 
Transcriber's Note:
THE YELLOW FLAG.
THE YELLOW FLAG.
A Novel.
By EDMUND YATES.AUTHOR OF 'A WAITING RACE.' 'BROKEN TO HARNESS,' ETC.
'That single effort by which we stop short in the downhill path to perdition is itself a greater exertion of virtue than an hundred acts of justice.' OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
IN THREE VOLUMES. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | Breaking the News. |
| II. | A confidential Mission. |
| III. | A Check. |
| IV. | Take her up tenderly. |
| V. | Parson's Work. |
| VI. | Run to Earth. |
| VII. | A Third in the Plot. |
| VIII. | So far successful. |
| IX. | The small Hours in London. |
| X. | The small houra in Hendon. |
| XI. | Mrs. Calverley loses her Husband. |
THE YELLOW FLAG.
CHAPTER I.
BREAKING THE NEWS.
Doctor Haughton stared hard at his old friend, who had just made such an astounding announcement--stared hard, but said nothing. Naturally a reticent man, in his capacity of physician he had had a great many odd things confided to him in his life, and had consequently not merely learned the value of silence, but had almost lost the faculty of astonishment.
After a minute's pause he turned to the little crowd, and said in a quiet, business-like way, 'Just four of you lift this poor gentleman's body, two at the head and two at the feet, and carry it over to the tavern I see on the other side of the road.--Gibson,' to the coachman, 'you go with them and pay them for their trouble. See it properly placed on a bed or sofa somewhere, and have the door locked, and tell the landlord he will be properly paid, and that a hearse will come out and fetch it away this evening.'
When Gibson returned and reported that all these directions had
been properly obeyed, he mounted his box again, and the gentlemen,
re-entering the carriage, drove off swiftly towards London, leaving the little crowd in the road gazing after them.
The gentlemen inside the brougham composed themselves comfortably, each in his corner, looking out of the window, and waiting for the other to speak. Each was most anxious to hear all that the other
might have to tell him, but both knew the professional etiquette of caution so well that neither liked to be the first to commence the conversation. At length Mr. Broadbent, who was a year or two younger, and considerably more impulsive than his friend, broke the silence by saying, in a casual manner, and as though the subject had but little interest for him, 'Odd that I should have been talking to you about that man this morning, and that we should have come upon him just now, wasn't it?'
'Very odd; very odd indeed,' said Doctor Haughton; 'quite a coincidence! Odd thing, too, his going under two names. Mr. Calverley certainly could not be called an eccentric man.'
'Nor could Mr. Claxton, so far as I have seen of him at least,' said Mr. Broadbent; 'a thoroughly steady-going man of business, I should say.'
'Ah!' said Doctor Haughton. And then there was a pause, broken by the doctor's saying, as he looked straight out of the window before him, 'No need of asking what made the man adopt this mystery and this alias, eh? A woman, of course?'
'Well, there certainly is a Mrs. Claxton,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and a very pretty woman too.'
'Poor creature, poor creature!' said Doctor Haughton; 'such things as these always fall hardest upon them.'
'Yes, it's a bad thing for her losing her husband,' said Mr. Broadbent.
'Her husband!' echoed Doctor Haughton. 'I--I--I suppose every one at Hendon thought she was Calverley's wife?'
'Thought she was!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'do you mean to say she wasn't?'
'Why, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, pushing his hat on the back of his head and staring at his companion, 'there's a Mrs. Calverley at home in Great Walpole-street, whither we are now going, to whom Calverley has been married for the last ten or fifteen years.'
'Good Heaven!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'then that poor girl at Rose Cottage is--ah, poor child, poor child!' And he sighed and shook his head very sorrowfully. He knew at that moment that so soon as the story got wind he would have to brave his wife's anger, and the virtuous indignation of all his neighbours, who would be furious at having him in their spotless domiciles after his attendance on such a 'creature;' but his first emotions were pity for the girl, however erring she might be.
'Very distressing indeed,' said Doctor Haughton, blowing his nose loudly. 'It is a most extraordinary thing that men who are liable to a cardiac affection are not more careful in such matters. And the girl is pretty too, you say?'
'Very pretty, young, and interesting,' said Mr. Broadbent kindly.
'Ah!' commented Dr. Haughton; 'doesn't resemble Mrs. Calverley much, as you will say when you see her. No doubt poor Calverley--however, that's neither here nor there. Do you know this is a remarkably unpleasant business, Broadbent?'
'It is indeed,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and for both the families.'
'Yes, and for us, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, 'for us, who have to break the news to one of them within the next half hour. Where on earth can we say we found the man? I suppose he was living out at this box of his, wasn't he?'
'Yes, he has been there for the last few days. He was in the habit of passing a week or ten days there, and then going off, as Mrs. Claxton told me, on business journeys connected with the firm of which he was a partner.'
'That exactly tallies with Calverley's own life. He was absent from his home about every fortnight to look after, as he said, some ironworks in the North. It is very little wonder that a man leading a double life of such enormous excitement should bring upon himself a cardiac attack. Such a steady sobersides as he looked too! Gad, Broadbent, I shouldn't be surprised if you were to turn out a Don Juan next!
'No fear of that,' said Mr. Broadbent, with a half smile; 'but really this is a most unpleasant position for us. Where can we say we found the poor fellow? We cannot possibly tell Mrs. Calverley we picked him up on the roadside, as he was probably supposed by her to be travelling in the North. And yet she must know the truth some day.'
'Yes, but not yet,' said Doctor Haughton, 'nor need we take upon ourselves the trouble and anxiety of telling her. We can say to Mrs. Calverley that this poor man was found dead in a railway carriage, which she would be ready to believe, imagining him to be on his return from the ironworks. Mr. Gurwood, a clergyman, her son by her former husband, who happens to be stopping in the house, how the matter really stands, and get him to explain it to her on some future occasion.'
Mr. Broadbent agreed to this mechanically; indeed he was but little concerned about Mrs. Calverley, and was wondering what would become of the poor little woman at Rose Cottage when she should hear the fearful news.
'And I'll tell you what, my dear Broadbent,' continued Doctor Haughton, after a pause, 'if you don't mind my giving you a little advice. I should let this young woman up at Hendon find out this news by herself--I mean to say, I shouldn't tell her. No one knows that you know anything about it; and it is as well for a professional man to mix himself up in such matters under such circumstances as little as possible.'
Mr. Broadbent again signified his assent. He was a kindly-hearted man, but he knew that from a worldly point of view his companion's advice was sound, and he determined to act upon it, remembering Mrs. Broadbent's tongue.
So the two gentlemen journeyed on until the carriage pulled up in front of the dull, grim, respectable house in Great Walpole-street, and there, feeling very nervous despite their professional training, they alighted.
