It was far otherwise with the major’s wife. The chance which her husband had entirely overlooked, that the new governess who was to come might be a younger and a more attractive woman than the old governess who had gone, was the first chance that presented itself as possible to Mrs Milroy’s mind. She had said nothing. Secretly waiting, and secretly nursing her inveterate distrust, she had encouraged her husband and her daughter to leave her on the occasion of the picnic, with the express purpose of making an opportunity for seeing the new governess alone. The governess had shown herself; and the smouldering fire of Mrs Milroy’s jealousy had burst into flame, in the moment when she and the handsome stranger first set eyes on each other.
The interview over, Mrs Milroy’s suspicions fastened at once and immovably on her husband’s mother. She was well aware that there was no one else in London on whom the major could depend to make the necessary inquiries; she was well aware that Miss Gwilt had applied for the situation, in the first instance, as a stranger answering an advertisement published in a newspaper. Yet knowing this, she had obstinately closed her eyes, with the blind frenzy of the blindest of all the passions, to the facts straight before her; and, looking back to the last of many quarrels between them which had ended in separating the elder lady and herself, had seized on the conclusion that Miss Gwilt’s engagement was due to her mother-in-law’s vindictive enjoyment of making mischief in her household. The inference which the very servants themselves, witnesses of the family scandal, had correctly drawn – that the major’s mother, in securing the services of a well-recommended governess for her son, had thought it not part of her duty to consider that governess’s looks in the purely fanciful interests of the major’s wife – was an inference which it was simply impossible to convey into Mrs Milroy’s mind. The resolution which her jealousy of her husband would, in any case, have led her to take after seeing Miss Gwilt, was a resolution doubly confirmed by the conviction that now possessed her. Miss Gwilt had barely closed the sick-room door when the whispered words hissed out of Mrs Milroy’s lips, ‘Before another week is over your head, my lady, you go!’
From that moment, through the wakeful night and the weary day, the one object of the bedridden woman’s life was to procure the new governess’s dismissal from the house.
The assistance of the nurse, in the capacity of spy, was secured – as Mrs Milroy had been accustomed to secure other extra services which her attendant was not bound to render her – by a present of a dress from the mistress’s wardrobe. One after another, articles of wearing apparel which were now useless to Mrs Milroy, had ministered in this way to feed the nurse’s greed – the insatiable greed of an ugly woman for fine clothes. Bribed with the smartest dress she had secured yet, the household spy took her secret orders, and applied herself with a vile enjoyment of it to her secret work.
The days passed, the work went on – but nothing came of it. Mistress and servant had a woman to deal with who was a match for both of them. Repeated intrusions on the major, when the governess happened to be in the same room with him, failed to discover the slightest impropriety of word, look, or action, on either side. Stealthy watching and listening at die governess’s bedroom door, detected that she kept a light in her room at late hours of the night, and that she groaned and ground her teeth in her sleep – and detected nothing more. Careful superintendence in the day-time, proved that she regularly posted her own letters, instead of giving them to the servant; and that on certain occasions when the occupation of her hours out of lesson-time and walking-time was left at her own disposal, she had been suddenly missed from the garden, and then caught coming back alone to it from the park. Once, and once only, the nurse had found an opportunity of following her out of the garden – had been detected immediately in the park – and had been asked with the most exasperating politeness, if she wished to join Miss Gwilt in a walk. Small circumstances of this kind, which were sufficiently suspicious to the mind of a jealous woman, were discovered in abundance. But circumstances, on which to found a valid ground of complaint that might be laid before the major, proved to be utterly wanting. Day followed day, and Miss Gwilt remained persistently correct in her conduct, and persistently irreproachable in her relations towards her employer and her pupil.
Foiled in this direction, Mrs Milroy tried next to find an assailable place in the statement which the governess’s reference had made on the subject of the governess’s character.
