Mr. Brock left his seat on the side of the bed, trimmed his candle, and, still lost in his own thoughts, looked out absently at the night. The change of place brought no new ideas with it. His retrospect over his own past life had amply satisfied him that his present sense of responsibility rested on no merely fanciful grounds, and, having brought him to that point, had left him there, standing at the window, and seeing nothing but the total darkness in his own mind faithfully reflected by the total darkness of the night.
“If I only had a friend to apply to!” thought the rector. “If I could only find some one to help me in this miserable place!”
At the moment when the aspiration crossed his mind, it was suddenly answered by a low knock at the door, and a voice said softly in the passage outside, “Let me come in.”
After an instant’s pause to steady his nerves, Mr. Brock opened the door, and found himself, at one o’clock in the morning, standing face to face on the threshold of his own bedroom with Ozias Midwinter.
“Are you ill?” asked the rector, as soon as his astonishment would allow him to speak.
“I have come here to make a clean breast of it!” was the strange answer. “Will you let me in?”
With those words he walked into the room, his eyes on the ground, his lips ashy pale, and his hand holding something hidden behind him.
“I saw the light under your door,” he went on, without looking up, and without moving his hand, “and I know the trouble on your mind which is keeping you from your rest. You are going away tomorrow morning, and you don’t like leaving Mr. Armadale alone with a stranger like me.”
Startled as he was, Mr. Brock saw the serious necessity of being plain with a man who had come at that time, and had said those words to him.
“You have guessed right,” he answered. “I stand in the place of a father to Allan Armadale, and I am naturally unwilling to leave him, at his age, with a man whom I don’t know.”
Ozias Midwinter took a step forward to the table. His wandering eyes rested on the rector’s New Testament, which was one of the objects lying on it.
“You have read that Book, in the years of a long life, to many congregations,” he said. “Has it taught you mercy to your miserable fellow-creatures?”
Without waiting to be answered, he looked Mr. Brock in the face for the first time, and brought his hidden hand slowly into view.
“Read that,” he said; “and, for Christ’s sake, pity me when you know who I am.”
He laid a letter of many pages on the table. It was the letter that Mr. Neal had posted at Wildbad nineteen years since.
II. The Man Revealed
The first cool breathings of the coming dawn fluttered through the open window as Mr. Brock read the closing lines of the Confession. He put it from him in silence, without looking up. The first shock of discovery had struck his mind, and had passed away again. At his age, and with his habits of thought, his grasp was not strong enough to hold the whole revelation that had fallen on him. All his heart, when he closed the manuscript, was with the memory of the woman who had been the beloved friend of his later and happier life; all his thoughts were busy with the miserable secret of her treason to her own father which the letter had disclosed.
He was startled out of the narrow limits of his own little grief by the vibration of the table at which he sat, under a hand that was laid on it heavily. The instinct of reluctance was strong in him; but he conquered it, and looked up. There, silently confronting him in the mixed light of the yellow candle flame and the faint gray dawn, stood the castaway of the village inn — the inheritor of the fatal Armadale name.
Mr. Brock shuddered as the terror of the present time and the darker terror yet of the future that might be coming rushed back on him at the sight of the man’s face. The man saw it, and spoke first.
“Is my father’s crime looking at you out of my eyes?” he asked. “Has the ghost of the drowned man followed me into the room?”
The suffering and the passion that he was forcing back shook the hand that he still kept on the table, and stifled the voice in which he spoke until it sank to a whisper.
“I have no wish to treat you otherwise than justly and kindly,” answered Mr. Brock. “Do me justice on my side, and believe that I am incapable of cruelly holding you responsible for your father’s crime.”
The reply seemed to compose him. He bowed his head in silence, and took up the confession from the table.
“Have you read this through?” he asked, quietly.
“Every word of it, from first to last.”
“Have I dealt openly with you so far. Has Ozias Midwinter — ”
“Do you still call yourself by that name,” interrupted Mr. Brock, “now your true name is known to me?”
“Since I have read my father’s confession,” was the answer, “I like my ugly alias better than ever. Allow me to repeat the question which I was about to put to you a minute since: Has Ozias Midwinter done his best thus far to enlighten Mr. Brock?”
The rector evaded a direct reply. “Few men in your position,” he said, “would have had the courage to show me that letter.”
“Don’t be too sure, sir, of the vagabond you picked up at the inn till you know a little more of him than you know now. You have got the secret of my birth, but you are not in possession yet of the story of my life. You ought to know it, and you shall know it, before you leave me alone with Mr. Armadale. Will you wait, and rest a little while, or shall I tell it you now?”
“Now,” said Mr. Brock, still as far away as ever from knowing the real character of the man before him.
Everything Ozias Midwinter said, everything Ozias Midwinter did, was against him. He had spoken with a sardonic indifference, almost with an insolence of tone, which would have repelled the sympathies of any man who heard him. And now, instead of placing himself at the table, and addressing his story directly to the rector, he withdrew silently and ungraciously to the window-seat. There he sat, his face averted, his hands mechanically turning the leaves of his father’s letter till he came to the last. With his eyes fixed on the closing lines of the manuscript, and with a strange mixture of recklessness and sadness in his voice, he began his promised narrative in these words:
“The first thing you know of me,” he said, “is what my father’s confession has told you already. He mentions here that I was a child, asleep on his breast, when he spoke his last words in this world, and when a stranger’s hand wrote them down for him at his deathbed. That stranger’s name, as you may have noticed, is signed on the cover — ’Alexander Neal, Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh.’ The first recollection I have is of Alexander Neal beating me with a horsewhip (I dare say I deserved it), in the character of my stepfather.”
“Have you no recollection of your mother at the same time?” asked Mr. Brock.