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Illinois Urbana-Champaign)






THE YELLOW FLAG.






THE YELLOW FLAG.


A Novel.


By EDMUND YATES. AUTHOR OF 'A WAITING RACE.' 'BROKEN TO HARNESS,' ETC.




'That single effort by which we stop short in the downhill path to
perdition is itself a greater exertion of virtue than an hundred acts
of justice.' OLIVER GOLDSMITH.



IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II.



LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 1872.

[_The right of translation and reproduction is reserved_.]






LONDON ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.






CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

CHAP.

I. Breaking the News.
II. A confidential Mission.
III. A Check.
IV. Take her up tenderly.
V. Parson's Work.
VI. Run to Earth.
VII. A Third in the Plot.
VIII. So far successful.
IX. The small Hours in London.
X. The small hours in Hendon.
XI. Mrs. Calverley loses her Husband.






THE YELLOW FLAG.




CHAPTER I. BREAKING THE NEWS.


Doctor Haughton stared hard at his old friend, who had just made such
an astounding announcement--stared hard, but said nothing. Naturally a
reticent man, in his capacity of physician he had had a great many odd
things confided to him in his life, and had consequently not merely
learned the value of silence, but had almost lost the faculty of
astonishment.

After a minute's pause he turned to the little crowd, and said in a
quiet, business-like way, 'Just four of you lift this poor gentleman's
body, two at the head and two at the feet, and carry it over to the
tavern I see on the other side of the road.--Gibson,' to the coachman,
'you go with them and pay them for their trouble. See it properly
placed on a bed or sofa somewhere, and have the door locked, and tell
the landlord he will be properly paid, and that a hearse will come out
and fetch it away this evening.'

When Gibson returned and reported that all these directions had
been properly obeyed, he mounted his box again, and the gentlemen,
re-entering the carriage, drove off swiftly towards London, leaving the
little crowd in the road gazing after them.

The gentlemen inside the brougham composed themselves comfortably, each
in his corner, looking out of the window, and waiting for the other to
speak. Each was most anxious to hear all that the other might have to
tell him, but both knew the professional etiquette of caution so well
that neither liked to be the first to commence the conversation. At
length Mr. Broadbent, who was a year or two younger, and considerably
more impulsive than his friend, broke the silence by saying, in a
casual manner, and as though the subject had but little interest for
him, 'Odd that I should have been talking to you about that man this
morning, and that we should have come upon him just now, wasn't it?'

'Very odd; very odd indeed,' said Doctor Haughton; 'quite a
coincidence! Odd thing, too, his going under two names. Mr. Calverley
certainly could not be called an eccentric man.'

'Nor could Mr. Claxton, so far as I have seen of him at least,' said
Mr. Broadbent; 'a thoroughly steady-going man of business, I should
say.'

'Ah!' said Doctor Haughton. And then there was a pause, broken by the
doctor's saying, as he looked straight out of the window before him,
'No need of asking what made the man adopt this mystery and this alias,
eh? A woman, of course?'

'Well, there certainly is a Mrs. Claxton,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and a
very pretty woman too.'

'Poor creature, poor creature!' said Doctor Haughton; 'such things as
these always fall hardest upon them.'

'Yes, it's a bad thing for her losing her husband,' said Mr. Broadbent.

'Her husband!' echoed Doctor Haughton. 'I--I--I suppose every one at
Hendon thought she was Calverley's wife?'

'Thought she was!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'do you mean to say she wasn't?'

'Why, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, pushing his hat on
the back of his head and staring at his companion, 'there's a Mrs.
Calverley at home in Great Walpole-street, whither we are now going, to
whom Calverley has been married for the last ten or fifteen years.'

'Good Heaven!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'then that poor girl at Rose
Cottage is--ah, poor child, poor child!' And he sighed and shook his
head very sorrowfully. He knew at that moment that so soon as the story
got wind he would have to brave his wife's anger, and the virtuous
indignation of all his neighbours, who would be furious at having him
in their spotless domiciles after his attendance on such a 'creature;'
but his first emotions were pity for the girl, however erring she might
be.

'Very distressing indeed,' said Doctor Haughton, blowing his nose
loudly. 'It is a most extraordinary thing that men who are liable to a
cardiac affection are not more careful in such matters. And the girl is
pretty too, you say?'

'Very pretty, young, and interesting,' said Mr. Broadbent kindly.

'Ah!' commented Dr. Haughton; 'doesn't resemble Mrs. Calverley much, as
you will say when you see her. No doubt poor Calverley--however, that's
neither here nor there. Do you know this is a remarkably unpleasant
business, Broadbent?'

'It is indeed,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and for both the families.'

'Yes, and for us, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, 'for us, who
have to break the news to one of them within the next half hour. Where
on earth can we say we found the man? I suppose he was living out at
this box of his, wasn't he?'

'Yes, he has been there for the last few days. He was in the habit of
passing a week or ten days there, and then going off, as Mrs. Claxton
told me, on business journeys connected with the firm of which he was a
partner.'

'That exactly tallies with Calverley's own life. He was absent from his
home about every fortnight to look after, as he said, some ironworks in
the North. It is very little wonder that a man leading a double life of
such enormous excitement should bring upon himself a cardiac attack.
Such a steady sobersides as he looked too! Gad, Broadbent, I shouldn't
be surprised if you were to turn out a Don Juan next!

'No fear of that,' said Mr. Broadbent, with a half smile; 'but really
this is a most unpleasant position for us. Where can we say we found
the poor fellow? We cannot possibly tell Mrs. Calverley we picked him
up on the roadside, as he was probably supposed by her to be travelling
in the North. And yet she must know the truth some day.'

'Yes, but not yet,' said Doctor Haughton, 'nor need we take upon
ourselves the trouble and anxiety of telling her. We can say to Mrs.
Calverley that this poor man was found dead in a railway carriage,
which she would be ready to believe, imagining him to be on his return
from the ironworks. Mr. Gurwood, a clergyman, her son by her former
husband, who happens to be stopping in the house, how the matter really
stands, and get him to explain it to her on some future occasion.'

Mr. Broadbent agreed to this mechanically; indeed he was but little
concerned about Mrs. Calverley, and was wondering what would become of
the poor little woman at Rose Cottage when she should hear the fearful
news.

'And I'll tell you what, my dear Broadbent,' continued Doctor Haughton,
after a pause, 'if you don't mind my giving you a little advice.
I should let this young woman up at Hendon find out this news by
herself--I mean to say, I shouldn't tell her. No one knows that you
know anything about it; and it is as well for a professional man to
mix himself up in such matters under such circumstances as little as
possible.'

Mr. Broadbent again signified his assent. He was a kindly-hearted
man, but he knew that from a worldly point of view his companion's
advice was sound, and he determined to act upon it, remembering Mrs.
Broadbent's tongue.

So the two gentlemen journeyed on until the carriage pulled up in front
of the dull, grim, respectable house in Great Walpole-street, and
there, feeling very nervous despite their professional training, they
alighted.

There was no need to give their names, for the butler recognised Doctor
Haughton at once, and ushered the gentlemen into the drawing-room,
where Mrs. Calverley was seated alone, with the eternal Berlin-wool
frame in front of her. She looked up at the butler's announcement, rose
from her seat, and stood with her hands crossed primly before her,
waiting to receive her visitors.

Doctor Haughton advanced, and taking one of her cold flat hands shook
it in a purely professional manner, and then let it drop. Nor could
Mrs. Calverley, however acute she might have been, have gleaned
any intelligence from the doctor's look, which was also purely
professional, and met her steely blue eyes as though it were inspecting
her tongue. But Mrs. Calverley was not acute, and she merely said, 'How
do you do, Doctor Haughton?' in her thin acid voice, and stared blankly
at Mr. Broadbent, as though wondering how he came there.

'This is Mr. Broadbent, an old friend of mine, and a medical man of
great experience, whose company I was fortunate enough to have on this
very melancholy occasion.'

Doctor Haughton laid great stress upon the last words; but Mrs.
Calverley took them very calmly, merely saying 'Yes;' and rubbing the
palms of her silk mittens softly together.

'I am afraid I have not succeeded in making you understand, Mrs.
Calverley, that a great misfortune has befallen you.'

'The Swartmoor Ironworks,' said Mrs. Calverley, suddenly brightening
up. 'I always said--but how could you know about them?'

'The calamity to which I am alluding is, I regret to say, much more
serious than any mere business loss,' replied Doctor Houghton gravely.
'Mr. Calverley has been out of town for some little time, I believe?'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley, becoming rigid with rage; 'he is away
carrying out some of those ridiculous schemes in which he wastes our
money and--'

'Do not speak harshly, my dear madam,' said the doctor, laying his hand
upon her arm. 'I am sure you will regret it. Mr. Calverley is very ill,
dangerously ill.'

Mrs. Calverley looked up sharply into his face. 'Stop one minute,
Doctor Houghton, if you please; I should wish my son, the Reverend
Martin Gurwood, to be present at any communication you have to make to
me respecting Mr. Calverley. He is somewhere in the house, I know. I
will send for him.' And she rang the bell.

'By all means,' said Doctor Haughton, looking helplessly at Mr.
Broadbent, and feeling how very much more difficult it would be to tell
his white lie, prompted though it was by merciful consideration, in the
presence of a clergyman.

In a few minutes Martin Gurwood entered the room. He knew Doctor
Houghton, and shook hands with him; bowing to Mr. Broadbent, to whom he
was introduced.

'Doctor Houghton was beginning to make some communication to me about
Mr. Calverley,' said Mrs. Calverley, 'and I thought it better, Martin,
that you should be present.'

Martin Gurwood bowed, and looked inquiringly at the doctor.

'It is, I regret to say, a very painful communication,' said Doctor
Haughton, in answer to this mute appeal. 'Mr. Calverley was found this
afternoon in a very critical state in a--in a railway carriage on
the--on the Great Northern line,' said the doctor, with some little
hesitation, feeling himself grow hot all over.

Mr. Broadbent, feeling the actual responsibility thus lifted from his
shoulders, preserved a perfectly unruffled demeanour, and nodded his
head in solemn corroboration.

'May I ask how you came to hear of this, Doctor Haughton?' said Martin.

'It so happened,' said the doctor, 'that I had been called in
consultation to a case at--a short distance from town'--it would never
do to name the exact place while this woman is present, he thought to
himself--'and we were returning in the train when the discovery was
made, and we at once offered our services, little thinking that the
unfortunate sufferer would prove to be an acquaintance of mine.'

'Some one must go to him at once,' said Martin, looking hard at his
mother.

'It is a great pity that Madame Du Tertre is not in the way just now
when she is wanted,' said Mrs. Calverley, quietly; 'this seems exactly
one of the occasions--'

'There is no necessity for anyone to go,' interrupted Doctor Haughton;
'all that it is possible to do has been done.'

'Do you consider Mr. Calverley to be in danger?' asked Martin,
anxiously.

'In extreme danger,' replied the doctor; and then catching Mr.
Gurwood's eye, he endeavoured by the action of his mouth to frame the
word 'dead.' But Mrs. Calverley's steely eyes were upon him at the same
moment, and she guessed his meaning.

'You are endeavouring to deceive me, Doctor Haughton,' said she with
her stoniest manner; 'Mr. Calverley is dead.'

'My dear mother,' said Martin, leaving his chair, and putting his arms
round her.

'I can bear it, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly; 'this is not the
first time I have known suffering. My life has been one long martyrdom.'

'Is this true?' asked Martin, turning to the doctor.

'I regret to say it is,' said Doctor Haughton. 'Out of consideration
for Mrs. Calverley's feelings, I endeavoured to break the news as
gently as possible, but it is better that she should know the truth as
she does now.'

'It is some consolation for me to think,' said Mrs. Calverley, in
measured tones, 'that I never failed to utter my protest against these
reckless journeys, and that if Mr. Calverley had not obstinately
persisted in ignoring my advice, on that as on every other point, he
might have been here at this moment.'

'What was the immediate cause of death?' asked Martin Gurwood
hurriedly, for his mother's tone and manner jarred harshly on his ear.

'It is impossible to say without--without an examination,' said the
doctor, lowering his voice; 'but I should say, from the mere cursory
glance we had, that death probably arose from pericarditis--what you
would know as disease of the heart.'

'And that might be brought on by what?'

'It would probably be the remnant of some attack of rheumatic fever
under which the deceased had suffered at some period of his life. But
it has probably been accelerated or increased by excess of mental
excitement or bodily fatigue.'

'There need have been no question of excitement or fatigue either,
if my advice had been followed,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a defiant
sniff; 'if Mr. Calverley had been more in his home--'

'Yes, mother; this is scarcely the time to enter into such questions,'
said Martin Gurwood severely, for he was ashamed of his mother's
peevish nagging. 'What arrangements have you made, doctor, in regard to
the body of our poor friend?'

'None whatever at present,' said the doctor; 'we did the best we could
temporarily, but this is a matter in which I thought it would be better
to speak with you--alone,' he added, after a pause, glancing at Mrs.
Calverley.

But that lady sat perfectly unmoved. 'Will there be an inquest?' she
asked.

'I trust not, madam,' said the doctor dryly; for he was much
scandalised at Mrs. Calverley's hardness and composure. 'I shall use
all the influence I have to prevent any such inquiry, for the sake of
the poor gentleman who is dead, and whom I always found a kind-hearted
liberal man.'

'I know nothing about his liberality,' said Mrs. Calverley, only
exhibiting her appreciation of the doctor's tone by a slight increase
in the rigidity of her back; 'but I know that, like most of his other
virtues, it was never exhibited towards me, or in his own home.'

'I never saw Mr. Calverley except in this house,' remarked the doctor
angrily. Then turning to Martin, he said, 'These arrangements that we
spoke of had we not better go into them?'

'I think so,' said Martin. Then turning to Mrs. Calverley, he added,
'My dear mother, I must have a little business-talk with Doctor
Haughton about some matters in connexion with this melancholy affair
which it might perhaps be painful for you to listen to, and at which
there is happily no necessity for your presence. Shall we go into the
drawing-room or--'

'Pray don't trouble yourself; I will relieve you of my company at
once,' said Mrs. Calverley. And with a very slight inclination to the
visitors she rose and creaked out of the room.

The usual pallor of Martin Gurwood's face was covered by a burning
flush. 'You must excuse my mother, Doctor Haughton, and you too, if you
please, sir,' turning to Mr. Broadbent. 'Her sphere in life has been
very narrow, and I am constrained to admit that her manner is harsh and
forbidding. But it is manner, and nothing more.'

'Some persons are in the habit of disguising the acuteness of their
feelings under a rough exterior,' said the doctor; 'Mrs. Calverley may
belong to that class. At all events, subjects of this kind are better
discussed without women, and we have a communication to make to you
which it is absolutely necessary she should know nothing of, at least
for the present.'

Martin Gurwood rose from his chair and walked to the mantelpiece,
where he stood for a moment, his head resting on his hand. When he
turned round his face had resumed its usual pallor, was, indeed, whiter
than usual, as he said: 'I have guessed from the first that you had
something to say to me, and I have a fearful idea that I guess its
purport. Mr. Calverley has committed suicide?'

'No, I think not; I certainly think not,' said the doctor. 'What do you
say, Broadbent?'

'Most decidedly not,' said Mr. Broadbent.

'When I saw him yesterday, even in the cursory examination which I
was able to make, I satisfied myself that there were symptoms of
pericarditis, and I will stake my professional reputation it was that
that killed him.'

'When you saw him yesterday?' repeated Martin Gurwood, looking blankly
at the surgeon. 'Why, yesterday he must have been in the North. It was
on his return journey, thence, as I understood, that he died in train.'

'Yes, exactly,' said Doctor Haughton, 'this is just the point where a
little explanation is necessary. The fact is, my dear sir, that our
poor friend did not die in the train at all, but on the public road,
the high road leading to Hendon, where he lived.'

'Where he lived!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'You are speaking in riddles,
which it is impossible for me to understand. I must ask you to be more
explicit, if you wish me to comprehend you.'

'Well, then, the fact of the matter is, that our poor friend for some
years past has led a kind of double life. Here and in Mincing-lane he
was, of course, Mr. Calverley; but at Hendon, where, as I said before,
he sometimes lived, having a very pretty place there, he passed as Mr.
Claxton.'

'Claxton!' cried Martin; 'it is the name of one of the firm.'

'Yes,' said the doctor; 'I have always understood that Mr. Claxton
was a sleeping partner in the firm. Our friend here,' pointing to Mr.
Broadbent, 'thought so, as well as many others. No doubt the suggestion
originated with the poor man himself; who thought that some day his
connexion with the firm might crop up, and that this would prove a not
ineffectual blind.'

'What an extraordinary idea!' said Martin Gurwood. 'And he took this
house at Hendon, and lived there, you say, from time to time.'

'Exactly,' said Doctor Houghton, looking hard at him.

'As an occasional retreat, doubtless, to which he could retire from
the worries of business and--other things. You are a man of the world,
Doctor Houghton, and though you have not been much at this house, you
must have remarked that my mother is somewhat exacting, and scarcely
calculated to make a comfortable home for a man of poor Mr. Calverley's
cheerful temperament. I can understand his not telling his wife of the
existence of this little retreat.'

'Yes--why--he,' said Doctor Houghton dryly; 'there was another reason
why he did not mention its existence to Mrs. Calverley. The fact is,
that this little retreat had another occupant.' And the doctor paused
and looked at Martin with a serio-comic expression.

'I am at a loss again,' said the clergyman; 'I do not understand you.'

'My good sir,' said Doctor Houghton, 'your parish must lie a long way
out of the world. Don't you comprehend? Mr. Calverley did not live
alone at Hendon; there was a young woman there.'

'What!' cried Martin Gurwood, staggering back against the mantelpiece;
'do you mean to say that this man, so looked up to and respected, has
been living for years in open crime?'

'Scarcely in open crime, my good sir,' said the doctor, 'as is proved
by the fact that it has been kept quiet so long. Moreover, he is gone,
poor fellow; and though there can be no question of his guilt, there
may have been what the lawyers call extenuating circumstances. I fancy,
from what I saw of him, That Mr. Calverley was of all men inclined to
be happy in his home, had matters run smoothly.'

'I think you are very right, sir,' said Martin Gurwood; 'and it is not
for me to judge him, Heaven knows, nor,' he added, seeing the doctor's
eyes firmly fixed on him, 'nor any other sinful man. You have so
astonished me by your revelation that I feel myself almost incapable of
any farther action at present. You did perfectly right in concealing
this dreadful story from my mother; she must be kept in ignorance of it
as long as possible. Now, what else is there to be said?'

'Nothing, after you have given me the address of the undertakers you
wish to employ.'

'I know none in London, nor, I am sure, does my mother. You will be
more accustomed to such matters, and I should be obliged to you to act
for us.'

'Very well,' said Doctor Haughton. 'I will give orders that the body
be fetched from the tavern, where it is now lying, and brought here
to-night. I will see you in a day or two; and I think you may trust to
me for arranging the business without any unpleasant legal inquiry,
under which the facts might possibly come to light.'

Martin Gurwood shook hands with his retiring visitors, and followed
them to the door, which he closed behind them and carefully locked.
Then returning to the chair which he had occupied he fell on his knees
beside it, and prayed long and fervently. He must have felt strong love
for the man whose death and whose crime had just been revealed to him;
the story just narrated must have struck deeply into his soul; for when
he lifted his face from between his hands where it had been buried, it
was strained, and seared, and tear-blurred.

What was to be done? The dreadful news must be kept from Mrs. Calverley
as long as possible; not, as Martin well enough knew, that her feelings
towards the dead man would be wounded as almost any other woman's
feelings would be wounded by the disclosure; not that in her case it
would involve any shattering of the idol, any revulsion of love long
concentrated on one earthly object, and at the last finding itself
betrayed; but in fear lest the woman's ungovernable temper should break
forth and blurt out to the whole world the story of her wrongs, and of
her husband's dishonour.

There was the other woman too, the poor wretch who had been the sharer
of that dishonour, who had been living with a man on whom she had no
moral or legal claim, and who even now was all unconscious of the
blow which had fallen upon him, cutting him off in the midst of his
wickedness, and leaving her to the scorn and reprobation of the world.
Martin Gurwood's large-souled pity had time to turn even to this
outcast. As he thought of her, he pictured to himself the desolation
which would fall upon that little home, and could not help contrasting
it with the proper and conventional display of mourning which had
already commenced to reign in the house in which he sat.

Yes! Mourning as understood by undertakers and at _maisons de
deuil_;--which is a very different thing from grief as displayed in red
eyelids and swollen cheeks, in numbed feelings and dumb carelessness
as to all that may happen--had begun to reign in the mansion in Great
Walpole-street. The blinds had all been drawn down, and the servants
stole about noiselessly on tip-toe. It was felt to be a time when
people required keeping up, and the butler had opened a bottle of
John Calverley's particular Madeira, and the cook had announced her
intention of adding something special to the ordinary supper fare. Mrs.
Calverley had retired to her bed-room, and announced that she would
see no one save Madame Du Tertre, who was to be shown up directly she
returned. And about seven o'clock in the murky autumnal evening, there
was a noise of wheels and a low knock, and It arrived, and was borne in
its shell on men's shoulders up the creaking stairs to an unused room
on the second-floor, where It was left alone. There It lay deserted by
all; It that had been young John Calverley the worshipped treasure of
the old mother long since passed away; It that had been the revered
head of the great City house of Calverley and Company of world-wide
fame and never-tarnished renown; It that had been 'dear old John,'
so passionately loved by Alice Claxton, who was even now looking out
into the dark night from her cottage-porch, and wondering whether her
husband had gone off on business or whether he would return.

Long before It was brought there, Mr. Jeffreys had arrived from the
City; and had an interview with Mr. Gurwood, in which he learned of his
principal's sudden death. As Mr. Jeffreys came down the steps he met a
lady going up; a lady in a state of great excitement, and who asked the
footman standing at the hall-door what had happened.

The footman was concise in his reply. 'Mr. Calverley is dead, mum,'
he said. 'And Mrs. Calverley wished to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as
possible.'




CHAPTER II. A CONFIDENTIAL MISSION.


During the time that It was lying in the unused second-floor room
awaiting its last dismal journey to Kensal Green, Martin Gurwood kept
the story which had been told him locked in his own breast. Once
or twice he saw Doctor Haughton, who had managed to set aside the
impending inquest, and to him Martin spoke, hoping that either he or
Mr. Broadbent might suggest the advisability of their communicating
with the tenant of the cottage at Hendon, and letting her know what
had occurred. But on this subject the astute physician was singularly
reserved; and whenever there was any approach to it he invariably
turned the current of the conversation. It was a shy subject, he
thought, and one in which grave men in his position should not be mixed
up. They were men of the world, and knew that such things were; but
both for professional and private reasons it was best to ignore them as
far as possible.

So Martin Gurwood, left entirely to his own resources, almost gave
himself up to despair. He felt that it would be impossible to conceal
the truth from Mrs. Calverley much longer, but he knew that before
mentioning it to her, he ought to possess himself of the details of
the story, and these he could not learn without a personal visit to
Hendon. Then, too, it was more than probable that this young woman,
the dead man's mistress, was even yet ignorant of his fate, and out of
mere Christian charity she ought to be made acquainted with it. Martin
Gurwood did not know what to do. His worldly knowledge was small; such
of it as he possessed had been acquired at Oxford, and immediately
after leaving the university, and it had grown dull and rusty in his
subsequent curacies and in the Lullington a vicarage. If he had only a
friend, a clear-headed, far-seeing man of experience, to whom he could
intrust the secret, and on whose judgment he could rely! Suddenly a
bright thought occurred to him--Humphrey Statham--there was the very
man. Sound, single-hearted, and worldly-wise. Martin had known him
off and on for many years, and not merely in his own experience of
him, which was small, had found in him all the qualities he had named,
but had heard him accredited with them by others whose relations with
Statham had been more intimate. He would go down into the City the very
next day, and hunt him out. And Martin Gurwood went to bed that night
with a sense of relief at his heart.

The month on board the Scilly pilot-boat had done Humphrey Statham
an immense deal of good. Mr. Collins had carefully avoided troubling
his master with any letters or papers; though even if they had been
forwarded, it is doubtful whether they would have reached their
destination, as the season had been very stormy, and the pilot's
services in constant requisition. Mr. Statham's spirits rose with the
wind and the storm. Knowing the sea-going qualities of the boat beneath
him, he was never so happy as when knocking about in heavy gales and
foam-crested rollers. He had had a remarkably happy holiday, and had
come back with renewed health and fresh vigour for business.

On the second morning after his return he was seated at his desk
looking over some special papers which the vigilant Collins had placed
before him, when that discreet functionary presented himself at the
door.

'A gentleman to see you, sir,' he said; 'says his business is pressing.
Here is his card.'

Mr. Statham took up the card, and glanced at it. 'The Reverend Martin
Gurwood,' he cried; 'show him in at once. Why did you hesitate?'

'Beg your pardon, Mr. Statham, but these matters,' pointing to the
papers on which Humphrey had been engaged, 'are important. Been
bottled-up for a fortnight, and won't keep any longer. Norland and
Company, owners of the brig Samson, found derelict off Cuxhaven,
are coming to see you at two; and Captain Thompson, of the barque
Susquehanna, run into the fog of the ninth instant off Dungeness, has
been here three times, and gets more and more impatient each visit.'

'Captain Thompson's patience must be yet farther tried, I am afraid,
Collins; and Messrs. Norland must wait my leisure,' said Humphrey
Statham. 'Show Mr. Gurwood in at once, and don't let me be disturbed
while he is with me.'