Obtaining from the major the minutely careful report which his mother had addressed to him on this topic, Mrs Milroy read and reread it, and failed to find the weak point of which she was in search in any part of the letter. All the customary questions on such occasions had been asked, and all had been scrupulously and plainly answered. The one sole opening for an attack which it was possible to discover, was an opening which showed itself, after more practical matters had been all disposed of, in the closing sentences of the letter.
‘I was so struck’ (the passage ran) ‘by the grace and distinction of Miss Gwilt’s manners, that I took an opportunity, when she was out of the room, of asking how she first came to be a governess. “In the usual way,” I was told. “A sad family misfortune, in which she behaved nobly. She is a very sensitive person, and shrinks from speaking of it among strangers – a natural reluctance which I have always felt it a matter of delicacy to respect.” Hearing this, of course I felt the same delicacy on my side. It was no part of my duty to intrude on the poor thing’s private sorrows; my only business was to do, what I have now done, to make sure that I was engaging a capable and respectable governess to instruct my grandchild.’
After careful consideration of these lines, Mrs Milroy having a strong desire to find the circumstances suspicious, found them suspicious accordingly. She determined to sift the mystery of Miss Gwilt’s family misfortunes to the bottom, on the chance of extracting from it something useful to her purpose. There were two ways of doing this. She might begin by questioning the governess herself, or she might begin by questioning the governess’s reference. Experience of Miss Gwilt’s quickness of resource in dealing with awkward questions at their introductory interview, decided her on taking the latter course. ‘I’ll get the particulars from the reference first,’ thought Mrs Milroy, ‘and then question the creature herself, and see if the two stories agree.’
The letter of inquiry was short and scrupulously to the point. Mrs Milroy began by informing her correspondent that the state of her health necessitated leaving her daughter entirely under the governess’s influence and control. On that account she was more anxious than most mothers to be thoroughly informed in every respect about the person to whom she confided the entire charge of an only child; and, feeling this anxiety, she might perhaps be excused for putting what might be thought, after the excellent character Miss Gwilt had received, a somewhat unnecessary question. With that preface, Mrs Milroy came to the point, and requested to be informed of the circumstances which had obliged Miss Gwilt to go out as a governess.
The letter, expressed in these terms, was posted the same day. On the morning when the answer was due, no answer appeared. The next morning arrived, and still there was no reply. When the third morning came, Mrs Milroy’s impatience had broken loose from all restraint. She had rung for the nurse in the manner which has been already recorded, and had ordered the woman to be in waiting to receive the letters of the morning with her own hands. In this position matters now stood; and in these domestic circumstances the new series of events at Thorpe-Ambrose took their rise.
Mrs Milroy had just looked at her watch, and had just put her hand once more to the bell-pull, when the door opened and the nurse entered the room.
‘Has the postman come?’ asked Mrs Milroy.
The nurse laid a letter on the bed without answering, and waited, with unconcealed curiosity, to watch the effect which it produced on her mistress.
Mrs Milroy tore open the envelope the instant it was in her hand. A printed paper appeared (which she threw aside), surro
unding a letter (which she looked at) in her own handwriting! She snatched up the printed paper. It was the customary Post-Office circular, informing her that her letter had been duly presented at the right address, and that the person whom she had written to was not to be found.
‘Something wrong?’ asked the nurse, detecting a change in her mistress’s face.
The question passed unheeded. Mrs Milroy’s writing-desk was on the table at the bedside. She took from it the letter which the major’s mother had written to her son, and turned to the page containing the name and address of Miss Gwilt’s reference. ‘Mrs Mandeville, 18, Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater,’ she read eagerly to herself, and then looked at the address on her own returned letter. No error had been committed: the directions were identically the same.
‘Something wrong?’ reiterated the nurse, advancing a step nearer to the bed.
‘Thank God – yes!’ cried Mrs Milroy, with a sudden outburst of exultation. She tossed the Post-Office circular to the nurse, and beat her bony hands on the bed-clothes, in an ecstasy of anticipated triumph. ‘Miss Gwilt’s an impostor! Miss Gwilt’s an impostor! If I die for it, Rachel, I’ll be carried to the window to see the police take her away!’
