'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 standing6 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 prim7 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 frightful8 calamity9.'
'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 speculation10 against my will, and he has now reaped the reward of his own obstinacy11.'
Pauline looked at her curiously12. The dread13 event which had occurred had not softened14 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 solace15, 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, peremptory16, 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 acquiesced17.
Then, so soon as she could, Pauline sought the privacy of her room, and gave herself up to meditation18.
'Was there ever anything so unfortunate,' she thought to herself, as, having changed her neat French walking-boots for slippers19, 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. 'Housekeeper20, dame5 de compagnie, drudge21 even, if she could make me so, and all for my board and lodging22. 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 rascally23 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 scrupulously24 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 perfectly25 unendurable; and, after requesting his companion's assent26, 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 irritable27, 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 suffused28 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?'
'Yes,' said Pauline, looking straight at him. 'I often wondered he did not give himself more relaxation30; did not confide31 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 horridly32 embarrassed as he said, 'Partner, Madame Du Tertre? Mr. Calverley had no partner.'
'Indeed,' said Pauline calmly, but keeping her eyes fixed33 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 legacies34, all the property is left to Mrs. Calverley, and she and I are appointed joint36 executors.'
'That is as it should be,' said Pauline, 'and what might have been expected from a man like Mr. Calverley. Just, upright, and honourable37, 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 heed38 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 judgment39 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 retired40 to rest. Mrs. Calverley had been made acquainted with the fact that It had arrived, and her son had suggested her visiting the chamber41 where It lay. But she had decided42 upon postponing43 this duty until the next day, and sat with Pauline, moaning over the misfortunes which had happened to her during her lifetime, and so thoroughly44 enjoying the recital45 of her woes46 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.
'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 recesses48 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 partnership49 and that man's name. Now, how am I to learn more from him on that point? He is uneasy when allusion50 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 entirely51 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 glean52 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 confidential53 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 conceal54 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 reigned55 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 abstaining56 from the jokes and whistling with which they usually seasoned their work.
Pauline was shown into the little glazed57 room, already familiar to her, and was speedily joined by the head-clerk, to whom she handed Mrs. Calverley's note. After reading it Mr. Jeffreys hesitated, but only for an instant. From his boyhood he had been brought up by Mr. Calverley, had served him for thirty years with unswerving fidelity58, and had loved him as deeply as his unsentimental business nature would permit. In his late master's lifetime no request of Mrs. Calverley's, unendorsed by her husband, would have had the smallest weight with the head-clerk. But Mr. Calverley was no longer the chief of the house; no one knew how matters would turn out, or into whose hands the business would fall; and Mr. Jeffreys had understood from Messrs. Pembertons, the lawyers, that Mrs. Calverley was appointed as executrix, and knew that it would be as well for him to secure a place in her favour. So taking a key from his pocket he requested the visitor to follow him, and ushered59 her up the stairs into the room on the first floor.
There it was, with the exception of the absence of the central figure, exactly as she had last seen it. There stood his desk, the
blotting-pad scribbled60 with recent memoranda61, the date-index still showing the day on which he had last been there, the pen-rack, the paper--all the familiar objects, as though awaiting his return. Mr. Jeffreys walked to the window and pulled up the blind; then looked round the room, and in spite of himself, as it were, heaved a deep sigh.
'It is Mrs. Calverley's wish, madam, I see,' he said, referring to the letter which he held in his hand, 'that you should be left alone. If you should require any assistance or information from me, and will sound this bell,' he pointed35 to the spring-bell on the table, which his master had used for summoning him, and him alone, 'I shall be in the next room, and will wait upon you at once.' Then he bowed and retired.
