Armadale (33 page)

A woman, my dear Lydia, with your appearance, your manners, your abilities, and your education, can make almost any excursions into society that she pleases, if she only has money in her pocket and a respectable reference to appeal to in cases of emergency. As to the money, in the first place. I will engage to find it, on condition of your remembering my assistance with adequate pecuniary gratitude, if you win the Armadale prize. Your promise so to remember me, embodying the terms in plain figures, shall be drawn out on paper by my own lawyer; so that we can sign and settle at once when I see you in London.

Next, as to the reference. Here, again, my services are at your disposal – on another condition. It is this: that you present yourself at Thorpe-Ambrose, under the name to which you have returned, ever since the dreadful business of your marriage – I mean your own maiden name of Gwilt. I have only one motive in insisting on this; I wish to run no needless risks. My experience, as confidential adviser of my customers, in various romantic cases of private embarrassment, has shown me that an assumed name is, nine times out of ten, a very unnecessary and a very dangerous form of deception. Nothing could justify your assuming a name but the fear of young Armadale's detecting you – a fear from which we are fortunately relieved
by his mother's own conduct in keeping your early connection with her a profound secret from her son, and from everybody.

The next, and last, perplexity to settle, relates, my dear, to the chances for and against your finding your way, in the capacity of governess, into Major Milroy's house. Once inside the door, with your knowledge of music and languages, if you can keep your temper, you may be sure of keeping the place. The only doubt, as things are now, is whether you can get it.

In the major's present difficulty about his daughter's education, the chances are, I think, in favour of his advertising for a governess. Say he does advertise, what address will he give for applicants to write to? There is the real pinch of the matter. If he gives an address in London, good-by to all chances in your favour at once; for this plain reason, that we shall not be able to pick out his advertisement from the advertisements of other people who want governesses, and who will give them addresses in London as well. If, on the other hand, our luck helps us, and he refers his correspondents to a shop, post-office, or what not,
at Thorpe-Ambrose
, there we have our advertiser as plainly picked out for us as we can wish. In this last case, I have little or no doubt – with me for your reference – of your finding your way into the major's family circle. We have one great advantage over the other women who will answer the advertisement. Thanks to my inquiries on the spot, I know Major Milroy to be a poor man; and we will fix the salary you ask at a figure that is sure to tempt him. As for the style of the letter, if you and I together can't write a modest and interesting application for the vacant place, I should like to know who can?

All this, however, is still in the future. For the present, my advice is – stay where you are, and dream to your heart's content, till you hear from me again. I take in
The Times
regularly; and you may trust my wary eye not to miss the right advertisement. We can luckily give the major time, without doing any injury to our own interests; for there is no fear, just yet, of the girl's getting the start of you. The public reception, as we know, won't be ready till near the end of the month; and we may safely trust young Armadale's vanity to keep him out of his new house until his flatterers are all assembled to welcome him. Let us wait another ten days at least before we give up the governess notion, and lay our heads together to try some other plan.

It's odd, isn't it, to think how much depends on this half-pay officer's decision? For my part, I shall wake every morning, now, with the same question in my mind. If the major's advertisement appears, which will the major say – Thorpe-Ambrose, or London?

Ever, my dear Lydia,
Affectionately yours,
M
ARIA
O
LDERSHAW.

Early on the morning after his first night's rest at Thorpe-Ambrose, Allan rose and surveyed the prospect from his bedroom window, lost in the dense mental bewilderment of feeling himself to be a stranger in his own house.

The bedroom looked out over the great front door, with its portico, its terrace and flight of steps beyond, and, farther still, the broad sweep of the well-timbered park to close the view. The morning mist nestled lightly about the distant trees; and the cows were feeding sociably, close to the iron fence which railed off the park from the drive in front of the house. ‘All mine!' thought Allan, staring in blank amazement at the prospect of his own possessions. ‘Hang me if I can beat it into my head yet. All mine!'

