Free Armadale by Wilkie Collins

I went out to fetch the child, as if I had not been a doctor at all. I am afraid you think this rather weak on my part?’
    The doctor looked appealingly at Mr Neal. He might as well have looked at a rock in the Black Forest. Mr Neal entirely declined to be drawn by any doctor in Christendom out of the regions of plain fact.
    â€˜Go on,’ he said. ‘I presume you have not told me all that you have to tell me, yet?’
    â€˜Surely you understand my object in coming here, now?’ returned the other.
    â€˜Your object is plain enough – at last. You invite me to connect myself blindfold with a matter which is in the last degree suspicious, so far. I decline giving you any answer until I know more than I know now. Did you think it necessary to inform this man’s wife of what had passed between you, and to ask her for an explanation?’
    â€˜Of course I thought it necessary!’ said the doctor, indignant at the reflection on his humanity which the question seemed to imply. ‘If ever I saw a woman fond of her husband, and sorry for her husband, it is this unhappy Mrs Armadale. As soon as we were left alone together, Isat down by her side, and I took her hand in mine. Why not? I am an ugly old man, and I may allow myself such liberties as these!’
    â€˜Excuse me,’ said the impenetrable Scotchman. ‘I beg to suggest that you are losing the thread of the narrative.’
    â€˜Nothing more likely,’ returned the doctor, recovering his good humour. ‘It is in the habit of my nation to be perpetually losing the thread – and it is evidently in the habit of yours, sir, to be perpetually finding it. What an example here of the order of the universe, and the everlasting fitness of things!’
    â€˜Will you oblige me, once for all, by confining yourself to the facts,’ persisted Mr Neal, frowning impatiently. ‘May I inquire, for my own information, whether Mrs Armadale could tell you what it is her husband wishes me to write, and why it is that he refuses to let her write for him?’
    â€˜There is my thread found – and thank you for finding it!’ said the doctor. ‘You shall hear what Mrs Armadale had to tell me, in Mrs Armadale’s own words. “The cause that now shuts me out of his confidence,” she said, “is, I firmly believe, the same cause that has always shut me out of his heart. I am the wife he has wedded; but I am not the woman he loves. I knew when he married me, that another man had won from him the woman he loved. I thought I could make him forget her. I hoped when I married him; I hoped again when I bore him a son. Need I tell you the end of my hopes – you have seen it for yourself.” (Wait, sir, I entreat you! I have not lost the thread again; I am following it inch by inch.) “Is this all you know?” I asked. “All I knew,” she said, “till a short time since. It was when we were in Switzerland, and when his illness was nearly at its worst, that news came to him by accident of that other woman who has been the shadow and the poison of my life – news that she (like me) had borne her husband a son. On the instant of his making that discovery – a trifling discovery, if ever there was one yet – a mortal fear seized on him: not for me, not for himself; a fear for his own child. The same day (without a word to me) he sent for the doctor. I was mean, wicked, what you please – I listened at the door. I heard him say:
I have something to tell my son, when my son grows old enough to understand me. Shall I live to tell it?
. The doctor would say nothing certain. The same night (still without a word to me,) he locked himself into his room. What would any woman, treated as I was, have done in my place? She would have done as I did – she would have listened again. I heard him say to himself:
I shall not live to tell it: I must write it before I die
. I heard his pen