Monday’s post brought with it Major Milroy’s rejoinder, and closed the correspondence.
The Cottage, Thorpe-Ambrose, Sunday.
SIR, – Your refusal to answer my questions, unaccompanied as it is by even the shadow of an excuse for such a proceeding, can be interpreted but in one way. Besides being an implied acknowledgment of the correctness of Mrs Milroy’s statement, it is also an implied reflection on my governess’s character. As an act of justice towards a lady who lives under the protection of my roof, and who has given me no reason whatever to distrust her, I shall now show our correspondence to Miss Gwilt: and I shall repeat to her the conversation which I had with Mrs Milroy on this subject, in Mrs Milroy’s presence.
One word more respecting the future relations between us, and I have done. My ideas on certain subjects are, I daresay, the ideas of an old-fashioned man. In my time, we had a code of honour by which we regulated our actions. According to that code, if a man made private inquiries into a lady’s affairs, without being either her husband, her father, or her brother, he subjected himself to the responsibility of justifying his conduct in the estimation of others; and if he evaded that responsibility, he abdicated the position of a gentleman. It is quite possible that this antiquated way of thinking exists no longer; but it is too late for me, at my time of life, to adopt more modern views. I am scrupulously anxious, seeing that we live in a country and a time in which the only court of honour is a police-court, to express myself with the utmost moderation of language upon this the last occasion that I shall have to communicate with you. Allow me, therefore, merely to remark, that our ideas of the conduct which is becoming in a gentleman, differ seriously; and permit me on this account to request that you will consider yourself for the future as a stranger to my family and to myself.
Your obedient servant,
DAVID MILROY.
The Monday morning on which his client received the major’s letter, was the blackest Monday that had yet been marked in Pedgift’s calendar. When Allan’s first angry sense of the tone of contempt in which his friend and neighbour pronounced sentence on him had subsided, it left him sunk in a state of depression from which no efforts made by his travelling companion could rouse him for the rest of the day. Reverting naturally, now that his sentence of banishment had been pronounced, to his early intercourse with the cottage, his memory went back to Neelie, more regretfully and more penitently than it had gone back to her yet. ‘If she had shut the door on me, instead of her father,’ was the bitter reflection with which Allan now reviewed the past, ‘I shouldn’t have had a word to say against it; I should have felt it served me right.’
The next day brought another letter – a welcome letter this time, from Mr Brock. Allan had written to Somersetshire on the subject of refitting the yacht some days since. The letter had found the rector engaged, as he innocently supposed, in protecting his old pupil against the woman whom he had watched in London, and whom he now believed to have followed him back to his own home. Acting under the directions sent to her, Mrs Oldershaw’s housemaid had completed the mystification of Mr Brock. She had tranquillized all further anxiety on the rector’s part, by giving him a written undertaking (in the character of Miss Gwilt), engaging never to approach Mr Armadale, either personally or by letter! Firmly persuaded that he had won the victory at last, poor Mr Brock answered Allan’s note in the highest spirits, expressing some natural surprise at his leaving Thorpe-Ambrose, but readily promising that the yacht should be refitted, and offering the hospitality of the rectory in the heartiest manner.
This letter did wonders in raising Allan’s spirits. It gave him a new interest to look to, entirely disassociated from his past life in Norfolk. He began to count the days that were still to pass before the return of his absent friend. It was then Tuesday. If Midwinter came back from his walking-trip, as he had engaged to come back, in a fortnight, Saturday would find him at Thorpe-Ambrose. A note sent to meet the traveller might bring him to London the same night; and, if all went well, before another week was over, they might be afloat together in the yacht.
The next day passed, to Allan’s relief, without bringing any letters. The spirits of Pedgift rose sympathetically with the spirits of his client. Towards dinner-time he reverted to the mens sana in corpore sano of the ancients, and issued his orders to the head-waiter more royally than ever.
Thursday came, and brought the fatal postman with more news from Norfolk. A letter-writer now stepped on the scene who had not appeared there yet; and the total overthrow of all Allan’s plans for a visit to Somersetshire was accomplished on the spot.
