Armadale (60 page)

‘Yes, yes,' said Mrs Milroy, vacantly. ‘You're a good girl; you shall go to school.'

The cruel brevity of the reply, and the tone in which it was spoken, told Neelie plainly that her mother's attention had been wandering far away from her, and that it was useless and needless to prolong the interview. She turned aside quietly, without a word of remonstrance. It was nothing new, in her experience, to find herself shut out from her mother's sympathies. She looked at her eyes in the glass, and, pouring out some cold water, bathed her face. ‘Miss Gwilt shan't see I've been crying!' thought Neelie, as she went back to the bedside to take her leave. ‘I've tired you out, mamma,' she said gently. ‘Let me go now; and let me come back a little later when you have had some rest.'

‘Yes,' repeated her mother, as mechanically as ever; ‘a little later, when I have had some rest.'

Neelie left the room. The minute after the door had closed on her, Mrs Milroy rang the bell for her nurse. In the face of the narrative she had just heard, in the face of every reasonable estimate of probabilities, she held to her own jealous conclusions as firmly as ever. ‘Mr Armadale may believe her, and my daughter may believe her,' thought the furious woman. ‘But I know the major – and she can't deceive
me!'

The nurse came in. ‘Prop me up,' said Mrs Milroy. ‘And give me my desk. I want to write.'

‘You're excited,' replied the nurse. ‘You're not fit to write.'

‘Give me the desk,' reiterated Mrs Milroy.

‘Anything more?' asked Rachel, repeating her invariable formula as she placed the desk on the bed.

‘Yes. Come back in half-an-hour. I shall want you to take a letter to the great house.'

The nurse's sardonic composure deserted her for once. ‘Mercy on us!' she exclaimed, with an accent of genuine surprise. ‘What next? You don't mean to say you're going to write—?'

‘I am going to write to Mr Armadale,' interposed Mrs Milroy; ‘and you are going to take the letter to him, and wait for an answer – and, mind this, not a living soul but our two selves must know of it in the house.'

‘Why are you writing to Mr Armadale?' asked Rachel. ‘And why is nobody to know of it but our two selves?'

‘Wait,' rejoined Mrs Milroy; ‘and you will see.'

The nurse's curiosity, being a woman's curiosity, declined to wait.

‘I'll help you, with my eyes open,' she said. ‘But I won't help you blindfold.'

‘Oh, if I only had the use of my limbs!' groaned Mrs Milroy. ‘You wretch, if I could only do without you!'

‘You have the use of your head,' retorted the impenetrable nurse. ‘And you ought to know better than to trust me by halves, at this time of day.'

It was brutally put; but it was true – doubly true, after the opening of Miss Gwilt's letter. Mrs Milroy gave way.

‘What do you want to know?' she asked. 'tell me – and leave me.'

‘I want to know what you are writing to Mr Armadale about?'

‘About Miss Gwilt.'

‘What has Mr Armadale to do with you and Miss Gwilt?'

Mrs Milroy held up the letter which had been returned to her by the authorities at the Post-Office.

‘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!'

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.

D
EAR
S
IR
, – 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,
A
NNE
M
ILROY
.

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 would 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.