Volume 1 CHAPTER I.  CALVERLEY'S AGENT.
 "So you have conquered your dislike to leaving England, Tom; I am very glad. I felt certain you would give-in to our wishes, and see the wisdom of what we suggested to you."
 
"Well, I am not so certain about that, Ally; I don't go-in for magnanimity; and I believe there is just that touch of obstinacy in my nature, which would induce me to run counter to any proposition which was very hardly pressed. But when the suggestion was backed as it has been in this instance, I could not possibly doubt the sincerity of those who made it. And so, as you see, I am off."
 
The place where the conversation, of which a fragment has just been given, occurred, was a broad gravelled path, the favourite promenade of such of the worthy townspeople of Southampton as prefer the beauties of nature to the attractions of the shops in the High-street. On one side was the broad water glistening in the bright, cheerful October sun, on the other a large strip of greensward fringed on the farther edge by a row of shining, white-faced lodging-houses and hotels. On the promenade, the grim cannons--trophies taken during the Russian war--were surrounded by happy children, fearlessly climbing upon the now innocuous engines of death, within hailing distance of the shore a few boatmen were lazily pulling about, some young men were intent on watching the progress of two dogs who were making a neck-and-neck race for a stick which had been thrown into the water for them to fetch, and the whole scene was one of pleasant cheerfulness.
 
Not out of harmony with it were the two persons whose words have been recorded. The first speaker was a young woman about two-and-twenty, of middle height, with a slight and graceful figure, and with a face which, while some would have called it pretty, would have been pronounced agreeable by all. The features were not regular, the nose was decidedly not classical, the mouth was a little too large, and the lips were a little too full; but there was a wonderful charm in the whiteness and regularity of the teeth, in the bright flash of the hazel eyes, in the crisp ripples of the dark brown hair, and in the clear, healthy red and white of her complexion. She was very becomingly dressed in a black silk gown, a dark-gray jacket trimmed with velvet of the same colour, and a coquettish little black straw hat, and she wore perfectly-fitting gloves and boots. Her companion was some twelve years older, a short, squarely-built man, whose breadth of shoulders and length of arms showed much muscular power. The lower part of his face was covered with a thick copper-red beard; the heavy moustaches falling over his mouth so completely as to defy any revelation which might be made by the movements of that tell-tale organ; but his eyes, small and set close together, had a shifty expression, and round them there was that strained, seared look, which in some men is always indicative of dissipation and late hours. He wore a travelling suit of gray tweed, and a wide-awake hat, and from under his beard the ends of a loosely-tied red silk neckerchief fluttered in the wind. Lounging along with a rolling gait, his hands buried in his jacket-pockets, he seemed to take but little heed of his companion or her conversation, but paid particular attention to various nursemaids in charge of the children who were playing about, honouring each of them in turn with a long, peculiar, and offensive stare.
 
He had half turned round to look after a particularly attractive damsel, when his companion, wishing to resume the conversation, touched him on the arm, and said, "You will get to Ceylon in--"
 
"O yes, in so many weeks--what matters one or two more or less? It will be jolly enough on board ship, and when I arrive--I arrive."
 
"I hope you have made up your mind to be steady, Tom, and to work hard. You have now the means for a capital start in life, and for my sake, if for nothing else, you ought to show yourself worthy of what has been done for you."
 
"Look here, Ally, don't preach," he said, turning sharply round to her; "everybody thinks they can have a fling at me, and it is, 'O Tom Durham this, and O Tom Durham that,' until I am sick enough of it without being sermonised by my half-sister. Of curse it was very kind of old Claxton--I beg your pardon," he said with a sneer, as he saw a shade pass over her face; "I ought to speak with more deference of your husband and my benefactor--of course it was very kind of Mr. Claxton to pay my passage out to Ceylon, and give me two thousand pounds to set myself up in business on my arrival there; but he is a very long-headed fellow, and he knows I am no fool, and if the agency turns out rightly, he will get a very considerable profit on his outlay."
 
"I am sure John has no such notion in doing this, Tom, and you have no right to impute such a motive to him."
 
"I impute nothing; I merely suggested; and, after all, perhaps he only did it out of love for you, Ally, whom he worships as the apple of his eye, in order to give your reckless half-brother a chance of reform--and to get him out of his way," he muttered under his breath.
 
"I am sure John is kindness itself," said Alice Claxton. "If there were nothing to prove that, it could be found in the fact of his wishing me to come down here to see the last of you."
 
"Nothing like giving the old--I mean your husband, every possible credit, Ally. You know just now he is away on one of his regular tours and that therefore he won't miss you from Hendon."
 
"I know," said the girl, half-pettishly, "these horrible business-tours are the bane of my life, the only thing I have to complain about. However, John says he hopes, it will not be very long before they are over, and then he will be always at home."
 
"Does he?" said Tom Durham, looking at her keenly; "I would not have you depend upon that, Ally; I would not have you ask him to give up the business which takes him away. It is important for him that he should attend to it for the present, and indeed until there is no longer a necessity for him to do so."
 
"You need not speak so earnestly, Tom," said Alice, with a half-laugh; "I assure you I do not worry John about it; it is he who speaks about it much oftener than I do. He is constantly talking of the time when he shall be able to retire altogether, and take me away for a long foreign travel, perhaps to settle entirely abroad, he said, in Florence or Vienna, or some charming place of that kind."
 
"Old idiot!" muttered Tom Durham; "why can't he leave well alone?"
 
"I told him," said Alice, not hearing or heeding the interruption, "that I am perfectly content with Rose Cottage. All I wish is, that he could be more there to enjoy it with me."
 
"Yes," said Tom Durham, with a yawn. "Well, that will come all right, as I told you; only don't you worry him about it, but leave it alone, and let it come right in its own way. Now look here, Ally. You had better go back to London by the 11.15 train, so that we have only half an hour more together."
 
"But you know, Tom, John told me I might wait and see the Massilia start. Indeed, he particularly wished me to do so."
 
"My dear child, the Massilia does not sail until half-past two; and if you waited to see me fairly off, you would not have time to get over to the railway to catch the three o'clock train. Even if you did, you would not get to town until nearly six, and you would have a long dreary drive in the dark to Hendon. Now, if you go by the quarter-past eleven train, I shall see you off, and shall then be able to come back to Radley's, and write a few letters of importance before I go on board."
 
"Very well, Tom," said Alice; "perhaps it will be better; only, John--"
 
"Never mind John on this occasion, Ally; he did not know at what time the Massilia sailed. Now, Ally, let us take one final turn, and finish our chat. I am not going to be sentimental--it is not in my line--but I think I like you better than anybody else in the world, though I did not take to you much at first. When I came back from sea, a boy of fifteen, and went home and found my father had married again, I was savage; and when he showed me a little baby lying in the cradle, and told me it was my half-sister, I hated you. But you were a sweet little child, and fended off many a rough word, and many a blow for the matter of that, which the governor would have liked to have given me, and I took to you; and when you grew up, you did me a good turn now and then, and of course it is owing to you, one way or the other, that I have got John Claxton's two thousand pounds in my pocket at this moment. So I love you, and I leave you with regret, and I say this to you at parting. Take this envelope, and lock it away somewhere where it will be safe, and where you can lay your hand upon it at any moment. It contains the address of an old pal of mine--a friend I mean--one of the right sort, a staunch, tried, true, honest, upright fellow. Hardworking and persevering too; such a kind of man, that you may be astonished at his ever having been intimate with me. But he was, and is, and I know that I may reckon upon him to the utmost. If ever you come to grief, if ever you are in trouble, no matter of what kind, go to the address which you will find there, and seek him out, and tell him all about it; I will warrant he will see you through it."
 
"Thank you, dear Tom; it is very kind and thoughtful of you to say this, but you know I have John and--"
 
"Yes, of course, you have John now; but there may be a time when--however, that is neither here nor there. There is the envelope, take it, and don't forget what I say. Now come round to the hotel and pack your bag; it is time for you to start."
 
 
The bell rang, and with a scream the engine attached to the eleven-fifteen train for London forged slowly out of the Southampton station. Tom Durham, with an unusual expression of emotion on his face, stood upon the platform kissing his hand to Alice, who, with the tears in her eyes, leant back in the carriage and covered her face with her handkerchief. In a second-class compartment next to that which she occupied were two middle-aged, plainly-dressed men, who had been observing the parting of the half-brother and sister with some interest.
 
"Was not that Tom Durham?" said one, as the train sped on its way.
 
"Right you are," said the other; "I knew his face, but could not put a name to it. What is he at now--working on the square or on the cross?"
 
"On the square, I believe," said the first; "leastways I saw him walking with Mr. Calverley in the City the other day, and he would not have been in such respectable company if he had not been all right."
 
"I suppose not," said the other man, "for the time being; but Tom Durham is a shaky kind of customer anyways."
 
CHAPTER II.  EXIT TOM DURHAM.
 Mr. Durham remained watching the departing train until it had passed out of sight, when he turned round and walked quietly out of the station. The emotion he had shown--and which, to his great astonishment, he had really felt--had vanished, and left him in a deeply contemplative state. He pushed his arms half way up to his elbows in his pockets, and muttered to himself as he strode along the street; but it was not until he found himself in the sitting-room at Radley's Hotel, and had made himself a stiff glass of brandy-and-water from the bottle, duly included in the bill which Alice had paid, that he gave his feelings much vent. Then loading a short black pipe from a capacious tobacco-pouch, he seated himself at the table, and as he went through his various papers and memoranda thought aloud.
 
"This is a rum start, and no mistake! Twenty years ago, when I left this very same place a 'prentice on board the old Gloucestershire, I never thought I should have the luck to stay in this swell hotel, and, better still, not to have to put my hand in my own pocket to pay the bill. It is luck, no doubt; a large slice of luck, larded with talent and peppered with experience. That's the sort of meal for a man that wants to get on in the world, and that's just what I have got before me. Now, when I walk out of this hotel, I shall have two thousand pounds in my pocket. In my pocket!--not to be paid on my arrival at Ceylon, as the old gentleman at first insisted. Ally was of great assistance there. I wonder why she backed me so energetically? I suppose, because she thought it would have been infra dig. for her brother to appear in the eyes of those blessed natives, over whom he is to exercise superintendence, as though he had not been considered worthy of being trusted with the money, and she was delighted with the notion of bringing it down here herself and handing it to me.
 
"If I hadn't touched the money until my arrival at Ceylon, I should have had to wait a pretty long time. You're a dear old gentleman, Mr. Claxton, and you mean well; but I don't quite see the fun of spending the rest of my days in looking after a lot of niggers under a sun that would dry the life-blood out of me before my time. There is an old saying, that everyone must eat a peck of dirt in the course of their lives. Well, I ate mine early, took it down at one gulp, and I don't want any more of the same food. Besides, it is all very well for Ally to talk about gratitude and that kind of thing; but she does not know what I do, and it is entirely because I know what I do about my worthy brother-in-law, that I have been enabled to put the screw upon him, and to get out of him that very respectable bundle of bank-notes. That was just like my luck again, to find that out, and be able to bring it home to him so pat; directly I first got on the scent, I knew there was money in it, and I followed it up until I placed it chuck-a-block before him, and he parted freely. In such a respectable way, too. None of your extortion; none of your threatening letters; none of your 'left till called for,' under initials, at the post-office; none of your hanging about London spending money which nobody can imagine how you get, and thereby starting suspicions of other matters which might not come out quite so nicely if looked into. 'Agent at Ceylon to the firm of Calverley and Company, brokers, Mincing-lane, London; iron-smelters and boiler-makers, Swartmoor Foundry, Cumberland;' that's what Thomas D. will have engraved on his card when he gets there; and the two thousand pounds, as John gravely remarked before Alice, were for fitting-up the office, and other necessary expenses. I wonder what that poor child thought the other necessary expenses could possibly be, to take such an amount of money?
 
"No, dear sir, thank you very much. I am willing to allow that the whole thing was done extremely well, and without causing the smallest suspicion in the mind of little Ally; but you paid me the money because you could not help it, and you will have to pay me a great deal more for that very same reason. You're a very great scoundrel, John Claxton, Esquire; a much greater scoundrel than I am, though I have taken your money, and have not the remotest intention of becoming your agent in Ceylon. You're a cold-blooded villain, sir, carrying out your own selfish ends, and not, like myself, a generous creature, acting upon impulse. Notwithstanding the fact that I have your money in my pocket, I almost grudge you the satisfaction you will experience when, in the course of to-morrow or the next day, you will hear the news which will lead you to imagine that you are rid of me for ever. But I console myself with the reflection, that when I turn up again, as I undoubtedly shall, your disgust will be proportionately intensified.
 
"There," as he selected two or three papers from a mass before him and carefully tore the rest into pieces, "there is the letter relating to the document which has already done so much for me, and which is to be my philosopher's-stone. I must not run the chances of wetting and spoiling that paper when I take my midnight bath, so I shall hand it over to Mrs. D. when I give her the money to take care of. May as well put a seal on it though, for Mrs. D. is naturally curious, and as jealous as a female Othello. One o'clock; just the time I promised to meet her. Now then, the money in this pocket, the letter in that, and the other papers torn up, and the brandy-bottle emptied. What you may call a clean sweep of the whole concern."
 
After settling his hat to his satisfaction, and looking at himself in the glass with great complacency, Tom Durham strolled from the room, leaving the door wide open behind him. He nodded familiarly to a waiter whom he passed in the passage, but who, instead of returning the salutation, stared at him in wrathful wonder--they were unaccustomed to such gentry at Radley's--and then he passed into the street. Looking leisurely around him, he made his way back again to the promenade on which he had held his conversation with Alice Claxton, and there, standing by one of the cannon, was another woman, apparently awaiting his arrival. A woman about thirty years of age, with swarthy complexion, bright beady black eyes, and dull blue-black hair. French, without doubt. French in the fashion of her inexpensive garments and the manner in which they were put on; undeniably French in her boots and gloves, in her gait, in the gesture and recognition which she made when she saw Tom Durham approaching her. That estimable gentleman, apparently, was displeased at this gesture, for he frowned when he saw it, and when he arrived at the woman's side, he said, "Don't be so infernally demonstrative, Pauline; I have told you of that before."
 
