“Diana Street, 10 o’clock.
“MY DEAR LYDIA--You have written me a heartless letter. If you had been
in my trying position, harassed as I was when I wrote to you, I should
have made allowances for my friend when I found my friend not so sharp
as usual. But the vice of the present age is a want of consideration
for persons in the decline of life. Morally speaking, you are in a sad
state, my dear; and you stand much in need of a good example. You shall
have a good example--I forgive you.
“Having now relieved my mind by the performance of a good action,
suppose I show you next (though I protest against the vulgarity of the
expression) that I _can_ see a little further than my poor old nose?
“I will answer your question about the house-maid first. You may trust
her implicitly. She has had her troubles, and has learned discretion.
She also looks your age; though it is only her due to say that, in
this particular, she has some years the advantage of you. I inclose the
necessary directions which will place her entirely at your disposal.
“And what comes next?
“Your plan for joining me at Bayswater comes next. It is very well
as far as it goes; but it stands sadly in need of a little judicious
improvement. There is a serious necessity (you shall know why presently)
for deceiving the parson far more completely than you propose to deceive
him. I want him to see the house-maid’s face under circumstances
which will persuade him that it is _your_ face. And then, going a
step further, I want him to see the house-maid leave London, under
the impression that he has seen _you_ start on the first stage of
your journey to the Brazils. He didn’t believe in that journey when I
announced it to him this afternoon in the street. He may believe in it
yet, if you follow the directions I am now going to give you.
“To-morrow is Saturday. Send the housemaid out in your walking dress of
to-day, just as you propose; but don’t stir out yourself, and don’t go
near the window. Desire the woman to keep her veil down, to take half an
hour’s walk (quite unconscious, of course, of the parson or his servant
at her heels), and then to come back to you. As soon as she appears,
send her instantly to the open window, instructing her to lift her veil
carelessly and look out. Let her go away again after a minute or two,
take off her bonnet and shawl, and then appear once more at the window,
or, better still, in the balcony outside. She may show herself again
occasionally (not too often) later in the day. And to-morrow--as we have
a professional gentleman to deal with--by all means send her to church.
If these proceedings don’t persuade the parson that the house-maid’s
face is your face, and if they don’t make him readier to believe in your
reformed character than he was when I spoke to him, I have lived sixty
years, my love, in this vale of tears to mighty little purpose.
“The next day is Monday. I have looked at the shipping advertisements,
and I find that a steamer leaves Liverpool for the Brazils on Tuesday.
Nothing could be more convenient; we will start you on your voyage under
the parson’s own eyes. You may manage it in this way:
“At one o’clock send out the man who cleans the knives and forks to get
a cab; and when he has brought it up to the door, let him go back and
get a second cab, which he is to wait in himself, round the corner, in
the square. Let the house-maid (still in your dress) drive off, with the
necessary boxes, in the first cab to the North-western Railway. When she
is gone, slip out yourself to the cab waiting round the corner, and come
to me at Bayswater. They may be prepared to follow the house-maid’s cab,
because they have seen it at the door; but they won’t be prepared to
follow your cab, because it has been hidden round the corner. When the
house-maid has got to the station, and has done her best to disappear
in the crowd (I have chosen the mixed train at 2:10, so as to give her
every chance), you will be safe with me; and whether they do or do not
find out that she does not really start for Liverpool won’t matter by
that time. They will have lost all trace of you; and they may follow
the house-maid half over London, if they like. She has my instructions
(inclosed) to leave the empty boxes to find their way to the lost
luggage office and to go to her friends in the City, and stay there till
I write word that I want her again.
“And what is the object of all this?
“My dear Lydia, the object is your future security (and mine). We may
succeed or we may fail, in persuading the parson that you have actually
gone to the Brazils. If we succeed, we are relieved of all fear of him.
If we fail, he will warn young Armadale to be careful _of a woman like
my house-maid, and not of a woman like you_. This last gain is a very
important one; for we don’t know that Mrs. Armadale may not have told
him your maiden name. In that event, the ‘Miss Gwilt’ whom he will
describe as having slipped through his fingers here will be so entirely
unlike the ‘Miss Gwilt’ established at Thorpe Ambrose, as to satisfy
everybody that it is not a case of similarity of persons, but only a
case of similarity of names.
“What do you say now to my improvement on your idea? Are my brains not
quite so addled as you thought them when you wrote? Don’t suppose I’m at
all overboastful about my own ingenuity. Cleverer tricks than this trick
of mine are played off on the public by swindlers, and are recorded in
the newspapers every week. I only want to show you that my assistance is
not less necessary to the success of the Armadale speculation now than
it was when I made our first important discoveries, by means of the
harmless-looking young man and the private inquiry office in Shadyside
Place.
“There is nothing more to say that I know of, except that I am just
going to start for the new lodging, with a box directed in my new name.
The last expiring moments of Mother Oldershaw, of the Toilet Repository,
are close at hand, and the birth of Miss Gwilt’s respectable reference,
Mrs. Mandeville, will take place in a cab in five minutes’ time. I fancy
I must be still young at heart, for I am quite in love already with my
romantic name; it sounds almost as pretty as Mrs. Armadale of Thorpe
Ambrose, doesn’t it?
“Good-night, my dear, and pleasant dreams. If any accident happens
between this and Monday, write to me instantly by post. If no accident
happens you will be with me in excellent time for the earliest inquiries
that the major can possibly make. My last words are, don’t go out, and
don’t venture near the front windows till Monday comes.
“Affectionately yours,
“M. O.”