Two messages were waiting for Allan when he returned to the house. One
had been left by Midwinter. “He had gone out for a long walk, and Mr.
Armadale was not to be alarmed if he did not get back till late in the
day.” The other message had been left by “a person from Mr. Pedgift’s
office,” who had called, according to appointment, while the two
gentlemen were away at the major’s. “Mr. Bashwood’s respects, and he
would have the honor of waiting on Mr. Armadale again in the course of
the evening.”
Toward five o’clock, Midwinter returned, pale and silent. Allan hastened
to assure him that his peace was made at the cottage; and then, to
change the subject, mentioned Mr. Bashwood’s message. Midwinter’s mind
was so preoccupied or so languid that he hardly seemed to remember the
name. Allan was obliged to remind him that Bashwood was the elderly
clerk, whom Mr. Pedgift had sent to be his instructor in the duties
of the steward’s office. He listened without making any remark, and
withdrew to his room, to rest till dinner-time.
Left by himself, Allan went into the library, to try if he could while
away the time over a book.
He took many volumes off the shelves, and put a few of them back again;
and there he ended. Miss Milroy contrived in some mysterious manner to
get, in this case, between the reader and the books. Her formal bow and
her merciless parting speech dwelt, try how he might to forget them, on
Allan’s mind; he began to grow more and more anxious as the idle hour
wore on, to recover his lost place in her favor. To call again that day
at the cottage, and ask if he had been so unfortunate as to offend her,
was impossible. To put the question in writing with the needful nicety
of expression proved, on trying the experiment, to be a task beyond his
literary reach. After a turn or two up and down the room, with his pen
in his mouth, he decided on the more diplomatic course (which happened,
in this case, to be the easiest course, too), of writing to Miss Milroy
as cordially as if nothing had happened, and of testing his position in
her good graces by the answer that she sent him back. An invitation of
some kind (including her father, of course, but addressed directly to
herself) was plainly the right thing to oblige her to send a written
reply; but here the difficulty occurred of what the invitation was to
be. A ball was not to be thought of, in his present position with the
resident gentry. A dinner-party, with no indispensable elderly lady on
the premises to receive Miss Milroy--except Mrs. Gripper, who could only
receive her in the kitchen--was equally out of the question. What was
the invitation to be? Never backward, when he wanted help, in asking for
it right and left in every available direction, Allan, feeling himself
at the end of his own resources, coolly rang the bell, and astonished
the servant who answered it by inquiring how the late family at Thorpe
Ambrose used to amuse themselves, and what sort of invitations they were
in the habit of sending to their friends.
“The family did what the rest of the gentry did, sir,” said the man,
staring at his master in utter bewilderment. “They gave dinner-parties
and balls. And in fine summer weather, sir, like this, they sometimes
had lawn-parties and picnics--”
“That’ll do!” shouted Allan. “A picnic’s just the thing to please her.
Richard, you’re an invaluable man; you may go downstairs again.”
Richard retired wondering, and Richard’s master seized his ready pen.
“DEAR MISS MILROY--Since I left you it has suddenly struck me that we
might have a picnic. A little change and amusement (what I should call a
good shaking-up, if I wasn’t writing to a young lady) is just the thing
for you, after being so long indoors lately in Mrs. Milroy’s room. A
picnic is a change, and (when the wine is good) amusement, too. Will
you ask the major if he will consent to the picnic, and come? And if
you have got any friends in the neighborhood who like a picnic, pray
ask them too, for I have got none. It shall be your picnic, but I will
provide everything and take everybody. You shall choose the day, and we
will picnic where you like. I have set my heart on this picnic.
“Believe me, ever yours,
“ALLAN ARMADALE.”
On reading over his composition before sealing it up, Allan frankly
acknowledged to himself, this time, that it was not quite faultless.
“‘Picnic’ comes in a little too often,” he said. “Never mind; if she
likes the idea, she won’t quarrel with that.” He sent off the letter on
the spot, with strict instructions to the messenger to wait for a reply.
In half an hour the answer came back on scented paper, without an
erasure anywhere, fragrant to smell, and beautiful to see.
