‘stoop,’ she said. ‘Miss Gwilt may be listening at the door. I’ll whisper.’
The nurse stooped, with her eye on the door.
‘You know that the postman went with this letter to Kingsdown Crescent?’ said Mrs Milroy. ‘And you know that he found Mrs Mandeville gone away, nobody could tell where?’
‘Well,’ whispered Rachel, ‘what next?’
‘This, next. When Mr Armadale gets the letter that I am going to write to him, he will follow the same road as the postman – and we’ll see what happens when he knocks at Mrs Mandeville’s door.’
‘How do you get him to the door?’
‘I tell him to go to Miss Gwilt’s reference.’
‘Is he sweet on Miss Gwilt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’ said the nurse. ‘I see!’
CHAPTER III
THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY
The morning of the interview between Mrs Milroy and her daughter, at the cottage, was a morning of serious reflection for the squire, at the great house.
Even Allan’s easy-tempered nature had not been proof against the disturbing influence exercised on it by the events of the last three days. Midwinter’s abrupt departure had vexed him; and Major Milroy’s reception of his inquiries relating to Miss Gwilt weighed unpleasantly on his mind. Since his visit to the cottage, he had felt impatient and ill at ease, for the first time in his life, with everybody who came near him. Impatient with Pedgift Junior, who had called on the previous evening, to announce his departure for London on business the next day, and to place his services at the disposal of his client; ill at ease with Miss Gwilt, at a secret meeting with her in the park that morning; and ill at ease in his own company, as he now sat moodily smoking, in the solitude of his room. ‘I can’t live this sort of life much longer,’ thought Allan. ‘If nobody will help me to put the awkward question to Miss Gwilt, I must stumble on some way of putting it for myself.’
What way? The answer to that question was as hard to find as ever. Allan tried to stimulate his sluggish invention by walking up and down the room, and was disturbed by the appearance of the footman at the first turn.
‘Now then! what is it?’ he asked impatiently.
‘A letter, sir; and the person waits for an answer.’
Allan looked at the address. It was in a strange handwriting. He opened the letter; and a little note enclosed in it dropped to the ground. The note was directed, still in the strange handwriting, to ‘Mrs Mandeville, 18, Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater. Favoured by Mr Armadale.’ More and more surprised, Allan turned for information to the signature at the end of the letter. It was ‘Anne Milroy’.
‘Anne Milroy?’ he repeated. ‘It must be the major’s wife. What can she possibly want with me?’
By way of discovering what she wanted, Allan did at last what he might more wisely have done at first. He sat down to read the letter.
[Private.]
The Cottage, Monday.
DEAR SIR, – The name at the end of these lines will, I fear, recall to you a very rude return made on my part, some time since, for an act of neighbourly kindness on yours. I can only say in excuse, that I am a great sufferer, and that if I was ill-tempered enough, in a moment of irritation under severe pain, to send back your present of fruit, I have regretted doing so ever since. Attribute this letter, if you please, to my desire to make you some atonement, and to my wish to be of service to our good friend and landlord if I possibly can.
I have been informed of the question which you addressed to my husband the day before yesterday, on the subject of Miss Gwilt. From all I have heard of you, I am quite sure that your anxiety to know more of this charming person than you know now, is an anxiety proceeding from the most honourable motives. Believing this, I feel a woman’s interest – incurable invalid as I am – in assisting you. If you are desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Gwilt’s family circumstances without directly appealing to Miss Gwilt herself, it rests with you to make the discovery – and I will tell you how.
It so happens that some few days since, I wrote privately to Miss Gwilt’s reference on this very subject. I had long observed that my governess was singularly reluctant to speak of her family and her friends; and without attributing her silence to other than perfectly proper motives, I felt it my duty to my daughter to make some inquiry on the subject. The answer that I have received is satisfactory as far as it goes. My correspondent informs me that Miss Gwilt’s story is a very sad one, and that her own conduct throughout has been praiseworthy in the extreme. The circumstances (of a domestic nature, as I gather,) are all plainly stated in a collection of letters now in the possession of Miss Gwilt’s reference. This lady is perfectly willing to let me see the letters – but, not possessing copies of them, and being personally responsible for their security, she is reluctant, if it can be avoided, to trust them to the post; and she begs me to wait until she or I can find some reliable person who can be employed to transmit the packet from her hands to mine.