Mr. Collins 'bowed, with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, and
retired, speedily returning and ushering the visitor into his master's
presence.

'My dear Gurwood,' cried Humphrey, as soon as they were alone, 'this is
an unexpected pleasure! What an age it is since I have seen you! I am
so glad I am in town; I only returned the day before yesterday.'

'Your trip, whatever it has been, seems to have done you good,' said
Martin. 'How strong and well you are looking!'

'I have been in a pilot-boat for the last three weeks--you know my old
lunes--and had all the London dust blown out of me by strong gales and
washed off me by running seas. I wish I could return the compliment, my
dear fellow,' added Statham; 'but I'm sorry to see you doing no credit
to Lullington air. You look as pallid and as sodden as any Londoner,
Gurwood. What's the matter with you, man?'

'I have had a good deal of mental worry within the last few days, and I
suppose I am showing its effects,' said Martin. 'It is this which has
brought me to see you, to ask for any advice and assistance you can
give me.'

'Sorry for the cause, but delighted to be of any use in my power,'
said Statham. 'Is it in my line of business? Any of your stepfather's
argosies run down and wrecked on their homeward voyage? By the way, a
thousand pardons! What an idiot I am! I now remember to have seen in
the _Times_ a paragraph announcing Mr. Calverley's sudden death.'

'It is in connection with that event that I have come to you. You are a
man of the world, I know, and a thorough good fellow into the bargain,
while in all matters requiring tact and decision I am lamentably
deficient.'

'Merely the manner of bringing up, my good friend,' said Humphrey
Statham. 'I am practical and hard-headed: you are theoretical and
large-hearted. What the wine-merchants call a "blending" of the
qualities of both of us would make, I suppose, the right sort of
fellow. Now, then, what has gone wrong? Mr. Calverley has died
intestate, I suppose, or there is some hitch about the disposition of
his property.'

'No, so far all is right. The will, made about two years ago, is clear,
concise, and properly attested. I am joined in the executorship with
Mrs. Calverley, and so far all is plain sailing. Besides, I have been
mixed up with so many of my parishioners in such matters that I should
scarcely have needed advice. What I have come about is a much more
serious affair.'

'Out with it, then, man, and don't have any farther hesitation. You
won't be able to astonish me. All sorts of wonderful things have been
told me by people sitting in that chair. The last person who occupied
it before I went away was a detective officer, and your story cannot
be more strange than his, or more pathetically interesting--to me at
least.' But the last words were almost inaudible.

'You must let me say what I have to say in my own way, then,' said
Martin Gurwood, 'and try and follow me as best you can. It was given
out that Mr. Calverley died in a railway carriage. This was not the
case. He died in a fit on the high road to Hendon, and was found there
by a London physician who knew him, and who happened to be passing in
his carriage.'

'Hendon?' repeated Humphrey Statham. 'What have I heard about Hendon
lately?'

'It is a place which has a good deal to do with the story I am about to
relate,' said Martin, 'as you will judge when I tell you that the late
Mr. Calverley, unknown to his wife or to any of us, had a house there.'

Humphrey Statham looked up sharply; then whistled long and low.

'A house to which he was in the habit of retiring every other fortnight
or so, giving out and leaving it to be imagined that he had gone down
to some ironworks which he had purchased in the North, and which
required his frequent supervision.'

'Yes,' said Statham, nodding his head composedly, 'I quite understand.
Of course at this country residence he didn't pass in his own name?'

'How in the world could you have guessed that?' said Martin,
astonished. 'You are right, however. It seems that at Hendon he was
known as Mr. Claxton.'

'Claxton!' cried Humphrey. 'Good Heavens! what an extraordinary thing!'
Then checking himself he repeated, 'Yes, known as Mr. Claxton.'

'The name seems familiar to you; it is, I suppose, not an uncommon
one?' said Martin. 'However, by it he was known.'

'Yes,' said Humphrey Statham, absently. His thoughts were far away
then, intent on Tatlow's story about Emily Mitchell's child and the
lady who had adopted her. 'Yes,' he repeated, recalling his attention
by an effort, 'I think I can see my way to some very awkward details.
The man who passed as Claxton was not alone at this retreat?'

'He was not,' said Martin, looking uncomfortable. 'The cottage had, as
I am informed, a young woman for its permanent mistress.'

'Exactly,' said Statham, 'as might have been anticipated.'

'Good Heavens!' cried Martin, in his turn, 'are such things so common
that you take the revelation thus calmly? When this news was told me I
was staggered beyond belief.'

'Perfectly natural in your case, my dear Gurwood,' said Humphrey
Statham, who had resumed his old bearing and manner; 'had it been
otherwise, you would not have been fitted for the position you occupy.
What you and other men call "knowledge of the world," with which you
are pleased to accredit me, means an experience of the worst side of
human nature, laughed at, and glossed over by the thoughtless, but
often horrible in its abandonment and profligacy. Such knowledge is
hardly earned, and, to a man of any refinement and decent feeling,
is eminently unsatisfactory in its results; but it is what we most
of us have to go through, and in such matters it is of no use being
squeamish. Well, Mr. Calverley was known as Mr. Claxton in his Hendon
home, which he shared with a young woman. Has Mrs. Calverley been made
acquainted with this story?'

'No; nor do I know how it is to be broken to her; that is one point
on which I have to consult you. More than this, the--the person in
question is, so far as I can make out, as yet unaware of what has
transpired--I mean of Calverley's death.'

'The deuce she is! Has no one been to see her?'

'No one at all. The whole thing transpired in a very odd manner. It
appears that the Hendon apothecary happened to be in the carriage with
the London physician, of whom I have spoken, and recognised the dead
man as his acquaintance, Mr. Claxton.'

'Then he was, of course, the very man of all others to tell this woman
what had happened.'

'So I thought, and hinted as much as strongly as I dared But he
declined to take the hint; nor would his companion, Doctor Haughton,
the physician, help me out in my suggestion.'

'This is very awkward,' said Humphrey Statham, after a pause. 'You
see your great object must naturally be to keep the story of this
disgraceful connection from Mrs. Calverley's ears. She will have worry
enough of her own, poor woman, without having her feelings harrowed by
the discovery of her husband's baseness.'

'Yes,' said Martin Gurwood, but he spoke faintly. Knowing his mother as
he did, he felt it impossible to indorse his friend's ideal description
of her state.

'Well, it seems to me more than probable that in a very short time
this young woman of whom we have been speaking, believing, as I think
you said she did, that the _soi-disant_ Mr. Claxton was a partner in
Calverley's firm, will be sending down to the house of business in the
City to inquire what has become of him. If she does that, she would at
once discover the true state of affairs, and then, if she be like the
rest of her class, a row-royal will ensue.'

'What do you mean?' asked Martin Gurwood, in alarm. 'What do you think
she will do?'

'My good fellow, she will do everything she possibly can to make the
best bargain for herself. Persons in her position generally imagine
that this is best effected by creating a disturbance, and rendering
themselves as obnoxious as possible. It is probable, therefore, that
this woman will turn all her energies on to Mrs. Calverley, beginning
by explaining to her the position, and proceeding to extort money.'

'I should scarcely think she would be able to do that where my mother
is concerned,' said Martin Gurwood, finding it impossible to restrain
a grim smile. 'Mrs. Calverley throughout her life has been a thorough
woman of business, and would be quite able to hold her own in any
matter of that kind. But it is most advisable that the recent state of
affairs should be kept from her as long as possible, and that, when it
is found necessary to disclose them, the story should be told with all
possible delicacy.'

'Exactly; and with that feeling we musn't leave it to the young person
at Hendon to do.'

'Of course not,' said Martin Gurwood. 'I really am distressed beyond
measure. I have no notion what ought to be done, or who should do it.'

Humphrey Statham rose from his seat, plunged his hands into his
trousers-pockets, and took two or three short sharp turns up and down
the room. Then he stopped in front of Martin Gurwood's chair, and said:

'I'll tell you what it is: this matter will have to be faced out sooner
or later, and it is better that it should be done at once. For your
mother's sake, and for your own, it is necessary that there should be
as little scandal as possible; and, so far as I can see, the only way
to avoid an exposé is for some one to go up to Hendon and see this
young woman.'

'Yes,' assented Martin Gurwood dolefully; 'what a very unpleasant task!'

'This must be done at once, before she gets an inkling of what has
occurred, or else, as I say, she will be coming down to the City, and
thence to Mrs. Calverley, and all our plans will be upset. Now, whoever
sees her must tell her exactly what has happened, and-- By the way, the
will has been found, you say, and you have seen it?'

'Certainly. I am one of the executors.'

'And there is no provision made for--for Hendon in the will?'

'None at all; there is no mention of, or allusion to, the subject.'

'So much the better,' said. Humphrey Statham. 'Men are so essentially
selfish that, no matter what extravagance they may commit for those
people during their lifetime, they seldom leave them anything at their
death. If, however, they have any kind of feeling about them, they
usually make some separate provision while they are alive, and do not
risk the chance of having their memories mocked at by any testamentary
acknowledgment of their frailties. Of course you know nothing of any
settlement having been made by Mr. Calverley during his life?'

'Nothing at all; neither the business nor the private accounts have yet
been looked into.'

'I should say, most likely nothing was done in that way. Mr. Calverley
was not an old man, and up to the time of his death had not been
ailing. He probably expected to live on for many years, and even
if he intended to provide for this young person, did not see any
necessity for doing so at present. If this be the case, it is so far
in our favour. We have something to gain from this young woman--her
silence--and it must be purchased.'

'Yes,' said Martin Gurwood; 'I see the necessity for that, and I
daresay it could be managed. It will be necessary to take Jeffreys, the
chief clerk, into confidence, as he will have the preparation of the
accounts.'

'Limited confidence to Jeffreys is not objectionable,' said Mr.
Statham. 'Very well, then; this person can be told that so long as
she conducts herself properly, and keeps her mouth shut in regard to
her life at Hendon, she will receive a certain annuity, the amount of
which can be determined upon hereafter. It'll stand you in, I should
say, from a hundred to a couple of hundred a year; but you must get Mr.
Jeffreys to arrange that for her; and if she holds to her share of the
bargain, you may consider yourself well out of what might have been a
very disagreeable affair.'

'I think so too, and I am very much obliged to you for the advice. But
there is one point on which I am as much in the dark as ever.'

'And that is--?'

'Who am I to get to go to Hendon to transact this business? Of course I
should be very unwilling to go myself; but even if I could overcome my
repugnance, I doubt whether I should be of the smallest use.'

'I am perfectly sure you would not; and even if you were likely to
succeed, you must not be sent on a mission to make terms with a woman
of this class. No; they say that if you want anything properly done you
must do it yourself; and as I was the originator of this proposition, I
suppose I must take upon myself to be its executant.'

'Do you mean to say you will take upon yourself to go to Hendon and do
all this for me?'

'I suppose I must.'

'You are the best fellow in the world,' said Martin Gurwood, shaking
his friend heartily by the hand.

'No,' said Statham, 'I am very far from that. But I have wandered here
and there, and seen men and cities--and women too, for that matter--and
I daresay I shall do this better than any of your acquaintance. So,
consider the matter settled, and leave it to me.'

'When will you go to Hendon?'

'To-morrow; and I will see you on the day following. Come here about
this time, and you shall learn the result of my mission.'

'I will do so. I never can be sufficiently grateful to you, Statham,
for the kindness you have shown me in this matter!' And Martin Gurwood
took leave of his friend in a much more comfortable frame of mind than
when he arrived that morning in 'Change-alley.

When Humphrey Statham was left by himself he remained perfectly quiet
for a few minutes; then he rose from his chair, and resuming his
quarter-deck-like patrolling of the room, plunged into thought, which
found expression in the following words:

'This is certainly a most extraordinary complication of affairs. To
think that Emily Mitchell's child should have been adopted by a woman
who proves to be Mr. Calverley's mistress! The Yellow Flag waves over
the poor little wretch betimes. However, it must be my business to
put an end to that connection as speedily as possible, and I do not
suppose there will be much difficulty. The child was all very well
as an amusement, but now that the supplies are cut off, or, at all
events, very much reduced, I should think madam would be only too glad
to be rid of the encumbrance. Fancy such an affair as this happening
with that remarkably respectable and quiet-looking old gentleman, Mr.
Calverley! And having been carried on for several years too, without
any one being one bit the wiser. Not a bad notion that, calling himself
Claxton, and giving out that he was a sleeping partner with Calverley
and Company, which would account for his being seen to go in there,
and being recognised by the clerks and porters if any one had thought
it worth while to watch him from Hendon to the City. What a world it
is! What a world of lies and swindling, dishonour and deceit! And here
is Martin Gurwood creeping about round the edge of it, and knowing no
more of what goes on within than a fly on a clock-face knows of the
movement of the works! He would have made a nice mess of it if he had
gone up to Hendon; for he is an earnest man according to his lights,
and would probably have remonstrated with the young woman, and exhorted
her to repentance; her comments on which proceeding would probably have
been delivered in rather strong language, at which he, being naturally
shocked, would have retired, and the whole thing would have fallen
through.

'Now let me see what I have got to do. In the first place, I must
stipulate with the young woman that she must clear out of the place
at Hendon as soon as possible. I daresay there is the usual gimcrack
tawdry furniture, which persons of her class think so elegant, but
which will sell for a mere song. But that's no business of mine, and
all I can do is to make the annuity which we pay her contingent on
her clearing out at once, on her good behaviour, and on her complete
silence as regards Mr. Calverley. The most awkward part of the business
I have undertaken is that breaking the news of the old gentleman's
death. It's possible, but not very likely, that this poor creature
may have some feelings of gratitude to him for the home he gave her,
and the kindness he showed her; and if so, I shall be in a horribly
unpleasant position. I never can stand tears or anything of that sort.
Of course there is an element of roughness in what I have to say,
however gently I may put it. I think the best plan will be for me to go
to the place and try to get an interview with the young person without
at first entering upon the subject of my visit. By that means I shall
be enabled to take stock of her, and see which is the best way to
approach the matter.

'Now, what excuse can I make to get into the house? People of that
sort, when they are in luck, are apt to stand very much on their
dignity, poor creatures! and to be tremendously exclusive. If I were
to send in my name without announcing any business, I shouldn't be
admitted. If I mentioned Calverley or Claxton, I should have to invent
a story which would be bad, or to tell the truth, which would be worse.
Now, how can I manage it?'

He paused for a few moments, leaning against the mantelpiece. Then a
sudden thought struck him.

'By Jove! Tatlow was up in that neighbourhood, and heard from his
friend, the master of the workhouse, about this Mrs. Claxton, as she
called herself. Perhaps, in the course of his inquiries he may have
learned something which will give me a hint as to how I should act.'

He touched a spring-bell on the table. 'Collins,' he said, when that
worthy appeared, 'I am at leisure now for a few minutes.'

'Glad to hear it, sir,' said Collins. 'Mr. George Norland is outside
and getting very savage at being kept awaiting. And as for the captain
of the Susquehanna--'

'You can send Mr. Norland in as soon as you leave the room, and the
captain of the Susquehanna as soon as he comes out, and any one else,
to follow hot and hot, like chops. But, in the first place, telegraph
to Scotland-yard, and ask Mr. Tatlow to step down to me this afternoon.'

By the time Mr. Tatlow arrived, Humphrey Statham had seen various
impatient ship-brokers, and was tolerably exhausted with the business
of the day.

'Just one word, Tatlow,' he said. 'I want to have a little talk with
that lady of whom you spoke to me--she that lives at Hendon, and
adopted the child. But, of course, I don't want to give my own name,
or to let her have any hint of the object of my visit. What should you
say, now, was the best line for me to take?'

'Charity, sir!' said Mr. Tatlow promptly; 'Mrs. Claxton goes in for
that hot and heavy--so they told me down there; and if you were to go
as the agent of a society and pitch a good tale, she'd be sure to see
you.'

'Poor creature!' said Humphrey Statham to himself, after the detective
had departed. 'Charity, eh?--they frequently do that, I believe. It is
the only way in which any remnant of good that may be left in them can
find vent. Well, I'll make my first appearance as agent for a charity
to-morrow afternoon.'




CHAPTER III. A CHECK.


Mr. Calverley dead! The announcement, suddenly blurted out by the
footman, so took Pauline by surprise that she literally staggered
back two paces, and supported herself against the wall. Dead, on the
very day, almost at the very hour when he had promised to meet her,
when she had calculated on worming from him the secret which, once in
her possession, she had intended to use as the means of extracting
information about Tom Durham, and of putting her on to her fugitive
husband's track. Dead! What was the meaning of it all? Was the mystery
about this unknown man, this not-to-be-mentioned invisible partner,
Claxton, of deeper importance than she had thought? Were Mr. Calverley,
Claxton, and Tom Durham so intermixed with business transactions of
such a nature that sooner than confess his connexion with them the
senior partner had committed self-destruction? The thought flashed like
lightning through Pauline's brain. But ere she had time to analyse it,
the solemn voice of the footman repeated in its croaking tones:

'Mrs. Calverley wishes to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as possible.'

'Yes,' said Pauline in reply, 'I will go to Mrs. Calverley at once.'

Past the range of hat-pegs, where the dead man's coats and hats still
hung; past the little study, through the open door of which she saw a
row of his boots standing in order against the wall, his umbrella and
walking-stick in the corner, his folded gloves and clothes-brush laid
out upon the table; up the heavily-carpeted stairs; past the closed
drawing-room door, and on to Mrs. Calverley's bedroom, at the door of
which she knocked. Bidden to come in, Pauline entered, and found the
widow seated prim and upright, in a high-backed chair, before the fire.

'This is sad news, my dear friend,' commenced Pauline, in a sympathetic
voice; 'this is a frightful calamity.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly, 'it is very hard upon me, but not
more than I have always expected. Mr. Calverley chose never to live in
his own home, and he has finished by dying out of it.'

'I have heard no particulars,' said Pauline. 'Where did the sad event
take place?'

'Mr. Calverley was found dead in a railway carriage, as he was
returning from those ironworks,' said the widow, with vicious emphasis
on the last word. 'He entered into that speculation against my will,
and he has now reaped the reward of his own obstinacy.'

Pauline looked at her curiously. The dread event which had occurred had
not softened Mrs. Calverley in the slightest degree.

'This is very, very sad,' said Pauline, after a pause. 'If I were to
consult my own feelings, I should withdraw, and leave you to your
overwhelming grief, which no attention can solace, and which must run
its course; and yet I cannot bear to think of you alone and unaided.
What would you wish me to do?'

'You had much better stay,' said Mrs. Calverley, shortly. 'I feel
myself quite unequal to anything, and there is a great deal to be done.'

The tone in which these words were uttered was cold, peremptory, and
unpleasant; but Pauline took no notice of it. She had a great deal
to think over, and would take the first opportunity of arranging her
plans. As it was, she busied herself in seeing to Mrs. Calverley's
comfort. She had long since relieved her of the superintendence of
domestic affairs, and now she made suggestions for an interview with
the milliner, for the ordering of the servants' mourning, and for the
general conduct of the household, in all of which the widow coldly
acquiesced.

Then, so soon as she could, Pauline sought the privacy of her room, and
gave herself up to meditation.

'Was there ever anything so unfortunate,' she thought to herself, as,
having changed her neat French walking-boots for slippers, in order
not to be heard by Mrs. Calverley in the room beneath, she commenced
pacing up and down the floor,--'was there ever anything so unfortunate!
By this man's death my whole position is changed! Not that I think
there is any doubt of stability of my interest in this house. Though
it was he that first suggested that I should come here, I have so
strengthened myself since then, I stand so well with the wretched
creature down-stairs, the woman with a heart like a dried pea, that had
he lived and tried to bring his influence to bear against me, it would
have been unavailing. I had better stay,' she thought. 'Housekeeper,
dame de compagnie, drudge even, if she could make me so, and all for
my board and lodging. Well, it is worth my while to remain for that,
even now, though by this man's death my chief purpose in coming here
is defeated. In the dead man I have lost, not merely my first friend
and patron, but one whom I had intended should be my victim, and who
alone could serve me in the matter dearest to my heart. To all left
here now that rascally husband of mine was unknown. Even of the name
of Tom Durham they have only heard since the account of his supposed
death appeared in the newspapers. The clue is lost just when I had my
hand upon it! And yet I may as well remain in this place, at all events
until I see how matters progress. There is nowhere I could go to on the
chance of bearing any news,--unless, indeed, I could find the agent
who signed that letter which Monsieur mon mari gave me the day we were
at Southampton. He or she, whichever it may be, would know something
doubtless, but whether they would tell it is another matter. For the
present, then, here I stay. The house will not be so dull as it was
before, for these eccentric English people, ordinarily so triste and
reserved, seem to excite themselves with deaths and funerals; and now
this priest, this Monsieur Gurwood, who was on the point of going away,
will have to remain to attend to the affairs, and to be a comfort to
his sorrowing mother. I am much mistaken if there is not something to
be made out of Monsieur Gurwood. He is sly and secretive, and will hide
all he knows; but my power of will is stronger than his; and if, under
these altered circumstances, he learns anything which may interest me,
I shall be able to get it from him.'

Mrs. Calverley remained in her room that evening, occupying herself in
writing up her diary, which she had scrupulously kept for many years,
and in comparing her record of the feelings which she imagined she
ought to have experienced, and which was very different from what she
really did experience, with the entry in a previous diary of a dozen
years ago, on the day of George Gurwood's death. She had had a second
interview with Madame Du Tertre, and had talked over the arrangements
of the milliner, and had discussed the advisability of a short run to
Brighton, or some other lively place--it must be a lively place at
such a wintry season--for change of air and scene. And she had made
a very fair meal, which had been sent up to her on a tray from the
dinner-table below, at which Martin Gurwood and Pauline were seated,
solemnly facing each other.

The presence of the butler at this repast, always annoying to a man
of Martin Gurwood's simple habits, was on this occasion perfectly
unendurable; and, after requesting his companion's assent, he
instructed the domestic to retire, telling him they would wait upon
themselves.

'I thought you would not mind it, Madame Du Tertre,' he said, with
a grave bow, after the man had withdraw. 'At a time when one is
irritable, and one's nerves are disturbed, it is beyond measure
annoying to me to have a person looking on, watching your every
mouthful, and doing nothing else.'

'I am most thankful that you sent the servant away, Monsieur Gurwood,'
said Pauline, 'more especially as I could not speak to you in his
presence, and I am anxious to learn full particulars of what has
occurred.'

Why did Martin Garwood's pale face become suffused with a burning red?
What was there, Pauline thought, in her observation to make him evince
such emotion?

'I scarcely know that I am in a position to give you any information,
as all I know myself is learned at secondhand.'

'Anything will be information to me,' said Pauline, 'as all Mrs.
Calverley told me was the bare fact. You have never been to--what is
the place called--Swartmoor, I suppose?'

'No, never,' said Martin Gurwood, with increased perturbation, duly
marked by Pauline. 'Why do you ask?'

'I merely wanted to know whether it was an unhealthy place, as this
poor man seems to have caught his death there.'

'Mr. Calverley died from heart-disease, brought on by mental worry and
excitement.'

'Ah,' said Pauline; 'poor man!' And she thought to herself, 'that
mental worry and excitement were caused by his knowledge that he had
to encounter me, and to tell me the true story--for he was too dull to
devise any fiction which I should not have been able to detect--of his
dealings with this Claxton.'

After a pause she said: 'These worries sprung from his intense interest
in his business, I suppose, Monsieur Gurwood?'

'I--I should imagine so,' said Martin, flushing again. 'Mr. Calverley
was devoted to business.'

'Yes,' said Pauline, looking straight at him. 'I often wondered he did
not give himself more relaxation; did not confide the conduct of his
affairs more to his subordinates, or at least to his partner.'

The shot told. All the colour left Martin Gurwood's face, and he looked
horridly embarrassed as he said, 'Partner, Madame Du Tertre? Mr.
Calverley had no partner.'

'Indeed,' said Pauline calmly, but keeping her eyes fixed on his face;
'I thought I understood that there was a gentleman whose name was not
in the firm, but who was what you call a sleeping partner, Mr.--Mr.
Claxton.'

'There is no such name in the house,' said Martin Gurwood, striving to
master his emotion. 'From whom did you hear this, madame--not from my
mother?'

'O, no,' said Pauline calmly; 'I think it vas from Mr. Calverley
himself.'

'You must surely be mistaken, Madame Du Tertre.'

'It is more than probable, monsieur,' said Pauline. 'In my ignorance of
the language I may have mistaken the terms which Mr. Calverley used,
and given them my own misinterpretation. Ah, and so there is no one of
the name of Claxton; or if there be, he is not a partner? So, as far as
being able to relieve Mr. Calverley was concerned, it came to the same
thing. Of course with a man so precise, all the business arrangements,
what you call the will and those things, were properly made?'

'O, yes; all in strict order,' said Martin, grateful for the change
of subject. 'Mr. Jeffreys went from hence to the lawyer's, and has
since been back with a copy of the will. With the exception of a few
legacies, all the property is left to Mrs. Calverley, and she and I are
appointed joint executors.'

'That is as it should be,' said Pauline, 'and what might have been
expected from a man like Mr. Calverley. Just, upright, and honourable,
was he not?'

'I always believed him to be so, madame,' said Martin, with an effort.

'And his death was as creditable as his life,' pursued Pauline,
with her eyes still fixed upon her companion. 'He was killed in the
discharge of his business, and no soldier dying on the battle-field
could have a more honourable death. You agree with me, Monsieur
Gurwood?'

'I do not give much heed to the kind of death which falls to the lot of
men, but rather to the frame of mind in which they die.'

