Allan opened his lips to protest, and checked himself, in despair of producing the slightest effect. Pedgift Senior bowed in polite acknowledgment of his client’s self-restraint, and took instant advantage of it to go on.
‘All Miss Gwilt’s proceedings,’ he resumed, ‘since your unfortunate correspondence with the major, show me that she is an old hand at deceit. The moment she is threatened with exposure – exposure of some kind, there can be no doubt, after what you discovered in London – she turns your honourable silence to the best possible account, and leaves the major’s service in the character of a martyr. Once out of the house, what does she do next? She boldly stops in the neighbourhood, and serves three excellent purposes by doing so. In the first place, she shows everybody that she is not afraid of facing another attack on her reputation. In the second place, she is close at hand to twist you round her little finger, and to become Mrs Armadale in spite of circumstances, if you (and I) allow her the opportunity. In the third place, if you (and I) are wise enough to distrust her, she is equally wise on her side, and doesn’t give us the first great chance of following her to London, and associating her with her accomplices. Is this the conduct of an unhappy woman who has lost her character in a moment of weakness, and who has been driven unwillingly into a deception to get it back again?’
‘You put it cleverly,’ said Allan, answering with marked reluctance; ‘I can’t deny that you put it cleverly.’
‘Your own common sense, Mr Armadale, is beginning to tell you that I put it justly,’ said Pedgift Senior. ‘I don’t presume to say yet what this woman’s connection may be with those people at Pimlico. All I assert is, that it is not the connection you suppose. Having stated the facts so far, I have only to add my own personal impression of Miss Gwilt. I won’t shock you, if I can help it – I’ll try if I can’t put it cleverly again. She came to my office (as I told you in my letter), no doubt to make friends with your lawyer, if she could – she came to tell me in the most forgiving and Christian manner, that she didn’t blame you.’
‘Do you ever believe in anybody, Mr Pedgift?’ interposed Allan.
‘Sometimes, Mr Armadale,’ returned Pedgift the elder, as unabashed as ever. ‘I believe as often as a lawyer can. To proceed, sir. When I was in the criminal branch of practice, it fell to my lot to take instructions for the defence of women committed for trial, from the women’s own lips. Whatever other difference there might be among them, I got, in time, to notice, among those who were particularly wicked and unquestionably guilty, one point in which they all resembled each other. Tall and short, old and young, handsome and ugly, they all had a secret self-possession that nothing could shake. On the surface they were as different as possible. Some of them were in the state of indignation; some of them were drowned in tears; some of them were full of pious confidence; and some of them were resolved to commit suicide before the night was out. But only put your finger suddenly on the weak point in the story told by any one of them, and there was an end of her rage, or her tears, or her piety, or her despair – and out came the genuine woman, in full possession of all her resources, with a neat little lie that exactly suited the circumstance of the case. Miss Gwilt was in tears, sir – becoming tears that didn’t make her nose red, – and I put my finger suddenly on the weak point in her story. Down dropped her pathetic pocket-handkerchief from her beautiful blue eyes, and out came the genuine woman with the neat little lie that exactly suited the circumstances! I felt twenty years younger, Mr Armadale, on the spot. I declare I thought I was in Newgate again with my note-book in my hand, taking my instruction for the defence!’
‘The next thing, you’ll say, Mr Pedgift,’ cried Allan, angrily, ‘is that Miss Gwilt has been in prison!’
Pedgift Senior calmly rapped his snuff-box, and had his answer ready at a moment’s notice.
