Martin Gurwood and Humphrey Statham dined together that day at a club, of which the latter was a member, and sat together until late in the night, discussing memories of old times and the strange occurrences of recent days. When Martin returned to Great Walpole-street, he was surprised to learn from the servant who let him in, that Mrs. Calverley had not retired to rest, and that she desired to speak with him when he came in. A guilty pang shot through Martin's breast as he listened. What could be the meaning of this? Could his mother have discovered the secret of the Hendon mystery, and was she waiting to objurgate him for the part which he had taken in concealing it from her? Martin knew that, some day or other, such a contingency would arise, but he hoped that when it did he would have Statham by his side. He looked to Statham now for advice and assistance in every phase which the matter could assume, and dreaded being left to his own resources.
He found his mother in her bedroom, attired in a skimpy flannel dressing-gown, and sitting before the fire with her slippered feet upon the fender. She looked round on his opening the door, and uttered a sound which was partly a snort of defiance, and partly a groan of resignation.
'You wish to see me, mother, James tells me,' said Martin. 'I had no idea you would have been up, or I would have returned home sooner.'
'I wish to see somebody, Martin,' returned Mrs. Calverley querulously. 'I thought that my life could not have been more wretched and solitary than it was in Mr. Calverley's time, but even he used to come home occasionally, while now I sit by myself from morning till night. Persons who are engaged and paid to be my companions go away, and even my son gives himself up to his own devices, and does not come home until close upon midnight.'
'My dear mother,' said Martin, 'as I said before, if I had had any idea that you were sitting up, I would have returned sooner. Tell me now,' he said, pulling his chair close to hers, 'what do you want me to do?'
'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Calverley; 'I never want any one to do anything for me. But I wanted to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes to such an unimportant person as myself, about the future.'
'She knows nothing about Hendon,' thought Martin to himself; 'or she would not have been able to have kept off from the subject for a minute.' And greatly relieved at this idea, he said pleasantly, 'You know, mother, that I should be only too glad to carry out any of your wishes.'
'And you will hate an opportunity of proving what you say, Martin. You know that by Mr. Calverley's will I am now absolute mistress of the business in Mincing-lane. On our marriage, Mr. Calverley, in what I considered then the most ungenerous manner, reserved to himself the power of disposing of that business as he thought best; but I suppose he afterwards came into a better frame of mind, for he has left it entirely to me. The business as it stands at present will, I learn from Mr. Jeffreys, bring me in a very large income. Now I am thelast woman in the world to set an undue value upon riches, and myonly care for them is that they may enable me to do more good to my fellow-creatures. Are you attending to me, Martin?' she said to her son, who was looking vacantly into the fire.
'Certainly, mother,' said Martin, starting.
'Perhaps you will favour me with your particular attention just now,' said Mrs. Calverley, with some asperity, 'when I tell you that what I have got to say concerns yourself. If your character were different, you might think to yourself that, rich as I shall be, I might take the opportunity of making you independent, but such I know would not be your wish. You are one of those who rightly think that it is your mission to discharge your duty in the state of life to which you have been called, and I agree with you. There is to me no more beautiful sight than that of a minister engaged in the exercise of his vocation; the only change I would propose to you would be one in the scene of your labours.'
'A change in the scene?' cried Martin.
'Exactly,' answered Mrs. Calverley. 'I should wish you to relinquish the vicarage of Lullington, and to establish yourself in London.'
'London?' cried Martin.
'Certainly,' said his mother; 'where there is money there is influence, and there would not, I imagine, be any difficulty in obtaining for you an incumbency in London; or if it came to that, there are always proprietary chapels to be purchased, and in them perhaps you would be more unfettered, and more able to conduct the services according to your own views.'
'But, my dear mother,' said Martin, 'I am by no means sure--'
'That you would be popular,' interrupted Mrs. Calverley. 'You need not fear about that. I fancy there are few better judges of preaching than myself, and I have always been satisfied with the sermons which I have heard you deliver. It would be a great pleasure to me to know that my son's merits were properly recognised. And I don't think,' she added with a slight toss of her head, 'that he would have any reason to be ashamed of his mother, or the style in which she lived. We may not be aristocrats, and our lives may not be attended by the sloth, luxury, and pomp which surround that portion of the community; but for solid wealth and the comfort which it brings, the home which has been raised by British industry need be surpassed by none.'