The presentation of the naked truth is one of those exhibitions from
which the native delicacy of the female mind seems instinctively to
revolt. Never were the tables turned more completely than they were now
turned on Allan by his fair correspondent. Machiavelli himself would
never have suspected, from Miss Milroy’s letter, how heartily she had
repented her petulance to the young squire as soon as his back was
turned, and how extravagantly delighted she was when his invitation was
placed in her hands. Her letter was the composition of a model young
lady whose emotions are all kept under parental lock and key, and served
out for her judiciously as occasion may require. “Papa,” appeared quite
as frequently in Miss Milroy’s reply as “picnic” had appeared in Allan’s
invitation. “Papa” had been as considerately kind as Mr. Armadale in
wishing to procure her a little change and amusement, and had offered
to forego his usual quiet habits and join the picnic. With “papa’s”
sanction, therefore, she accepted, with much pleasure, Mr. Armadale’s
proposal; and, at “papa’s” suggestion, she would presume on Mr.
Armadale’s kindness to add two friends of theirs recently settled at
Thorpe Ambrose, to the picnic party--a widow lady and her son; the
latter in holy orders and in delicate health. If Tuesday next would suit
Mr. Armadale, Tuesday next would suit “papa”--being the first day he
could spare from repairs which were required by his clock. The rest,
by “papa’s” advice, she would beg to leave entirely in Mr. Armadale’s
hands; and, in the meantime, she would remain, with “papa’s”
compliments, Mr. Armadale’s truly--ELEANOR MILROY.
Who would ever have supposed that the writer of that letter had jumped
for joy when Allan’s invitation arrived? Who would ever have suspected
that there was an entry already in Miss Milroy’s diary, under that day’s
date, to this effect: “The sweetest, dearest letter from _I-know-who_;
I’ll never behave unkindly to him again as long as I live?” As for
Allan, he was charmed with the sweet success of his maneuver. Miss
Milroy had accepted his invitation; consequently, Miss Milroy was
not offended with him. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the
correspondence to his friend when they met at dinner. But there was
something in Midwinter’s face and manner (even plain enough for Allan to
see) which warned him to wait a little before he said anything to revive
the painful subject of their visit to the cottage. By common consent
they both avoided all topics connected with Thorpe Ambrose, not even
the visit from Mr. Bashwood, which was to come with the evening, being
referred to by either of them. All through the dinner they drifted
further and further back into the old endless talk of past times about
ships and sailing. When the butler withdrew from his attendance at
table, he came downstairs with a nautical problem on his mind, and asked
his fellow-servants if they any of them knew the relative merits “on a
wind” and “off a wind” of a schooner and a brig.
The two young men had sat longer at table than usual that day. When they
went out into the garden with their cigars, the summer twilight fell
gray and dim on lawn and flower bed, and narrowed round them by slow
degrees the softly fading circle of the distant view. The dew was heavy,
and, after a few minutes in the garden, they agreed to go back to the
drier ground on the drive in front of the house.
They were close to the turning which led into the shrubbery, when there
suddenly glided out on them, from behind the foliage, a softly stepping
black figure--a shadow, moving darkly through the dim evening light.
Midwinter started back at the sight of it, and even the less finely
strung nerves of his friend were shaken for the moment.
“Who the devil are you?” cried Allan.
The figure bared its head in the gray light, and came slowly a step
nearer. Midwinter advanced a step on his side, and looked closer. It was
the man of the timid manners and the mourning garments, of whom he had
asked the way to Thorpe Ambrose where the three roads met.
“Who are you?” repeated Allan.
“I humbly beg your pardon, sir,” faltered the stranger, stepping back
again, confusedly. “The servants told me I should find Mr. Armadale--”
“What, are you Mr. Bashwood?”
“Yes, if you please, sir.”
“I beg your pardon for speaking to you so roughly,” said Allan; “but the
fact is, you rather startled me. My name is Armadale (put on your hat,
pray), and this is my friend, Mr. Midwinter, who wants your help in the
steward’s office.”
“We hardly stand in need of an introduction,” said Midwinter. “I met Mr.
Bashwood out walking a few days since, and he was kind enough to direct
me when I had lost my way.”
