He waited, thinking and looking round him while he thought. There was wonderfully little disturbance in his face and manner; he looked steadily from one to the other of the few objects in the room, as if the discovery of it had saddened rather than surprised him. Matting of some foreign sort covered the floor. Two cane chairs and a plain table comprised the whole of the furniture. The walls were plainly papered, and bare – broken to the eye in one place by a door leading into the interior of the house; in another, by a small stove; in a third, by the book-shelves which Midwinter had already noticed. He returned to the books; and, this time, he took some of them down from the shelves.
The first that he opened contained lines in a woman’s handwriting, traced in ink that had faded with time. He read the inscription – ‘Jane Armadale, from her beloved father. Thorpe-Ambrose, October, 1828.’ In the second, third, and fourth volumes that he opened, the same inscription reappeared. His previous knowledge of dates and persons helped him to draw the true inference from what he saw. The books must have belonged to Allan’s mother; and she must have inscribed them with her name, in the interval of time between her return to Thorpe-Ambrose from Madeira, and the birth of her son. Midwinter passed on to a volume on another shelf – one of a series containing the writings of Mrs Hemans. In this case, the blank leaf at the beginning of the book was filled on both sides with a copy of verses, the writing being still in Mrs Armadale’s hand. The verses were headed, ‘Farewell to Thorpe-Ambrose,’ and were dated ‘March, 1829’ – two months only after Allan had been born.
Entirely without merit in itself, the only interest of the little poem was in the domestic story that it told. The very room in which Midwinter then stood was described – with the view on the garden, the window made to open on it, the book-shelves, the Niobe, and other more perishable ornaments which Time had destroyed. Here, at variance with her brothers, shrinking from her friends, the widow of the murdered man had, on her own acknowledgment, secluded herself, without other comfort than the love and forgiveness of her father, until her child was born. The father’s mercy and the father’s recent death filled many verses – happily too vague in their commonplace expression of penitence and despair, to give any hint of the marriage-story in Madeira to any reader who looked at them ignorant of the truth. A passing reference to the writer’s estrangement from her surviving relatives, and to her approaching departure from Thorpe-Ambrose, followed. Last came the assertion of the mother’s resolution to separate herself from all her old associations; to leave behind her every possession, even to the most trifling thing she had, that could remind her of the miserable past; and to date her new life in the future from the birthday of the child who had been spared to console her – who was now the one earthly object that could still speak to her of love and hope. So the old story of passionate feeling that finds comfort in phrases rather than not find comfort at all, was told once again. So the poem in the faded ink faded away to its end.
Midwinter put the book back with a heavy sigh, and opened no other volume on the shelves. ‘Here in the country-house, or there on board the Wreck,’ he said bitterly, ‘the traces of my father’s crime follow me, go where I may.’ He advanced towards the window – stopped and looked back into the lonely neglected little room. ‘Is this chance?’ he asked himself. ‘The place where his mother suffered is the place he sees in the Dream; and the first morning in the new house is the morning that reveals it, not to him, but to me. Oh, Allan! Allan! how will it end?’
The thought had barely passed through his mind before he heard Allan’s voice, from the paved walk at the side of the house, calling to him by his name. He hastily stepped out into the garden. At the same moment Allan came running round the corner, full of voluble apologies for having forgotten, in the society of his new neighbours, what was due to the laws of hospitality and the claims of his friend.
‘I really haven’t missed you,’ said Midwinter; ‘and I am very, very glad to hear that the new neighbours have produced such a pleasant impression on you already.’
He tried, as he spoke, to lead the way back by the outside of the house; but Allan’s flighty attention had been caught by the open window and the lonely little room. He stepped in immediately. Midwinter followed, and watched him in breathless anxiety, as he looked round. Not the slightest recollection of the Dream troubled Allan’s easy mind. Not the slightest reference to it fell from the silent lips of his friend.
