He spoke those words – apparently (as events then stood) the most irrelevant to the matter in hand that had yet escaped him; actually (as events were soon to be) the most vitally important that he had uttered yet – he spoke those words absently, looking about him in confusion, and trying vainly to recover the lost thread of his narrative.
Midwinter compassionately helped him. ‘You were telling me,’ he said, ‘that your son had been the cause of your losing your place. How did that happen?’
‘In this way, sir,’ said Mr Bashwood, getting back again excitedly into the right train of thought. ‘His employers consented to let him off– but they came down on his security; and I was the man. I suppose they were not to blame; the security covered their loss. I couldn’t pay it all out of my savings; I had to borrow – on the word of a man, sir, I couldn’t help it – I had to borrow. My creditor pressed me; it seemed cruel, but, if he wanted the money, I suppose it was only just. I was sold out of house and home. I daresay other gentlemen would have said what Sir John said; I daresay most people would have refused to keep a steward who had had the bailiffs after him, and his furniture sold in the neighbourhood. That was how it ended, Mr Midwinter. I needn’t detain you any longer – here is Sir John’s address, if you wish to apply to him.’
Midwinter generously refused to receive the address.
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said Mr Bashwood, getting tremulously on his legs. ‘There is nothing more, I think, except – except that Mr Pedgift will speak for me, if you wish to inquire into my conduct in his service. I’m very much indebted to Mr Pedgift; he’s a little rough with me sometimes, but if he hadn’t taken me into his office, I think I should have gone to the workhouse when I left Sir John, I was so broken-down.’ He picked up his dingy old hat from the floor. ‘I won’t intrude any longer, sir. I shall be happy to call again, if you wish to have time to consider before you decide.’
‘I want no time to consider, after what you have told me,’ replied Midwinter warmly, his memory busy, while he spoke, with the time when he had told his story to Mr Brock, and was waiting for a generous word in return, as the man before him was waiting now. ‘To-day is Saturday,’ he went on. ‘Can you come and give me my first lesson on Monday morning? I beg your pardon,’ he added, interrupting Mr Bashwood’s profuse expressions of acknowledgment, and stopping him on his way out of the room; ‘there is one thing we ought to settle, ought we not? We haven’t spoken yet about your own interest in this matter – I mean, about the terms.’ He referred a little confusedly to the pecuniary part of the subject. Mr Bashwood (getting nearer and nearer to the door) answered him more confusedly still.
‘Anything, sir – anything you think right. I won’t intrude any longer – I’ll leave it to you and Mr Armadale.’
‘I will send for Mr Armadale, if you like,’ said Midwinter, following him into the hall. ‘But I am afraid he has as little experience in matters of this kind as I have. Perhaps, if you see no objection, we might be guided by Mr Pedgift?’
Mr Bashwood caught eagerly at the last suggestion, pushing his retreat, while he spoke, as far as the front door. ‘Yes, sir – oh, yes, yes! nobody better than Mr Pedgift. Don’t – pray don’t, disturb Mr Armadale!’ His watery eyes looked quite wild with nervous alarm as he turned round for a moment in the light of the hall-lamp, to make that polite request. If sending for Allan had been equivalent to unchaining a ferocious watch-dog, Mr Bashwood could hardly have been more anxious to stop the proceeding. ‘I wish you kindly good evening, sir,’ he went on, getting out to the steps. ‘I’m much obliged to you. I will be scrupulously punctual on Monday morning – I hope – I think – I’m sure you will soon learn everything I can teach you. It’s not difficult – oh, dear, no – not difficult at all! I wish you kindly good evening, sir. A beautiful night; yes, indeed, a beautiful night for a walk home.’
With those words, all dropping out of his lips one on the top of the other, and without noticing, in his agony of embarrassment at effecting his departure, Midwinter’s outstretched hand, he went noiselessly down the steps, and was lost in the darkness of the night.
As Midwinter turned to re-enter the house, the dining-room door opened, and his friend met him in the hall.
‘Has Mr Bashwood gone?’ asked Allan.
‘He has gone,’ replied Midwinter, ‘after telling me a very sad story, and leaving me a little ashamed of myself for having doubted him without any just cause. I have arranged that he is to give me my first lesson in the steward’s office on Monday morning.’