Pedgift Junior happened that morning to be first at the breakfast-table. When Allan came in, he relapsed into his professional manner, and offered a letter to his patron with a bow performed in dreary silence.
‘For me?’ inquired Allan, shrinking instinctively from a new correspondent.
‘For you, sir – from my father,’ replied Pedgift, ‘enclosed in one to myself. Perhaps you will allow me to suggest, by way of preparing you for – for something a little unpleasant, – that we shall want a particularly good dinner to-day; and (if they’re not performing any modern German music to-night,) I think we should do well to finish the evening melodiously at the Opera.’
‘Something wrong at Thorpe-Ambrose?’ asked Allan.
‘Yes, Mr Armadale; something wrong at Thorpe-Ambrose.’
Allan sat down resignedly, and opened the letter.
High Street, Thorpe-Ambrose,
17th July, 1851.
[Private and confidential.]
DEAR SIR, – I cannot reconcile it with my sense of duty to your interests, to leave you any longer in ignorance of reports current in this town and its neighbourhood, which, I regret to say, are reports affecting yourself.
The first intimation of anything unpleasant reached me on Monday last. It was widely rumoured in the town that something had gone wrong at Major Milroy’s with the new governess, and that Mr Armadale was mixed up in it. I paid no heed to this, believing it to be one of the many trumpery pieces of scandal perpetually set going here; and as necessary as the air they breathe, to the comfort of the inhabitants of this highly respectable place.
Tuesday, however, put the matter in a new light. The most interesting particulars were circulated on the highest authority. On Wednesday, the gentry in the neighbourhood took the matter up, and universally sanctioned the view adopted by the town. Today, the public feeling has reached its climax, and I find myself under the necessity of making you acquainted with what has happened.
To begin at the beginning. It is asserted that a correspondence took place last week between Major Milroy and yourself; in which you cast a very serious suspicion on Miss Gwilt’s respectability, without defining your accusation, and without (on being applied to) producing your proofs. Upon this, the major appears to have felt it his duty (while assuring his governess of his own firm belief in her respectability) to inform her of what had happened, in order that she might have no future reason to complain of his having had any concealments from her in a matter affecting her character. Very magnanimous on the major’s part; but you will see directly that Miss Gwilt was more magnanimous still. After expressing her thanks in a most becoming manner, she requested permission to withdraw herself from Major Milroy’s service.
Various reports are in circulation as to the governess’s reason for taking this step.
The authorized version (as sanctioned by the resident gentry) represents Miss Gwilt to have said that she could not condescend – in justice to herself, and in justice to her highly respectable reference – to defend her reputation against undefined imputations cast on it by a comparative stranger. At the same time it was impossible for her to pursue such a course of conduct as this, unless she possessed a freedom of action which was quite incompatible with her continuing to occupy the dependent position of a governess. For that reason she felt it incumbent on her to leave her situation. But while doing this, she was equally det
ermined not to lead to any mis-interpretation of her motives, by leaving the neighbourhood. No matter at what inconvenience to herself, she would remain long enough at Thorpe-Ambrose to await any more definitely-expressed imputations that might be made on her character, and to repel them publicly the instant they assumed a tangible form.
Such is the position which this high-minded lady has taken up, with an excellent effect on the public mind in these parts. It is clearly her interest, for some reason, to leave her situation, without leaving the neighbourhood. On Monday last she established herself in a cheap lodging on the outskirts of the town. And on the same day, she probably wrote to her reference, for yesterday there came a letter from that lady to Major Milroy, full of virtuous indignation, and courting the fullest inquiry. The letter has been shown publicly, and has immensely strengthened Miss Gwilt’s position. She is now considered to be quite a heroine. The Thorpe-Ambrose Mercury has got a leading article about her, comparing her to Joan of Arc. It is considered probable that she will be referred to in the sermon next Sunday. We reckon five strong-minded single ladies in this neighbourhood – and all five have called on her. A testimonial was suggested; but it has been given up at Miss Gwilt’s own request, and a general movement is now on foot to get her employment as a teacher of music. Lastly, I have had the honour of a visit from the lady herself, in her capacity of martyr, to tell me, in the sweetest manner, that she doesn’t blame Mr Armadale; and that she considers him to be an innocent instrument in the hands of other and more designing people. I was carefully on my guard with her; for I don’t altogether believe in Miss Gwilt, and I have my lawyer’s suspicions of the motive that is at the bottom of her present proceedings.