“Put on your hat,” reiterated Allan, as Mr. Bashwood, still bareheaded,
stood bowing speechlessly, now to one of the young men, and now to the
other. “My good sir, put on your hat, and let me show you the way back
to the house. Excuse me for noticing it,” added Allan, as the man, in
sheer nervous helplessness, let his hat fall, instead of putting it back
on his head; “but you seem a little out of sorts; a glass of good
wine will do you no harm before you and my friend come to business.
Whereabouts did you meet with Mr. Bashwood, Midwinter, when you lost
your way?”
“I am too ignorant of the neighborhood to know. I must refer you to Mr.
Bashwood.”
“Come, tell us where it was,” said Allan, trying, a little too abruptly,
to set the man at his ease, as they all three walked back to the house.
The measure of Mr. Bashwood’s constitutional timidity seemed to be
filled to the brim by the loudness of Allan’s voice and the bluntness of
Allan’s request. He ran over in the same feeble flow of words with which
he had deluged Midwinter on the occasion when they first met.
“It was on the road, sir,” he began, addressing himself alternately to
Allan, whom he called, “sir,” and to Midwinter, whom he called by
his name, “I mean, if you please, on the road to Little Gill Beck. A
singular name, Mr. Midwinter, and a singular place; I don’t mean
the village; I mean the neighborhood--I mean the ‘Broads’ beyond the
neighborhood. Perhaps you may have heard of the Norfolk Broads, sir?
What they call lakes in other parts of England, they call Broads here.
The Broads are quite numerous; I think they would repay a visit. You
would have seen the first of them, Mr. Midwinter, if you had walked on
a few miles from where I had the honor of meeting you. Remarkably
numerous, the Broads, sir--situated between this and the sea. About
three miles from the sea, Mr. Midwinter--about three miles. Mostly
shallow, sir, with rivers running between them. Beautiful; solitary.
Quite a watery country, Mr. Midwinter; quite separate, as it were, in
itself. Parties sometimes visit them, sir--pleasure parties in boats.
It’s quite a little network of lakes, or, perhaps--yes, perhaps, more
correctly, pools. There is good sport in the cold weather. The wild fowl
are quite numerous. Yes; the Broads would repay a visit, Mr. Midwinter.
The next time you are walking that way. The distance from here to Little
Gill Beck, and then from Little Gill Beck to Girdler Broad, which is the
first you come to, is altogether not more--” In sheer nervous inability
to leave off, he would apparently have gone on talking of the Norfolk
Broads for the rest of the evening, if one of his two listeners had not
unceremoniously cut him short before he could find his way into a new
sentence.
“Are the Broads within an easy day’s drive there and back from this
house?” asked Allan, feeling, if they were, that the place for the
picnic was discovered already.
“Oh, yes, sir; a nice drive--quite a nice easy drive from this beautiful
place!”
They were by this time ascending the portico steps, Allan leading the
way up, and calling to Midwinter and Mr. Bashwood to follow him into the
library, where there was a lighted lamp.
In the interval which elapsed before the wine made its appearance,
Midwinter looked at his chance acquaintance of the high-road with
strangely mingled feelings of compassion and distrust--of compassion
that strengthened in spite of him; of distrust that persisted in
diminishing, try as he might to encourage it to grow. There, perched
comfortless on the edge of his chair, sat the poor broken-down, nervous
wretch, in his worn black garments, with his watery eyes, his honest old
outspoken wig, his miserable mohair stock, and his false teeth that were
incapable of deceiving anybody--there he sat, politely ill at ease;
now shrinking in the glare of the lamp, now wincing under the shock
of Allan’s sturdy voice; a man with the wrinkles of sixty years in his
face, and the manners of a child in the presence of strangers; an object
of pity surely, if ever there was a pitiable object yet!
“Whatever else you’re afraid of, Mr. Bashwood,” cried Allan, pouring out
a glass of wine, “don’t be afraid of that! There isn’t a headache in
a hogshead of it! Make yourself comfortable; I’ll leave you and Mr.
Midwinter to talk your business over by yourselves. It’s all in Mr.
Midwinter’s hands; he acts for me, and settles everything at his own
discretion.”
