Armadale (40 page)

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 words 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, D
ECIMUS
B
ROCK
.

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.

Ladies' Toilette Repository,

June 20th, Eight in the Evening.

M
Y
D
EAR
L
YDIA
, – 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 mentioning 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.'

‘At what address, ma'am?'

There I had him once more. ‘You have found my address out for yourself, sir,' I said. ‘The directory will tell you my name, if
you wish to find that out for yourself also; otherwise, you are welcome to my card.'

‘Many thanks, ma'am. If your friend wishes to communicate with Mr Armadale, I will give you
my
card in return.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Thank you, ma'am.'

‘Good afternoon, sir.'

‘Good afternoon, ma'am.'

So we parted. I went my way to an appointment at my place of business, and he went his in a hurry; which is of itself suspicious. What I can't get over, is his heartlessness. Heaven help the people who send for
him
to comfort them on their death-beds!

The next consideration is, What are we to do? If we don't find out the right way to keep this old wretch in the dark, he may be the ruin of us at Thorpe-Ambrose just as we are within easy reach of our end in view. Wait up till I come to you, with my mind free, I hope, from the other difficulty which is worrying me here. Was there ever such ill-luck as ours? Only think of that man deserting his congregation, and coming to London just at the very time when we have answered the advertisement, and may expect the inquiries to be made next week! I have no patience with him – his bishop ought to interfere.

Affectionately yours,

M
ARIA
O
LDERSHAW.

West Place, June 20th.

M
Y
P
OOR
O
LD
D
EAR
, – How very little you know of my sensitive nature, as you call it! Instead of feeling offended when you left me, I went to your piano, and forgot all about you till your messenger came. Your letter is irresistible; I have been laughing over it till I am quite out of breath. Of all the absurd stories I ever read, the story you addressed to the Somersetshire clergyman is the most ridiculous. And as for your interview with him in the street, it is a perfect sin to keep it to ourselves. The public ought really to enjoy it in the form of a farce at one of the theatres.