Part 69 (1/2)

”In three bold steps--only three!--that end might be reached. Let Midwinter marry me privately, under his real name--step the first! Let Armadale leave Thorpe Ambrose a single man, and die in some distant place among strangers--step the second!

”Why am I hesitating? Why not go on to step the third, and last?

”I _will_ go on. Step the third, and last, is my appearance, after the announcement of Armadale's death has reached this neighborhood, in the character of Armadale's widow, with my marriage certificate in my hand to prove my claim. It is as clear as the sun at noonday. Thanks to the exact similarity between the two names, and thanks to the careful manner in which the secret of that similarity has been kept, I may be the wife of the dark Allan Armadale, known as such to n.o.body but my husband and myself; and I may, out of that very position, claim the character of widow of the light Allan Armadale, with proof to support me (in the shape of my marriage certificate) which would be proof in the estimation of the most incredulous person living.

”To think of my having put all this in my Diary! To think of my having actually contemplated this very situation, and having seen nothing more in it, at the time, than a reason (if I married Midwinter) for consenting to appear in the world under my husband's a.s.sumed name!

”What is it daunts me? The dread of obstacles? The fear of discovery?

”Where are the obstacles? Where is the fear of discovery?

”I am actually suspected all over the neighborhood of intriguing to be mistress of Thorpe Ambrose. I am the only person who knows the real turn that Armadale's inclinations have taken. Not a creature but myself is as yet aware of his early morning meetings with Miss Milroy. If it is necessary to part them, I can do it at any moment by an anonymous line to the major. If it is necessary to remove Armadale from Thorpe Ambrose, I can get him away at three days' notice. His own lips informed me, when I last spoke to him, that he would go to the ends of the earth to be friends again with Midwinter, if Midwinter would let him. I have only to tell Midwinter to write from London, and ask to be reconciled; and Midwinter would obey me--and to London Armadale would go. Every difficulty, at starting, is smoothed over ready to my hand.

Every after-difficulty I could manage for myself. In the whole venture--desperate as it looks to pa.s.s myself off for the widow of one man, while I am all the while the wife of the other--there is absolutely no necessity that wants twice considering, but the one terrible necessity of Armadale's death.

”His death! It might be a terrible necessity to any other woman; but is it, ought it to be terrible to Me?

”I hate him for his mother's sake. I hate him for his own sake. I hate him for going to London behind my back, and making inquiries about me.

I hate him for forcing me out of my situation before I wanted to go. I hate him for destroying all my hopes of marrying him, and throwing me back helpless on my own miserable life. But, oh, after what I have done already in the past time, how can I? how can I?

”The girl, too--the girl who has come between us; who has taken him away from me; who has openly insulted me this very day--how the girl whose heart is set on him would feel it if he died! What a vengeance on _her_, if I did it! And when I was received as Armadale's widow what a triumph for _me_. Triumph! It is more than triumph--it is the salvation of me.

A name that can't be a.s.sailed, a station that can't be a.s.sailed, to hide myself in from my past life! Comfort, luxury, wealth! An income of twelve hundred a year secured to me secured by a will which has been looked at by a lawyer: secured independently of anything Armadale can say or do himself! I never had twelve hundred a year. At my luckiest time, I never had half as much, really my own. What have I got now? Just five pounds left in the world--and the prospect next week of a debtor's prison.

”But, oh, after what I have done already in the past time, how can I?

how can I?

”Some women--in my place, and with my recollections to look back on--would feel it differently. Some women would say, 'It's easier the second time than the first.' Why can't I? why can't I?

”Oh, you Devil tempting me, is there no Angel near to raise some timely obstacle between this and to-morrow which might help me to give it up?

”I shall sink under it--I shall sink, if I write or think of it any more! I'll shut up these leaves and go out again. I'll get some common person to come with me, and we will talk of common things. I'll take out the woman of the house, and her children. We will go and see something.

There is a show of some kind in the town--I'll treat them to it. I'm not such an ill-natured woman when I try; and the landlady has really been kind to me. Surely I might occupy my mind a little in seeing her and her children enjoying themselves.

”A minute since, I shut up these leaves as I said I would; and now I have opened them again, I don't know why. I think my brain is turned.

I feel as if something was lost out of my mind; I feel as if I ought to find it here.

”I have found it! _Midwinter!!!_

”Is it possible that I can have been thinking of the reasons For and Against, for an hour past--writing Midwinter's name over and over again--speculating seriously on marrying him--and all the time not once remembering that, even with every other impediment removed, _he_ alone, when the time came, would be an insurmountable obstacle in my way? Has the effort to face the consideration of Armadale's death absorbed me to _that_ degree? I suppose it has. I can't account for such extraordinary forgetfulness on my part in any other way.

”Shall I stop and think it out, as I have thought out all the rest?

Shall I ask myself if the obstacle of Midwinter would, after all, when the time came, be the unmanageable obstacle that it looks at present?

No! What need is there to think of it? I have made up my mind to get the better of the temptation. I have made up my mind to give my landlady and her children a treat; I have made up my mind to close my Diary. And closed it shall be.

”Six o'clock.--The landlady's gossip is unendurable; the landlady's children distract me. I have left them to run back here before post time and write a line to Mrs. Oldershaw.