Leaving Midwinter reading and re-reading the rector’s cheering letter, as if he was bent on getting every sentence in it by heart, Allan went out rather earlier than usual, to make his daily inquiry at the cottage – or, in plainer words, to make a fourth attempt at improving his acquaintance with Miss Milroy. The day had begun encouragingly, and encouragingly it seemed destined to go on. When Allan turned the corner of the second shrubbery, and entered the little paddock where he and the major’s daughter had first met, there was Miss Milroy herself loitering to and fro on the grass, to all appearance on the watch for somebody.4
She gave a little start when Allan appeared, and came forward without hesitation to meet him. She was not in her best looks. Her rosy complexion had suffered under confinement to the house, and a marked expression of embarrassment clouded her pretty face.
‘I hardly know how to confess it, Mr Armadale,’ she said, speaking eagerly, before Allan could utter a word, ‘but I certainly ventured here this morning, in the hope of meeting with you. I have been very much distressed – I have only just heard, by accident, of the manner in which mamma received the present of fruit you so kindly sent to her. Will you try to excuse her? She has been miserably ill for years, and she is not always quite herself. After your being so very very kind to me (and to papa), I really could not help stealing out here in the hope of seeing you, and telling you how sorry I was. Pray forgive and forget, Mr Armadale – pray do!’ Her voice faltered over the last words, and, in her eagerness to make her mother’s peace with him, she laid her hand on his arm.
Allan was himself a little confused. Her earnestness took him by surprise, and her evident conviction that he had been offended, honestly distressed him. Not knowing what else to do, he followed his instincts, and possessed himself of her hand to begin with.
‘My dear Miss Milroy, if you say a word more you will distress me next,’ he rejoined, unconsciously pressing her hand closer and closer, in the embarrassment of the moment. ‘I never was in the least offended; I made allowances – upon my honour I did – for poor Mrs Milroy’s illness. Offended!’ cried Allan, reverting energetically to the old complimentary strain. ‘I should like to have my basket of fruit sent back every day – if I could only be sure of its bringing you out into the paddock the first thing in the morning.’
Some of Miss Milroy’s missing colour began to appear again in her cheeks. ‘Oh, Mr Armadale, there is really no end to your kindness,’ she said; ‘you don’t know how you relieve me!’ She paused; her spirits rallied with as happy a readiness of recovery as if they had been the spirits of a child; and her native brightness of temper sparkled again in her eyes, as she looked up, shyly smiling in Allan’s face. ‘Don’t you think,’ she asked demurely, ‘that it is almost time now to let go of my hand?’
Their eyes met. Allan followed his instincts for the second time. Instead of releasing her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. All the missing tints of the rosier sort returned to Miss Milroy’s complexion on the instant. She snatched away her hand as if Allan had burnt it.
‘I’m sure that’s wrong, Mr Armadale,’ she said – and turned her head aside quickly, for she was smiling in spite of herself.
‘I meant it as an apology for – for holding your hand too long,’ stammered Allan. ‘An apology can’t be wrong – can it?’
There are occasions (though not many) when the female mind accurately appreciates an appeal to the force of pure reason. This was one of the occasions. An abstract proposition had been presented to Miss Milroy, and Miss Milroy was convinced. If it was meant as an apology, that (she admitted) made all the difference. ‘I only hope,’ said the little coquette, looking at him slyly, ‘you’re not misleading me. Not that it matters much now,’ she added, with a serious shake of her head. ‘If we have committed any improprieties, Mr Armadale, we are not likely to have the opportunity of committing many more.’
‘You’re not going away?’ exclaimed Allan in great alarm.
‘Worse than that, Mr Armadale. My new governess is coming.’
‘Coming?’ repeated Allan. ‘Coming already?’
