Two o’clock came; and Pedgift Junior, punctual to his time, came with it. His vivacity1 of the morning had all sparkled out; he greeted Allan with his customary politeness, but without his customary smile; and, when the headwaiter came in for orders, his dismissal was instantly pronounced in words never yet heard to issue from the lips of Pedgift in that hotel: “Nothing at present.”
“You seem to be in low spirits,” said Allan. “Can’t we get our information? Can nobody tell you anything about the house in Pimlico?”
“Three different people have told me about it, Mr. Armadale, and they have all three said the same thing.”
Allan eagerly drew his chair nearer to the place occupied by his traveling companion. His reflections in the interval2 since they had last seen each other had not tended to compose him. That strange connection, so easy to feel, so hard to trace, between the difficulty of approaching Miss Gwilt’s family circumstances and the difficulty of approaching Miss Gwilt’s reference, which had already established itself in his thoughts, had by this time stealthily taken a firmer and firmer hold on his mind. Doubts troubled him which he could neither understand nor express. Curiosity filled him, which he half longed and half dreaded3 to satisfy.
“I am afraid I must trouble you with a question or two, sir, before I can come to the point,” said Pedgift Junior. “I don’t want to force myself into your confidence. I only want to see my way, in what looks to me like a very awkward business. Do you mind telling me whether others besides yourself are interested in this inquiry5 of ours?”
“Other people are interested in it,” replied Allan. “There’s no objection to telling you that.”
“Is there any other person who is the object of the inquiry besides Mrs. Mandeville, herself?” pursued Pedgift, winding6 his way a little deeper into the secret.
“Yes; there is another person,” said Allan, answering rather unwillingly8.
“Is the person a young woman, Mr. Armadale?”
Allan started. “How do you come to guess that?” he began, then checked himself, when it was too late. “Don’t ask me any more questions,” he resumed. “I’m a bad hand at defending myself against a sharp fellow like you; and I’m bound in honor toward other people to keep the particulars of this business to myself.”
Pedgift Junior had apparently9 heard enough for his purpose. He drew his chair, in his turn, nearer to Allan. He was evidently anxious and embarrassed; but his professional manner began to show itself again from sheer force of habit.
“I’ve done with my questions, sir,” he said; “and I have something to say now on my side. In my father’s absence, perhaps you may be kindly10 disposed to consider me as your legal adviser11. If you will take my advice, you will not stir another step in this inquiry.”
“What do you mean?” interposed Allan.
“It is just possible, Mr. Armadale, that the cabman, positive as he is, may have been mistaken. I strongly recommend you to take it for granted that he is mistaken, and to drop it there.”
The caution was kindly intended; but it came too late. Allan did what ninety-nine men out of a hundred in his position would have done — he declined to take his lawyer’s advice.
“Very well, sir,” said Pedgift Junior; “if you will have it, you must have it.”
He leaned forward close to Allan’s ear, and whispered what he had heard of the house in Pimlico, and of the people who occupied it.
“Don’t blame me, Mr. Armadale,” he added, when the irrevocable words had been spoken. “I tried to spare you.”
Allan suffered the shock, as all great shocks are suffered, in silence. His first impulse would have driven him headlong for refuge to that very view of the cabman’s assertion which had just been recommended to him, but for one damning circumstance which placed itself inexorably in his way. Miss Gwilt’s marked reluctance13 to approach the story of her past life rose irrepressibly on his memory, in indirect but horrible confirmation14 of the evidence which connected Miss Gwilt’s reference with the house in Pimlico. One conclusion, and one only — the conclusion which any man must have drawn15, hearing what he had just heard, and knowing no more than he knew — forced itself into his mind. A miserable16, fallen woman, who had abandoned herself in her extremity17 to the help of wretches18 skilled in criminal concealment19, who had stolen her way back to decent society and a reputable employment by means of a false character, and whose position now imposed on her the dreadful necessity of perpetual secrecy20 and perpetual deceit in relation to her past life — such was the aspect in which the beautiful governess at Thorpe Ambrose now stood revealed to Allan’s eyes!