There was no need to give their names, for the butler recognised Doctor Haughton at once, and ushered the gentlemen into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Calverley was seated alone, with the eternal Berlin-wool frame in front of her. She looked up at the butler's announcement, rose from her seat, and stood with her hands crossed primly before her, waiting to receive her visitors.
Doctor Haughton advanced, and taking one of her cold flat hands shook it in a purely professional manner, and then let it drop. Nor could Mrs. Calverley, however acute she might have been, have gleaned any intelligence from the doctor's look, which was also purely professional, and met her steely blue eyes as though it were inspecting her tongue. But Mrs. Calverley was not acute, and she merely said, 'How do you do, Doctor Haughton?' in her thin acid voice, and stared blankly at Mr. Broadbent, as though wondering how he came there.
'This is Mr. Broadbent, an old friend of mine, and a medical man of great experience, whose company I was fortunate enough to have on this very melancholy occasion.'
Doctor Haughton laid great stress upon the last words; but Mrs. Calverley took them very calmly, merely saying 'Yes;' and rubbing the palms of her silk mittens softly together.
'I am afraid I have not succeeded in making you understand, Mrs. Calverley, that a great misfortune has befallen you.'
'The Swartmoor Ironworks,' said Mrs. Calverley, suddenly brightening up. 'I always said--but how could you know about them?'
'The calamity to which I am alluding is, I regret to say, much more serious than any mere business loss,' replied Doctor Houghton gravely. 'Mr. Calverley has been out of town for some little time, I believe?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley, becoming rigid with rage; 'he is away carrying out some of those ridiculous schemes in which he wastes our money and--'
'Do not speak harshly, my dear madam,' said the doctor, laying his hand upon her arm. 'I am sure you will regret it. Mr. Calverley is very ill, dangerously ill.'
Mrs. Calverley looked up sharply into his face. 'Stop one minute, Doctor Houghton, if you please; I should wish my son, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, to be present at any communication you have to make to me respecting Mr. Calverley. He is somewhere in the house, I know. I will send for him.' And she rang the bell.
'By all means,' said Doctor Haughton, looking helplessly at Mr. Broadbent, and feeling how very much more difficult it would be to tell his white lie, prompted though it was by merciful consideration, in the presence of a clergyman.
In a few minutes Martin Gurwood entered the room. He knew Doctor Houghton, and shook hands with him; bowing to Mr. Broadbent, to whom he was introduced.
'Doctor Houghton was beginning to make some communication to me about Mr. Calverley,' said Mrs. Calverley, and I thought it better, Martin, that you should be present.'
Martin Gurwood bowed, and looked inquiringly at the doctor.
'It is, I regret to say, a very painful communication,' said Doctor Haughton, in answer to this mute appeal. Mr. Calverley was found this afternoon in a very critical state in a--in a railway carriage on
the--on the Great Northern line,' said the doctor, with some little hesitation, feeling himself grow hot all over.
Mr. Broadbent, feeling the actual responsibility thus lifted from his shoulders, preserved a perfectly unruffled demeanour, and nodded his head in solemn corroboration.
'May I ask how you came to hear of this, Doctor Haughton?' said Martin.
'It so happened,' said the doctor, that I had been called in consultation to a case at--a short distance from town'--it would never do to name the exact place while this woman is present, he thought to himself--'and we were returning in the train when the discovery was made, and we at once offered our services, little thinking that the unfortunate sufferer would prove to be an acquaintance of mine.'
'Some one must go to him at once,' said Martin, looking hard at his mother.
'It is a great pity that Madame Du Tertre is not in the way just now when she is wanted,' said Mrs. Calverley, quietly;. 'this seems exactly one of the occasions--'
'There is no necessity for anyone to go,' interrupted Doctor Haughton; 'all that it is possible to do has been done.'
'Do you consider Mr. Calverley to be in danger?' asked Martin, anxiously.
'In extreme danger,' replied the doctor; and then catching Mr. Gurwood's eye, he endeavoured by the action of his mouth to frame the word dead.' But Mrs. Calverley's steely eyes were upon him at the same moment, and she guessed his meaning.
'You are endeavouring to deceive me, Doctor Haughton,' said she with her stoniest manner; 'Mr. Calverley is dead.'
'My dear mother,' said Martin, leaving his chair, and putting his arms round her.
'I can bear it, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly; 'this is not the first time I have known suffering. My life has been one long martyrdom.'
'Is this true?' asked Martin, turning to the doctor.
'I regret to say it is,' said Doctor Haughton. 'Out of consideration for Mrs. Calverley's feelings, I endeavoured to break the news as gently as possible, but it is better that she should know the truth as she does now.'
'It is some consolation for me to think,' said Mrs. Calverley, in measured tones, 'that I never failed to utter my protest against these reckless journeys, and that if Mr. Calverley had not obstinately persisted in ignoring my advice, on that as on every other point, he might have been here at this moment.'
'What was the immediate cause of death?' asked Martin Gurwood hurriedly, for his mother's tone and manner jarred harshly on his ear.
'It is impossible to say without--without an examination,' said the doctor, lowering his voice; 'but I should say, from the mere cursory glance we had, that death probably arose from pericarditis--what you would know as disease of the heart.'
'And that might be brought on by what?'
'It would probably be the remnant of some attack of rheumatic fever under which the deceased had suffered at some period of his life. But it has probably been accelerated or increased by excess of mental excitement or bodily fatigue.'
'There need have been no question of excitement or fatigue either, if my advice had been followed,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a defiant sniff; 'if Mr. Calverley had been more in his home--'
'Yes, mother; this is scarcely the time to enter into such questions,' said Martin Gurwood severely, for he was ashamed of his mother's peevish nagging. 'What arrangements have you made, doctor, in regard to the body of our poor friend?'
'None whatever at present,' said the doctor; 'we did the best we could temporarily, but this is a matter in which I thought it would be better to speak with you--alone,' he added, after a pause, glancing at Mrs. Calverley.
But that lady sat perfectly unmoved. 'Will there be an inquest?' she asked.
'I trust not, madam,' said the doctor dryly; for he was much scandalised at Mrs. Calverley's hardness and composure. I shall use all the influence I have to prevent any such inquiry, for the sake of the poor gentleman who is dead, and whom I always found a kind-hearted liberal man.'
'I know nothing about his liberality,' said Mrs. Calverley, only exhibiting her appreciation of the doctor's tone by a slight increase in the rigidity of her back; 'but I know that, like most of his other virtues, it was never exhibited towards me, or in his own home.'
'I never saw Mr. Calverley except in this house,' remarked the doctor angrily. Then turning to Martin, he said, 'These arrangements that we spoke of had we not better go into them?'
' think so,' said Martin. Then turning to Mrs. Calverley, he added, 'My dear mother, I must have a little business-talk with Doctor Haughton about some matters in connexion with this melancholy affair which it might perhaps be painful for you to listen to, and at which there is happily no necessity for your presence. Shall we go into the drawing-room or--'
'Pray don't trouble yourself; I will relieve you of my company at once,' said Mrs. Calverley. And with a very slight inclination to the visitors she rose and creaked out of the room.