‘As good as coming, I ought to have said – only I didn’t know you wished me to be so very particular. We got the answers to the advertisements this morning. Papa and I opened them and read them together half an hour ago – and we both picked out the same letter from all the rest. I picked it out, because it was so prettily expressed; and papa picked it out, because the terms were so reasonable. He is going to send the letter up to grandmamma in London, by to-day’s post; and if she finds everything satisfactory, on inquiry, the governess is to be engaged. You don’t know how dreadfully nervous I am getting about it already – a strange governess is such an awful prospect. But it is not quite so bad as going to school; and I have great hopes of this new lady, because she writes such a nice letter! As I said to papa, it almost reconciles me to her horrid, unromantic name.’
‘What is her name?’ asked Allan. ‘Brown? Grubb? Scraggs? Anything of that sort?’
‘Hush! hush! Nothing quite so horrible as that. Her name is Gwilt. Dreadfully unpoetical, isn’t it? Her reference must be a respectable person, though; for she lives in the same part of London as grandmamma. Stop, Mr Armadale! we are going the wrong way. No; I can’t wait to look at those lovely flowers of yours this morning – and (many thanks) I can’t accept your arm. I have stayed here too long already. Papa is waiting for his breakfast; and I must run back every step of the way. Thank you for making those kind allowances for mamma; thank you again and again – and good-by!’
‘Won’t you shake hands?’ asked Allan.
She gave him her hand. ‘No more apologies, if you please, Mr Armadale,’ she said saucily. Once more their eyes met; and once more the plump dimpled little hand found its way to Allan’s lips. ‘It isn’t an apology this time!’ cried Allan, precipitately defending himself. ‘It’s – it’s a mark of respect.’
She started back a few steps, and burst out laughing. ‘You won’t find me in your grounds again, Mr Armadale,’ she said merrily, ‘till I have got Miss Gwilt to take care of me!’ With that farewell, she gathered up her skirts, and ran back across the paddock at the top of her speed.
Allan stood watching her in speechless admiration till she was out of sight. His second interview with Miss Milroy had produced an extraordinary effect on him. For the first time since he had become the master of Thorpe-Ambrose, he was absorbed in serious consideration of what he owed to his new position in life. ‘The question is,’ pondered Allan, ‘whether I hadn’t better set myself right with my neighbours by becoming a married man? I’ll take the day to consider; and if I keep in the same mind about it, I’ll consult Midwinter to-morrow morning.’
When the morning came, and when Allan descended to the breakfast-room, resolute to consult his friend on the obligations that he owed to his neighbours in general, and to Miss Milroy in particular, no Midwinter was to be seen. On making inquiry it appeared that he had been observed in the hall; that he had taken from the table a letter which the morning’s post had brought to him; and that he had gone back immediately to his own room. Allan at once ascended the stairs again, and knocked at his friend’s door.
‘May I come in?’ he asked.
‘Not just now,’ was the answer.
‘You have got a letter, haven’t you?’ persisted Allan. ‘Any bad news? Anything wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m not very well this morning. Don’t wait breakfast for me; I’ll come down as soon as I can.’
No more was said on either side. Allan returned to the breakfast-room a little disappointed. He had set his heart on rushing headlong into his consultation with Midwinter, and here was the consultation indefinitely delayed. ‘What an odd fellow he is!’ thought Allan. ‘What on earth can he be doing, locked in there by himself?’
He was doing nothing. He was sitting by the window, with the letter which had reached him that morning, open in his hand. The handwriting was Mr Brock’s, and the word
s written were these:
My dear Midwinter, – I have literally only two minutes before post-time to tell you that I have just met (in Kensington Gardens) with the woman, whom we both only know, thus far, as the woman with the red Paisley shawl. I have traced her and her companion (a respectable-looking elderly lady) to their residence – after having distinctly heard Allan’s name mentioned between them.5 Depend on my not losing sight of the woman until I am satisfied that she means no mischief at Thorpe-Ambrose; and expect to hear from me again as soon as I know how this strange discovery is to end. – Very truly yours, DECIMUS BROCK.
