Armadale by Wilkie Collins
‘Did he now?’ rejoined the landlady, with an appearance of the greatest interest. ‘Behaved badly to you – almost broke your heart, didn’t he? Ah, it will come home to him, sooner or later. Don’t you fear! Honour your father and mother, wasn’t put on Moses’s tables of stone for nothing, Mr Bashwood. Where may he be, and what is he doing now, sir?’
The question was in effect almost the same as the question which Midwinter had put when the circumstances had been described to him. As Mr Bashwood had answered it on the former occasion, so (in nearly the same words) he answered it now.
‘My son is in London, ma’am, for all I know to the contrary. He was employed, when I last heard of him, in no very creditable way, at the Private Inquiry Office—’
At those words, he suddenly checked himself. His face flushed, his eyes brightened; he pushed away the cup which had just been filled for him, and rose from his seat. The landlady started back a step. There was something in her lodger’s face that she had never seen in it before.
‘I hope I’ve not offended you, sir,’ said the woman, recovering her self-possession, and looking a little too ready to take offence on her side, at a moment’s notice.
‘Far from it, ma’am, far from it!’ he rejoined in a strangely eager, hurried way. ‘I have just remembered something – something very important. I must go upstairs – it’s a letter, a letter, a letter. I’ll come back to my tea, ma’am. I beg your pardon, I’m much obliged to you, you’ve been very kind – I’ll say good-by, if you’ll allow me, for the present.’ To the landlady’s amazement, he cordially shook hands with her, and made for the door, leaving tea and teapot to take care of themselves.
The moment he reached his own room, he locked himself in. For a little while he stood holding by the chimney-piece, waiting to recover his breath. The moment he could move again, he opened his writing-desk on the table. ‘That for you, Mr Pedgift and Son!’ he said, with a snap of his fingers as he sat down. ‘I’ve got a son too!’
There was a knock at the door – a knock, soft, considerate, and confidential. The anxious landlady wished to know whether Mr Bash-wood was ill, and begged to intimate for the second time, that she earnestly trusted she had given him no offence.
‘No! no!’ he called through the door. ‘I’m quite well – I’m writing, ma’am, I’m writing – please to excuse me. She’s a good woman; she’s an excellent woman,’ he thought when the landlady had retired. ‘I’ll make her a little present. My mind’s so unsettled, I might never have thought of it but for her. Oh, if my boy is at the office still! Oh, if I can only write a letter that will make him pity me!’
He took up his pen, and sat thinking anxiously, thinking long, before he touched the paper. Slowly, with many patient pauses to think and think again, and with more than ordinary care to make his writing legible, he traced these lines:
MY DEAR JAMES, – You will be surprised, I am afraid, to see my handwriting. Pray don’t suppose I am going to ask you for money, or to reproach you for having sold me out of house and home when you forfeited your security, and I had to pay. I am willing, and anxious, to let bygones be bygones, and to forget the past.
It is in your power (if you are still at the Private Inquiry Office) to do me a great service. I am in sore anxiety and trouble, on the subject of a person in whom I am interested. The person is a lady. Please don’t make game of me for confessing this, if you can help it. If you knew what I am now suffering, I think you would be more inclined to pity than to make game of me.
I would enter into particulars, only I know your quick temper, and I fear exhausting your patience. Perhaps, it may be enough to say, that I have reason to believe the lady’s past life has not been a very creditable one, and that I am interested – more interested than words can tell – in finding out what her life has really been, and in making the discovery within a fortnight from the present time.4
Though I know very little about the ways of business in an office like yours, I can understand that, without first having the lady’s present address, nothing can be done to help me. Unfortunately, I am not yet acquainted with her present address. I only know that she went to town to-day, accompanied by a gentleman, in whose employment I now am, and who (as I believe) will be likely to write to me for money before many days more are over his head.
Is this circumstance of a nature to help us? I venture to say ‘us’, because I count already, my dear boy, on your kind assistance and advice. Don’t let money stand between us – I have saved a little something, and it is all freely at your disposal. Pray, pray write to me by return of post! If you will only try your best to end the dreadful suspense under which I am now suffering, you will atone for all the grief and disappointment you caused me in times that are past, and you will confer an obligation that he will never forget, on,
Your affectionate Father,
FELIX BASHWOOD.
After waiting a little, to dry his eyes, Mr Bashwood added the date and address, and directed the letter to his son, at ‘The Private Inquiry Office, Shadyside Place, London.’ That done, he went out at once, and posted his letter with his own hands. It was then Monday; and, if the answer was sent by return of post, the answer would be received on Wednesday morning.
The interval day, the Tuesday, was passed by Mr Bashwood in the steward’s office at the great house. He had a double motive for absorbing himself as deeply as might be in the various occupations connected with the management of the estate. In the first place, employment helped him to control the devouring impatience with which he looked for the coming of the next day. In the second place, the more forward he was with the business of the office, the more free he would be to join his son in London, without attracting suspicion to himself by openly neglecting the interests placed under his charge.