'And even there, monsieur, you must allow that Mr. Calverley was
fortunate. Respected by his friends, and beloved by his wife,
successful in his business, and happy in his home--'

'Yes,' interrupted Martin Gurwood, 'but it is not for us to pronounce
our judgment in these matters, Madame Du Tertre, and you will excuse me
if I suggest that we change the subject.'

When dinner was finished Pauline went up-stairs again to Mrs.
Calverley's room, and had another long chat with the widow before she
retired to rest. Mrs. Calverley had been made acquainted with the fact
that It had arrived, and her son had suggested her visiting the chamber
where It lay. But she had decided upon postponing this duty until the
next day, and sat with Pauline, moaning over the misfortunes which
had happened to her during her lifetime, and so thoroughly enjoying
the recital of her woes that her companion thought she would never
cease, and was too glad to take her leave for the night at the first
opportunity which offered itself.

Once more in the safety and solitude of her own chamber she resumed her
meditation.

'That was a safe hit that I made at dinner, or the priest would not
have changed colour like a blushing girl. This reverend's face is like
a sheet of plate-glass--one can see straight through it down into his
heart. Not into every corner, though. There are recesses where he puts
away things which he wishes to hide. In one of them lies some secret
of his own. That I guessed as soon as I saw him; and now there is, in
addition to that, another which will probably be much more interesting
to me, as it relates in some way, I imagine, to the business in which
Claxton is mixed up. It must be so, I think, for his tell-tale colour
came and went as I mentioned the partnership and that man's name.
Now, how am I to learn more from him on that point? He is uneasy
when allusion is made to it in conversation, and tries to change the
subject, and it is plain that Mrs. Calverley knows nothing at all about
it. Mr. Gurwood, too, is evidently desirous that his mother should not
know, as he betrayed such anxiety in asking me whether it was from her
I had heard mention of the partnership. And there is not another soul
to whom I can turn with the chance of hearing any tidings of Tom Durham.

'Stay, what did this man say about being appointed joint executor with
his mother? In that case he will remain here for yet some time, and all
the dead man's papers will pass into his hands. Such of them as are
not entirely relating to the business will be brought to this house,
and I shall have perhaps the opportunity of seeing them. In them I
may discover something which will give me a clue, some hint as to why
Claxton obtained the agency for Tom Durham, and on what plea he asked
for it. That is all I can hope to learn. About the two thousand pounds
and the pale-faced woman, this man who is dead knew nothing. I must
glean what I can from such papers as I can get hold of and I must keep
a careful watch upon the movements of my friend the reverend.'

On the following morning, Mrs. Calverley remaining in bed to breakfast,
and Pauline being in friendly attendance on her, it suddenly occurred
to the widow that she should like to know the contents of the drawers
in the writing-table used by her deceased husband in his City office.

'I have always been of opinion,' she said to Pauline, after mentioning
this subject, 'that some extraordinary influence must have been used
to induce Mr. Calverley to go into that speculation of the ironworks,
and I think that very likely we may find some papers which will throw a
light upon the matter.'

Pauline's eyes brightened as she listened. Perhaps the mysterious Mr.
Claxton was mixed up with the speculation; or the drawers might contain
other documents which might lead to a solution of his identity. But she
answered cautiously.

'It may be as you say, madame. Shall I step down and ask Monsieur
Martin to be good enough to go to the office and search the desk on
your behalf?'

'Nothing of the sort,' said Mrs. Calverley shortly. 'This is a private
matter in which I do not choose to ask my son's assistance. You are
good enough to act as my confidential friend, Madame Du Tertre,' she
added, with the nearest possible approach to softness in her manner,
'and I wish you to represent me on this occasion.'

Pauline took up the hard thin hand that lay on the coverlet, and raised
it to her lips. 'I will do anything you wish, my dear friend,' she
murmured, scarcely knowing how to conceal her delight.

'In the top right-hand drawer of the dressing-table you will find Mr.
Calverley's bunch of keys,' said the widow. 'One of them opens his
office desk. If you will give me my blotting-book I will write a few
lines to Mr. Jeffreys, authorising you to have access to the room. Once
there, you will know what to look for.'

An hour afterwards Pauline walked into the offices at Mincing-lane.
Signs of mourning were there in the long strips of wood, painted
black, which were stuck up in front of the windows; in the unwonted
silence which reigned around, the clerks working noiselessly at their
desks, and the business visitors closing the doors softly behind them,
and lowering their voices as though in the presence of Death, the
messengers and porters abstaining from the jokes and whistling with
which they usually seasoned their work.

Pauline was shown into the little glazed room, already familiar to her,
and was speedily joined by the head-clerk, to whom she handed Mrs.
Calverley's note. After reading it Mr. Jeffreys hesitated, but only for
an instant. From his boyhood he had been brought up by Mr. Calverley,
had served him for thirty years with unswerving fidelity, and had loved
him as deeply as his unsentimental business nature would permit. In his
late master's lifetime no request of Mrs. Calverley's, unendorsed by
her husband, would have had the smallest weight with the head-clerk.
But Mr. Calverley was no longer the chief of the house; no one knew how
matters would turn out, or into whose hands the business would fall;
and Mr. Jeffreys had understood from Messrs. Pembertons, the lawyers,
that Mrs. Calverley was appointed as executrix, and knew that it would
be as well for him to secure a place in her favour. So taking a key
from his pocket he requested the visitor to follow him, and ushered her
up the stairs into the room on the first floor.

There it was, with the exception of the absence of the central figure,
exactly as she had last seen it. There stood his desk, the blotting-pad
scribbled with recent memoranda, the date-index still showing the day
on which he had last been there, the pen-rack, the paper--all the
familiar objects, as though awaiting his return. Mr. Jeffreys walked to
the window and pulled up the blind; then looked round the room, and in
spite of himself, as it were, heaved a deep sigh.

'It is Mrs. Calverley's wish, madam, I see,' he said, referring to
the letter which he held in his hand, 'that you should be left alone.
If you should require any assistance or information from me, and will
sound this bell,' he pointed to the spring-bell on the table, which his
master had used for summoning him, and him alone, 'I shall be in the
next room, and will wait upon you at once.' Then he bowed and retired.

Left to herself, and certain that the door was safely closed, Pauline
took the bunch of keys from her pocket, and soon hit upon the one she
required. One by one the drawers lay open before her; some almost
empty, some packed to the brim, most of them with a top layer of
dust, as though their contents had been undisturbed for years. What
did she find in them? An assemblage of odds and ends, a collection of
papers and written documents, of printed prospectuses of stock-jobbing
companies, some of which had never seen the light, while others had
perished in their speedily-blossomed maturity years ago. One contained
a set of red-covered domestic account-books, neatly tied together
with red tape, and on examining these Pauline found them to be the
receipted books of the butcher, baker, &c., 'in account with Mr.
John Calverley, 48 Colebrook-row, Islington,' and referring to a period
when the dead man was only a struggling clerk, and lived with his
old mother in the suburbs. In another lay scores of loose sheets of
paper covered with his manuscript notes and calculations, the first
rough draft of his report on the affairs of Lorraine Brothers, the
stepping-stone to the position which he had afterwards occupied.

But amongst all the papers written and printed there was no allusion to
the Swartmoor Ironworks, no reference to what concerned Pauline more
nearly, the name of Claxton; and she was about to give up the search in
despair, and to summon Mr. Jeffreys for his farewell, when in moving
she touched something with her foot, something which lay in the well of
the desk covered by the top and flanked on either side by the two nests
of drawers. At first she thought it was a footstool, but stooping to
examine it, and bringing it to the light, she found it to be a small
wooden box, clamped with iron at the edges, and closed with a patent
lock. The key to this lock was on the bunch in her possession; in an
instant she had the box on the desk, had opened it, and was examining
its contents.

'Of no value to any one but their owner.' The line which she had seen
so often in the advertisement sheets of English newspapers rang in
Pauline's mind as she turned over what had been So jealously guarded.
A miniature portrait on ivory of an old gray-haired woman in a lace
cap with long falling lappets, and a black silk dress; a folded piece
of paper containing a long lock of silky white hair, and a written
memorandum, 'Died April 13th, 1858;' two newspaper cuttings, one
announcing the death of Mrs. Calverley, of Colebrook-row, Islington,
at the date just mentioned; the other the marriage of John Calverley,
Esq., with Jane, widow of the late George Gurwood, Esq., and only
daughter of John Lorraine, Esq., of Mincing-lane and Brunswick-square.
Then Pauline came upon a packet of letters stained and discoloured with
age, which on examination proved to have been written to him by his
mother at various dates, while he was absent travelling on the business
of the firm.

And nothing else. That box seemed to have been used by the dead man as
a sacred depository for the relics of the old woman whom he had loved
with such filial tenderness, whose memory he had so fondly cherished.
Stay! Here was something else, an envelope cleaner, fresher, and of
newer shape than the others. She took it out and opened it eagerly. Ah,
at last! It contained a half-sheet of note paper, on which were these
words:

'October 4, '70. Transferred to private account two thousand pounds. To
be given to T.D. at request of A.C.'

She had found something, then--not much, but something. T.D. was, of
course, Tom Durham, and the A.C. at whose request the money was to be
paid to him was equally, of course, Mr. Claxton. She had never heard
his Christian name; it must be Albert, Alfred, Andrew, or something of
the kind.

Pauline replaced the paper in the envelope, which she put into her
pocket. No need to tell Mrs. Calverley anything about that--that was
her prize: It contained no reference to the Swartmoor Ironworks, and
would have no interest for the widow. So she locked the box, and
replaced it in its former position under the desk, pressed the spring
bell (the familiar sound of which made Mr. Jeffreys jump off his
chair), thanked the chief-clerk on his appearance, and took leave of
him with much suavity. Then she took a cab, and returning straight to
Great Walpole-street, reported to Mrs. Calverley the total failure of
her mission.

There is bustle and confusion in Great Walpole-street, for the time
has arrived when It is to be removed. At the Oxford Arms, intersecting
Horatio-street, the hearse and the mourning-coaches have been drawn up
for some time, and the black-job gentlemen are busying themselves, some
in fixing plumes to the horses' heads, while others are getting out
the trappings, staves, hat-bands, and other horrible insignia of their
calling. Then, the cold fowls and sherry having been consumed by the
mourners, the dismal procession files off to Kensal Green. Whence, in
less than a couple of hours, it comes rattling back with some of the
occupants of its carriages laughing, and all of them talking--all save
Martin Gurwood, who, in addition to his real grief at the loss of the
dead man, is thinking that about that time Humphrey Statham has gone on
his mission to the cottage at Hendon.




CHAPTER IV. TAKE HER UP TENDERLY.


The blinds are up at the house in Great Walpole-street, some of the
windows have been open to get rid of the prevalent 'stuffiness,' and
after the late melancholy week a general reaction towards sprightliness
has set in among the household. This is confined to the lower regions,
of course; up-stairs Mrs. Calverley, to whom the astute French
milliner, aided and abetted by the counsel of Pauline, has actually
given something like shape, sits full dressed and complacent, reading
the letters of condolence which arrive by every post, and listening
to the loud rings which precede the leaving of cards and the making
of kind inquiries. Pauline is very attentive to her friend, listening
patiently, now to her querulous complaints as to the hardness of her
fate, now to her childish delight at being the object of so many
sympathetic letters and calls; she is unwearied in her endeavours to
amuse Mrs. Calverley, and she succeeds so well that that worthy lady
has given up her intention of visiting Brighton, which would not at all
have coincided with Pauline's plans.

For, on farther thinking over the subject, she has become more and more
convinced that Martin Gurwood is in possession of some secret regarding
Mr. Calverley's death, and she cannot divest herself of the idea that
this secret has some bearing on the matter which she has nearest at
heart--the identification of Claxton, as a means to the discovery of
Tom Durham. The reverend is preoccupied now, and even graver than
usual. If she could only induce this old woman to let her have a little
time to herself, she could watch where he goes to! Now at this very
minute, on the morning after the funeral, the servant is brushing Mr.
Gurwood's hat in the hall, and he is about to start on some expedition
which might perhaps have as much interest for her as for him.

Unconscious of the excitement he was causing to his mother's visitor,
Martin Gurwood sallied forth and walked down Great Walpole-street
in quest of a cab to take him to the City. The good-looking young
clergyman, handsome despite his grave and somewhat ascetic appearance,
was an object of much remark. The nursery-maids, who were convoying
their little charges to scamper about Guelph-park, were in some
instances outspoken in their admiration of him. The people hiding
behind the wire-blinds in the physician's dining-room, waiting their
turn for an audience, looked out with envy at his trim figure and brisk
activity, and turned back in disgust to refresh themselves with the
outside sheet of the _Times_, or to stare with feeble curiosity at
their fellow-victims. But, however bright may have been his personal
appearance, it is certain that he was in a state of great mental
disquietude, and when he ascended the dingy stairs leading to Humphrey
Statham's office his heart was beating audibly.

Mr. Collins was a man who never repeated a mistake; so that when he
caught sight of Martin he gave him precedence over the business people
who were waiting in the outer office, and showed him at once into Mr.
Statham's sanctum.

Humphrey was not at his desk; he had pulled his arm-chair in front of
the fire and was reclining in it, his feet stretched out on the fender,
his hands plunged in his trousers-pockets. So deep in rumination was he
that he did not look up at the opening of the door, but thinking it was
merely Collins with some business question, waited to be spoken to.

'Asleep?' said Martin Gurwood, bending over him, and touching him
lightly on the shoulder.

'What, is it you?' cried Humphrey, starting up. 'Asleep, no! but, I
confess, perfectly rapt and engrossed in thought.'

'And the subject was--?'

'Exactly the subject which you have come to talk to me about. Ah, my
dear fellow, I have had the most extraordinary time since I saw you.'

'You have been to Hendon?'

'Yes; I went yesterday.'

'And you saw this young woman?'

'I did.'

'Well, what is she like? Does she agree? What terms did you offer her?'

'Stay, it is impossible for me to answer all your questions at once.
You must let me tell my story my own way, while you sit there, and
don't interrupt me. Yesterday morning I drove out to Hendon in a hansom
cab, and while the driver was pulling up for refreshment I made my
way to Rose Cottage, where I had been told Mrs. Claxton lived. Such
a pretty place, Gurwood! Even in this wretched weather one could not
fail to understand how lovely it must be in summer time, and even now
how trim and orderly it was! I walked round and round it before I
could make up my mind to ring the bell--I must tell you I had already
arranged in my mind a little plot for representing myself as deeply
interested in some charity for which I intended to request her aid--but
the place looked so different to what I had expected, so cosy and
homely, that I hesitated about entering it under a false pretence,
even though I knew my motive to be a good one. However, at last I made
up my mind and pulled the bell. It was answered by a tidy, pleasant
faced, middle-aged woman. I asked if Mrs. Claxton were at home, and
she answered yes, but doubted whether I could see her, inviting me at
the same time to walk in while she took my message to her mistress.
And then she ushered me into what was the dining-room, I suppose--all
dark-green paper and black oak furniture, and some capital-proofs on
the wall; and as I was mooning about and staring at everything, the
door opened, and a lady came into the room.'

'A lady?' echoed Martin involuntarily.

'I said a lady, and I meant it, and I hold to the term,' said Humphrey
Statham, looking straight at him. 'I don't know what her birth and
breeding may have been--I should think both must have been good--but I
never saw a more perfectly lady-like or a sweeter manner.'

'What is the character of her personal appearance?' asked Martin coldly.

'You mean what is she like to look at, I suppose?' said Statham. 'Quite
young, not more than two or three and twenty, I should think, with
a slight girlish figure, and a bright, healthy, wholesome face. You
know what I mean by wholesome--beaming hazel eyes, clear red-and-white
complexion, sound white teeth, and in her eyes a look of frank honesty
and innocence which should be her passport through the world.'

'She will stand in need of some such recommendation, poor girl,' said
Martin, shaking his head.

'I am not at all sure about that,' said Humphrey, energetically;
'certainly not so much as you think. You wait until I have told you
all about it, and I shall be greatly surprised if you are not of my
opinion in the matter. Let me see, where was I? O, she had just come
into the room. Well, I rose on her entrance, but she very courteously
motioned me to my seat again, and asked me my business. I confess,
at that moment I felt like a tremendous impostor; I had not been the
least nervous before, as, with such a woman as I had expected to meet,
I could have brazened it out perfectly; but this was a very different
affair. I felt it almost impossible to tell even a white lie to this
quiet little creature. However, I blundered out the story I had
concocted as best I could, and she listened earnestly and attentively.
When I stopped speaking she told me that her means were not very
large, but that she would spare me as much as she could. She took out
her purse, but I thought that was a little too much, so I muttered
something about having no receipt with me, and told her it would be
better for her to send her subscription to the office. I thought I
might as well learn a little more; so I introduced Mr. Claxton's name,
suggesting, I think, that he should interest some of his City friends
in the charity; but her poor little face fell at once. Mr. Claxton
was away, she said, travelling on business, and she burst into tears.
I was very nearly myself breaking down at this, but she recovered
herself quickly, and begged me to excuse her. Mr. Claxton was not in
good health, she said, at the time of his departure, and as she had not
heard from him since, she could not help being nervous.'

'This is very dreadful,' said Martin Gurwood, covering his face with
his hand.

'Ah, but if you had only seen her,' said Humphrey; 'Her pale wistful
face, her large eyes full of tears! I declare I very nearly dropped the
mask and betrayed myself. I asked her if Mr. Claxton were well known
on the line on which he was travelling, suggesting that, if that were
the case, and he had been taken ill, some one would surely have written
to her. But she didn't seem to know where he had gone, and she did not
like to make any inquiries. Mr. Claxton was, she said, a partner in the
firm of Calverley and Company of Mincing-lane, and she had thought of
going down there to make inquiries concerning him. But she remembered
that some time ago Mr. Claxton had warned her in the strongest manner
against ever going to the City house, or taking notice to any one of
his absence, however prolonged it might be. It was one of the laws of
business, she supposed, she said, with a faint smile; but she had now
become so nervous that she was very nearly breaking it.'

'That is precisely the catastrophe which we have been trying to avert,'
said Martin.

'And which we shall certainly not be able to avert in the manner we
originally intended,' said Humphrey Statham.

'The story grows blacker as you proceed with it,' said Martin, looking
uneasily at his companion. 'From all I gather from you, it seems
evident that--this--'

'This lady,' said Mr. Statham, almost sternly.

'Certainly; this lady is quiet, sensible, and well-behaved.'

'More than that,' said Humphrey eagerly. 'After I left her, I had
my luncheon at the inn. I dropped in at the little post-office and
stationer's shop; I chatted with half a dozen people about Mrs.
Claxton, and from one and all I heard the same story, that she is
kind-hearted, charitable, and unceasing in doing good; that she is the
vicar's right hand among the school-children, and that she is a pattern
wife.'

'Wife!' echoed Martin Gurwood; 'do you you mean to say--'

'I mean to say, Martin Gurwood,' said Statham, bending forward and
speaking in a deep earnest voice, 'that I have not the smallest doubt
that the woman of whom we are speaking was married to the man whom
you buried yesterday. I mean to say that at this instant she believes
herself to be his wife, and that it will be next to impossible to make
her understand the awful position in which she is placed. I mean to say
that she is the victim of as black a fraud as ever was perpetrated, and
that--there, I won't say any more; the man's dead, and we have all need
of forgiveness.'

'The Lord help her in her trouble!' said Martin Gurwood solemnly,
bowing his head. 'If what you say is right, and I feel it is, the
mystery of the double name is now made clear.'

'Yes,' said Statham; 'had this lady been what we originally supposed,
it is probable that he would not have given himself the trouble of
inventing any such mystery; but being, as she fondly imagined herself,
his wife, it was necessary to give her a name by which she might pass
unrecognised by any of his friends who might accidentally come across
her. The whole scheme must have been deliberately concocted, and
with its association of Claxton as a partner in Calverley's house is
diabolically ingenious.'

There was silence for a few moments, broken by Martin Gurwood. 'The
question comes back to us again,' he said; 'what are we to do?'

'It comes back,' said Humphrey; 'but this time I have no hesitation as
to how it should be answered. When we last entered into this subject,
after long discussion we decided that the inhabitant of Rose Cottage
must be informed of what had taken place, and that an annuity must be
offered her on condition of her keeping the knowledge of her position
and even her existence from Mrs. Calverley. Now, part of our programme
must be held to, and part abandoned.'

'It is our duty, I imagine, to break to her what has occurred,' said
Martin.

'And to do so without a day's delay,' said Humphrey. 'That is necessary
for our own sake as well as for hers. I did my best to impress upon her
the inadvisability of her going to the house in the City; but as each
day passes and no news is heard of him whom she awaits, her anxiety
will increase more and more, and there is no knowing what rash step she
may take.'

'Of course, if she went to Mincing-lane, she would learn at once that
no Mr. Claxton was known there, and that Mr. Calverley was dead.
Putting the two facts together, she would at once understand what had
occurred.'

'Ay, and she would not be long in realising her own position, poor
thing; for of course she would hear of Mrs. Calverley, and then nothing
could be kept from her. No, to such a woman the horrible truth blurted
out in that way might prove fatal; and though to die might possibly be
the best thing that could happen to her, we must do our best to prevent
any such calamity. The truth must be told to her, but it must be told
kindly and gently, and it must be pointed out to her that as she has
sinned unwittingly, she will not be condemned.'

'Is she to be told that?' cried Martin Gurwood. 'If whoever breaks the
news to her talks to her after that fashion, he will be right if he is
alluding to the divine mercy, but can he say the same to the world?
Will not the world condemn her, point at her the finger of scorn, bid
her not darken its respectable doors? Will not women priding themselves
on their goodness and their charity take delight in hunting her down,
and withdrawing themselves from the contamination of her presence? Will
she not henceforth, and for the rest of her life, lie under a ban, be
kept apart, sent to Coventry, have to perform social quarantine, and to
keep the Yellow Flag flying to warn all who approach her of the danger
they run?'

Humphrey Statham looked at his companion with surprise. He had never
seen him so animated before. 'You are right,' he said. 'Heaven help
her! it is the penalty which she will have to pay for this man's sin,
in which no one will believe that she did not participate. There are
thousands who will be ready to speak pityingly of him, while their
hearts will be closed against her. Such is the justice of the world.'

'It must be our task, provided all that you imagine turns out to be
true,' said Martin, 'to endeavour to alleviate her position as much as
possible.'

'As a relative of the dead man who has worked this wrong, and as a
clergyman, your influence and example can do her more good than those
of any other person. Except, perhaps, Mrs. Calverley,' added Statham,
after a pause, 'who, I hope, for more reasons than one, will never know
anything of Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton's existence.'

'All that I can do, I will do most earnestly,' said Martin.

'You must do something more, Martin Gurwood,' said Humphrey; 'you must
go to Hendon to-morrow and break the news to this poor creature.'

'I!' cried Martin Gurwood; 'it is impossible--I--'

'You, and no one else,' said Humphrey. 'In the first place you are more
accustomed than I am to such deeply painful scenes as that which will
ensue. It is fitting that the words which you will have to say to her
should come from the mouth of a man like you, a servant of God, keeping
himself unspotted from the world, rather than from any of us who are
living this driving, tearing, work-a-day life.'

Martin Gurwood was silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the
ground; then he said with a shudder, 'I cannot do it. I feel I cannot
do it.'

'O yes, you can, and you said Humphrey, touching him kindly on the
shoulder.

'Shall I have to tell her--all?'

'The all is unfortunately simple enough. You will have to tell her that
so far as she was concerned, the life of this man who has just passed
away was a fraud and a pretence; that his name was not Claxton, but
Calverley; that he was not her husband, for at the very time when he,
as she thought, made her his wife, he was married to another woman. You
will have to expose all his baseness and his treachery; and you will
find that she will speak pityingly of him, and forgive him, as women
always do forgive those who ruin them body and soul.'

'You think they do?' said Martin Gurwood, looking at him earnestly.

'I know it,' said Statham. 'But that is neither here nor there. You
must undertake this duty, Martin, for it lies more in your province
than in mine. If my original notion had proved correct, I could have
assumed the requisite amount of sternness, and should have done very
well; but as matters stand at present I should be quite out of my
element. It is meant for you, Martin, and you must do it.'

'I will do my best,' said Martin, 'though I shudder at the task, and
greatly fear my own powers in being able to carry it through: Am I to
say anything about the annuity, as we settled before?'

'No, I think not,' said Humphrey Statham promptly; 'that is a part of
the affair which need not be touched on just yet; and when it comes to
the front, I had better take it in hand. Not that you would not deal
with it with perfect delicacy, but it requires a little infusion of
business, which is more in my way. You are perfectly certain you are
right in what you told me the other day about the will? No mention of
any one who could possibly be this lady whom we know as Mrs. Claxton?'

'None. Every person named in the will is known to me or to my mother.'

'Have you been through Mr. Calverley's private papers?'

'I have gone through most of them; they were not numerous, and were
very methodically arranged.'

'And you have found nothing suspicious in them, no memorandum making
provision for any one?'

'Nothing of the kind. But last night Mr. Jeffreys brought up to me the
banker's pass-book of the firm, and I noticed that about four months
ago a sum of two thousand pounds was transferred from the business
account to Mr. Calverley's private account, and I thought that was
remarkable.'

'It was, and to have noticed it does you credit. I had no idea you had
so much business discrimination.'

'You have not heard all,' said Martin. 'On my pointing this out to Mr.
Jeffreys, of course without hinting what idea had struck me, he told
me that three or four years ago, he could not recollect the exact date
off-hand, a very much larger sum, ten thousand pounds, in fact, had
been transferred from one account to the other in the same way.'