"Mais, should I stand like a stone or stock when you come before me?" said the woman, with the slightest trace of a foreign accent. "I was longing to see you, and you came. Is it, then, astonishing--"
 
"No, all right; don't jaw," said Tom Durham shortly. "Only, in our position it is not advisable to attract more notice than necessary. Well, here you are."
 
"Yes, I am here."
 
"All goes well; I told you there was an old gentleman--Claxton by name--connected with Calverley's firm, for which I'm supposed to be going out as agent, from whom I could get a sum of money, and I have got it--he sent it to me."
 
"Ah, ah, he sent it to you?"
 
"Yes, by--by a messenger whom he could trust; and this is not by any means the last that I shall have from him. He thinks I am off for the East, and that he is rid of me; but as soon as this sum is spent, he shall know the difference."
 
"You have made the arrangements about that?"
 
"I have arranged everything. I saw the pilot; he told me it was blowing hard outside, and that he shall pass the night off the Hurst. I have been on board, and seen exactly how best to do what I intend; and now there is nothing left but to give you your instructions."
 
"Stay," said the woman, laying her hand on his breast, and looking earnestly into his face. "You are certain you run no risk; you are certain that--"
 
"Take your hand away," he said; "you will never understand our English ways, Pauline; the people here cannot make out what you are about. I am all right, depend upon it. I could swim four times the distance in much rougher weather; and even if there were any danger, the prize is much too great to chance the loss of it for a little risk. Don't be afraid, Pauline," he added, with a little softening of his voice, "but clear that quick, clever brain of yours and attend to me. Here is the bundle of bank-notes, and here is a letter which is almost as important; place them both securely in the bosom of your dress, and don't take them out for one instant until you hand them over to me to-morrow morning at Lymington station--you understand?"
 
"Perfectly," said the woman, taking the packets from him. "What time will you be there?"
 
"By half-past seven, when the first train passes. We can loaf away the day on the beach at Weymouth--we might go over to Portland, if you have any fancy to see the place; I have not; all in good time, say I--and start for Guernsey by the midnight boat. Now is there anything more to say?"
 
"No," said Pauline; then suddenly, "Yes. Apropos of Portland, Wetherall and Moger were in this place to-day. I saw them at the station, in the train going up to town. They put their heads out of the window to look after you."
 
"The devil!" cried Tom Durham; "they were down here, were they, and you saw them? Why, what on earth were you doing at the station?"
 
"I arrived here too soon, and walked up there to pass the time."
 
"Did you--did you see any one else?" asked Tom Durham, looking fixedly at her.
 
"Any one else? Plenty--porters, passengers, what not; but of people that I knew, not a soul," answered the woman, raising her eyes and meeting his gaze with perfect calmness.
 
"That's all right," he muttered; then louder, "Now it's time for me to go on board. Goodbye, Pauline; make your way to Lymington, and look out for me at the station at seven-thirty to-morrow morning."
 
As she stood looking after him, a hard, defiant expression came over the woman's face. "Did I see any one else?" she said between her set teeth; "yes, mon cher, I saw the pale, white-faced girl whom you held in your arms and kissed at parting, and who fell back into the carriage and cried like a baby, as she is. This, then, was the secret of your refusing to go to India with the money of this old fool whom you have robbed! Or rather whom she has robbed; for she was the messenger who brought it to you, and it is doubtless she who has beguiled this dotard out of the bank-notes which she handed over to you, her lover. Peste! If that slavish love I have for you were not mixed with the dread and terror which I have learnt from experience, I would escape with this money to my own land, and leave you and your mignonne to make it out as best you might. But I am weak enough to love you still, and my revenge on her must wait for a more fitting opportunity."
 
Her passion spent, Pauline gathered her shawl tightly round her and walked away towards the town.
 
 
On board the steam-ship Massilia matters had happened pretty much as Tom Durham had foreseen. That capital sample of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's fleet worked out of harbour at half-past two, and, in charge of a pilot, made her way slowly and steadily down Southampton Water. The wind freshened, and darkness coming on, the captain decided on anchoring off Hurst Castle for the night, and proceeding on his voyage at daylight. This decision was greatly to the delight of the passengers, who had not yet shaken down into that pleasant companionship which such a voyage frequently brings about, and who, restless and strange in their unaccustomed position, were glad to seek their berths at a very early hour. During the afternoon's run Tom Durham had succeeded in creating for himself a vast amount of popularity. He chatted with the captain about nautical matters, of which he had obtained a smattering when he was apprentice on board the old East Indiaman; he talked to the lady passengers, deprecating their dread of sea-sickness, and paying them pleasant attention, while he smoked with the gentlemen, and took care to let them all know the important position which he occupied, as the agent of Calverley and Company. Never was there so agreeable a man.
 
At about one in the morning, when perfect quiet reigned throughout the ship, the passengers being asleep in their berths, the men, save those on duty, sound in the forecastle, and the echo of the watch-officer's footsteps dying away in the distance, Tom Durham suddenly appeared at the head of the saloon companion, and made his way swiftly towards the middle of the ship. He was dressed as in the morning, save that he wore no coat, and that instead of boots he had on thin light slippers. When he arrived opposite the huge half-circle of the paddle-box he stopped, and groping with his hands speedily found an iron ring, seizing which he pulled open a door, which revolved on its hinges, disclosing a wooden panel, which he slid back, and stepping through the aperture found himself standing on one of the broad paddles of the enormous wheel. In an instant he had pulled the first door back to its previous position, and stepping lightly from paddle to paddle stood on the nethermost one just above the surface of the water. He paused for a moment, bending down and peering out into the darkness, then raising his hands high up above his head and clasping them together, he dived down into the water, scarcely making a splash.
 
Ten minutes afterwards, one of the two men always on duty in the little telegraph hut under Hurst Castle, opened the door, and accompanied by a big black retriever, who was growling angrily, walked out into the night. When he returned, his companion hailed him from the little bedroom overhead.
 
"What's the matter, Needham--what's the dog growling about?"
 
"I thought I heard a cry," said the man addressed; "Nep must have thought so too, by the way he's going on; but I can see nothing. When I was out a few minutes ago I thought I saw something like a dog swimming near the Massilia, lying at anchor there, but it isn't there now. I doubt, after all, it may have been my fancy."
 
"I wish you would keep your fancy to yourself, and not let it rouse me up," growled his mate. "One don't get too much rest in this blessed place at the best of times."
CHAPTER III.  HOME, SWEET HOME.
 Fashion, amidst the innumerable changes which she has insisted on, seems to have dealt lightly with Great Walpole-street. It may be that she has purposely left it untouched to remain an example of the heavy, solemn, solid style of a hundred years ago; a striking contrast to the "gardens," "crescents," "mansions," all stucco, plate-glass, and huge portico, of modern days; or it may be that finding it intractable, unalterable, unassailable, she has looked upon it as a relic of barbarism, and determined altogether to ignore its existence. However that may be, the street is little changed since the days of its erection; it still remains a long, and, to those gazing down it from either end, apparently interminable line of large, substantial, three-storied, dull-coloured brick houses, stretching from Chandos-square in the south to Guelph Park in the north, so long, so uniform, so unspeakably dreary, as to give colour to the assertion of a celebrated wit, who, on his death-bed moaning forth that "there is an end to all things," added feebly, "except Great Walpole-street."
 
In its precincts gravity and decorum have set up their head-quarters; on many of its door-plates the passers-by may read the names of distinguished members of the faculty, old in age and high in renown, pupils of Abernethy and Astley Cooper, who with the first few hundreds which they could scrape together after their degrees were obtained, hired, and furnished, as a first step to professional status, the houses in which they still reside, and in which they have since inspected so many thousand tongues, and passed the verdict of life or death upon so many thousand patients. Youth must be resident here and there in Great Walpole-street, as in other places, but if so, it is never seen. No nursemaids with heads obstinately turned the other way drive the pleasant perambulator against the legs of elderly people airing themselves in the modified sunlight which occasionally visits the locality; no merry children troop along its pavement; from the long drawing-room windows, hung with curtains of velvet and muslin, issues no sound of piano or human voice. Although there is no beadle to keep inviolate its sanctity, the street-boy as he approaches its confines stops his shrill whistling, and puts his tip-cat into his pocket; the "patterers" of the second editions pass it by, conscious that the rumours of war, or of the assassinations of eminent personages, will fall flat upon the ears of the inhabitants; while even the fragmentary announcement, "Elopement--young lady--noble markis," will fail in extracting the pence from the pockets of the denizens of the lower regions in this respectable quarter.
 
It is essentially a carriage neighbourhood, with ranges of mews branching out of and running parallel to it; and the vehicles are quite in keeping with the street and with their owners. Besides the doctors' broughams, high swinging chariots, now scarcely ever seen save on drawing-room days or in carriage bazaars, with huge hammercloths and vast emblazoned panels, are there common enough. Roomy landaus, broad barouches, with fat-horses, the leather of whose harness is almost invisible beneath the heavy silver plating, coachmen in curly white bob-wigs, and giant footmen gorgeous in hair-powder; all these are to be found in Great Walpole-street.
 
Money, money, money! it all seems to say. We have money, and we will take care that you shall know it. We will not pay enormous rents for poky tenements in Mayfair, or straggling caravanserais in Tyburnia; we do not expend our substance in park-phaetons or Victorias, any more than in giving "drums" or "at homes." We have, during the season, several dinner-parties, at which the wine set before you does not come from the grocer's or the publican's, but has been in our cellars for years; several musical evenings, and one or two balls. We go to the Opera three or four times during the season, occasionally to the theatre, frequently to a classical concert, or an oratorio; but we would as soon think of attending a prize-fight as a pigeon-match, or of prohibiting our womankind from going to church, as of taking them to listen to comic songs in a supper-room. We are rich, which you may be; but we are respectable, which you are not! Vaunt your fashion as much as you please, but the home of moneyed decency and decorum is Great Walpole-street.
 
Six o'clock on an October evening, with a chill damp wind howling at intervals through the funnel made by the opposing lines of houses, is not the time in which this locality looks its best. If it is dreary in the spring brightness, in the summer sunshine, it is doubly dreary in the autumn decadence, when the leaves torn from the trees in Guelph Park mix with the dust and bits of straw and scraps of paper which gather together in swerving eddies in every possible corner, and when in most of the houses the shutters are still closed, and the blinds have not shed the newspaper coverings in which they have been enwrapped during the absence of the inhabitants. In one of the largest houses of the street, on one particular October evening, no such signs of absenteeism were visible; the whiteness of the broad door-step was unsullied, the plate-glass windows were free from speck or spot, the dwarf wire-blinds in the dining-room stood rigidly defiant of all criticism, and the muslin curtains in the drawing-room seemed to have lost all the softness and pliancy of their nature, and hung stiff, and white, and rigid, as the gaunt and bony hands which from time to time pushed them on one side, as the blank and colourless face which from time to time peered through them into the street. These hands and that face belonged to Mrs. Calverley, the mistress of the mansion. A thin, spare woman of fifty years of age, with a figure in which were angles where there should have been roundness, and straightness of outline where there should have been fulness. Her silk dress was of an undecided fawn-colour, and in place of any relieving white collar, she wore a wisp of black net round her throat. Her face was long, with a large straight-nose, prominent eyes of steely blue, and a long upper lip, between which and its thin pallid companion there gleamed a row of strong white teeth. Her thin scanty iron-gray hair was taken off from her forehead above the temples and gathered into a small knot at the back. Such an expanse of colourless flesh, such a dull level waste of human features unrelieved by the slightest scintilla of interest or sympathy!
 
In her prim, flat-soled creaking shoes, Mrs. Calverley walked to the window, pushed back the curtains, and looked out down the silent street; then, with a sound which was something between a sigh of despair and a snort of defiance, she returned to the low prie-dieu chair worked in wool, but covered with a shiny, crackling, yellow substance; and arranging her scanty drapery around her, interwove her bony fingers in her lap and sat bolt upright, staring rigidly before her. All the furniture in the room which was capable of being covered up was clad in a uniform of brown holland; the chairs were dressed in pinafores, the big broad sofa had a loosely cut greatcoat of the same material; even the chandeliers had on holland bags. There was no light in the room, but the gas lamps in the street were reflected from the bare shining rosewood table, from the long grand pianoforte, from the huge ormolu clock ticking gravely on the mantelpiece, from the glass shades enshrining wax flowers and fruit, which, made such a poor pretence of being real, and from the old-fashioned handsomely-cut girandoles. By the chair in which Mrs. Calverley was seated stood a frame of Berlin work; in the middle of the hearth-rug before the fireplace--fireless now, and filled with a grim pattern of cut coloured paper--lay a stuffed white-haired dog, intently regarding his tail through his glass eyes, and apparently wondering what he had done in life to be consigned to such a degraded position.
 
A quarter-past six, half-past, a quarter to seven, ring out from the neighbouring church, and at each sound of the chimes Mrs. Calverley rises to her feet, creaks across to the window, looks forth, creaks back again, and resumes her stony position. At length there comes a half-timid ring of the bell, which she recognises at once, straightens her back, and settles herself more rigidly than ever. A few minutes after, the drawing-room door opens, and a voice, the owner of which cannot be seen, is heard saying, "Dear me, all in darkness, Jane?"
 
Mrs. Calverley makes no reply, but rings the bell, and when the servant appears, says to him in a thin acid voice, "You can light the gas, James; and now that your master has come home at last, dinner can be served."
 
Upon this remark Mr. Calverley's only comment is a repetition of "Dear me!" He is a middle-sized, pleasant-looking man, with fair hair slightly sprinkled with gray, gray whiskers, light-blue eyes, and marvellous pink-and-white complexion like a doll: a gentlemanly-looking man in his plain black frock-coat and waistcoat, gray trousers, black-silk cravat and pearl pin, and neat buttoned boots. He looks rather nervously to his wife, and edges his way towards her round the table. When he is within a few feet of her he produces a newspaper from his pocket, and makes a feeble tender of it, saying, "The evening paper, my dear; I thought you would like to see--"
 
"I should like to see you attempt to relieve the monotony of my life, Mr. Calverley, and not to leave me here alone, while you were doubtless enjoying yourself."
 