Left to herself, and certain that the door was safely closed, Pauline took the bunch of keys from her pocket, and soon hit upon the one she required. One by one the drawers lay open before her; some almost empty, some packed to the brim, most of them with a top layer of dust, as though their contents had been undisturbed for years. What did she find in them? An assemblage of odds62 and ends, a collection of papers and written documents, of printed prospectuses63 of stock-jobbing companies, some of which had never seen the light, while others had perished in their speedily-blossomed maturity64 years ago. One contained a set of red-covered domestic account-books, neatly65 tied together with red tape, and on examining these Pauline found them to be the receipted books of the butcher, baker66, &c., 'in account with Mr. John Calverley, 48 Colebrook-row, Islington,' and referring to a period when the dead man was only a struggling clerk, and lived with his old. mother in the suburbs. In another lay scores of loose sheets of paper covered with his manuscript notes and calculations, the first rough draft of his report on the affairs of Lorraine Brothers, the
stepping-stone to the position which he had afterwards occupied.
But amongst all the papers written and printed there was no allusion to the Swartmoor Ironworks, no reference to what concerned Pauline more nearly, the name of Claxton; and she was about to give up the search in despair, and to summon Mr. Jeffreys for his farewell, when in moving she touched something with her foot, something which lay in the well of the desk covered by the top and flanked on either side by the two nests of drawers. At first she thought it was a footstool, but stooping to examine it, and bringing it to the light, she found it to be a small wooden box, clamped with iron at the edges, and closed with a patent lock. The key to this lock was on the bunch in her possession; in an instant she had the box on the desk, had opened it, and was examining its contents.
'Of no value to any one but their owner.' The line which she had seen so often in the advertisement sheets of English newspapers rang in Pauline's mind as she turned over what had been So jealously guarded. A miniature portrait on ivory of an old gray-haired woman in a lace cap with long falling lappets, and a black silk dress; a folded piece of paper containing a long lock of silky white hair, and a written memorandum67, 'Died April 13th, 1858;' two newspaper cuttings, one announcing the death of Mrs. Calverley, of Colebrook-row, Islington, at the date just mentioned; the other the marriage of John Calverley, Esq., with Jane, widow of the late George Gurwood, Esq., and only daughter of John Lorraine, Esq., of Mincing-lane and Brunswick-square. Then Pauline came upon a packet of letters stained and discoloured with age, which on examination proved to have been written to him by his mother at various dates, while he was absent travelling on the business of the firm.
And nothing else. That box seemed to have been used by the dead man as a sacred depository for the relics68 of the old woman whom he had loved with such filial tenderness, whose memory he had so fondly cherished. Stay! Here was something else, an envelope cleaner, fresher, and of newer shape than the others. She took it out and opened it eagerly. Ah, at last! It contained a half-sheet of note paper, on which were these words:
'October 4, '70. Transferred to private account two thousand pounds. To be given to T.D. at request of A.C.'
She had found something, then--not much, but something. T.D. was, of course, Tom Durham, and the A.C. at whose request the money was to be paid to him was equally, of course, Mr. Claxton. She had never heard his Christian69 name; it must be Albert, Alfred, Andrew, or something of the kind.
Pauline replaced the paper in the envelope, which she put into her pocket. No need to tell Mrs. Calverley anything about that--that was her prize: It contained no reference to the Swartmoor Ironworks, and would have no interest for the widow. So she locked the box, and replaced it in its former position under the desk, pressed the spring bell (the familiar sound of which made Mr. Jeffreys jump off his chair), thanked the chief-clerk on his appearance, and took leave of him with much suavity70. Then she took a cab, and returning straight to Great Walpole-street, reported to Mrs. Calverley the total failure of her mission.
There is bustle71 and confusion in Great Walpole-street, for the time has arrived when It is to be removed. At the Oxford72 Arms, intersecting Horatio-street, the hearse and the mourning-coaches have been drawn73 up for some time, and the black-job gentlemen are busying themselves, some in fixing plumes74 to the horses' heads, while others are getting out the trappings, staves, hat-bands, and other horrible insignia of their calling. Then, the cold fowls75 and sherry having been consumed by the mourners, the dismal76 procession files off to Kensal Green. Whence, in less than a couple of hours, it comes rattling77 back with some of the occupants of its carriages laughing, and all of them talking--all save Martin Gurwood, who, in addition to his real grief at the loss of the dead man, is thinking that about that time Humphrey Statham has gone on his mission to the cottage at Hendon.
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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