Mrs. Calverley paused; and Martin, for want of something better to say, said, 'Of course, mother, I quite agree with you.'
'My notion,' pursued his mother, 'is that you should live with me, and act as my right hand in all matters of business, and as a dispenser of my charity. My life has been one long martyrdom; it has pleased Heaven to afflict me with two unworthy husbands, men incapable of understanding those finer feelings which I possess, and which have been the sole means of lightening the burden laid upon me. I hope I may now be permitted in some degree to recompense myself for the solitude and submission in which I have lived, and to have a little sunshine at the close of a life which has been one long sacrifice for others. I hope that--Martin, Martin, what are you thinking of?'
What was he thinking of as he sat there with his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed intently on the fire? What were those words ringing in his ears--solitude, submission, sacrifice? Ah, how hollow and empty they sounded, these querulous complaints, this Pharisaical self-laudation, when he thought of the manner in which, under the influence of his wife's temper, John Calverley's life had been warped and twisted until his weak nature had been betrayed into the commission of a fearful crime, the result of which was yet impending over the head of that poor trusting girl! What was he thinking of? Of the little right he had in the thought even then floating throughhis mind, to condemn the dead man whose power of will had been so weak, whose temptation had been so strong! Who was he, to gauge and measure another man's sins, and to preach the doctrine of resistance, when-- What was he thinking of?' Mrs. Calverley's words repeated for the third time recalled him from his reverie.
'What was I thinking of? Why, of course of the proposition you have just made to me, mother,' he said aloud.
'It is one which scarcely seems to me to need much reflection,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly. 'In making it I have, as usual, not considered myself, but left the advantages wholly to you.'
'Of course, mother, I fully appreciate your kindness,' said Martin; 'and the mere fact of living with you, and being able to relieve the solitude under which you suffer, would, of course, have much weight with me. By the way, you were alluding just now to Madame Du Tertre's absence. I have never hitherto had an opportunity of asking you how she first became an inmate of this house.'
'Not through any invitation of mine,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'though I am bound to say that as soon as she came here she saw the melancholy life I led, and endeavoured to alleviate it to the best of her power. One of the few things I have to thank Mr. Calverley for is his introduction of Madame Du Tertre.'
'O,' said Martin, looking very much astonished; 'it was through Mr. Calverley that you made her acquaintance?'
'Certainly,' said his mother. 'I went down to Mincing-lane one day, and found Madame Du Tertre closeted with Mr. Calverley in his private room. I thought they would be confused at my entrance; but Mr. Calverley, quite at his ease, presented his companion to me as a French lady, a widow with a small fortune, which she had brought to him to invest. He stated, at the same time, that she was a stranger in London, and without friends, and suggested that, as he was compelled to be much away--compelled, indeed!' repeated Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff of defiance--'it might break the solitude of my life if this French lady, a cheerful person, playing the piano, and that sort of thing, came to live with me as my companion.'
'O, that was what Mr. Calverley proposed,' said Martin reflectively. 'And you agreed to it?'
'I agreed to it as a temporary measure,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'but it seemed to work well, and has continued ever since.'
'You had never seen Madame Du Tertre before? never heard Mr. Calverley mention her name?'
'Certainly not; neither the one nor the other. What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'
But Martin had fallen back again into his chair. His eyes were once more riveted on the fire, and his ears were deaf to his mother's voice. What a curious woman his mother was! How weak, even in the grim obstinacy on which she prided herself! how liable to be deceived, in spite of all the suspicion which she exhibited! This Madame Du Tertre, then, had been introduced into the house by Mr. Calverley, and his mother had accepted her as her companion on the very slight evidence of the story which Mr. Calverley had told her, and which might have been concocted between him and the Frenchwoman a few minutes before her arrival.
What had been Madame Du Tertre's object in seeking for an introduction into this house? What could be her motive for allying herself with such a woman as Mrs. Calverley? Whatever motive it might have been, it was still in existence, for had she not made it a condition of assisting him with Alice that he would not interfere with her plans as regarded his mother? What could those plans be? Madame Du Tertre was not a mere wretched creature sponging upon any one who would befriend her, and earning with fulsome adulation her nightly shelter and her daily bread. She had money of her own, as he understood; not much, indeed, but sufficient to provide her with the necessaries of life; and she was the last woman in the world to give up her freedom, and to go in for mere vulgar mercenary scheming for a material home with such a person as Mrs. Calverley, to endure the position of companion in the grim house in Great Walpole-street. She must have something large at stake, must be actuated by some ulterior motive of vast importance. What can that motive be? Who is she? Where did she come from? When and how commenced her acquaintance with Mr. Calverley?
