Midwinter dismissed the major’s daughter from the conversation with a contemptuous gesture of his hand.
“I don’t want to hear about Miss, Milroy,” he said. “Don’t mix up Miss Milroy—Good God, Allan, am I to understand that the spy set to watch Miss Gwilt was doing his vile work with your approval?”
“Once for all, my dear fellow, will you, or will you not, let me explain?”
“Explain!” cried Midwinter, his eyes aflame, and his hot Creole blood rushing crimson into his face. “Explain the employment of a spy? What! after having driven Miss Gwilt out of her situation by meddling with her private affairs, you meddle again by the vilest of all means—the means of a paid spy? You set a watch on the woman whom you yourself told me you loved, only a fortnight since—the woman you were thinking of as your wife! I don’t believe it; I won’t believe it. Is my head failing me? Is it Allan Armadale I am speaking to? Is it Allan Armadale’s face looking at me? Stop! you are acting under some mistaken scruple. Some low fellow has crept into your confidence, and has done this in your name without telling you first.”
Allan controlled himself with admirable patience and admirable consideration for the temper of his friend. “If you persist in refusing to hear me,” he said, “I must wait as well as I can till my turn comes.”
“Tell me you are a stranger to the employment of that man, and I will hear you willingly.”
“Suppose there should be a necessity, that you know nothing about, for employing him?”
“I acknowledge no necessity for the cowardly persecution of a helpless woman.”
A momentary flush of irritation—momentary, and no more—passed over Allan’s face. “You mightn’t think her quite so helpless,” he said, “if you knew the truth.”
“Are you the man to tell me the truth?” retorted the other. “You who have refused to hear her in her own defense! You who have closed the doors of this house against her!”