The usual pallor of Martin Gurwood's face was covered by a burning flush. 'You must excuse my mother, Doctor Haughton, and you too, if you please, sir,' turning to Mr. Broadbent. 'Her sphere in life has been very narrow, and I am constrained to admit that her manner is harsh and forbidding. But it is manner, and nothing more.'
'Some persons are in the habit of disguising the acuteness of their feelings under a rough exterior,' said the doctor; 'Mrs. Calverley may belong to that class. At all events, subjects of this kind are better discussed without women, and we have a communication to make to you which it is absolutely necessary she should know nothing of, at least for the present.'
Martin Gurwood rose from his chair and walked to the mantelpiece, where he stood for a moment, his head resting on his hand. When he turned round his face had resumed its usual pallor, was, indeed, whiter than usual, as he said: 'I have guessed from the first that you had something to say to me, and I have a fearful idea that I guess its purport. Mr. Calverley has committed suicide?'
'No, I think not; I certainly think not,' said the doctor. 'What do you say, Broadbent?'
'Most decidedly not,' said Mr. Broadbent.
'When I saw him yesterday, even in the cursory examination which I was able to make, I satisfied myself that there were symptoms of pericarditis, and I will stake my professional reputation it was that that killed him.'
'When you saw him yesterday?' repeated Martin Gurwood, looking blankly at the surgeon. 'Why, yesterday he must have been in the North. It was on his return journey, thence, as I understood, that he died in train.'
'Yes, exactly,' said Doctor Haughton, 'this is just the point where a little explanation is necessary. The fact is, my dear sir, that our poor friend did not die in the train at all, but .on the public road, the high road leading to Hendon, where he lived.'
'Where he lived!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'You are speaking in riddles, which it is impossible for me to understand. I must ask you to be more explicit, if you wish me to comprehend you.'
'Well, then, the fact of the matter is, that our poor friend for some years past has led a kind of double life. Here and in Mincing-lane he was, of course, Mr. Calverley; but at Hendon, where, as I said before, he sometimes lived, having a very pretty place there, he passed as Mr. Claxton.'
'Claxton!' cried Martin; it is the name of one of the firm.'
'Yes,' said the doctor; 'I have always understood that Mr. Claxton was a sleeping partner in the firm. Our friend here,' pointing to Mr. Broadbent, 'thought so, as well as many others. No doubt the suggestion originated with the poor man himself; who thought that some day his connexion with the firm might crop up, and that this would prove a not ineffectual blind.'
'What an extraordinary idea!' said Martin Gurwood. 'And he took this house at Hendon, and lived there, you say, from time to time.'
'Exactly,' said Doctor Houghton, looking hard at him.
'As an occasional retreat, doubtless, to which he could retire from the worries of business and--other things. You are a man of the world, Doctor Houghton, and though you have not been much at this house, you must have remarked that my mother is somewhat exacting, and scarcely calculated to make a comfortable home for a man of poor Mr. Calverley's cheerful temperament. I can understand his not telling his wife of the existence of this little retreat.'
'Yes--why--he,' said Doctor Houghton dryly; 'there was another reason why he did not mention its existence to Mrs. Calverley. The fact is, that this little retreat had another occupant.' And the doctor paused and looked at Martin with a serio-comic expression.
'I am at a loss again,' said the clergyman; 'I do not understand you.'
'My good sir,' said Doctor Houghton, 'your parish must lie a long way out of the world. Don't you comprehend? Mr. Calverley did not live alone at Hendon; there was a young woman there.'
'What!' cried Martin Gurwood, staggering back against the mantelpiece; 'do you mean to say that this man, so looked up to and respected, has been living for years in open crime?'
'Scarcely in open crime, my good sir,' said the doctor, 'as is proved by the fact that it has been kept quiet so long. Moreover, he is gone, poor fellow; and though there can be no question of his guilt, there may have been what the lawyers call extenuating circumstances. I fancy, from what I saw of him, That Mr. Calverley was of all men inclined to be happy in his home, had matters run smoothly.'
'I think you are very right, sir,' said Martin Gurwood; 'and it is not for me to judge him, Heaven knows, nor,' he added, seeing the doctor's eyes firmly fixed on him, 'nor any other sinful man. You have so astonished me by your revelation that I feel myself almost incapable of any farther action at present. You did perfectly right in concealing this dreadful story from my mother; she must be kept in ignorance of it as long as possible. Now, what else is there to be said?'
'Nothing, after you have given me the address of the undertakers you wish to employ.'
'I know none in London, nor, I am sure, does my mother. You will be more accustomed to such matters, and I should be obliged to you to act for us.'
'Very well,' said Doctor Haughton. 'I will give orders that the body be fetched from the tavern, where it is now lying, and brought here to-night. I will see you in a day or two; and I think you may trust to me for arranging the business without any unpleasant legal inquiry, under which the facts might possibly come to light.'
Martin Gurwood shook hands with his retiring visitors, and followed them to the door, which he closed behind them and carefully locked. Then returning to the chair which he had occupied he fell on his knees beside it, and prayed long and fervently. He must have felt strong love for the man whose death and whose crime had just been revealed to him; the story just narrated must have struck deeply into his soul; for when he lifted his face from between his hands where it had been buried, it was strained, and seared, and tear-blurred.
What was to be done? The dreadful news must be kept from Mrs. Calverley as long as possible; not, as Martin well enough knew, that her feelings towards the dead man would be wounded as almost any other woman's feelings would be wounded by the disclosure; not that in her case it would involve any shattering of the idol, any revulsion of love long concentrated on one earthly object, and at the last finding itself betrayed; but in fear lest the woman's ungovernable temper should break forth and blurt out to the whole world the story of her wrongs, and of her husband's dishonour.
There was the other woman too, the poor wretch who had been the sharer of that dishonour, who had been living with a man on whom she had no moral or legal claim, and who even now was all unconscious of the blow which had fallen upon him, cutting him off in the midst of his wickedness, and leaving her to the scorn and reprobation of the world. Martin Gurwood's large-souled pity had time to turn even to this outcast. As he thought of her, he pictured to himself the desolation which would fall upon that little home, and could not help contrasting it with the proper and conventional display of mourning which had already commenced to reign in the house in which he sat.