"My dear, I assure you I have come straight home."
 
"Did business detain you until after six o'clock in Mincing-lane?"
 
"No, my dear, of course not till six o'clock; I walked home, and on my way I just looked in at the club, and--"
 
"At the club!" That was all Mrs. Calverley said, but the manner in which she said it had its due effect. Mr. Calverley opened the leaves of a photograph album, with every portrait in which he was thoroughly familiar, and began to be extremely interested in its contents.
 
"Dinner will be ready directly," said Mrs. Calverley; "had you not better wash your hands?"
 
"Thank you, my dear," said the disconsolate man; "but I washed them at the cl--"
 
He pulled himself up just in time; the obnoxious word had very nearly slipped out, but the servant announcing dinner at the moment, and Mrs. Calverley laying the tips of her bony fingers in the hollow of her husband's arm, the happy pair proceeded to the banquet.
 
It was a good dinner, handsomely served, but Mr. Calverley can scarcely be said to have enjoyed it. At first he audibly asked for wine, but after he had been helped three or four times, he glanced hurriedly across the long table, at the other end of which his wife was seated, and furtively motioned to the butler by touching his glass. This pantomime and its results were soon noticed by Mrs. Calverley, who, after glaring at her husband for a moment, gave a little shiver, and said:
 
"It is of no use paying Doctor Chipchase his fees if his advice is to be scouted in this manner; you know what he said about your drinking wine."
 
"My dear, I only--"
 
"You only fly in the face of Providence, Mr. Calverley, and behave unjustly to the office in which your life is insured. You only add another to the long catalogue of weaknesses and moral cowardices, by the constant display of which you render my life a burden to me. I am sick of talking to you myself; I shall write and ask Martin to come and stay with us for a few weeks, and see what effect his influence will have upon you."
 
"I am sure I shall be very glad to see Martin, my dear," said Mr. Calverley, after standing up reverently to say grace on the removal of the cloth; "he is a very good fellow, and--"
 
"Don't talk of a clergyman of the Church of England in that way, Mr. Calverley, if you please. 'Good fellow,' indeed! My son Martin is a good man, and an ornament to his calling."
 
"Yes, my dear, of course he is; preaches an excellent sermon, does Martin, and intones quite musically. I should like to see him a little more cheerful, I mean a little less ascetic, you know; take his wine more freely, and not look quite so much as if he was fed upon parched peas and filtered water."
 
"You are profane, as usual," said his wife. "Whenever you touch upon any member of my family, your temper gets the better of you, and your uncontrollable tendency to scoffing and scepticism breaks forth. Perhaps you will not think it too much trouble to pass me the biscuits."
 
"My dear Jane!" murmured the wretched man; and after handing the silver biscuit-barrel to his wife, he sat by, not daring to help himself to another glass of wine from the well-filled decanters before him, while the mere fact of seeing her munching away at the hard farinaceous food nearly drove him mad with thirst.
 
When Mrs. Calverley had concluded this succulent repast, she rose from her seat, and, without taking any notice of her husband, creaked stiffly out of the room. John Calverley, lover of ease and tranquillity as he was, scarcely regretted this little conjugal dispute, inasmuch as that if Mrs. Calverley had not, in consequence of the words that had passed between them, been on her dignified behaviour, she would have remained to lock up the wine. Whereas John managed to swallow two glasses of his favourite Madeira before he joined her in the drawing-room.
 
It was not very cheerful in the drawing-room. The gas had been turned low down, and the principal light in the room, much softened and shaded, came from a reading-lamp placed immediately above the work-frame at which Mrs. Calverley's bony fingers were busily engaged depicting the story of Jael, with a very rugged profile, and Sisera, the death-glare in whose eyes was represented by a couple of steel beads. John Calverley, furtively wiping his lips after the Madeira, shambled awkwardly into the room, and could scarcely repress a groan at the ghastliness of its appearance. But the generous wine which he had drunk helped to cheer him a little; and after wandering to and fro in a purposeless manner, he approached his wife, and said: "Won't you play something, dear?"
 
"No, thank you," replied Mrs. Calverley; "I wish to finish this work."
 
"It is rather a nice thing," said John, bending over the production, and criticising it in a connoisseur-like manner; "what is it all about?"
 
"It is well that no one is here to hear this lamentable display of ignorance," said Mrs. Calverley, with a snort. "It is a scriptural story, Mr. Calverley, and is intended as a footstool for the Church of St. Beowulph."
 
"O yes," said John, nodding his head; "I know--Bewsher's place."
 
"It would be more decent, as well as more correct, to speak of it as the church in which Mr. Bewsher is officiating minister, I think," said Mrs. Calverley with another snort.
 
"To be sure, my dear; quite correct," said peace-loving John. "By the way, talking about officiating ministers, perhaps you had better not ask Martin to come to us just yet; I have got to go down to that place in the North next week."
 
"What place in the North?" said Mrs. Calverley, looking up.
 
"What place? Why, my dear, Swartmoor, of course--the foundry, you know; that's the only place I go to in the North."
 
"I don't know what place you do or do not go to in the North, or anywhere else, Mr. Calverley," said his wife, sticking her needle into the canvas, and interlacing her bony fingers and sitting bolt upright, as she glared straight at him; "I only know this, that I am determined not to stand this state of things much longer."
 
"But, my dear--"
 
"Don't 'my dear' me, if you please, but listen to what I have to say. When I married you, Mr. Calverley, to my sorrow, now some ten years ago, you were nothing more than the head clerk in the house of Lorraine Brothers, which my grandfather had founded, which my father and uncles had established, and in which my late husband, Mr. Gurwood, had been a sleeping partner."
 
"I must say that--"
 
"Silence, if you please; I will not be interrupted. I took you from that inferior position, and made you my husband. I made you master of this house and my fortune. I raised you, Mr. Calverley. I tell you, I raised you, sir, from obscurity to position, from comparative penury to wealth; and what is my reward? Day after day you are absent from home at your counting-house in Mincing-lane. I don't object to that; I suppose it is necessary; but I know--yes, I know, Mr. Calverley--this is not my first experience of men of business; I have been a grand-daughter, a daughter, and a sister of the firm, and though latterly Mr. Gurwood was not quite regular in his attendance, at least at one time he was an excellent man of business--so that I may say also the wife of the firm, and I know that business hours are over at five, and that my sainted father used then to come straight home to Clapham by the omnibus."
 
"I--"
 
"You must allow me to speak, if you please; I will not be interrupted. Instead of which, I find you going to your club and dawdling there to the latest minute, often keeping my dinner waiting; and when you return home, your conversation is frivolous, your manner light and flighty, and wanting in repose; your tastes and habits evidently unsuitable to a person in the position of my husband. I have borne all this without complaint; I know that all of us mortals--sinful mortals--have a cross to bear, and that you have been bestowed upon me in that capacity. But, be a lone deserted woman when I have a husband whose legitimate business it is to stay at home and take care of me, I will not. These Swartmoor works are all very well, I daresay, and I know you declare that they bring in a vast deal of profit; but there was profit enough in my father's time without any of your iron works; and if you intend to continue paying them a visit every fortnight, and staying several days away, as you have done lately, they shall be given up, Mr. Calverley--they shall be given up, I say. I may be of no more concern to you than a chair or a table, but I will not be a deserted woman, and these iron works shall be given up."
 
Those who had seen but little of the pleasant-faced John Calverley, would scarcely have recognised him in the darkly-frowning man who now strode forward, and crossing his arms on the back of a chair immediately in front of his wife, said in a very quiet but very determined voice:
 
"They shall not be given up. Understand that once for all--they shall not be given up. You may say what you like, but I am master in my business, if not in my home, and they shall not be given up. And now, Jane, you must listen to me; must listen to words which I never intended to have said, if the speech you have just made had not rendered it necessary. You have told me what you have pleased to call facts; now I will give you my version of them. When I married you ten years ago--and God knows you cannot deplore that marriage more heartily than I do--I was, as you say, the head clerk of the firm which your father had established. But in his latter days he had been ill and inattentive to business; and after his death your uncles, to whom the concern was left, proved themselves utterly inadequate to its guidance; and if it had not been for me, the firm of Lorraine and Company would have been in the Gazette. You know this well enough; you know that I, as head clerk, took the whole affair on my shoulders, reorganised it, opened out new avenues for its commerce, and finally succeeded in making it what it was when you first saw me. You taunt me with having been raised by you from penury to position; but you know that the whole of your fortune was embarked in the business, and that if it had not been for my clear head and hard work, you would have lost every penny of it. You accuse me of being light and frivolous and unsuited to you, of being away from my home; though, except on these business expeditions, not an evening do I pass out of your society. In return, I ask you what sort of a home you make for me? what sign of interest, of comfort, of anything like womanly grace and feeling is there about it? What reception do I meet with on my return from business? what communion, what reciprocity is there between us? Every word I say, every remark I make, you either sneer or snap at. You are a hard, intolerant Pharisee, Jane Calverley. By your hardness and intolerance, by your perpetually nagging and worrying at him, you tried to break the spirit of your former husband, George Gurwood, one of the kindest fellows that ever lived. But you failed in that; you only drove him to drink and to death. Now I have said my say, have said what I never intended should pass my lips, what never would have passed them, if it had not been for your provocation. I wish you good-night--I am now going to the club."
 
So saying, John Calverley bowed his head and passed from the room, leaving his wife no longer rigid and defiant, but swaying herself to and fro, and moaning helplessly.
CHAPTER IV.  PAULINE.
 The cold gray morning light, shining through the little window of a small bedroom in a second-rate hotel at Lymington, made its way through the aperture between the common dimity curtains, which had been purposely separated overnight, and fell on the slumbering figure of Pauline. The poor and scanty furniture of the room, with its dingy bed-hangings, its wooden washstand, two rush-bottomed chairs, and rickety one-sided chest of drawers, all painted a pale stone-colour, were in strong contrast with the richness of colouring observable in the sleeper,--observable in her jet-black hair, now taken from off her face and gathered into one large coil at the back of her head; in her olive complexion, sun-embrowned indeed, but yet showing distinctly the ebb and flow of her southern blood; and in the deep orange-hued handkerchief daintily knotted round her neck. See, now, how troubled are her slumbers; how from between her parted lips comes a long though scarcely audible moan; how the strong thin hand lying outside the coverlet clutches convulsively at nothing; and how she seems in her unrest to be struggling to free herself from the thraldom of the troublous dream, under the influence of which part of the torture suffered by her during the previous day is again pressing upon her!
 
Yes; the woman with the pale tear-blurred face is there once again. Once again Tom Durham stands at the carriage-door, whispering to her with evident earnestness, until the guard touches him on the shoulder, and the whistle shrieks, and then she bends forward, and he holds her for a moment in his outspread arms, and kisses her once, twice, thrice on her lips, until he is pulled aside by the porter coming to shut the door of the already-moving carriage, and she falls back in an agony of grief. There is a moisture in his eyes too; such as she, Pauline, with all her experience of him, has never seen there. He is the lover of this pale-faced woman, and therefore he must die! She will kill him herself! She will kill him with the pearl-handled knife which Gaetano, the mate of the Italian ship, gave her, telling her that all the Lombard girls wore such daggers in their garters, ready for the heart of any Tedesco who might insult them, or any other girl who might prove their rival. The dagger is upstairs, in the little bedroom at the top of the house, overlooking the Cannebière, which she shares with Mademoiselle Mathilde. She will fetch it at once; and after it has served its purpose she will carry it to the chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde, and hang it up among the votive offerings: the pictures of shipwrecks, storms, sea-fights, and surgical operations; the models of vessels, the ostrich-eggs, the crutches left by cripples no longer lame, and the ends of the ropes by which men have been saved from drowning. How clearly she can see the place, and all its contents, before her now! She will leave the dagger there: as the weapon by which a traitor and an Englishman has been slain, it will not be out of place, though Père Gasselin shake his head and lift his monitory finger. She will fetch it at once. Ah, how delicious and yet how strange seem to her the smell of the pot-au-feu, and the warm aroma of the chocolate! How steep the stairs seem to have become; she will never be able to reach the top! What is this, Pierre and Jean are saying? The sea has swept away the breakwater at La Joliette, and is rapidly rushing into the town! It is here; it is in the street below! Fighting madly with the boiling waters is one man--she can catch a glimpse of his face now. Grand Dieu, it is Tom! She will save him--no, too late, he is borne swiftly past, he is--
 
And with a short suppressed scream she woke.
 
It was probably the rapping of the chambermaid at the bedroom door which dissipated Pauline's dream, and recalled her to herself, and it is certain that the chambermaid, whose quick ears caught the scream, went downstairs more than ever impressed with terror at the "foreign person" whom she had scarcely had sufficient courage to conduct to her room on the previous evening. Notwithstanding the bizarre shape which they had assumed, these reminiscences of a portion of Pauline's past life had been so vivid, that it was with great difficulty she could clear her brain, and arrive at an idea of why she found herself in the dingy bedroom of a country inn, and of what lay before her. Sitting upon the edge of her bed, with her arms crossed upon her bosom, she gradually recalled the occurrences of the previous day, and came to comprehend what had been the key-note of her dream, and who was the pale-faced woman whose presence had so disturbed her. There was, however, no time for reflection at that moment; she had been aroused in accordance with instructions given on the previous night, and there was but little time for her to dress herself and make her way to the station, where she was to await the arrival of her husband. Her toilet completed, she hurried downstairs, and declining to taste any of the substantial breakfast which the hearty Hampshire landlady was then engaged in discussing, and to which she invited her visitor, issued out into the broad street of the quiet old town.
 