Falsely revealed, or truly revealed? Had she stolen her way back to decent society and a reputable employment by means of a false character? She had. Did her position impose on her the dreadful necessity of perpetual secrecy and perpetual deceit in relation to her past life? It did. Was she some such pitiable victim to the treachery of a man unknown as Allan had supposed? She was no such pitiable victim . The conclusion which Allan had drawn — the conclusion literally21 forced into his mind by the facts before him — was, nevertheless, the conclusion of all others that was furthest even from touching22 on the truth. The true story of Miss Gwilt’s connection with the house in Pimlico and the people who inhabited it — a house rightly described as filled with wicked secrets, and people rightly represented as perpetually in danger of feeling the grasp of the law — was a story which coming events were yet to disclose: a story infinitely23 less revolting, and yet infinitely more terrible, than Allan or Allan’s companion had either of them supposed.
“I tried to spare you, Mr. Armadale,” repeated Pedgift. “I was anxious, if I could possibly avoid it, not to distress24 you.”
Allan looked up, and made an effort to control himself. “You have distressed25 me dreadfully,” he said. “You have quite crushed me down. But it is not your fault. I ought to feel you have done me a service; and what I ought to do I will do, when I am my own man again. There is one thing,” Allan added, after a moment’s painful consideration, “which ought to be understood between us at once. The advice you offered me just now was very kindly meant, and it was the best advice that could be given. I will take it gratefully. We will never talk of this again, if you please; and I beg and entreat26 you will never speak about it to any other person. Will you promise me that?”
Pedgift gave the promise with very evident sincerity27, but without his professional confidence of manner. The distress in Allan’s face seemed to daunt28 him. After a moment of very uncharacteristic hesitation29, he considerately quitted the room.
Left by himself, Allan rang for writing materials, and took out of his pocket-book the fatal letter of introduction to “Mrs. Mandeville” which he had received from the major’s wife.
A man accustomed to consider consequences and to prepare himself for action by previous thought would, in Allan’s present circumstances, have felt some difficulty as to the course which it might now be least embarrassing and least dangerous to pursue. Accustomed to let his impulses direct him on all other occasions, Allan acted on impulse in the serious emergency that now confronted him. Though his attachment30 to Miss Gwilt was nothing like the deeply rooted feeling which he had himself honestly believed it to be, she had taken no common place in his admiration31, and she filled him with no common grief when he thought of her now. His one dominant32 desire, at that critical moment in his life, was a man’s merciful desire to protect from exposure and ruin the unhappy woman who had lost her place in his estimation, without losing her claim to the forbearance that could spare, and to the compassion33 that could shield her. “I can’t go back to Thorpe Ambrose; I can’t trust myself to speak to her, or to see her again. But I can keep her miserable secret; and I will!” With that thought in his heart, Allan set himself to perform the first and foremost duty which now claimed him — the duty of communicating with Mrs. Milroy. If he had possessed34 a higher mental capacity and a clearer mental view, he might have found the letter no easy one to write. As it was, he calculated no consequences, and felt no difficulty. His instinct warned him to withdraw at once from the position in which he now stood toward the major’s wife, and he wrote what his instinct counseled him to write under those circumstances, as rapidly as the pen could travel over the paper:
“Dunn’s Hotel, Covent Garden, Tuesday.
“DEAR MADAM— Pray excuse my not returning to Thorpe Ambrose today, as I said I would. Unforeseen circumstances oblige me to stop in London. I am sorry to say I have not succeeded in seeing Mrs. Mandeville, for which reason I cannot perform your errand; and I beg, therefore, with many apologies, to return the letter of introduction. I hope you will allow me to conclude by saying that I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, and that I will not venture to trespass35 on it any further.
“I remain, dear madam, yours truly,
“ALLAN ARMADALE.”
In those artless words, still entirely36 unsuspicious of the character of the woman he had to deal with, Allan put the weapon she wanted into Mrs. Milroy’s hands.
