" 'I wonder whether it is fine to-night in England as it is here?' he said. 'I wonder whether my dear little girl at home is looking at the moonlight, and thinking of Me?'
"I could endure it no longer. I flew out at him at last.
" 'Good heavens, Mr. Armadale!' I exclaimed, 'is there only one subject worth mentioning, in the narrow little world you live in?
I'm sick to death of Miss Milroy. Do pray talk of something else?'
"His great, broad, stupid face colored up to the roots of his hideous yellow hair. 'I beg your pardon,' he stammered, with a kind of sulky surprise. 'I didn't suppose--' He stopped confusedly, and looked from me to Midwinter. I understood what the look meant. 'I didn't suppose she could be jealous of Miss Milroy after marrying _you!_' That is what he would have said to Midwinter, if I had left them alone together in the room!
"As it was, Midwinter had heard us. Before I could speak again--before Armadale could add another word--he finished his friend's uncompleted sentence, in a tone that I now heard, and with a look that I now saw, for the first time.
" 'You didn't suppose, Allan,' he said, 'that a lady's temper could be so easily provoked.'
"The first bitter word of irony, the first hard look of contempt, I had ever had from him! And Armadale the cause of it!
"My anger suddenly left me. Something came in its place which steadied me in an instant, and took me silently out of the room.
"I sat down alone in the bedroom. I had a few minutes of thought with myself, which I don't choose to put into words, even in these secret pages. I got up, and unlocked--never mind what. Iwent round to Midwinter's side of the bed, and took--no matter what I took. The last thing I did before I left the room was to look at my watch. It was half-past ten, Armadale's usual time for leaving us. I went back at once and joined the two men again.
"I approached Armadale good-humoredly, and said to him:
"No! On second thoughts. I won't put down what I said to him, or what I did afterward. I'm sick of Armadale! he turns up at every second word I write. I shall pass over what happened in the course of the next hour--the hour between half-past ten and half-past eleven--and take up my story again at the time when Armadale had left us. Can I tell what took place, as soon as our visitor's back was turned, between Midwinter and me in our own room? Why not pass over what happened, in that case as well as in the other? Why agitate myself by writing it down? I don't know!
Why do I keep a diary at all? Why did the clever thief the other day (in the English newspaper) keep the very thing to convict him in the shape of a record of everything he stole? Why are we not perfectly reasonable in all that we do? Why am I not always on my guard and never inconsistent with myself, like a wicked character in a novel? Why? why? why?
"I don't care why! I must write down what happened between Midwinter and me to-night, _because_ I must. There's a reason that nobody can answer--myself included.
* * * * * * *
"It was half-past eleven. Armadale had gone. I had put on my dressing-gown, and had just sat down to arrange my hair for the night, when I was surprised by a knock at the door, and Midwinter came in.
"He was frightfully pale. His eyes looked at me with a terrible despair in them. He never answered when I expressed my surprise at his coming in so much sooner than usual; he wouldn't even tell me, when I asked the question, if he was ill. Pointing peremptorily to the chair from which I had risen on his entering the room, he told me to sit down again; and then, after a moment, added these words: 'I have something serious to say to you.'
"I thought of what I had done--or, no, of what I had tried to do--in that interval between half-past ten and half-past eleven, which I have left unnoticed in my diary--and the deadly sickness of terror, which I never felt at the time, came upon me now. Isat down again, as I had been told, without speaking to Midwinter, and without looking at him.
"He took a turn up and down the room, and then came and stood over me.
" 'If Allan comes here to-morrow,' he began, 'and if you see him--'
"His voice faltered, and he said no more. There was some dreadful grief at his heart that was trying to master him. But there are times when his will is a will of iron. He took another turn in the room, and crushed it down. He came back, and stood over me again.
" 'When Allan comes here to-morrow,' he resumed, 'let him come into my room, if he wants to see me. I shall tell him that I find it impossi ble to finish the work I now have on hand as soon as Ihad hoped, and that he must, therefore, arrange to find a crew for the yacht without any assistance on my part. If he comes, in his disappointment, to appeal to you, give him no hope of my being free in time to help him if he waits. Encourage him to take the best assistance he can get from strangers, and to set about manning the yacht without any further delay. The more occupation he has to keep him away from this house, and the less you encourage him to stay here if he does come, the better I shall be pleased. Don't forget that, and don't forget one last direction which I have now to give you. When the vessel is ready for sea, and when Allan invites us to sail with him, it is my wish that you should positively decline to go. He will try to make you change your mind; for I shall, of course, decline, on my side, to leave you in this strange house, and in this foreign country, by yourself. No matter what he says, let nothing persuade you to alter your decision. Refuse, positively and finally! Refuse, Iinsist on it, to set your foot on the new yacht!'
"He ended quietly and firmly, with no faltering in his voice, and no signs of hesitation or relenting in his face. The sense of surprise which I might otherwise have felt at the strange words he had addressed to me was lost in the sense of relief that they brought to my mind. The dread of _those other words_ that I had expected to hear from him left me as suddenly as it had come. Icould look at him, I could speak to him once more.