Yes! Mourning as understood by undertakers and at maisons de deuil;--which is a very different thing from grief as displayed in red eyelids and swollen cheeks, in numbed feelings and dumb carelessness as to all that may happen--had begun to reign in the mansion in Great Walpole-street. The blinds had all been drawn down, and the servants stole about noiselessly on tip-toe. It was felt to be a time when people required keeping up, and the butler had opened a bottle of John Calverley's particular Madeira, and the cook had announced her intention of adding something special to the ordinary supper fare. Mrs. Calverley had retired to her bed-room, and announced that she would see no one save Madame Du Tertre, who was to be shown up directly she returned. And about seven o'clock in the murky autumnal evening, there was a noise of wheels and a low knock, and It arrived, and was borne in its shell on men's shoulders up the creaking stairs to an unused room on the second-floor, where It was left alone. There It lay deserted by all; It that had been young John Calverley the worshipped treasure of the old mother long since passed away; It that had been the revered head of the great City house of Calverley and Company of world-wide fame and never-tarnished renown; It that had been 'dear old John,' so passionately loved by Alice Claxton, who was even now looking out into the dark night from her cottage-porch, and wondering whether her husband had gone off on business or whether he would return.
Long before It was brought there, Mr. Jeffreys had arrived from the City; and had an interview with Mr. Gurwood, in which he learned of his principal's sudden death. As Mr. Jeffreys came down the steps he met a lady going up; a lady in a state of great excitement, and who asked the footman standing at the hall-door what had happened.
The footman was concise in his reply. Mr. Calverley is dead, mum,' he said. And Mrs. Calverley wished to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as possible.'
CHAPTER II.
A CONFIDENTIAL MISSION.
During the time that It was lying in the unused second-floor room awaiting its last dismal journey to Kensal Green, Martin Gurwood kept the story which had been told him locked in his own breast. Once or twice he saw Doctor Haughton, who had managed to set aside the impending inquest, and to him Martin spoke, hoping that either he or Mr. Broadbent might suggest the advisability of their communicating with the tenant of the cottage at Hendon, and letting her know what had occurred. But on this subject the astute physician was singularly reserved; and whenever there was any approach to it he invariably turned the current of the conversation. It was a shy subject, he thought, and one in which grave men in his position should not be mixed up. They were men of the world, and knew that such things were; but both for professional and private reasons it was best to ignore them as far as possible.
So Martin Gurwood, left entirely to his own resources, almost gave himself up to despair. He felt that it would be impossible to conceal the truth from Mrs. Calverley much longer, but he knew that before mentioning it to her, he ought to possess himself of the details of the story, and these he could not learn without a personal visit to Hendon. Then, too, it was more than probable that this young woman, the dead man's mistress, was even yet ignorant of his fate, and out of mere Christian charity she ought to be made acquainted with it. Martin Gurwood did not know what to do. His worldly knowledge was small; such of it as he possessed had been acquired at Oxford, and immediately after leaving the university, and it had grown dull and rusty in his subsequent curacies and in the Lullington a vicarage. If he had only a friend, a clear-headed, far-seeing man of experience, to whom he could intrust the secret, and on whose judgment he could rely! Suddenly a bright thought occurred to him--Humphrey Statham--there was the very man. Sound, single-hearted, and worldly-wise. Martin had known him off and on for many years, and not merely in his own experience of him, which was small, had found in him all the qualities he had named, but had heard him accredited with them by others whose relations with Statham had been more intimate. He would go down into the City the very next day, and hunt him out. And Martin Gurwood went to bed that night with a sense of relief at his heart.
The month on board the Scilly pilot-boat had done Humphrey Statham an immense deal of good. Mr. Collins had carefully avoided troubling his master with any letters or papers; though even if they had been forwarded, it is doubtful whether they would have reached their destination, as the season had been very stormy, and the pilot's services in constant requisition. Mr. Statham's spirits rose with the wind and the storm. Knowing the sea-going qualities of the boat beneath him, he was never so happy as when knocking about in heavy gales and foam-crested rollers. He had had a remarkably happy holiday, and had come back with renewed health and fresh vigour for business.
On the second morning after his return he was seated at his desk looking over some special papers which the vigilant Collins had placed before him, when that discreet functionary presented himself at the door.
'A gentleman to see you, sir,' he said; 'says his business is pressing. Here is his card.'
Mr. Statham took up the card, and glanced at it. 'The Reverend Martin Gurwood,' he cried; 'show him in at once. Why did you hesitate?'
'Beg your pardon, Mr. Statham, but these matters,' pointing to the papers on which Humphrey had been engaged, are important. Been bottled-up for a fortnight, and won't keep any longer. Norland and Company, owners of the brig Samson, found derelict off Cuxhaven, are coming to see you at two; and Captain Thompson, of the barque Susquehanna, run into the fog of the ninth instant off Dungeness, has been here three times, and gets more and more impatient each visit.'
'Captain Thompson's patience must be yet farther tried, I am afraid, Collins; and Messrs. Norland must wait my leisure,' said Humphrey Statham. 'Show Mr. Gurwood in at once, and don't let me be disturbed while he is with me.'
Mr. Collins 'bowed, with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, and retired, speedily returning and ushering the visitor into his master's presence.
'My dear Gurwood,' cried Humphrey, as soon as they were alone, 'this is an unexpected pleasure! What an age it is since I have seen you! I am so glad I am in town; I only returned the day before yesterday.'
'Your trip, whatever it has been, seems to have done you good,' said Martin. 'How strong and well you are looking!'
'I have been in a pilot-boat for the last three weeks--you know my old lunes--and had all the London dust blown out of me by strong gales and washed off me by running seas. I wish I could return the compliment, my dear fellow,' added Statham; 'but I'm sorry to see you doing no credit to Lullington air. You look as pallid and as sodden as any Londoner, Gurwood. What's the matter with you, man?'
'I have had a good deal of mental worry within the last few days, and I suppose I am showing its effects,' said Martin. 'It is this which has brought me to see you, to ask for any advice and assistance you can give me.'
'Sorry for the cause, but delighted to be of any use in my power,' said Statham. 'Is it in my line of business? Any of your stepfather's argosies run down and wrecked on their homeward voyage? By the way, a thousand pardons! What an idiot I am! I now remember to have seen in the Times a paragraph announcing Mr. Calverley's sudden death.'
'It is in connection with that event that I have come to you. You are a man of the world, I know, and a thorough good fellow into the bargain, while in all matters requiring tact and decision I am lamentably deficient.'
'Merely the manner of bringing up, my good friend,' said Humphrey Statham. 'I am practical and hard-headed: you are theoretical and large-hearted. What the wine-merchants call a 'blending' of the qualities of both of us would make, I suppose, the right sort of fellow. Now, then, what has gone wrong? Mr. Calverley has died intestate, I suppose, or there is some hitch about the disposition of his property.'
'No, so far all is right. The will, made about two years ago, is clear, concise, and properly attested. I am joined in the executorship with Mrs. Calverley, and so far all is plain sailing. Besides, I have been mixed up with so many of my parishioners in such matters that I should scarcely have needed advice. What I have come about is a much more serious affair.'
'Out with it, then, man, and don't have any farther hesitation. You won't be able to astonish me. All sorts of wonderful things have been told me by people sitting in that chair. The last person who occupied it before I went away was a detective officer, and your story cannot be more strange than his, or more pathetically interesting--to me at least.' But the last words were almost inaudible.
