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〃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 the back of my hand。 His master's marks I can't show
you； they are all on my back。 Can you believe in my perversity？
There was a devil in me that no dog
could worry out。 I ran away again as soon as I left my bed； and
this time I got off。 At nightfall I found myself （with a
pocketful of the school oatmeal） lost on a moor。 I lay down on
the fine soft heather； under the lee of a great gray rock。 Do you
think I felt lonely？ Not I！ I was away from the master's cane；
away from my schoolfellows' kicks； away from my mother； away from
my stepfather； and I lay down that night under my good friend the
rock； the happiest boy in all Scotland！〃
Through the wretched childhood which that one significant
circumstance disclosed； Mr。 Brock began to see dimly how little
was really strange； how little really unaccountable； in the
character of the man who was now speaking to him。
〃I slept soundly；〃 Midwinter continued； 〃under my friend the
rock。 When I woke in the morning； I found a sturdy old man with a
fiddle sitting on one side of me； and two performing dogs on the
other。 Experience had made me too sharp to tell the truth when
the man put his first questions。 He didn't press them； he gave me
a good breakfast out of his knapsack； and he let me romp with the
dogs。 'I'll tell you what；' he said； when he had got my
confidence in this manner； 'you want three things； my man： you
want a new father； a new family； and a new name。 I'll be your
father。 I'll let you have the dogs for your brothers； and； if
you'll promise to be very careful of it； I'll give you my own
name into the bargain。 Ozias Midwinter； Junior； you have had a
good breakfast； if you want a good dinner； come along with me！'
He got up； the dogs trotted after him； and I trotted after the
dogs。 Who was my new father？ you will ask。 A half…breed gypsy；
sir； a drunkard； a ruffian； and a thiefand the best friend I
ever had！ Isn't a man your friend who gives you your food； your
shelter； and your education？ Ozias Midwinter taught me to dance
the Highland fling； to throw somersaults； to walk on stilts； and
to sing songs to his fiddle。 Sometimes we roamed the country； and
performed at fairs。 Sometimes we tried the large towns； and
enlivened bad company over its cups。 I was a nice； lively little
boy of eleven years old； and bad company； the women especially；
took a fancy to me and my nimble feet。 I was vagabond enough to
like the life。 The dogs and I lived together； ate； and drank； and
slept together。 I can't think of those poor little four…footed
brothers of mine； even now； without a choking in the throat。 Many
is the beating we three took together； many is the hard day's
dancing we did together； many is the night we have slept
together； and whimpered together； on the cold hill…side。 I'm not
trying to distress you； sir； I'm only telling you the truth。 The
life with all its hardships was a life that fitted me； and the
half…breed gypsy who gave me his name； ruffian as he was； was a
ruffian I liked。〃
〃A man who beat you！〃 exclaimed Mr。 Brock； in astonishment。
〃Didn't I tell you just now； sir； that I lived with the dogs？ and
did you ever hear of a dog who liked his master the worse for
beating him？ Hundreds of thousands of miserable men； women； and
children would have liked that man （as I liked him） if he had
always given them what he always gave meplenty to eat。 It was
stolen food mostly； and my new gypsy father was generous with it。
He seldom laid the stick on us when he was sober； but it diverted
him to hear us yelp when he was drunk。 He died drunk； and enjoyed
his favorite amusement with his last breath。 One day （when I had
been two years in his service）； after giving us a good dinner out
on the moor； he sat down with his back against a stone； and
called us up to divert himself with his stick。 He made the dogs
yelp first； and then he called to me。 I didn't go very willingly；
he had been drinking harder than usual； and the more he drank the
better he liked his after…dinner amusement。 He was