‘Exactly the sort of place I should have expected you to hit on!’ exclaimed Allan gaily. ‘Small and snug and unpretending. I know you, Master Midwinter! You’ll be slipping off here, when the county families come visiting – and I rather think, on those dreadful occasions you won’t find me far behind you. What’s the matter? You look ill and out of spirits. Hungry? Of course you are! unpardonable of me to have kept you waiting – this door leads somewhere, I suppose; let’s try a short cut into the house. Don’t be afraid of my not keeping you company at breakfast. I didn’t eat much at the cottage – I feasted my eyes on Miss Milroy, as the poets say. Oh, the darling! the darling! she turns you topsy-turvy the moment you look at her. As for her father; wait till you see his wonderful clock! It’s twice the size of the famous clock at Strasbourg, and the most tremendous striker ever heard yet in the memory of man!’
Singing the praises of his new friends in this strain, at the top of his voice, Allan hurried Midwinter along the stone passages on the basement floor which led, as he had rightly guessed, to a staircase communicating with the hall. They passed the servants’ offices on the way. At the sight of the cook and the roaring fire, disclosed through the open kitchen door, Allan’s mind went off at a tangent, and Allan’s dignity scattered itself to the four winds of heaven, as usual.
‘Aha, Mrs Gripper; there you are with your pots and pans, and your burning fiery furnace! One had need be Shadrach, Meshech, and the other fellow,3 to stand over that. Breakfast as soon as ever you like. Eggs, sausages, bacon, kidneys, marmalade, watercresses, coffee, and so forth. My friend and I belong to the select few whom it’s a perfect privilege to cook for. Voluptuaries, Mrs Gripper, voluptuaries, both of us. You’ll see,’ continued Allan, as they went on towards the stairs, ‘I shall make that worthy creature young again; I’m better than a doctor for Mrs Gripper. When she laughs she shakes her fat sides; and when she shakes her fat sides she exerts her muscular system; and when she exerts her muscular system – Ha! here’s Susan again. Don’t squeeze yourself flat against the banisters, my dear; if you don’t mind hustling me on the stairs, I rather like hustling you. She looks like a full-blown rose when she blushes, doesn’t she? Stop, Susan! I’ve some orders to give. Be very particular with Mr Midwinter’s room: shake up his bed like mad, and dust his furniture till those nice round arms of yours ache again. Nonsense, my dear fellow! I’m not too familiar with them; I’m only keeping them up to their work. Now then, Richard! where do we breakfast? Oh, here. Between ourselves, Midwinter, these splendid rooms of mine are a size too large for me; I don’t feel as if I should ever be on intimate terms with my own furniture. My views in life are of the snug and slovenly sort – a kitchen chair, you know, and a low ceiling. Man wants but little here below, and wants that little long.4 That’s not exactly the right quotation; but it expresses my meaning, and we’ll let alone correcting it till the next opportunity.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Midwinter, ‘here is something waiting for you which you have not noticed yet.’
As he spoke, he pointed a little impatiently to a letter lying on the breakfast-table. He could conceal the ominous discovery which he had made that morning, from Allan’s knowledge; but he could not conquer the latent distrust of circumstances which was now roused again in his superstitious nature – the instinctive suspicion of everything that happened, no matter how common or how trifling the event, on the first memorable day when the new life began in the new house.
Allan ran his eye over the letter, and tossed it across the table to his friend. ‘I can’t make h
ead or tail of it,’ he said; ‘can you?’
Midwinter read the letter slowly, aloud. ‘Sir, – I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in sending these few lines to wait your arrival at Thorpe-Ambrose. In the event of circumstances not disposing you to place your law-business in the hands of Mr Darch—’ He suddenly stopped at that point, and considered a little.
‘Darch is our friend the lawyer,’5 said Allan, supposing Midwinter had forgotten the name. ‘Don’t you remember our spinning the half-crown on the cabin table, when I got the two offers for the cottage? Heads, the major; tails, the lawyer. This is the lawyer.’