Towards the Tuesday afternoon, vague rumours of something wrong at the cottage, found their way (through Major Milroy’s servants) to the servants at the great house, and attempted ineffectually through this latter channel to engage the attention of Mr Bashwood, impenetrably fixed on other things. The major and Miss Neelie had been shut up together in mysterious conference; and Miss Neelie’s appearance after the close of the interview, plainly showed that she had been crying. This had happened on the Monday afternoon; and on the next day (that present Tuesday) the major had startled the household by announcing briefly that his daughter wanted a change to the air of the sea-side, and that he proposed taking her himself, by the next train, to Lowestoft. The two had gone away together, both very serious and silent, but both, apparently, very good friends, for all that. Opinions at the great house attributed this domestic revolution to the reports current on the subject of Allan and Miss Gwilt. Opinions at the cottage rejected that solution of the difficulty, on practical grounds. Miss Neelie had remained inaccessibly shut up in her own room, from the Monday afternoon to the Tuesday morning when her father took her away. The major, during the same interval, had not been outside the door, and had spoken to nobody. And Mrs Milroy, at the first attempt of her new attendant to inform her of the prevailing scandal in the town, had sealed the servant’s lips by flying into one of her terrible passions, the instant Miss Gwilt’s name was mentioned. Something must have happened, of course, to take Major Milroy and his daughter so suddenly from home – but that something was certainly not Mr Armadale’s scandalous elopement, in broad daylight, with Miss Gwilt.
The afternoon passed, and the evening passed, and no other event happened but the purely private and personal event which had taken place at the cottage. Nothing occurred (for nothing in the nature of things could occur) to dissipate the delusion on which Miss Gwilt had counted – the delusion which all Thorpe-Ambrose now shared with Mr Bashwood, that she had gone privately to London with Allan, in the character of Allan’s future wife.
On the Wednesday morning, the postman, entering the street in which Mr Bashwood lived, was encountered by Mr Bashwood himself, so eager to know, if there was a letter for him, that he had come out without his
These were the terms, in which Bashwood the younger answered his father’s supplication for help – after having previously ruined his father’s prospects for life:
Shadyside Place, Tuesday, July 29.
MY DEAR DAD, – We have some little practice in dealing with mysteries at this office; but the mystery of your letter beats me altogether. Are you speculating on the interesting hidden frailties of some charming woman? Or, after your experience of matrimony, are you actually going to give me a stepmother at this time of day? Whichever it is, upon my life your letter interests me.
I am not joking, mind, – though the temptation is not an easy one to resist. On the contrary, I have given you a quarter of an hour of my valuable time already. The place you date from sounded somehow familiar to me. I referred back to the memorandum book, and found that I was sent down to Thorpe-Ambrose to make private inquiries not very long since. My employer was a lively old lady, who was too sly to give us her right name and address. As a matter of course, we set to work at once, and found out who she was. Her name is Mrs Oldershaw – and if you think of her for my stepmother, I strongly recommend you to think again before you make her Mrs Bashwood.
If it is not Mrs Oldershaw, then all I can do, so far, is to tell you how you may find out the unknown lady’s address. Come to town yourself, as soon as you get the letter you expect from the gentleman who has gone away with her (I hope he is not a handsome young man, for your sake); and call here. I will send somebody to help you in watching his hotel or lodging; and if he communicates with the lady, or the lady with him, you may consider her address discovered from that moment. Once let me identify her, and know where she is, – and you shall see all her charming little secrets as plainly as you see the paper on which your affectionate son is now writing to you.
A word more about the terms. I am as willing as you are to be friends again; but, though I own you were out of pocket by me once, I can’t afford to be out of pocket by you. It must be understood that you are answerable for all the expenses of the inquiry. We may have to employ some of the women attached to this office, if your lady is too wide-awake, or too nice-looking, to be dealt with by a man. There will be cab-hire, and postage stamps – admissions to public amusements, if she is inclined that way – shillings for pew-openers, if she is serious, and takes our people into churches to hear popular preachers, and so on. My own professional services you shall have gratis; but I can’t lose by you as well. Only remember that – and you shall have your way. Bygones shall be bygones, and we will forget the past.
Your affectionate Son,
JAMES BASHWOOD.
In the ecstasy of seeing help placed at last within his reach, the father put the son’s atrocious letter to his lips. ‘My good boy!’ he murmured tenderly. ‘My dear, good boy!’
He put the letter down, and fell into a new train of thought. The next question to face was the serious question of time. Mr Pedgift had told him Miss Gwilt might be married in a fortnight. One day of the fourteen had passed already, and another was passing. He beat his hand impatiently on the table at his side, wondering how soon the want of money would force Allan to write to him from London. ‘To-morrow?’ he asked himself. ‘Or next day?’
The morrow passed; and nothing happened. The next day came – and the letter arrived! It was on business, as he had anticipated; it asked for money, as he had anticipated – and there, at the end of it, in a post-script, was the address added, concluding with the words, ‘You may count on my staying here till further notice.’