'What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'
The harsh grating voice recalled him to himself, but even then he was at first a little dazed.
'These questions? What questions? O, I recollect; about Madame Du Tertre. Merely curiosity, mother; I could not possibly have any other motive.'
'Well, now that I have satisfied your curiosity, and told you all I know--which was little enough, for Mr. Calverley was reticent towards me in that as in all other matters of his life--now that I have done my best to give you this information, perhaps you will be good enough to return to the subject which I started, and tell me what you think about my proposition.'
'You won't expect me to give you a definite answer at once, mother? Such a step as leaving one's parish, with all its old friends and associations, and wholly changing the sphere of one's duties, requires much consideration.'
'I should think when the advantages which are offered to you are properly weighed, you would not be very long in making up your mind. There are few young men circumstanced as you are--and you must be good enough to remember that you have nothing but your living to depend upon--who have such a chance offered to them. I have often noticed with great pain that you are devoid of any ambition in your profession, and are quite content to live among farmers and people of that kind. But that is not the sort of life I choose for my son. It is my wish that you should come up to town, as I have said before; that you should live here, and take up a proper position in society; that you should marry, and--'
'Yes, mother,' said Martin, with a faint smile, putting up his hand in protest; 'but surely, as I said before, these are matters which require a little consideration. By the way, supposing this plan of yours were carried out, what do you propose to do with Madame Du Tertre?'
'Madame Du Tertre again!' cried Mrs. Calverley. Bless my soul, Martin, how you do harp upon that woman! one would really think that you had fallen in love with her yourself. A nice daughter-in-law she'd' make; only if you're going to marry her I would rather you would keep in the country, if you please; she would quite shine at Lullington.'
Mrs. Calverley gave vent to a low sardonic chuckle, the nearest approach she ever made to a laugh; but Martin Gurwood looked very grave.
'I do not understand the point of the joke,' he said; 'it is perhaps because I have been for some years accustomed only to the society of Lullington; but I confess I do not see anything particularly odd in my inquiring what was to become of one who is now a prominent member in your household, after you had carried out the change which you propose to make in it.'
Mrs. Calverley was always a little afraid of her son, and there was something in the tone of his voice as he made this remark which constrained her to be civil.
'I did not mean anything unpleasant,' she said, with less than her usual rigidity of manner; I only thought it odd that you could be in any doubt about the matter. Madame Du Tertre is here as my hired companion--when I say is here, I should say ought to be, for I hold her absence just now to be quite unjustifiable--and when it suits my convenience, and I have quite done with her, I shall pay and dismiss her, as such persons are usually paid and dismissed.'
'You will?'
'Most certainly! You cannot imagine for an instant that I had any idea of attaching Madame Du Tertre to the new manner of life which I propose for myself and for you?'
Martin's thoughts were beginning to wander again. 'No, no, of course not,' he said half vacantly.
'Of course not,' repeated Mrs. Calverley. 'I consented to receive Madame Du Tertre as my companion because I was shamefully deserted by Mr. Calverley, and left to pass all my time in moping solitude. I made a home, and a comfortable home, for him, and though, as I have said before, he could not appreciate the finer feelings of my nature, I would have been content to put them on one side. Now, I look forward to a very different state of things. You will be my companion; I shall have you instead of Mr. Calverley to deal with, and you will be able to understand my ways of life, and I shall be able to help you in your career. Under these circumstances Madame Du Tertre would merely be a clog upon both of us. I am by no means sure, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley, growing very stiff and speaking with great fervour--'I am by no means sure that it is a right thing to have a Frenchwoman in the house, even though she is a Huguenot; I have experienced it already on several occasions, when I have found the greatest difficulty in convincing the neighbours that she belonged to the reformed Church. And with you as a clergyman permanently resident in the house, a suspicion of that kind would be extremely unpleasant. Moreover, there are many other reasons which I think would render Madame Du Tertre's farther sojourn here particularly undesirable, and as she is merely one of the household, it will be of course easy enough for me to rid myself of her when I wish. You seem very sleepy, Martin,' said his mother, perceiving that he had relapsed into his former absent condition, 'and I think you had better go to bed now that I have given you an outline of my plan, and it is for you to think it over, and see how it will suit you. If you agree to it, as I have no reason to doubt you will, I shall give Madame Du Tertre notice to leave directly after her return.'
