Neelie answered in expressive silence. She handed him the pocket-book, with the final entry completed, on the side of ‘Bad,’ in these terms – ‘Our marriage is impossible, unless Allan commits perjury.’
The lovers looked at each other across the insuperable obstacle of Blackstone, in speechless dismay.
‘Shut up the book,’ said Neelie, resignedly. ‘I have no doubt we should find the police, and the prison, and the hair-cutting – all punishments for perjury, exactly as I told you! – if we looked at the next page. But we needn’t trouble ourselves to look; we have found out quite enough already. It’s all over with us. I must go to school on Saturday, and you must manage to forget me as soon as you can. Perhaps we may meet in after-life, and you may be a widower and I may be a widow, and the cruel law may consider us emancipated, when it’s too late to be of the slightest use. By that time no doubt I shall be old and ugly, and you will naturally have ceased to care about me, and it will all end in the grave, and the sooner the better. Good-by,’ concluded Neelie, rising mournfully, with the tears in her eyes. ‘It’s only prolonging our misery to stop here, unless – unless you have anything to propose?’
‘I’ve got something to propose,’ cried the headlong Allan. ‘It’s an entirely new idea. Would you mind trying the blacksmith at Gretna Green? ’1
‘No earthly consideration,’ answered Neelie indignantly, ‘would induce me to be married by a blacksmith!’
‘Don’t be offended,’ pleaded Allan; ‘I meant it for the best. Lots of people in our situation have tried the blacksmith, and found him quite as good as a clergyman, and a most amiable man, I believe, into the bargain. Never mind! We must try another string to our bow.’
‘We haven’t got another to try,’ said Neelie.
‘Take my word for it,’ persisted Allan stoutly, ‘there must be ways and means of circumventing Blackstone (without perjury), if we only knew of them. It’s a matter of law, and we must consult somebody in the profession. I daresay it’s a risk. But nothing venture, nothing have. What do you say to young Pedgift? He’s a thorough good fellow. I’m sure we could trust young Pedgift to keep our secret.’
‘Not for worlds!’ exclaimed Neelie. ‘You may be willing to trust your secrets to the vulgar little wretch, I won’t have him trusted with mine. I hate him. No!’ she continued, with a mounting colour and a peremptory stamp of her foot on the grass. ‘I positively forbid you to take any of the Thorpe-Ambrose people into your confidence. They would instantly suspect me, and it would be all over the place in a moment. My attachment may be an unhappy one,’ remarked Neelie, with her handkerchief to her eyes, ‘and papa may nip it in the bud, but I won’t have it profaned by the town-gossip!’
‘Hush! hush!’ said Allan. ‘I won’t say a word at Thorpe-Ambrose, I won’t indeed!’ He paused, and considered for a moment. ‘There’s another way!’ he burst out, brightening up on the instant. ‘We’ve got the whole week before us. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll go to London!’
There was a sudden rustling – heard neither by one nor the other – among the trees behind them that screened Miss Gwilt. One more of the difficulties in her way (the difficulty of getting Allan to London), now promised to be removed by an act of Allan’s own will.
‘To London?’ repeated Neelie, looking up in astonishment.
‘To London!’ reiterated Allan. ‘That’s far enough away from Thorpe-Ambrose, surely? Wait a minute, and don’t forget that this is a question of law. Very well, I know some lawyers in London who managed all my business for me when I first came in for this property; they are just the men to consult. And if they decline to be mixed up in it, there’s their head clerk, who is one of the best fellows I ever met with in my life. I asked him to go yachting with me, I remember; and though he couldn’t go, he said he felt the obligation all the same. That’s the man to help us. Blackstone’s a mere infant to him. Don’t say it’s absurd; don’t say it’s exactly like me. Do pray hear me out. I won’t breathe your name or your father’s. I’ll describe you as “a young lady to whom I am devotedly attached”. And if my friend the clerk asks where you live, I’ll say the north of Scotland, or the west of Ireland, or the Channel Islands, or anywhere else you like. My friend the clerk is a total stranger to Thorpe-Ambrose and everybody in it (which is one recommendation); and in five minutes’ time, he’d put me up to what to do (which is another). If you only knew him! He’s one of those extraordinary men who appear once or twice in a century – the sort of man who won’t allow you to make a mistake if you try. All I have got to say to him (putting it short) is, “My dear fellow, I want to be privately married, without perjury.” All he has got to say to me (putting it short) is, “You must do So-and-So, and So-and-So; and you must be careful to avoid This, That, and The other. I have nothing in the world to do but to follow his directions; and you have nothing in the world to do but what the bride always does when the bridegroom is ready and waiting!’ His arm stole round Neelie’s waist, and his lips pointed the moral of the last sentence with that inarticulate eloquence which is so uniformly successful in persuading a woman against her will.