Under these circumstances, it has struck me that you might possibly, with your interest in the matter, be not unwilling to take charge of the papers. If I am wrong in this idea, and if you are not disposed, after what I have told you, to go to the trouble and expense of a journey to London, you have only to burn my letter and enclosure, and to think no more about it. If you decide on becoming my envoy, I gladly provide you with the necessary introduction to Mrs Mandeville. You have only, on presenting it, to receive the letters in a sealed packet, to send them here on your return to Thorpe-Ambrose, and to wait an early communication from me acquainting you with the result.
In conclusion, I have only to add that I see no impropriety in your taking (if you feel so inclined) the course that I propose to you. Miss Gwilt’s manner of receiving such allusions as I have made to her family circumstances, has rendered it unpleasant for me (and would render it quite impossible for you) to seek information in the first instance from herself. I am certainly justified in applying to her reference; and you are certainly not to blame for being the medium of safely transmitting a sealed communication from one lady to another. If I find in that communication family secrets which cannot honourably be mentioned to any third person, I shall of course be obliged to keep you waiting until I have first appealed to Miss Gwilt. If I find nothing recorded but what is to her honour, and what is sure to raise her still higher in your estimation, I am undeniably doing her a service by taking you into my confidence. This is how I look at the matter – but pray don’t allow me to influence you.
In any case, I have one condition to make, which I am sure you will understand to be indispensable. The most innocent actions are liable, in this wicked world, to the worst possible interpretation. I must, therefore, request that you will consider this communication as strictly private. I write to you in a confidence which is on no account (until circumstances may, in my opinion, justify the revelation of it) to extend beyond our two selves.
Believe me, dear sir, truly yours,
ANNE MILROY.
In this tempting form the unscrupulous ingenuity of the major’s wife had set the trap. Without a moment’s hesitation, Allan followed his impulses as usual, and walked straight into it – writing his answer, and pursuing his own reflections simultaneously, in a highly characteristic state of mental confusion.
‘By Jupiter, this is kind of Mrs Milroy!’ (‘My dear madam.’) ‘Just the thing I wanted, at the time when I needed it most!’ (‘I don’t know how to express my sense of your kindness, except by saying that I will go to London and fetch the letters with the greatest pleasure.’) ‘She shall have a basket of fruit regularly every day, all through the season.’ (‘I will go at once, dear madam, and be back to-morrow.’) ‘Ah, nothing like the women for helping one when one is in love! This is just what my poor mother would have done in Mrs Milroy’s place.’ (‘On my word of honour as a gentleman, I will take the utmost care of the letters – and keep the thing strictly private, as you request.’) ‘I wou
ld have given five hundred pounds to anybody who would have put me up to the right way to speak to Miss Gwilt – and here is this blessed woman does it for nothing.’ (‘Believe me, my dear madam, gratefully yours, Allan Armadale.’)
Having sent his reply out to Mrs Milroy’s messenger, Allan paused in a momentary perplexity. He had an appointment with Miss Gwilt in the park for the next morning. It was absolutely necessary to let her know that he would be unable to keep it; she had forbidden him to write, and he had no chance that day of seeing her alone. In this difficulty, he determined to let the necessary intimation reach her through the medium of a message to the major, announcing his departure for London on business, and asking if he could be of service to any member of the family. Having thus removed the only obstacle to his departure, Allan consulted the time-table, and found, to his disappointment, that there was a good hour to spare before it would be necessary to drive to the railway-station. In his existing frame of mind, he would infinitely have preferred starting for London in a violent hurry.
When the time came at last, Allan, on passing the steward’s office, drummed at the door, and called through it, to Mr Bashwood, ‘I’m going to town – back to-morrow.’ There was no answer from within; and the servant interposing, informed his master that Mr Bashwood, having no business to attend to that day, had locked up the office, and had left some hours since.