He said those words with a cautious choice of expression very
uncharacteristic of him, and, without further explanation, made abruptly
for the door. Midwinter, sitting near it, noticed his face as he went
out. Easy as the way was into Allan’s favor, Mr. Bashwood, beyond all
kind of doubt, had in some unaccountable manner failed to find it!
The two strangely assorted companions were left together--parted widely,
as it seemed on the surface, from any possible interchange of sympathy;
drawn invisibly one to the other, nevertheless, by those magnetic
similarities of temperament which overleap all difference of age or
station, and defy all apparent incongruities of mind and character. From
the moment when Allan left the room, the hidden Influence that works
in darkness began slowly to draw the two men together, across the great
social desert which had lain between them up to this day.
Midwinter was the first to approach the subject of the interview.
“May I ask,” he began, “if you have been made acquainted with
my position here, and if you know why it is that I require your
assistance?”
Mr. Bashwood--still hesitating and still timid, but manifestly relieved
by Allan’s departure--sat further back in his chair, and ventured on
fortifying himself with a modest little sip of wine.
“Yes, sir,” he replied; “Mr. Pedgift informed me of all--at least I
think I may say so--of all the circumstances. I am to instruct, or
perhaps, I ought to say to advise--”
“No, Mr. Bashwood; the first word was the best word of the two. I am
quite ignorant of the duties which Mr. Armadale’s kindness has induced
him to intrust to me. If I understand right, there can be no question of
your capacity to instruct me, for you once filled a steward’s situation
yourself. May I inquire where it was?”
“At Sir John Mellowship’s, sir, in West Norfolk. Perhaps you would
like--I have got it with me--to see my testimonial? Sir John might have
dealt more kindly with me; but I have no complaint to make; it’s all
done and over now!” His watery eyes looked more watery still, and the
trembling in his hands spread to his lips as he produced an old dingy
letter from his pocket-book and laid it open on the table.
The testimonial was very briefly and very coldly expressed, but it was
conclusive as far as it went. Sir John considered it only right to say
that he had no complaint to make of any want of capacity or integrity
in his steward. If Mr. Bashwood’s domestic position had been compatible
with the continued performance of his duties on the estate, Sir John
would have been glad to keep him. As it was, embarrassments caused by
the state of Mr. Bashwood’s personal affairs had rendered it undesirable
that he should continue in Sir John’s service; and on that ground, and
that only, his employer and he had parted. Such was Sir John’s testimony
to Mr. Bashwood’s character. As Midwinter read the last lines, he
thought of another testimonial, still in his own possession--of the
written character which they had given him at the school, when
they turned their sick usher adrift in the world. His superstition
(distrusting all new events and all new faces at Thorpe Ambrose) still
doubted the man before him as obstinately as ever. But when he now tried
to put those doubts into words, his heart upbraided him, and he laid the
letter on the table in silence.
The sudden pause in the conversation appeared to startle Mr. Bashwood.
He comforted himself with another little sip of wine, and, leaving the
letter untouched, burst irrepressibly into words, as if the silence was
quite unendurable to him.
“I am ready to answer any question, sir,” he began. “Mr. Pedgift told
me that I must answer questions, because I was applying for a place of
trust. Mr. Pedgift said neither you nor Mr. Armadale was likely to think
the testimonial sufficient of itself. Sir John doesn’t say--he might
have put it more kindly, but I don’t complain--Sir John doesn’t say
what the troubles were that lost me my place. Perhaps you might wish to
know--” He stopped confusedly, looked at the testimonial, and said no
more.
“If no interests but mine were concerned in the matter,” rejoined
Midwinter, “the testimonial would, I assure you, be quite enough to
satisfy me. But while I am learning my new duties, the person who
teaches me will be really and truly the steward of my friend’s estate. I
am very unwilling to ask you to speak on what may be a painful subject,
and I am sadly inexperienced in putting such questions as I ought
to put; but, perhaps, in Mr. Armadale’s interests, I ought to know
something more, either from yourself, or from Mr. Pedgift, if you prefer
it--” He, too, stopped confusedly, looked at the testimonial, and said
no more.
There was another moment of silence. The night was warm, and Mr.