After reading the letter for the second time Midwinter folded it up thoughtfully, and placed it in his pocket-book, side by side with the manuscript narrative of Allan’s dream.
‘Your discovery will not end with you, Mr Brock,’ he said. ‘Do what you will with the woman, when the time comes the woman will be here.’
He looked for a moment in the glass – saw that he had composed himself sufficiently to meet Allan’s eye – and went downstairs to take his place at the breakfast table.
CHAPTER V
MOTHER OLDERSHAW ON HER GUARD
1. – From Mrs Oldershaw (Diana Street, Pimlico) to Miss Gwilt
( West Place, Old Brompton )
Ladies’ Toilette Repository,
June 20th, Eight in the Evening.
MY DEAR LYDIA, – About three hours have passed, as well as I can remember, since I pushed you unceremoniously inside my house in West Place; and, merely telling you to wait till you saw me again, banged the door to between us, and left you alone in the hall. I know your sensitive nature, my dear, and I am afraid you have made up your mind by this time that never yet was a guest treated so abominably by her hostess as I have treated you.
The delay that has prevented me from explaining my strange conduct is, believe me, a delay for which I am not to blame. One of the many delicate little difficulties which beset so essentially confidential a business as mine, occurred here (as I have since discovered) while we were taking the air this afternoon in Kensington Gardens. I see no chance of being able to get back to you for some hours to come, and I have a word of very urgent caution for your private ear, which has been too long delayed already. So I must use the spare minutes as they come, and write.
Here is caution the first. On no account venture outside the door again this evening; and be very careful, while the daylight lasts, not to show yourself at any of the front windows. I have reason to fear that a certain charming person now staying with me may possibly be watched. Don’t be alarmed, and don’t be impatient; you shall know why.
I can only explain myself by going back to our unlucky meeting in the gardens with that reverend gentleman who was so obliging as to follow us both back to my house.
It crossed my mind, just as we were close to the door, that there might be a motive for the parson’s anxiety to trace us home, far less creditable to his taste, and far more dangerous to both of us than the motive you supposed him to have. In plainer words, Lydia, I rather doubted whether you had met with another admirer; and I strongly suspected that you had encountered another enemy instead. There was no time to tell you this. There was only time to see you safe into the house, and to make sure of the parson (in case my suspicions were right) by treating him as he had treated us – I mean, by following him in his turn.
I kept some little distance behind him at first, to turn the thing over in my mind, and to be satisfied that my doubts were not misleading me. We have no concealments from each other; and you shall know what my doubts were. I was not surprised at your recognizing him; he is not at all a common-looking old man; and you had seen him twice in Somersetshire – once when you asked your way of him to Mrs Armadale’s house; and once when you saw him again on your way back to the railroad. But I was a little puzzled (considering that you had your veil down on both those occasions, and your veil down also when we were in the Gardens,) at his recognizing, you. I doubted his remembering your figure, in a summer dress, after he had only seen it in a winter dress; and though we were talking when he met us, and your voice is one among your many charms, I doubted his remembering your voice either. And yet I felt persuaded that he knew you. ‘How?’ you will ask. My dear, as ill-luck would have it, we were speaking at the time of young Armadale. I firmly believe that the name was the first thing that struck him; and when he heard that, your voice certainly, and your figure perhaps, came back to his memory. ‘And what if it did?’ you may say. Think again, Lydia, and tell me whether the parson of the place where Mrs Armadale lived, was not likely to be Mrs Armadale’s friend? If he was her friend, the very first person to whom she would apply for advice after the manner in which you frightened her, and after what you most injudiciously said on the subject of appealing to her son, would be the clergyman of the parish – and the magistrate too, as the landlord at the inn himself told you.
You will now understand why I left you in that extremely uncivil manner, and I may go on to what happened next.
I followed the old gentleman till he turned into a quiet street, and then accosted him with respect for the Church written (I flatter myself) in every line of my face.
