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She determined to sift the mystery of Miss Gwilt's family misfortunes to the bottom, on the chance of extracting from it something useful to her purpose. There were two ways of doing this. She might begin by questioning the governess herself, or she might begin by questioning the governess's reference.
Miss Gwilt's marked reluctance to approach the story of her past life rose irrepressibly on his memory, in indirect but horrible confirmation 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 drawn, hearing what he had just heard, and knowing no more than he knew forced itself into his mind.
You catch me at the end of my evidence, dad, when you come to Miss Gwilt's proceedings in the spring and summer of the present year. She might, or she might not, have been desperate enough to attempt suicide; and she might, or she might not, have been at the bottom of those inquiries that I made for Mrs. Oldershaw.
I've told her all about myself and my mother, and how I came in for this place, and the rest of it. Well though it doesn't strike me when we are together it comes across me now and then, when I'm away from her, that she doesn't say much on her side. In fact, I know no more about her than you do." "Do you mean that you know nothing about Miss Gwilt's family and friends?" "That's it, exactly."
She could have taken Miss Gwilt's life, but she hesitated at reading Miss Gwilt's letter. "Are you troubled with scruples?" asked the nurse, with a sneer. "Consider it a duty you owe to your daughter." "You wretch!" said Mrs. Milroy. With that expression of opinion, she opened the letter. It was evidently written in great haste, was undated, and was signed in initials only.
"Can you close it again, so that nobody would know?" "Can you spare the scarf that matches your pearl gray dress?" asked Rachel. "Take it!" said Mrs. Milroy, impatiently. The nurse opened the wardrobe in silence, took the scarf in silence, and left the room in silence. In less than five minutes she came back with the envelope of Miss Gwilt's letter open in her hand.
Allan sat listlessly, with his hands in his pockets, looking out through the open window at the falling rain. If he had turned toward his friend when he mentioned Miss Gwilt's name he might possibly have been a little startled by the change he would have seen in Midwinter's face. "I suppose you don't approve of it?" he said, after waiting a little. There was no answer.
"We have no reason to suppose that," said Allan, resolutely. "Such is your opinion, sir," persisted Pedgift. "Mine, founded on what is publicly known of Miss Gwilt's proceedings here, and on what I have seen of Miss Gwilt herself, is that she is as far as I am from being the sentimental victim you are inclined to make her out. Gently, Mr.
The neighborhood may say what it pleases; you're a gentleman, sir, in the best sense of the word. Now," pursued the lawyer, dropping Allan's hand, and lapsing back instantly from sentiment to business, "just hear what I have got to say in my own defense. Suppose Miss Gwilt's real position happens to be nothing like what you are generously determined to believe it to be?"
Midwinter had only left that morning. Where had Mr. Armadale gone? Somewhere into the country. Where had Mr. Midwinter gone? Nobody knew. Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speechless and helpless dismay. "Stuff and nonsense!" said Bashwood the younger, pushing his father back roughly into the cab. "He's safe enough. We shall find him at Miss Gwilt's."
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