Past the low-windowed shops, where the sleepy 'prentice-boys were taking down the shutters, and indulging in such fragmentary conversation as could be carried on under the eyes of their masters, which they knew were bent upon them from the upper rooms; past the neat little post-office, where the click of the telegraph-needles was already audible, and whence were issuing the sturdy country post-men, each with his huge well-filled leathern wallet on his back; past the yacht-builder's yard, where the air was redolent of pitch and tar, and newly-chipped wood, where through the half-opened gates could be seen the slender, tapering masts of many yachts already laid up for the season in the creek, and where a vast amount of hammering and sawing and planing was, as the neighbours thought interminably, going on. Not but what the yacht-building yard is one of the great features of the place; for, were it not for the yacht-owners, who first come down to give orders about the building of their vessels; then pay a visit to see how their instructions are being carried out; and finally, finding the place comfortable, tolerably accessible, and not too dear, bring their wives and families, and make it their head-quarters for the yachting season, what stranger would ever come to Lymington? what occupants would be found for its lodging-houses and hotels?
 
The clock struck seven as Pauline passed through the booking-office at the railway station, and stepped out on to the platform. She looked hastily round her in search for Tom Durham, but did not see him. A sudden chill fell upon her as the remembrance of her dream flashed across her mind. The next instant she was chiding herself for imagining that he would be there. There was yet half an hour before the arrival of the train by which they were to proceed to Weymouth; he would be tired by his long swim from the ship to the shore, his clothes would of course be saturated, and he would have to dry them; he would doubtless rest as long as he could in the place where he had found shelter, and only join her just in time to start. There was no doubt about his finding shelter somewhere; he was too clever not to do that; he was the cleverest man in all the world; it was for his talent she had chosen him from all the others years ago; it was for--and then Pauline's face fell, remembering that Tom Durham was as unscrupulous as he was clever, and that if this pale-faced woman were really anything to him, he would occupy his talent in arranging how and when to meet her in secret, in planning how to obtain farther sums of money from the old man whose messenger she had been.
 
How the thought of that woman haunted her! How her whole life seemed to have changed since she had witnessed that parting at the railway station yesterday! She felt that it would be impossible for her to hide from Tom the fact that she was labouring under doubt and depression of some kind or other. She knew his tact and determination in learning whatever he thought it behoved him to find out; and she thought it would be better to speak openly to him, to tell him what she had seen, and to ask him for some explanation. Yes, she would do that. The train was then in sight; he would no longer delay putting in an appearance on the platform, and in a few minutes they would be travelling away to soft air and lovely scenery, with more than sufficient money for their present wants, and for a time at least with rest and peace before them. Then she would tell him all; and he would doubtless reassure her, showing her how silly and jealous she had been, but forgiving her because she had suffered solely through her love for him.
 
By this time a number of passengers had gathered together on the platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, and Pauline passed hastily among them looking eagerly to the right and left, and, retracing her steps through the booking-office, opened the door and glanced up the street leading to the station. No sign of Tom Durham anywhere! Perhaps he had found a nearer station to a point at which he had swum ashore, and would be in the train now rapidly approaching.
 
The train stopped; two or three passengers alighted, and were so soon mixed up with the crowd of sailors, ship-carpenters, and farm-labourers rushing to take their seats, that Pauline could not distinguish them, but she knew Tom was not amongst them; and when she walked quickly down the line of carriages, throwing a rapid but comprehensive glance round each, she saw him not; and the train passed on, and she was left once more alone upon the platform.
 
Then, with frowning brows and set rigid lips, Pauline commenced walking up and down, covering with her long striding footsteps, so different from her usual easy, swimming gait, exactly the same amount of space at every turn, wheeling, apparently unconsciously, at the same point, treading almost in the same prints which she had previously made, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on the ground, and being totally unaware of all that was passing around her. She was a clear-headed as well as a strong-willed woman, accustomed to look life and its realities boldly in the face, and, unlike the majority of her countrymen and women, swift to detect the shallowness of sophistry when propounded by others, and careful never even to attempt to impose upon herself. Throughout her life, so long as she could remember, she had been in the habit of thinking-out any project of importance which had arisen in her career while walking to and fro, just as she was doing then. It was perhaps the sameness of the action, perhaps some reminiscence of her dream still lingering in her mind, that turned her memory to the last occasion when she had taken such thoughtful exercise; and the scene exactly as it occurred rose before her.
 
The time, early morning, not much after six o'clock; the place, the Prado at Marseilles; the persons, a few belated blue-bloused workmen hurrying to their work, a few soldiers lounging about as only soldiers always seem to lounge when they are not on duty, a limonadière with her temple deposited on the ground by her side, while she washes the sparkling tin cups in a sparkling tin cups in a drinking-fountain; two or three water-carts pounding along and refreshingly sprinkling the white dusty road, two or three English grooms exercising horses, and she, Pauline Lunelle, dame du comptoir at the Restaurant du Midi, in the Cannebière, pacing up and down the Prado, and turning over in her mind a proposition on the acceptance or rejection of which depended her future happiness or misery. That proposition was a proposition of marriage, not by any means the first she had received. The handsome, black-eyed, black-haired, olive-skinned dame du comptoir was one of the reigning belles of the town, and the Restaurant du Midi was such a popular place of resort, that she never lacked admirers. All the breakfast-eaters, the smokers, the billiard-players, even the decorated old gentlemen who dropped in as regularly as clockwork every evening for a game of dominoes or tric-trac, paid their court to her, and in several cases this court was something more than the mere conventional hat-doffing or the few words of empty politeness whispered to her as she attended to the settlement of their accounts. Adolphe de Noailles--only a sous-lieutenant of artillery, to be sure, but a man of good family, and who, it was said, was looked upon with favour by Mademoiselle Krebs, daughter Of old Monsieur Krebs, the German banker, who was so rich and who gave such splendid parties--had asked Pauline Lunelle to become his wife, had "ah-bah-d" when she talked about the difference in their positions, and had insisted that in appearance and manner she was equal to any lady in the south of France. So had Henrich Wetter, head clerk and cashier in the bank of Monsieur Krebs aforesaid--a tall, fair, lymphatic young man, who until his acquaintance with Pauline, had thought of nothing but Vaterland and the first of exchange, but who professed himself ready to become naturalised as a Frenchman, and to take up his abode for life in Marseilles, if she would only listen to his suit. So had Frank Jenkins, attached to the British post-office, and in that capacity bringing the Indian mails from London to Marseilles, embarking them on board the Peninsular and Oriental steamer, and waiting the arrival of the return mail which carried them back to England--a big, jolly, massive creature, well known to everybody in the town as Monsieur Jenkins, or the "courrier anglais," who had a bedroom at the H?tel de Paradis, but who spent the whole of his time at the Restaurant du Midi, drinking beer or brandy or absinthe--it was all the same to him--to keep the landlord "square," as he phrased it, but never taking his eyes off the dame du comptoir, and never losing an opportunity of paying her the most outrageous compliments in the most outrageous French ever heard even in that city of polyglot speech.
 
If Pauline Lunelle had a tenderness for any of them, it was for the sous-lieutenant; at the Englishman, and indeed at a great many others--Frenchmen, commis-voyageurs, tradesmen in the city, or clerks in the merchants' offices on the Quai--she laughed unmercifully; not to their faces, indeed--that would have been bad for business, and Pauline throughout her life had the keenest eye to her own benefit. Her worth as a decoy-duck was so fully appreciated by Monsieur Etienne, the proprietor of the restaurant, that she had insisted upon receiving a commission on all moneys paid by those whose visits thither were unquestionably due to her attraction. But when they had retired for the night, the little top bedroom which she occupied in conjunction with Mademoiselle Mathilde would ring with laughter, caused by her repetition of the sweet things which had been said to her during the evening by her admirers, and her imitations of the manner and accents in which they had been delivered. So Adolphe de Noailles had it all his own way, and Pauline had seriously debated within herself whether she should not let him run the risk of offending his family and marrying him out of hand (the disappointment to be occasioned thereby to Mademoiselle Krebs, a haughty and purse-proud young lady, being one of her keenest incentives to the act), when another character appeared upon the scene.
 
This was another Englishman, but in every way as different as possible to poor Mr. Jenkins--not merely speaking French like a Parisian, but salting his conversation with a vast amount of Parisian idiomatic slang, full of fun and wild practical jokes, impervious to ridicule, impossible to be put down, and spending his money in the most lavish and free-handed manner possible. This was Tom Durham, who had suddenly turned up in Marseilles, no one knew why. He had been to Malta, he said, on a "venture," and the venture had turned out favourably, and he was going back to England, and had determined to enjoy himself by the way. He was constantly at the Restaurant du Midi, paid immense attention to the dame du comptoir, and she in her turn was fascinated by his good temper, his generous ways, his strange eccentric goings-on. But Tom Durham, laughing, drinking, and spending his money, was the same cool observant creature that he had been ever since he shipped as 'prentice on board the Gloucestershire, when he was fifteen years of age. All the time of his sojourn at the Restaurant du Midi he was carefully "taking stock," as he called it, of Pauline Lunelle. In his various schemes he had long felt the want of a female accomplice, and he thought he had at last found the person whom he had for some time been seeking. That she was worldly-wise he knew, or she would never have achieved the position which she held in Monsieur Etienne's establishment; that there was far more in her than she had ever yet given proof of he believed; for Mr. Tom Durham was a strong believer in physiognomy, and had more than once found the study of some use to him. Sipping his lemonade-and-cognac and puffing at his cigar, he sat night after night talking pleasantly with any chance acquaintance, but inwardly studying Pauline Lunelle; and when his studies were completed, he had made up his mind that he saw in her a wonderful mixture of headstrong passion and calm common sense, unscrupulous, fearless, devoted, and capable of carrying out anything, no matter what, which she had once made up her mind to perform. "A tameable tiger, in point of fact," said Tom Durham to himself as he stepped out into the street and picked his way across the filthy gutters towards his home; "and if only kept in proper subjection, capable of being made anything of." He knew there was only one way by which Pauline could be secured, and he made up his mind to propose to her the next night.
 
He proposed accordingly; but Pauline begged for four-and-twenty hours to consider her decision, and in the early morning went out into the Prado to think it all through, and deliberately to weigh the merits of the propositions made respectively by Adolphe de Noailles and Tom Durham; the result being that the sous-lieutenant's hopes were crushed for ever--or for fully a fortnight, when they blossomed in another direction--and that Pauline, dame du comptoir no longer, linked her fate with that of Tom Durham. Thenceforward they were all in all to each other. She had no relatives, nor, as he told her, had he. "I have not seen Alice for five years," he said to himself; "and from what I recollect of her, she was a stuck-up, straitlaced little minx, likely to look down upon my young friend the tiger here, and give herself airs which the tiger certainly would not understand; so, as they are not likely to come together, it will be better to ignore her existence altogether." In all his crooked schemes, and they were many and various, Pauline took her share, unflagging, indefatigable, clear in council, prompt in action, jealous of every word, of every look he gave to any other woman; at the same time the slave of his love and the prop and mainstay of his affairs. Tom Durham himself had not that quality which he imputed to his half-sister; he certainly was not strait-laced; but his escapades, if he had any, were carefully kept in the background, and Pauline, suspicious as she was, had never felt any real ground for jealousy until she had witnessed the scene at parting at the Southampton station.
 
The Prado and its associations had faded out of her mind, and she was trying to picture to herself the various chances which could possibly have detained her husband, when a porter halted before her, and civilly touching his cap, asked for what train she was waiting.
 
"The train for Weymouth," she replied.
 
"For Weymouth!" echoed the porter; "the train for Weymouth has just gone."
 
"Yes, I know that," said Pauline; "but I was expecting some one--a gentleman--to meet me. He will probably come in time for the next."
 
"You will have a longish waiting bout," said the man; "next train don't come till two-forty-five, nigh upon three o'clock."
 
"That is long," said Pauline. "And the next?"
 
"Only one more after that," said the porter--"eight forty--gets into Weymouth somewhere between ten and eleven at night. You'll never think of waiting here, ma'am, for either of them. Better go into the town to one of the hotels, or have a row on the river, or something to pass the time."
 
"Thank you," said Pauline, to whom a sudden idea had occurred. "How far is it from here to--how do you call the place--Hurstcastle?"
 
"To where, ma'am? O, Hurst Castle. I didn't understand you, you see, at first--you didn't make two words of it. It is Hurst Castle, where the king was kept a prisoner--him as had his head cut off--and where there's a barracks and a telegraph station for the ships now."
 
"Yes," she said, "exactly; that's the place. How far is it from here?"
 
"Well, it's about seven mile, take it altogether; but you can't drive all the way. You could have a fly to take you four miles, and he'd bring you to a boat, and he'd take you in and out down a little river through the marshes, until you came to a beach, on the other side of which the castle stands. But, lor' bless me, miss, what's the use o' going at all, there's nothing to see when you get there?"
 
"I wish to go," said Pauline, smiling. "You see, I am a foreigner, and I want to see where your British king was kept a prisoner. Can I get a fly here?"
 
The porter said he would find her one at once, and speedily redeemed his promise.
 
Through neat villages and wooded lanes Pauline was driven, until she came to a large, bare, open tract of country, on the borders of which the fly stopped, and the flyman descending, handed her down some steps cut in the steep bank, and into an old broad-bottomed boat, where a grizzled elderly man, with his son, were busy mending an old duck-gun. They looked up with astonishment when the flyman said, "Lady wants to go down to have a look at the castle, Jack. I'll wait here, ma'am, until they bring you back."
 
They spread an old jacket for her in the stern of the boat, and when she was seated, took to their oars and pulled away with a will. It was a narrow, intricate, winding course, a mere thread of shallow sluggish water, twisting in and out among the great gray marshes fringed with tall flapping weeds; and Pauline, already over-excited and overwrought, was horribly depressed by the scene.
 
"Are you always plying in this boat?" she asked the old man. "Most days, ma'am, in case we should be wanted up at the steps there," he replied; "but night's our best time, we reckon."
 
"Night!" she echoed. "Surely there are no passengers at night-time?"
 