Bashwood, among his other misfortunes, had the deplorable infirmity of
perspiring in the palms of the hands. He took out a miserable little
cotton pocket-handkerchief, rolled it up into a ball, and softly dabbed
it to and fro, from one hand to the other, with the regularity of a
pendulum. Performed by other men, under other circumstances, the action
might have been ridiculous. Performed by this man, at the crisis of the
interview, the action was horrible.
“Mr. Pedgift’s time is too valuable, sir, to be wasted on me,” he said.
“I will mention what ought to be mentioned myself--if you will please to
allow me. I have been unfortunate in my family. It is very hard to bear,
though it seems not much to tell. My wife--” One of his hands closed
fast on the pocket-handkerchief; he moistened his dry lips, struggled
with himself, and went on.
“My wife, sir,” he resumed, “stood a little in my way; she did me (I am
afraid I must confess) some injury with Sir John. Soon after I got the
steward’s situation, she contracted--she took--she fell into habits (I
hardly know how to say it) of drinking. I couldn’t break her of it, and
I couldn’t always conceal it from Sir John’s knowledge. She broke out,
and--and tried his patience once or twice, when he came to my office on
business. Sir John excused it, not very kindly; but still he excused
it. I don’t complain of Sir John! I don’t complain now of my wife.” He
pointed a trembling finger at his miserable crape-covered beaver hat on
the floor. “I’m in mourning for her,” he said, faintly. “She died nearly
a year ago, in the county asylum here.”
His mouth began to work convulsively. He took up the glass of wine
at his side, and, instead of sipping it this time, drained it to
the bottom. “I’m not much used to wine, sir,” he said, conscious,
apparently, of the flush that flew into his face as he drank, and still
observant of the obligations of politeness amid all the misery of the
recollections that he was calling up.
“I beg, Mr. Bashwood, you will not distress yourself by telling me any
more,” said Midwinter, recoiling from any further sanction on his part
of a disclosure which had already bared the sorrows of the unhappy man
before him to the quick.
“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” replied Mr. Bashwood. “But if I don’t
detain you too long, and if you will please to remember that Mr.
Pedgift’s directions to me were very particular--and, besides, I only
mentioned my late wife because if she hadn’t tried Sir John’s patience
to begin with, things might have turned out differently--” He paused,
gave up the disjointed sentence in which he had involved himself, and
tried another. “I had only two children, sir,” he went on, advancing to
a new point in his narrative, “a boy and a girl. The girl died when she
was a baby. My son lived to grow up; and it was my son who lost me my
place. I did my best for him; I got him into a respectable office in
London. They wouldn’t take him without security. I’m afraid it was
imprudent; but I had no rich friends to help me, and I became security.
My boy turned out badly, sir. He--perhaps you will kindly understand
what I mean, if I say he behaved dishonestly. His employers consented,
at my entreaty, to let him off without prosecuting. I begged very
hard--I was fond of my son James--and I took him home, and did my best
to reform him. He wouldn’t stay with me; he went away again to London;
he--I beg your pardon, sir! I’m afraid I’m confusing things; I’m afraid
I’m wandering from the point.”
“No, no,” said Midwinter, kindly. “If you think it right to tell me this
sad story, tell it in your own way. Have you seen your son since he left
you to go to London?”
“No, sir. He’s in London still, for all I know. When I last heard of
him, he was getting his bread--not very creditably. He was employed,
under the inspector, at the Private Inquiry Office in Shadyside Place.”
He spoke those words--apparently (as events then stood) the most
irrelevant to the matter in hand that had yet escaped him; actually (as
events were soon to be) the most vitally important that he had uttered
yet--he spoke those words absently, looking about him in confusion, and
trying vainly to recover the lost thread of his narrative.
Midwinter compassionately helped him. “You were telling me,” he said,
“that your son had been the cause of your losing your place. How did
that happen?”