'Then it seems pretty clear to me,' said Humphrey Statham, 'that we
shall not have to tax our inventive faculties, or to bewilder Mr.
Jeffreys with any mysterious story for the purpose of furnishing Mrs.
Claxton with proper means of support.'

'You imagine this money was devoted to her service?' asked Martin.

'I have very little doubt about it. The ten thousand pounds were no
doubt set aside and invested in some safe concern, yielding a moderate
rate of interest, say five or six per cent, and settled upon her. From
this she would have a decent yearly income, more than enough, if I may
judge from what I saw of her yesterday, to keep her in comfort. I don't
know what the two thousand pounds transferred recently can have been
for, unless it was that Mr. Calverley found his health beginning to
fail, and desired to make a larger provision for her.'

'Might not this second sum have been given as a bribe to some one?'
asked Martin, 'for the sake of buying somebody's silence--some one who
discovered what was going on, and threatened to reveal it?'

'Most assuredly it might,' said Statham, in astonishment, 'and it is
by no means unlikely that it was applied in that manner. I am amazed,
Martin, at your fertility of resource; I had no idea that you had so
much acquaintance with human nature.'

'In any case, then,' said Martin Gurwood, ignoring the latter portion
of his companion's speech, 'it will not be necessary for me to touch
upon the question of money in my interview with Mrs. Claxton.'

'Certainly not,' said Humphrey, 'beyond broadly hinting, if you find it
necessary, that she will be properly cared for. But my own feeling is,
that she will be far too much overwhelmed to think of anything beyond
the loss she has sustained, and her consequent present misery.'

'You do not under-state the unpleasantness and the difficulty of the
mission you have proposed for me,' said Martin, with a half-smile.

'I do not over-state it, my dear Gurwood, believe me,' said Statham.
'And all I can do now is to wish you God-speed in it.'


When Martin Gurwood returned to Great Walpole-street that afternoon, he
found that Mr. Jeffreys had been sent for by Mrs. Calverley, and was
installed in the dining-room, with various books and documents, which
he was submitting to the widow. Madame Du Tertre sat at her friend's
right hand, taking notes of such practical business suggestions as
occurred to Mrs. Calverley, and of the replies to such inquiries as
she herself thought fit to make. To Martin's great relief the banker's
pass-book, which he had seen on the previous evening, was not amongst
those produced.

Mrs. Calverley looked somewhat confused at her son's entrance. 'I asked
Mr. Jeffreys to bring these books up here, Martin,' she said, 'as it
was impossible for me to go to the City just yet, and I wanted to have
a general idea of how matters stood.'

'You did perfectly right, my dear mother,' said Martin absently,
throwing himself into a chair. His conversation with Statham, the story
he had heard, and the task he had undertaken, were all fresh in his
mind, and he could not concentrate his attention on anything else.

'You seem fatigued, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline, eyeing him closely;
'the worry of the last few days has been too much for you.'

'It is not that, Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, rousing himself; 'the
fact is, I have been engaged in the City all day, and that always tires
me.'

'In the City!' repeated Pauline. 'Madame asked Monsieur Jeffreys, and
he told us you had not been there.'

'Not to Mincing-lane. I had an engagement of my own in the City, which
has occupied me all day.'

'Ah! and you found that very fatiguing? The roar and the noise of
London, the crowded streets, the want of fresh air, all this must be
very unpleasant to you, Monsieur Martin. You will be glad to get back
to your quiet, your country, and your--what you call--parish.'

'But I shall not be able to return there for some little time to come,
I fear,' said Martin; 'I have a great deal yet to do in London.'

'I should like you to go through some of these books with me to-morrow.
Mr. Jeffreys can leave them here, and can come up to-morrow, and--'

'Not to-morrow, mother,' said Martin. 'I have an engagement of
importance which will occupy me the whole day.'

Mrs. Calverley looked displeased. 'It is much better not to postpone
these matters,' she said.

But Martin Gurwood answered shortly, 'It cannot be to-morrow, mother;
the appointment which I have made must be kept.' And as he looked up,
the tell-tale colour came again to his cheeks as he saw Madame Du
Tertre's eyes eagerly fastened on him.

'An appointment which must be kept,' muttered Pauline to herself, as
she locked her chamber-door for the night. I was right, then! This man
has been away all day, engaged on some business which he does not name.
He has an appointment for to-morrow, about the nature of which he is
also silent. I am convinced that he is keeping something secret, and
have an inexplicable feeling that that something has to do with me.
Mrs. Calverley will have to pass her day in solitude to-morrow, for I
too have an appointment which I must keep, and when Monsieur Martin has
an interview with his friend, I shall not be far away.


Madame Du Tertre was with her dear friend very early the next morning.
She had received a letter, she said, from a poor cousin of hers, who,
helpless and friendless, had arrived in London the previous evening.
Pauline must go to her at once, but would return by dinner-time. Mrs.
Calverley graciously gave her consent to this proceeding, and Pauline
took her leave.

Soon after breakfast Martin Gurwood issued from the house, and hailing
the driver of a hansom cab, which was just coming out from the adjacent
mews, fresh for its day's work, stepped lightly into the vehicle, and
was driven off. Immediately afterwards, a lady, wearing a large black
cloth cloak and hat, with a thick veil, called the next hansom that
appeared and bade its driver keep the other cab, now some distance
ahead, in view.

An ostler, who was passing by, with a bit of straw in his mouth, and
an empty sack thrown over his shoulders, heard the direction given and
grinned cynically.

'The old game! Always a woman for that sort of caper!' he muttered to
himself as he disappeared down the mews.




CHAPTER V. PARSON'S WORK.


Martin Gurwood had a disturbed ride to Hendon. The difficulty of the
task which he had undertaken to discharge seemed to increase as he
progressed towards his destination, and he lay back in the cab buried
in thought, revolving in his mind the best manner of breaking the
fearful news of which he was the bearer, and wondering how it would be
received. From time to time he raised himself to gaze at the prettiness
of the scenery through which he was passing, to look at the wild,
gorse-covered expanse of Hampstead Heath, and to refresh his eyes,
wearied with the dull monotony of the London bricks and the glare of
the London pavement, with that soft greenery which is so eminently
characteristic of our northern suburbs; but the thought of the duty
before him prevented his enjoying the sight as he otherwise would, and
resuming his reverie, he remained absorbed until he roused himself at
the entrance of Hendon village.

'There is the finger-post, that Statham spoke of, and the little
pond close by,' he said to himself. 'It is no use taking the cab any
farther; I suppose I had better make the best of my way to Rose Cottage
on foot.' So saying, he raised his stick, and, obedient to the signal,
the cabman drew up at the side of the road. 'You had better go and put
up your horse at the inn,' said Martin to him; 'it has been a long pull
for him, poor animal, and I shall be some little time before I want to
return.'

The driver carefully inspected his fare. He had come a long way, and
was now setting down, not at any house, not at any lodge, but in an
open country road. 'Was it a case of--no!' The gravity of Martin
Gurwood's face, the length of his coat, the spotless stiffness of his
white cravat, had their effect even on this ribald of the cab-rank.

'You will come for me, sir, then, to the public when you want me?' he
said, touching his hat with his forefinger, and drove away contented.

Then Martin Gurwood, following Statham's directions, walked slowly up
the little street, took the turning leading to the church, and looked
out for Rose Cottage. There it was, standing some distance back from
the road, with the ruddy glow of the Virginia creeper not yet wholly
gone from it. Martin Gurwood stopped at the garden-gate and looked at
the little paradise, so trim and orderly, so neatly kept, so thoroughly
comfortable, and yet so fully unpretentious, with the greatest
admiration. Then he lifted the latch and walked towards the house.

The gate swung to behind him, and Alice, who was in her bedroom hearing
little Bell her lessons, heard the clanking of the latch. She laid down
her book, and stopping the child's babbling by her uplifted finger,
leant her head to listen.

'What is it, mamma?' asked little Bell, in wonderment.

'Hush, dear,' said Alice, 'I heard the garden gate. No sound of wheels!
Then he cannot have brought his luggage; still it must be John.'

She rose from her seat, and hurried down the stairs into the little
hall. Just as she reached the half-glass door, and had her hand upon
the lock, a man stepped into the portico; the figure was strange to
her--it was not John.

She felt as though she must faint; her grasp on the door relaxed, and
she staggered against the wall. Seeing her condition the gentleman
entered the hall, took her with a kind firm hold by the arm, and led
her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open. She went
passively, making no resistance, taking no notice, but throwing herself
into a chair, and staring blankly at him, stricken dumb with sickening
apprehension.

'I am speaking to Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton?' he said, after a moment's pause,
in a soft, kind voice.

He was a young man, she began to notice, fair and good-looking, and
dressed in clerical garb. That last fact had a peculiar significance
for her. In the far north-east of England, on the sea-coast, where
some of Alice's early days had been passed, it was the practice of the
fishermen, when one of their number had been lost, to get the parson
to go to the newly-made widow and break the news to her. In a stormy
season Alice had often seen the sable-garbed messenger proceeding on
his doleful mission, and the remembrance of him and of the 'parson's
work,' as it was called, when he was so engaged, rose vividly before
her, and inspired her with sudden terror.

'You are a clergyman?' she said, looking hard at him.

'I am,' he replied, still in the same soft tone. 'My name is
Gurwood--Martin Gurwood; and I have come here to--'

'You have come here to tell me something dreadful--I know it, I feel
it--something dreadful about my husband!'

She pushed her hair back from off her face, and leaned forward on the
table, looking at him, her eyes staring, her lips apart. Martin thought
he had scarcely ever seen anything so beautiful.

'My visit to you certainly relates to Mr. Claxton,' he began, and then
he hesitated and looked down.

'Ah!' she cried, immediately noticing his confusion, 'it is about John,
then. There is something wrong, I know. Tell me all about it at once. I
can bear it. I am strong--much stronger than I look. I entreat you not
to keep me in suspense.'

'I am deeply grieved for you, madam,' said Martin, 'for you are right
in anticipating that I bring bad news about Mr. Claxton. During his
absence from home, he was attacked by a very sharp illness.'

'He was ill when he left here,' cried Alice. 'I knew it; and Mr.
Broadbent, the doctor, knew it too, though I could not get him to say
so. He ought not to have gone away. I ought not to have let him go. Now
tell me, sir, pray; he has been very ill, you say; is he better?'

'I trust he is better,' said Martin solemnly.

Something in his tone struck Alice at once.

'Ah,' she cried, with a short sharp scream, 'I know now--he is dead!'
And covering her face with her hands, she sobbed violently.

Martin Gurwood sat by, gazing at her with tear-dimmed eyes. He was not
a man given to the reading of character; he had not been in the room
with this girl for more than five minutes, he had not exchanged ten
sentences with her, and yet he was certain that Humphrey Statham was
perfectly right in the estimate which he had formed of her, and that,
however cruelly she might have been treated, she herself was wholly
innocent.

After some moments, Alice raised her head from out her hands.

'I can listen to you now,' she said very quietly. 'Will you tell me all
about it? I suppose it was because I recognised you as a clergyman that
gave me the intuitive knowledge that something dreadful had happened,
and that you had come to tell me all. I am ready to hear it now.'

Martin Gurwood was horribly discomposed at this. He felt he could give
her no information; for it would be impossible to tell her that the man
whom she supposed to be her husband had died on the day that he left
Hendon, as she would naturally inquire why the news of his death had
so long been kept from her, and Martin owned to himself that he was
not good at invention. He did not know what to say, and he therefore
remained silent, his hand fluttering nervously round his mouth.

'My dear madam,' commenced Martin, with much hesitation, 'beyond the
awful fact, there is indeed nothing to tell.'

She looked disappointed for an instant; then, striving to control the
working of her lips, she said:

'Did he ask for me? Did he speak of me before--before-- Ah, my darling
John! My dear, good old John, kindest, best, and dearest. I cannot bear
it. What shall I do!'

She broke down utterly, and again buried her face, down which the tears
were streaming, in her hands.

Knowing the impossibility of affording her any relief, Martin Gurwood
sat helplessly by. He could only wait until the outburst of grief
should moderate; he knew that it was of no use attempting to check it;
so he waited.

Presently she raised her head.

'I thought I had more command over myself,' she said. 'I did not know
I was so weak. But when there is any occasion for me to act, I shall
be found strong enough. Tell me, sir, if you please, where is he? When
will they bring him home?'

Martin Gurwood was not prepared for this question; it was not one
of those which he had talked over with Statham. Its being put
so straightforward and direct, was a contingency which he never
contemplated, and he knew not how to meet it.

'Where is he?' repeated Alice, observing his hesitation. 'There is
perhaps some difficulty about his being brought here.'

'There--there is,' said Martin Gurwood, catching at the chance.

'Then I will go to him. I will be taken to him at once.'

'There will be some difficulty about that, my dear madam,' said Martin.
'I am afraid it cannot be managed so easily as you seem to anticipate.'

'Difficulty! Cannot be managed! I do not understand what you mean, sir.'

'Why,' said Martin, hesitating worse than ever, 'you see that--in these
matters--'

'In these matters, who should be with them, who should be by them,'
cried Alice, 'but their nearest and dearest? Who shall tell me not to
go to my husband? Who shall gainsay my right to be by him at such a
time? He had no relatives; he was mine--mine alone, and I was all the
world to him! O, my dear old John!' And again she burst into an agony
of tears.

Martin Gurwood was almost at his wits' end. He foresaw that if the
question were put to him again--as it would be put, he knew, so soon
as her access of grief was over--if Alice again called upon him to
take her to her husband, in default of any reasonable excuse he should
probably be forced to confess the truth, and then he must be prepared
to take the consequences, which he knew would be serious. This girl's
utter prostration and humiliation, Mrs. Calverley's first outburst of
rage, and subsequent malignant revenge, the shattering of the dead
man's reputation, and the despicable slander and gossip which would
ensue, Martin Gurwood thought of all these; knew that their being
called into action was dependent on how to manage to get through the
next few minutes. Why on earth had he undertaken this business? Why had
not Statham, whose experience in such matters ought to have forewarned
him that such a point was likely to arise--why had he not instructed
him how to deal with it? From her point of view, this poor girl was,
no doubt, strictly right. She considered herself to be the dead man's
widow (Martin had now not the smallest doubt on that point), and was
therefore perfectly justified in demanding to be taken to him. Even
if Martin Gurwood's conscience would have absolved him from telling a
white lie on the occasion, his inventive powers were not of calibre
sufficient to devise the necessary fiction; he felt there was no chance
for him but to tell Alice as little of the truth as would satisfy her,
in as roundabout a manner as he could manage, and then to risk the
result.

Just as he had arrived at this determination he raised his eyes, and
saw a little child run past the window. A small, delicate-looking
girl, with long fair hair streaming down her shoulders, prettily, even
elegantly dressed, and laughing heartily as she pursued a large elastic
ball which bounded before her. Martin saw her but for an instant, then
she disappeared down the garden path.

But that momentary glimpse was sufficient to give Martin Gurwood an
idea. And when Alice raised her tear-blurred face, now stern with the
expression of a set and determined purpose, he was to a certain extent
prepared for her.

'You must take me to my husband,' she said quietly. 'I am grateful to
you for coming here Mr.--'

'Gurwood--my name is Martin Gurwood.'

'I am grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Gurwood, and for the
delicate manner in which you have performed your task. But now I wish
to be taken to my husband. I have a right to make that claim, and I do
so.'

'My dear madam,' said Martin Gurwood, in the same quiet tone, but with
much more firmness than he had hitherto exhibited, 'I will not allow
that you owe me the smallest obligation; but if you did, the way in
which you could best repay me would be by exciting yourself as little
as possible. Under these most painful circumstances, you must not give
way, Mrs. Claxton; you must keep up as best you can, for the sake of
his memory, for the sake of the child which he has left behind him.'

'Little Bell? the child who is playing in the garden, and who just now
passed the window?'

'Yes, a fragile, fair, bright-looking mite.'

'Little Bell! She is not Mr. Claxton's child, sir, nor mine, but she
is another living proof of John's goodness, and thoughtfulness, and
care for others.' She rose from her seat as she spoke, and wandered in
a purposeless manner to the window. 'So thoughtful, so unselfish, so
generous,' she murmured. 'It is three years ago since little Bell first
came here.'

'Indeed!' said Martin, delighted at the unexpected reprieve, and
anxious to divert her thoughts as long as possible from the one dread
subject. 'Indeed! And where did she come from?'

'From the workhouse,' said Alice, not looking at him, but gazing
straight before her through the window, against which her forehead was
pressed--'from the workhouse. It was John's doing that we brought her
here--all John's doing. It was from Mr. Tomlinson, the clergyman,'
she continued, in a low tone, and with a certain abrupt incoherence
of manner, 'that we heard about it--such cold weather, with the snow
lying deep in the fields. Mr. Tomlinson told us that they had found
her lying against a haystack in one of Farmer Mullins's fields, half
frozen, and with a baby at her breast. So thin, and pale, and delicate,
she looked when we went down to see her lying in the workhouse bed. She
had been starved as well as frozen, Mr. Broadbent said, and her cheeks
were hollow, and there were great dark circles round her eyes. But she
must have been pretty, O so pretty! Her chestnut hair was soft and
delicate, and her poor thin hands, almost transparent, were white and
well-shaped.'

In his first relief from the repetition of her demand which he expected
Alice would make, Martin Gurwood did not pay much attention to the
commencement of her little story, but as it progressed his interest
became excited, and at this point he left his chair and stood by her at
the window.

'Who was she?' he asked. 'Where did she come from?'

'We never knew,' said Alice, shaking her head. 'She never spoke from
the time they found her until her death, two days after; but she had
never been married; there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and when
they told me that, I turned to John and spoke to him.'

'Do you recollect what you said?' asked Martin, half with a desire to
satisfy his own curiosity, half wishing to lead her on.

'Recollect?' said Alice. 'I remember the very words. "O John," I said,
"my dear old John, isn't it an awful thing to think how this poor
creature has been deceived; you may depend upon it, John" I said,
"that the man who has brought her to this shame made her a promise of
marriage, or deceived her in some cruel and heartless manner."'

'Did you say that?' asked Martin, in a low voice.

'I did, and more. "Her death will lie at his door, John," I said, "as
surely as if he had killed her with his hand. He did kill her, first
her soul and then her body, and he will be held responsible for the
murder of each!" I recollect then that John threw his arms around me
and implored me to stop. His face was quite white, and the tears were
streaming down his cheeks, for he had the tenderest heart. And then
when the poor girl died, he proposed that we should take the baby and
adopt it for our own; and we did so. Strange it was, I recollect, that
for weeks after that, whenever John was at home, and in one of his
silent moods, which came upon him first about that time, I would see
him of an evening, when he thought I was not looking at him, with his
eyes fixed upon me, and with the tears stealing down his cheeks.'

Was it strange, knowing what he did? Martin thought not; but he did not
speak.

'He was thinking of that poor girl, I suppose,' murmured Alice, half
to herself; 'thinking of all the troubles and sufferings she had come
through; thinking, I shouldn't wonder, that they might have been mine,
if I had not been mercifully placed in a different position, and out of
the reach of temptation; for he had the tenderest heart, and he loved
me so dearly--O so dearly! that the mere thought of anything happening
to me to cause me pain or suffering, was enough to make him utterly
wretched.' Then the sense of her situation dawning again upon her, she
cried out: 'And now he is lost to me for ever! There is no one now to
think of or take care of me! We were all in all to each other, and now
I am left alone in the world; what shall I do, O, what shall I do!'

It had been Martin Gurwood's lot, in the discharge of his clerical
duties, to listen a hundred times in his life to this despairing wail
from women just robbed of their husbands by death: a hundred times had
he cheered the darkened and dispirited soul with recapitulations of the
Almighty goodness, with the hope that the parting from the loved and
lost one was but temporary and not of long duration, and that in the
future the two reunited might enjoy an eternity of bliss such as they
had never known before. What could he say to the woman now writhing
before him in misery and despair? What word of encouragement, what
scrap of hope could he whisper into her dulled ear? How could he, with
the fearful knowledge which he had acquired, speak to her of the future
of this man, whose memory she so blindly worshipped, ignorant of the
manner in which he had basely betrayed her? How could he even speak
kindly of the dead man's past, and echo the terms of affection in which
she mentioned him, knowing as he did the full measure of the deceit and
iniquity practised upon her by the man whom she imagined to have been
her husband?

No! In all Martin Gurwood's clerical career (and the experiences of a
zealous and earnest clergyman in an agricultural district are fraught
with more horrors, and tend to a lower appreciation of the human race
than the uninitiated would believe), he had never had to deal with such
a case as this. In his reproof he could temper justice with mercy, in
his consolation he could bid 'despair and anguish flee the struggling
soul;' but to attempt now to cast down the idol from its pedestal, to
attempt to show to the heartbroken woman, whose sobs were resounding
through the room, that the man whose loss she was deploring had been
her worst and bitterest enemy, to point out that the emotion which
he had exhibited at the story of the outcast woman and her baby, was
merely caused by 'the conscience-prick and the memory-smart,' proving
to him the similarity of his own crime with that of the man on whom he
was invited to sit in judgment--to do all or any of this was beyond
Martin Gurwood's power; he ought to have done it, he knew, but he was
only human after all, and he decided to leave it alone.

The story of the frozen woman with the baby in her arms--his thoughts
had wandered away to that--slight and delicate was she, and with long
chestnut hair--what a strange coincidence! That this man, who had
himself deceived a young and trusting woman, should by his unsuspecting
victim be called upon to exercise his charity towards another victim,
should be expected to denounce the crime of which he had himself been
guilty! How strange to think that--Martin was interrupted in his
reverie by a movement on Alice's part. She had risen to her feet,
twisted her dishevelled hair into a knot behind her head, and stood
pale and statuesque before him.

'I shall be ready in five minutes,' she said, 'and I shall then expect
you to take me straight to where my husband's body is lying. If you
refuse to do so, I shall call upon you to tell me where it is--to give
me the address. I have a right as his wife--O, my God!' she moaned--'as
his widow! to demand that, and I shall do so.'

The critical time had arrived. Martin knew that, and felt stronger
and more self-reliant than he had anticipated. The fact was, that
he thought he saw a way of tiding the matter over until he could
communicate with Humphrey Statham, and possibly get his friend to take
the burden of the disclosure upon himself.

'My dear madam,' he said, 'I can quite appreciate your anxiety, which
is perfectly natural under the circumstances, and which I shall be most
anxious to alleviate; but I must ask you to have a little patience.
This evening--should you still wish it--you shall be taken to the place
where Mr. Claxton's body was conveyed.'

'Where is that place, Mr. Gurwood?' cried Alice. 'There is some mystery
about this which I do not understand; I insist upon knowing where this
place is!'

'You shall know,' said Martin, quietly. 'The place to which the body
was conveyed was Mr. Calverley's house in Great Walpole-street.'

'Mr. Calverley's! What, John's partner?'

'Mr. Calverley, of Mincing-lane. You have heard of him?'

'O, a thousand times. Mr. Claxton was a sleeping partner in the house
of Calverley and Company, you know. O, of course it was quite natural
that my poor darling should be carried there! I am so relieved, Mr.
Gurwood. I was afraid that poor John had been taken to some horrid
place, and thought that was the reason why you objected to my going
there; but as he is at Mr. Calverley's house--'

'For that reason you must defer going there until the evening,' said
Martin Gurwood, with more firmness than he had hitherto shown. 'This
sad event has thrown the house into great confusion, and it will be
necessary that I should go back and apprise Mrs. Calverley, whom you do
not know, I think, of your intention of coming there tonight.'

'I suppose you are right,' said Alice, in a disappointed tone. 'I
suppose, even at such a dreadful time as this, there are regulations
and observances which must be respected. Will you promise me that you
will come to me this evening?'

'Either I myself or some friend whom I can trust,' said Martin. 'And
now I must leave you; for the time is short, and I have a great deal to
do in it.'

He took one glance at her pale, tearful face, with even more than
interest, and withdrew.

He was thinking to himself how very beautiful she was, when his
reflections were checked by his catching sight of a female figure, in a
black cloak, in the path before him.

On his near approach the lady raised her veil, and to his astonished
eyes revealed the features of Madame Du Tertre.




CHAPTER VI. RUN TO EARTH.


The driver of the hansom cab which Pauline had chartered did his duty
nobly by his fare. In going so long a distance, and on a comparatively
deserted road, he knew too well the impossibility of concealing his
pursuit from the observation of his brother Jehu; indeed, no sooner did
they pass the confines of Guelph Park than the driver who had Martin
in his charge turned round, and there ensued between the two men an
interchange of signs familiar only to the initiated of the craft, which
set them both at their ease, and prevented farther interrogation.
Pauline's driver followed the other hansom at sufficient distance
never to lose sight of it; and when Martin Gurwood stopped the cab and
alighted from it, the pursuing cabman drew up at a convenient bend of
the road and communicated the fact to his fare. Then Pauline jumped
out, discharged the man--she would provide her own means of return, she
said--and slowly and stealthily followed Martin's retreating figure.