He gave one deep gasp of relief; and instantly busied himself – though there were nearly two hours to spare before the train started for London – in packing his bag. The last thing he put in was his blue satin cravat. ’she likes bright colours,’ he said, ‘and she may see me in it yet!’
CHAPTER XIV
MISS GWILT’S DIARY
All Saints’ Terrace, New Road, London, July 28th, Monday night. – I can hardly hold my head up, I am so tired. But, in my situation, I dare not trust anything to memory. Before I go to bed, I must write my customary record of the events of the day.
So far, the turn of luck in my favour (it was long enough before it took the turn!) seems likely to continue. I succeeded in forcing Armadale – the brute required nothing short of forcing – to leave Thorpe-Ambrose for London, alone in the same carriage with me, before all the people in the station. There was a full attendance of dealers in small scandal, all staring hard at us, and all evidently drawing their own conclusions. Either I knew nothing of Thorpe-Ambrose – or the town-gossip is busy enough by this time with Mr Armadale and Miss Gwilt.
I had some difficulty with him for the first half-hour after we left the station. The guard (delightful man! I felt so grateful to him!) had shut us up together in expectation of half-a-crown at the end of the journey. Armadale was suspicious of me, and he showed it plainly. Little by little I tamed my wild beast – partly by taking care to display no curiosity about his journey to town, and partly by interesting him on the subject of his friend Midwinter; dwelling especially on the opportunity that now offered itself for a reconciliation between them. I kept harping on this string till I set his tongue going, and made him amuse me as a gentleman is bound to do when he has the honour of escorting a lady on a long railway journey.
What little mind he has was full, of course, of his own affairs and Miss Milroy’s. No words can express the clumsiness he showed in trying to talk about himself, without taking me into his confidence or mentioning Miss Milroy’s name. He was going to London, he gravely informed me, on a matter of indescribable interest to him. It was a secret for the present, but he hoped to tell it me soon; it had made a great difference already in the way in which he looked at the slanders spoken of him in Thorpe-Ambrose; he was too happy to care what the scandal-mongers said of him now, and he should soon stop their mouths by appearing in a new character that would surprise them all. So he blundered on, with the firm persuasion that he was keeping me quite in the dark. It was hard not to laugh, when I thought of my anonymous letter on its way to the major; but I managed to control myself – though, I must own, with some difficulty. As the time wore on, I began to feel a terrible excitement: the position was, I think, a little too much for me. There I was, alone with him, talking in the most innocent, easy, familiar manner, and having it in my mind all the time, to brush his life out of my way, when the moment comes, as I might brush a stain off my gown. It made my blood leap, and my cheeks flush. I caught myself laughing once or twice much louder than I ought – and long before we got to London I thought it desirable to put my face in hiding by pulling down my veil.
There was no difficulty, on reaching the terminus, in getting him to come in the cab with me to the hotel where Midwinter is staying. He was all eagerness to be reconciled with his dear friend – principally, I have no doubt, because he wants the dear friend to lend a helping hand to the elopement. The real difficulty lay, of course, with Midwinter. My sudden journey to London had allowed me no opportunity of writing to combat his superstitious conviction that he and his former friend are better apart. I thought it wise to leave Armadale in the cab at the door, and to go into the hotel by myself to pave the way for him.
Fortunately, Midwinter had not gone out. His delight at seeing me some days sooner than he had hoped, had something infectious in it, I suppose. Pooh! I may own the truth to my own diary! There was a moment when I forgot everything in the world but our two selves as completely as he did. I felt as if I was back in my ’teens – until I remembered the lout in the cab at the door. And then I was five-and-thirty again in an instant.
His face altered when he heard who was below, and what it was I wanted of him – he looked, not angry but distressed. He yielded, however, before long, not to my reasons, for I gave him none, but to my entreaties. His old fondness for his friend might possibly have had some share in persuading him against his w
I waited in the sitting-room while he went down to the door; so I knew nothing of what passed between them when they first saw each other again. But, oh, the difference between the two men when the interval had passed, and they came upstairs together and joined me. They were both agitated, but in such different ways! The hateful Armadale, so loud and red and clumsy; the dear, lovable Midwinter, so pale and quiet, with such a gentleness in his voice when he spoke, and such tenderness in his eyes every time they turned my way. Armadale overlooked me as completely as if I had not been in the room. He referred to me over and over again in the conversation; he constantly looked at me to see what I thought, while I sat in my corner silently watching them; he wanted to go with me and see me safe to my lodgings, and spare me all trouble with the cabman and the luggage. When I thanked him and declined, Armadale looked unaffectedly relieved at the prospect of seeing my back turned, and of having his friend all to himself. I left him, with his awkward elbows half over the table, scrawling a letter (no doubt to Miss Milroy), and shouting to the waiter that he wanted a bed at the hotel. I had calculated on his staying as a matter of course where he found his friend staying. It was pleasant to find my anticipations realized, and to know that I have as good as got him now under my own eye.