'My young friend,' he said, kindly, 'have you cleared your mind of all superstition as completely as you think? Is what you have just said worthy of the better resolution at which you arrived last night?'
Midwinter's head drooped on his breast; the color rushed back over his face; he sighed bitterly.
'You are beginning to doubt my sincerity,' he said. 'I can't blame you.'
'I believe in your sincerity as firmly as ever,' answered Mr. Brock. 'I only doubt whether you have fortified the weak places in your nature as strongly as you yourself suppose. Many a man has lost the battle against himself far oftener than you have lost it yet, and has nevertheless won his victory in the end. I don't blame you, I don't distrust you. I only notice what has happened, to put you on your guard against yourself. Come! come! Let your own better sense help you; and you will agree with me that there is really no evidence to justify the suspicion that the woman whom I met in Somersetshire, and the woman who attempted suicide in London, are one and the same. Need an old man like me remind a young man like you that there are thousands of women in England with beautiful figures —thousands of women who are quietly dressed in black silk gowns and red Paisley shawls?'
Midwinter caught eagerly at the suggestion; too eagerly, as it might have occurred to a harder critic on humanity than Mr. Brock.
'You are quite right, sir,' he said, 'and I am quite wrong. Tens of thousands of women answer the description, as you say. I have been wasting time on my own idle fancies, when I ought to have been carefully gathering up facts. If this woman ever attempts to find her way to Allan, I must be prepared to stop her.' He began searching restlessly among the manuscript leaves scattered about the table, paused over one of the pages, and examined it attentively. 'This helps me to something positive,' he went on; 'this helps me to a knowledge of her age. She was twelve at the time of Mrs. Armadale's marriage; add a year, and bring her to thirteen; add Allan's age (twenty- two), and we make her a woman of five-and-thirty at the present time. I know her age; and I know that she has her own reasons for being silent about her married life. This is something gained at the outset, and it may lead, in time, to something more.' He looked up brightly again at Mr. Brock. 'Am I in the right way now, sir? Am I doing my best to profit by the caution which you have kindly given me?'
'You are vindicating your own better sense,' answered the rector, encouraging him to trample down his own imagination, with an Englishman's ready distrust of the noblest of the human faculties. 'You are paving the way for your own happier life.'
'Am I?' said the other, thoughtfully.
He searched among the papers once more, and stopped at another of the scattered pages.
'The ship!' he exclaimed, suddenly, his color changing again, and his manner altering on the instant.
'What ship?' asked the rector.
'The ship in which the deed was done,' Midwinter answered, with the first signs of impatience that he had shown yet. 'The ship in which my father's murderous hand turned the lock of the cabin door.'
'What of it?' said Mr. Brock.
He appeared not to hear the question; his eyes remained fixed intently on the page that he was reading.
'A French vessel, employed in the timber trade,' he said, still speaking to himself—'a French vessel, named
Mr. Brock shook his head.
'I am glad you have come to that conclusion,' he said. 'But I wish you had reached it in some other way.'
Midwinter started passionately to his feet, and, seizing on the pages of the manuscript with both hands, flung them into the empty fireplace.
'For God's sake let me burn it!' he exclaimed. 'As long as there is a page left, I shall read it. And, as long as I read it, my father gets the better of me, in spite of myself!'
Mr. Brock pointed to the match-box. In another moment the confession was in flames. When the fire had consumed the last morsel of paper, Midwinter drew a deep breath of relief.
'I may say, like Macbeth: 'Why, so, being gone, I am a man again!'' he broke out with a feverish gayety. 'You look fatigued, sir; and no wonder,' he added, in a lower tone. 'I have kept you too long from your rest—I will keep you no longer. Depend on my remembering what you have told me; depend on my standing between Allan and any enemy, man or woman, who comes near him. Thank you, Mr. Brock; a thousand thousand times, thank you! I came into this room the most wretched of living men; I can leave it now as happy as the birds that are singing outside!'
As he turned to the door, the rays of the rising sun streamed through the window, and touched the heap of ashes lying black in the black fireplace. The sensitive imagination of Midwinter kindled instantly at the sight.
'Look!' he said, joyously. 'The promise of the Future shining over the ashes of the Past!'
An inexplicable pity for the man, at the moment of his life when he needed pity least, stole over the rector's heart when the door had closed, and he was left by himself again.
'Poor fellow!' he said, with an uneasy surprise at his own compassionate impulse. 'Poor fellow!'
III. DAY AND NIGHT
The morning hours had passed; the noon had come and gone; and Mr. Brock had started on the first stage of his journey home.
After parting from the rector in Douglas Harbor, the two young men had returned to Castletown, and had there separated at the hotel door, Allan walking down to the waterside to look after his yacht, and Midwinter entering the house to get the rest that he needed after a sleepless night.
He darkened his room; he closed his eyes, but no sleep came to him. On this first day of the rector's absence, his sensitive nature extravagantly exaggerated the responsibility which he now held in trust for Mr. Brock. A nervous
