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, theblotting-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, thestepping-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.
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 theTimes, 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 heraid--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, clearred-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.'<.p>
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 meto-morrow. Mr. Jeffreys can leave them here, and can come upto-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.