Then Martin rose from his seat, touched with his lips his mother's ear, which she turned round to him for the purpose, and retired to his own room.
Once there he put on his dressing-gown and slippers, flung himself into an arm-chair, and resumed at his ease the chain of thought which had been so frequently interrupted. But now it contained a new element, which had been imported into it by his mother's last words. Immediately Madame Du Tertre returned to the house she would receive notice that her services would be speedily dispensed with. What would be the Frenchwoman's feelings at such an intimation? She had givenno sign of any intention to leave her present quarters in Great Walpole-street; but, on the contrary, seemed to consider herself completely settled there for some time to come, and was unquestionably desirous of retaining her power over Mrs. Calverley. That, Martin recollected, she had not scrupled to acknowledge to him. On the other hand, inexperienced as Martin was in matters of the world, he had sufficient tact to perceive that his mother, for her own purposes, had always been particularly civil to Madame Du Tertre, and both by her speeches and her actions had led the Frenchwoman to believe that her presence in Great Walpole-street was indispensable to the well-being of the household. When, then, Madame Du Tertre on her return from Hendon is informed by Mrs. Calverley that different arrangements are about to be made, under which her companionship will be no longer required, when she receives that which, no matter how much politeness is imported into the manner of giving it, is in fact her dismissal, will she not, with that shrewdness and suspicion which are so eminently characteristic of her, at once define that this is not the act of Mrs. Calverley, who has always hitherto been so partial to her, but that this conduct on his mother's part is due to his influence? And provided that she attaches importance to the retention of her position in the Great Walpole-street household, as Martin undoubtedly believes she does, will she not instantly seek to revenge herself for what she imagines to be his interference, and has she not a subject for her vengeance immediately to her hand in poor helpless Alice?
Who was this woman? What were the motives prompting her to the game she was playing? And what would be its result?
The future seemed all dark and vague. The mist hung over it as it did over the sleeping city, a shivering glance at which Martin took from his bedroom window, and saw the first streaks of the wintry dawn struggling fitfully through the black clouds ere he retired to rest.
One o'clock tolled out from the tower of Hendon church as Pauline, who, wearied out by the events of the day, had fallen sound asleep in her chair, opened her eyes, sat upright, and, after an involuntary shudder, quietly rose to her feet and approached the bed.
Alice still slept peacefully; her breathing was quiet and regular, and her unruffled brow and motionless lips proved that she was not disturbed by haunting dreams. Pauline bent over the slumbering figure, took up the arm that lay outside the coverlet, and softly felt its pulse, bent her ear towards the sleeper's mouth to listen to her respiration, and then, stealing back to her place as noiselessly as she had approached, threw herself into her chair, and indulged in the luxury of a long but silent yawn.
'There,' she said to herself, rubbing her eyes, and resuming her usual comfortable attitude, 'I was right in not denying myself the pleasure of that slumber which I found coming over me, for I am thoroughly refreshed, and equal to very much more than I was before. What a day it has been, my faith! And how wonderfully everything has gone exactly as I could have wished it! This woman sleeping straight on, steadily and tranquil, and without a break; the servants accepting me in the position which I took up so promptly, without a murmur, and only too glad to find the responsibility transferred from themselves to some one else. Responsibility? That reminds me of that sly doctor--how do they call him?--Broadbent! It was right of me to send for him; it might have seemed suspicious had I not done so; and as I knewso well that he had been perforce admitted into the mystery of Claxton-Calverley, and as I had learned from the servants here that he was always most friendly and kind to this poor doll, I knew that I could explain to him what I had done, and leave it to him to put the people here at their ease. He was out, though, this sly rogue--out, and not expected back until the evening, so they said, though five minutes afterwards I saw a man, who must have been he--black-clothed, grave, the very semblance of an apothecary--come out of the side-door of his garden, and hurry down the path where I stood when I first saw the child. Ah, ha! he has no longer any desire to visit Rose Cottage, this medico so respectable; he fears lest his name should be compromised. I could not help laughing as I saw him creep down the path.