‘It’s one thing to say she’s an impostor behind her back, and another thing to prove it to her face,’ remarked the nurse. She put her hand as she spoke into her apron pocket, and, with a significant look at her mistress, silently produced a second letter.
‘For me?’ asked Mrs Milroy.
‘No,’ said the nurse, ‘for Miss Gwilt.’
The two women eyed each other, and understood each other without another word.
‘Where is she?’ said Mrs Milroy.
The nurse pointed in the direction of the park. ‘Out again, for another walk before breakfast – by herself.’
Mrs Milroy beckoned to the nurse to stoop close over her. ‘Can you open it, Rachel?’ she whispered.
Rachel nodded.
‘Can you close it again, so that nobody would know?’
‘Can you spare the scarf that matches your pearl-grey dress?’ asked Rachel.
‘Take it!’ said Mrs Milroy, impatiently.
The nurse opened the wardrobe in silence; took the scarf in silence; and left the room in silence. In less than five minutes she came back with the envelope of Miss Gwilt’s letter open in her hand.
‘Thank you, ma’am, for the scarf,’ said Rachel, putting the opened letter composedly on the counterpane of the bed.
Mrs Milroy looked at the envelope. It had been closed as usual by means of adhesive gum, which had been made to give way by the application of steam. As Mrs Milroy took out the letter, her hand trembled violently, and the white enamel parted into cracks over the wrinkles on her forehead. ‘My drops,’ she said. ‘I’m dreadfully excited, Rachel. My drops!’
Rachel produced the drops, and then went to the window to keep watch on the park. ‘Don’t hurry,’ she said. ‘No signs of her yet.’
Mrs Milroy still paused, keeping the all-important morsel of paper folded in her hand. She could have taken Miss Gwilt’s life – but she hesitated at reading Miss Gwilt’s letter.
‘Are you troubled with scruples?’ asked the nurse, with a sneer. ‘Consider it a duty you owe to your daughter.’
‘You wretch!’ said Mrs Milroy. With that expression of opinion, she opened the letter.
It was evidently written in great haste – was undated – and was signed in initials only. Thus it ran:
Diana Street.
MY DEAR LYDIA, – The cab is waiting at the door, and I have only a moment to tell you that I am obliged to leave London, on business, for three or four days, or a week at longest. My letters will be forwarded if you write. I got yours yesterday, and I agree with you that it is very important to put him off the awkward subject of yourself and your family as long as you safely can. The better you know him, the better you will be able to make up the sort of story that will do. Once told, you will have to stick to it – and, having to stick to it, beware of making it complicated, and beware of making it in a hurry. I will write again about this, and give you my own ideas. In the meantime, don’t risk meeting him too often in the park. – Yours, M. O.
‘Well?’ asked the nurse, returning to the bedside. ‘Have you done with it?’
‘Meeting him in the park?’ repeated Mrs Milroy, with her eyes still fastened on the letter. ‘Him! Rachel, where is the major?’
‘In his own room.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Have your own way. I want the letter and the envelope.’
‘Can you close it again so that she won’t know?’
‘What I can open I can shut. Anything more?’
‘Nothing more.’
Mrs Milroy was left alone again, to review her plan of attack by the new light that had now been thrown on Miss Gwilt.
The information that had been gained, by opening the governess’s letter, pointed plainly to the conclusion that an adventuress had stolen her way into the house by means of a false reference. But having been obtained by an act of treachery which it was impossible to acknowledge, it was not information that could be used either for warning the major or for exposing Miss Gwilt. The one available weapon in Mrs Milroy’s hands was the weapon furnished by her own returned letter – and the one question to decide was how to make the best and speediest use of it.