'You must let me say what I have to say in my own way, then,' said Martin Gurwood, 'and try and follow me as best you can. It was given out that Mr. Calverley died in a railway carriage. This was not the case. He died in a fit on the high road to Hendon, and was found there by a London physician who knew him, and who happened to be passing in his carriage.'
'Hendon?' repeated Humphrey Statham. 'What have I heard about Hendon lately?'
'It is a place which has a good deal to do with the story I am about to relate,' said Martin, 'as you will judge when I tell you that the late Mr. Calverley, unknown to his wife or to any of us, had a house there.'
Humphrey Statham looked up sharply; then whistled long and low.
'A house to which he was in the habit of retiring every other fortnight or so, giving out and leaving it to be imagined that he had gone down to some ironworks which he had purchased in the North, and which required his frequent supervision.'
'Yes,' said Statham, nodding his head composedly, 'I quite understand. Of course at this country residence he didn't pass in his own name?'
'How in the world could you have guessed that?' said Martin, astonished. 'You are right, however. It seems that at Hendon he was known as Mr. Claxton.'
'Claxton!' cried Humphrey. Good Heavens! what an extraordinary thing!' Then checking himself he repeated, 'Yes, known as Mr. Claxton.'
'The name seems familiar to you; it is, I suppose, not an uncommon one?' said Martin. 'However, by it he was known.'
'Yes,' said Humphrey Statham, absently. His thoughts were far away then, intent on Tatlow's story about Emily Mitchell's child and the lady who had adopted her. 'Yes,' he repeated, recalling his attention by an effort, 'I think I can see my way to some very awkward details. The man who passed as Claxton was not alone at this retreat?'
'He was not,' said Martin, looking uncomfortable. 'The cottage had, as I am informed, a young woman for its permanent mistress.'
'Exactly,' said Statham, 'as might have been anticipated.'
'Good Heavens!' cried Martin, in his turn, 'are such things so common that you take the revelation thus calmly? When this news was told me I was staggered beyond belief.'
'Perfectly natural in your case, my dear Gurwood,' said Humphrey Statham, who had resumed his old bearing and manner; 'had it been otherwise, you would not have been fitted for the position you occupy. What you and other men call 'knowledge of the world,' with which you are pleased to accredit me, means an experience of the worst side of human nature, laughed at, and glossed over by the thoughtless, but often horrible in its abandonment and profligacy. Such knowledge is hardly earned, and, to a man of any refinement and decent feeling, is eminently unsatisfactory in its results; but it is what we most of us have to go through, and in such matters it is of no use being squeamish. Well, Mr. Calverley was known as Mr. Claxton in his Hendon home, which he shared with a young woman. Has Mrs. Calverley been made acquainted with this story?'
'No; nor do I know how it is to be broken to her; that is one point on which I have to consult you. More than this, the--the person in question is, so far as I can make out, as yet unaware of what has transpired--I mean of Calverley's death.'
'The deuce she is! Has no one been to see her?'
'No one at all. The whole thing transpired in a very odd manner. It appears that the Hendon apothecary happened to be in the carriage with the London physician, of whom I have spoken, and recognised the dead man as his acquaintance, Mr. Claxton.'
'Then he was, of course, the very man of all others to tell this woman what had happened.'
'So I thought, and hinted as much as strongly as I dared. But he declined to take the hint; nor would .his companion, Doctor Haughton, the physician, help me out in my suggestion.'
'This is very awkward,' said Humphrey Statham, after a pause. 'You see your great object must naturally be to keep the story of this disgraceful connection from Mrs. Calverley's ears. She will have worry enough of her own, poor woman, without having her feelings harrowed by the discovery of her husband's baseness.'
'Yes,' said Martin Gurwood, but he spoke faintly. Knowing his mother as he did, he felt it impossible to indorse his friend's ideal description of her state.
'Well, it seems to me more than probable that in a very short time this young woman of whom we have been speaking, believing, as I think you said she did, that the soi-disant Mr. Claxton was a partner in Calverley's firm, will be sending down to the house of business in the City to inquire what has become of him. If she does that, she would at once discover the true state of affairs, and then, if she
be like the rest of her class, a row-royal will ensue.'
'What do you mean?' asked Martin Gurwood, in alarm. 'What do you think she will do?'
'My good fellow, she will do everything she possibly can to make the best bargain for herself. Persons in her position generally imagine that this is best effected by creating a disturbance, and rendering themselves as obnoxious as possible. It is probable, therefore, that this woman will turn all her energies on to Mrs. Calverley, beginning by explaining to her the position, and proceeding to extort money.'
'I should scarcely think she would be able to do that where my mother is concerned,' said Martin Gurwood, finding it impossible to restrain a grim smile. 'Mrs. Calverley throughout her life has been a thorough woman of business, and would be quite able to hold her own in any matter of that kind. But it is most advisable that the recent state of affairs should be kept from her as long as possible, and that, when it is found necessary to disclose them, the story should be told with all possible delicacy.'
'Exactly; and with that feeling we musn't leave it to the young person at Hendon to do.'
'Of course not,' said Martin Gurwood. 'I really am distressed beyond measure. I have no notion what ought to be done, or who should do it.'
Humphrey Statham rose from his seat, plunged his hands into his trousers-pockets, and took two or three short sharp turns up and down the room. Then he stopped in front of Martin Gurwood's chair, and said:
'I'll tell you what it is: this matter will have to be faced out sooner or later, and it is better that it should be done at once. For your mother's sake, and for your own, it is necessary that there should be as little scandal as possible; and, so far as I can see, the only way to avoid an exposÉ is for some one to go up to Hendon and see this young woman.'
'Yes,' assented Martin Gurwood dolefully; 'what a very unpleasant task!'
'This must be done at once, before she gets an inkling of what has occurred, or else, as I say, she will be coming down to the City, and thence to Mrs. Calverley, and all our plans will be upset. Now, whoever sees her must tell her exactly what has happened, and-- By the way, the will has been found, you say, and you have seen it?'
'Certainly. I am one of the executors.'
'And there is no provision made for--for Hendon in the will?'
'None at all; there is no mention of, or allusion to, the subject.'
'So much the better,' said. Humphrey Statham. 'Men are so essentially selfish that, no matter what extravagance they may commit for those people during their lifetime, they seldom leave them anything at their death. If, however, they have any kind of feeling about them, they usually make some separate provision while they are alive, and do not risk the chance of having their memories mocked at by any testamentary acknowledgment of their frailties. Of course you know nothing of any settlement having been made by Mr. Calverley during his life?'
'Nothing at all; neither the business nor the private accounts have yet been looked into.'
