Allan Armadale in this house. When I did get back,
and when he met me at night on the stairs, I thought I was looking him
in the face as _my_ father looked _his_ father in the face when the
cabin door closed between them. Draw your own conclusions, sir. Say, if
you like, that the inheritance of my father's heathen belief in fate is
one of the inheritances he has left to me. I won't dispute it; I
won't deny that all through yesterday _his_ superstition was _my_
superstition. The night came before I could find my way to calmer and
brighter thoughts. But I did find my way. You may set it down in my
favor that I lifted myself at last above the influence of this horrible
letter. Do you know what helped me?"

"Did you reason with yourself?"

"I can't reason about what I feel."

"Did you quiet your mind by prayer?"

"I was not fit to pray."

"And yet something guided you to the better feeling and the truer view?"

"Something did."

"What was it?"

"My love for Allan Armadale."

He cast a doubting, almost a timid look at Mr. Brock as he gave that
answer, and, suddenly leaving the table, went back to the window-seat.

"Have I no right to speak of him in that way?" he asked, keeping his
face hidden from the rector. "Have I not known him long enough; have I
not done enough for him yet? Remember what my experience of other men
had been when I first saw his hand held out to me--when I first heard
his voice speaking to me in my sick-room. What had I known of strangers'
hands all through my childhood? I had only known them as hands raised to
threaten and to strike me. His hand put my pillow straight, and patted
me on the shoulder, and gave me my food and drink. What had I known of
other men's voices, when I was growing up to be a man myself? I had
only known them as voices that jeered, voices that cursed, voices that
whispered in corners with a vile distrust. _His_ voice said to me,
'Cheer up, Midwinter! we'll soon bring you round again. You'll be strong
enough in a week to go out for a drive with me in our Somersetshire
lanes.' Think of the gypsy's stick; think of the devils laughing at me
when I went by their windows with my little dead dog in my arms; think
of the master who cheated me of my month's salary on his deathbed--and
ask your own heart if the miserable wretch whom Allan Armadale has
treated as his equal and his friend has said too much in saying that
he loves him? I do love him! It _will_ come out of me; I can