'Let me see. I am rested now, and my head is quite clear. Last night there was danger of interruption from the servants, and they have been in and out all day, but now they are thoroughly wearied out, and I have the house to myself. Now is the time for me to look about me, and gain what information I can concerning this young woman's previous life. I think I saw a box or desk of some kind by the side of the dressing-table. O, yes, here it is. What a funny old box!' Pauline walked to the dressing-table, stooped, and from underneath the muslin cover drew forth an old-fashioned writing-desk, made of mahogany, and bound with brass, with a small brass plate on the middle of its lid, on which were engraved the letters A.D.' This inscription caught Pauline's eyes as she took up the desk and placed it on the table by the bedside, within the rays of the shaded lamp.
'A.D.,' she muttered to herself. 'What does that mean? It ought undoubtedly to have been A.C. Ah, stay; the box is old-fashioned, and has seen much service. It is probably the desk of her childhood, that she had before what she thought to be her marriage, when the letters of her name were A.D. A.D.' repeated Pauline, reflecting. 'Ah, bah! It is a coincidence, nothing more.' From her pocket she took two bunches of keys, one large, evidently belonging to the housekeeping, the other small and neat. From the smaller bunch she made two or three selections, and at last hit upon the key that opened the desk.
The contents of the desk were two packets of letters, one large, one small, each tied round with faded ribbon, two or three loose sheets of blotting-paper, an old diary, and an account-book. Pauline took the larger packet in her hand, and untied the string. The letters slipped asunder: they were all written in the same hand, all addressed to 'Miss Durham, care of J. Preston, Esquire, Heslington-road, York.'
'Miss Durham!' A mist seemed to come over Pauline's sight, and she rubbed her eyes quickly to clear it away. Miss Durham! And A. D. on the lid of the desk? Good Heaven! had all the anguish of mind which she had endured, all the jealousy and rage, all the plotting and planning which she had carried on for the last few months, had all these sprung from an unfounded suspicion, from an absurd creation of her own distorted fancy? Miss Durham! There it was plain enough, in a hand that Pauline recognised as Mr. Calverley's. The letters were those addressed by him to Alice before their marriage, were signed 'John Claxton,' and were so bright and buoyant, so full of affectionate enthusiasm, that Pauline could scarcely imagine they were the productions of the staid, grave man whom she had known. Miss Durham! What could it mean? Stay! There was the other packet. In an instant that was undone, and Pauline had seized from it one of the letters. And then there was no more to learn, for at a glance she saw that they were in her husband's handwriting, that they were addressed to his 'Dearest Alice,' by her 'Loving brother, Tom.'
The paper dropped from Pauline's hand to the floor, and she sank into her chair with something like a sense of shame upon her. It was then as she had just thought. She had been frightened, as it were, by her own shadow, had herself created the bugbear before which she had fled, or against which she had fought; she had been befooled by her own suspicions, and her foolish fancy had allowed her to be jealous of Tom's sister.
Tom's sister! The pale-faced girl lying there, sleeping on so peacefully and unconsciously, was Tom's sister. How could she be supposed to have guessed that? She had seen the girl in Tom's embrace, had seen her bathed in tears and inconsolable at Tom's departure; how could she know that this was his sister, of whose existence she had never been informed?
Why had Tom never taken her into his confidence on that point? Why had he never told her that he had a sister of whom he was so fond? Why? And a fierce pang of anger shot through her, and her face drew dark and hard as the reply rose in her mind. She knew the reason well enough--it was because her husband was ashamed of her; ashamed of the unscrupulousness, of the underhand ways, which he was ready enough to use and to call into play when they could be of service to him; because he thought her not good enough to associate with his gentle, womanly, silly little sister, or to appreciate the stupid comfort of the narrow proprieties of her home. Her home! What if Tom could see that home now, and could know the truth about his sister, as she lay there, with no name, no home, no position, a person for her, his distrusted wife, to patronise and befriend if she chose!
So this was the trust he had placed in her, his wife, his ally, his colleague, of whose fertile brain and ready hand he had so often boasted. This one honest honourable association (as he had imagined it) he had kept hidden from her. And as this thought germinated and broadened in Pauline's mind her feelings passed into a new channel. She who had been her husband's adviser so long, and who had served him so well; she who had fondly imagined herself the trusted confidante and sharer of his inmost thoughts, now found that she had been slighted and considered not worthy to associate with this innocent piece of prettiness. The strange nature of the woman was roused to deadly retrospective anger, and the kindly contemptuous liking which she had begun to feel for Alice faded away.