"No, ma'am, not passengers, but officers and sportsmen: gentlemen coming out gunning after the ducks and the wild-fowl," he added, seeing she looked puzzled, and pointing to a flock of birds feeding at some distance from them.
 
"And are you out every night?" she asked eagerly.
 
"Well, not every, but most nights, ma'am."
 
"Last night, for example?"
 
"Yes, miss, we was out, me and Harry here, not with any customers, but by ourselves; a main dark night it was too; but we hadn't bad sport, considering."
 
"Did you--did you meet any one else between this and Hurst Castle?"
 
"Well, no, ma'am," said the old man with a low chuckle. "It ain't a place where one meets many people, I reckon. Besides the ducks, a heron or two was about the strangest visitors we saw last night. Now, miss, here we are at the beach; you go straight up there, and you'll find the castle just the other side. When you come back, please shape your course for that black stump you see sticking up there; tide's falling, and we sha'n't be able to bide where we are now, but we will meet you there."
 
Lightly touching the old man's arm, Pauline jumped from the boat, and rapidly ascending the sloping head, found herself, on gaining the top, close by a one-storied, whitewashed cottage, in a little bit of reclaimed land, half garden, half yard, in which was a man in his shirt-sleeves washing vegetables, with a big black retriever dog lying at his feet. Accosting him, Pauline learned that the house was the telegraph station, whence the names of the outgoing and incoming ships are telegraphed to Lloyd's for the information of their owners. In the course of farther conversation the man said that the Masilia had anchored there during the night, had got her steam up and was off by daybreak; he took watch and watch with his comrade, and he turned out just in time to see her start.
 
Pauline thanked him and returned to the boat; but she did not speak to the old man on her return passage; and when she reached the fly which was waiting for her, she threw herself into a corner and remained buried in thought until she was deposited at the station.
 
A few minutes after, the train bound for Weymouth arrived. Through confusion similar to that of the morning she hurried along, criticising the passengers on the platform and in the carriage, and with the same vain result. The train proceeded on its way, and Pauline walked towards the hotel with the intention of getting some refreshment, which she needed. Suddenly she paused, reeled, and would have fallen, had she not leant against a wall for support. A thought like an arrow had passed through her brain--a thought which found its utterance in these words:
 
"It is a trick, a vile trick from first to last! He has deceived me--he never intended to meet me, to take me to Weymouth or to Guernsey! It was merely a trick to keep me occupied and to put me off while he rejoined that woman!"
CHAPTER V.  A LITTLE PARADISE.
 The place which Alice Claxton called her home, of which she was sole mistress, and which she dearly loved, was situate at Hendon. An old-fashioned, dreamy, by-gone kind of village, which, in these latter days, the Midland Railway has discovered to be a metropolitan suburb, and, as such, has brought it into vogue. Until within a very few years, however, it was one of the quietest places in England, visited occasionally in the summer by a few people from town, who found that Hampstead had been already almost swallowed up in bricks and mortar, and who extended their outing to get a little fresher air, and to enjoy the lovely view from Hendon Church. But its inhabitants generally were nothing-doing sort of people, bred and born in the parish, who preferred vegetating on an income which enabled them to keep a pony-chaise, and gave them perpetual leisure for pottering in their gardens, rather than adventuring their little capital, in speculations which might be disastrous, and which undoubtedly would be questionable.
 
The house where Alice Claxton lived was on the right-hand side of the way as you turn from the little main street of the village towards the church. There is no use in looking for it now; it has been pulled down, and on its site have been erected two brand-new stucco villas, with plate-glass windows and brass door-knockers, high flights of door-steps with a stone pine-apple on either side, and long strips of garden before and behind, which the landscape-gardener's art has decorated with beds in the shape of pears, and hearts, and crosses, and various other elegant and appropriate designs. But in Alice's days it was a long, low-roofed, one-storied house, built of bricks of a comfortable warm ruddiness, without being glaringly red, and covered all over with a splendid Virginia creeper, which at this autumnal time was just assuming its loveliest hue. The rooms on the ground-floor were large, with rather low ceilings, and opening with French windows on a little paved terrace verandah-covered. It had been John Claxton's delight to suit the fittings and the furniture to the place for which they were destined. No modern stoves were to be found throughout it, but open fire-places inlaid with tiles, and iron dogs; the high-backed chairs, the broad table, and the heavy sideboard of the dining-room, were all in antique black oak; but in the drawing-room he had endeavoured to consult what he conjectured to be his wife's fancy, and the Venetian mirrors on the walls reflected the sheen of green silk and gold, with which the low quaint chairs and sofa and ottoman were covered, and produced endless repetitions of numerous tasteful specimens of glass and china with which the various étagères and whatnots were liberally covered. Alice, who before her marriage had been governess to the children of a Quaker wine-merchant in York, whose drab furniture had done good service during three generations, clapped her hands in childish delight at the first glimpse of her new home, and immediately afterwards turning round, reproved her husband for his extravagance. But John Claxton, catching her in his arms, declared that it was only a little nest just fitted for his bright, shining, sweet little bird, and he earnestly prayed that she might be happy in it.
 
And she was happy; so happy that she sometimes felt her happiness was too great to be lasting, and that some reverse of fortune must be in store for her. But these flights of depression only happened when John was away on his business tours, and then only during the first half of his absence, for during the second she was busy in contemplating his return, and in devising all kinds of little expedients to show how welcome he was. See her now on this bright October evening, so neatly and becomingly dressed in her tightly-fitting mouse-coloured velveteen gown, fastened round the waist by a narrow black-leather belt and buckle, with a linen collar round her pretty throat, and linen cuffs showing off her small white hands. She had filled every available ornament with the remnants of the summer garden produce, the last of the monthly roses, and the scarlet geraniums and calceolarias, and the earliest of the autumnal crop of dahlias, china-asters, and chrysanthemums. The air was chill without, but within the light from the wood logs flickered brightly on the plate and glass set on the snowy tablecloth, in anticipation of dinner, and the odour of the burning beech-wood was home-like and comforting. After giving a finishing touch to her flowers in the drawing-room, and again peeping into the dining-room to see that all was right and ready, Alice would open the glazed door and peer out into the darkness, would bend her head in eager listening for the sound of wheels entering the carriage-drive. After two or three experiments her patience was rewarded. First she heard the clanging of the closing gate, then the sound of the rapidly approaching carriage, and the next minute she was in her husband's arms.
 
"Now come in, John, at once, out of that bitter wind," she cried, as soon as she was released, which was not for a minute or two; "it is enough to cut you in two. It has been sighing and moaning round the house all day, and I am sure I was thankful that you were coining home and hadn't to go any sea-voyages or other dreadful things."
 
"Thank you, my darling, I am all right, I shall do very well now," said John Claxton, in a chirping, cheery voice.
 
Why had Tom Durham called him old? There was a round bald place on the crown of his head to be sure, and such of his hair as remained and his whiskers were streaked with gray; the lines round his eyes and mouth were somewhat deeply graven, and the brow was heavy and thoughtful, but his bright blue eyes were full of life and merriment, the tones of his voice were blithe and musical, his slight wiry figure, though a very little bowed and stooping, was as iron in its hardness; and when away from business he was as full of animal spirits and fun as any boy.
 
"I am all right, my darling," he repeated, as, after taking off his hat and coat, he went with her into the dining-room; "though I know it is by no means prudent to stand in draughts, especially for people of my age."
 
"Now, John," cried Alice, with uplifted forefinger, "are you going to begin that nonsense directly you come into the house? You know how often I have told you that subject is tabooed, and yet you have scarcely opened your lips before you mention it."
 
"Well, my dear," said John Claxton, passing his arm round her and drawing her closely to him, "you know I have an age as well as other people, and a good deal more than a great many, I am sorry to say; talking of it won't make it any worse, you know, Alley; though you may argue that it won't make it any better."
 
"Silence!" she cried, stopping his speech by placing her hand upon his mouth. "I don't care whether it makes it better or worse, or whether it doesn't make it anything at all; I only know I won't have it mentioned here. Your age, indeed! What on earth should I do with you if you were a dandy in a short jacket, with a little cane; or a great hulking fellow in a tawny beard, such as one reads of in the novels?"
 
"I have not the least idea, Alley; but I daresay you would manage to spare some of your sweet love and kindness for me if I were either of the specimens you have mentioned. As I am neither, perhaps you will allow me to change my coat and wash my hands before dinner."
 
"That you shall do. You will find everything ready for you; and as you have had a long journey, and it is the first time of your return, I insist on your availing yourself of the privilege which I gave you on such occasions, and on your coming down in your shooting-coat and slippers, and making yourself comfortable, John dear; and don't be long, for we have your favourite dinner."
 
When Mr. Claxton appeared in the dining-room, having changed his coat for a velvet shooting-jacket, and his boots for a pair of embroidered slippers, his wife's handiwork; having washed his hands and brushed-up his hair, and given himself quite a festive appearance, he found the soup already on he table.
 
"You are late, as usual, John," cried Alice, as he seated himself.
 
"I went to speak to Bell, dear," replied John Claxton; "but nurse motioned to me that she was asleep; so I crept up as lightly as I could to her little bedside, and bent down and kissed, her cheek. She is quite well, I hope, dear, but her face looked a little flushed and feverish."
 
"There is nothing the matter with her, dear, beyond a little over-excitement and fatigue. She has been with me all day, in the greatest state of delight at the prospect of your return, helping me to cut and arrange the flowers, to get out the wine, and go through all the little household duties. I promised her she should sit up to see her papa; but little fairies of three or four years of age have not much stamina, and long before the time of your return she was dropping with sleep."
 
"Poor little pet! Sleep is more beneficial to her than the sight of me would have been, though I have not forgotten to bring the doll and the chocolate creams I promised her. However, the presentation of those will do well enough to-morrow."
 
The dinner was good, cosey, and delightful. They did not keep the servant in the room to wait upon them, but helped themselves and each other. When the cloth was removed, Alice drew her chair close to her husband, and according to regular practice poured out for him his first glass of wine.
 
"Your own particular Madeira, John," she said; "the wine that your old friend Mr. Calverley sent you when we were first married. By the way, John, I have often wanted to ask you what you drink at the hotels and the horrible places you go to when you are away--not Madeira, I am certain."
 
"No, dear, not Madeira," said John Claxton, fondly patting her cheek; "wine, beer, grog--different things at different times."
 
"Yes, but you never get anything so good as this, confess that?"
 
"Nothing that I enjoy so much, certainly; whether it is the wine, or the company in which the wine is drunk, I leave you to guess."
 
"O, it is the wine, I am sure! there is no such other wine in the world, unless Mr. Calverley has some himself. There now, talking of Mr. Calverley reminds me that you never have asked about Tom--about Tom, John--are you attending to what I say?"
 
"I beg your pardon, dear," said John Claxton, looking upward with rather a flushed face, and emptying his glass at a draught. "I confess my thoughts were wandering towards a little matter of business which had just flashed across me."
 
"You must put aside all business when you come here; that was a rule which I laid down at first, and I insist on its being adhered to. I was telling you about Tom, my brother, you know."
 
"Yes, dear, yes, I know--you went to Southampton to see him off."
 
"Yes, John; that is to say, I went to Southampton and I saw him there, but I did not actually see him off--that is, see him sail, you know."
 
"Why, Alice, you went to Southampton for the express purpose!"
 
"Yes, John, I know; but, you see, the trains did not suit, and Tom thought I had better not wait; so I left him just an hour or two before the steamer started."
 
"I suppose he did go," said John Claxton anxiously; "there is no doubt about that, I hope?"
 
"Not the least in the world, not the smallest doubt. To tell you the truth, John, I was rather anxious about it myself, knowing that Tom had the two thousand pounds which you sent him by me, you dear, kind, good fellow, and that he is--well, perhaps not quite so reliable as he might be--but I looked in the newspaper the next day, and saw his name as agent to Calverley and Company among the list of outgoing passengers."
 
"Did he seem tolerably contented, Alice?"
 
"O, yes, John; he went away in great spirits. I am in hopes that he will settle down now, and become a steady and respectable member of society. He has plenty of talent, I think, John, don't you?"
 
"Your brother has plenty of sharp, shrewd insight into character, and knowledge of the wickedness of the world, Alice," said Mr. Claxton somewhat bitterly; "these are not bad as stock-in-trade for a man of his nature, and I have no doubt they will serve his turn."
 
"Why, John," said Alice, with head upturned to look at him more closely, "how cynically you are speaking! Are you not well, dear?"
 
"Quite well, Alice. Why do you ask?"
 
"Your face is rather flushed, dear, and there is a strange look in your eyes, such as I have never noticed before. O, John! I am certain you work too hard, and all this travelling is too much for you. When will you give it up?"
 
"When I see my way to settling down here in peace and comfort with you, my darling, and little Bell. Depend upon it, when that opportunity comes I shall grasp it eagerly enough."
 
"And when will it come, John?"
 
"That, my child, it is impossible to say; it may come sooner than we expect; I hope it will, I'm sure. It is the one thing now, at the close of my life, left me to look forward to."
 
"Don't talk about the close of your life in that wicked way, John. I am sure if you only take care of yourself when you are away on those journeys, and mind that your bed is always aired, and see that you have proper food, there is no question about the close of your life until you have seen little Bell grown up into a marriageable young woman."
 
"Poor little Bell," said John Claxton, with a grave smile; "dear little Bell. I don't think we did wrongly, Alice, in adopting this little fatherless, motherless waif?"
 
"Wrong, indeed! I should think not," said Alice quickly. "Even from a selfish point of view it was one of the best things we ever did in our lives. See what a companion she is to me while you are away; see how the time which I have to spare after attending to the house, and my garden, and my reading, and my music, and all those things which you insist upon my doing, John, and which I really go through conscientiously every day; see how the spare time, which might be dull, is filled up in dressing her, and teaching her, and listening to her sweet little prattle. Do you think we shall ever find out whose child she was, John?"
 
"No, dear, I should say not. You have the clothes which she had on, and the little gold cross that was found round the mother's neck after her death; it is as well to keep them in case any search should be made after the child, though the probability of that is very remote."
 