‘All right,’ said Allan. ‘You needn’t be afraid, old boy, of my interrupting you over your studies. I daresay I’m wrong – but I don’t like Mr Bashwood.’
‘I daresay I’m wrong,’ retorted the other, a little petulantly. ‘I do.’
The Sunday morning found Midwinter in the park, waiting to intercept the postman, on the chance of his bringing more news from Mr Brock.
At the customary hour the man made his appearance, and placed the expected letter in Midwinter’s hands. He opened it, far away from all fear of observation this time, and read these lines:
MY DEAR MIDWINTER, – I write more for the purpose of quieting your anxiety than because I have anything definite to say. In my last hurried letter I had no time to tell you that the elder of the two women whom I met in the Gardens had followed me, and spoken to me in the street. I believe I may characterize what she said (without doing her any injustice) as a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end. At any rate, she confirmed me in the suspicion that some underhand proceeding is on foot, of which Allan is destined to be the victim, and that the prime mover in the conspiracy is the vile woman who helped his mother’s marriage and who hastened his mother’s death.
Feeling this conviction, I have not hesitated to do, for Allan’s sake, what I would have done for no other creature in the world. I have left my hotel, and have installed myself (with my old servant Robert) in a house opposite the house to which I traced the two women. We are alternately on the watch (quite unsuspected, I am certain, by the people opposite) day and night. All my feelings, as a gentleman and a clergyman, revolt from such an occupation as I am now engaged in; but there is no other choice. I must either do this violence to my own self-respect, or I must leave Allan, with his easy nature, and in his assailable position, to defend himself against a wretch who is prepared, I firmly believe, to take the most unscrupulous advantage of his weakness and his youth. His mother’s dying entreaty has never left my memory; and God help me, I am now degrading myself in my own eyes in consequence.
There has been some reward already for the sacrifice. This day (Saturday) I have gained an immense advantage – I have at last seen the woman’s face. She went out with her veil down as before; and Robert kept her in view, having my instructions, if she returned to the house, not to follow her back to the door. She did return to the house; and the result of my precaution was, as I had expected, to throw her off her guard. I saw her face unveiled at the window, and afterwards again in the balcony. If any occasion should arise for describing her particularly, you shall have the description. At present I need only say that she looks the full age (five-and-thirty) at which you estimated her, and that she is by no means so handsome a woman as I had (I hardly know why) expected to see.
This is all I can now tell you. If nothing more happens by Monday or Tuesday next, I shall have no choice but to apply to my lawyers for assistance; though I am most unwilling to trust this delicate and dangerous matter in other hands than mine. Setting my own feelings, however, out of the question, the business which has been the cause of my journey to London is too important to be trifled with much longer as I am trifling with it now. In any and every case, depend on my keeping you informed of the progress of events; and believe me
Yours truly,
DECIMUS BROCK
Midwinter secured the letter as he had secured the letter that preceded it – side by side in his pocket-book with the narrative of Allan’s Dream.
‘How many days more?’ he asked himself, as he went back to the house. ‘How many days more?’
Not many. The time he was waiting for, was a time close at hand.
Monday came, and brought Mr Bashwood, punctual to the appointed hour. Monday came, and found Allan immersed in his preparations for the picnic. He held a series of interviews, at home and abroad, all through the day. He transacted business with Mrs Gripper, with the butler, and with the coachman, in their three several departments of eating, drinking, and driving. He went to the town to consult his professional advisers on the subject of the Broads, and to invite both the lawyers, father and son (in the absence of anybody else in the neighbourhood whom he could ask), to join the picnic. Pedgift Senior (in his department) supplied general information, but begged to be excused from appearing at the picnic, on the score of business engagements. Pedgift Junior (in his department) added all the details; and, casting business engagements to the winds, accepted the invitation with the greatest pleasure. Returning from the lawyer’s office, Allan’s next proceeding was to go to the major’s cottage and obtain Miss Milroy’s approval of the proposed locality for the pleasure-party. This object accomplished, he returned to his own house, to meet the last difficulty now left to encounter – the difficulty of persuading Midwinter to join the expedition to the Broads.