On reaching the station, the first person whom Allan encountered was Pedgift Junior, going to London on the legal business which he had mentioned on the previous evening, at the great house. The necessary explanations exchanged, it was decided that the two should travel in the same carriage. Allan was glad to have a companion; and Pedgift, enchanted as usual to make himself useful to his client, bustled away to get the tickets and see to the luggage. Sauntering to and fro on the platform until his faithful follower returned, Allan came suddenly upon no less a person than Mr Bashwood himself – standing back in a corner with the guard of the train, and putting a letter (accompanied, to all appearance, by a fee) privately into the man’s hand.
‘Hullo!’ cried Allan in his hearty way. ‘something important there, Mr Bashwood – eh?’
If Mr Bashwood had been caught in the act of committing murder, he could hardly have shown greater alarm than he now testified at Allan’s sudden discovery of him. Snatching off his dingy old hat, he bowed bareheaded, in a palsy of nervous trembling from head to foot. ‘No, sir, no, sir; only a little letter, a little letter,’ said the deputy-steward, taking refuge in reiteration, and bowing himself swiftly backwards out of his employer’s sight.
Allan turned carelessly on his heel. ‘I wish I could take to that fellow,’ he thought – ‘but I can’t; he’s such a sneak! What the deuce was there to tremble about? Does he think I want to pry into his secrets?’
Mr Bashwood’s secret on this occasion concerned Allan more nearly than Allan supposed. The letter which he had just placed in charge of the guard was nothing less than a word of warning addressed to Mrs Oldershaw, and written by Miss Gwilt.
If you can hurry your business (wrote the major’s governess) do so, and come back to London immediately. Things are going wrong here, and Miss Milroy is at the bottom of the mischief. This morning she insisted on taking up her mother’s breakfast, always on other occasions taken up by the nurse. They had a long confabulation in private; and half an hour later I saw the nurse slip out with a letter, and take the path that leads to the great house. The sending of the letter has been followed by young Armadale’s sudden departure for London – in the face of an appointment which he had with me for to-morrow morning. This looks serious. The girl is evidently bold enough to make a fight of it for the position of Mrs Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose, and she has found out some way of getting her mother to help her. Don’t suppose I am in the least nervous or discouraged; and don’t do anything till you hear from me again. Only get back to London – for I may have serious need of your assistance in the course of the next day or two.
I send this letter to town (to save a post) by the mid-day train, in charge of the guard. As you insist on knowing every step I take at Thorpe-Ambrose, I may as well tell you that my messenger (for I can’t go to the station myself) is that curious old creature whom I mentioned to you in my first letter. Ever since that time, he has been perpetually hanging about here for a look at me. I am not sure whether I frighten him or fascinate him – perhaps I do both together. All you need care to know is, that I can trust him with my trifling errands, and possibly, as time goes on, with something more.
L. G.
Meanwhile the train had started from the Thorpe-Ambrose station, and the squire and his travelling companion were on their way to London.
Some men, finding themselves in Allan’s company under present circumstances, might have felt curious to know the nature of his business in the metropolis. Young Pedgift’s unerring instinct as a man of the world penetrated the secret without the slightest difficulty. ‘The old story,’ thought his wary old head, wagging privately on its lusty young shoulders. ‘There’s a woman in the case, as usual. Any other business would have been turned over to me.’ Perfectly satisfied with this conclusion, Mr Pedgift the younger proceeded, with an eye to his professional interest, to make himself as agreeable to his client as usual. He seized on the whole administrative business of the journey to London, as he had seized on the whole administrative business of the picnic at the Broads. On reaching the terminus, Allan was ready to go to any hotel that might be recommended. His invaluable solicitor straightway drove him to an hotel at which the Pedgift family had been accustomed to put up for three generations.