"We should not give Bell up, whatever search might be made, should we, John?" said Alice quickly. "The poor mother is dead, and the search could only originate with the father, and it is not likely that after leaving the mother of his child to die in a workhouse bed, he will have any long-deferred stings of conscience to make him inquire as to what has become of her offspring. O, John when I think of the wickedness that goes on in the world, through men, John, through men alone--for women are but what men choose to make them--I am so thankful that it was given to me to win the honest, noble love of an honourable man, and to be removed in good time from the temptations assailing a girl in the position which I occupied. Now, John, no more wine!"
 
"Yes," he cried, "give it to me quickly, full, full to the brim, Alice. There!" he said, as he drained it; "I am better now; I wanted some extra stimulant to-night; I suppose I am knocked-up by my journey."
 
"Your face was as pale then as it was flushed before, John. I shall take upon myself to nurse you; and you shall not leave home again until you are quite recovered, whatever Mr. Calverley may say. You should have him here, some day, John, and let me talk to him. I warrant I would soon bring him round to my way of thinking."
 
"Your ways are sufficiently coaxing to do that with anybody, Alice," said John Claxton, with a faint smile; "but never mind Mr. Calverley just now; what were we saying before?"
 
"I was saying how pleased I was to be removed from the temptations to which a girl in the position which I held is always exposed."
 
"No," said Claxton, "I don't mean that--before."
 
"Yes, yes," said Alice, "I insist upon talking about these old times, John; you never will, and I have no one else who knows anything about them, or can discuss them with me. Now, do you recollect," she continued, nestling closer to him, "the first time you saw me?"
 
"Recollect it! As you were then, I can see you now."
 
"And so can I you; you are not altered an atom. You were standing at a bookstall in Low Ousegate, just beyond the bridge, looking into a book; and as I passed by with the two little Prestons you raised your eyes from the book, and stared at me so hard, and yet so gravely, that I--"
 
"That you were quite delighted," said John Claxton, putting his arm round her; "you know that; so don't attempt a bashfulness which is foreign to your nature, but confess at once."
 
"I decline to confess any such thing," said Alice. "Of course I was in the habit of being stared at by the officers and the young men of the town. Come now, there is the return blow for your impertinent hit just now; but one scarcely expects to create an impression on people whom one finds glazing over bookstalls."
 
"Elderly people, you should have said, Alice."
 
"Elderly people, I will say, John, if it pleases you. Much less does one expect to see them lay down the hook, and come sailing up the street after one in direct pursuit."
 
"O, you saw that, did you, miss? You never told me that before."
 
"Saw it, of course I saw it; what woman ever misses anything of that kind? At a distance you tracked me straight to Mr. Preston's door; saw me and my little charges safely inside; and then turned on your heel and walked away."
 
"While you went up to your room and sat down before your glass, admiring your own charms, and thinking of the dashing young cavalier whose attention you had just attracted. Was that it?" said John.
 
"Nothing of the sort; though I don't mind confessing that I did wonder whether I should ever see you again. And then, two days after, when Mrs. Preston told me to take the little girls into the drawing-room in the evening, and to be sure that they practised thoroughly some piece which they would be called upon to play, as there was a gentleman coming to dinner who doated on little children, how could I have the slightest idea that this benevolent Mr. Claxton was to be my friend of the Low Ousegate bookstall? And yet you scarcely spoke to me once during that evening, I remember."
 
"That was my diplomacy, my child; but I paid great attention to Mrs. Preston, and was very favourably received by her."
 
"Yes; I heard Mr. Preston say to Mr. Arthur, as they stood behind the piano, 'He's of the house of Calverley and Company of Mincing-lane. Thee hast heard of it? Its transactions are enormous.'"
 
"And I won Mr. Preston's heart by a good order for wine," said John Claxton; "and then I threw off all disguise, and I am afraid made it clear that I had only made his acquaintance for the sake of paying court to his governess."
 
"You need have very little delicacy in that matter, John," said Alice. "Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Preston had the slightest interest in me, and when I left they cared not what became of me. I suited them as a governess, and they were angry when I first told them I was going away; but when they saw that I had fully made up my mind, their sole thought was how best to supply my place. As to what became of me, that was no concern of theirs."
 
"No," said John Claxton, whose colour had returned, and who seemed to have regained his ordinary composure, "no concern perhaps of either Mr. or Mrs. Preston; but what about the young gentleman you mentioned just now, Alice--Mr. Preston's nephew, Mr. Arthur, as he was called? Your decision as to the future course of life you intended to adopt was not quite so immaterial to him, was it, child?"
 
"What do you mean, John?" said Alice, looking down, as the blood began to mount into her cheeks.
 
"You know well enough what I mean, child--exactly what I say. Mr. Arthur Preston took great interest in you--was in love with you, in point of fact. Is not that so?"
 
"He said so, John; but his actions belied his words. No man who had any real honest love--nay, more, I will go farther, and say respect, for a girl--could have spoken or acted towards me as he did."
 
"Why, Alice," said John Claxton, looking with surprise at her flushed cheeks, "you never told me anything of this before. Why have you kept it secret from me?"
 
"Because I know, John," said Alice, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "that, however outwardly calm and quiet you may appear to be, however sensible and practical you are in most matters, you have a temper which, when anything touching my honour or my dignity is involved, is quite beyond your control. I have seen its effects before, John, and I dreaded any repetition of them."
 
"Then why do you tell me now?"
 
"Because we are far away from York, John, and from Arthur Preston and his friends, and there is no likelihood of our seeing any of them again; so that I know your temper can be trusted safely now, John; for, however much it may desire to break out, it will find no object on which to vent itself."
 
"This conversation and conduct, then, of Mr. Arthur Preston were matters, I am to understand, in which your honour and dignity were involved, Alice?"
 
"To a certain extent, John, yes," faltered Alice.
 
"I should like to know what they were," said John Claxton. "I put no compulsion on you to tell me. I have never asked you since our marriage to tell me anything of your previous life; but I confess I should like to know about this."
 
"I will tell you, John," said Alice; "I always intended to do so. It is the only thing I have kept back from you; and often and often, while you have been away, have I thought, if anything happened to you or to me--if either of us were to die, I mean, John--how grieved I should be that I had not told you of this matter. Arthur Preston pretended he loved me; but he could not have done so really. No man who is wicked and base can know what real love is, John; and Arthur Preston was both. Some little time before I knew you, he made love to me--fierce, violent love. I had not seen you then, John; I had scarcely seen any one. I was an unsophisticated country girl, and I judged of the reality of his love by the warmth of his professions, and told him I would marry him. I shall never forget that scene. It was one summer's evening, on the river bank just abreast of Bishopthorpe. When I mentioned marriage he almost laughed, and then he told me, in a cynical sneering way, that he never intended to be married unless he could find some one with a large fortune, or with peculiar means of extending his uncle's business when he inherited it; but that meanwhile he would give me the prettiest house within twenty miles. I need not go on. He would not make me his wife, but he offered to make me his mistress. Was it not unmanly in him, John? Was it not base and cowardly?"
 
She stopped and looked at her husband. But John Claxton, whose face had become pale again, his chin resting on his hand, and his eyes glaring into the fire, made her no reply.
CHAPTER VI.  4A SAFE INVESTMENT.
 
 
"The second-floor front have come in, Ben," said Mrs. Mogg, of 19A Poland-street, as she opened the door to her husband on a wet and windy autumnal evening; "she have come and brought her luggage--a green carpet-bag with a poll-parrot worked on it, and a foreign-looking bandbox tied up in a handkerchief. She's French, Ben, that's what she is."
 
"Is she?" said Mr. Mogg shortly. "Well, I'm hungry, that's what I am; so get me my tea."
 
He had had a long and dirty walk home from the West-India Docks, where he was employed as a warehouseman, and chattering in a windy passage about his wife's lodger scarcely seemed to him the most desirable way of employing his first moments at home.
 
But after dispatching two large breakfast-cups of tea, and several rounds Of hot salt-buttered toast, from which the crust had been carefully cut away, Mr. Mogg was somewhat mollified, and wiping his mouth and fingers on the dirty tablecloth, felt himself in cue to resume the conversation.
 
"O, the new second-floor has come, Martha, has she?" he commenced; "and she's French, you think. Well," continued Mr. Mogg, who was naturally rather slow in bringing his ideas into focus, "Dickson may or may not be a French name. That it's an English one, we all know; but that's no reason that it should not be a French one too, there being, as is well known, several words which are the same in both languages."
 
"She wrote down 'P. Dickson' when she came to take the rooms this morning, and I see P. D. worked on her purse when she took it out to pay the first week's rent in advance," said Mrs. Mogg.
 
"Then it's clear enough her name is Dickson," said Mr. Mogg, with a singular facility of reasoning. "What should you say she was, now, Martha--you're good at reckoning 'em up, you are--what is the second-floor front, should you say?"
 
"Either a gov'ness or a lady's-maid out of place," said Mrs. Mogg decisively. "I thought she was a gov'ness until I see the sovereigns in her purse, and then made up my mind she was a lady's-maid as had given up her place either through a death, or the family going abroad or giving up housekeeping; and these were the sovereigns which she had just got from the wardrobe-shop for the perquisites and etceteras which she had brought away with her."
 
"You're a clear-headed one, you are," said Mr. Mogg, looking at his wife with great delight. "Has she had anything to eat?"
 
"O yes," said Mrs. Mogg, giggling with some asperity; "she brought a lettice in with her, I suppose; for when I went up to ask her whether I should get-in any little trifle for breakfast, I found her eating of it, and dropping some lumps of sugar into a tumbler of water."
 
"Well, that's beastly," said Mr. Mogg. "These foreigners are disgusting in their ways, one always heard; but how did you make her understand you about breakfast?"
 
"Lor' bless yer, man, she speaks English first-rate--so well, that when I first see her, I thought she was a countrywoman of mine from Norfolk."
 
 
"Well, so long as she pays regularly, and don't stop out late at night, it don't matter to us where she comes from," said Mr. Mogg, stretching out his arms and indulging in a hearty yawn. "Now, Martha, get me my pipe; and when you have cleared these things away, come and sit down, and let's have a quiet talk about how we are to get rid of the German teacher in the back attic."
 
The newly-arrived tenant of the second floor, whom these worthies in the kitchen were thus discussing, was walking up and down her room in much the same manner as she had paced the platform at Lymington or the Prado at Marseilles. It was very lucky that the occupant of the drawing-room---a gentleman who taught noblemen and senators the art of declamation--had not on that evening one of his usual classes, in which budding orators were accustomed to deliver Mark Antony's speech over the sofa-pillow transformed for the nonce into the dead body of Caesar, and where, to encourage his pupils, the professor would set forth that his name was Norval, and proceed to bewail the bucolic disposition of his parent, or the grinding sound of the heels above would have sadly interfered with the lesson. It was well that Pauline was not interrupted; for the demon of rage and jealousy was at work within her. The burning shame consequent on the belief that she had been deceived and made a fool of nearly maddened her; and as every phase of the deceit to which she now imagined she had fallen so ready a victim rose before her mind, she clasped her arms above her head and groaned aloud.
 
"To think," she cried, "that I, who had known him so long and so intimately--I, who had been his companion in his plottings and intrigues, who had sat by, night after night and day after day, watching the patience and skill with which he prepared the pitfalls for others,--that I should be so blind, so weak, so besotted, as to fall into them myself! Lies from the first, and lie upon lie! A lie to the man Calverley, whose agent he pretended he would be; a lie to the old man Claxton, who obtained the place for him, and sent him the money by the pale-faced woman; then a lie to me,--a cleverer kind of lie, a lie involving some tracasserie, for I am not one to be deceived in the ordinary manner. To me he admitted he intended playing false with the others; and now I am reckoned among those whom he has hoodwinked and befooled!
 
"The notion that came across me at that place! It must be true! He never meant to come there; he sent me on a fool's errand, and he would never be within miles of the spot. The whole thing was a trick, a well-planned trick, from the first; well-planned, and so plausible too! The flight to Weymouth, then to Guernsey; hours of departure of trains and steamer all noted and arranged. What a cunning rogue! What a long-headed plausible rascal! And the money, the two thousand pounds --many would be deceived by that. He thought I would argue that if he had intended to leave me, he never would have handed over to me those bank-notes.
 
"But I know him better. He is a vaurien, swindler, liar; but though I suppose he never loved me in the way that other people understand love, I have been useful to him, and he has become used to me; so used, that he cannot bear to think of me in misery or want. So he gave me the money to set his mind at ease, that my reproachful figure should not rise between him and his new-found happiness. Does he think that money can compensate me for the mental agony that I shall suffer always, that I suffer now? Does he think that it will salve my wounded pride, that it will do away with the misery and degradation I feel? And having been cheated by a shallow artifice, will money deprive me of my memory, and stop the current of my thoughts? Because I shall not starve, can money bereave me of my fancies, or keep away mental pictures it will drive me mad to contemplate? I can see them all now; can see him with her; can hear the very phrases he will use, and can imagine his manner when he talks of love to her. How short a time it seems since I listened to those burning words from the same lips! How well I remember each incident in the happy journey from Marseilles, the pleasant days at Genoa, the long stay at Florence! Where has he gone now, I wonder? To what haunt of luxury and ease has he taken his new toy? Fool that I am to remain here dreaming and speculating, when I want to know, when I must know! I must and will find out where they are; and then quickness, energy, perseverance--he has praised them more than once when they served him--shall be brought into play to work his ruin."
 
At this point in her train of thought Pauline was interrupted by a knock at the door of her room. Starting at the sound, she raised her head and listened eagerly; but whatever fancy she may have indulged in as to the idea as to who might be her visitor, was speedily dispelled by hearing the short sniff and the apologetic cough with which Mrs. Mogg was wont to herald her arrival; and being bade to come in, that worthy woman made her appearance, smiling graciously. It was Mrs. Mogg's habit to fill up such leisure as her own normal labour and active superintendence of the one domestic slave of the household, known as "Melia," permitted her, in paying complimentary calls upon her various lodgers, apparently with the view of looking after their comforts and tendering her services, but really with the intention of what she called "taking stock" of their circumstances, and making herself acquainted with any peculiarities likely, in her idea, to affect the question of her rent. Having thoroughly discussed with her husband the possibility of getting rid of the German teacher, and it being pleasantly arranged between them that the unfortunate linguist was to be decoyed into the street at as early a period as possible on the ensuing morning, and then and there locked out, his one miserable little portmanteau being detained as a hostage, Mrs. Mogg was in excellent spirits, and determined to make herself agreeable to her new lodger.
 