On first broaching the subject, Allan found his friend impenetrably resolute to remain at home. Midwinter’s natural reluctance to meet the major and his daughter, after what had happened at the cottage, might probably have been overcome. But Midwinter’s determination not to allow Mr Bashwood’s course of instruction to be interrupted, was proof against every effort that could be made to shake it. After exerting his influence to the utmost, Allan was obliged to remain contented with a compromise. Midwinter promised, not very willingly, to join the party towards evening, at the place appointed for a gipsy tea-making, which was to close the proceedings of the day. To this extent he would consent to take the opportunity of placing himself on a friendly footing with the Milroys. More he could not concede, even to Allan’s persuasion, and for more it would be useless to ask.
The day of the picnic came. The lovely morning, and the cheerful bustle of preparation for the expedition, failed entirely to tempt Midwinter into altering his resolution. At the regular hour he left the breakfast-table to join Mr Bashwood in the steward’s office. The two were quietly closeted over the books, at the back of the house, while the packing for the picnic went on in front. Young Pedgift (short in stature, smart in costume, and self-reliant in manner) arrived some little time before the hour for starting, to revise all the arrangements, and to make any final improvements which his local knowledge might suggest. Allan and he were still busy in consultation when the first hitch occurred in the proceedings. The woman-servant from the cottage was reported to be waiting below for an answer to a note from her young mistress, which was placed in Allan’s hands.
On this occasion Miss Milroy’s emotions had apparently got the better of her sense of propriety. The tone of the letter was feverish, and the handwriting wandered crookedly up and down, in deplorable freedom from all proper restraint.
Oh, Mr Armadale (wrote the major’s daughter), such a misfortune! What are we to do? Papa has got a letter from grandmamma this morning about the new governess. Her reference has answered all the questions, and she’s ready to come at the shortest notice. Grandmamma thinks (how provoking!) the sooner the better; and she says we may expect her – I mean the governess – either to-day or to-morrow. Papa says (he will be so absurdly considerate to everybody!) that we can’t allow Miss Gwilt to come here (if she comes to-day) and find nobody at home to receive her. What is to be done? I am ready to cry with vexation. I have got the worst possible impression (though grandmamma says she is a charming person) of Miss Gwilt. Can you suggest something, dear Mr Armadale? I’m sure papa would give way if you could. Don’t stop to write – send me a message back. I have got a new hat for the picnic; and, oh, the agony of not knowing whether I am to keep it on or take it off. – Yours truly, E. M.
‘The devil take Miss Gwilt!’ said Allan, staring at his legal adviser in a state of helpless consternation.
‘With all my heart, sir – I don’t wish to interfere,’ remarked Pedgift Junior. ‘May I ask what’s the matter?’
Allan told him. Mr Pedgift the Younger might have his faults, but a want of quickness of resource was not among them.
‘There’s a way out of the difficulty, Mr Armadale,’ he said. ‘If the governess comes to-day, let’s have her at the picnic’
Allan’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
‘All the horses and carriages in the Thorpe-Ambrose stables are not wanted for this small party of ours,’ proceeded Pedgift Junior. ‘Of course not! Very good. If Miss Gwilt comes to-day, she can’t possibly get here before five o’clock. Good again. You order an open carriage to be waiting at the major’s door at that time, Mr Armadale; and I’ll give the man his directions where to drive to. When the governess comes to the cottage, let her find a nice little note of apology (along with the cold fowl, or whatever else they give her after her journey) begging her to join us at the picnic, and putting a carriage at her own sole disposal to take her there. Gad, sir!’ said young Pedgift, gaily, ‘she must be a Touchy One if she thinks herself neglected after that!’
‘Capital!’ cried Allan. ‘She shall have every attention. I’ll give her the pony-chaise and the white harness, and she shall drive herself, if she likes.’
He scribbled a line to relieve Miss Milroy’s apprehensions, and gave the necessary orders for the pony-chaise. Ten minutes later, the carriages for the pleasure-party were at the door.
‘Now we’ve taken all this trouble about her,’ said Allan, reverting to the governess as they left the house, ‘I wonder, if she does come to-day, whether we shall see her at the picnic!’
‘Depends entirely on her age, sir,’ remarked young Pedgift, pronouncing judgment with the happy confidence in himself which eminently distinguished him. ‘If she’s an old one, she’ll be knocked up with the journey, and she’ll stick to the cold fowl and the cottage. If she’s a young one, either I know nothing of women, or the pony in the white harness will bring her to the picnic’
They started for the major’s cottage.