‘She may have richly deserved to see the inside of a prison, Mr Armadale; but, in the age we live in, that is one excellent reason for her never having been near any place of the kind. A prison, in the present tender state of public feeling,1 for a charming woman like Miss Gwilt! My dear sir, if she had attempted to murder you or me, and if an inhuman judge and jury had decided on sending her to a prison, the first object of modern society would be to prevent her going into it; and, if that couldn’t be done, the next object would be to let her out again as soon as possible. Read your newspaper, Mr Armadale, and you’ll find we live in piping times for the black sheep of the community – if they are only black enough. I insist on asserting, sir, that we have got one of the blackest of the lot to deal with in this case. I insist on asserting that you have had the rare luck, in these unfortunate inquiries, to pitch on a woman who happens to be a fit object for inquiry, in the interests of the public protection. Differ with me as strongly as you please – but don’t make up your mind finally about Miss Gwilt, until events have put those two opposite opinions of ours to the test that I have proposed. A fairer test there can’t be. I agree with you, that no lady worthy of the name could attempt to force her way in here, after receiving your letter. But I deny that Miss Gwilt is worthy of the name; and I say she will try to force her way in here in spite of you.’
‘And I say she won’t!’ retorted Allan, firmly.
Pedgift Senior leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was a momentary silence – and in that silence, the door-bell rang.
The lawyer and the client both looked expectantly in the direction of the hall.
‘No!’ cried Allan, more angrily than ever.
‘Yes!’ said Pedgift Senior, contradicting him with the utmost politeness.
They waited the event. The opening of the house-door was audible, but the room was too far from it for the sound of voices to reach the ear as well. After a long interval of expectation, the closing of the door was heard at last. Allan rose impetuously, and rang the bell. Mr Pedgift the elder sat sublimely calm, and enjoyed, with a gentle zest, the largest pinch of snuff he had taken yet.
‘Anybody for me?’ asked Allan, when the servant came in.
The man looked at Pedgift Senior, with an expression of unutterable reverence, and answered – ‘Miss Gwilt.’
‘I don’t want to crow over you, sir,’ said Mr Pedgift the elder, when the servant had withdrawn. ‘But what do you think of Miss Gwilt now?’
Allan shook his head in silent discouragement and distress.
‘Time is of some importance, Mr Armadale. After what has just happened, do you still object to taking the course I have had the honour of suggesting to you?’
‘I can’t, Mr Pedgift,’ said Allan. ‘I can’t be the means of disgracing her in the neighbourhood. I would rather be disgraced myself – as I am.’
‘Let me put it in another way, sir. Excuse my persisting. You have been very kind to me and my family; and I have a personal interest, as well as a professional interest in you. If you can’t prevail on yourself to show this woman’s character in its true light, will you take common precautions to prevent her doing any more harm? Will you consent to having her privately watched, as long as she remains in this neighbourhood?’
For the second time, Allan shook his head.
‘Is that your final resolution, sir?’
‘It is, Mr Pedgift; but I am much obliged to you for your advice, all the same.’
Pedgift Senior rose in a state of gentle resignation, and took up his hat. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, and made sorrowfully for the door. Allan rose on his side, innocently supposing that the interview was at an end. Persons better acquainted with the diplomatic habits of his legal adviser, would have recommended him to keep his seat. The time was ripe for ‘Pedgift’s postscript’, and the lawyer’s indicative snuff-box was at that moment in one of his hands, as he opened the door with the other.
‘Good evening,’ said Allan.
Pedgift Senior opened the door – stopped – considered – closed the door again – came back mysteriously with his pinch of snuff in suspense between his box and his nose – and
repeating his invariable formula, ‘By-the-by, there’s a point occurs to me,’ quietly resumed possession of his empty chair.
Allan, wondering, took the seat, in his turn, which he had just left. Lawyer and client looked at each other once more, and the inexhaustible interview began again.
CHAPTER VI
PEDGIFT’S POSTSCRIPT
‘I mentioned that a point had occurred to me, sir,’ remarked Pedgift Senior.
‘You did,’ said Allan.
‘Would you like to hear what it is, Mr Armadale?’
‘If you please,’ said Allan.
‘With all my heart, sir! This is the point. I attach considerable importance – if nothing else can be done – to having Miss Gwilt privately looked after, as long as she stops at Thorpe-Ambrose. It struck me just now at the door, Mr Armadale, that what you are not willing to do for your own security, you might be willing to do for the security of another person.’
‘What other person?’ inquired Allan.