“In this way, sir,” said Mr. Bashwood, getting back again excitedly into
the right train of thought. “His employers consented to let him off; but
they came down on his security; and I was the man. I suppose they were
not to blame; the security covered their loss. I couldn’t pay it all out
of my savings; I had to borrow--on the word of a man, sir, I couldn’t
help it--I had to borrow. My creditor pressed me; it seemed cruel, but,
if he wanted the money, I suppose it was only just. I was sold out of
house and home. I dare say other gentlemen would have said what Sir John
said; I dare say most people would have refused to keep a steward
who had had the bailiffs after him, and his furniture sold in the
neighborhood. That was how it ended, Mr. Midwinter. I needn’t detain you
any longer--here is Sir John’s address, if you wish to apply to him.”
Midwinter generously refused to receive the address.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Mr. Bashwood, getting tremulously on his
legs. “There is nothing more, I think, except--except that Mr. Pedgift
will speak for me, if you wish to inquire into my conduct in his
service. I’m very much indebted to Mr. Pedgift; he’s a little rough
with me sometimes, but, if he hadn’t taken me into his office, I think I
should have gone to the workhouse when I left Sir John, I was so broken
down.” He picked up his dingy old hat from the floor. “I won’t intrude
any longer, sir. I shall be happy to call again if you wish to have time
to consider before you decide-”
“I want no time to consider after what you have told me,” replied
Midwinter, warmly, his memory busy, while he spoke, with the time when
_he_ had told _his_ story to Mr. Brock, and was waiting for a generous
word in return, as the man before him was waiting now. “To-day is
Saturday,” he went on. “Can you come and give me my first lesson
on Monday morning? I beg your pardon,” he added, interrupting Mr.
Bashwood’s profuse expressions of acknowledgment, and stopping him on
his way out of the room; “there is one thing we ought to settle, ought
we not? We haven’t spoken yet about your own interest in this matter;
I mean, about the terms.” He referred, a little confusedly, to the
pecuniary part of the subject. Mr. Bashwood (getting nearer and nearer
to the door) answered him more confusedly still.
“Anything, sir--anything you think right. I won’t intrude any longer;
I’ll leave it to you and Mr. Armadale.”
“I will send for Mr. Armadale, if you like,” said Midwinter, following
him into the hall. “But I am afraid he has as little experience in
matters of this kind as I have. Perhaps, if you see no objection, we
might be guided by Mr. Pedgift?”
Mr. Bashwood caught eagerly at the last suggestion, pushing his retreat,
while he spoke, as far as the front door. “Yes, sir--oh, yes, yes!
nobody better than Mr. Pedgift. Don’t--pray don’t disturb Mr. Armadale!”
His watery eyes looked quite wild with nervous alarm as he turned round
for a moment in the light of the hall lamp to make that polite request.
If sending for Allan had been equivalent to unchaining a ferocious
watch-dog, Mr. Bashwood could hardly have been more anxious to stop the
proceeding. “I wish you kindly good-evening, sir,” he went on, getting
out to the steps. “I’m much obliged to you. I will be scrupulously
punctual on Monday morning--I hope--I think--I’m sure you will soon
learn everything I can teach you. It’s not difficult--oh dear, no--not
difficult at all! I wish you kindly good-evening, sir. A beautiful
night; yes, indeed, a beautiful night for a walk home.”
With those words, all dropping out of his lips one on the top of the
other, and without noticing, in his agony of embarrassment at effecting
his departure, Midwinter’s outstretched hand, he went noiselessly down
the steps, and was lost in the darkness of the night.
As Midwinter turned to re-enter the house, the dining-room door opened
and his friend met him in the hall.
“Has Mr. Bashwood gone?” asked Allan.
“He has gone,” replied Midwinter, “after telling me a very sad story,
and leaving me a little ashamed of myself for having doubted him without
any just cause. I have arranged that he is to give me my first lesson in
the steward’s office on Monday morning.”
“All right,” said Allan. “You needn’t be afraid, old boy, of my
interrupting you over your studies. I dare say I’m wrong--but I don’t
like Mr. Bashwood.”
“I dare say _I’m_ wrong,” retorted the other, a little petulantly. “I
do.”
The Sunday morning found Midwinter in the park, waiting to intercept the
postman, on the chance of his bringing more news from Mr. Brock.
At the customary hour the man made his appearance, and placed the
expected letter in Midwinter’s hands. He opened it, far away from all
fear of observation this time, and read these lines:
“MY DEAR MIDWINTER--I write more for the purpose of quieting your
anxiety than because I have anything definite to say. In my last hurried
letter I had no time to tell you that the elder of the two women whom
I met in the Gardens had followed me, and spoken to me in the street.