He dressed, left his room, and walked along the corridor which led to the staircase and hall; opening the doors in succession as he passed them. The rooms in this part of the house were bedrooms and dressing-rooms – light, spacious, perfectly furnished; and all empty, except the one bedchamber next to Allan's, which had been appropriated to Midwinter. He was still sleeping when his friend looked in on him, having sat late into the night writing his letter to Mr Brock. Allan went on to the end of the first corridor, turned at right angles into a second, and, that passed, gained the head of the great staircase. ‘No romance here,' he said to himself, looking down the handsomely-carpeted stone stairs into the bright modern hall. ‘Nothing to startle Midwinter's fidgety nerves in this house.' There was nothing indeed; Allan's essentially superficial observation had not misled him for once. The mansion of Thorpe-Ambrose (built after the pulling down of the dilapidated old
manor-house) was barely fifty years old. Nothing picturesque, nothing in the slightest degree suggestive of mystery and romance, appeared in any part of it. It was a purely conventional country-house – the product of the classical idea filtered judiciously through the commercial English mind. Viewed on the outer side, it presented the spectacle of a modern manufactory trying to look like an ancient temple. Viewed on the inner side, it was a marvel of luxurious comfort in every part of it, from basement to roof. ‘And quite right, too,' thought Allan, sauntering contentedly down the broad, gently graduated stairs. ‘Deuce take all mystery and romance! Let's be clean and comfortable – that's what I say.'

Arrived in the hall, the new master of Thorpe-Ambrose hesitated, and looked about him, uncertain which way to turn next. The four reception-rooms on the ground floor opened into the hall, two on either side. Allan tried the nearest door on his right hand at a venture, and found himself in the drawing-room. Here the first sign of life appeared, under life's most attractive form. A young girl was in solitary possession of the drawing-room. The duster in her hand appeared to associate her with the domestic duties of the house; but at that particular moment she was occupied in asserting the rights of nature over the obligations of service. In other words, she was attentively contemplating her own face in the glass over the mantelpiece.

‘There! there! don't let me frighten you,' said Allan, as the girl started away from the glass, and stared at him in unutterable confusion. ‘I quite agree with you, my dear: your face is well worth looking at. Who are you? – oh, the housemaid. And what's your name? Susan, eh? Come! I like your name to begin with. Do you know who I am, Susan? I'm your master, though you may not think it. Your character? Oh, yes! Mrs Blanchard gave you a capital character. You shall stop here; don't be afraid. And you'll be a good girl, Susan, and wear smart little caps and aprons and bright ribbons, and you'll look nice and pretty, and dust the furniture, won't you?'

With this summary of a housemaid's duties, Allan sauntered back into the hall, and found more signs of life in that quarter. A manservant appeared on this occasion, and bowed, as became a vassal in a linen jacket, before his liege lord in a wide-awake hat.
¹

‘And who may you be?' asked Allan. ‘Not the man who let us in last night? Ah, I thought not. The second footman, eh? Character? Oh, yes; capital character. Stop here, of course. You can valet me, can you? Bother valeting me! I like to put on my own clothes, and brush them, too, when they
are
on; and, if I only knew how to black my own boots,
by George I should like to do it! What room's this? Morning-room, eh? And here's the dining-room, of course. Good heavens, what a table! it's as long as my yacht, and longer. I say – by-the-by, what's your name? Richard, is it? – well, Richard, the vessel I sail in is a vessel of my own building. What do you think of that? You look to me just the right sort of man to be my steward on board. If you're not sick at sea – oh, you
are
sick at sea? Well, then, we'll say nothing more about it. And what room is this? Ah, yes; the library, of course – more in Mr Midwinter's way than mine. Mr Midwinter is the gentleman who came here with me last night; and mind this, Richard, you're all to show him as much attention as you show me. Where are we now? What's this door at the back? Billiard-room and smoking-room, eh? Jolly. Another door! and more stairs! Where do they go to? and who's this coming up? Take your time, ma'am; you're not quite so young as you were once – take your time.'

