Armadale by Wilkie Collins
In the minute that elapsed, while he waited with his eyes on the room, the doubt was resolved – he found the trivial, yet sufficient, excuse of which he was in search. Mr Bashwood saw him rouse himself, and go to the door. Mr Bashwood heard him knock softly, and whisper, ‘Allan, are you in bed?’
‘No,’ answered the voice inside, ‘come in.’
He appeared to be on the point of entering the room, when he checked himself as if he had suddenly remembered something. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, through the door, and, turning away, went straight to the end room. ‘If there is anybody watching us in there,’ he said aloud, ‘let him watch us through this!’ He took out his handkerchief, and stuffed it into the wires of the grating, so as completely to close the aperture. Having thus forced the spy inside (if there was one) either to betray himself by moving the handkerchief, or to remain blinded to all view of what might happen next, Midwinter presented himself in Allan’s room.
‘You know what poor nerves I have,’ he said, ‘and what a wretched sleeper I am at the best of times. I can’t sleep to-night. The window in my room rattles every time the wind blows. I wish it was as fast as your window here.’
‘My dear fellow!’ cried Allan, ‘I don’t mind a rattling window. Let’s change rooms. Nonsense! Why should you make excuses to me? Don’t I know how easily trifles upset those excitable nerves of yours? Now the doctor has quieted my mind about my poor little Neelie, I begin to feel the journey – and I’ll answer for sleeping anywhere till to-morrow comes.’ He took up his travelling-bag. ‘We must be quick about it,’ he added, pointing to his candle. ‘They haven’t left me much candle to go to bed by.’
‘Be very quiet, Allan,’ said Midwinter, opening the door for him. ‘We mustn’t disturb the house at this time of night.’
‘Yes, yes,’ returned Allan, in a whisper. ‘Good night – I hope you’ll sleep as well as I shall.’
Midwinter saw him into Number Three, and noticed that his own candle (which he had left there) was as short as Allan’s. ‘Good night,’ he said, and came out again into the corridor.
He went straight to the grating, and looked and listened once more. The handkerchief remained exactly as he had left it, and still there was no sound to be heard within. He returned slowly along the corridor, and thought of the precautions he had taken, for the last time. Was there no other way than the way he was trying now? There was none. Any openly-avowed posture of defence – while the nature of the danger, and the quarter from which it might come, were alike unknown – would be useless in itself, and worse than useless in the consequences which it might produce by putting the people of the house on their guard. Without a fact that could justify to other minds his distrust of what might happen with the night; incapable of shaking Allan’s ready faith in the fair outside which the doctor had presented to him, the one safeguard in his friend’s interests that Midwinter could set up, was the safeguard of changing the rooms – the one policy he could follow, come what might of it, was the policy of waiting for events. ‘I can trust to one thing,’ he said to himself, as he looked for the last time up and down the corridor – ‘I can trust myself to keep awake.’
After a glance at the clock on the wall opposite, he went into Number Four. The sound of the closing door was heard, the sound of the turning lock followed it. Then, the dead silence fell over the house once more.
Little by little, the steward’s horror of the stillness and the darkness overcame his dread of moving the handkerchief. He cautiously drew aside one corner of it – waited – looked – and took courage at last to draw the whole handkerchief through the wires of the grating. After first hiding it in his pocket, he thought of the consequences if it was found on him, and threw it down in a corner of the room. He trembled when he had cast it from him, as he looked at his watch, and placed himself again at the grating to wait for Miss Gwilt.
It was a quarter to one. The moon had come round from the side to the front of the Sanatorium. From time to time her light gleamed on the window of the corridor, when the gaps in the flying clouds let it through. The wind had risen, and sung its mournful song faintly, as it swept at intervals over the desert ground in front of the house.
The minute-hand of the clock travelled on half-way round the circle of the dial. As it touched the quarter-past one, Miss Gwilt stepped noiselessly into the corridor. ‘Let yourself out,’ she whispered through the grating, ‘and follow me.’ She returned to the stairs by which she had just descended; pushed the door to softly, after Mr Bashwood had followed her; and led the way up to the landing of the second-floor. There she put the question to him which she had not ventured to put below stairs.
‘Was Mr Armadale shown into Number Four?’ she asked.
He bowed his head without speaking.
‘Answer me in words. Has Mr Armadale left the room since?’
He answered, ‘No.’
‘Have you never lost sight of Number Four since I left you?’
He answered, ‘Never.’
Something strange in his manner, something unfamiliar in his voice, as he made that last reply, attracted her attention. She took her candle from a table near, on which she had left it, and threw its light on him. His eyes were staring, his teeth chattered. There was everything to betray him to her as a terrified man – there was nothing to tell her that the terror was caused by his consciousness of deceiving her, for the first time in his life, to her face. If she had threatened him less openly when she placed him on the watch; if she had spoken less unreservedly of the interview which was to reward him in the morning, he might have owned the truth. As it was, his strongest fears and his dearest hopes were alike interested in telling her the fatal lie that he had now told – the fatal lie which he reiterated when she put her question for the second time.