‘You don’t object to vegetables, sir?’ said the cheerful Pedgift, as the cab stopped at an hotel in Covent Garden Market. ‘Very good, you may leave the rest to my grandfather, my father, and me. I don’t know which of the three is most beloved and respected in this house. How-d’ye-do, William? (Our head-waiter, Mr Armadale.) Is your wife’s rheumatism better, and does the little boy get on nicely at school? Your master’s out, is he? Never mind, you’ll do. This, William, is Mr Armadale of Thorpe-Ambrose. I have prevailed on Mr Armadale to try our house. Have you got the bedroom I wrote for? Very good. Let Mr Armadale have it, instead of me (my grandfather’s favourite bedroom, sir; number five, on the second floor;) pray take it – I can sleep anywhere. Will you have the mattress on the top of the feather-bed? You hear, William? Tell Matilda, the mattress on the top of the featherbed. How is Matilda? Has she got the tooth-ache, as usual? The head-chambermaid, Mr Armadale, and a most extraordinary woman; she will not part with a hollow tooth in her lower jaw. My grandfather says, “have it out” – my father says, “have it out” – I say, “have it out,” and Matilda turns a deaf ear to all three of us. Yes, William, yes; if Mr Armadale approves, this sitting-room will do. About dinner, sir? You would prefer getting your business over first, and coming back to dinner? Shall we say, in that case, half-past seven? William, half-past seven. Not the least need to order anything, Mr Armadale. The head-waiter has only to give my compliments to the cook, and the best dinner in London will be sent up, punctual to the minute, as a necessary consequence. Say Mr Pedgift, junior, if you please, William – otherwise, sir, we might get my grandfather’s dinner or my father’s dinner, and they might turn out a little too heavy and old-fashioned in their way of feeding for you and me. As to the wine, William. At dinner, my champagne, and the sherry that my father thinks nasty. After dinner, the claret with the blue seal – the wine my innocent grandfather said wasn’t worth sixpence a bottle. Ha! ha! poor old boy! You will send up the evening papers and the playbills, just as usual, and – that will do, I think, William, for the present. An invaluable servant, Mr Armadale; they’re all invaluable servants in this house. We may not be fashionable here, sir, but by the Lord Harry we are snug! A cab? you would like a cab? Don’t stir! I’ve rung the bell twice – that means, Cab wanted in a hurry. Might I ask, Mr Armadale, which way your business takes you? Towards Bayswater? Would you mind dr
opping me in the park? It’s a habit of mine when I’m in London to air myself among the aristocracy. Yours truly, sir, has an eye for a fine woman and a fine horse; and when he’s in Hyde Park he’s quite in his native element.’ Thus the all-accomplished Pedgift ran on; and by these little arts did he recommend himself to the good opinion of his client.
When the dinner-hour united the travelling companions again in their sitting-room at the hotel, a far less acute observer than young Pedgift must have noticed the marked change that appeared in Allan’s manner. He looked vexed and puzzled, and sat drumming with his fingers on the dining-table without uttering a word.
‘I’m afraid something has happened to annoy you, sir, since we parted company in the Park?’ said Pedgift Junior. ‘Excuse the question – I only ask it in case I can be of any use.’
‘something that I never expected has happened,’ returned Allan; ‘I don’t know what to make of it. I should like to have your opinion,’ he added, after a little hesitation; ‘that is to say, if you will excuse my not entering into any particulars?’
‘Certainly!’ assented young Pedgift. ‘Sketch it in outline, sir. The merest hint will do; I wasn’t born yesterday.’ (‘Oh, these women!’ thought the youthful philosopher, in parenthesis.)
‘Well,’ began Allan, ‘you know what I said when we got to this hotel; I said I had a place to go to in Bayswater’ (Pedgift mentally checked off the first point – Case in the suburbs, Bayswater); ‘and a person – that is to say – no – as I said before, a person to inquire after.’ (Pedgift checked off the next point: Person in the case. She-person, or he-person? She-person unquestionably!) ‘Well, I went to the house, and when I asked for her – I mean the person – she – that is to say, the person – oh, confound it!’ cried Allan, ‘I shall drive myself mad, and you too, if I try to tell my story in this roundabout way. Here it is in two words. I went to number eighteen Kingsdown Crescent, to see a lady named Mandeville; and when I asked for her, the servant said Mrs Mandeville had gone away, without telling anybody where, and without even leaving an address at which letters could be sent to her. There! it’s out at last, and what do you think of it now?’