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 success of his manoeuvre. 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 farther and farther 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 grey 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 grey 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 neighbourhood 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 neighbourhood – I beg your pardon, I mean the “Broads”, beyond the neighbourhood. 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 honour 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 favour, 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 farther 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 were 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, 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 at 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 was 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 – 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 ve
ry 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.’