All Neelie’s meditated objections dwindled, in spite of her, to one feeble little question. ‘Suppose I allow you to go, Allan?’ she whispered, toying nervously with the stud in the bosom of his shirt, ‘shall you be very long away?’
‘I’ll be off to-day,’ said Allan, ‘by the eleven o’clock train. And I’ll be back to-morrow, if I and my friend the clerk can settle it all in time. If not, by Wednesday at latest.’
‘You’ll write to me every day?’ pleaded Neelie, clinging a little closer to him. ‘I shall sink under the suspense, if you don’t promise to write to me every day.’
Allan promised to write twice a day, if she liked – letter-writing, which was such an effort to other men, was no effort to him!
‘And mind, whatever those people may say to you in London,’ proceeded Neelie, ‘I insist on your coming back for me. I positively decline to run away, unless you promise to fetch me.’
Allan promised for the second time, on his sacred word of honour, and at the full compass of his voice. But Neelie was not satisfied even yet. She reverted to first principles, and insisted on knowing whether Allan was quite sure he loved her. Allan called heaven to witness how sure he was; and got another question directly for his pains. Could he solemnly declare that he would never regret taking Neelie away from home? Allan called heaven to witness again, louder than ever. All to no purpose! The ravenous female appetite for tender protestations still hungered for more. ‘I know what will happen one of these days,’ persisted Neelie. ‘You will see some other girl who is prettier than I am; and you will wish you had married her instead of Me!’
As Allan opened his lips for a final outburst of asseveration, the stable-clock at the great house was faintly audible in the distance, striking the hour. Neelie started guiltily. It was breakfast-time at the cottage – in other words, time to take leave. At the last moment her heart went back to her father; and her head sank on Allan’s bosom as she tried to say, Good-by. ‘Papa has always been so kind to me, Allan,’ she whispered, holding him back tremulously when he turned to leave her. ‘It seems so guilty and so heartless to go away from him and be married in secret. Oh, do, do think before you really go to London; is there no way of making him a little kinder and juster to you?’ The question was useless; the major’s resolutely unfavourable reception of Allan’s letter rose in Neelie’s memory, and answered her as the words passed her lips. With a girl’s impulsiveness, she pushed Allan away before he could speak, and signed to him impatiently to go. The conflict of contending emotions, which she had mastered thus far, burst its way outward in spite of her after he had waved his hand for the last time, and had disappeared in the depths of the dell. When she turned from the place, on her side, her long-restrained tears fell freely at last, and made the lonely way back to the cottage the dimmest prospect that Neelie had seen for many a long day past.
As sh
e hurried homeward, the leaves parted behind her, and Miss Gwilt stepped softly into the open space. She stood there in triumph, tall, beautiful, and resolute. Her lovely colour brightened while she watched Neelie’s retreating figure hastening lightly away from her over the grass.
‘Cry, you little fool!’ she said, with her quiet clear tones, and her steady smile of contempt. ‘Cry as you have never cried yet! You have seen the last of your sweetheart.’
CHAPTER XII
A SCANDAL AT THE STATION
An hour later, the landlady at Miss Gwilt’s lodgings was lost in astonishment, and the clamorous tongues of the children were in a state of ungovernable revolt. ‘Unforeseen circumstances’ had suddenly obliged the tenant of the first floor to terminate the occupation of her apartments, and to go to London that day by the eleven o’clock train.
