



Produced by James Rusk





ARMADALE

By Wilkie Collins


               TO

               JOHN FORSTER.

In acknowledgment of the services which he has rendered to the cause of
literature by his "Life of Goldsmith;" and in affectionate remembrance
of a friendship which is associated with some of the happiest years of
my life.


Readers in general--on whose friendly reception experience has given me
some reason to rely--will, I venture to hope, appreciate whatever merit
there may be in this story without any prefatory pleading for it on my
part. They will, I think, see that it has not been hastily meditated or
idly wrought out. They will judge it accordingly, and I ask no more.

Readers in particular will, I have some reason to suppose, be here
and there disturbed, perhaps even offended, by finding that "Armadale"
oversteps, in more than one direction, the narrow limits within which
they are disposed to restrict the development of modern fiction--if they
can.

Nothing that I could say to these persons here would help me with them
as Time will help me if my work lasts. I am not afraid of my design
being permanently misunderstood, provided the execution has done it any
sort of justice. Estimated by the clap-trap morality of the present day,
this may be a very daring book. Judged by the Christian morality which
is of all time, it is only a book that is daring enough to speak the
truth.

LONDON, April, 1866.




ARMADALE.




PROLOGUE.




I. THE TRAVELERS.

It was the opening of the season of eighteen hundred and thirty-two, at
the Baths of Wildbad.

The evening shadows were beginning to gather over the quiet little
German town, and the diligence was expected every minute. Before the
door of the principal inn, waiting the arrival of the first visitors
of the year, were assembled the three notable personages of Wildbad,
accompanied by their wives--the mayor, representing the inhabitants;
the doctor, representing the waters; the landlord, representing his own
establishment. Beyond this select circle, grouped snugly about the trim
little square in front of the inn, appeared the towns-people in general,
mixed here and there with the country people, in their quaint German
costume, placidly expectant of the diligence--the men in short black
jackets, tight black breeches, and three-cornered beaver hats; the women
with their long light hair hanging in one thickly plaited tail behind
them, and the waists of their short woolen gowns inserted modestly
in the region of their shoulder-blades. Round the outer edge of the
assemblage thus formed, flying detachments of plump white-headed
children careered in perpetual motion; while, mysteriously apart from
the rest of the inhabitants, the musicians of the Baths stood collected
in one lost corner, waiting the appearance of the first visitors to play
the first tune of the season in the form of a serenade. The light of
a May evening was still bright on the tops of the great wooded hills
watching high over the town on the right hand and the left; and the
cool breeze that comes before sunset came keenly fragrant here with the
balsamic odor of the first of the Black Forest.

"Mr. Landlord," said the mayor's wife (giving the landlord his title),
"have you any foreign guests coming on this first day of the season?"

"Madame Mayoress," replied the landlord (returning the compliment), "I
have two. They have written--the one by the hand of his servant, the
other by his own hand apparently--to order their rooms; and they
are from England, both, as I think by their names. If you ask me to
pronounce those names, my tongue hesitates; if you ask me to spell them,
here they are, letter by letter, first and second in their order as
they come. First, a high-born stranger (by title Mister) who introduces
himself in eight letters, A, r, m, a, d, a, l, e--and comes ill in his
own carriage. Second, a high-born stranger (by title Mister also), who
introduces himself in four letters--N, e, a, l--and comes ill in the
diligence. His excellency of the eight letters writes to me (by his
servant) in French; his excellency of the four letters writes to me in
German. The rooms of both are ready. I know no more."

"Perhaps," suggested the mayor's wife, "Mr. Doctor has heard from one or
both of these illustrious strangers?"

"From one only, Madam Mayoress; but not, strictly speaking, from the
person himself. I have received a medical report of his excellency of
the eight letters, and his case seems a bad one. God help him!"

"The diligence!" cried a child from the outskirts