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miserable fellow…creatures？〃
Without waiting to be answered； he looked Mr。 Brock in the face
for the first time； and brought his hidden hand slowly into view。
〃Read that；〃 he said； 〃and； for Christ's sake； pity me when you
know who I am。〃
He laid a letter of many pages on the table。 It was the letter
that Mr。 Neal had posted at Wildbad nineteen years since。
CHAPTER II。
THE。 MAN REVEALED。
THE first cool breathings of the coming dawn fluttered through
the open window as Mr。 Brock read the closing lines of the
Confession。 He put it from him in silence； without looking up。
The first shock of discovery had struck his mind； and had passed
away again。 At his age； and with his habits of thought； his grasp
was not strong enough to hold the whole revelation that had
fallen on him。 All his heart。 when he closed the manuscript； was
with the memory of the woman who had been the beloved friend of
his later and happier life； all his thoughts were busy with the
miserable secret of her treason to her own father which the
letter had disclosed。
He was startled out of the narrow limits of his own little grief
by the vibration of the table at which he sat； under a hand that
was laid on it heavily。 The instinct of reluctance was strong in
him； but he conquered it； and looked up。 There； silently
confronting him in the mixed light of the yellow candle flame and
the faint gray dawn； stood the castaway of the village innthe
inheritor of the fatal Armadale name。
Mr。 Brock shuddered as the terror of the present time and the
darker terror yet of the future that might be coming rushed back
on him at the sight of the man's face。 The man saw it； and spoke
first。
〃Is my father's crime looking at you out of my eyes？〃 he asked。
〃Has the ghost of the drowned man followed me into the room？〃
The suffering and the passion that he was forcing back shook the
hand that he still kept on the table； and stifled the voice in
which he spoke until it sank to a whisper。
〃I have no wish to treat you otherwise than justly and kindly；〃
answered Mr。 Brock。 〃Do me justice on my side； and believe that I
am incapable of cruelly holding you responsible for your father's
crime。〃
The reply seemed to compose him。 He bowed his head in silence；
and took up the confession from the table。
〃Have you read this through？〃 he asked； quietly。
〃Every word of it； from first to last。〃
〃Have I dealt openly with you so far。 Has Ozias Midwinter〃
〃Do you still call yourself by that name；〃 interrupted Mr。 Brock；
〃now your true name is known to me？〃
〃Since I have read my father's confession；〃 was the answer； 〃I
like my ugly alias better than ever。 Allow me to repeat the
question which I was about to put to you a minute since： Has
Ozias Midwinter done his best thus far to enlighten Mr。 Brock？〃
The rector evaded a direct reply。 〃Few men in your position；〃 he
said； 〃would have had the courage to show me that letter。〃
〃Don't be too sure； sir； of the vagabond you picked up at the inn
till you know a little more of him than you know now。 You have
got the secret of my birth； but you are not in possession yet of
the story of my life。 You ought to know it； and you shall know
it； before you leave me alone with Mr。 Armadale。 Will you wait；
and rest a little while； or shall I tell it you now？〃
〃Now；〃 said Mr。 Brock； still as far away as ever from knowing the
real character of the man before him。
Everything Ozias Midwinter said； everything Ozias Midwinter did；
was against him。 He had spoken with a sardonic indifference；
almost with an insolence of tone； which would have repelled the
sympathies of any man who heard him。 And now； instead of placing
himself at the table； and addressing his story directly to the
rector； he withdrew silently and ungraciously to the window…seat。
There he sat； his face averted； his hands mechanically turning
the leaves of his father's letter till he came to the last。 With
his eyes fixed on the closing lines of the manuscript； and with a
strange mixture of recklessness and sadness in his voice； he
began his promised narrative in these words：
〃The first thing you know of me；〃 he said； 〃is what my father's
confession has told you already。 He mentions here that I was a
child； asleep on his breast； when he spoke his last words in this
world； and when a stranger's hand wrote them down for him at his
deathbed。 That stranger's name； as you may have noticed； is
signed on the cover'Alexander Neal； Writer to the Signet；
Edinburgh。' The first recollection I have is of Alexander Neal
beating me with a horsewhip （I dare say I deserved it）； in the
character of my stepfather。〃
〃Have you no recollection of your mother at the same time？〃 asked
Mr。 Brock。
〃Yes； I remember her having shabby old clothes made up to fit me；
and having fine new frocks bought for her two children by her
second husband。 I remember the servants laughing at me in my old
things； and the horsewhip finding its way to my shoulders again
for losing my temper and tearing my shabby clothes。 My next
recollection gets on to a year or two later。 I remember myself
locked up in a lumber…room； with a bit of bread and a mug of
water； wondering what it was that made my mother and my
stepfather seem to hate the very sight of me。 I never settled
that question till yesterday； and then I solved the mystery； when
my father's letter was put into my hands。 My mother knew what had
really happened on board the French timber…ship； and my
stepfather knew what had really happened； and they were both well
aware that the shameful secret which they would fain have kept
from every living creature was a secret which would be one day
revealed to _me。_ There was no help for itthe confession was in
the executor's hands； and there was I； an ill…conditioned brat；
with my mother's negro blood in my face； and my murdering
father's passions in my heart； inheritor of their secret in spite
of them！ I don't wonder at the horsewhip now； or the shabby old
clothes； or the bread and water in the lumber…room。 Natural
penalties all of them； sir； which the child was beginning to pay
already for the father's sin。〃
Mr。 Brock looked at the swarthy； secret face； still obstinately
turned away from him。 〃Is this the stark insensibility of a
vagabond；〃 he asked himself； 〃or the despair； in disguise； of a
miserable man？〃
〃School is my next recollection；〃 the other went on〃a cheap
place in a lost corner of Scotland。 I was left there； with a bad
character to help me at starting。 I spare you the story of the
master's cane in the schoolroom； and the boys' kicks in the
playground。 I dare say there was ingrained ingratitude in my
nature； at any rate； I ran away。 The first person who met me
asked my name。 I was too young and too foolish to know the
importance of concealing it； and； as a matter of course； I was
taken back to school the same evening。 The result taught me a
lesson which I have not forgotten since。 In a day or two more；
like the vagabond I was； I ran away for the second time。 The
school watch…dog had had his instructions； I suppose： he stopped
me before I got outside the gate。 Here is his mark； among the
rest； on th