CHAPTER VIII
THE NORFOLK BROADS
The little group gathered together in Major Milroy’s parlour to wait for the carriages from Thorpe-Ambrose would hardly have conveyed the idea, to any previously uninstructed person introduced among them, of a party assembled in expectation of a picnic. They were almost dull enough, so far as outward appearances went, to have been a party assembled in expectation of a marriage.
Even Miss Milroy herself, though conscious of looking her best in her bright muslin dress and her gaily-feathered new hat, was at this inauspicious moment Miss Milroy under a cloud. Although Allan’s note had assured her, in Allan’s strongest language, that the one great object of reconciling the governess’s arrival with the celebration of the picnic, was an object achieved, the doubt still remained whether the plan proposed – whatever it might be – would meet with her father’s approval. In a word, Miss Milroy declined to feel sure of her day’s pleasure until the carriage made its appearance and took her from the door. The major, on his side, arrayed for the festive occasion in a tight blue frock-coat which he had not worn for years, and threatened with a whole long day of separation from his old friend and comrade the clock, was a man out of his element, if ever such a man existed yet. As for the friends who had been asked at Allan’s request – the widow lady (otherwise Mrs Pentecost) and her son (the Reverend Samuel) in delicate health – two people less capable, apparently, of adding to the hilarity of the day could hardly have been discovered in the length and breadth of all England. A young man who plays his part in society by looking on in green spectacles, and listening with a sickly smile, may be a prodigy of intellect and a mine of virtue, but he is hardly,
perhaps, the right sort of man to have at a picnic. An old lady afflicted with deafness, whose one inexhaustible subject of interest is the subject of her son, and who (on the happily rare occasions when that son opens his lips) asks everybody eagerly, ‘What does my boy say?’ is a person to be pitied in respect of her infirmities, and a person to be admired in respect of her maternal devotedness, but not a person, if the thing could possibly be avoided, to take to a picnic. Such a man, nevertheless, was the Reverend Samuel Pentecost, and such a woman was the Reverend Samuel’s mother; and, in the dearth of any other producible guests, there they were, engaged to eat, drink, and be merry for the day at Mr Armadale’s pleasure-party to the Norfolk Broads.
The arrival of Allan, with his faithful follower, Pedgift Junior, at his heels, roused the flagging spirits of the party at the cottage. The plan for enabling the governess to join the picnic, if she arrived that day, satisfied even Major Milroy’s anxiety to show all proper attention to the lady who was coming into his house. After writing the necessary note of apology and invitation, and addressing it in her very best handwriting to the new governess, Miss Milroy ran upstairs to say good-by to her mother, and returned, with a smiling face and a side-look of relief directed at her father, to announce that there was nothing now to keep any of them a moment longer indoors. The company at once directed their steps to the garden-gate, and were there met face to face by the second great difficulty of the day. How were the six persons of the picnic to be divided between the two open carriages that were in waiting for them?
Here, again, Pedgift Junior exhibited his invaluable faculty of contrivance. This highly-cultivated young man possessed in an eminent degree an accomplishment more or less peculiar to all the young men of the age we live in – he was perfectly capable of taking his pleasure without forgetting his business. Such a client as the Master of Thorpe-Ambrose fell but seldom in his father’s way, and to pay special but unobtrusive attention to Allan all through the day, was the business of which young Pedgift, while proving himself to be the life and soul of the picnic, never once lost sight from the beginning of the merrymaking to the end. He had detected the state of affairs between Miss Milroy and Allan at a glance; and he at once provided for his client’s inclinations in that quarter, by offering (in virtue of his local knowledge) to lead the way in the first carriage, and by asking Major Milroy and the curate if they would do him the honour of accompanying him. ‘We shall pass a very interesting place to a military man, sir,’ said young Pedgift, addressing the major, with his happy and unblushing confidence, ‘the remains of a Roman encampment. And my father, sir, who is a subscriber,’ proceeded this rising lawyer, turning to the curate, ‘wished me to ask your opinion of the new Infant School buildings at Little Gill Beck. Would you kindly give it me, as we go along?’ He opened the carriage-door, and helped in the major and the curate, before they could either of them start any difficulties. The necessary result followed. Allan and Miss Milroy rode together in the same carriage, with the extra convenience of a deaf old lady in attendance to keep the squire’s compliments within the necessary limits.