She looked at him, deceived by the last man on earth whom she would have suspected of deception – the man whom she had deceived herself.
‘You seem to be over-excited,’ she said quietly. ‘The night has been too much for you. Go upstairs, and rest. You will find the door of one of the rooms left open. That is the room you are to occupy. Good night.’
She put the candle (which she had left burning for him) on the table, and gave him her hand. He held her back by it desperately as she turned to leave him. His horror of what might happen when she was left by herself, forced the words to his lips which he would have feared to speak to her at any other time.
‘Don’t,’ he pleaded in a whisper; ‘oh, don’t, don’t, don’t go downstairs to-night!’
She released her hand, and signed to him to take the candle. ‘You shall see me to-morrow,’ she said. ‘Not a word more now!’
Her stronger will conquered him at that last moment, as it had conquered him throughout. He took the candle, and waited – following her eagerly with his eyes as she descended the stairs. The cold of the December night seemed to have found its way to her through the warmth of the house. She had put on a long heavy black shawl, and had fastened it close over her breast. The plaited coronet in which she wore her hair seemed to have weighed too heavily on her head. She had untwisted it, and thrown it back over her shoulders. The old man looked at her flowing hair, as it lay red over the black shawl – at her supple, long-fingered hand, as it slid down the banisters – at the smooth, seductive grace of every movement that took her farther and farther away from him. ‘The night will go quickly,’ he said to himself as she passed from his view; ‘I shall dream of her till the morning comes!’
She secured the staircase door, after she had passed through it – listened, and satisfied herself that nothing was stirring – then went on slowly along the corridor to the window. Leaning on the window-sill, she looked out at the night. The clouds were over the moon at that moment; nothing was to be seen through the darkness but the scattered gaslights in the suburb. Turning from the window, she looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past one.
For the last time, the resolution that had come to her in the earlie
She pondered over it till the minute-hand of the clock pointed to the half-hour. ‘No!’ she said, still thinking of her husband. ‘The one chance left, is to go through with it to the end. He will leave the thing undone which he has come here to do; he will leave the words unspoken which he has come here to say – when he knows that the act may make me a public scandal, and that the words may send me to the scaffold!’ Her colour rose, and she smiled with a terrible irony as she looked for the first time at the door of the Room. ‘I shall be your widow,’ she said, ‘in half-an-hour!’
She opened the case of the apparatus, and took the Purple Flask in her hand. After marking the time by a glance at the clock, she dropped into the glass funnel the first of the six separate Pourings that were measured for her by the paper slips.
When she had put the Flask back, she listened at the mouth of the funnel. Not a sound reached her ear: the deadly process did its work, in the silence of death itself. When she rose, and looked up, the moon was shining in at the window, and the moaning wind was quiet.
Oh, the time! the time! If it could only have been begun and ended with the first Pouring!
She went downstairs into the hall – she walked to and fro, and listened at the open door that led to the kitchen stairs. She came up again; she went down again. The first of the intervals of five minutes was endless. The time stood still. The suspense was maddening.
The interval passed. As she took the Flask for the second time, and dropped in the second Pouring, the clouds floated over the moon, and the night-view through the window slowly darkened.
The restlessness that had driven her up and down the stairs, and backwards and forwards in the hall, left her as suddenly as it had come. She waited through the second interval, leaning on the window-sill, and staring, without conscious thought of any kind, into the black night The howling of a belated dog was borne towards her on the wind, at intervals, from some distant part of the suburb. She found herself following the faint sound as it died away into silence with a dull attention, and listening for its coming again with an expectation that was duller still. Her arms lay like lead on the window-sill; her forehead rested against the glass without feeling the cold. It was not till the moon struggled out again that she was startled into sudden self-remembrance. She turned quickly, and looked at the clock; seven minutes had passed since the second Pouring.
As she snatched up the Flask, and fed the funnel for the third time, the full consciousness of her position came back to her. The fever-heat throbbed again in her blood, and flushed fiercely in her cheeks. Swift, smooth, and noiseless, she paced from end to end of the corridor, with her arms folded in her shawl, and her eye moment after moment on the clock.
Three out of the next five minutes passed, and again the suspense began to madden her. The space in the corridor grew too confined for the illimitable restlessness that possessed her limbs. She went down into the hall again, and circled round and round it like a wild creature in a cage. At the third turn, she felt something moving softly against her dress. The house-cat had come up through the open kitchen-door – a large, tawny, companionable cat that purred in high good temper, and followed her for company. She took the animal up in her arms – it rubbed its sleek head luxuriously against her chin as she bent her face over it. ‘Armadale hates cats,’ she whispered in the creature’s ear. ‘Come up and see Armadale killed!’ The next moment her own frightful fancy horrified her. She dropped the cat with a shudder; she drove it below again with threatening hands. For a moment after, she stood still – then, in headlong haste, suddenly mounted the stairs. Her husband had forced his way back again into her thoughts; her husband threatened her with a danger which had never entered her mind till now. What, if he were not asleep? What if he came out upon her, and found her with the Purple Flask in her hand?