'I should say, most likely nothing was done in that way. Mr. Calverley was not an old man, and up to the time of his death had not been ailing. He probably expected to live on for many years, and even if he intended to provide for this young person, did not see any necessity for doing so at present. If this be the case, it is so far in our favour. We have something to gain from this young woman--her
silence --and it must be purchased.'
'Yes,' said Martin Gurwood; I see the necessity for that, and I daresay it could be managed. It will be necessary to take Jeffreys, the chief clerk, into confidence, as he will have the preparation of the accounts.'
'Limited confidence to Jeffreys is not objectionable,' said Mr. Statham. 'Very well, then; this person can be told that so long as she conducts herself properly, and keeps her mouth shut in regard to her life at Hendon, she will receive a certain annuity, the amount of which can be determined upon hereafter. It'll stand you in, I should say, from a hundred to a couple of hundred a year; but you. must get Mr. Jeffreys to arrange that for her; and if she holds to her share of the bargain, you may consider yourself well out of what might have been a very disagreeable affair.'
'I think so too, and I am very much obliged to you for the advice. But there is one point on which I am as much in the dark as ever.'
'And that is--?'
'Who am I to get to go to Hendon to transact this business? Of course I should be very unwilling to go myself; but even if I could overcome my repugnance, I doubt whether I should be of the smallest use.'
'I am perfectly sure you would not; and even if you were likely to succeed, you must not be sent on a mission to make terms with a woman of this class. No; they say that if you want anything properly done you must do it yourself; and as I was the originator of this proposition, I suppose I must take upon myself to be its executant.'
'Do you mean to say you will take upon yourself to go to Hendon and do all this for me?'
'I suppose I must.'
'You are the best fellow in the world,' said Martin Gurwood, shaking his friend heartily by the hand.
'No,' said Statham, 'I am very far from that. But I have wandered
here and there, and seen men and cities--and women too, for that matter--and I daresay I shall do this better than any of your acquaintance. So, consider the matter settled, and leave it to me.'
'When will you go to Hendon?'
'To-morrow; and I will see you on the day following. Come here about this time, and you shall learn the result of my mission.'
'I will do so. I never can be sufficiently grateful to you, Statham, for the kindness you have shown me in this matter!' And Martin Gurwood took leave of his friend in a much more comfortable frame of mind than when he arrived that morning in 'Change-alley.
When Humphrey Statham was left by himself he remained perfectly quiet for a few minutes; then he rose from his chair, and resuming his quarter-deck-like patrolling of the room, plunged into thought, which found expression in the following words:
'This is certainly a most extraordinary complication of affairs. To think that Emily Mitchell's child should have been adopted by a woman who proves to be Mr. Calverley's mistress! The Yellow Flag waves over the poor little wretch betimes. However, it must be my business to put an end to that connection as speedily as possible, and I do not suppose there will be much difficulty. The child was all very well as an amusement, but now that the supplies are cut off, or, at all events, very much reduced, I should think madam would be only too glad to be rid of the encumbrance. Fancy such an affair as this happening with that remarkably respectable and quiet-looking old gentleman, Mr. Calverley! And having been carried on for several years too, without any one being one bit the wiser. Not a bad notion that, calling himself Claxton, and giving out that he was a sleeping partner with Calverley and Company, which would account for his being seen to go in there, and being recognised by the clerks and porters if any one had thought it worth while to watch him from Hendon to the City. What a world it is! What a world of lies and swindling, dishonour and deceit! And here is Martin Gurwood creeping about round the edge of it, and knowing no more of what goes on within than a fly on a clock-face knows of the movement of the works! He would have made a nice mess of it if he had gone up to Hendon; for he is an earnest man according to his lights, and would probably have remonstrated with the young woman, and exhorted her to repentance; her comments on which proceeding would probably have been delivered in rather strong language, at which he, being naturally shocked, would have retired, and the whole thing would have fallen through.
'Now let me see what I have got to do. In the first place, I must stipulate with the young woman that she must clear out of the place at Hendon as soon as possible. I daresay there is the usual gimcrack tawdry furniture, which persons of her class think so elegant, but which will sell for a mere song. But that's no business of mine, and all I can do is to make the annuity which we pay her contingent on her clearing out at once, on her good behaviour, and on her complete silence as regards Mr. Calverley. The most awkward part of the business I have undertaken is that breaking the news of the old gentleman's death. It's possible, but not very likely, that this poor creature may have some feelings of gratitude to him for the home he gave her, and the kindness he showed her; and if so, I shall be in a horribly unpleasant position. I never can stand tears or anything of that sort. Of course there is an element of roughness in what I have to say, however gently I may put it. I think the best plan will be for me to go to the place and try to get an interview with the young person without at first entering upon the subject of my visit. By that means I shall be enabled to take stock of her, and see which is the best way to approach the matter.
'Now, what excuse can I make to get into the house? People of that sort, when they are in luck, are apt to stand very much on their dignity, poor creatures! and to be tremendously exclusive. If I were to send in my name without announcing any business, I shouldn't be admitted. If I mentioned Calverley or Claxton, I should have to invent a story which would be bad, or to tell the truth, which would be worse. Now, how can I manage it?'
He paused for a few moments, leaning against the mantelpiece. Then a sudden thought struck him.
'By Jove! Tatlow was up in that neighbourhood, and heard from his friend, the master of the workhouse, about this Mrs. Claxton, as she called herself. Perhaps, in the course of his inquiries he may have learned something which will give me a hint as to how I should act.'
He touched a spring-bell on the table. 'Collins,' he said, when that worthy appeared, 'I am at leisure now for a few minutes.'
'Glad to hear it, sir,' said Collins. Mr. George Norland is outside and getting very savage at being kept awaiting. And as for the captain of the Susquehanna--'
'You can send Mr. Norland in as soon as you leave the room, and the captain of the Susquehanna as soon as he comes out, and any one else, to follow hot and hot, like chops. But, in the first place, telegraph to Scotland-yard, and ask Mr. Tatlow to step down to me this afternoon.'
By the time Mr. Tatlow arrived, Humphrey Statham had seen various impatient ship-brokers, and was tolerably exhausted with the business of the day.
'Just one word, Tatlow,' he said. 'I want to have a little talk with that lady of whom you spoke to me--she that lives at Hendon, and adopted the child. But, of course, I don't want to give my own name, or to let her have any hint of the object of my visit. What should you say, now, was the best line for me to take?'
'Charity, sir!' said Mr. Tatlow promptly; 'Mrs. Claxton goes in for that hot and heavy--so they told me down there; and if you were to go as the agent of a society and pitch a good tale, she'd be sure to see you.'
'Poor creature!' said Humphrey Statham to himself, after the detective had departed. 'Charity, eh?--they frequently do that, I believe. It is the only way in which any remnant of good that may be left in them can find vent. Well, I'll make my first appearance as agent for a charity to-morrow afternoon.'
CHAPTER III.
A CHECK.