The object of Allan's humane caution was a corpulent elderly woman, of the type called ‘motherly'. Fourteen stairs were all that separated her from the master of the house: she ascended them with fourteen stoppages and fourteen sighs. Nature, various in all things, is infinitely various in the female sex. There are some women whose personal qualities reveal the Loves and the Graces; and there are other women whose personal qualities suggest the Perquisites and the Grease Pot. This was one of the other women.

‘Glad to see you looking so well, ma'am,' said Allan, when the cook, in the majesty of her office, stood proclaimed before him. ‘Your name is Gripper, is it? I consider you, Mrs Gripper, the most valuable person in the house. For this reason, that nobody in the house eats a heartier dinner every day than I do. Directions? Oh, no; I've no directions to give. I leave all that to you. Lots of strong soup, and joints done with the gravy in them – there's my notion of good feeding, in two words. Steady! Here's somebody else. Oh, to be sure – the butler! Another valuable person. We'll go right through all the wine in the cellar, Mr butler; and if I can't give you a sound opinion after that, we'll persevere boldly, and go right through it again. Talking of wine – hullo! here are more of them coming upstairs. There! there! don't trouble yourselves. You've all got capital characters, and you shall all stop here along with me. What was I saying just now? Something about wine; so it was. I'll tell you what, Mr butler, it isn't every day that a new master comes to Thorpe-Ambrose; and it's my wish that we should all start together on the best possible terms. Let the servants have a grand jollification downstairs, to celebrate my arrival; and give them what they like to
drink my health in. It's a poor heart, Mrs Gripper, that never rejoices, isn't it? No; I won't look at the cellar now: I want to go out, and get a breath of fresh air before breakfast. Where's Richard? I say, have I got a garden here? Which side of the house is it! That side, eh? You needn't show me round. I'll go alone, Richard, and lose myself, if I can, in my own property.'

With those words Allan descended the terrace-steps in front of the house, whistling cheerfully. He had met the serious responsibility of settling his domestic establishment to his own entire satisfaction. ‘People talk of the difficulty of managing their servants,' thought Allan. ‘What on earth do they mean? I don't see any difficulty at all.' He opened an ornamental gate leading out of the drive at the side of the house; and, following the footman's directions, entered the shrubbery that sheltered the Thorpe-Ambrose gardens. ‘Nice shady sort of place for a cigar,' said Allan, as he sauntered along, with his hands in his pockets. ‘I wish I could beat it into my head that it really belongs to
me
.'

The shrubbery opened on the broad expanse of a flower-garden, flooded bright in its summer glory by the light of the morning sun. On one side an archway, broken through a wall, led into the fruit-garden. On the other, a terrace of turf led to ground on a lower level, laid out as an Italian garden. Wandering past the fountains and statues, Allan reached another shrubbery, winding its way apparently to some remote part of the grounds. Thus far, not a human creature had been visible or audible anywhere; but, as he approached the end of the second shrubbery, it struck him that he heard something on the other side of the foliage. He stopped and listened. There were two voices speaking distinctly – an old voice that sounded very obstinate, and a young voice that sounded very angry.

‘It's no use, Miss,' said the old voice. ‘I mustn't allow it, and I won't allow it. What would Mr Armadale say?'

‘If Mr Armadale is the gentleman I take him for, you old brute!' replied the young voice, ‘he would say, “Come into my garden, Miss Milroy, as often as you like, and take as many nosegays as you please.”'

Allan's bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously. Inspired by a sudden idea, he stole softly to the end of the shrubbery, darted round the corner of it, and, vaulting over a low ring-fence, found himself in a trim little paddock, crossed by a gravel walk. At a short distance down the walk stood a young lady, with her back towards him, trying to force her way past an impenetrable old man, with a rake in his hand, who stood obstinately in front of her, shaking his head.

‘Come into my garden, Miss Milroy, as often as you like, and take as
many nosegays as you please,' cried Allan, remorselessly repeating her own words.

The young lady turned round, with a scream; her muslin dress, which she was holding up in front, dropped from her hand, and a prodigious lapful of flowers rolled out on the gravel walk.