The pursuit in which she was engaged was by no means unpleasant to
Pauline; indeed, she rather liked it. There was, as has before been
noticed, something stealthy and cat-like in her nature and her manner;
and the mere fact that, unknown to him, she was watching a person who
was evidently engaged in a private mission, the discovery of which
might seriously affect him, and would in any event be disagreeable to
him, had for her a potent charm. As she journeyed onward in the cab,
her thoughts had been fixed upon the object of Martin Gurwood's secret
expedition. That it was of importance she was certain, or he would
not otherwise have refused with so much decision his mother's request
that he should devote the day to the inspection of documents in Mr.
Jeffrey's company. That it had to do with the mystery of Calverley
and Claxton, and consequently with the greater, and to her far more
interesting mystery of Tom Durham's disappearance, she fully believed.
As yet she had been able to discover nothing concerning the paper which
she had found in the wooden box underneath Mr. Calverley's desk, the
memorandum of the transfer of two thousand pounds 'to be given to T.D.
at the request of A.C.' Perhaps the very business on which she was
engaged might give her some clue to it--might reveal the identity of
this Claxton which Mr. Calverley had so pertinaciously concealed from
her. Once brought face to face with him, she could readily trust to her
own wit and tact to extract from him the information she required, or,
at all events, to learn something that would be of service to her in
accomplishing her self-imposed task.

What can there be for Martin Gurwood to search after in this queer,
out-of-the-world village, amongst these old-fashioned cottages,
standing back in gardens, where the size of the trees, the hedges, and
the evergreens shows the length of time they have been growing? This
man Claxton cannot live in this place, so remote from the bustle of
life, so inaccessible to ordinary traffic. This is a spot to which one
might retire for rest and repose after a long career of business. What
has brought Martin Gurwood to such a place? Whom can he be seeking here?

As these thoughts passed through Pauline's mind, the object of her
pursuit turned from the high road and passed out of her sight. She
noted the spot where he had disappeared, and when she reached it was
just in time to see him leaning over the half-gate, and contemplating
the garden stretched out before him. Pauline paused at the end of the
road until she saw him open the gate and enter the garden; then she
slowly sauntered on.

When Pauline reached the gate Martin Gurwood had disappeared. The gate,
slammed to by the spring attached to it, was still vibrating on its
hinges, his retreating footsteps on the gravel path were still faintly
audible, but the man himself was not to be seen. So far, then, she had
succeeded. She had tracked him to the house which he had come to visit;
now she must ascertain: what was his business there.

How to set about this perplexed her sorely. A score of different
notions rushed into her mind. It would be easy to ascertain the name
and character of the occupant of the house from any of the tradespeople
in the village, but on looking round Pauline found that there were no
shops within sight, and she was fearful that during the time occupied
by her absence Martin Gurwood might leave the place. Should she open
the gate, boldly march up the carriage-drive, and ask for the master of
the house, trusting to herself to find some pretext for addressing him
when he came? That would lay her open to the chance of Martin Gurwood's
seeing her before she had been able to gain any information, and either
postponing the business which had brought him there, or deceiving her
as to its nature. She must think it all over more carefully before she
acted, and meanwhile she would walk round and survey the premises.

The cottage stood, as has been stated, in the midst of a very large
old-fashioned garden. On the left of this garden was a narrow path,
bounded on one side by the garden itself; on the other by a huge hedge
belonging to Doctor Broadbent, and encouraged by him in its wildest
luxuriance, to screen his premises from the observation of such of the
villagers as used the path for the short cut from the village to the
London road. The hedge had at one time been equally luxuriant on the
Rose-Cottage side, but Alice had strong notions of the necessity for
plenty of air, and had persuaded John to have it trimmed to a moderate
height. 'What on earth do we want with that great green screen keeping
off every breath of air,' she said; 'and as for what Mr. Broadbent says
about privacy, that is all nonsense. Not ten people in the day go down
the lane, and none of them ever think of looking into our garden. If
they did, they would be perfectly welcome; would they not, John? I am
sure there is nothing here that we wish to conceal; is there, dear?'
And John acquiescing, as he did in everything she proposed, the hedge
was trimmed accordingly. So that Pauline, walking down this path,
found that as soon as she had proceeded a certain distance she had an
uninterrupted view of the back of the house, and of a large portion of
the garden.

She knew nothing of horticulture, and had never given any attention to
gardens, they had not come into her line of life, but she was always
observant, and she noticed the trim and orderly manner in which this
place was kept, and thought that it reflected great credit on the
gardener, whom she saw in the distance wheeling away a great load of
dead leaves, which he had collected into a heap and pressed into his
barrow. She was about to call the man to her, and compliment him on
the state of his garden, at the same time taking advantage of the
opportunity of asking a few questions about his employer, when a little
girl, with long fair hair streaming down her back, ran out of the
shrubbery in chase of an india-rubber ball which bounded before her.

Pauline drew back for an instant, but the child did not notice her,
so engrossed was she by her game. In a few minutes, however, the ball
bounded over the hedge, and fell at Pauline's feet.

The child looked round for aid, which was generally available in the
person of the gardener; but the gardener had wheeled his barrow out of
sight by this time, and all that the child could do, therefore, was to
put her finger to her lip, and burst into tears.

'Don't cry, my child,' said Pauline softly, speaking to her.

The child looked up, but on catching sight of Pauline hid her face in
her hands, and cried more copiously than before.

'Don't cry, my child,' repeated Pauline; 'don't be afraid. See, here is
your ball,' holding it up. 'Shall I throw it to you.'

'Ess,' said the child, looking up shyly through her fingers, 'frow it
down at wonst, pease.'

Pauline complied. The ball fell at the child's feet, and rolled a
little distance behind her, but she took no notice of it; she was fully
occupied in examining her newly found friend.

Out of her great blue eyes the child stared in silence for some
moments, then coming closer to the hedge she said, still staring
earnestly, 'Are you a Hinjin?'

Pauline was completely puzzled.

'A what, child?' she asked.

'A Hinjin,' repeated the child. 'Do you tum from Hinjia?'

'Gr--r--rand Dieu!' cried Pauline, surprised into one of the
exclamations of her old life. 'No, child; what makes you think that?'

'Tos you have dot a brack face, and you speak so funny,' said the child.

Pauline smiled. 'A black face,' she said to herself. 'I am swarthy
enough, I know; but if this child thinks me black, she must needs have
lived with very fair people. She seems sufficiently intelligent, and
may probably be able to give me some information. What is your name, my
dear?' she said to the child.

'Bell,' said the child promptly.

'Bell!' repeated Pauline; 'what a pretty name--blonde et belle! What is
your other name, my dear?'

The child thought for a moment, and then said gravely, 'Lickle Bell.'

'O, but you must have some other name besides that,' said Pauline.
'What is your other name?'

'No more,' said the child, shaking her head.

'Yes, but your nom de famille--your family name. You have that?'

'No, no, no,' said the child, emphasising each word with a shake of her
head.

'But your papa--'

'He's dorn away travelling on 'ail'oad.'

'Gone travelling on the railroad, has he? Has your mamma gone with him?'

'No, me mamma's at home--been teaching me my 'cripture 'istory.'

'What a kind, good mamma!' said Pauline, with a curling lip. 'And what
is your mamma's name, dear?'

'Misse C'axton, 'Ose Tottage, 'Endon, Mid'sex,' said the child, all in
a breath, the sentence being evidently the result of much practice.

Mrs. Claxton, the wife of the man at whose request Mr. Calverley had
given the two thousand pounds to Tom Durham. Ah, how Pauline's heart
bounded, and how the colour flushed into her swarthy cheeks, at hearing
those words! She had been right, then; the instinct that so seldom
deserted her had served her truly in this instance. She had felt all
along that the secret business on which Martin Gurwood had been engaged
had some reference to her affairs, and now she had proved it.

What were the relations between Martin Gurwood and Mrs. Claxton? Pshaw!
Had her steady business-like brain taken to weaving romances? What
more likely than that Mrs. Calverley's son should come out to seek
an interview on business matters with the wife of her dead husband's
partner? Stay, though--with the partner, yes; but the child had said
that Mr. Claxton was away travelling on business. Pauline knew of her
own knowledge that Mrs. Calverley had never seen Mr. Claxton, much less
his wife, and recognised at once that had business been the object of
the interview, it was Mr. Jeffreys who would have been dispatched to
seek an interview with the partner, and not Mr. Gurwood to see the
wife. The mystery still remained in fullest force, and had yet to be
elucidated by her.

Of what more use could the child be to her? The child, who, seeing her
newly-found friend immersed in her own thoughts, had again turned to
her ball. There might be still some more information to be obtained,
and Pauline would try and gain it.

'And so your papa is not at home?' she commenced.

'Tavelling on 'ail'oad,' said the child, making the ball bound again.

'And your mamma is all alone?'

'Not all alone now, gemply tum. Mamma thought it was papa, and me got
off 'cripture 'istory. Me saw it was strange gemply, and run off wif my
ball.'

'A strange gentleman, eh?' said Pauline. 'Did you never see him before?'

'Me never saw him before; me wish he would always come at lesson-time.'

'And how long has your papa been away from home?'

'Two, free weeks, two, free months. Me frow my ball to you, and you
frow me back again.'

As she spoke the ball came bounding across the hedge. Pauline took it
up and threw it back to the child.

'Do you know Mr. Calverley, dear?' she asked, as Bell stood with the
ball in her hand, ready to launch it at her again.

'Misse Calverley,' repeated the child, 'me not know him; me know Doctor
Broadbent, what brings nassie powders in his pocket.'

'You don't know Mr. Calverley?'

'No, me not know Misse Calverley. Me go and get George to play at
ball,' she added, after a moment's pause, finding that there was no
more amusement to be had from her newly-found friend, and running away
after the gardener.

Pauline watched the child disappear in the shrubbery, then folding her
arms across her breast, fell into her old habit of walking to and fro
to think out, the emotions under which she was labouring.

'Perhaps she had deceived herself after all, perhaps her fertile brain
had been conjuring up and giving life and name to a set of phantoms.
There was no evidence to connect this Mrs. Claxton with the pale-faced
woman whom she had seen at Southampton, who might have been a mere
emissary of Tom's, employed by him to get the money and bring it to
him there. It seemed impossible that the wife of such a man as Mr.
Claxton, who was on all sides represented to be a partner in the house
of Calverley and Company, could descend to such a position; it seemed
impossible that--' She stopped in her, walk motionless and transfixed.

She had been looking at the house, and at one of the lower windows, a
large French window opening on to the grounds, she suddenly saw the
figure of a woman. She recognised it in an instant; recognised it
as the pale-faced woman whom she had seen walking to and fro on the
railway platform at Southampton with Tom Durham, and of whom he had
taken such an affectionate farewell; pale-faced still, and tearful,
with bent head, and wringing hands. She stands for a moment alone, the
next instant she is joined by Martin Gurwood, who seems by his actions
to be exhorting her to confidence and courage. It is, of course, by
their actions alone that Pauline can judge what they are doing, but
her southern nature leads her to translate their pantomime, feeble
though it may be, more readily than could any one less accustomed to
gesture and action. See her bent head, her shrinking figure, her hands
outspread before her. Then notice his look turned upward, the growing
uprightness of his stately figure, his elevated hand. Evidently she is
giving way under the weight of some distress, while he is consoling
her, and, as Pauline judges from his actions, pointing out to her the
course of duty. The reverend's consolation has but little effect,
Pauline thinks, as the pale-faced woman, giving way to her grief, sinks
upon the ground, and lies prostrate at her companion's feet.

Now to see what is the exact state of the relations between them,
now to see whether the secret which from the first she has believed
Martin Gurwood to be concealing in his breast has reference to a woman;
whether this misogynist, as his friends think him, and as he strives to
prove himself, is but as other men are, frail and feeble, liable to be
diverted from his path of duty, and to be turned hither and thither by
a woman's influence.

By Martin's actions the reply is patent to her at once. Had he been
this woman's lover, had he been striving to become her lover, he would
have cast himself down on his knees beside her, and striven to have
raised her, bidding her repose herself and her grief on him. As it was,
he stood there looking at her, as Pauline could distinguish, with eyes
full of sorrowful regard, with head bent, and hands that involuntarily
sought to raise her, and were then restrained and folded across his
breast. No farther action, no movement of his lips so far as she could
see. 'It is in his capacity as priest,' she said to herself, 'that
he is here; there is no question of his being this woman's lover;
evidently she is suffering from some great trouble, and he has come to
announce it to her. They are not as our priests, these Protestants, and
he is an Englishman besides. He has told his story in their usual cold,
matter-of-fact unimpassioned way, and awaits now quietly until she
shall arise from the swoon into which the receipt of the intelligence
has thrown her. So far I have been wrong. That he has a secret, I still
believe; but that it is not in the least connected with this woman I am
sure. What it may be I have still to learn; and I will learn it, that
it may give me power over him, and, through him, over his mother, whom
I intend to minister to my comforts, and to be my principal source of
support for years to come. This pale-faced woman too!' She had thought
that she had brought down both the birds with one stone; now each
mystery was still a sealed book to her.

How was she to get at them? It would have been useless to inquire of
the tradespeople in the village now, who would simply tell her what she
knew already, the name of the occupant of Rose Cottage, of his station
in life, of his position as Mr. Calverley's partner. Of all this
she was already aware. From whom was she to learn more? From Martin
Gurwood himself, and no one else. She must brave it out with him; she
must bring to that interview, which must take place at once, all her
courage and all her knowledge of the world; the one to bear her up in
confronting the rage which he would undoubtedly feel at finding he had
been followed; the other in enabling her to see through any deception
he might try to practise upon her.

See! they move. The pale-faced woman rises from the floor. Ah, with
what dignity, Pauline acknowledges to herself, keeping her eyes
straight upon the window. She stands upright now before her companion,
and is evidently speaking with simple unexaggerated action. He is
striving to refute what she is saying, if he can be judged by the
bending of his shoulders, by the moving of his hand. He fails, though;
Pauline sees that. Then he bows in taking his leave, and disappears.

What she has to do must be done at once. She is to meet and confront
him, and brazen it out before him. She had noticed that the cab in
which he had come, after setting him down, had rolled off in the
direction of the village. To get to the village, he must pass the end
of the path in which she then stood. If she could get there before him,
she would be in time. In another instant she had gathered her skirt
around her, and set off into a swift and steady run. She reached the
end of the path as Martin Gurwood emerged through the garden-gate, and
remained still, awaiting his approach.

He came on steadily, his eyes fixed upon the ground, until he was
within a short distance of her. Then he looked up, and wavered in his
walk for an instant, seeing her planted directly in his path. For an
instant; the next, he continued his advance--continued it even when she
threw back her veil, and when, as she saw by a quick upward glance at
him, he recognised her features.

It was best, she thought, that she should speak first.

'Good morning, Mr. Gurwood,' she said in a light and pleasant tone.
'You are surprised to see me here?'

His face was stern and rigid, as he replied: 'Had it been any one else,
I might have been surprised; in Madame Du Tertre such conduct appears
to me perfectly natural, and what I always imagined her perfectly
capable of being guilty of.'

'Such conduct! guilty of!' she repeated. 'This is harsh language,
Monsieur Martin. Of what conduct, pray, have I been guilty?'

'Of following me and spying out my actions, madame; of that there can
be little doubt.'

'And yet at that you are not surprised,' she said, with a laugh. 'You
had so low an opinion of me, that you take "such conduct" as a matter
of course. Well, I am not disposed to deny it. I have followed you,
and I have, as you call it, spied upon your actions. It is for you to
explain them.'

'To explain them!' cried Martin Gurwood, with a burst of indignation;
'to whom, pray? To my conscience I can explain them readily enough; to
those who have any claim upon me to ask for an explanation, I can give
it. But to you, in what capacity am I to explain it?'

'In my capacity as Mrs. Calverley's friend and agent,' said Pauline,
making a bold stroke. 'I am here in her interests; it is by her that I
am authorised to do what I have done.'

The shot had told; she saw its effect at once in his blanched cheek and
his hesitating manner.

'You have come here as my mother's agent?' he asked.

'I have,' she replied, looking him straight in the face.

'Then,' he said after a moment's pause, 'If you are really and truly
her friend, I must ask you in her interests to conceal from her all
you have seen; to tell her a story in no way bearing upon the truth,
to divert her thoughts and suspicions--for she must needs suspect, if
she has employed you, as you say, to watch me in what I do--into some
totally different channel.'

Pauline smiled grimly. 'I thought so,' she exclaimed. 'It will not suit
the Reverend Martin Gurwood, rigid moralist, the most holy of men, to
have it known, even by his mother, that he has been to visit a pretty
woman, and that his conversation with her has been of such effect that
she has cast herself at his feet during her husband's absence, and that
he has been enabled to give her consolation in her deepest sorrow.'

'If your taunt fell upon me, and upon me alone,' said Martin, drawing
himself up, and looking straight at her, 'it would be harmless enough,
but I have others to think of, and others to shield. If you knew who
the lady is of whom you are speaking in this thoughtless manner, you
would--'

'I know well enough,' said Pauline, with a sneer; 'this woman--this
friend of yours, is the wife of Mr. Claxton, the partner of your
mother's husband, whom you have just buried.'

'You think so,' cried Martin. 'She thinks so herself; but it is for me
to undeceive you, though I have kept the truth from her. This woman is
one whom Mr. Calverley most basely deceived. Under a false name--the
name which you have mentioned--he wooed and won her; and she, at this
moment, believes herself to be his widow.'




CHAPTER VII. A THIRD IN THE PLOT.


Even Pauline's stoical calmness was not proof against the announcement
which she had just heard from Martin Gurwood. She staggered back,
staring wildly at him, and putting her hand to her head as though
doubting the evidence of her senses. Martin, thinking she as about to
fall, proffered his arm, but she put it aside gently.

'Thank you,' she said; 'I shall be very well presently; the shock was a
little too much for me. To have one's faith in such a man's character
rudely shaken, is-- But I will not add to your distress, Monsieur
Martin, by any observations of mine. You are going this way? Then let
us walk together. After a little reflection, I shall be better able to
comprehend the full nature of the disclosure you have been good enough
to make to me.'

Martin bowed. And they set off walking towards the village, both silent
and buried in their own thoughts.

Pauline had indeed need for a little quiet, in which she might turn
over in her mind the news which she had just heard, and calculate
its bearing on her future. Mr. Calverley, under the assumed name of
Claxton, was living with this woman at Hendon; and of course was in
the habit of visiting her, when he pretended that he was away on
business, inspecting the ironworks in the North. Pauline saw that at
once, and half smiled as she allowed to herself that Mrs. Calverley's
hatred of the Swartmoor ironworks was not without cause. And as for
the reverend's story that the woman had been betrayed by a false
marriage--bah! that was to be taken for what it was worth.

What a strange old man, this Calverley! How rusé, how cunning! He had
deceived even her. So quiet and staid and long-suffering as he seemed!
It was not difficult to understand now why Mr. Claxton had never been
formally presented to the household at Great Walpole-street. She
was--stay, though! the link connecting her with Tom Durham, that was
still wanting, and must be found. Could the reverend help her to it?
She would try.

'Tell me, Monsieur Martin, is this the first time you have seen this
poor creature who has been so cruelly deceived?'

When Martin Gurwood raised his face, his cheeks were flushed at the
imputation which he conceived Pauline's question to convey. 'This is
the first time I have seen the lady,' he said, in a grave tone, 'and it
is only lately that I have known of her existence.'

'Indeed,' said Pauline. 'And from whom did you hear of her
existence--not from Madame Calverley?'

'Good Heavens, no!' cried Martin. 'It is of the utmost importance, for
more reasons than one, that my mother should know nothing of this sad
affair.'

'Exactly,' said Pauline, looking at him narrowly; 'I perfectly agree
with you. Then from whom did you have the information? You will pardon
me, Monsieur Martin,' she added in a soft voice, 'but I take such an
interest in this sad affair.'

'From Mr. Broadbent, the doctor residing in this village. He happened
to be with Doctor Haughton when the body was found, and recognised it
as that of the gentleman whom he had known as Mr. Claxton.'

'O, indeed! how sadly interesting!' she said. 'This reverend knows
nothing about this pale-faced woman,' she thought to herself, 'and
cannot help me in any way respecting her. Why my husband left me, where
he is now, that tormenting mystery of my life, is still--save that I
know that he and this woman are not now together--as far from solution
as ever. That knowledge is, however, a point gained, and possessed as
I am of this secret, I think I shall be enabled not merely to prevent
their coming together again, but to have my revenge on her for what
she has done already. And now let us see how the land lies, and how
this reverend intends to proceed in the matter. His plumes were rather
ruffled, I thought, just now; I must set them straight again.'

She turned to Martin Gurwood, who, with his eyes still downcast, was
striding by her side, and said, 'I have been thinking over what you
told me, Monsieur Martin, and I do not remember ever to have heard a
sadder story. Ah, Monsieur Martin, it is lucky that it is into your
hands that this poor young woman has fallen--you whose life has been so
pure and blameless--'

'Madame Du Tertre,' he interrupted hurriedly, 'I must beg of you--'

'I repeat, Monsieur Martin, you whose life has been so pure and
blameless--have I not heard of it from your mother? have I not watched
it for some time myself?--can feel true Christian pity for this girl
so cruelly betrayed. You are right, too, in keeping the mere fact of
her existence secret from Madame Calverley. She would be furious, that
good lady, and not without cause. She would be furious; and when she is
furious she loses her head, and would bring trouble and scandal upon
the family. Do you know what I have been thinking about during our
walk, Monsieur Martin? I have been thinking that you will require my
assistance in this matter.'

'Your assistance, Madame Du Tertre?'

'Mine, Monsieur Martin. You who can see things so clearly will not
require to be told that I have great influence with Madame Calverley;
that influence shall be exercised in your behalf. I will enter into a
compact with you to help you in aiding this unhappy woman, of whom you
take so compassionate a view, by every means in my power, provided you
do not interfere with any plans of mine as regards your mother.'

'I--I must first know what those plans are before I can agree to your
proposition, madame,' said Martin, with hesitation.

'Are you in a position to make terms?' asked Pauline, with a
short, hard laugh. 'I do not know myself what those plans are at
present--nothing to hurt you or any one, you may be sure; but you see I
am in possession of your secret, and can work for or against you as I
choose. There, don't look so scared, Monsieur Martin; I meant no harm.
You will find me a trusty ally; a woman can do more in these cases than
any man, however well-intentioned; and we may perhaps keep the truth of
her real position from this poor creature for a time. And whenever it
must be told, you may depend upon it I should break it to her better
than you would.'

Martin glanced hurriedly at her as he comprehended the full force
of what she said--as the exact position in which they stood to each
other dawned upon him. He had been taken unawares, when his nervous
system, always highly strung, was at its extreme point of tension after
the interview with Alice, and scarce thinking what he was saying, he
blurted out the secret which should never have passed his lips, and
the revelation of which involved such dire consequences. What would
Humphrey Statham say when he knew what had happened, as know it he
must? He, cool, far-seeing, and methodical, would be sure to reproach
his friend with having acted on headstrong impulse. Martin blamed his
own rashness; but what was said could not be unsaid. Madame Du Tertre,
as she had remarked, was in possession of the facts, and the only
way to treat her now was to make her a friend instead of an enemy,
and to give in to her as far as was compatible with the plan already
laid down. Her tendency was at present undoubtedly amiable, Martin
thought, and it was best to encourage that spirit. He knew that in
her assertion of her power over Mrs. Calverley she spoke truth, and
it was all-important that that power should be exercised in their
favour. His mother was splenetic and stubborn; once raised to a sense
of her injuries, she would leave nothing undone to sweep this wretched
woman from her path, and to crush her altogether. For Alice's sake, it
was most important that the knowledge of her real position should be
withheld from her as long as possible, and that when the announcement
had to be made, it should be made with due delicacy. He had been
wrong in taking any outsider into his confidence, but under existing
circumstances it was clear that Madame Du Tertre should be won over to
their side, and treated with the respect which she seemed inclined to
exact.

So, his mind filled with these thoughts, Martin Gurwood turned to her
and said: 'You are perfectly right, Madame Du Tertre; your co-operation
will be most valuable to me; and as to the terms which you propose,
I am quite willing to accept them, recognising the rectitude of the
principles by which you are governed.'

Recollecting his warlike declaration at the commencement of their
interview, Pauline was more than half inclined to smile at this
utterance, but she checked herself, and said: 'Then it is understood,
Monsieur Martin, that our alliance commences from this moment. To prove
my interest in it, I should be glad if you would tell me what immediate
steps you propose taking in reference to this poor lady. Very much will
depend upon your present action; and I am anxious to know what it is.'

'Well,' replied Martin, rather taken aback by her prompt decision, 'the
fact is that you will probably be called upon to exert your powers of
diplomacy at once.'

'Such powers,' said Pauline, 'unless ready on an emergency, are but
little worth. This poor creature does not know her position; under what
circumstances have you left her?'

'I had a long and most heart-rending interview with her,' said Martin,
'part of which it appears you saw. I had to break to her that the man
whom she supposed to be her husband, and whom she loved with all the
strength and fidelity of her girlish nature, was dead--that was enough
for once. I had not the heart--I had not the courage even to tell her
that he was not her husband, but her betrayer; a being whose memory
should be loathed and abhorred, rather than worshipped.'

'There was no necessity for that just now,' said Pauline; 'that
announcement can be made later on, and then can be made more quietly
and delicately. What else did you say?'

'I told her when I left her that I would return and take her to London,
to-night.'

'To London! To what part of London?'

'To Mrs. Calverley's house, where I was compelled to tell her--her
husband's body was lying. Of course she had heard of Mr. Calverley as
her husband's partner, and with this explanation she seemed content.'

'Ah, poor creature!' cried Pauline, 'She does not know, then, that the
body has already been buried?'

'No, I did not tell her that, and fortunately she did not ask me the
date of the death.'

'And when you made this promise, may I ask what plan was in your mind?'