‘Will you excuse me,’ I said, ‘if I venture to inquire, sir, whether you recognized the lady who was walking with me when you happened to pass us in the Gardens?’
‘Will you excuse my asking, ma’am, why you put that question?’ was all the answer I got.
‘I will endeavour to tell you, sir,’ I said. ‘If my friend is not an absolute stranger to you, I should wish to request your attention to a very delicate subject, connected with a lady deceased, and with her son who survives her.’
He was staggered; I could see that. But he was sly enough at the same time to hold his tongue and wait till I said something more.
‘If I am wrong, sir, in thinking that you recognized my friend,’ I went on, ‘I beg to apologize. But I could hardly suppose it possible that a gentleman in your profession would follow a lady home who was a total stranger to him.’
There I had him. He coloured up (fancy that, at his age!), and owned the truth, in defence of his own precious character.
‘I have met with the lady once before, and I acknowledge that I recognized her in the Gardens,’ he said. ‘You will excuse me if I decline entering into the question of whether I did, or did not, purposely follow her home. If you wish to be assured that your friend is not an absolute stranger to me, you now have that assurance; and if you have anything particular to say to me, I leave you to decide whether the time has come to say it.’
He waited, and looked about. I waited, and looked about. He said the street was hardly a fit place to speak of a delicate subject in. I said the street was hardly a fit place to speak of a delicate subject in. He didn’t offer to take me to where he lived. I didn’t offer to take him to where I lived. Have you ever seen two strange cats, my dear, nose to nose on the tiles? If you have, you have seen the parson and me done to the life.
‘Well, ma’am,’ he said, at last, ‘shall we go on with our conversation in spite of circumstances?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said; ‘we are both of us, fortunately, of an age to set circumstances at defiance’ (I had seen the old wretch looking at my grey hair, and satisfying himself that his character was safe if he was seen with me).
After all this snapping and snarling, we came to the point at last. I began by telling him that I feared his interest in you was not of the friendly sort. He admitted that much – of course, in defence of his own character once more. I next repeated to him everything you had told me about your proceedings in Somersetshire, when we first found that he was following us home. Don’t be alarmed, my dear – I was acting on principle. If you want to make a dish of lies digestible, always give it a garnish of truth. Well, having appealed to the reverend gentleman’s confidence in this manner, I next declared that you had become an altered woman since he had seen you last. I revived that dead wretch, your husband (without mentioni
ng names, of course), established him (the first place I thought of) in business at the Brazils, and described a letter which he had written, offering to forgive his erring wife, if she would repent and go back to him. I assured the parson that your husband’s noble conduct had softened your obdurate nature; and then, thinking I had produced the right impression, I came boldly to close quarters with him. I said, ‘At the very time when you met us, sir, my unhappy friend was speaking in terms of touching self-reproach of her conduct to the late Mrs Armadale. She confided to me her anxiety to make some atonement, if possible, to Mrs Armadale’s son; and it is at her entreaty (for she cannot prevail on herself to face you) that I now beg to inquire whether Mr Armadale is still in Somersetshire, and whether he would consent to take back in small instalments the sum of money which my friend acknowledges that she received by practising on Mrs Armadale’s fears.’ Those were my very words. A neater story (accounting so nicely for everything) was never told; it was a story to melt a stone. But this Somersetshire parson is harder than stone itself. I blush for him, my dear, when I assure you that he was evidently insensible enough to disbelieve every word I said about your reformed character, your husband in the Brazils, and your penitent anxiety to pay the money back. It is really a disgrace that such a man should be in the Church; such cunning as his is in the last degree unbecoming in a member of a sacred profession.
‘Does your friend propose to join her husband by the next steamer!’ was all he condescended to say, when I had done.
I acknowledge I was angry. I snapped at him. I said – ‘Yes, she does.’
‘How am I to communicate with her?’ he asked.
I snapped at him again. ‘By letter – through me.’
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