"Good evening, ma'am," she commenced; "time being getting late, and this being your first night under our humble roof, I took the liberty of looking in to see if things was comfortable, or there was anything in the way of a Child's night-light or that, you might require."
 
Almost wearied out with the weight of the wretched thoughts over which, for the last forty-eight hours, she had been brooding, Pauline felt the relief even of this interruption, and answered graciously and with as much cheerfulness as she could assume. "The room was comfortable," she said, "and there was nothing she required; but would not madame sit down? She seemed to be always hard at work, and must be tired after climbing those steep stairs. Perhaps she would not object to a little refreshment?"
 
Mrs. Mogg's eyes gleamed as from her neat hand-bag Pauline produced a small silver flask, and pouring some of its contents into a tumbler, handed the water-bottle to her landlady, to mix for herself.
 
"Thank you, ma'am," said Mrs. Mogg, seating herself on one of the two rush-bottomed chairs, and smoothing her apron over her lap with both her hands. "It is a pull up the stairs after one's been hard at it all day, and a little drop of comfort like this does one no harm, whatever they may say against it, more especially when it's like this, and not the vitriol and mahogany-shavings which they sell by the quartern at the Goldsmith's Arms. You didn't bring this from France with you, did you, ma'm?"
 
"O no," said Pauline, with a half smile. "It is a long time since I left France."
 
"Ah, so I should think," said Mrs. Mogg, "by your civilised ways of going on, let alone your speaking our language so capital. Mogg, meaning my husband, was in France once, at Boolong, with the Foresters' excursion, and thought very high of the living he got during the two hours he was there."
 
"Ah, you have a husband," said Pauline, beginning to lapse into dreariness.
 
"O yes, ma'am, and as good a husband as woman could wish, a hard-working man, and taking no holidays save with the Foresters to the Crystal Palace, Easter Mondays, and suchlike. He's in the docks is Mogg."
 
"In the docks," said Pauline; "he would know, then, all about ships?"
 
"O no, ma'am," said Mrs. Mogg, with a slight toss of the head; "that's the Katherine's Docks you are thinking of where the General Steam goes from. Hogg is in the West-Injia Docks: he's in the sale-room--horns and hides, and other foreign produce."
 
"Then he has nothing to do with ships?"
 
"Nothing at all, ma'am. It would be easier work for him if he had, though more outdoor work; but his is terrible hard work, more especially on sale days. He's regular tired out to-night, poor man; for to-day has been a sale day, and Mogg was at it from morning till night, attending to Mr. Calverley's consignments."
 
"Mr. Calverley!" cried Pauline, roused at last; "do you know him?"
 
"O no, not I, ma'am," said the landlady, "only through hearing of him from Mogg. He's one of the largest merchants in horns and hides is Mr. Calverley, and there is never a shipload comes in but he takes most of it. Mogg has done business for him--leastways for the house, for when Mogg knew it first Mr. Calverley was only a clerk there--for the last thirty years."
 
"Is Mr. Calverley married?"
 
"O yes, ma'am. He married Mrs. Gurwood, which was Miss Lorraine before she married Mr. Gurwood, who killed himself with drink and carryings-on. A pious lady, Mrs. Calverley, though haughty and stand-offish, and, they do say, keeping Mr. C.'s nose to the grindstone close."
 
"And Mr. Calverley, what is he like?"
 
"Not much to look at, ma'am, but the kindest and the best of men. My nephew Joe is light-porter in their house; and the way in which Mr. Calverley behaves to him--half-holiday here, half-a-crown there, Christmas-boxes regular, and cold meat and beer whenever he goes up to the house--no tongue can tell. Likewise most bountiful to Injuns and foreigners of all kinds, Spaniards and that like, providing for children and orphans, and getting them into hospitals, or giving them money to go back to their own country."
 
"Where is Mr. Calverley's address--his business address; his office I mean?"
 
"In Mincing-lane, in the City, ma'am. It's as well known as the Bank of England, or the West-Injia Docks themselves. May I make so bold as to inquire what you want with Mr. Calverley, ma'am?" said Mrs. Mogg, whose curiosity, stimulated by the brandy-and-water, was fast getting the better of her discretion; "if it's anything in the horn and hide way," she added, as the notion of something to be made on commission crossed her mind, "I am sure anything that Mogg could do he would be most happy."
 
"No, thank you," said Pauline coldly; "my inquiry had nothing to do with business."
 
And shortly after, Mrs. Mogg, seeing that her lodger had relapsed into thought, and had replaced the silver flask in her hand-bag, took her departure.
 
"What that Frenchwoman can want with Mr. Calverley," said she to her husband, after she had narrated to him the above conversation, "is more than I can think; his name came up quite promiscuous, and she never stopped talking about him while I was there. She'd have gone on gossiping till now, but I had my work to do, and told her so, and came away."
 
Mrs. Mogg's curiosity was not responded to by her husband; a man naturally reticent, and given in the interval between his supper and his bed to silent pipe-smoking. "They're a rum lot, foreigners," he said; and after that he spoke no more.
 
Meanwhile Pauline, left to herself, at once resumed the tiger-like pacing of her room. "I must not lose sight," she said, "of any clue which is likely to serve me. Where he is, she will be; and until I have found them both, and made them feel what it is to attempt to play the fool with me, I shall not rest satisfied. I must find means to become acquainted with this Calverley; for sooner or later he must hear something of Tom Durham, whom he believes to have gone to Ceylon as his agent, and whose non-arrival there will of course be reported to him. So long as my husband and the poor puny thing for whom he has deserted me, can force money from the old man Claxton, they will do so. But in whatever relations she may stand to him, when he discovers her flight he will stop the supplies, and I should think Monsieur Durham will probably turn up with some cleverly-concocted story to account for his quitting the ship. They will learn that by telegraph from Gibraltar, I suppose; and he will again seek for legitimate employment. Meanwhile I have the satisfaction of striking him with his own whip and stabbing him with his own dagger, by using the money which he gave me to help me in my endeavours to hunt him down. The money! It is there safe enough!"
 
As she placed her hand within the bosom of her dress, a curious expression, first of surprise, then of triumph, swept across her face. "The letter!" she said, as she pulled it forth,--"the letter, almost as important as the banknotes themselves, Tom Durham called it. It is sealed! Shall I open it; but for what good? To find, perhaps, a confession that he loves me no more, that he has taken this means to end our connection, and that he has given me the money to make amends for his betrayal of me--shall I-- Bah! doubtless it is another part of the fraud, and contains nothing of any value."
 
She broke the seal as she spoke, opened the envelope, and took out its contents, a single sheet of paper, on which was written:
 
"I have duly received the paper you sent me, and have placed it intact in another envelope, marked 'Akhbar K,' which I have deposited in the second drawer of my iron safe. Besides myself no one but my confidential head-clerk knows even as much as this, and I am glad that I declined to receive your confidence in the matter, as my very ignorance may at some future time be of service to you, or--don't think me harsh, but I have known you long enough to speak plainly to you--may prevent my being compromised. The packet will be given up to no one but yourself in person, or to some one who can describe the indorsement, as proof that they are accredited by you. H.S."
 
 
This letter Pauline read and re-read over carefully; then with a shoulder-shrug returned it to its envelope, and replaced it in her bosom.
 
"Mysterious," she said, "and unsatisfactory, as is everything connected with Monsieur Durham! The paper to which this letter refers is of importance doubtless, but what it may contain, and who 'H. S.' may be, are equally unknown to me; and without that information I am helpless to make use of it. Let it remain there! A time may come when t will be of service. Meanwhile I have the two thousand pounds to work with, and Monsieur Calverley to work upon; he is the only link which I can see at present to connect me with my fugitive husband. Through him is the only means I have of obtaining any information as to the whereabouts of this traitorous pair. The clue is slight enough, but it may serve in default of a better, and I must set my wits to work to make it useful."
 
So the night went on; and the Mogg household, the proprietors themselves in the back-kitchen; the circulating librarian in the parlours; the Italian nobleman, who dealt in cameos an coral and bric-a-brac jewelry, in the drawing-room; the Belgian basso, who smoked such strong tobacco, and cleared his throat with such alarming vehemence, in the second floor back; and the German teacher, in ignorance of his intended forcible change of domicile, in the attic; all these slept the sleep of the just, and snored the snores c the weary; while Pauline, half undressed, lay on her bed, with eyes indeed half closed, but with her brain active and at work. In the middle of the night, warned by the rapid decrease of her candle that in a few minutes she would be in darkness, she rose from the bed, and taking from her carpet-bag a small neat blotting-book, she sat dowat the table, and in a thin, clear, legible hand, to the practised eye eminently suggestive of hotel bills, wrote the following letter:
 
 
"19A Poland-street, Soho.
 
"Monsieur,--As a Frenchwoman domiciled in England, the name of Monsieur Calverley has become familiar to me as that of a gentleman--ah, the true English word!--who is renowned as one of the most constant and liberal benefactors to all kinds of charities for distressed foreigners. Do not start, monsieur; do not turn aside or put away this letter in the idea that you have already arrived exactly at its meaning and intention. Naturally enough you think that the writer is about to throw herself on your mercy, and to implore you for money, or for admission into one of those asylums towards the support of which you do so much. It is not so, monsieur; though, were my circumstances different, it is to you I should apply, knowing that your ear is never deaf to such complaint. I have no want of money, though my soul is crushed; and I am well and strong in body, though my heart is wounded and bleeding, calamities for which, even in England, there are no hospitals nor doctors. Yet, monsieur, am I one of that clientèle which you have so nobly made your own--the foreigners in distress. Do you think that the only distressed foreigners are the people who want to give lessons, or get orders for wine and cigars, the poor governesses, the demoiselles de magasin, the émigrés of the Republic and the Empire? No, there is another kind of distressed foreigner,--the woman with a small sum, on which she must live for the rest of her days, in penury if she manages ill, in decent thrift if she manages well. Who will guide her? I am such a woman, monsieur. To my own country, where I have lost all ties, and where remain to me but sad memories, I will not return. In this land, where, if I have no ties, yet have I no sad memories, I will remain. I have a small sum of money, on the interest of which I must exist; and to you I apply, monsieur; you, the merchant prince, the patron and benefactor of my countrymen, to advise in the investment of this poor sum, and keep me from the hands of charlatans and swindlers, who otherwise would rob me of it. I await your gracious answer,
 
"Monsieur; and am
 
"Your servant,
 
"PALMYRE DU TERTRE."
 
 
The next morning Pauline conveyed this letter to the office in Mincing-lane, and asked to see Mr. Calverley; but on being told by a smart clerk that Mr. Calverley was out of town, visiting the iron works in the North, and would not be back for some days, she left the letter in the clerk's hands, and begged for an answer at his chief's convenience.
 
CHAPTER VII.  IN THE CITY.
 The descriptions of the great house of Calverley and Company given respectively by Mr. and Mrs. Calverley, though differing essentially in many particulars, had each a substratum of truth. The house had been founded half a century before by John Lorraine, the eldest son of a broken-down but ancient family in the north of England, who in very early years had been sent up to London to shift for himself, and arriving there with the conventional half-crown in his pocket, was, of course, destined to fame and fortune. Needless to say that, like so many other merchant princes, heroes of history far more veracious than this, his first experiences were those of struggling adversity. He kept the books, he ran the errands, he fetched and carried for his master--the old East-India agent in Great St. Helen's--and by his intelligence and industry he commended himself to the good graces of his superiors; and was not only able to maintain himself in a respectable position, but to provide for his two younger brothers, who were sipping from the fount of learning at the grammar-school of Penrith. These junior scions being brought to town, and applying themselves, not, indeed, with the same energy as their elder brother, but with a passable amount of interest and care to the duties set before them, were taken into partnership by John Lorraine when he went into business for himself, and helped, in a certain degree, to establish the fortunes of the house. Of these fortunes John Lorraine was the mainspring and the principal producer. He had wonderful powers of foresight; and uncommon shrewdness in estimating the chances of any venture proposed to him; and with all these he was bold and lucky; 'far too bold,' his old employers said, with shaking heads, as they saw him gradually but surely outstripping them in the race; 'far too lucky,' his detractors growled, when they saw speculations, which had been offered to them and promptly declined, prosper auriferously in John Lorraine's hands.
 
As soon as John Lorraine saw the tide of fortune strongly setting in, he took to himself a wife, the daughter of one of his City friends, a man of tolerable wealth and great experience, who in his early days had befriended the struggling boy, and who thought his daughter could not have achieved higher honour or greater happiness. Whatever honour or happiness may have accrued to the young lady on her marriage did not last long, for, shortly after giving birth to her first child, a daughter, she died; and thenceforward John Lorraine devoted his life to the little girl, and to the increased fortune which she was to inherit. When little Jane had arrived at a more than marriageable age, and from a pretty fubsy baby had grown into a thin, acidulated, opiniated woman (a result attributable to the manner in which she had been spoiled by her indulgent father), John Lorraine's mind was mainly exercised as to what manner of man would propose for her with a likelihood of success. Hitherto, love-affairs had been things almost unknown to his Jane, not from any unwillingness on her part to make their acquaintance, but principally because, notwithstanding the fortune which it was known she would bring to her husband, none of the few young men who from time to time dined solemnly in the old-fashioned house in Brunswick-square, or acted as cavalier to its mistress to the Antient Concerts, or the King's Theatre, could make up their minds to address her in anything but the most common phrases. That Miss Jane had a will of her own, and a tart manner of expressing her intention of having that will fulfilled, was also matter of common gossip. Stories were current among the clerks at Mincing-lane of the "wigging" which they had heard her administering to her father, when she drove down to fetch him away in her chariot, and when he kept her unduly waiting; the household servants in Brunswick-square had their opinion of Miss Jane's temper; and the tradesmen in the neighbourhood looked forward to the entrance of her thin, dark figure into their shops every Tuesday morning, for the performance of settling the books, with fear and trembling.
 