The longer she turned the matter over in her mind, the more hasty and premature seemed the exultation which she had felt at the first sight of the Post-Office circular. That a lady acting as reference to a governess should have quitted her residence without leaving any trace behind her, and without even mentioning an address to which her letters could be forwarded, was a circumstance in itself sufficiently suspicious to be mentioned to the major. But Mrs Milroy, however perverted her estimate of her husband might be in some respects, knew enough of his character to be assured that, if she told him what had happened, he would frankly appeal to the governess herself for an explanation. Miss Gwilt’s quickness and cunning would, in that case, produce some plausible answer on the spot, which the major’s partiality would be only too ready to accept; and she would at the same time, no doubt, place matters in train, by means of the post, for the due arrival of all needful confirmation on the part of her accomplice in London. To keep strict silence for the present, and to institute (without the governess’s knowledge) such inquiries as might be necessary to the discovery of undeniable evidence, was plainly the only safe course to take with such a man as the major, and with such a woman as Miss Gwilt. Helpless herself, to whom could Mrs Milroy commit the difficult and dangerous task of investigation? The nurse, even if she was to be trusted, could not be spared at a day’s notice, and could not be sent away without the risk of exciting remark. Was there any other competent and reliable person to employ, either at Thorpe-Ambrose or in London? Mrs Milroy turned from side to side of the bed, searching every corner of her mind for the needful discovery, and searching in vain. ‘Oh, if I could only lay my hand on some man I could trust!’ she thought, despairingly. ‘If I only knew where to look for somebody to help me!’
As the idea passed through her mind, the sound of her daughter’s voice startled her from the other side of the door.
‘May I come in?’ asked Neelie.
‘What do you want?’ returned Mrs Milroy, impatiently.
‘I have brought up your breakfast, mamma.’
‘My breakfast?’ repeated Mrs Milroy, in surprise. ‘Why doesn’t Rachel bring it up as usual?’ She considered a moment, and then called out sharply, ‘Come in!’
CHAPTER II
THE MAN IS FOUND
Neelie entered the room, carrying the tray with the tea, the dry toast, and the pat of butter which composed the invalid’s invariable breakfast.
‘What does this mean?’ asked Mrs Milroy, speaking and looking as she might have spoken and looked if the wrong servant had come into the room.
Neelie put the tray
down on the bedside table. ‘I thought I should like to bring you up your breakfast, mamma, for once in a way,’ she replied, ‘and I asked Rachel to let me.’
‘Come here,’ said Mrs Milroy, ‘and wish me good-morning.’
Neelie obeyed. As she stooped to kiss her mother, Mrs Milroy caught her by the arm, and turned her roughly to the light. There were plain signs of disturbance and distress in her daughter’s face. A deadly thrill of terror ran through Mrs Milroy on the instant. She suspected that the opening of the letter had been discovered by Miss Gwilt, and that the nurse was keeping out of the way in consequence.
‘Let me go, mamma,’ said Neelie, shrinking under her mother’s grasp. ‘You hurt me.’
‘Tell me why you have brought up my breakfast this morning,’ persisted Mrs Milroy.
‘I have told you, mamma.’
‘You have not! You have made an excuse – I see it in your face. Come! what is it?’
Neelie’s resolution gave way before her mother’s. She looked aside uneasily at the things in the tray. ‘I have been vexed,’ she said with an effort; ‘and I didn’t want to stop in the breakfast-room. I wanted to come up here, and speak to you.’
‘Vexed? Who has vexed you? What has happened? Has Miss Gwilt anything to do with it?’
Neelie looked round again at her mother in sudden curiosity and alarm. ‘Mamma!’ she said, ‘you read my thoughts – I declare you frighten me. It was Miss Gwilt.’
Before Mrs Milroy could say a word more on her side, the door opened, and the nurse looked in.
‘Have you got what you want?’ she asked as composedly as usual. ‘Miss, there, insisted on taking your tray up this morning. Has she broken anything?’
‘Go to the window – I want to speak to Rachel,’ said Mrs Milroy.
As soon as her daughter’s back was turned, she beckoned eagerly to the nurse. ‘Anything wrong?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘Do you think she suspects us?’