The letter and its inclosure once sealed up and addressed, he was free to think of himself and his future. As he sat idly drawing lines with his pen on the blotting-paper, the tears came into his eyes for the first time — tears in which the woman who had deceived him had no share. His heart had gone back to his dead mother. “If she had been alive,” he thought, “I might have trusted her , and she would have comforted me.” It was useless to dwell on it; he dashed away the tears, and turned his thoughts, with the heart-sick resignation that we all know, to living and present things.
He wrote a line to Mr. Bashwood, briefly37 informing the deputy steward38 that his absence from Thorpe Ambrose was likely to be prolonged for some little time, and that any further instructions which might be necessary, under those circumstances, would reach him through Mr. Pedgift the elder. This done, and the letters sent to the post, his thoughts were forced back once more on himself. Again the blank future waited before him to be filled up; and again his heart shrank from it to the refuge of the past.
This time other images than the image of his mother filled his mind. The one all-absorbing interest of his earlier days stirred living and eager in him again. He thought of the sea; he thought of his yacht lying idle in the fishing harbor at his west-country home. The old longing39 got possession of him to hear the wash of the waves; to see the filling of the sails; to feel the vessel40 that his own hands had helped to build bounding under him once more. He rose in his impetuous way to call for the time-table, and to start for Somersetshire by the first train, when the dread4 of the questions which Mr. Brock might ask, the suspicion of the change which Mr. Brock might see in him, drew him back to his chair. “I’ll write,” he thought, “to have the yacht rigged and refitted, and I’ll wait to go to Somersetshire myself till Midwinter can go with me.” He sighed as his memory reverted41 to his absent friend. Never had he felt the void made in his life by Midwinter’s departure so painfully as he felt it now, in the dreariest42 of all social solitudes44 — the solitude43 of a stranger in London, left by himself at a hotel.
Before long, Pedgift Junior looked in, with an apology for his intrusion. Allan felt too lonely and too friendless not to welcome his companion’s re-appearance gratefully. “I’m not going back to Thorpe Ambrose,” he said; “I’m going to stay a little while in London. I hope you will be able to stay with me?” To do him justice, Pedgift was touched by the solitary45 position in which the owner of the great Thorpe Ambrose estate now appeared before him. He had never, in his relations with Allan, so entirely forgotten his business interests as he forgot them now.
“You are quite right, sir, to stop here; London’s the place to divert your mind,” said Pedgift, cheerfully. “All business is more or less elastic46 in its nature, Mr. Armadale; I’ll spin my business out, and keep you company with the greatest pleasure. We are both of us on the right side of thirty, sir; let’s enjoy ourselves. What do you say to dining early, and going to the play, and trying the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park to-morrow morning, after breakfast? If we only live like fighting-cocks, and go in perpetually for public amusements, we shall arrive in no time at the mens sana in corpore sano of the ancients. Don’t be alarmed at the quotation47, sir. I dabble48 a little in Latin after business hours, and enlarge my sympathies by occasional perusal49 of the Pagan writers, assisted by a crib. William, dinner at five; and, as it’s particularly important to-day, I’ll see the cook myself.”
The evening passed; the next day passed; Thursday morning came, and brought with it a letter for Allan. The direction was in Mrs. Milroy’s handwriting; and the form of address adopted in the letter warned Allan, the moment he opened it, that something had gone wrong.
[“Private.”]
“The Cottage, Thorpe Ambrose, Wednesday.
“SIR— I have just received your mysterious letter. It has more than surprised, it has really alarmed me. After having made the friendliest advances to you on my side, I find myself suddenly shut out from your confidence in the most unintelligible50, and, I must add, the most discourteous51 manner. It is quite impossible that I can allow the matter to rest where you have left it. The only conclusion I can draw from your letter is that my confidence must have been abused in some way, and that you know a great deal more than you are willing to tell me. Speaking in the interest of my daughter’s welfare, I request that you will inform me what the circumstances are which have prevented your seeing Mrs. Mandeville, and which have led to the withdrawal52 of the assistance that you unconditionally53 promised me in your letter of Monday last.