Without making any reply, Midwinter resumed reading the letter.
In the event of circumstances not disposing you to place your law-business in the hands of Mr Darch, I beg to say that I shall be happy to take charge of your interests, if you feel willing to honour me with your confidence. Enclosing a reference (should you desire it) to my agents in London, and again apologizing for this intrusion, I beg to remain, Sir, respectfully yours, A. PED-GIFT, SENR.
‘Circumstances?’ repeated Midwinter, as he laid the letter down. ‘What circumstances can possibly indispose you to give your law-business to Mr Darch?’
‘Nothing can indispose me,’ said Allan. ‘Besides being the family lawyer here, Darch was the first to write me word at Paris of my coming in for my fortune; and, if I have got any business to give, of course he ought to have it.’
Midwinter still looked distrustfully at the open letter on the table. ‘I am sadly afraid, Allan, there is something wrong already,’ he said. ‘This man would never have ventured on the application he has made to you, unless he had some good reason for believing it would succeed. If you wish to put yourself right at starting, you will send to Mr Darch this morning, to tell him you are here, and you will take no notice for the present of Mr Pedgift’s letter.’
Before more could be said on either side, the footman made his appearance with the breakfast tray. He was followed, after an interval, by the butler – a man of the essentially confidential kind, with a modulated voice, a courtly manner, and a bulbous nose. Anybody but Allan would have seen in his face that he had come into the room having a special communication to make to his master. Allan, who saw nothing under the surface, and whose head was running on the lawyer’s letter, stopped him bluntly with the point-blank question: ‘Who’s Mr Pedgift?’
The butler’s sources of local knowledge opened confidentially on the instant. Mr Pedgift was the second of the two lawyers in the town. Not so long-established, not so wealthy, not so universally looked-up-to as old Mr Darch. Not doing the business of the highest people in the county, and not mixing freely with the best society, like old Mr Darch. A very sufficient man, in his way, nevertheless. Known as a perfectly competent and respectable practitioner all round the neighbourhood. In short, professionally next best to Mr Darch; and personally superior to him (if the expression might be permitted) in this respect – that Darch was a Crusty One, and Pedgift wasn’t.
Having imparted this information, the butler, taking a wise advantage of his position, glided without a moment’s stoppage, from Mr Pedgift’s character to the business that had brought him into the breakfast-room. The Midsummer Audit was near at hand; and the tenants were accustomed to have a week’s notice of the rent-day dinner. With this necessity pressing, and with no orders given as yet, and no steward in office at Thorpe-Ambrose, it appeared desirable that some confidential person should bring the matter forward. The butler was that confidential person; and he now ventured accordingly to trouble his master on the subject.
At this point, Allan opened his lips to interrupt, and was himself interrupted before he could utter a word.
‘Wait!’ interposed Midwinter, seeing in Allan’s face that he was in danger of being publicly announced in the capacity of steward. ‘Wait!’ he repeated eagerly, ‘till I can speak to you first.’
The butler’s courtly manner remained alike unruffled by Midwinter’s sudden interference and his own dismissal from the scene. Nothing but the mounting colour in by his bulbous nose betrayed the sense of injury that animated him as he withdrew. Mr Armadale’s chance of regaling his friend and himself that day with the best wine in the cellar, trembled in the balance, as the butler took his way back to the basement story.
‘This is beyond a joke, Allan,’ said Midwinter, when they were alone. ‘Somebody must meet your tenants on the rent-day who is really fit to take the steward’s place. With the best will in the world to learn, it is impossible for me to master the business at a week’s notice. Don’t, pray don’t let your anxiety for my welfare put you in a false position with other people! I should never forgive myself if I was the unlucky cause—’
‘Gently, gently!’ cried Allan, amazed at his friend’s extraordinary earnestness. ‘If I write to London by to-night’s post for the man who came down here before, will that satisfy you?’