Mr. Calverley dead! The announcement, suddenly blurted out by the footman, so took Pauline by surprise that she literally staggered back two paces, and supported herself against the wall. Dead, on the very day, almost at the very hour when he had promised to meet her, when she had calculated on worming from him the secret which, once in her possession, she had intended to use as the means of extracting information about Tom Durham, and of putting her on to her fugitive husband's track. Dead! What was the meaning of it all? Was the mystery about this unknown man, this not-to-be-mentioned invisible partner, Claxton, of deeper importance than she had thought? Were Mr. Calverley, Claxton, and Tom Durham so intermixed with business transactions of such a nature that sooner than confess his connexion with them the senior partner had committed self-destruction? The thought flashed like lightning through Pauline's brain. But ere she had time to analyse it, the solemn voice of the footman repeated in its croaking tones:
'Mrs. Calverley wishes to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as possible.'
'Yes,' said Pauline in reply, 'I will go to Mrs. Calverley at once.'
Past the range of hat-pegs, where the dead man's coats and hats still hung; past the little study, through the open door of which she saw a row of his boots standing in order against the wall, his umbrella and walking-stick in the corner, his folded gloves and clothes-brush laid out upon the table; up the heavily-carpeted stairs; past the closed drawing-room door, and on to Mrs. Calverley's bedroom, at the door of which she knocked. Bidden to come in, Pauline entered, and found the widow seated prim and upright, in a high-backed chair, before the fire.
'This is sad news, my dear friend,' commenced Pauline, in a sympathetic voice; 'this is a frightful calamity.'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly, 'it is very hard upon me, but not more than I have always expected. Mr. Calverley chose never to live in his own home, and he has finished by dying out of it.'
'I have heard no particulars,' said Pauline. 'Where did the sad event take place?'
'Mr. Calverley was found dead in a railway carriage, as he was returning from those ironworks,' said the widow, with vicious emphasis on the last word. 'He entered into that speculation against my will, and he has now reaped the reward of his own obstinacy.'
Pauline looked at her curiously. The dread event which had occurred had not softened Mrs. Calverley in the slightest degree.
'This is very, very sad,' said Pauline, after a pause. 'If I were to consult my own feelings, I should withdraw, and leave you to your overwhelming grief, which no attention can solace, and which must run its course; and yet I cannot bear to think of you alone and unaided. What would you wish me to do?'
'You had much better stay,' said Mrs. Calverley, shortly. 'I feel myself quite unequal to anything, and there is a great deal to be done.'
The tone in which these words were uttered was cold, peremptory, and unpleasant; but Pauline took no notice of it. She had a great deal to think over, and would take the first opportunity of arranging her plans. As it was, she busied herself in seeing to Mrs. Calverley's comfort. She had long since relieved her of the superintendence of domestic affairs, and now she made suggestions for an interview with the milliner, for the ordering of the servants' mourning, and for the general conduct of the household, in all of which the widow coldly acquiesced.
Then, so soon as she could, Pauline sought the privacy of her room, and gave herself up to meditation.
'Was there ever anything so unfortunate,' she thought to herself, as, having changed her neat French walking-boots for slippers, in order not to be heard by Mrs. Calverley in the room beneath, she commenced pacing up and down the floor,--'was there ever anything so unfortunate! By this man's death my whole position is changed! Not that I think there is any doubt of stability of my interest in this house. Though it was he that first suggested that I should come here, I have so strengthened myself since then, I stand so well with the wretched creature down-stairs, the woman with a heart like a dried pea, that had he lived and tried to bring his influence to bear against me, it would have been unavailing. I had better stay,' she thought. 'Housekeeper, dame de compagnie, drudge even, if she could make me so, and all for my board and lodging. Well, it is worth my while to remain for that, even now, though by this man's death my chief purpose in coming here is defeated. In the dead man I have lost, not merely my first friend and patron, but one whom I had intended should be my victim, and who alone could serve me in the matter dearest to my heart. To all left here now that rascally husband of mine was unknown. Even of the name of Tom Durham they have only heard since the account of his supposed death appeared in the newspapers. The clue is lost just when I had my hand upon it! And yet I may as well remain in this place, at all events until I see how matters progress. There is nowhere I could go to on the chance of bearing any news,--unless, indeed, I could find the agent who signed that letter which Monsieur mon mari gave me the day we were at Southampton. He or she, whichever it may be, would know something doubtless, but whether they would tell it is another matter. For the present, then, here I stay. The house will not be so dull as it was before, for these eccentric English people, ordinarily so triste and reserved, seem to excite themselves with deaths and funerals; and now this priest, this Monsieur Gurwood, who was on the point of going away, will have to remain to attend to the affairs, and to be a comfort to his sorrowing mother. I am much mistaken if there is not something to be made out of Monsieur Gurwood. He is sly and secretive, and will hide all he knows; but my power of will is stronger than his; and if, under these altered circumstances, he learns anything which may interest me, I shall be able to get it from him.'
Mrs. Calverley remained in her room that evening, occupying herself in writing up her diary, which she had scrupulously kept for many years, and in comparing her record of the feelings which she imagined she ought to have experienced, and which was very different from what she really did experience, with the entry in a previous diary of a dozen years ago, on the day of George Gurwood's death. She had had a second interview with Madame Du Tertre, and had talked over the arrangements of the milliner, and had discussed the advisability of a short run to Brighton, or some other lively place--it must be a lively place at such a wintry season--for change of air and scene. And she had made a very fair meal, which had been sent up to her on a tray from the dinner-table below, at which Martin Gurwood and Pauline were seated, solemnly facing each other.
The presence of the butler at this repast, always annoying to a man of Martin Gurwood's simple habits, was on this occasion perfectly unendurable; and, after requesting his companion's assent, he instructed the domestic to retire, telling him they would wait upon themselves.
'I thought you would not mind it, Madame Du Tertre,' he said, with a grave bow, after the man had withdraw. 'At a time when one is irritable, and one's nerves are disturbed, it is beyond measure annoying to me to have a person looking on, watching your every mouthful, and doing nothing else.'
'I am most thankful that you sent the servant away, Monsieur Gurwood,' said Pauline, 'more especially as I could not speak to you in his presence, and I am anxious to learn full particulars of what has occurred.'
Why did Martin Garwood's pale face become suffused with a burning red? What was there, Pauline thought, in her observation to make him evince such emotion?
'I scarcely know that I am in a position to give you any information, as all I know myself is learned at secondhand.'
'Anything will be information to me,' said Pauline, 'as all Mrs. Calverley told me was the bare fact. You have never been to--what is the place called--Swartmoor, I suppose?'
'No, never,' said Martin Gurwood, with increased perturbation, duly marked by Pauline. 'Why do you ask?'
'I merely wanted to know whether it was an unhealthy place, as this poor man seems to have caught his death there.'
'Mr. Calverley died from heart-disease, brought on by mental worry and excitement.'