“In my state of health, I cannot involve myself in a lengthened54 correspondence. I must endeavor to anticipate any objections you may make, and I must say all that I have to say in my present letter. In the event (which I am most unwilling7 to consider possible) of your declining to accede55 to the request that I have just addressed to you, I beg to say that I shall consider it my duty to my daughter to have this very unpleasant matter cleared up. If I don’t hear from you to my full satisfaction by return of post, I shall be obliged to tell my husband that circumstances have happened which justify56 us in immediately testing the respectability of Miss Gwilt’s reference. And when he asks me for my authority, I will refer him to you.
“Your obedient servant, ANNE MILROY.”
In those terms the major’s wife threw off the mask, and left her victim to survey at his leisure the trap in which she had caught him. Allan’s belief in Mrs. Milroy’s good faith had been so implicitly57 sincere that her letter simply bewildered him. He saw vaguely58 that he had been deceived in some way, and that Mrs. Milroy’s neighborly interest in him was not what it had looked on the surface; and he saw no more. The threat of appealing to the major — on which, with a woman’s ignorance of the natures of men, Mrs. Milroy had relied for producing its effect — was the only part of the letter to which Allan reverted with any satisfaction: it relieved instead of alarming him. “If there is to be a quarrel,” he thought, “it will be a comfort, at any rate, to have it out with a man.”
Firm in his resolution to shield the unhappy woman whose secret he wrongly believed himself to have surprised, Allan sat down to write his apologies to the major’s wife. After setting up three polite declarations, in close marching order, he retired59 from the field. “He was extremely sorry to have offended Mrs. Milroy. He was innocent of all intention to offend Mrs. Milroy. And he begged to remain Mrs. Milroy’s truly.” Never had Allan’s habitual60 brevity as a letter-writer done him better service than it did him now. With a little more skillfulness in the use of his pen, he might have given his enemy even a stronger hold on him than the hold she had got already.
The interval day passed, and with the next morning’s post Mrs. Milroy’s threat came realized in the shape of a letter from her husband. The major wrote less formally than his wife had written, but his questions were mercilessly to the point:
[“Private.”]
“The Cottage, Thorpe Ambrose, Friday, July 11, 1851.
“DEAR SIR— When you did me the favor of calling here a few days since, you asked a question relating to my governess, Miss Gwilt, which I thought rather a strange one at the time, and which caused, as you may remember, a momentary61 embarrassment62 between us.
“This morning the subject of Miss Gwilt has been brought to my notice again in a manner which has caused me the utmost astonishment63. In plain words, Mrs. Milroy has informed me that Miss Gwilt has exposed herself to the suspicion of having deceived us by a false reference. On my expressing the surprise which such an extraordinary statement caused me, and requesting that it might be instantly substantiated65, I was still further astonished by being told to apply for all particulars to no less a person than Mr. Armadale. I have vainly requested some further explanation from Mrs. Milroy; she persists in maintaining silence, and in referring me to yourself.
“Under these extraordinary circumstances, I am compelled, in justice to all parties, to ask you certain questions which I will endeavor to put as plainly as possible, and which I am quite ready to believe (from my previous experience of you) that you will answer frankly66 on your side.
“I beg to inquire, in the first place, whether you admit or deny Mrs. Milroy’s assertion that you have made yourself acquainted with particulars relating either to Miss Gwilt or to Miss Gwilt’s reference, of which I am entirely ignorant? In the second place, if you admit the truth of Mrs. Milroy’s statement, I request to know how you became acquainted with those particulars? Thirdly, and lastly, I beg to ask you what the particulars are?
“If any special justification67 for putting these questions be needed — which, purely68 as a matter of courtesy toward yourself, I am willing to admit — I beg to remind you that the most precious charge in my house, the charge of my daughter, is confided69 to Miss Gwilt; and that Mrs. Milroy’s statement places you, to all appearance, in the position of being competent to tell me whether that charge is properly bestowed70 or not.
“I have only to add that, as nothing has thus far occurred to justify me in entertaining the slightest suspicion either of my governess or her reference, I shall wait before I make any appeal to Miss Gwilt until I have received your answer — which I shall expect by return of post. Believe me, dear sir, faithfully yours,
“DAVID MILROY.”