'My idea was,' said Martin, blushing somewhat as the vagueness of
this same idea dawned upon him; 'my idea was, to go to a friend of
mine named Statham, a very clever man, kind-hearted, and with a vast
knowledge of the world, who has already helped me in this business, and
indeed has seen Mrs.--the young woman I mean--and first gave me the
notion that she was not what one might have imagined she would have
been.'

'O, indeed,' said Pauline, eyeing him closely, 'this Mr. Statham has
seen the poor lady, and finds her thus?'

'Exactly,' replied Martin. 'Well, I thought I would go to Statham
and tell him what I had done, and get him to come down with me here
this afternoon, and then I thought that between us both we might tell
her--tell her--all!'

'I can imagine how much of the narration would fall to Mr. Statham's
share,' said Pauline, with a quiet smile. 'Now, I don't know Mr.
Statham, and cannot therefore judge of his method of treating the
subject, but I think I have a better plan to propose, and as it is one
in which I assign the principal part to myself, I am perhaps qualified
to speak about it.'

'I am sure,' said Martin, jumping at the idea of any relief for himself
or his friend, 'that we shall be delighted to enter into it, provided
of course that it is consonant, as I know it will be, with our idea of
sparing Mrs.--this lady's feelings as much as possible.'

'For that,' said Pauline, 'you may depend upon me, understanding that
is the mainspring of my motive in offering my services to you. As I
have told you before, in such matters as these, a woman's delicacy
is of course required, and I am convinced that I shall be enabled
to do more with her than Mr. Statham, even with all the honesty and
astuteness for which you give him credit. My idea is, that you should
not return to this place. Your natural candour and straightforwardness
prevent your being much of a diplomatist, Monsieur Martin, and it
is due to your sacred office that you should be mixed up as little
as possible in an affair of this kind. I have but little doubt that
the successful commencement of the work is due to your kindness and
consideration; but I think its carrying out should now be left to other
hands.'

'And those hands are?'

'For the present, mine. Instead of your going to Rose Cottage this
evening, as you have arranged, I propose you should send me as your
representative.'

'But you are not known to this poor girl--she will refuse to see you.'

'Not if I bring proper credentials from you. A letter, for instance.'

'A letter; to what effect?'

'Telling her that you are unable to come, and that you have sent me in
your place.'

'In my place,' repeated Martin. 'But, as I have told you before, I had
arranged with her that she should go to London with me.'

'That arrangement can continue, only the letter should say that she
could go with me instead of with you.'

'And what on earth will you do with her when you get her to town?'

'I do not intend taking her to town at all.'

'My dear Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, looking up, with a shade of
annoyance in his face, 'we are evidently playing at cross purposes, and
I shall be glad if you will explain yourself to me.'

'My dear Monsieur Martin, as I told you before, you are too honest and
straightforward, not merely to practise diplomacy, but, as I find now,
to comprehend it. Armed with this letter from you, I shall go and see
this young lady--she will be most anxious to start off at once with me,
and I shall make no opposition. On the contrary, I shall express my
extreme readiness, but shall suggest that, as she is weak and unnerved
by the events of the day, she had better take some restorative. Now,
among other odd varieties in my life, I have been a garde-malade, and
I know quite sufficient of medicine to enable me to administer to our
young friend, with perfect safety and without the remotest chance of
doing her any harm, a draught, which, instead of being a restorative,
will be a powerful soporific.'

'Soporific!' cried Martin, aghast.

'How wrong of me to have used that word!' said Pauline, who could not
refrain from smiling at the horror-struck expression of his face; 'It
fills your mind with thoughts of castles and spectres and bleeding
nuns; it is in truth the language of romance. I should have said an
anodyne, which means exactly the same thing, but being a medical term
is more proper for use.

'Well, but,' said Martin, very little relieved by the explanation, 'the
effect will be still the same. This draught, by whatever name you may
choose to call it, which you propose to give her, will send her into a
deep sleep.'

'Unquestionably.'

'And what is the object of that?'

'The object of that,' cried Pauline, beginning to lose patience, 'the
object of that, my dear sir, is to prevent this lady from leaving her
house, to give us twenty-four or thirty-six hours, as the case may be,
to turn ourselves round in, and see what is best to be done.'

'I do not like it, I confess,' said Martin, hesitating; 'it appears to
me a strong proceeding.'

'My good Monsieur Martin, is not the whole affair one which
necessitates a strong proceeding, as you call it? The matter seems to
me to stand thus: You have told this young woman that her husband's
body is lying at the house in Great Walpole-street; you have promised
that you will take her there this evening. If you do not arrive at the
time appointed, she will become suspicious, and go off by herself--with
what result we can imagine. If you go there, and decline to take her,
making what excuse may occur to you, she, having probably had enough
of such excuses already, will go off just the same--she knows the
address--with the same result. Suppose you go there determined to
reveal the truth; suppose you tell her that the man whom she worshipped
was a villain, that his name was not Claxton, but Calverley, and
that she was not his wife; what do you arrive at? So far as we are
concerned, at exactly the same result. There is a dreadful scene; she
refuses to believe anything you say; she insists upon going off to Mrs.
Calverley; and there is, to use your charming English expression, all
the fat in the fire. You will not accuse me of exaggeration Monsieur
Martin; I am representing things exactly as they will happen, am I not?'

'Upon my word, I believe you are,' said Martin Gurwood; 'it is a most
unfortunate state of affairs, most unfortunate, and I really do not see
what we are to do.'

'Wait,' said Pauline, 'until you have heard the result of my
proposition, which you condemned so quickly as dangerous. And first,
as to the danger. I will guarantee that she shall not suffer in the
smallest degree; but even if you thought the effects of the draught were
strong, and it were necessary to call in Doctor Broadbent, we need
not object to that, as he would be certain, not to betray us. If I am
allowed to have my own way, I shall so regulate the strength of the
draught that she does not return wholly and entirely to consciousness
until after forty-eight hours; then the story can be told to her of
the sudden manner in which she was seized by illness, and she can be
informed that while she was in a state of unconsciousness the funeral
had taken place. There is nothing extraordinary in these circumstances,
which are simple and coherent, and there is no reason to think that her
suspicions will be aroused.'

But, though perhaps with less hesitation than before, Martin Gurwood
still shook his head. 'I do not like it,' he said; 'it is such an
underhand proceeding.'

'What have all your proceedings been since you first found the position
in which you were placed with regard to this woman?' asked Pauline.
'This is one of those matters which it is not possible to treat by
ordinary means. Bah, Monsieur Martin, let us have no more of this
childishness. Will the plan which I propose get you out of the mess in
which you are involved?'

'Yes--it seems so--I should think it would--'

'Then leave it to me to carry out.'

'I think I had better consult Mr. Statham in the matter, Madame Du
Tertre, if you have no objection,' said Martin. 'You see I have taken
his advice already--and could see more--'

'My good monsieur,' said Pauline impatiently, 'I have no objection to
your consulting Mr. Statham, or any one for the matter of that, but do
you see that time presses? We are already in the afternoon, and it is
this evening that action must be taken. I confess I do not see how Mr.
Statham can improve upon my proposition.'

'No,' said Martin, 'I do not know that he could.' His yielding nature
was no match for this woman's determination. 'Then the best thing I can
do is, I suppose, to get back to London?'

'Yes,' said Pauline, with a smile; 'but I must trouble you to take me
with you. I have sent away my cabman, and I must see Mrs. Calverley,
and make up some story to account to her for the two or three days
during which I must necessarily be absent from her. Ah, Monsieur
Martin, what a world of deceit it is!'

'Did you say that you were coming back in my cab, Madame Du Tertre?'
said Martin, looking rather blank.

'Yes,' she said with a laugh, 'I must. I have no other means of getting
back to town. But don't fear, Monsieur Martin; I will bring no disgrace
upon you--you shall set me down as soon as we reach the outskirts of
town, and I will go to Great Walpole-street by myself. When you get
there you must write me the letter to this poor girl; you can give it
to me as I come downstairs after my explanation with Mrs. Calverley.'


When Madame Du Tertre walked into the drawing-room in Great
Walpole-street, she saw from the expression of Mrs. Calverley's face
that that sainted woman was considerably out of temper. Mrs. Calverley
kept her eyes rigidly fixed on her work, and took no notice of
Pauline's entrance.

'Ah, behold a pleasant woman,' muttered the Frenchwoman between her
teeth. 'It is well that I have something to look forward to in the
future; for the position here is not a particularly pleasant one, and
is sufficiently hardly earned.--And how are you this evening, my kind
friend?' she said at last, gliding into a chair by Mrs. Calverley's
side.

'If you call me your kind friend, I am sorry I cannot return the
compliment, Madame Du Tertre,' hissed Mrs. Calverley spitefully.
'I thought the arrangement between us was, that you were to be my
companion, and endeavour to cheer me up with some of the liveliness of
your nation, at least I know that was suggested by Mr. Calverley when
he made the engagement; and instead of that, here I have been left by
myself the whole day, without one creature to come and say a word to
me.'

'Ah, my kind friend,' said Pauline--'for so you have always proved
yourself to me--it is only in a matter of necessity that I would ask
to be absent from your side. My poor cousin--she that I spoke about to
you--is lying ill at a poor lodging. She has no friend in this wide
London, does not know one creature beside myself; she has no money,
she cannot speak your language, and is utterly helpless. I am the sole
person on whom she can rely. I have been with her all day; it is from
my hand alone that she will take her medicine and her drink; and I have
come to ask you to excuse me for yet a little while longer, until she
has reached the crisis of her malady.'

'It is nothing catching, I hope?' said Mrs. Calverley, pulling her
skirts close round her.

'Ah, no; she is poitrinaire--consumptive, as you call it. I have been
talking to her about you, telling her how nobly you have borne your
present sorrow, and she is interested about you, my dear friend. She
asked permission, when she recovers, to come and see you.'

The coarse compliment acted as was intended, and Pauline received Mrs.
Calverley's gracious permission to absent herself for as long as was
requisite.

As she came down the stairs she saw Martin Gurwood standing at the
study-door. He stepped forward, and without a word placed a letter,
addressed to Mrs. Claxton, into her hands.

Then Pauline went to her bedroom, and descending therefrom with a small
bag in her hand, hailed a hansom, and for a second time that day was
conveyed to Hendon.

In the dusk of the evening, Alice, long since attired in her bonnet and
shawl, and waiting eagerly for Martin Gurwood, saw a woman alight at
her door. Little Bell, who had been playing about in the garden, saw
her too, and running up to Alice, cried, 'O mamma, you recollect what
I told you about the dark lady? She has come again. Here she is at the
gate.'




CHAPTER VIII. SO FAR SUCCESSFUL.


When Martin Gurwood knew that Pauline had started again for Hendon,
that there was no possibility of departing from the scheme which she
had proposed, and to the carrying into effect of which he had given his
reluctant consent, he felt more than ever nervous and uncomfortable.
That he had made a great mistake in admitting Madame Du Tertre into his
confidence at all, and that he had enormously magnified that error by
permitting her to take a leading part in the plot, and to import into
it mystery and a positive danger, he knew full well. How he should be
able to account for his proceedings to Humphrey Statham, who, he felt
sure, would be eminently dissatisfied with all that had been done, he
did not know.

That was a wretched evening for Martin Gurwood. He and his mother
dined in solemn state together, and during the repast and afterwards,
when they were seated in the vast drawing-room, where Mrs. Calverley's
worktable and reading-lamp formed a mere oasis of light in the midst of
the great desert of darkness, he had to listen to an unbroken plaint,
carried on in an unvaried monotone. 'Was there ever such a life as
hers? What had she done that she should be so afflicted? Why was her
advice never taken? If it had been, Mr. Gurwood would not have killed
himself with drink; Mr. Calverley would have had nothing to do with the
ironworks worry, which had undoubtedly caused his death. What was to
become of the business? The arrangements made in Mr. Calverley's will
sounded all very right and proper, but she very much questioned whether
they would be found to work well. Was not too much mastery and power
given to Mr. Jeffreys? He had been a confidential clerk certainly,
but it was by no means to be argued from that that he would be either
as industrious or as useful when placed in command. She could bear
testimony to that from her experience of Mr. Calverley, whom she had
known in both positions.' And so on, and so on.

Mrs. Calverley did not require, or indeed expect, any reply to her
series of wearisome questions, or comment on her dull string of
complaints. She was quite satisfied with the interjectional 'Ah!'
'Well!' and 'Indeed!' which Martin threw in from time to time; and
it was well that she required nothing more, for her companion would
have been entirely unable to give her a rational answer, or, even had
he been called upon to do so, to state what she was talking about.
Martin Gurwood's thoughts were at Rose Cottage. Madame Du Tertre must
have arrived there by that time; must have seen that poor pretty young
creature. A strange woman Madame Du Tertre, and, to his mind, not
too trustworthy; but she had expressed kindly feelings towards this
girl, and when she saw her, that kindly feeling could not fail to be
increased. That was a horrible notion--taking advantage of her weakness
to give her a sleeping draught. He did not like to think of that;
and yet he was compelled to admit that he did not see how anything
else could have been done. Pauline's possession of their secret was
an unpleasant element in the story which he had to tell Statham; but
had he not taken her into his confidence he felt that he should have
bungled the business which he had undertaken, and that very likely by
that time both Mrs. Calverley and the tenant of Rose Cottage would
have become acquainted with the positions which they held towards each
other. How long they could be kept in ignorance of those positions was
a matter of doubt; but for the temporary respite they were indebted to
Madame Du Tertre; and Martin thought he would put that very strongly to
Humphrey Statham the next morning. His last thoughts before dropping
off to sleep were given to Rose Cottage, and in his dreams he saw the
pretty pale-faced, tearful girl with the dark-eyed, black-browed woman
bending over her.

He expected a letter from Hendon by the early morning's post, but it
was midday before it arrived. Martin sat in the dining-room by himself,
anxiously expecting it; he heard the postman's knock resounding through
the street, and when it reached the door, he felt an inclination to
rush out and clear the letterbox himself. Only one letter was brought
in to him by the footman, but he knew at a glance that it was the one
he wanted. Martin waited until the servant had left the room before he
broke the seal; then he seated himself in the big arm-chair, and read
as follows:

'_Hendon, Thursday, midnight_.

'MY DEAR M. MARTIN,--You will, I know, be most anxious to learn how I
have prospered in my undertaking; and I would willingly have given you
earlier information had it been possible. As, however, it is advisable
to observe secrecy, I shall not intrust a messenger with my letters,
but shall send them by the post, and take them to the office myself.
This may occasionally cause some slight delay, but it will be surest
and safest in the end.

'By the place from which this letter is dated, you will see that I
have carried out my intention. I am writing at a table by her bedside;
and as I raise my eyes from the paper they fall upon her lying asleep
close by me. Ah, M. Martin, I told you that I was a woman fertile in
resources, and generally successful in what I attempt. That there was
no vanity or boasting in this, my present position gives, I think,
ample proof.

'But to tell you my story from its commencement. I took the letter
which you handed me, and, fortified by the inward feeling that, though
you said nothing, you had breathed a silent prayer for my success,
I set out once more for the place where we had held our morning's
conversation. On arriving at the gate, I perceived my little playfellow
of the morning. Ah, I forgot to mention to you that while you were in
the house, and just before you appeared at the dining-room window,
I had made acquaintance with a very pretty child, whom I had found
playing in the garden, and had ingratiated myself with her by returning
the ball which she had thrown to my side of the hedge. It is part of
the scheme of my life, M. Martin, to ingratiate myself with everybody;
some day they may have an opportunity of making themselves useful to me.

'Behold an exact example of this in the present instance! The child saw
me at once, and ran forward to announce my arrival to her mother. Had I
in the morning been cross or ungracious, had I made a bad impression,
that impression would have been communicated by the child, and my
reception would at once have been compromised. As it was, the child
cried out, "The dark lady has come again; here she is at the gate;" and
went on to mention my having returned the ball, and spoken pleasantly
to her. I heard this, for by that time I had walked up the garden, and
was close by the door. There she stood in the porch, her bonnet and
shawl on, her head bent eagerly forward, peering into the dusk. She
was waiting for you, M. Martin, and so intent was she on your coming,
that she seemed unable to think of anything else. My arrival did not
impress her at all; until I mentioned your name she scarcely looked at
or listened to me.

'The name roused her at once. Where were you? she asked. You had
promised to be there more than an hour ago to take her to London. Why
did I speak of you? What brought me there?

'My morning's adventure with the child served me just then. I said--do
not be angry, M. Martin, I was compelled to make some excuse--I said
that I was the wife of your brother (I would have said your sister,
but my French accent would have betrayed me); that I had been with you
there in the morning, to be ready in case my services were needed; that
while you entered the house I remained outside and talked with the
child, as she had already heard; that I had come direct from you that
evening, and that I was the bearer of a letter which would explain my
errand.

'"A letter!" she cried. "Then he is not coming?"

'"The letter will show you, madame, that he cannot come, but that he
has sent me to take his place, and to act precisely as he would have
done."

'She looked disappointed, but she took the letter, and walking into the
little hall, where a light was burning, read it eagerly. Then she said,
"You know the contents, madame. Mr. Gurwood says that you, instead of
him, will be my guide--let us start at once."

'I suppose she saw something in my face, for she changed colour almost
immediately, and said that she begged my pardon, that she was acting
very inhospitably, and that I doubtless required some refreshment after
my drive. Not refreshment, I told her, but rest. Five minutes would
make very little difference to her. If she would allow me to sit down
for that time, I should be ready to start at its expiration. She didn't
like the delay, poor child; I saw that plainly enough; but she was too
kind, too well-bred to refuse, and she took me into the dining-room and
rang for wine.

'I was glad to hear her give this order, partly because I stood in
great need of refreshment myself, for I had had no chance of taking
any in Walpole-street, but principally because ever since my arrival I
had been wondering how I should find an opportunity of administering
that little draught, upon the action of which my hopes for successfully
carrying out our plans depended. You know my original idea was to give
her this draught under the guise of a restorative; but when once I saw
her, I allowed to myself that this plan would not do. Partly from the
glimpse I had caught of her at the dining-room window, partly from your
description, I had presupposed her to be a weak, irresolute creature,
capable of being easily swayed, glad to accept any suggestion without
deliberating whether it might be for her good or her harm; a pretty
fool, in fact.

'Mrs. Claxton--it is a nice-sounding name, and one may as well call
her by it as by any other--is pretty and delicate, but by no means
weak; and any person who would attempt to influence her must have an
exceptionally strong will. I saw this at a glance, and recognised the
fact, that being, as she is, quick-witted, her suspicions might be
aroused, in which case there would be an end to our scheme. It was
necessary, therefore, to try other tactics, and I was beating my brain
for them, when the entrance of the servant with the wine and glasses
gave me the requisite clue. The poor girl, with trembling hand, poured
me out a glass of wine, and then left the room to fetch some biscuits,
for which I had ventured to ask. I took the opportunity of her absence
to pour some wine into the other glass, and to fill it up with the
contents of the little bottle I had brought in my bag. The liquid was
colourless and tasteless; and though I half smiled to myself as I
emptied it into the wine-glass, the action reminding me as it did of
the heroines of M. Eug&ène Sue's novels, or of the Porte St.
Martin dramas, I knew well enough that its result, though sufficient
for our purpose, would be harmless.

'Mrs. Claxton returned with the biscuits. "See," said I, pointing to
the glass, "I have poured out some wine for you. You have passed a
day of intense excitement, and have still a most trying ordeal to go
through; you will need to have all your courage and all your wits about
you. Drink this, it will give you strength." She smiled feebly,--such a
desolate, dreary smile,--but made no objection; on the contrary, "She
had had nothing all day," she said, "and thought that the wine might do
her good." So she took the glass and quietly swallowed its contents.

I suppose if you had been there, M. Martin, you would have expected
to see the girl drop down, her eyes closed, her senses gone? That is
the way in the novels and the drama, but that is not the effect of the
little tisane which I have more than once had occasion to prepare. That
effect never varies. Mrs. Claxton watched me with apparent interest
as I was eating my biscuit, and, though she said nothing, she seemed
perfectly to understand me when I proposed to go. At that moment,
seeing the nurse pass by the window, carrying the little child, who
was being taken to bed, I beckoned to her. The woman opened the door,
and I had just said to her, "Please tell my cabman we are coming out,"
when Mrs. Claxton sank backwards in her chair. I had been anticipating
this; so bidding the nurse carry the child away, and send one of the
other servants to me, I bent over the poor girl, and with the aid of
the housemaid, who speedily arrived, went through the usual restorative
processes which are employed with persons who are supposed to have
swooned. While these, which I need scarcely say were of no effect,
were being carried on, I learned from the servant that, owing to the
news which had been brought to her by the clergyman that morning, her
mistress had been in a dreadful low state all day, and that the wonder
of the household was that she had kept up so long. This state of things
exactly favouring my purpose, I soon disposed of the idea which had
been started by the nurse, that Doctor Broadbent should be sent for;
and when I had had the poor girl carried up-stairs, my announcement
that I should instal myself as nurse, and pass the night by her
bedside, excited no great surprise.

'Lying there, with her long hair floating over the pillow, her features
tranquil and composed, her breathing soft and regular, she is very
beautiful! So beautiful that I can quite understand the dead man being
in love with her. So beautiful that, were I writing to anyone but you,
M. Martin, I should say I could almost forgive him for it. Meanwhile,
it is satisfactory to us to think that the respite which we have gained
by her inaction is purchased at the cost of no pain or ill suffered by
her. Her sleep is as sound and as health-giving as though it had been
natural, and there is no doubt that the rest will really be of service
to her in serving as a preparation for the troubled time to come.

'So here ends my bulletin. What events to-morrow may have in store for
us, of course I know not; but I think that the patient will sleep for
at least another twenty-four hours, and I knew you would be desirous to
hear as soon as possible of her state. If you have anything to say to
me, you can send it safely by letter; but if I do not hear from you, I
shall hold to the plan which we arranged together.

'Your friend,

'PALMYRE DU TERTRE.

'_Six a.m_.

'P.S.--I have kept my letter open till now. She still remains in the
same state.'

The emotions experienced by Martin Gurwood when he arrived at the
conclusion of this lengthy epistle were so conflicting, that he thought
it advisable to give as little personal consideration to the matter as
possible, and to lose no time in submitting his story and the letter to
Humphrey Statham, and obtaining that clear-headed friend's advice upon
both.

On arriving at 'Change Alley, and revealing himself to the gaze of
Mr. Collins, Martin was surprised to find that confidential creature
brighten up at his approach, and to hear him express pleasure at his
arrival.

'Glad to see you, Mr. Gurwood,' he said. 'Perhaps now you have come,
the governor will be a little easier in his mind. He has been in and
out of the room half a dozen times in the day for the last three days,
asking us all if we were quite sure that you had not been, and giving
directions that you were to be sent in to him directly you arrived. I
will go in and tell him at once.'

The chief-clerk passed into his principal's room, and returned
immediately. 'You are to go in,' he said: and the next moment Humphrey
Statham had Martin Gurwood by the hand.

'Here at last!' he cried. 'I have been expecting you from hour to
hour--what on earth has detained you?'

'Nothing. I came as quickly as I could--directly I had anything to say;
as I will prove to you in a minute. But what has made you so strangely
anxious?'

'My dear fellow, I am anxious about anything in which I take an
interest, and I have taken an interest in this matter. Now to the
point. You have seen this lady?'

'I have.'

'And you have broken the truth to her; explained to her the fearful
position in which she stands?'

'I have not.'

'Gurwood!' said Humphrey Statham, taking a pace backward, and looking
steadily at his friend. 'Is this the way in which you have discharged
your mission? Did you not undertake--'

'Wait and hear me before you condemn,' cried Martin, raising his hand
in appeal. 'I am as weak as water--no one knows that better than
myself--but I had made up my mind to go through with this duty, and I
would have done so, had it not been for circumstances against which I
could not struggle. Have you never heard me mention the name of Madame
Du Tertre?'

'Madame Du Tertre?' repeated Humphrey, somewhat astonished at what he
imagined to be his friend's sudden branching off from the subject. 'No,
I have never heard the name.'

'She is a Frenchwoman, who, through some strange influence, I never
knew exactly what, has been acting as my mother's companion for some
little time, living in the house in Great Walpole-street, and being, in
fact, half friend, half servant--you comprehend the position?'

Humphrey Statham bowed his head in acquiescence.

'She is a woman of great strength of character--little as I know of
the world I am able to see that--and has not merely obtained a vast
influence over my mother, but, as I now believe, she has made herself
thoroughly acquainted with most of our private affairs.'

'You don't mean to say that she knows--?'

'Wait and hear me. This woman, from something that occurred during
Mrs. Calverley's lifetime, seems to have entertained some suspicion
of the Claxton mystery. The morning after his death, when I happened
to be alone in the room with her, she found some means of alluding to
some partnership in the house at Mincing-lane, and of introducing the
name of Claxton. I tried to pass the thing off as lightly as I could,
but I was horribly confused, and I daresay I made a mess of it; at all
events her suspicions were not abated; for when I came out of Rose
Cottage, after my first interview with that poor creature, I found this
Frenchwoman waiting for me close by the gate.'

'She had followed you to Hendon, then,' cried Statham. 'What
explanation did you give for your being there?'

'What explanation could I give? Even though I had designed to tell
a lie, I could not have framed one calculated to have escaped her
detection.'

'Do you mean to say, then, that this intriguing Frenchwoman, who is in
Mrs. Calverley's confidence, knows all?'

'All!'

Humphrey Statham shrugged his shoulders, plunged his hands into his
trousers-pockets, and sank back into his chair with the air of a man
for whom life has no farther interest.