‘A young lady who is a near neighbour of yours, sir. Shall I mention the name, in confidence? Miss Milroy.’
Allan started, and changed colour.
‘Miss Milroy!’ he repeated. ‘Can she be concerned in this miserable business? I hope not, Mr Pedgift; I sincerely hope not,’
‘I paid a visit, in your interests, sir, at the cottage, this morning,’ proceeded Pedgift Senior. ‘You shall hear what happened there, and judge for yourself. Major Milroy has been expressing his opinion of you pretty freely; and I thought it highly desirable to give him a caution. It’s always the way with those quiet addle-headed men – when they do once wake up, there’s no reasoning with their obstinacy, and no quieting their violence. Well, sir, this morning I went to the cottage. The major and Miss Neelie were both in the parlour – miss not looking so pretty as usual; pale, I thought, pale, and worn, and anxious. Up jumps the addle-headed major (I wouldn’t give that, Mr Armadale, for the brains of a man who can occupy himself for half his lifetime in making a clock!) – up jumps the addle-headed major, in the loftiest manner, and actually tries to look me down. Ha! ha! the idea of anybody looking me down, at my time of life. I behaved like a Christian; I nodded kindly to old What’s-o’clock. “Fine morning, major,” says I. “Have you any business with me?” says he. “Just a word,” says I. Miss Neelie, like the sensible girl she is, gets up to leave the room; and what does her ridiculous father do? He stops her. “You needn’t go, my dear; I have nothing to say to Mr Pedgift,” says this old military idiot, and turns my; way, and tries to look me down again. “You are Mr Armadale’s lawyer,” says he; “if you come on any business relating to Mr Armadale, I refer you to my solicitor.” (His solicitor is Darch; and Darch has had enough of me in business, I can tell you!) “My errand here, major, does certainly relate to Mr Armadale,” says I; “but it doesn’t concern your lawyer – at any rate, just yet. I wish to caution you to suspend your opinion of my client, or, if you won’t do that, to be careful how you express it in public. I warn you that our turn is to come, and that you are not at the end yet of this scandal about Miss Gwilt.” It struck me as likely that he would lose his temper when he found himself tackled in that way, and he amply fulfilled my expectations. He was quite violent in his language – the poor weak creature – actually violent with me! I behaved like a Christian again; I nodded kindly, and wished him good morning. When I looked round to wish Miss Neelie good morning too, she was gone. You seem restless, Mr Armadale,’ remarked Pedgift Senior, as Allan, feeling the sting of old recollections, suddenly started out of his chair, and began pacing up and down the room. ‘I won’t try your patience much longer, sir; I am coming to the point.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pedgift,’ said Allan, returning to his seat, and trying to look composedly at the lawyer through the intervening image of Neelie which the lawyer had called up.
‘Well, sir, I left the cottage,’ resumed Pedgift Senior. ‘Just as I turned the corner from the garden into the park, who should I stumble on but Miss Neelie herself, evidently on the look-out for me. “I want to speak to you for one moment, Mr Pedgift!” says she. “Does Mr Armadale think me mixed up in this matter?” She was violently agitated – tears in her eyes, sir, of the sort which my legal experience has not accustomed me to see. I quite forgot myself; I actually gave her my arm, and led her away gently among the trees. (A nice position to find me in, if any of the scandal-mongers of the town had happened to be walking in that direction!) “My dear Miss Milroy,” says I, “why should Mr Armadale think you mixed up in it?"’
‘You ought to have told her at once that I thought nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Allan, indignantly. ‘Why did you leave her a moment in doubt about it?’
‘Because I am a lawyer, Mr Armadale,’ rejoined Pedgift Senior, drily. ‘Even in moments of sentiment, under convenient trees, with a pretty girl on my arm, I can’t entirely divest myself of my professional caution. Don’t look distressed, sir, pray! I set things right in due course of time. Before I left Miss Milroy, I told her, in the plainest terms, no such idea had ever entered your head.’
‘Did she seem relieved?’ asked Allan.