Midwinter shook his head. ‘Our time is short,’ he said; ‘and the man may not be at liberty. Why not try in the neighbourhood first? You were going to write to Mr Darch. Send at once, and see if he can’t help us between this and post-time.’
Allan withdrew to a side-table on which writing materials were placed. ‘You shall breakfast in peace, you old fidget,’ he replied – and addressed himself forthwith to Mr Darch, with his usual Spartan brevity of epistolary expression. ‘Dear Sir, – Here I am, bag and baggage. Will you kindly oblige me by being my lawyer? I ask this, because I want to consult you at once. Please look in in the course of the day, and stop to dinner if you possibly can. Yours truly, ALLAN ARMADALE.’ Having read this composition aloud with unconcealed admiration of his own rapidity of literary execution, Allan addressed the letter to Mr Darch, and rang the bell. ‘Here, Richard, take this at once, and wait for an answer. And, I say, if there’s any news stirring in the town, pick it up and bring it back with you. See how I manage my servants!’ continued Allan, joining his friend at the breakfast-table. ‘See how I adapt myself to my new duties! I haven’t been down here one clear day yet, and I’m taking an interest in the neighbourhood already.’
Breakfast over, the two friends went out to idle away the morning under the shade of a tree in the park. Noon came, and Richard never appeared. One o’clock struck, and still there were no signs of an answer from Mr Darch. Midwinter’s patience was not proof against the delay. He left Allan dozing on the grass, and went to the house to make inquiries. The town was described as little more than two miles distant; but the day of the week happened to be market-day, and Richard was being detained no doubt by some of the many acquaintances whom he would be sure to meet with on that occasion.
Half an hour later, the truant messenger returned, and was sent out to report himself to his master under the tree in the park.
‘Any answer from Mr Darch?’ asked Midwinter, seeing that Allan was too lazy to put the question for himself.
‘Mr Darch was engaged, sir. I was desired to say that he would send an answer.’
‘Any news in the town?’ inquired Allan, drowsily, without troubling himself to open his eyes.
‘No, sir; nothing in particular.’
Observing the man suspiciously as he made that reply, Midwinter detected in his face that he was not speaking the truth. He was plainly embarrassed, and plainly relieved when his master’s silence allowed him to withdraw. After a little consideration, Midwinter followed, and overtook the retreating servant on the drive before the house.
‘Richard,’ he said quietly, ‘if I was to guess that there is some news in the town, and that you don’t like telling it to your master, should I be guessing the truth?’
The man started and changed colour. ‘I don’t know how you have found it out, sir,’ he said; ‘but I can’t deny you have guessed right.’
‘If you will let me hear what the news is, I will take the responsibility on myself of telling Mr Armadale.’
After some little hesitation, and some distrustful consideration on his sid
e, of Midwinter’s face, Richard at last prevailed on himself to repeat what he had heard that day in the town.
The news of Allan’s sudden appearance at Thorpe-Ambrose had preceded the servant’s arrival at his destination by some hours. Wherever he went, he found his master the subject of public discussion. The opinion of Allan’s conduct among the leading townspeople, the resident gentry of the neighbourhood, and the principal tenants on the estate, was unanimously unfavourable. Only the day before, the committee for managing the public reception of the new squire had sketched the progress of the procession; had settled the serious question of the triumphal arches; and had appointed a competent person to solicit subscriptions for the flags, the flowers, the feasting, the fireworks, and the band. In less than a week more, the money could have been collected, and the rector would have written to Mr Armadale to fix the day. And now, by Allan’s own act, the public welcome waiting to honour him, had been cast back contemptuously in the public teeth! Everybody took for granted (what was unfortunately true) that he had received private information of the contemplated proceedings. Everybody declared that he had purposely stolen into his own house like a thief in the night (so the phrase ran), to escape accepting the offered civilities of his neighbours. In brief, the sensitive self-importance of the little town was wounded to the quick; and of Allan’s once enviable position in the estimation of the neighbourhood not a vestige remained.