrought so little change in the son, had not passed harmless over the mother. Mrs Armadale's health was breaking fast. As her strength failed, her temper altered for the worse: she grew more and more fretful, more and more subject to morbid fears and fancies, more and more reluctant to leave her own room. Since the appearance of the advertisement, five years since, nothing had happened to force her memory back to the painful associations connected with her early life. No word more on the forbidden topic had passed between the rector and herself; no suspicion had ever been raised in Allan's mind of the existence of his namesake; and yet, without the shadow of a reason for any special anxiety, Mrs Armadale had become, of late years, obstinately and fretfully uneasy on the subject of her son. At one time, she would congratulate herself on the fancy for yacht-building and sailing which
kept him happy and occupied under her own eye. At another, she spoke with horror of his trusting himself habitually to the treacherous ocean on which her husband had met his death. Now in one way, and now in another, she tried her son's forbearance as she had never tried it in her healthier and happier days. More than once, Mr Brock dreaded a serious disagreement between them; but Allan's natural sweetness of temper, fortified by his love for his mother, carried him triumphantly through all trials. Not a hard word, or a harsh look ever escaped him in her presence; he was unchangeably loving and forbearing with her to the very last.

Such were the positions of the son, the mother, and the friend, when the next notable event happened in the lives of the three. On a dreary afternoon, early in the month of November, Mr Brock was disturbed over the composition of his sermon by a visit from the landlord of the village inn.

After making his introductory apologies, the landlord stated the urgent business on which he had come to the rectory, clearly enough. A few hours since, a young man had been brought to the inn by some farm labourers in the neighbourhood, who had found him wandering about one of their master's fields, in a disordered state of mind, which looked to their eyes like downright madness. The landlord had given the poor creature shelter, while he sent for medical help; and the doctor, on seeing him, had pronounced that he was suffering from fever on the brain, and that his removal to the nearest town at which a hospital or a workhouse infirmary could be found to receive him, would in all probability be fatal to his chances of recovery. After hearing this expression of opinion, and after observing for himself that the stranger's only luggage consisted of a small carpet-bag which had been found in the field near him, the landlord had set off on the spot to consult the rector, and to ask, in this serious emergency, what course he was to take next.

Mr Brock was the magistrate, as well as the clergyman, of the district, and the course to be taken, in the first instance, was to his mind clear enough. He put on his hat, and accompanied the landlord back to the inn.

At the inn-door they were joined by Allan, who had heard the news through another channel, and who was waiting Mr Brock's arrival, to follow in the magistrate's train, and to see what the stranger was like. The village surgeon joined them at the same moment, and the four went into the inn together.

They found the landlord's son on one side, and the ostler on the other, holding the man down in his chair. Young, slim, and undersized,
he was strong enough at that moment to make it a matter of difficulty for the two to master him. His tawny complexion, his large bright brown eyes, his black mustachios and beard, gave him something of a foreign look. His dress was a little worn, but his linen was clean. His dusky hands were wiry and nervous, and were lividly discoloured in more places than one, by the scars of old wounds. The toes of one of his feet, off which he had kicked the shoe, grasped at the chair-rail through his stocking, with the sensitive muscular action which is only seen in those who have been accustomed to go barefoot. In the frenzy that now possessed him, it was impossible to notice, to any useful purpose, more than this. After a whispered consultation with Mr Brock, the surgeon personally superintended the patient's removal to a quiet bedroom at the back of the house. Shortly afterwards, his clothes and his carpet-bag were sent downstairs, and were searched, on the chance of finding a clue by which to communicate with his friends, in the magistrate's presence.

The carpet-bag contained nothing but a change of clothing, and two books – the Plays of Sophocles, in the original Greek, and the
Faust
of Goethe, in the original German. Both volumes were much worn by reading; and on the fly-leaf of each were inscribed the initials O. M.
⁴
So much the bag revealed, and no more.

The clothes which the man wore when he was discovered in the field were tried next. A purse (containing a sovereign and a few shillings), a pipe, a tobacco-pouch, a handkerchief, and a little drinking-cup of horn, were produced in succession. The next object, and the last, was found crumpled up carelessly in the breast-pocket of the coat. It was a written testimonial to character, dated and signed, but without any address. So far as this document could tell it, the stranger's story was a sad one indeed. He had apparently been employed for a short time as usher at a school, and had been turned adrift in the world, at the outset of his illness, from the fear that the fever might be infectious, and that the prosperity of the establishment might suffer accordingly. Not the slightest imputation of any misbehaviour in his employment rested on him. On the contrary, the schoolmaster had great pleasure in testifying to his capacity and his character, and in expressing a fervent hope that he might (under Providence) succeed in recovering his health in somebody else's house.

The written testimonial which afforded this glimpse at the man's story served one purpose more – it connected him with the initials on the books, and identified him to the magistrate and the landlord under the strangely uncouth name of Ozias Midwinter.

Mr Brock laid aside the testimonial, suspecting that the schoolmaster had purposely abstained from writing his address on it, with the view of escaping all responsibility in the event of his usher's death. In any case it was manifestly useless, under existing circumstances, to think of tracing the poor wretch's friends – if friends he had. To the inn he had been brought, and, as a matter of common humanity, at the inn he must remain for the present. The difficulty about expenses, if it came to the worst, might possibly be met by charitable contributions from the neighbours, or by a collection after a sermon at church. Assuring the landlord that he would consider this part of the question, and would let him know the result, Mr Brock quitted the inn, without noticing for the moment that he had left Allan there behind him.

Before he had got fifty yards from the house his pupil overtook him. Allan had been most uncharacteristically silent and serious all through the search at the inn – but he had now recovered his usual high spirits. A stranger would have set him down as wanting in common feeling.

‘This is a sad business,' said the rector. ‘I really don't know what to do for the best about that unfortunate man.'

‘You may make your mind quite easy, sir,' said young Armadale, in his off hand way. ‘I settled it all with the landlord a minute ago.'

‘You!' exclaimed Mr Brock, in the utmost astonishment.

‘I have merely given a few simple directions,' pursued Allan. ‘Our friend the usher is to have everything he requires, and is to be treated like a prince; and when the doctor and the landlord want their money they are to come to me.'

‘My dear Allan,' Mr Brock gently remonstrated. ‘When will you learn to think before you act on those generous impulses of yours? You are spending more money already on your yacht-building than you can afford—'

‘Only think! we laid the first planks of the deck, the day before yesterday,' said Allan, flying off to the new subject in his usual bird-witted way. ‘There's just enough of it done to walk on, if you don't feel giddy. I'll help you up the ladder, Mr Brock, if you'll only come and try.'

‘Listen to me,' persisted the rector; ‘I'm not talking about the yacht now. That is to say, I am only referring to the yacht as an illustration —'

‘And a very pretty illustration too,' remarked the incorrigible Allan. ‘Find me a smarter little vessel of her size in all England, and I'll give up yacht-building to-morrow. Whereabouts were we in our conversation, sir? I'm rather afraid we have lost ourselves somehow.'