I believe I may characterize what she said (without doing her any
injustice) as a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end. At any rate,
she confirmed me in the suspicion that some underhand proceeding is on
foot, of which Allan is destined to be the victim, and that the prime
mover in the conspiracy is the vile woman who helped his mother’s
marriage and who hastened his mother’s death.
“Feeling this conviction, I have not hesitated to do, for Allan’s sake,
what I would have done for no other creature in the world. I have left
my hotel, and have installed myself (with my old servant Robert) in
a house opposite the house to which I traced the two women. We are
alternately on the watch (quite unsuspected, I am certain, by the
people opposite) day and night. All my feelings, as a gentleman and a
clergyman, revolt from such an occupation as I am now engaged in; but
there is no other choice. I must either do this violence to my own
self-respect, or I must leave Allan, with his easy nature, and in his
assailable position, to defend himself against a wretch who is prepared,
I firmly believe, to take the most unscrupulous advantage of his
weakness and his youth. His mother’s dying entreaty has never left my
memory; and, God help me, I am now degrading myself in my own eyes in
consequence.
“There has been some reward already for the sacrifice. This day
(Saturday) I have gained an immense advantage--I have at last seen the
woman’s face. She went out with her veil down as before; and Robert kept
her in view, having my instructions, if she returned to the house, not
to follow her back to the door. She did return to the house; and the
result of my precaution was, as I had expected, to throw her off her
guard. I saw her face unveiled at the window, and afterward again in the
balcony. If any occasion should arise for describing her particularly,
you shall have the description. At present I need only say that she
looks the full age (five-and-thirty) at which you estimated her, and
that she is by no means so handsome a woman as I had (I hardly know why)
expected to see.
“This is all I can now tell you. If nothing more happens by Monday or
Tuesday next, I shall have no choice but to apply to my lawyers for
assistance; though I am most unwilling to trust this delicate and
dangerous matter in other hands than mine. Setting my own feelings
however, out of the question, the business which has been the cause of
my journey to London is too important to be trifled with much longer as
I am trifling with it now. In any and every case, depend on my keeping
you informed of the progress of events, and believe me yours truly,
“DECIMUS BROCK.”
Midwinter secured the letter as he had secured the letter that preceded
it--side by side in his pocket-book with the narrative of Allan’s Dream.
“How many days more?” he asked himself, as he went back to the house.
“How many days more?”
Not many. The time he was waiting for was a time close at hand.
Monday came, and brought Mr. Bashwood, punctual to the appointed hour.
Monday came, and found Allan immersed in his preparations for the
picnic. He held a series of interviews, at home and abroad, all through
the day. He transacted business with Mrs. Gripper, with the butler,
and with the coachman, in their three several departments of eating,
drinking, and driving. He went to the town to consult his professional
advisers on the subject of the Broads, and to invite both the lawyers,
father and son (in the absence of anybody else in the neighborhood whom
he could ask), to join the picnic. Pedgift Senior (in his department)
supplied general information, but begged to be excused from appearing at
the picnic, on the score of business engagements. Pedgift Junior (in his
department) added all the details; and, casting business engagements to
the winds, accepted the invitation with the greatest pleasure. Returning
from the lawyer’s office, Allan’s next proceeding was to go to the
major’s cottage and obtain Miss Milroy’s approval of the proposed
locality for the pleasure party. This object accomplished, he returned
to his own house, to meet the last difficulty now left to encounter--the
difficulty of persuading Midwinter to join the expedition to the Broads.
On first broaching the subject, Allan found his friend impenetrably
resolute to remain at home. Midwinter’s natural reluctance to meet the
major and his daughter after what had happened at the cottage, might
probably have been overcome. But Midwinter’s determination not to allow
Mr. Bashwood’s course of instruction to be interrupted was proof
against every effort that could be made to shake it. After exerting his
influence to the utmost, Allan was obliged to remain contented with a
compromise. Midwinter promised, not very willingly, to join the party
toward evening, at the place appointed for a gypsy tea-making, which was
to close the proceedings of the day. To this extent he would consent to
take the opportunity of placing himself on a friendly footing with the
Milroys. More he could not concede, even to Allan’s persuasion, and for
more it would be useless to ask.