This transparently71 straightforward72 letter at once dissipated the confusion which had thus far existed in Allan’s mind. He saw the snare73 in which he had been caught (though he was still necessarily at a loss to understand why it had been set for him) as he had not seen it yet. Mrs. Milroy had clearly placed him between two alternatives — the alternative of putting himself in the wrong, by declining to answer her husband’s questions; or the alternative of meanly sheltering his responsibility behind the responsibility of a woman, by acknowledging to the major’s own face that the major’s wife had deceived him.
In this difficulty Allan acted as usual, without hesitation. His pledge to Mrs. Milroy to consider their correspondence private still bound him, disgracefully as she had abused it. And his resolution was as immovable as ever to let no earthly consideration tempt74 him into betraying Miss Gwilt. “I may have behaved like a fool,” he thought, “but I won’t break my word; and I won’t be the means of turning that miserable woman adrift in the world again.”
He wrote to the major as artlessly and briefly as he had written to the major’s wife. He declared his unwillingness75 to cause a friend and neighbor any disappointment, if he could possibly help it. On this occasion he had no other choice. The questions the major asked him were questions which he could not consent to answer. He was not very clever at explaining himself, and he hoped he might be excused for putting it in that way, and saying no more.
Monday’s post brought with it Major Milroy’s rejoinder, and closed the correspondence.
“The Cottage, Thorpe Ambrose, Sunday.
“SIR— Your refusal to answer my questions, unaccompanied as it is by even the shadow of an excuse for such a proceeding76, can be interpreted but in one way. Besides being an implied acknowledgment of the correctness of Mrs. Milroy’s statement, it is also an implied reflection on my governess’s character. As an act of justice toward a lady who lives under the protection of my roof, and who has given me no reason whatever to distrust her, I shall now show our correspondence to Miss Gwilt; and I shall repeat to her the conversation which I had with Mrs. Milroy on the subject, in Mrs. Milroy’s presence.
“One word more respecting the future relations between us, and I have done. My ideas on certain subjects are, I dare say, the ideas of an old-fashioned man. In my time, we had a code of honor by which we regulated our actions. According to that code, if a man made private inquiries77 into a lady’s affairs, without being either her husband, her father, or her brother, he subjected himself to the responsibility of justifying78 his conduct in the estimation of others; and, if he evaded79 that responsibility, he abdicated80 the position of a gentleman. It is quite possible that this antiquated81 way of thinking exists no longer; but it is too late for me, at my time of life, to adopt more modern views. I am scrupulously82 anxious, seeing that we live in a country and a time in which the only court of honor is a police-court, to express myself with the utmost moderation of language upon this the last occasion that I shall have to communicate with you. Allow me, therefore, merely to remark that our ideas of the conduct which is becoming in a gentleman differ seriously; and permit me on this account to request that you will consider yourself for the future as a stranger to my family and to myself.
“Your obedient servant,
“DAVID MILROY.”
The Monday morning on which his client received the major’s letter was the blackest Monday that had yet been marked in Pedgift’s calendar. When Allan’s first angry sense of the tone of contempt in which his friend and neighbor pronounced sentence on him had subsided83, it left him sunk in a state of depression from which no efforts made by his traveling companion could rouse him for the rest of the day. Reverting84 naturally, now that his sentence of banishment85 had been pronounced, to his early intercourse86 with the cottage, his memory went back to Neelie, more regretfully and more penitently87 than it had gone back to her yet.” If she had shut the door on me, instead of her father,” was the bitter reflection with which Allan now reviewed the past, “I shouldn’t have had a word to say against it; I should have felt it served me right.”
The next day brought another letter — a welcome letter this time, from Mr. Brock. Allan had written to Somersetshire on the subject of refitting the yacht some days since. The letter had found the rector engaged, as he innocently supposed, in protecting his old pupil against the woman whom he had watched in London, and whom he now believed to have followed him back to his own home. Acting88 under the directions sent to her, Mrs. Oldershaw’s house-maid had completed the mystification of Mr. Brock. She had tranquilized all further anxiety on the rector’s part by giving him a written undertaking89 (in the character of Miss Gwilt), engaging never to approach Mr. Armadale, either personally or by letter! Firmly persuaded that he had won the victory at last, poor Mr. Brock answered Allan’s note in the highest spirits, expressing some natural surprise at his leaving Thorpe Ambrose, but readily promising90 that the yacht should be refitted, and offering the hospitality of the rectory in the heartiest91 manner.