This pale-faced sleeping girl was her successful rival, though not in the manner she had at first supposed. She had felt an instinctive hatred of her when she saw her on the platform at Southampton, and her instinct never betrayed her. Tom Durham's sister! Pauline remembered that when her husband spoke of his early days, and the inmates of his home, it was always with a softened voice and manner, and with a certain implied respect, as though he were scarcely fitted, through his present surroundings and mode of life, even to mention so sacred a subject. This pale-faced girl had been one of those associations; she was too pure and too innocent, forsooth, to be mixed up with such society as her brother's wife was forced to keep. She, when she recovered her consciousness, would find herself a mark for the finger of scorn, a text for the Pharisee, a pariah, and an outcast.
And so that weak, clinging, brainless thing was Tom Durham's sister, and preferred by him to his wife, with her grasp of mind and energy of purpose? The wife was to slave with him, and for him, to do the rough work, to be sent off here and there, travelling night and day, to lie to such a woman, to flatter such a man, to be always vigilant and patient, and to be punished with black looks, and sometimes with curses, if anything went wrong; while from the sister all difficulties and dangers were to be fended off, she was to be lapped in luxury, and her simplicity and innocence were to be as strictly guarded as though she had been a demoiselle in a convent.
Well, Pauline thought, the new phase of circumstances need not cause much alteration in the line of conduct she had marked out for herself. The girl lying there was to her in a different position from what she had imagined. So far as she was concerned, there was no question of revenge now, but it would be as well to keep watch over her, and use her as a tool if occasion should arise. The interest which Martin Gurwood felt in Alice would induce him to keep up his acquaintance with her, and to be en rapport with Martin Gurwood was Pauline's fixed intention. Over him she had obtained a strong influence, which she did not intend to give up, while the knowledge that she continued to be acquainted with all that was going on would deprive Martin, or those friends of his of whom he thought so much--this Mr. Statham for instance--from attempting to interfere with the exercise of her power over Mrs. Calverley.
And now, for the first time since she had waited for her husband at the Lymington station, Pauline began to believe that the conjecture which she had seen printed in the newspapers had some foundation, and that Tom Durham was really dead. Hitherto she had imagined that he had deceived her, as he had deceived the rest of the world; that the tale which he told her of his intention to dive from the steamer at night, to swim to the shore, and to meet her the next morning, had been merely trumped up in order to turn her off the scent, and to prevent her from tracing him in his flight with the woman of whom he had taken such an affectionate farewell at the Southampton railway station. But the identity of that woman with Alice Claxton being now settled, and it being made perfectly clear that she was Tom Durham's sister, all motive for that worthy's concealment of himself was done away with. There was no reason, so far as Pauline knew, why her husband should not acquaint her with his whereabouts, while there was every reason to believe that, were he on the face of the earth, he would make himself known, if it were only for the sake of reclaiming his two thousand pounds. He must have been drowned, she thought, his strength must have failed him, and he must have gone down when almost within reach of the shore, to which he was hastening. Drowned, dead, lost to her for ever! Not lost as she had once imagined him, seduced by the wiles and fascinations of another woman into temporary forgetfulness of her, for then there was a chance, and more than a chance, almost a certainty, that when those wiles and fascinations ceased to charm he would miss the clear brain and the ready hand on which he had so long relied, and come back to claim their aid once more--not lost in that way, but totally lost, drowned, dead, passed away for ever.
To think of her husband in that phase was new to Pauline. She had never contemplated him under such circumstances. She had always thought of him with fierce jealousy, and a burning desire for revenge, as false to her, and neglectful of her. The idea that he was dead, had died guiltless of deceiving her, and with the full intention of carrying out the plan which he had confided to her, had never before entered her mind, and--no, it could not be true; if it had been she would have felt the keenest grief, the deepest sorrow; grief for his loss, regret for the cruel wrong she had done him in suspecting him. She felt nothing of all this now--he could not be dead.
Straightway Pauline's thoughts reverted to the circumstances in which she was placed, the persons by whom she was surrounded, and the way in which her future should be managed. If the conclusions at which she had arrived were correct, if Tom Durham were not drowned, but, for some hitherto unexplained purpose of his own, was keeping himself in hiding, it is towards his sister probably that, when he considers it a proper opportunity, he will make some sign. Not to his wife; Pauline knew her husband well enough to understand completely how the knowledge that he had treated her badly in not keeping his appointment that morning, and in concealing himself from her so long, would prevent him from making his first advances to her; the girl slumbering there would be the first person to whom Tom Durham would reveal the fact that he was not dead, and if she, Pauline, ever wished for information about him, it was through that slumbering girl that it must be obtained.