'Ah,' said Pauline; 'poor man!' And she thought to herself, 'that mental worry and excitement were caused by his knowledge that he had to encounter me, and to tell me the true story--for he was too dull to devise any fiction which I should not have been able to detect--of his dealings with this Claxton.'
After a pause she said: 'These worries sprung from his intense interest in his business, I suppose, Monsieur Gurwood?'
'I--I should imagine so,' said Martin, flushing again. 'Mr. Calverley was devoted to business.'
'Yes,' said Pauline, looking straight at him. 'I often wondered he did not give himself more relaxation; did not confide the conduct of his affairs more to his subordinates, or at least to his partner.'
The shot told. All the colour left Martin Gurwood's face, and he looked horridly embarrassed as he said, 'Partner, Madame Du Tertre? Mr. Calverley had no partner.'
'Indeed,' said Pauline calmly, but keeping her eyes fixed on his face; 'I thought I understood that there was a gentleman whose name was not in the firm, but who was what you call a sleeping partner, Mr.--Mr. Claxton.'
'There is no such name in the house,' said Martin Gurwood, striving to master his emotion. 'From whom did you hear this, madame--not from my mother?'
'O, no,' said Pauline calmly; 'I think it vas from Mr. Calverley himself.'
'You must surely be mistaken, Madame Du Tertre.'
'It is more than probable, monsieur,' said Pauline. 'In my ignorance of the language I may have mistaken the terms which Mr. Calverley used, and given them my own misinterpretation. Ah, and so there is no one of the name of Claxton; or if there be, he is not a partner? So, as far as being able to relieve Mr. Calverley was concerned, it came to the same thing. Of course with a man so precise, all the business arrangements, what you call the will and those things, were properly made?'
'O, yes; all in strict order,' said Martin, grateful for the change of subject. 'Mr. Jeffreys went from hence to the lawyer's, and has since been back with a copy of the will. With the exception of a few legacies, all the property is left to Mrs. Calverley, and she and I are appointed joint executors.'
'That is as it should be,' said Pauline, 'and what might have been expected from a man like Mr. Calverley. Just, upright, and honourable, was he not?'
'I always believed him to be so, madame,' said Martin, with an effort.
'And his death was as creditable as his life,' pursued Pauline, with her eyes still fixed upon her companion. 'He was killed in the discharge of his business, and no soldier dying on the battle-field could have a more honourable death. You agree with me, Monsieur Gurwood?'
'I do not give much heed to the kind of death which falls to the lot of men, but rather to the frame of mind in which they die.'
'And even there, monsieur, you must allow that Mr. Calverley was fortunate. Respected by his friends, and beloved by his wife, successful in his business, and happy in his home--'
'Yes,' interrupted Martin Gurwood, 'but it is not for us to pronounce our judgment in these matters, Madame Du Tertre, and you will excuse me if I suggest that we change the subject.'
When dinner was finished Pauline went up-stairs again to Mrs. Calverley's room, and had another long chat with the widow before she retired to rest. Mrs. Calverley had been made acquainted with the fact that It had arrived, and her son had suggested her visiting the chamber where It lay. But she had decided upon postponing this duty until the next day, and sat with Pauline, moaning over the misfortunes which had happened to her during her lifetime, and so thoroughly enjoying the recital of her woes that her companion thought she would never cease, and was too glad to take her leave for the night at the first opportunity which offered itself.
Once more in the safety and solitude of her own chamber she resumed her meditation.
'That was a safe hit that I made at dinner, or the priest would not have changed colour like a blushing girl. This reverend's face is like a sheet of plate-glass--one can see straight through it down into his heart. Not into every corner, though. There are recesses where he puts away things which he wishes to hide. In one of them lies some secret of his own. That I guessed as soon as I saw him; and now there is, in addition to that, another which will probably 'be much more interesting to me, as it relates in some way, I imagine, to the business in which Claxton is mixed up. It must be so, I think, for his tell-tale colour came and went as I mentioned the partnership and that man's name. Now, how am I to learn more from him on that point? He is uneasy when allusion is made to it in conversation, and tries to change the subject, and it is plain that Mrs. Calverley knows nothing at all about it. Mr. Gurwood, too, is evidently desirous that his mother should not know, as he betrayed such anxiety in asking me whether it was from her I had heard mention of the partnership. And there is not another soul to whom I can turn with the chance of hearing any tidings of Tom Durham.
'Stay, what did this man say about being appointed joint executor with his mother? In that case he will remain here for yet some time, and all the dead man's papers will pass into his hands. Such of them as are not entirely relating to the business will be brought to this house, and I shall have perhaps the opportunity of seeing them. In them I may discover something which will give me a clue, some hint as to why Claxton obtained the agency for Tom Durham, and on what plea he asked for it. That is all I can hope to learn. About the two thousand pounds and the pale-faced woman, this man who is dead knew nothing. I must glean what I can from such papers as I can get hold of and I must keep a careful watch upon the movements of my friend the reverend.'
On the following morning, Mrs. Calverley remaining in bed to breakfast, and Pauline being in friendly attendance on her, it suddenly occurred to the widow that she should like to know the contents of the drawers in the writing-table used by her deceased husband in his City office.
'I have always been of opinion,' she said to Pauline, after mentioning this subject, 'that some extraordinary influence must have been used to induce Mr. Calverley to go into that speculation of the ironworks, and I think that very likely we may find some papers which will throw a light upon the matter.'
Pauline's eyes brightened as she listened. Perhaps the mysterious Mr. Claxton was mixed up with the speculation; or the drawers might contain other documents which might lead to a solution of his identity. But she answered cautiously.
'It may be as you say, madame. Shall I step down and ask Monsieur Martin to be good enough to go to the office and search the desk on your behalf?'
'Nothing of the sort,' said Mrs. Calverley shortly. 'This is a private matter in which I do not choose to ask my son's assistance. You are good enough to act as my confidential friend, Madame Du Tertre,' she added, with the nearest possible approach to softness in her manner, 'and I wish you to represent me on this occasion.'
Pauline took up the hard thin hand that lay on the coverlet, and raised it to her lips. 'I will do anything you wish, my dear friend,' she murmured, scarcely knowing how to conceal her delight.
'In the top right-hand drawer of the dressing-table you will find Mr. Calverley's bunch of keys,' said the widow. 'One of them opens his office desk. If you will give me my blotting-book I will write a few lines to Mr. Jeffreys, authorising you to have access to the room. Once there, you will know what to look for.'
An hour afterwards Pauline walked into the offices at Mincing-lane. Signs of mourning were there in the long strips of wood, painted black, which were stuck up in front of the windows; in the unwonted silence which reigned around, the clerks working noiselessly at their desks, and the business visitors closing the doors softly behind them, and lowering their voices as though in the presence of Death, the messengers and porters abstaining from the jokes and whistling with which they usually seasoned their work.