‘Please to have a fly at the door, at half-past ten,’ said Miss Gwilt, as the amazed landlady followed her upstairs. ‘And excuse me, you good creature, if I beg and pray not to be disturbed till the fly comes.’
Once inside her room, she locked the door, and then opened her writing-desk. ‘Now for my letter to the major!’ she said. ‘How shall I word it?’
A moment’s consideration apparently decided her. Searching through her collection of pens, she carefully selected the worst that could be found, and began the letter by writing the date of the day on a soiled sheet of note-paper, in crooked clumsy characters, which ended in a blot made purposely with the feather of the pen. Pausing, sometimes to think a little, sometimes to make another blot, she completed the letter in these words:
HONDSIR, – It is on my conscience to tell you something, which I think you ought to know. You ought to know of the goings-on of Miss, your daughter, with young Mister Armadale. I wish you to make sure, and what is more, I advise you to be quick about it, if she is going the way you want her to go, when she takes her morning walk before breakfast. I scorn to make mischief, where there is true love on both sides. But I don’t think the young man means truly by Miss. What I mean is, I think Miss only has his fancy. Another person, who shall be nameless betwixt us, has his true heart. Please to pardon my not putting my name; I am only an humble person, and it might get me into trouble. This is all at present, dear sir, from yours,
A WELL-WISHER.
‘There!’ said Miss Gwilt, as she folded the letter up. ‘If I had been a professed novelist, I could hardly have written more naturally in the character of a servant than that!’ She wrote the necessary address to Major Milroy; looked admiringly for the last time at the coarse and clumsy writing which her own delicate hand had produced; and rose to post the letter herself, before she entered next on the serious business of packing up. ‘Curious!’ she thought, when the letter had been posted, and she was back again making her travelling preparations in her own room; ‘here I am, running headlong into a frightful risk – and I never was in better spirits in my life!’
The boxes were ready when the fly was at the door, and Miss Gwilt was equipped (as becomingly as usual) in her neat travelling costume. The thick veil, which she was accustomed to wear in London, appeared on her country straw-bonnet for the first time. ‘One meets such rude men occasionally in the railway,’ she said to the landlady. ‘And though I dress quietly, my hair is so very remarkable.’ She was a little paler than usual; but she had never been so sweet-tempered and engaging, so gracefully cordial and friendly, as now, when the moment of departure had come. The simple people of the house were quite moved at taking leave of her. She insisted on shaking hands with the landlord – on speaking to him in her prettiest way, and sunning him in her brightest smiles. ‘Come!’ she said to the landlady, ‘you have been so kind, you have been so like a mother to me, you must give me a kiss at parting.’ She embraced the children all together in the lump, with a mixture of humour and tenderness delightful to see, and left a shilling among them to buy a cake. ‘If I was only rich enough to make it a sovereign,’ she whispered to the mother, ‘how glad I should be!’ The awkward lad who ran on errands stood waiting at the fly-door. He was clumsy, he was frowsy, he had a gaping mouth and a turn-up nose – but the ineradicable female delight in being charming, accepted him, for all that, in the character of a last chance. ‘You dear dingy John!’ she said kindly at the carriage door. ‘I am so poor I have only sixpence to give you – with my very best wishes. Take my advice, John – grow to be a fine man, and find yourself a nice sweetheart! Thank you a thousand times!’ She gave him a friendly little pat on the cheek with two of her gloved fingers, and smiled, and nodded, and got into the fly.
‘Armadale next!’ she said to herself as the carriage drove off.
Allan’s anxiety not to miss the train had brought him to the station in better time than usual. After taking his ticket and putting his portmanteau under the porter’s charge, he was pacing the platform and thinking of Neelie – when he heard the rustling of a lady’s dress behind him, and turning round to look, found himself face to face with Miss Gwilt.
There was no escaping her this time. The station wall was on his right hand, and the line was on his left; a tunnel was behind him, and Miss Gwilt was in front, inquiring in her sweetest tones whether Mr Armadale was going to London.