This letter did wonders in raising Allan’s spirits. It gave him a new interest to look to, entirely disassociated from his past life in Norfolk. He began to count the days that were still to pass before the return of his absent friend. It was then Tuesday. If Midwinter came back from his walking trip, as he had engaged to come back, in a fortnight, Saturday would find him at Thorpe Ambrose. A note sent to meet the traveler might bring him to London the same night; and, if all went well, before another week was over they might be afloat together in the yacht.
The next day passed, to Allan’s relief, without bringing any letters. The spirits of Pedgift rose sympathetically with the spirits of his client. Toward dinner time he reverted to the mens sana in corpore sano of the ancients, and issued his orders to the head-waiter more royally than ever.
Thursday came, and brought the fatal postman with more news from Norfolk. A letter-writer now stepped on the scene who had not appeared there yet; and the total overthrow92 of all Allan’s plans for a visit to Somersetshire was accomplished93 on the spot.
Pedgift Junior happened that morning to be the first at the breakfast table. When Allan came in, he relapsed into his professional manner, and offered a letter to his patron with a bow performed in dreary94 silence.
“For me?” inquired Allan, shrinking instinctively95 from a new correspondent.
“For you, sir — from my father,” replied Pedgift, “inclosed in one to myself. Perhaps you will allow me to suggest, by way of preparing you for — for something a little unpleasant — that we shall want a particularly good dinner to-day; and (if they’re not performing any modern German music to-night) I think we should do well to finish the evening melodiously96 at the Opera.”
“Something wrong at Thorpe Ambrose?” asked Allen.
“Yes, Mr. Armadale; something wrong at Thorpe Ambrose.”
Allan sat down resignedly, and opened the letter.
[“Private and Confidential97.”]
“High Street Thorpe Ambrose, 17th July, 1851.
“DEAR SIR— I cannot reconcile it with my sense of duty to your interests to leave you any longer in ignorance of reports current in this town and its neighborhood, which, I regret to say, are reports affecting yourself.
“The first intimation of anything unpleasant reached me on Monday last. It was widely rumored98 in the town that something had gone wrong at Major Milroy’s with the new governess, and that Mr. Armadale was mixed up in it. I paid no heed99 to this, believing it to be one of the many trumpery100 pieces of scandal perpetually set going here, and as necessary as the air they breathe to the comfort of the inhabitants of this highly respectable place.
“Tuesday, however, put the matter in a new light. The most interesting particulars were circulated on the highest authority. On Wednesday, the gentry101 in the neighborhood took the matter up, and universally sanctioned the view adopted by the town. To-day the public feeling has reached its climax102, and I find myself under the necessity of making you acquainted with what has happened.
“To begin at the beginning. It is asserted that a correspondence took place last week between Major Milroy and yourself; in which you cast a very serious suspicion on Miss Gwilt’s respectability, without defining your accusations103 and without (on being applied104 to) producing your proofs. Upon this, the major appears to have felt it his duty (while assuring his governess of his own firm belief in her respectability) to inform her of what had happened, in order that she might have no future reason to complain of his having had any concealments from her in a matter affecting her character. Very magnanimous on the major’s part; but you will see directly that Miss Gwilt was more magnanimous still. After expressing her thanks in a most becoming manner, she requested permission to withdraw herself from Major Milroy’s service.
“Various reports are in circulation as to the governess’s reason for taking this step.