I have written thus far, my dear sir, with little hesitation or embarrassment. But there is unfortunately a serious side to this business as well as a ridiculous side; and I must unwillingly come to it before I close my letter.
It is, I think, quite impossible that you can permit yourself to be spoken of as you are spoken of now, without stirring personally in the matter. You have unluckily made many enemies here, and foremost among them is my colleague, Mr Darch. He has been showing everywhere a somewhat rashly-expressed letter you wrote to him, on the subject of letting the cottage to Major Milroy instead of to himself; and it has helped to exasperate the feeling against you. It is roundly stated in so many words, that you have been prying into Miss Gwilt’s family affairs, with the most dishonourable motives; that you have tried, for a profligate purpose of your own, to damage her reputation, and to deprive her of the protection of Major Milroy’s roof; and that, after having been asked to substantiate by proof the suspicions that you have cast on the reputation of a defenceless woman, you have maintained a silence which condemns you in the estimation of all honourable men.
I hope it is quite unnecessary for me to say that I don’t attach the smallest particle of credit to these infamous reports. But they are too widely spread and too widely believed to be treated with contempt. I strongly urge you to return at once to this place, and to take the necessary measures for defending your character, in concert with me, as your legal adviser. I have formed, since my interview with Miss Gwilt, a very strong opinion of my own on the subject of that lady, which it is not necessary to commit to paper. Suffice it to say here, that I shall have a means to propose to you for silencing the slanderous tongues of your neighbours, on the success of which I stake my professional reputation, if you will only back me by your presence and authority.
It may, perhaps, help to show you the necessity there is for your return, if I mention one other assertion respecting yourself, which is in everybody’s mouth. Your absence is, I blush to tell you, attributed to the meanest of all motives. It is said that you are remaining in London because you are afraid to show your face at Thorpe-Ambrose.
Believe me, dear sir, your faithful servant,
A. PEDGIFT Senr.
Allan was of an age to feel the sting contained in the last sentence of his lawyer’s letter. He started to his feet in a paroxysm of indignation, which revealed his character to Pedgift Junior in an entirely new light.
‘Where’s the time-table?’ cried Allan. ‘I must go back to Thorpe-Ambrose by the next train! If it doesn’t start directly, I’ll have a special engine. I must and will go back instantly, and I don’t care two straws for the expense!’
‘Suppose we telegraph to my father, sir?’ suggested the judicious Pedgift. ‘It’s the quickest way of expressing your feelings, and the cheapest.’
‘So it is,’ said Allan. ‘Thank you for reminding me of it. Telegraph to them! Tell your father to give every man in Thorpe-Ambrose the lie direct, in my name. Put it in capital letters, Pedgift – put it in capital letters!’
Pedgift smiled and shook his head. If he was acquainted with no other variety of human nature, he thoroughly knew the variety that exists in country towns.
‘It won’t have the least effect on them, Mr Armadale,’ he remarked quietly. ‘They’ll only go on lying harder than ever. If you want to upset the whole town, one line will do it. With five shillingsworth of human labour and electric fluid,2 sir (I dabble a little in science after business hours), we’ll explode a bombshell in Thorpe-Ambrose!’ He produced the bombshell on a slip of paper as he spoke: ‘A. Pedgift Junior, to A. Pedgift Senior. – Spread it all over the place that Mr Armadale is coming down by the next train.’
‘More words,’ suggested Allan, looking over his shoulder. ‘Make it stronger.’
‘Leave my father to make it stronger, sir,’ returned the judicious Pedgift. ‘My father is on the spot – and his command of language is something quite extraordinary.’ He rang the bell, and despatched the telegram.