She made a sudden change in the plan and prospects of her life, a shuffling of the cards, an entire revision of the game, all settled in an instant, too, as she sat in the easy-chair beside the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the motionless figure. Her sojourn in the wretchedly dull house in GreatWalpole-street should speedily be brought to an end. She had borne long enough with that old woman's grimness and formality, with her icy patronage and impassable stiffness, with her pharisaical utterances and querulous complaints; she would have no more of such a life of dependence. The time during which she had been Mrs. Calverley's companion had not, indeed, been ill-spent. Had she not secured for herself that position, she would probably have remained in ignorance that the woman of whom she saw her husband taking leave was his sister; she would not have been intrusted with the secret of the Calverley and Claxton mystery, the possession of which gave her such power over all those concerned in it; she would never have made the acquaintance of Martin Gurwood. How strangely in earnest that man was, how innocent, and void of guile! And yet she was so sure that the suspicion which she had originally formed about him--that he had a secret of his own--was correct; hence that impossibility to return your gaze, that immediate withdrawal of his soft beautiful eyes, that quivering of his delicate, sensitive mouth. It had served her purpose, that position of dependence, but now she would have no more of it. There is nothing to be gained by continuing with the grim old woman except the money, and Pauline sees her way to an equal amount of money, combined with far more freedom, and an infinitely pleasanter life.
A better life, too, if there be anything in that, Pauline wonders, with a shrug of her shoulders; for this slumbering girl, this mere child in her ignorance of the world's ways, is now left to herself, and is henceforth to live alone, with no one to battle for her, no one to shield her from the thousand and one assailants, to guide her through the thousand and one temptations to which she will be exposed. That shall be her task, Pauline thought to herself; to undertake it she had a prescriptive right, if she chose to declare the truth, and to assert her relationship. There would be no occasion, however, to take that step, at all events for the present. She could trust to her influence with Martin Gurwood to procure for her the trust which she coveted, the position of Alice's companion and guardian. Her influence with Martin Gurwood, what did that amount to? Why did she experience an inward thrill of satisfaction in reflecting on that influence? Martin Gurwood! She thought of him as she had seen him first, under his mother's roof; she thought of him on the last occasion of their meeting, when they walked side by side in the Hendon lanes. Yes, her influence with Martin Gurwood was undoubtedly strong, and the knowledge of its strength gave her inexplicable satisfaction.
At twelve o'clock the next day, Pauline, from her position at the bedroom window, saw a hansom cab stop at the top of the hill, and two gentlemen, one of whom was Martin Gurwood, alight from it. Then Pauline, whose bonnet and shawl lay ready to her hand, put them on without an instant's delay, and sallied forth.
She had not advanced more than fifty steps when she saw that her approach was perceived. Martin Gurwood looked up and said something to his companion, who, on their meeting, was presented to her as Mr. Statham.
'The friend of whom I have already spoken to you, Madame Du Tertre,' he said, 'and whose advice has been most invaluable to me in this matter.'
Pauline gave a direct and earnest glance at Statham, a glance which enabled a woman of her natural quickness to recognise the presence of the characteristics which his friend had declared him to possess. Martin Gurwood was pliant and malleable; this man looked hard and unimpressionable as granite. If he and she were to be thrown much together for the future, it would be advisable, Pauline thought, that her wishes should agree as much as possible with his intentions.
'I am pleased to see Mr. Statham,' she said; 'pleased, indeed, to see you both, for I have been anxiously expecting your arrival.'
'There is no change in the patient's condition, I suppose?' asked Statham.
'None; she still remains perfectly tranquil and asleep; but my own experience, and two or three signs which I have observed, tell me that this sleep will soon be at an end.'
'It was in that expectation that we have hurried here,' said Martin Gurwood. 'Mr. Statham is of opinion that it would be impossible to conceal the truth from Mrs. Claxton any longer, and has accompanied me to assist in breaking the news to her.'
'Ah, exactly,' said Pauline. 'Will you and Mr. Statham be very much surprised, very much, horrified, if I venture to make a suggestion?'