'You cannot realise my position,' cried Martin. 'It was with this very
power that she possesses over Mrs. Calverley that she threatened me.
And she has expressed her willingness to aid us in our plans, provided
I do not interfere with her management of my mother.'

'If anything were to be said to her it would have been well to tell her
all,' said Humphrey Statham; 'a half-confidence is always a mistake. So
this charming creature knows all about the double mystery of Calverley
and Claxton, and promises to render us assistance in our endeavours to
do the best for all persons concerned! Well, it is a most confounded
nuisance that she knows anything about it; but as it is, I don't know
that she may not be made useful.'

'She has made herself useful already,' said Martin Gurwood. 'You
ought not to have sent me on this errand, which I was utterly unfit
to fulfil. I saw this poor girl, and, as kindly as I could, told her
of the death of this man--her husband, as I called him--but when she
pressed to be taken to him, imagining that he was only just dead, I
was entirely nonplussed, and knew not what to say. You had given me no
instructions on that head, you know.'

'By Jove, no; that was an omission,' said Statham, rubbing his head.
'How did you manage?'

'After a struggle I told her that the body was lying at Mr. Calverley's
house in Great Walpole-street, and that as she did not know Mrs.
Calverley, it would be necessary to apprise that lady of her visit. So
I left her, promising to return in the evening and take her with me. It
was then I met Madame Du Tertre.'

'Well, what did she say?'

'She said that my plan was absurd, and that it was all-important that
the actual state of things should be kept from Mrs. Claxton for some
time longer.'

'She was right in both instances,' said Humphrey Statham, nodding. 'But
how did she propose to do it? I confess I don't see my way.'

'How she has done it you will perceive by this letter, which I have
just received.'

Martin handed Pauline's letter to his friend, and watched him keenly as
he perused it.

Humphrey Statham read the document through with great attention.
Only twice he showed symptoms of astonishment--once by his uplifted
eyebrows, once by a low but prolonged whistle. When he had finished
reading the letter, he still retained it in his hand.

'She is a clever woman, by Jove!' he said, 'and a thoroughly
unscrupulous one; this letter shows that. I don't like this
sleeping-draught business; that is a remarkably awkward feature in the
case, though it seems to be going on all well, and it certainly is
giving us the time we required. When this poor girl wakes, you and I
must both of us be present to tell her plainly the truth; you in your
clerical capacity, and I--well--in my worldly capacity, I suppose.
"Very beautiful," eh?' he said, referring to the letter. 'She is very
beautiful. A soft, touching kind of beauty which appeals to me more
than any other. And the child,' he continued, again glancing at the
letter. 'You remarked that I took special interest in this matter,
Gurwood! You would scarcely fancy now that that child is the link
between me and the Claxton mystery!'

'The child!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'How is that?'

'I will tell you the story some day,' said Statham, looking moodily
into the fire. 'Depend upon it, my friend, not every woman who is
betrayed is so mercifully deceived as this poor creature has been!'




CHAPTER IX. THE SMALL HOURS IN LONDON.


Martin Gurwood and Humphrey Statham dined together that day at a club,
of which the latter was a member, and sat together until late in the
night, discussing memories of old times and the strange occurrences
of recent days. When Martin returned to Great Walpole-street, he was
surprised to learn from the servant who let him in, that Mrs. Calverley
had not retired to rest, and that she desired to speak with him when
he came in. A guilty pang shot through Martin's breast as he listened.
What could be the meaning of this? Could his mother have discovered
the secret of the Hendon mystery, and was she waiting to objurgate
him for the part which he had taken in concealing it from her? Martin
knew that, some day or other, such a contingency would arise, but he
hoped that when it did he would have Statham by his side. He looked to
Statham now for advice and assistance in every phase which the matter
could assume, and dreaded being left to his own resources.

He found his mother in her bedroom, attired in a skimpy flannel
dressing-gown, and sitting before the fire with her slippered feet
upon the fender. She looked round on his opening the door, and uttered
a sound which was partly a snort of defiance, and partly a groan of
resignation.

'You wish to see me, mother, James tells me,' said Martin. 'I had no
idea you would have been up, or I would have returned home sooner.'

'I wish to see somebody, Martin,' returned Mrs. Calverley querulously.
'I thought that my life could not have been more wretched and solitary
than it was in Mr. Calverley's time, but even he used to come home
occasionally, while now I sit by myself from morning till night.
Persons who are engaged and paid to be my companions go away, and even
my son gives himself up to his own devices, and does not come home
until close upon midnight.'

'My dear mother,' said Martin, 'as I said before, if I had had any idea
that you were sitting up, I would have returned sooner. Tell me now,'
he said, pulling his chair close to hers, 'what do you want me to do?'

'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Calverley; 'I never want any one to do anything
for me. But I wanted to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes to
such an unimportant person as myself, about the future.'

'She knows nothing about Hendon,' thought Martin to himself; 'or she
would not have been able to have kept off from the subject for a
minute.' And greatly relieved at this idea, he said pleasantly, 'You
know, mother, that I should be only too glad to carry out any of your
wishes.'

'And you will hate an opportunity of proving what you say, Martin. You
know that by Mr. Calverley's will I am now absolute mistress of the
business in Mincing-lane. On our marriage, Mr. Calverley, in what I
considered then the most ungenerous manner, reserved to himself the
power of disposing of that business as he thought best; but I suppose
he afterwards came into a better frame of mind, for he has left it
entirely to me. The business as it stands at present will, I learn from
Mr. Jeffreys, bring me in a very large income. Now I am the last woman
in the world to set an undue value upon riches, and my only care for
them is that they may enable me to do more good to my fellow-creatures.
Are you attending to me, Martin?' she said to her son, who was looking
vacantly into the fire.

'Certainly, mother,' said Martin, starting.

'Perhaps you will favour me with your particular attention just now,'
said Mrs. Calverley, with some asperity, 'when I tell you that what I
have got to say concerns yourself. If your character were different,
you might think to yourself that, rich as I shall be, I might take
the opportunity of making you independent, but such I know would not
be your wish. You are one of those who rightly think that it is your
mission to discharge your duty in the state of life to which you have
been called, and I agree with you. There is to me no more beautiful
sight than that of a minister engaged in the exercise of his vocation;
the only change I would propose to you would be one in the scene of
your labours.'

'A change in the scene?' cried Martin.

'Exactly,' answered Mrs. Calverley. 'I should wish you to relinquish
the vicarage of Lullington, and to establish yourself in London.'

'London?' cried Martin.

'Certainly,' said his mother; 'where there is money there is influence,
and there would not, I imagine, be any difficulty in obtaining for
you an incumbency in London; or if it came to that, there are always
proprietary chapels to be purchased, and in them perhaps you would be
more unfettered, and more able to conduct the services according to
your own views.'

'But, my dear mother,' said Martin, 'I am by no means sure--'

'That you would be popular,' interrupted Mrs. Calverley. 'You need not
fear about that. I fancy there are few better judges of preaching than
myself, and I have always been satisfied with the sermons which I have
heard you deliver. It would be a great pleasure to me to know that my
son's merits were properly recognised. And I don't think,' she added
with a slight toss of her head, 'that he would have any reason to be
ashamed of his mother, or the style in which she lived. We may not be
aristocrats, and our lives may not be attended by the sloth, luxury,
and pomp which surround that portion of the community; but for solid
wealth and the comfort which it brings, the home which has been raised
by British industry need be surpassed by none.'

Mrs. Calverley paused; and Martin, for want of something better to say,
said, 'Of course, mother, I quite agree with you.'

'My notion,' pursued his mother, 'is that you should live with me, and
act as my right hand in all matters of business, and as a dispenser
of my charity. My life has been one long martyrdom; it has pleased
Heaven to afflict me with two unworthy husbands, men incapable of
understanding those finer feelings which I possess, and which have been
the sole means of lightening the burden laid upon me. I hope I may now
be permitted in some degree to recompense myself for the solitude and
submission in which I have lived, and to have a little sunshine at the
close of a life which has been one long sacrifice for others. I hope
that--Martin, Martin, what are you thinking of?'

What was he thinking of as he sat there with his chin resting on his
hands, and his eyes fixed intently on the fire? What were those words
ringing in his ears--solitude, submission, sacrifice? Ah, how hollow
and empty they sounded, these querulous complaints, this Pharisaical
self-laudation, when he thought of the manner in which, under the
influence of his wife's temper, John Calverley's life had been warped
and twisted until his weak nature had been betrayed into the commission
of a fearful crime, the result of which was yet impending over the head
of that poor trusting girl! What was he thinking of? Of the little
right he had in the thought even then floating through his mind, to
condemn the dead man whose power of will had been so weak, whose
temptation had been so strong! Who was he, to gauge and measure another
man's sins, and to preach the doctrine of resistance, when-- 'What was
he thinking of?' Mrs. Calverley's words repeated for the third time
recalled him from his reverie.

'What was I thinking of? Why, of course of the proposition you have
just made to me, mother,' he said aloud.

'It is one which scarcely seems to me to need much reflection,' said
Mrs. Calverley coldly. 'In making it I have, as usual, not considered
myself, but left the advantages wholly to you.'

'Of course, mother, I fully appreciate your kindness,' said Martin;
'and the mere fact of living with you, and being able to relieve the
solitude under which you suffer, would, of course, have much weight
with me. By the way, you were alluding just now to Madame Du Tertre's
absence. I have never hitherto had an opportunity of asking you how she
first became an inmate of this house.'

'Not through any invitation of mine,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'though I am
bound to say that as soon as she came here she saw the melancholy life
I led, and endeavoured to alleviate it to the best of her power. One of
the few things I have to thank Mr. Calverley for is his introduction of
Madame Du Tertre.'

'O,' said Martin, looking very much astonished; 'it was through Mr.
Calverley that you made her acquaintance?'

'Certainly,' said his mother. 'I went down to Mincing-lane one day, and
found Madame Du Tertre closeted with Mr. Calverley in his private room.
I thought they would be confused at my entrance; but Mr. Calverley,
quite at his ease, presented his companion to me as a French lady, a
widow with a small fortune, which she had brought to him to invest.
He stated, at the same time, that she was a stranger in London, and
without friends, and suggested that, as he was compelled to be much
away--compelled, indeed!' repeated Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff of
defiance--'it might break the solitude of my life if this French lady,
a cheerful person, playing the piano, and that sort of thing, came to
live with me as my companion.'

'O, that was what Mr. Calverley proposed,' said Martin reflectively.
'And you agreed to it?'

'I agreed to it as a temporary measure,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'but it
seemed to work well, and has continued ever since.'

'You had never seen Madame Du Tertre before? never heard Mr. Calverley
mention her name?'

'Certainly not; neither the one nor the other. What on earth makes you
ask these questions, Martin?'

But Martin had fallen back again into his chair. His eyes were once
more riveted on the fire, and his ears were deaf to his mother's
voice. What a curious woman his mother was! How weak, even in the grim
obstinacy on which she prided herself! how liable to be deceived, in
spite of all the suspicion which she exhibited! This Madame Du Tertre,
then, had been introduced into the house by Mr. Calverley, and his
mother had accepted her as her companion on the very slight evidence
of the story which Mr. Calverley had told her, and which might have
been concocted between him and the Frenchwoman a few minutes before her
arrival.

What had been Madame Du Tertre's object in seeking for an introduction
into this house? What could be her motive for allying herself with such
a woman as Mrs. Calverley? Whatever motive it might have been, it was
still in existence, for had she not made it a condition of assisting
him with Alice that he would not interfere with her plans as regarded
his mother? What could those plans be? Madame Du Tertre was not a mere
wretched creature sponging upon any one who would befriend her, and
earning with fulsome adulation her nightly shelter and her daily bread.
She had money of her own, as he understood; not much, indeed, but
sufficient to provide her with the necessaries of life; and she was the
last woman in the world to give up her freedom, and to go in for mere
vulgar mercenary scheming for a material home with such a person as
Mrs. Calverley, to endure the position of companion in the grim house
in Great Walpole-street. She must have something large at stake, must
be actuated by some ulterior motive of vast importance. What can that
motive be? Who is she? Where did she come from? When and how commenced
her acquaintance with Mr. Calverley?

'What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'

The harsh grating voice recalled him to himself, but even then he was
at first a little dazed.

'These questions? What questions? O, I recollect; about Madame Du
Tertre. Merely curiosity, mother; I could not possibly have any other
motive.'

'Well, now that I have satisfied your curiosity, and told you all I
know--which was little enough, for Mr. Calverley was reticent towards
me in that as in all other matters of his life--now that I have done my
best to give you this information, perhaps you will be good enough to
return to the subject which I started, and tell me what you think about
my proposition.'

'You won't expect me to give you a definite answer at once, mother?
Such a step as leaving one's parish, with all its old friends and
associations, and wholly changing the sphere of one's duties, requires
much consideration.'

'I should think when the advantages which are offered to you are
properly weighed, you would not be very long in making up your mind.
There are few young men circumstanced as you are--and you must be good
enough to remember that you have nothing but your living to depend
upon--who have such a chance offered to them. I have often noticed with
great pain that you are devoid of any ambition in your profession, and
are quite content to live among farmers and people of that kind. But
that is not the sort of life I choose for my son. It is my wish that
you should come up to town, as I have said before; that you should live
here, and take up a proper position in society; that you should marry,
and--'

'Yes, mother,' said Martin, with a faint smile, putting up his hand in
protest; 'but surely, as I said before, these are matters which require
a little consideration. By the way, supposing this plan of yours were
carried out, what do you propose to do with Madame Du Tertre?'

'Madame Du Tertre again!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'Bless my soul, Martin,
how you do harp upon that woman! one would really think that you had
fallen in love with her yourself. A nice daughter-in-law she'd make;
only if you're going to marry her I would rather you would keep in the
country, if you please; she would quite shine at Lullington.'

Mrs. Calverley gave vent to a low sardonic chuckle, the nearest
approach she ever made to a laugh; but Martin Gurwood looked very grave.

'I do not understand the point of the joke,' he said; 'it is perhaps
because I have been for some years accustomed only to the society of
Lullington; but I confess I do not see anything particularly odd in my
inquiring what was to become of one who is now a prominent member in
your household, after you had carried out the change which you propose
to make in it.'

Mrs. Calverley was always a little afraid of her son, and there was
something in the tone of his voice as he made this remark which
constrained her to be civil.

'I did not mean anything unpleasant,' she said, with less than her
usual rigidity of manner; 'I only thought it odd that you could be
in any doubt about the matter. Madame Du Tertre is here as my hired
companion--when I say is here, I should say ought to be, for I hold
her absence just now to be quite unjustifiable--and when it suits my
convenience, and I have quite done with her, I shall pay and dismiss
her, as such persons are usually paid and dismissed.'

'You will?'

'Most certainly! You cannot imagine for an instant that I had any idea
of attaching Madame Du Tertre to the new manner of life which I propose
for myself and for you?'

Martin's thoughts were beginning to wander again. 'No, no, of course
not,' he said half vacantly.

'Of course not,' repeated Mrs. Calverley. 'I consented to receive
Madame Du Tertre as my companion because I was shamefully deserted by
Mr. Calverley, and left to pass all my time in moping solitude. I made
a home, and a comfortable home, for him, and though, as I have said
before, he could not appreciate the finer feelings of my nature, I
would have been content to put them on one side. Now, I look forward
to a very different state of things. You will be my companion; I shall
have you instead of Mr. Calverley to deal with, and you will be able
to understand my ways of life, and I shall be able to help you in
your career. Under these circumstances Madame Du Tertre would merely
be a clog upon both of us. I am by no means sure, Martin,' said Mrs.
Calverley, growing very stiff and speaking with great fervour--'I am
by no means sure that it is a right thing to have a Frenchwoman in the
house, even though she is a Huguenot; I have experienced it already
on several occasions, when I have found the greatest difficulty in
convincing the neighbours that she belonged to the reformed Church. And
with you as a clergyman permanently resident in the house, a suspicion
of that kind would be extremely unpleasant. Moreover, there are many
other reasons which I think would render Madame Du Tertre's farther
sojourn here particularly undesirable, and as she is merely one of the
household, it will be of course easy enough for me to rid myself of her
when I wish. You seem very sleepy, Martin,' said his mother, perceiving
that he had relapsed into his former absent condition, 'and I think you
had better go to bed now that I have given you an outline of my plan,
and it is for you to think it over, and see how it will suit you. If
you agree to it, as I have no reason to doubt you will, I shall give
Madame Du Tertre notice to leave directly after her return.'

Then Martin rose from his seat, touched with his lips his mother's ear,
which she turned round to him for the purpose, and retired to his own
room.

Once there he put on his dressing-gown and slippers, flung himself
into an arm-chair, and resumed at his ease the chain of thought
which had been so frequently interrupted. But now it contained a
new element, which had been imported into it by his mother's last
words. Immediately Madame Du Tertre returned to the house she would
receive notice that her services would be speedily dispensed with.
What would be the Frenchwoman's feelings at such an intimation? She
had given no sign of any intention to leave her present quarters in
Great Walpole-street; but, on the contrary, seemed to consider herself
completely settled there for some time to come, and was unquestionably
desirous of retaining her power over Mrs. Calverley. That, Martin
recollected, she had not scrupled to acknowledge to him. On the other
hand, inexperienced as Martin was in matters of the world, he had
sufficient tact to perceive that his mother, for her own purposes, had
always been particularly civil to Madame Du Tertre, and both by her
speeches and her actions had led the Frenchwoman to believe that her
presence in Great Walpole-street was indispensable to the well-being of
the household. When, then, Madame Du Tertre on her return from Hendon
is informed by Mrs. Calverley that different arrangements are about to
be made, under which her companionship will be no longer required, when
she receives that which, no matter how much politeness is imported into
the manner of giving it, is in fact her dismissal, will she not, with
that shrewdness and suspicion which are so eminently characteristic of
her, at once define that this is not the act of Mrs. Calverley, who has
always hitherto been so partial to her, but that this conduct on his
mother's part is due to his influence? And provided that she attaches
importance to the retention of her position in the Great Walpole-street
household, as Martin undoubtedly believes she does, will she not
instantly seek to revenge herself for what she imagines to be his
interference, and has she not a subject for her vengeance immediately
to her hand in poor helpless Alice?

Who was this woman? What were the motives prompting her to the game she
was playing? And what would be its result?

The future seemed all dark and vague. The mist hung over it as it
did over the sleeping city, a shivering glance at which Martin took
from his bedroom window, and saw the first streaks of the wintry dawn
struggling fitfully through the black clouds ere he retired to rest.




CHAPTER X. THE SMALL HOURS IN HENDON.


One o'clock tolled out from the tower of Hendon church as Pauline, who,
wearied out by the events of the day, had fallen sound asleep in her
chair, opened her eyes, sat upright, and, after an involuntary shudder,
quietly rose to her feet and approached the bed.

Alice still slept peacefully; her breathing was quiet and regular,
and her unruffled brow and motionless lips proved that she was not
disturbed by haunting dreams. Pauline bent over the slumbering figure,
took up the arm that lay outside the coverlet, and softly felt its
pulse, bent her ear towards the sleeper's mouth to listen to her
respiration, and then, stealing back to her place as noiselessly as
she had approached, threw herself into her chair, and indulged in the
luxury of a long but silent yawn.

'There,' she said to herself, rubbing her eyes, and resuming her usual
comfortable attitude, 'I was right in not denying myself the pleasure
of that slumber which I found coming over me, for I am thoroughly
refreshed, and equal to very much more than I was before. What a day
it has been, my faith! And how wonderfully everything has gone exactly
as I could have wished it! This woman sleeping straight on, steadily
and tranquil, and without a break; the servants accepting me in the
position which I took up so promptly, without a murmur, and only too
glad to find the responsibility transferred from themselves to some one
else. Responsibility? That reminds me of that sly doctor--how do they
call him?--Broadbent! It was right of me to send for him; it might have
seemed suspicious had I not done so; and as I knew so well that he had
been perforce admitted into the mystery of Claxton-Calverley, and as
I had learned from the servants here that he was always most friendly
and kind to this poor doll, I knew that I could explain to him what I
had done, and leave it to him to put the people here at their ease.
He was out, though, this sly rogue--out, and not expected back until
the evening, so they said, though five minutes afterwards I saw a man,
who must have been he--black-clothed, grave, the very semblance of an
apothecary--come out of the side-door of his garden, and hurry down the
path where I stood when I first saw the child. Ah, ha! he has no longer
any desire to visit Rose Cottage, this medico so respectable; he fears
lest his name should be compromised. I could not help laughing as I saw
him creep down the path.

'Let me see. I am rested now, and my head is quite clear. Last night
there was danger of interruption from the servants, and they have
been in and out all day, but now they are thoroughly wearied out, and
I have the house to myself. Now is the time for me to look about me,
and gain what information I can concerning this young woman's previous
life. I think I saw a box or desk of some kind by the side of the
dressing-table. O, yes, here it is. What a funny old box!' Pauline
walked to the dressing-table, stooped, and from underneath the muslin
cover drew forth an old-fashioned writing-desk, made of mahogany, and
bound with brass, with a small brass plate on the middle of its lid,
on which were engraved the letters 'A.D.' This inscription caught
Pauline's eyes as she took up the desk and placed it on the table by
the bedside, within the rays of the shaded lamp.

'A.D.,' she muttered to herself. 'What does that mean? It ought
undoubtedly to have been A.C. Ah, stay; the box is old-fashioned, and
has seen much service. It is probably the desk of her childhood, that
she had before what she thought to be her marriage, when the letters
of her name were A.D. A.D.' repeated Pauline, reflecting. 'Ah, bah!
It is a coincidence, nothing more.' From her pocket she took two
bunches of keys, one large, evidently belonging to the housekeeping,
the other small and neat. From the smaller bunch she made two or three
selections, and at last hit upon the key that opened the desk.

The contents of the desk were two packets of letters, one large, one
small, each tied round with faded ribbon, two or three loose sheets of
blotting-paper, an old diary, and an account-book. Pauline took the
larger packet in her hand, and untied the string. The letters slipped
asunder: they were all written in the same hand, all addressed to 'Miss
Durham, care of J. Preston, Esquire, Heslington-road, York.'

'Miss Durham!' A mist seemed to come over Pauline's sight, and she
rubbed her eyes quickly to clear it away. Miss Durham! And A. D. on the
lid of the desk? Good Heaven! had all the anguish of mind which she had
endured, all the jealousy and rage, all the plotting and planning which
she had carried on for the last few months, had all these sprung from
an unfounded suspicion, from an absurd creation of her own distorted
fancy? Miss Durham! There it was plain enough, in a hand that Pauline
recognised as Mr. Calverley's. The letters were those addressed by him
to Alice before their marriage, were signed 'John Claxton,' and were so
bright and buoyant, so full of affectionate enthusiasm, that Pauline
could scarcely imagine they were the productions of the staid, grave
man whom she had known. Miss Durham! What could it mean? Stay! There
was the other packet. In an instant that was undone, and Pauline had
seized from it one of the letters. And then there was no more to learn,
for at a glance she saw that they were in her husband's handwriting,
that they were addressed to his 'Dearest Alice,' by her 'Loving
brother, Tom.'

The paper dropped from Pauline's hand to the floor, and she sank into
her chair with something like a sense of shame upon her. It was then
as she had just thought. She had been frightened, as it were, by her
own shadow, had herself created the bugbear before which she had fled,
or against which she had fought; she had been befooled by her own
suspicions, and her foolish fancy had allowed her to be jealous of
Tom's sister.

Tom's sister! The pale-faced girl lying there, sleeping on so
peacefully and unconsciously, was Tom's sister. How could she be
supposed to have guessed that? She had seen the girl in Tom's embrace,
had seen her bathed in tears and inconsolable at Tom's departure; how
could she know that this was his sister, of whose existence she had
never been informed?

Why had Tom never taken her into his confidence on that point? Why
had he never told her that he had a sister of whom he was so fond?
Why? And a fierce pang of anger shot through her, and her face drew
dark and hard as the reply rose in her mind. She knew the reason well
enough--it was because her husband was ashamed of her; ashamed of the
unscrupulousness, of the underhand ways, which he was ready enough to
use and to call into play when they could be of service to him; because
he thought her not good enough to associate with his gentle, womanly,
silly little sister, or to appreciate the stupid comfort of the narrow
proprieties of her home. Her home! What if Tom could see that home now,
and could know the truth about his sister, as she lay there, with no
name, no home, no position, a person for her, his distrusted wife, to
patronise and befriend if she chose!

So this was the trust he had placed in her, his wife, his ally, his
colleague, of whose fertile brain and ready hand he had so often
boasted. This one honest honourable association (as he had imagined
it) he had kept hidden from her. And as this thought germinated and
broadened in Pauline's mind her feelings passed into a new channel. She
who had been her husband's adviser so long, and who had served him so
well; she who had fondly imagined herself the trusted confidante and
sharer of his inmost thoughts, now found that she had been slighted
and considered not worthy to associate with this innocent piece of
prettiness. The strange nature of the woman was roused to deadly
retrospective anger, and the kindly contemptuous liking which she had
begun to feel for Alice faded away.

This pale-faced sleeping girl was her successful rival, though not
in the manner she had at first supposed. She had felt an instinctive
hatred of her when she saw her on the platform at Southampton, and her
instinct never betrayed her. Tom Durham's sister! Pauline remembered
that when her husband spoke of his early days, and the inmates of
his home, it was always with a softened voice and manner, and with a
certain implied respect, as though he were scarcely fitted, through
his present surroundings and mode of life, even to mention so sacred
a subject. This pale-faced girl had been one of those associations;
she was too pure and too innocent, forsooth, to be mixed up with
such society as her brother's wife was forced to keep. She, when she
recovered her consciousness, would find herself a mark for the finger
of scorn, a text for the Pharisee, a pariah, and an outcast.