Now that something had been done, Allan subsided gradually into a state of composure. He looked back again at Mr Pedgift’s letter, and then handed it to Mr Pedgift’s son.
‘Can you guess your father’s plan for setting me right in the neighbourhood?’ he asked.
Pedgift the younger shook his wise head. ‘His plan appears to be connected in some way, sir, with his opinion of Miss Gwilt.’
‘I wonder what he thinks of her?’ said Allan.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr Armadale,’ returned Pedgift Junior, ‘if his opinion staggers you a little, when you come to hear it. My father has had a large legal experience of the shady side of the sex – and he learnt his profession at the Old Bailey.’3
Allan made no further inquiries. He seemed to shrink from pursuing the subject, after having started it himself. ‘Let’s be doing something to kill the time,’ he said. ‘Let’s pack up, and pay the bill.’
They packed up, and paid the bill. The hour came, and the train left for Norfolk at last.
While the travellers were on their way back, a somewhat longer telegraphic message than Allan’s was flashing its way past them along the wires, in the reverse direction – from Thorpe-Ambrose to London. The message was in cypher, and signs being interpreted, it ran thus:
‘From Lydia Gwilt to Maria Oldershaw – Good news! He is coming back. I mean to have an interview with him. Everything looks well. Now I have left the cottage, I have no women’s prying eyes to dread, and I can come and go as I please. Mr Midwinter is luckily out of the way. I don’t despair of becoming Mrs Armadale yet. Whatever happens, depend on my keeping away from London, until I am certain of not taking any spies after me to your place. I am in no hurry to leave Thorpe-Ambrose. I mean to be even with Miss Milroy first.’
Shortly after that message was received in London, Allan was back again in his own house. It was evening – Pedgift Junior had just left him – and Pedgift Senior was expected to call on business in half an hour’s time.
CHAPTER V
PEDGIFT’S REMEDY
After waiting to hold a preliminary consultation with his son, Mr Pedgift the elder set forth alone for his interview with Allan at the great house.
Allowing for the difference in their ages, the son was, in this instance, so accurate
ly the reflection of the father, that an acquaintance with either of the two Pedgifts was almost equivalent to an acquaintance with both. Add some little height and size to the figure of Pedgift Junior; give some additional breadth and boldness to his humour, and some additional solidity and composure to his confidence in himself – and the presence and character of Pedgift Senior stood for all general purposes revealed before you.
The lawyer’s conveyance to Thorpe-Ambrose was his own smart gig, drawn by his famous fast-trotting mare. It was his habit to drive himself; and it was one among the trifling external peculiarities in which he and his son differed a little, to affect something of a sporting character in his dress. The drab trousers of Pedgift the elder fitted close to his legs; his boots in dry weather and wet alike, were equally thick in the sole; his coat pockets overlapped his hips, and his favourite summer cravat was of light spotted muslin, tied in the neatest and smallest of bows. He used tobacco like his son, but in a different form. While the younger man smoked, the elder took snuff copiously; and it was noticed among his intimates that he always held his ‘pinch’ in a state of suspense between his box and his nose, when he was going to clinch a good bargain, or to say a good thing. The art of diplomacy enters largely into the practice of all successful men in the lower branch of the law. Mr Pedgift’s form of diplomatic practice had been the same throughout his life, on every occasion when he found his arts of persuasion required at an interview with another man. He invariably kept his strongest argument, or his boldest proposal, to the last, and invariably remembered it at the door (after previously taking his leave), as if it was a purely accidental consideration which had that instant occurred to him. Jocular friends, acquainted by previous experience with this form of proceeding, had given it the name of ‘Pedgift’s postscript’. There were few people in Thorpe-Ambrose who did not know what it meant, when the lawyer suddenly checked his exit at the opened door; came back softly to his chair, with his pinch of snuff suspended between his box and his nose; said, ‘By-the-by, there’s a point occurs to me;’ and settled the question off-hand, after having given it up in despair not a minute before.