She stole to the door of number three, and listened. The slow, regular breathing of a sleeping man was just audible. After waiting a moment to let the feeling of relief quiet her, she took a step towards Number Four – and checked herself. It was needless to listen at that door. The doctor had told her that Sleep came first, as certainly as Death afterwards, in the poisoned air. She looked aside at the clock. The time had come for the fourth Pouring.
Her hand began to tremble violently, as she fed the funnel for the fourth time. The fear of her husband was back again in her heart. What if some noise disturbed him before the sixth Pouring? What if he woke on a sudden (as she had often seen him wake) without any noise at all?
She looked up and down the corridor. The end room, in which Mr Bashwood had been concealed, offered itself to her as a place of refuge. ‘I might go in there!’ she thought. ‘Has he left the key?’ She opened the door to look, and saw the handkerchief thrown down on the floor. Was it Mr Bashwood’s handkerchief, left there by accident? She examined it at the corners. In the second corner she found her husband’s name!
Her first impulse hurried her to the staircase-door, to rouse the steward, and insist on an explanation. The next moment, she remembered the Purple Flask, and the danger of leaving the corridor. She turned, and looked at the door of number three. Her husband, on the evidence of the handkerchief, had unquestionably been out of his room – and Mr Bashwood had not told her. Was he in his room now? In the violence of her agitation, as the question passed through her mind, she forgot the discovery which she had herself made not a minute before. Again, she listened at the door; again, she heard the slow regular breathing of the sleeping man. The first time, the evidence of her ears had been enough to quiet her. This time, in the tenfold aggravation of her suspicion and her alarm, she was determined to have the evidence of her eyes as well. ‘All the doors open softly in this house,’ she said to herself; ‘there’s no fear of my waking him.’ Noiselessly, by an inch at a time, she opened the unlocked door, and looked in the moment the aperture was wide enough. In the little light she had let into the room, the sleeper’s head was just visible on the pillow. Was it quite as dark against the white pillow as her husband’s head looked when he was in bed? Was the breathing as light as her husband’s breathing when he was asleep?
She opened the door more widely, and looked in by the clearer light.
There lay the man whose life she had attempted for the third time, peacefully sleeping in the room that had been given to her husband, and in the air that could harm nobody!
The inevitable conclusion overwhelmed her on the instant. With a frantic upward action of her hands she staggered back into the passage. The door of Allan’s room fell to – but not noisily enough to wake him. She turned as she heard it close. For one moment she stood staring at it like a woman stupefied. The next, her instinct rushed into action, before her reason recovered itself. In two steps she was at the door of Number Four.
The door was locked.
She felt over the wall with both hands, wildly and clumsily, for the button which she had seen the doctor press, when he was showing the room to the visitors. Twice she missed it. The third time her eyes helped her hands – she found the button and pressed on it. The mortice of the lock inside fell back, and the door yielded to her.
Without an instant’s hesitation she entered the room. Though the door was open – though so short a time had elapsed since the fourth Pouring, that but little more than half the contemplated volume of gas had been produced as yet – the poisoned air seized her, like the grasp of a hand at her throat, like the twisting of a wire round her head. She found him on the floor at the foot of the bed – his head and one arm were towards the door, as if he had risen under the first feeling of drowsiness, and had sunk in the effort to leave the room. With the desperate concentration of strength of which women are capable in emergencies, she lifted him and dragged him out into the corridor. Her brain reeled as she laid him down and crawled back on her knees to the room, to
Was it death that spread the livid pallor over his forehead and his cheeks, and the dull leaden hue on his eyelids and his lips?
She loosened his cravat and opened his waistcoat, and bared his throat and breast to the air. With her hand on his heart, with her bosom supporting his head, so that he fronted the window, she waited the event. A time passed: a time short enough to be reckoned by minutes on the clock; and yet long enough to take her memory back over all her married life with him – long enough to mature the resolution that now rose in her mind as the one result that could come of the retrospect. As her eyes rested on him, a strange composure settled slowly on her face. She bore the look of a woman who was equally resigned to welcome the chance of his recovery, or to accept the certainty of his death.
Not a cry or a tear had escaped her yet. Not a cry or a tear escaped her when the interval had passed, and she felt the first faint fluttering of his heart, and heard the first faint catching of the breath at his lips. She silently bent over him and kissed his forehead. When she looked up again, the hard despair had melted from her face. There was something softly radiant in her eyes, which lit her whole countenance as with an inner light, and made her womanly and lovely once more.
She laid him down, and, taking off her shawl, made a pillow of it to support his head. ‘It might have been hard, love,’ she said, as she felt the faint pulsation strengthening at his heart. ‘You have made it easy now.’