“The authorized105 version (as sanctioned by the resident gentry) represents Miss Gwilt to have said that she could not condescend106 — in justice to herself, and in justice to her highly respectable reference — to defend her reputation against undefined imputations cast on it by a comparative stranger. At the same time it was impossible for her to pursue such a course of conduct as this, unless she possessed a freedom of action which was quite incompatible107 with her continuing to occupy the dependent position of a governess. For that reason she felt it incumbent108 on her to leave her situation. But, while doing this, she was equally determined109 not to lead to any misinterpretation of her motives111 by leaving the neighborhood. No matter at what inconvenience to herself, she would remain long enough at Thorpe Ambrose to await any more definitely expressed imputations that might be made on her character, and to repel112 them publicly the instant they assumed a tangible113 form.
“Such is the position which this high-minded lady has taken up, with an excellent effect on the public mind in these parts. It is clearly her interest, for some reason, to leave her situation, without leaving the neighborhood. On Monday last she established herself in a cheap lodging114 on the outskirts115 of the town. And on the same day she probably wrote to her reference, for yesterday there came a letter from that lady to Major Milroy, full of virtuous116 indignation, and courting the fullest inquiry. The letter has been shown publicly, and has immensely strengthened Miss Gwilt’s position. She is now considered to be quite a heroine. The Thorpe Ambrose Mercury has got a leading article about her, comparing her to Joan of Arc. It is considered probable that she will be referred to in the sermon next Sunday. We reckon five strong-minded single ladies in this neighborhood — and all five have called on her. A testimonial was suggested; but it has been given up at Miss Gwilt’s own request, and a general movement is now on foot to get her employment as a teacher of music. Lastly, I have had the honor of a visit from the lady herself, in her capacity of martyr117, to tell me, in the sweetest manner, that she doesn’t blame Mr. Armadale, and that she considers him to be an innocent instrument in the hands of other and more designing people. I was carefully on my guard with her; for I don’t altogether believe in Miss Gwilt, and I have my lawyer’s suspicions of the motive110 that is at the bottom of her present proceedings118.
“I have written thus far, my dear sir, with little hesitation or embarrassment. But there is unfortunately a serious side to this business as well as a ridiculous side; and I must unwillingly come to it before I close my letter.
“It is, I think, quite impossible that you can permit yourself to be spoken of as you are spoken of now, without stirring personally in the matter. You have unluckily made many enemies here, and foremost among them is my colleague, Mr. Darch. He has been showing everywhere a somewhat rashly expressed letter you wrote to him on the subject of letting the cottage to Major Milroy instead of to himself, and it has helped to exasperate119 the feeling against you. It is roundly stated in so many words that you have been prying120 into Miss Gwilt’s family affairs, with the most dishonorable motives; that you have tried, for a profligate121 purpose of your own, to damage her reputation, and to deprive her of the protection of Major Milroy’s roof; and that, after having been asked to substantiate64 by proof the suspicions that you have cast on the reputation of a defenseless woman, you have maintained a silence which condemns122 you in the estimation of all honorable men.
“I hope it is quite unnecessary for me to say that I don’t attach the smallest particle of credit to these infamous123 reports. But they are too widely spread and too widely believed to be treated with contempt. I strongly urge you to return at once to this place, and to take the necessary measures for defending your character, in concert with me, as your legal adviser. I have formed, since my interview with Miss Gwilt, a very strong opinion of my own on the subject of that lady which it is not necessary to commit to paper. Suffice it to say here that I shall have a means to propose to you for silencing the slanderous124 tongues of your neighbors, on the success of which I stake my professional reputation, if you will only back me by your presence and authority.
“It may, perhaps, help to show you the necessity there is for your return, if I mention one other assertion respecting yourself, which is in everybody’s mouth. Your absence is, I regret to tell you, attributed to the meanest of all motives. It is said that you are remaining in London because you are afraid to show your face at Thorpe Ambrose.
“Believe me, dear sir, your faithful servant,
“A. PEDGIFT, Sen.”
Allan was of an age to feel the sting contained in the last sentence of his lawyer’s letter. He started to his feet in a paroxysm of indignation, which revealed his character to Pedgift Junior in an entirely new light.
“Where’s the time-table?” cried Allan. “I must go back to Thorpe Ambrose by the next train! If it doesn’t start directly, I’ll have a special engine. I must and will go back instantly, and I don’t care two straws for the expense!”