Allan coloured scarlet with vexation and surprise. There he was, obviously waiting for the train; and there was his portmanteau close by, with his name on it, already labelled for London! What answer but the true one could he make after that? Could he let the train go without him, and lose the precious hours so vitally important to Neelie and himself? Impossible! Allan helplessly confirmed the printed statement on his portmanteau, and heartily wished himself at the other end of the world as he said the words.
‘How very fortunate!’ rejoined Miss Gwilt. ‘I am going to London too. Might I ask you, Mr Armadale (as you seem to be quite alone), to be my escort on the journey?’
Allan looked at the little assembly of travellers, and travellers’ friends, collected on the platform, near the booking-office door. They were all Thorpe-Ambrose people. He was probably known by sight, and Miss Gwilt was probably known by sight, to every one of them. In sheer desperation, hesitating more awkwardly than ever, he produced his cigar-case. ‘I should be delighted,’ he said, with an embarrassment which was almost an insult under the circumstances. ‘But I – I’m what the people who get sick over a cigar, call a slave to smoking.’
‘I delight in smoking!’ said Miss Gwilt, with undiminished vivacity and good humour. ‘It’s one of the privileges of the men which I have always envied. I’m afraid, Mr Armadale, you must think I am forcing myself on you. It certainly looks like it. The real truth is, I want particularly to say a word to you in private about Mr Midwinter.’
The train came up at the same moment. Setting Midwinter out of the question, the common decencies of politeness left Allan no alternative but to submit. After having been the cause of her leaving her situation at Major Milroy’s, after having pointedly avoided her only a few days since on the high-road, to have declined going to London in the same carriage with Miss Gwilt would have been an act of downright brutality which it was simply impossible to commit. ‘Damn her!’ said Allan, internally, as he handed his travelling companion into an empty carriage, officiously placed at his disposal, before all the people at the station, by the guard. ‘You shan’t be disturbed, sir,’ the man whispered confidentially, with a smile, and a touch of his hat. Allan could have knocked him down with the utmost pleasure. ‘stop!’ he said, from the window. ‘I don’t want the carriage—’ It was useless; the guard was out of hearing; the whistle blew, and the train started for London.
The select assembly of travellers’ friends, left behind on the platform, congregated in a circle on the spot, with the station-master in the centre.
The station-master – otherwise, Mr Mack – was a popular character in the neighbourhood. He possessed two social qualifications which invariably impress the average English mind – he was an old soldier, and he was a man of few words. The c
onclave on the platform insisted on taking his opinion, before it committed itself positively to an opinion of its own. A brisk fire of remarks exploded, as a matter of course, on all sides; but everybody’s view of the subject ended interrogatively, in a question aimed point-blank at the station-master’s ears.
‘She’s got him, hasn’t she?’ ‘She’ll come back “Mrs Armadale”, won’t she?’ ‘He’d better have stuck to Miss Milroy, hadn’t he?’ ‘Miss Milroy stuck to him. She paid him a visit at the great house, didn’t she?’ ‘Nothing of the sort; it’s a shame to take the girl’s character away. She was caught in a thunderstorm close by; he was obliged to give her shelter; and she’s never been near the place since. Miss Gwilt’s been there, if you like, with no thunderstorm to force her in; and Miss Gwilt’s off with him to London in a carriage all to themselves, eh, Mr Mack?’ ‘Ah, he’s a soft one, that Armadale! with all his money, to take up with a red-haired woman, a good eight or nine years older than he is! She’s thirty if she’s a day. That’s what I say, Mr Mack. What do you say?’ ‘Older or younger, she’ll rule the roost at Thorpe-Ambrose; and I say, for the sake of the place, and for the sake of trade, let’s make the best of it; and Mr Mack, as a man of the world, sees it in the same light as I do, don’t you, sir?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said the station-master, with his abrupt military accent, and his impenetrable military manner, ‘she’s a devilish fine woman. And, when I was Mr Armadale’s age, it’s my opinion, if her fancy had laid that way, she might have married Me.’
With that expression of opinion the station-master wheeled to the right, and intrenched himself impregnably in the stronghold of his own office.