The day of the picnic came. The lovely morning, and the cheerful bustle
of preparation for the expedition, failed entirely to tempt Midwinter
into altering his resolution. At the regular hour he left the
breakfast-table to join Mr. Bashwood in the steward’s office. The two
were quietly closeted over the books, at the back of the house, while
the packing for the picnic went on in front. Young Pedgift (short in
stature, smart in costume, and self-reliant in manner) arrived
some little time before the hour for starting, to revise all the
arrangements, and to make any final improvements which his local
knowledge might suggest. Allan and he were still busy in consultation
when the first hitch occurred in the proceedings. The woman-servant from
the cottage was reported to be waiting below for an answer to a note
from her young mistress, which was placed in Allan’s hands.
On this occasion Miss Milroy’s emotions had apparently got the better
of her sense of propriety. The tone of the letter was feverish, and the
handwriting wandered crookedly up and down in deplorable freedom from
all proper restraint.
“Oh, Mr. Armadale” (wrote the major’s daughter), “such a misfortune!
What _are_ we to do? Papa has got a letter from grandmamma this morning
about the new governess. Her reference has answered all the questions,
and she’s ready to come at the shortest notice. Grandmamma thinks (how
provoking!) the sooner the better; and she says we may expect her--I
mean the governess--either to-day or to-morrow. Papa says (he _will_ be
so absurdly considerate to everybody!) that we can’t allow Miss Gwilt to
come here (if she comes to-day) and find nobody at home to receive her.
What is to be done? I am ready to cry with vexation. I have got the
worst possible impression (though grandmamma says she is a charming
person) of Miss Gwilt. _Can_ you suggest something, dear Mr. Armadale?
I’m sure papa would give way if you could. Don’t stop to write; send me
a message back. I have got a new hat for the picnic; and oh, the agony
of not knowing whether I am to keep it on or take it off. Yours truly,
E. M.”
“The devil take Miss Gwilt!” said Allan, staring at his legal adviser in
a state of helpless consternation.
“With all my heart, sir--I don’t wish to interfere,” remarked Pedgift
Junior. “May I ask what’s the matter?”
Allan told him. Mr. Pedgift the younger might have his faults, but a
want of quickness of resource was not among them.
“There’s a way out of the difficulty, Mr. Armadale,” he said. “If the
governess comes to-day, let’s have her at the picnic.”
Allan’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“All the horses and carriages in the Thorpe Ambrose stables are not
wanted for this small party of ours,” proceeded Pedgift Junior. “Of
course not! Very good. If Miss Gwilt comes to-day, she can’t possibly
get here before five o’clock. Good again. You order an open carriage to
be waiting at the major’s door at that time, Mr. Armadale, and I’ll give
the man his directions where to drive to. When the governess comes to
the cottage, let her find a nice little note of apology (along with the
cold fowl, or whatever else they give her after her journey) begging
her to join us at the picnic, and putting a carriage at her own sole
disposal to take her there. Gad, sir!” said young Pedgift, gayly, “she
_must_ be a Touchy One if she thinks herself neglected after that!”
“Capital!” cried Allan. “She shall have every attention. I’ll give her
the pony-chaise and the white harness, and she shall drive herself, if
she likes.”
He scribbled a line to relieve Miss Milroy’s apprehensions, and gave the
necessary orders for the pony-chaise. Ten minutes later, the carriages
for the pleasure party were at the door.
“Now we’ve taken all this trouble about her,” said Allan, reverting to
the governess as they left the house, “I wonder, if she does come to-day,
whether we shall see her at the picnic!”
“Depends, entirely on her age, sir,” remarked young Pedgift, pronouncing
judgment with the happy confidence in himself which eminently
distinguished him. “If she’s an old one, she’ll be knocked up with the
journey, and she’ll stick to the cold fowl and the cottage. If she’s
a young one, either I know nothing of women, or the pony in the white
harness will bring her to the picnic.”
They started for the major’s cottage.