'Not the least,' said Statham. 'I am sure I answer for my friend and myself when I say that we are deeply grateful for the services you have already rendered us, although the means for the end are certainly somewhat strong, and that we shall listen readily to anything you may have to propose.'
'Most certainly, yes,' assented Martin Gurwood.
'Well, then,' said Pauline, addressing herself to Statham, after a fleeting glance at Martin, 'my proposition is, that this ceremony of the breaking the news, which at such pain to yourself, as I know, you have come to perform, should be dispensed with altogether.'
'Dispensed with?' cried Statham.
'Altogether,' repeated Pauline.
'Do you mean that Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton should not be made acquainted with what has occurred?' asked Martin, in astonishment.
'With what has occurred,' said Pauline firmly, 'yes; with the circumstances under which it has occurred, no! She knows that the man whom she considered to be her husband is dead. Let her be informed that, during the unconscious state into which she fell on hearing the news, he has been buried, but for Heaven's sake, monsieur, let her be kept in ignorance of the fact that he was not her husband, and that by his cruelty she is now a woman without name or position, abandoned and outcast. Why should we cover her with shame, and blight her life, with this announcement? A quoi bon? If we do not tell it to her, there is no one else who will. She has no friends but yourselves and me. She is too innocent and ignorant of the world to ask for any papers--a will, or anything of that kind. She has already, without inquiry, accepted Mr. Gurwood's guardianship at once and unsuspectingly, and she has not the faintest dream that the man whom she loved and the position which she held were other than she believed them.'
'Well, but--' said Martin.
'But what?' said Pauline, turning to him. 'Can you give me one reason why this horrible story should be told to her in its truth, why one more victim should be added to the number of those over whom the yellow flag waves, cutting them off from all the privileges of social citizenship, and dragging them down to the depths of misery and shame? Ah, she is too young and too innocent for such a doom! Am I not right, Mr. Statham? Do you not agree with me?'
It was easy to see that the passionate earnestness of Pauline's appeal had not been without its effect on Humphrey Statham. There was a tremulousness in his lip and in his voice as he said, 'You certainly make out a strong case to support your views, Madame Du Tertre; but what do you propose should be done with this young lady?'
'I propose,' said Pauline, 'that she should live on in the belief that she is Mr. Claxton's widow; and as it would be impossible, young and unsuspecting as she is, that she should be alone, I propose that I should live with her. Not on her, mind!' she added, with a proud toss of her head. I have a little money of my own--quite enough to keep me in independence--but I am a woman of the world, Mr. Statham, who has learned its ways from dire necessity, and has come out of the struggle I hope unimpaired. I was interested in this girl's story before I saw her; since I saw her my interest has naturally increased. Let it be as I say, and you will find your trust has not been wrongly bestowed!'
The two men stepped aside for a few minutes; then Statham, raising his hat, approached Pauline.
'Have you well weighed the responsibility you are about to undertake, Madame Du Tertre?'
'I have,' she said, looking straight into his eyes, 'and accept it cheerfully.'
'Then,' said Humphrey, 'Mr. Gurwood consents that it should be as you say. For the present only, mind; the arrangement is but temporary, and is liable to alteration at any moment.'
'I thank Mr. Gurwood most heartily,' said Pauline, turning to Martin, and holding out her hand, 'and you, too, Mr. Statham. As I said before, you will find in this instance that your trust has not been wrongly bestowed. I think, perhaps, it will be better to leave me to announce to Mrs. Calverley my intention of leaving her, and I will take an early opportunity of doing so. I must hurry back now, as there is a chance of our friend waking up at any moment. You shall hear from me to-morrow, with full details of what I purpose to do.'
And, as she entered the garden gate, the two men regained their cab and were driven off to London.
Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.
In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable.
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice,
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?'
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'
'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice. 'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at once?'
'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at last, and fell into a fainting fit.'
'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.
'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'
'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'
'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said Pauline softly. 'It is so.'
Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with her hands, and sobbing forth broken ejaculations of misery and despair. Pauline did not attempt to interfere with her while she was in this state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate, waiting until the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should subside. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow, the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still continued to flow, the ejaculations softened down into one oft-repeated wail, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'
Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with your future.'
'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that? How can they give me back my husband?'
'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly, 'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary and more hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,' she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, that you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'
'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'
'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'
'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'
'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr. Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'
'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then, it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'
'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'
'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round her with a sigh.
'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively; Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear, I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can. I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are almost yourself again.'
'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself again!'