And so that weak, clinging, brainless thing was Tom Durham's sister,
and preferred by him to his wife, with her grasp of mind and energy
of purpose? The wife was to slave with him, and for him, to do the
rough work, to be sent off here and there, travelling night and day,
to lie to such a woman, to flatter such a man, to be always vigilant
and patient, and to be punished with black looks, and sometimes with
curses, if anything went wrong; while from the sister all difficulties
and dangers were to be fended off, she was to be lapped in luxury, and
her simplicity and innocence were to be as strictly guarded as though
she had been a demoiselle in a convent.

Well, Pauline thought, the new phase of circumstances need not cause
much alteration in the line of conduct she had marked out for herself.
The girl lying there was to her in a different position from what she
had imagined. So far as she was concerned, there was no question of
revenge now, but it would be as well to keep watch over her, and use
her as a tool if occasion should arise. The interest which Martin
Gurwood felt in Alice would induce him to keep up his acquaintance
with her, and to be en rapport with Martin Gurwood was Pauline's fixed
intention. Over him she had obtained a strong influence, which she
did not intend to give up, while the knowledge that she continued to
be acquainted with all that was going on would deprive Martin, or
those friends of his of whom he thought so much--this Mr. Statham for
instance--from attempting to interfere with the exercise of her power
over Mrs. Calverley.

And now, for the first time since she had waited for her husband at
the Lymington station, Pauline began to believe that the conjecture
which she had seen printed in the newspapers had some foundation, and
that Tom Durham was really dead. Hitherto she had imagined that he had
deceived her, as he had deceived the rest of the world; that the tale
which he told her of his intention to dive from the steamer at night,
to swim to the shore, and to meet her the next morning, had been merely
trumped up in order to turn her off the scent, and to prevent her from
tracing him in his flight with the woman of whom he had taken such
an affectionate farewell at the Southampton railway station. But the
identity of that woman with Alice Claxton being now settled, and it
being made perfectly clear that she was Tom Durham's sister, all motive
for that worthy's concealment of himself was done away with. There was
no reason, so far as Pauline knew, why her husband should not acquaint
her with his whereabouts, while there was every reason to believe that,
were he on the face of the earth, he would make himself known, if it
were only for the sake of reclaiming his two thousand pounds. He must
have been drowned, she thought, his strength must have failed him, and
he must have gone down when almost within reach of the shore, to which
he was hastening. Drowned, dead, lost to her for ever! Not lost as she
had once imagined him, seduced by the wiles and fascinations of another
woman into temporary forgetfulness of her, for then there was a chance,
and more than a chance, almost a certainty, that when those wiles and
fascinations ceased to charm he would miss the clear brain and the
ready hand on which he had so long relied, and come back to claim their
aid once more--not lost in that way, but totally lost, drowned, dead,
passed away for ever.

To think of her husband in that phase was new to Pauline. She had never
contemplated him under such circumstances. She had always thought of
him with fierce jealousy, and a burning desire for revenge, as false
to her, and neglectful of her. The idea that he was dead, had died
guiltless of deceiving her, and with the full intention of carrying out
the plan which he had confided to her, had never before entered her
mind, and--no, it could not be true; if it had been she would have felt
the keenest grief, the deepest sorrow; grief for his loss, regret for
the cruel wrong she had done him in suspecting him. She felt nothing of
all this now--he could not be dead.

Straightway Pauline's thoughts reverted to the circumstances in which
she was placed, the persons by whom she was surrounded, and the way in
which her future should be managed. If the conclusions at which she had
arrived were correct, if Tom Durham were not drowned, but, for some
hitherto unexplained purpose of his own, was keeping himself in hiding,
it is towards his sister probably that, when he considers it a proper
opportunity, he will make some sign. Not to his wife; Pauline knew her
husband well enough to understand completely how the knowledge that he
had treated her badly in not keeping his appointment that morning, and
in concealing himself from her so long, would prevent him from making
his first advances to her; the girl slumbering there would be the first
person to whom Tom Durham would reveal the fact that he was not dead,
and if she, Pauline, ever wished for information about him, it was
through that slumbering girl that it must be obtained.

She made a sudden change in the plan and prospects of her life, a
shuffling of the cards, an entire revision of the game, all settled in
an instant, too, as she sat in the easy-chair beside the bed, her hands
clasped together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the motionless figure.
Her sojourn in the wretchedly dull house in Great Walpole-street should
speedily be brought to an end. She had borne long enough with that old
woman's grimness and formality, with her icy patronage and impassable
stiffness, with her pharisaical utterances and querulous complaints;
she would have no more of such a life of dependence. The time during
which she had been Mrs. Calverley's companion had not, indeed, been
ill-spent. Had she not secured for herself that position, she would
probably have remained in ignorance that the woman of whom she saw her
husband taking leave was his sister; she would not have been intrusted
with the secret of the Calverley and Claxton mystery, the possession
of which gave her such power over all those concerned in it; she would
never have made the acquaintance of Martin Gurwood. How strangely
in earnest that man was, how innocent, and void of guile! And yet
she was so sure that the suspicion which she had originally formed
about him--that he had a secret of his own--was correct; hence that
impossibility to return your gaze, that immediate withdrawal of his
soft beautiful eyes, that quivering of his delicate, sensitive mouth.
It had served her purpose, that position of dependence, but now she
would have no more of it. There is nothing to be gained by continuing
with the grim old woman except the money, and Pauline sees her way
to an equal amount of money, combined with far more freedom, and an
infinitely pleasanter life.

A better life, too, if there be anything in that, Pauline wonders, with
a shrug of her shoulders; for this slumbering girl, this mere child
in her ignorance of the world's ways, is now left to herself, and is
henceforth to live alone, with no one to battle for her, no one to
shield her from the thousand and one assailants, to guide her through
the thousand and one temptations to which she will be exposed. That
shall be her task, Pauline thought to herself; to undertake it she had
a prescriptive right, if she chose to declare the truth, and to assert
her relationship. There would be no occasion, however, to take that
step, at all events for the present. She could trust to her influence
with Martin Gurwood to procure for her the trust which she coveted, the
position of Alice's companion and guardian. Her influence with Martin
Gurwood, what did that amount to? Why did she experience an inward
thrill of satisfaction in reflecting on that influence? Martin Gurwood!
She thought of him as she had seen him first, under his mother's roof;
she thought of him on the last occasion of their meeting, when they
walked side by side in the Hendon lanes. Yes, her influence with Martin
Gurwood was undoubtedly strong, and the knowledge of its strength gave
her inexplicable satisfaction.


At twelve o'clock the next day, Pauline, from her position at the
bedroom window, saw a hansom cab stop at the top of the hill, and
two gentlemen, one of whom was Martin Gurwood, alight from it. Then
Pauline, whose bonnet and shawl lay ready to her hand, put them on
without an instant's delay, and sallied forth.

She had not advanced more than fifty steps when she saw that her
approach was perceived. Martin Gurwood looked up and said something
to his companion, who, on their meeting, was presented to her as Mr.
Statham.

'The friend of whom I have already spoken to you, Madame Du Tertre,' he
said, 'and whose advice has been most invaluable to me in this matter.'

Pauline gave a direct and earnest glance at Statham, a glance which
enabled a woman of her natural quickness to recognise the presence
of the characteristics which his friend had declared him to possess.
Martin Gurwood was pliant and malleable; this man looked hard and
unimpressionable as granite. If he and she were to be thrown much
together for the future, it would be advisable, Pauline thought, that
her wishes should agree as much as possible with his intentions.

'I am pleased to see Mr. Statham,' she said; 'pleased, indeed, to see
you both, for I have been anxiously expecting your arrival.'

'There is no change in the patient's condition, I suppose?' asked
Statham.

'None; she still remains perfectly tranquil and asleep; but my own
experience, and two or three signs which I have observed, tell me that
this sleep will soon be at an end.'

'It was in that expectation that we have hurried here,' said Martin
Gurwood. 'Mr. Statham is of opinion that it would be impossible to
conceal the truth from Mrs. Claxton any longer, and has accompanied me
to assist in breaking the news to her.'

'Ah, exactly,' said Pauline. 'Will you and Mr. Statham be very much
surprised, very much, horrified, if I venture to make a suggestion?'

'Not the least,' said Statham. 'I am sure I answer for my friend and
myself when I say that we are deeply grateful for the services you
have already rendered us, although the means for the end are certainly
somewhat strong, and that we shall listen readily to anything you may
have to propose.'

'Most certainly, yes,' assented Martin Gurwood.

'Well, then,' said Pauline, addressing herself to Statham, after a
fleeting glance at Martin, 'my proposition is, that this ceremony of
the breaking the news, which at such pain to yourself, as I know, you
have come to perform, should be dispensed with altogether.'

'Dispensed with?' cried Statham.

'Altogether,' repeated Pauline.

'Do you mean that Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton should not be made acquainted with
what has occurred?' asked Martin, in astonishment.

'With what has occurred,' said Pauline firmly, 'yes; with the
circumstances under which it has occurred, no! She knows that the man
whom she considered to be her husband is dead. Let her be informed
that, during the unconscious state into which she fell on hearing the
news, he has been buried, but for Heaven's sake, monsieur, let her be
kept in ignorance of the fact that he was not her husband, and that by
his cruelty she is now a woman without name or position, abandoned and
outcast. Why should we cover her with shame, and blight her life, with
this announcement? A quoi bon? If we do not tell it to her, there is no
one else who will. She has no friends but yourselves and me. She is too
innocent and ignorant of the world to ask for any papers--a will, or
anything of that kind. She has already, without inquiry, accepted Mr.
Gurwood's guardianship at once and unsuspectingly, and she has not the
faintest dream that the man whom she loved and the position which she
held were other than she believed them.'

'Well, but--' said Martin.

'But what?' said Pauline, turning to him. 'Can you give me one reason
why this horrible story should be told to her in its truth, why one
more victim should be added to the number of those over whom the
yellow flag waves, cutting them off from all the privileges of social
citizenship, and dragging them down to the depths of misery and shame?
Ah, she is too young and too innocent for such a doom! Am I not right,
Mr. Statham? Do you not agree with me?'

It was easy to see that the passionate earnestness of Pauline's appeal
had not been without its effect on Humphrey Statham. There was a
tremulousness in his lip and in his voice as he said, 'You certainly
make out a strong case to support your views, Madame Du Tertre; but
what do you propose should be done with this young lady?'

'I propose,' said Pauline, 'that she should live on in the belief that
she is Mr. Claxton's widow; and as it would be impossible, young and
unsuspecting as she is, that she should be alone, I propose that I
should live with her. Not on her, mind!' she added, with a proud toss
of her head. 'I have a little money of my own--quite enough to keep me
in independence--but I am a woman of the world, Mr. Statham, who has
learned its ways from dire necessity, and has come out of the struggle
I hope unimpaired. I was interested in this girl's story before I saw
her; since I saw her my interest has naturally increased. Let it be as
I say, and you will find your trust has not been wrongly bestowed!'

The two men stepped aside for a few minutes; then Statham, raising his
hat, approached Pauline.

'Have you well weighed the responsibility you are about to undertake,
Madame Du Tertre?'

'I have,' she said, looking straight into his eyes, 'and accept it
cheerfully.'

'Then,' said Humphrey, 'Mr. Gurwood consents that it should be as you
say. For the present only, mind; the arrangement is but temporary, and
is liable to alteration at any moment.'

'I thank Mr. Gurwood most heartily,' said Pauline, turning to Martin,
and holding out her hand, 'and you, too, Mr. Statham. As I said before,
you will find in this instance that your trust has not been wrongly
bestowed. I think, perhaps, it will be better to leave me to announce
to Mrs. Calverley my intention of leaving her, and I will take an early
opportunity of doing so. I must hurry back now, as there is a chance of
our friend waking up at any moment. You shall hear from me to-morrow,
with full details of what I purpose to do.'

And, as she entered the garden gate, the two men regained their cab and
were driven off to London.




CHAPTER XI. MRS. CALVERLEY LOSES HER COMPANION.


Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to
consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a
sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to
collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing
around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision
subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly
bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition
the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her
widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.

In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the
patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.

'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must
not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you.
You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account
be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and
then I will tell you anything you want to know.'

Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the
sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and
closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at
motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to
bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation,
and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same
order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just
the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table,
the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to
their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline
seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant,
fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards
to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her
forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with
the gentlest touch imaginable.

'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task,
and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign
of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are
anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'

Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite
different from her usual clear voice,

'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has
happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he
dead?'

'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'

'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice.
'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at
once?'

'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do
not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were
to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting
out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at
last, and fell into a fainting fit.'

'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.

'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained
in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'

'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by
your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without
my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'

'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said
Pauline softly. 'It is so.'

Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and
she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over
which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with
her hands, and sobbing forth broken ejaculations of misery and despair.
Pauline did not attempt to interfere with her while she was in this
state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate, waiting until
the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should
subside. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow,
the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still
continued to flow, the ejaculations softened down into one oft-repeated
wail, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'

Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will
become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying
here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with
your future.'

'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that?
How can they give me back my husband?'

'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly,
'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary and more
hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,'
she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, 'that
you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the
gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'

'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'

'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'

'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I
recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this
parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'

'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr.
Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'

'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then,
it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'

'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the
explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very
kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the
next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'

'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round
her with a sigh.

'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be
better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively;
Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear,
I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some
arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can.
I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are
almost yourself again.'

'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself
again!'


Meanwhile the mistress of the house in Great Walpole-street had been in
anything but an enviable frame of mind. It has been observed of Mrs.
Calverley, that even when she was Miss Lorraine, and during the lives
of both her husbands, her favourite position was standing upon her
dignity, a position which, with some persons, is remarkably difficult
to maintain.

Mrs. Calverley was of opinion that by the conduct both of her companion
and of her son, her dignity had been knocked from under her, and
she had been morally upset, and that, too, at a time when she had
calculated on receiving increased homage: on taking her place as
acknowledged head of the household. That Madame Du Tertre should ask to
be relieved from her attendance at a time when of all others she might
have known that her presence would be necessary to console her friend
in her affliction, And to aid her in devising schemes for the future,
was in itself a scandal and a shame. But that her son Martin, who, as
a clergyman of the Church o England, ought to be a pattern of filial
obedience and all other virtues, should neglect his mother in the way
that he did, going away to keep what he called business appointments
day after day; above all, that he should omit to give her any definite
answer to the generous proposition which she had made him, was more
scandalous and more shameful.

So Mrs. Calverley remained swelling with spite and indignation, all the
more fierce and bitter because she had to keep them to herself. And
these were the first days of her triumph--days which she had thought to
spend very differently, in receiving the delicate flattery and veiled
homage which she had been accustomed to from Pauline, in listening to
the protestations of gratitude which she had expected from her son. Now
both of these persons were absent--for Martin was so little at Great
Walpole-street that his mother had small opportunity of conversation
with him--and she was left in her grim solitude; but she knew sooner
or later they would return, and when she did get the opportunity she
was perfectly prepared to make it as uncomfortable for each of them as
possible.

It was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Calverley, who had so far
given in to the fashion of the time, as to take her five-o'clock
tea--which was served, not with the elegant appliances now common,
but in a steaming breakfast-cup on an enormous silver salver--had
settled herself to the consumption of what might be called her meal,
when Pauline entered the room. She came forward rapidly, and taking
her patroness's hand, bent over it and raised it to her lips. Mrs.
Calverley gave her hand, or rather let it be taken, with sufficiently
bad grace. She sat poker-like in her stiffness, with her lips tightly
compressed. It was not her business to commence the conversation, and
the delay gave her longer time to reflect upon the bitter things she
fully intended to say.

'So at last I am able to once more reach my dear friend's side,'
said Pauline, seating herself in close proximity. She saw at once
the kind of reception in store for her, and though the course on
which she had determined rendered her independent of Mrs. Calverley's
feelings towards her, she was too good a diplomatist to provoke where
provocation was unnecessary.

'You certainly have not hurried yourself to get there,' said Mrs.
Calverley, clipping the words out from between her lips. 'I have now
been left entirely to myself for--'

'Do not render me more wretched by going into the details of the time
of my absence,' said Pauline; 'it has impressed itself upon me with
sufficient distinctness already.'

'I should have thought, madame,' said Mrs. Calverley unrelentingly,
'that strictly brought up as you have always represented yourself to
be, you would have understood, however pleasantly your time may have
been occupied, that your duty required you to be in this house.'

'However pleasantly my time may have been occupied!' cried Pauline.
'Each word that you utter is an additional stab. It is duty and duty
alone which has called me away from your side. It is duty which imposes
a farther task upon me, cruel, heart-rending task, which I have yet
to declare to you! And you, who have been a life-long martyr to the
discharge of your own duty, ought to have some pity for me in the
discharge of mine.'

These last words were excellently chosen for her purpose. That she was
a martyr, and an unrecognised martyr, was the one text on which Mrs.
Calverley preached: to acknowledge her in that capacity was to pay
her the greatest possible compliment. So, considerably mollified, she
replied, 'If I felt annoyed at your absence, Palmyre, it was for your
sake more than for my own. The loss of your society is a deprivation to
me, but I am accustomed to deprivations and to crosses of all kinds.
I devoted myself to my husband--and had he listened to the counsel I
gave him, he would be here at this moment--and I am prepared to devote
myself to my son.'

'Ah,' said Pauline with earnestness, 'Monsieur Martin!'

'Yes, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'Monsieur Martin, as you speak
of him in your foreign way, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, as he is
generally called. I am prepared to devote myself to him. I have told
him that I will remove him from that desolate country parish, and
establish him here in London in a church of his own, that he shall live
with me in this house, share my wealth, and dispense my charities.'

'Martin in London,' thought Pauline to herself. 'Then it is in London
that Alice and I must take up our abode.' Then she said aloud, 'And
what does Monsieur Martin say to this grand, this generous proposition,
madame?'

'Ay, exactly--what does he say!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'You may well
ask that! You and every one else would have thought that he would have
jumped at such an offer, wouldn't you? And so he would, doubtless, if
it had come from any one else, but it is my lot to suffer!'

'He has not refused it, madame?'

'No, he has not refused; he has given me no definite answer any way.'

'Ah, he will not refuse you, I am sure,' said Pauline, clasping her
hands; 'the prospect of such a life with such a mother must overcome
even his strict notions of self-denial. Ah, madame, if you could only
know what a thrill of joy your words have sent through my heart, how
what you have said has tended to disperse the black clouds which were
gathering over me!'

'Dear me, Palmyre,' cried Mrs. Calverley, in her blank unimaginative
way, 'black clouds! What on earth are you talking about?'

'I told you just now that I had a yet farther sacrifice to make to
duty. It is a sacrifice so great, so painful to me, that I hardly dared
to hint at it; but what you have said just now robs it somewhat of its
sting. What a comfort it would be to me to know that you had some one
to look after and cherish you, as you ought to be cherished, when I am
gone.'

'What's that you said, Palmyre?' cried Mrs. Calverley, sharply indeed,
but nothing like so viciously as Pauline had expected. 'You are gone!
What do you mean by that?'

'When I am gone,' repeated Pauline, 'in obedience to duty which calls
upon me. Ah, dear friend, why are you wealthy, and in high position,
surrounded by comforts and luxury? If you were poor and needy, sick and
struggling, I could reconcile it with my duty to remain here with you;
as it is, I am called upon to leave you, and to devote myself to those
to whom my poor services can be useful.'

'You must be more explicit, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still
without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty as she was, she had been
somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion
the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed
materially lightened.

'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you
who have a benevolent heart.'

'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.

'My cousin?' cried Pauline.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'your cousin, who was lying ill at the
poor lodging, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not
speak our language, and was utterly helpless; she is worse, I suppose?
Perhaps she is dead!'

'Tiens,' said Pauline to herself; 'it is lucky she reminded me about
the cousin; in all the confusion and plotting I had almost forgotten
what I had said. No, my dear friend,' she said aloud, 'my poor cousin
still lives, and is, indeed, considerably easier and better than when
I first went to her. A relation of hers, a brother-in-law, has found
her out, and is being kind to her, as the poor are always kind to one
another; not, indeed, that this brother-in-law can be called poor,
except in comparison with persons of wealth like yours. He is an old
friend of mine; he knew my father, the artillery officer at Lyons,
and used often to come to my husband's house when we were in business
there.'

'He admired you then, and he has made an offer now, and you are going
to be married to him?' said Mrs. Calverley, with an icy smile. 'Is that
it, Palmyre; is that the sacrifice you feel yourself called upon to
make?'

'Ah, my friend,' cried Pauline, 'there is no question of anything of
that sort for me; my heart is buried in grief. No, this worthy man, who
has known me so long, knows that I am what you call in your language,
but for which we have no word in French, respectable. He knows that I
can be trusted, and he offers to me a place of trust; he asks me to
undertake a sacred charge.'

'Dear me,' again ejaculated Mrs. Calverley; 'what might that be?'

'This old friend of mine finds himself left as guardian and trustee
for the widow and orphan of his former ward, a wretched young man--he
must have been born under an evil star, for nothing seemed to prosper
with him--and who has just died of consumption at Nice. The widow is,
as I understand, a weak creature, very young, very pretty, and utterly
inexperienced. Her husband during his lifetime never allowed her to
do anything, and the consequence is that she is quite ignorant of the
ways of the world, and would be easily snapped up by any one who might
choose to take advantage of her. Being, as I have said, very pretty,
and having a small competence of her own, I need scarcely tell you that
there would be plenty of wretches on the look-out for her.'

'Wretches, indeed!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'One of the few curses of
wealth is that it renders one liable to be so beset.'

'My old friend,' then pursued Pauline, 'a warm-hearted man, who
preserves a grateful recollection of the manner in which at the outset
of his life he was befriended by his dead ward's father, and desirous
of shielding the widow and orphans to the best of his power, offered
me a modest salary to take up my abode with this young woman, and to
become her protector and look after her generally.'

'Well,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff, 'and what did you say to
that?'

'I refused altogether. I told him that I was already living with
one whom fortune had cruelly treated in depriving her of her only
protector, and who from her resignation and goodness commanded my
deepest sympathy. But my old friend refused to accept this explanation,
and after questioning me closely about you and your position, pointed
out that if I were doing a good action in living with you, who were
wealthy and powerful, how much more rigorously should I be discharging
my duty in giving myself up to those who, while equally afflicted
with you in the loss of those they loved, were not endowed with your
circumstances, worse than all, were not endowed with your patience and
Christian resignation.'

A faint flush of pleasure glowed on Mrs. Calverley's pale cheeks.
'There is something in that,' she said; 'it was a sensible remark. My
trouble has been lifelong, I have been schooled in it from my youth;
but this poor person is only just beginning to know the miseries of the
world. Well, Palmyre, what did you say then?'

'I felt, dear friend, that, as you say, the argument was strong, the
appeal almost irresistible; but I said that I could give no definite
reply; that, however strongly my duty might call me elsewhere, my heart
was with you; that I would lay the case before you, exactly as it
stood, and unless I had your free consent I should not separate myself
from you.'

Outwardly calm and composed, Mrs. Calverley was inwardly in a state
of great delight. Not merely did she see her way to getting rid of
her companion without any trouble, but she would receive the greatest
credit for her magnanimity and self-denial in giving Pauline up to
those whose need was greater than her own. It was, however, necessary
that she should be cautious and reticent to the last, so before
pledging herself to anything definite Mrs. Calverley said:

'You, Palmyre, who know my character so well, must be perfectly aware
that the circumstances which you have narrated to me are such as would
command my warmest sympathies, but before I give you any definite
answer, I should like to ask you one or two questions. The little
household over which you are called upon to preside will be established
in France, I presume?'

'No,' said Pauline, 'In England. The poor widow is an Englishwoman, and
declines to go away with her little child, a charming little creature,
from the land of her birth.'

'In England?' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'And whereabouts in England?'

'Nothing is yet settled,' said Pauline, 'but I have no doubt that I
should have some hand in deciding that, and all my influence would be
used to remain in the neighbourhood of London.'

Mrs. Calverley was overjoyed at this announcement; she thought she saw
her way to making use of her quondam ally without the necessity of
recompensing her.

She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said, in a tone which she
tried to modulate as much as possible, but which was unmistakably
triumphant, 'I have reflected, Palmyre, and I find it is again my duty
to exercise that power of self-denial with which I have fortunately
been imbued. These poor creatures have greater need of you than I, and
however much I may suffer by the abnegation, I waive my claim upon
you--I give you up to them.'

'You are an angel,' said Pauline, bending down to kiss her friend's
hand. Her face was necessarily hidden, but if any one could have caught
a glimpse of it they would have seen on it an expression of intense
amusement.

'I shall see you again, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.

'O, certainly,' said Pauline; 'I shall let you know as soon as anything
is settled, and I sincerely trust that my duties will not be so
constant and so binding as to prevent my frequently coming to visit my
best and dearest friend.'

'Does she take me for a fool, this woman?' said Pauline when she had
gained the solitude of her bedroom, 'or is she so blinded by her own
folly as to believe that other people are so weak as she? However, the
difficulty, such as it was, has been easily arranged, and all is now
clear for me to commence my new manner of life.'




END OF VOL. II.




LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.












End of Project Gutenberg's The Yellow Flag, Volume 2 (of 3), by Edmund Yates