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.
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 isGurwood--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--togive 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.
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 atlesson-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 be 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.'