“Suppose we telegraph to my father, sir?” suggested the judicious125 Pedgift. “It’s the quickest way of expressing your feelings, and the cheapest.”
“So it is,” said Allan. “Thank you for reminding me of it. Telegraph to them! Tell your father to give every man in Thorpe Ambrose the lie direct, in my name. Put it in capital letters, Pedgift — put it in capital letters!”
Pedgift smiled and shook his head. If he was acquainted with no other variety of human nature, he thoroughly126 knew the variety that exists in country towns.
“It won’t have the least effect on them, Mr. Armadale,” he remarked quietly. “They’ll only go on lying harder than ever. If you want to upset the whole town, one line will do it. With five shillings’ worth of human labor127 and electric fluid, sir (I dabble a little in science after business hours), we’ll explode a bombshell in Thorpe Ambrose!” He produced the bombshell on a slip of paper as he spoke12: “A. Pedgift, Junior, to A. Pedgift, Senior.— Spread it all over the place that Mr. Armadale is coming down by the next train.”
“More words!” suggested Allan, looking over his shoulder. “Make it stronger.”
“Leave my father to make it stronger, sir,” returned the wary128 Pedgift. “My father is on the spot, and his command of language is something quite extraordinary.” He rang the bell, and dispatched the telegram.
Now that something had been done, Allan subsided gradually into a state of composure. He looked back again at Mr. Pedgift’s letter, and then handed it to Mr. Pedgift’s son.
“Can you guess your father’s plan for setting me right in the neighborhood?” he asked.
Pedgift the younger shook his wise head. “His plan appears to be connected in some way, sir, with his opinion of Miss Gwilt.”
“I wonder what he thinks of her?” said Allan.
“I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Armadale,” returned Pedgift Junior, “if his opinion staggers you a little, when you come to hear it. My father has had a large legal experience of the shady side of the sex, and he learned his profession at the Old Bailey.”
Allan made no further inquiries. He seemed to shrink from pursuing the subject, after having started it himself. “Let’s be doing something to kill the time,” he said. “Let’s pack up and pay the bill.”
They packed up and paid the bill. The hour came, and the train left for Norfolk at last.
While the travelers were on their way back, a somewhat longer telegraphic message than Allan’s was flashing its way past them along the wires, in the reverse direction — from Thorpe Ambrose to London. The message was in cipher129, and, the signs being interpreted, it ran thus: “From Lydia Gwilt to Maria Oldershaw.— Good news! He is coming back. I mean to have an interview with him. Everything looks well. Now I have left the cottage, I have no women’s prying eyes to dread, and I can come and go as I please. Mr. Midwinter is luckily out of the way. I don’t despair of becoming Mrs. Armadale yet. Whatever happens, depend on my keeping away from London until I am certain of not taking any spies after me to your place. I am in no hurry to leave Thorpe Ambrose. I mean to be even with Miss Milroy first.”
Shortly after that message was received in London, Allan was back again in his own house.
It was evening — Pedgift Junior had just left him — and Pedgift Senior was expected to call on business in half an hour’s time.
收听单词发音 |
1
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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22
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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23
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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24
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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28
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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29
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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32
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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35
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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38
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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42
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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43
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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44
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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dabble
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| v.涉足，浅赏 | |
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49
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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50
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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51
discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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52
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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53
unconditionally
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| adv.无条件地 | |
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54
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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56
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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57
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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58
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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59
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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60
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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61
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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62
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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63
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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64
substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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65
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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67
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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68
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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69
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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70
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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72
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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73
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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74
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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75
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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76
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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77
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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78
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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79
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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80
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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81
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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82
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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83
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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84
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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85
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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86
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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87
penitently
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88
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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89
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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90
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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91
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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92
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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93
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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94
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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95
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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96
melodiously
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97
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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98
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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99
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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100
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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101
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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102
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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103
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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104
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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105
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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106
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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107
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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108
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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109
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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110
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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111
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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112
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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113
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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114
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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115
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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116
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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117
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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118
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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119
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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121
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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122
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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123
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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124
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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125
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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126
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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127
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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128
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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