’She was able to dispense with the use of my arm, sir,’ replied old Pedgift, as drily as ever, ‘and to pledge me to inviolable secresy on the subject of our interview. She was particularly desirous that you should hear nothing about it. If you are at all anxious on your side, to know why I am now betraying her confidence, I beg to inform you that her confidence related to no less a person than the lady who favoured you with a call just now – Miss Gwilt.’
Allan, who had been once more restlessly pacing the room, stopped, and returned to his chair.
‘Is this serious?’ he asked.
‘Most serious, sir,’ returned Pedgift Senior. ‘I am betraying Miss Neelie’s secret, in Miss Neelie’s own interest. Let us go back to that cautious question I put to her. She found some little difficulty in answering it – for the reply involved her in a narrative of the parting interview between her governess and herself. This is the substance of it. The two were alone when Miss Gwilt took leave of her pupil; and the words she used (as reported to me by Miss Neelie) were these. She said, “Your mother has declined to allow me to take leave of her. Do you decline too?” Miss Neelie’s answer was a remarkably sensible one for a girl of her age. “We have not been good friends,” she said, “and I believe we are equally glad to part with each other. But I have no wish to decline taking leave of you.” Saying that, she held out her hand. Miss Gwilt stood looking at her steadily, without taking it, and addressed her in these words: “You are not Mrs Armadaleyet.” Gently, sir! Keep your temper. It’s not at all wonderful that a woman conscious of having her own mercenary designs on you, should attribute similar designs to a young lady who happens to be your near neighbour. Let me go on. Miss Neelie, by her own confession (and quite naturally, I think), was excessively indignant. She owns to having answered, “You shameless creature, how dare you say that to me!” Miss Gwilt’s rejoinder was rather a remarkable one – the anger, on her side, appears to have been of the cool, still, venomous kind. “Nobody ever yet injured me, Miss Milroy,” she said, “without sooner or later bitterly repenting it. You will bitterly repent it.” She stood looking at her pupil for a moment in dead silence, and then left the room. Miss Neelie appears to have felt the imputation fastened on her, in connection with you, far more sensitively than she felt the threat. She had previously known, as everybody had known in the house, that some unacknowledged proceedings of yours in London had led to Miss Gwilt’s voluntary withdrawal from her situation. And she now inferred, from the language addressed to her, that she was actually believed by Miss Gwilt to have set those proceedings on foot, to advance herself, and to injure her governess, in your estimation. Gently, sir, gently! I haven’t quite done yet. As soon as Miss Neelie had recovered herself, she went upstairs to speak to Mrs Milroy. Miss Gwilt’s abominable imputation had taken her by surprise; and she went to her mother first for enlightenmen
t and advice. She got neither the one nor the other. Mrs Milroy declared she was too ill to enter on the subject, and she has remained too ill to enter on it ever since. Miss Neelie applied next to her father. The major stopped her the moment your name passed her lips: he declared he would never hear you mentioned again by any member of his family. She has been left in the dark from that time to this – not knowing how she might have been misrepresented by Miss Gwilt, or what falsehoods you might have been led to believe of her. At my age and in my profession, I don’t profess to have any extraordinary softness of heart. But I do think, Mr Armadale, that Miss Neelie’s position deserves our sympathy.’
‘I’ll do anything to help her!’ cried Allan, impulsively. ‘You don’t know, Mr Pedgift, what reason I have—’ He checked himself, and confusedly repeated his first words. ‘I’ll do anything,’ he reiterated earnestly – ‘anything in the world to help her!’
‘Do you really mean that, Mr Armadale? Excuse my asking – but you can very materially help Miss Neelie if you choose!’
‘How?’ asked Allan. ‘Only tell me how!’
‘By giving me your authority, sir, to protect her from Miss Gwilt.’
Having fired that shot point-blank at his client, the wise lawyer waited a little to let it take its effect before he said any more.
Allan’s face clouded, and he shifted uneasily from side to side of his chair.
‘Your son is hard enough to deal with, Mr Pedgift,’ he said. ‘And you are harder than your son.’