Old John Lorraine, fully appreciating his daughter's infirmities, though, partly from affection, partly from fear, he never took upon himself to rebuke them, began to think that the fairy prince who was to wake this morally slumbering virgin to a sense of something better, to larger views and higher aims, to domestic happiness and married bliss, would never arrive. He came at last, however, in the person of George Gurwood; a big, broad-shouldered, jovial fellow, who, as a son of another of Lorraine's early friends, had some time previously been admitted as a partner into the house. Everybody liked good-looking, jolly George Gurwood. Lambton Lorraine and Lowther Lorraine, who, though now growing elderly men, had retained their bachelor tastes and habits, and managed to get through a great portion of the income accruing to them from the business, were delighted with his jovial manners, his sporting tendencies, his convivial predilections. When the fact of George's paying his addresses to their niece was first promulgated, Lambton had a serious talk with his genial partner, warning him against tying himself for life to a woman with whom he had no single feeling in common. But George laughed at the caution, and declined to be guided by it. "Miss Lorraine was not much in his line," he said; "perhaps a little given to tea and psalm-smiting; but it would come all right: he should get her into a different way; and as the dear old guv'nor" (by which title George always affectionately spoke of his senior partner) "seemed to wish it he was not going to stand in the way. He wanted a home, and Jane should make him a jolly one, he'd take care of that."
 
Jane Lorraine married George Gurwood, but she did not make him a home. Her rigid bearing and unyielding temper were too strong for his plastic, pliable nature; for many months the struggle for mastery was carried on between them, but in the end George--jolly George no longer--gave way. He had made a tolerably good fight of it, and had used every means in his power to induce her to be less bitter, less furtive, less inexorable in the matter of his dinings-out, his sporting transactions, his constant desire to see his table surrounded by congenial company. "I have tried to gentle her," he said to Lowther Lorraine one day, "as I would a horse, and there has never been one of them yet that I could not coax and pet into good temper; I'd spend any amount of money on her, and let her have her own way in most things if she would only just let me have mine in a few. I have tried her with a sharp bit and a pair of 'persuaders,' but that was no more use than the gentling. She's as hard as nails, Lowther, my boy, and I don't see my way out of it, that's the truth. So come along and have a B and S."
 
If having a B and S--George's abbreviation for soda-water and brandy--would have helped him to see his way out of his difficulties, he would speedily have been able to perceive it, for thenceforward his consumption of that and many other kinds of liquids was enormous. Wretched in his home, George Gurwood took to drinking to drown care, but, as in most similar cases, the demon proved himself far too buoyant to be overwhelmed even by the amount which George poured upon him. He was drinking morning, noon, and night, and was generally in a more or less muddled state. When he went to business, which was now very seldom, some of the clerks in the office laughed at him, which was bad enough, while others pitied him, which was worse. The story of George's dissipation was carefully kept from John Lorraine, who had virtually retired from the business, and devoted himself to nursing his rheumatism, and to superintending the education of his grandson, a fine boy of five or six years of age; but Lambton and Lowther held many colloquies together, the end of them all being that they agreed they could not tell what was to be done with George Gurwood. What was to be done with him was soon settled by George Gurwood himself. Even his powerful constitution had been unable to withstand the ravages which constant drinking had inflicted upon it. He was seized with an attack of delirium tremens while attending a race-meeting at Warwick, and during the temporary absence of the night-nurse jolly George Gurwood terminated his earthly career by jumping from the bedroom window of the hotel into the yard below.
 
Then it was that the investigation of the affairs of the firm, consequent upon the death of one of the partners, revealed the serious state in which matters stood. All the name and fame, the large fortune, the enormous colonial business, the commercial credit which John Lorraine had spent his life in building up, had been gradually crumbling away. Two years more of this decadence, such as the perusal of the firm's books exhibited had taken place during the last ten years, and the great house of Lorraine Brothers would be in the Bankruptcy Court. Then it was that Mr. Calverley, hitherto known only as a plodding reliable head-clerk, thoroughly conversant with all details of business, but never having shown any peculiar capabilities, came forward and made his mark. At the meeting of the creditors he expounded his views so lucidly, and showed so plainly how, by reorganising the business in every department, it could once more be put on a safe and proper footing, and reinstated in its old position as one of the leading houses in the City, that the helm was at once put into his hands. So safely and so prosperously did he steer the ship, that, before old John Lorraine died, he saw the business in Mincing-lane, though no longer conducted under its old name (Mr. Calverley had made a point of that, and had insisted on claiming whatever was due to his ability and exertions), more flourishing than in its best days; while Lambton and Lowther, who had been paid out at the reorganisation of affairs, and had thought themselves very lucky at escaping being sucked-in by the expected whirlpool, were disgusted at the triumphant results of the operations of a man by whom they had set so little store, and complained indignantly of their ill-treatment.
 
And then John Calverley, who, as one of the necessities involved in carrying out his business transactions, had been frequently brought into communication with the widowed Mrs. Gurwood, first conceived the idea of making her an offer of marriage. Nearly forty years of his life had been spent in a state of bachelorhood, though he had not been without the comforts of a home. He was thoroughly domesticated by nature, simple in his tastes, shy and shrinking from society, and so engrossed by his unceasing labour during the day, that it was his happiness at night to put aside from his mind everything relating, however remotely, to his City toil, and to sit drinking his tea, and placidly chatting, reading, or listening to his old mother, from whom since his childhood he had never been separated. The first great grief of John Calverley's life, the death of this old lady, took place very shortly after he had assumed the reins of government in Mincing-lane and since then his home had been dull and cheerless. He sorely felt the want of a companion, but he knew nobody whom he could ask to share his lot. He had but rare opportunities of making the acquaintance of any ladies, but Mrs. Gurwood had been thrown in his way by chance, and, after some little hesitation, he ventured to propose to her. The proposition was not disagreeable to Jane Gurwood. For some time past she had felt the loss of some constantly present object on which to vent her bile; her tongue and her temper were both becoming rusty by disuse; and in the meek, pleasant little man, now rich and well-to-do, she thought she saw a very fitting recipient for both. So John Calverley and Jane Gurwood were married, with what result we have already seen.
 
The offices in Mincing-lane remained pretty much in the same state as they had been in old John Lorraine's day. They had been painted, of course, many times since he first entered upon their occupation, but in the heart of the City the brilliancy of paint does not last very long, and in a very few months after the ladders and the scaffoldings had been removed, the outside woodwork relapsed into its state of grubbiness. There was a talk at one time of making some additions to the building, to provide accommodation for the increased staff of clerks which it had been found necessary to engage; but Mr. Calverley thought that the rooms originally occupied by Lambton and Lowther Lorraine would do very well for the newly-appointed young gentlemen, and there accordingly they set up their high desks and stools, their enormous ledgers and day-books. The elderly men, who had been John Lorraine's colleagues and subordinates in bygone days, still remained attached to the business; but their employer, not unmindful of the good services they had rendered, and conscious, perhaps, that without their aid he might have had some difficulty in carrying out his reorganisation so successfully, took means to lighten their duties and to place them rather in the position of overseers and superintendents, leaving the grinding desk-work to be performed by their juniors. Of these young gentlemen there were several. They inhabited the lower floor of the warehouse, and the most presentable of them were told-off to see any stray customers that might enter. The ships' captains, the brokers, and the consignees, knew their way about the premises, and passed in and out unheeded; but occasionally strangers arrived with letters of introduction, or foreign merchants put in a fantastic appearance, and for the benefit of these there was a small glazed waiting-room set apart, with one or other of the presentable clerks to attend to them.
 
About a fortnight after Pauline's first visit, about the middle of the day, Mr. Walker, one of the clerks, entered the large office and proceeded to hang up his hat and to doff his coat, preparatory to putting on a sporting-looking garment made of shepherd's-plaid, with extremely short tails, and liberally garnished with ink-spots. Judging from his placid, satisfied appearance, and from the fact that he carried a toothpick between his lips, which he was elegantly chewing, one might have guessed without fear of contradiction, that Mr. Walker had just returned from dinner.
 
"You shouldn't hurry yourself in this way, Postman, you really shouldn't," said Mr. Briscoe, one of the presentable clerks aforenamed. "You will spoil your digestion if you do; and fancy what a calamity that would be to a man of your figure. You have only been out an hour and a quarter, and I understand they have sent round from Lake's to Newgate Market for some more joints."
 
"Don't you be funny, William," said Mr. Walker, wiping his lips, and slowly climbing on to his stool; "it isn't in your line, and you might hurt yourself."
 
"Hurt myself!" echoed Mr. Briscoe. "I will hurt you, and spoil your appetite too, when I get the chance, keeping a fellow hanging on here, waiting for his luncheon, while you are gorging yourself to repletion for one and ninepence. Only you wait till next week, when it's my turn to go out at one, and you will see what a twist I'll give you. However, one comfort is, I'm off at last." And Mr. Briscoe jumped from his seat, and proceeded towards the hat-pegs.
 
"No, you're not," said Mr. Walker, who had commenced a light dessert on a half-hundred of walnuts, which he had purchased at a stall on his way; "there's a party just come into the private office, William, and as you're picked out for that berth on account of your beauty and superior manners, you will have to attend to her. A female party, do you hear, William; so, brush your hair, and pull down your wristbands, and make a swell of yourself."
 
Mr. Briscoe looked with great disgust towards the partition through the dulled glass, on which he saw the outline of a female figure; then, stepping across, he opened a pane in the glass, and inquired what was wanted.
 
"I called here some time ago," said Pauline, for it was she, "and left a letter for Mr. Calverley. I was told he was out of town, but would return in a few days. Perhaps he is now here?"
 
"Mr. Calverley has returned," said Mr. Briscoe, in his most fascinating manner, a compound of the familiarity with which he addressed the waitresses in the eating-houses and the nonchalance with which he regarded the duchesses in the Park. "I believe he is engaged just now, but I will let him know you are here. What name shall I say?"
 
"Say Madame Du Tertre, if you please," said Pauline; "and mention that he has already had a letter from me."
 
Mr. Briscoe bowed, and delivered his message through a speaking-tube which communicated with Mr. Calverley's room. In reply he was instructed to bring the lady upstairs; and bidding Pauline follow him, he at once introduced her into the presence of his chief.
 
As his visitor entered, Mr. Calverley rose from the desk at which he was seated, and graciously motioned her to a chair, looking hard at her from under his light eyebrows meanwhile.
 
Pauline was the first to speak. After she had seated herself, and Mr. Calverley had resumed his place at his desk, she leaned forward and said, "I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Calverley?"
 
"That is my name," said John, with a bow and a pleasant smile. "In what way can I have the pleasure of being of service to you?"
 
"You speak kindly, Mr. Calverley, and your appearance is just what I had expected. You received a letter from me--a strange letter you thought it; is it not so?"
 
"Well," said John, "it was not the sort of letter I have been in the habit of receiving; it was not strictly a business kind of letter, you know."
 
"It was not addressed to you in your strictly business capacity, Mr. Calverley; it was written from the heart, a thing which does not often enter into business matters, I believe. It was written because I have heard of you as a man of benevolence and charity, interested in the fate of foreigners and exiles, able, if willing, to do what I wish."
 
"My dear madam," said John Calverley, "I fear you much exaggerate any good qualities I may possess. The very nature of my business throws me into constant communication with people from other countries, and if they are unfortunate I endeavour to help them to the best of my power. Such power is limited to the giving away of small sums of money, and helping them to return to their native country, to getting them employment if they desire to remain here, or recommending them to hospitals if they are ill; but yours is a peculiar case, if I recollect your letter rightly. I have it here, and can refer to it--"
 
"There is no occasion to do that. I can explain more fully and more promptly by word of mouth. Mine is, as you say, a peculiar case. I am the daughter of a retired officer of artillery, who lived at Lyons. At his death I married Monsieur Du Tertre, who was engaged as a traveller for one of the large silk factories there. He was frequently coming to England, and spoke the language well. He taught it to me, and I, to aid an income which was but small, taught it again to several pupils in my native city. My husband, like most Frenchmen of his class, took a vivid interest in politics, and was mixed up in several of the more prominent Republican societies. One day, immediately after his return from a foreign journey, he was arrested, and since then, save on the day of his trial. I have not set eyes upon him. I know not where he is; he may be in the cachots of Mont Saint Michele; he may be kept au secret in the Conciergerie; he may be exiled to Cayenne--I know not. All I know is, I shall never see him again. 'Avec ces gens-là il faut en finir,' was all the reply I could get to my inquiries--they must be finished, done with, stamped out, what you will. There," continued Pauline, brushing her eyes with her handkerchief, "it is not often that I give way, monsieur; my life is too stern and too hard for that. After he was taken from me I could remain in Lyons no longer. It is not alone upon the heads of families that the Imperial Government revenges itself; so I came away to England, bringing with me all that I had saved, all that I could scrape together, after selling everything we possessed, and the result is that I have, monsieur, a sum of two thousand pounds, which I wish to place in your hands, begging you to invest it in such a manner as will enable me to live honestly, and with something like decency, for the remainder of my days."
 
John Calverley had listened to this recital with great attention, and when Pauline ceased speaking, he said to her with a half-grave smile:
 
"The remainder of your days, madam, is likely, I hope, to be a tolerably long period; for you are evidently quite a young woman. Now, with regard to your proposition, you yourself say it is unbusiness-like, and I must confess it strikes me as being so in the highest degree. You know nothing of me, beyond seeing my name as a subscriber to certain charities, or having heard it mentioned as that of a man who takes some interest in assisting foreigners in distress; and yet you offer to place in my hands what constitutes your entire fortune, and intrust me with the disposal of it. I really do not think," said John Calverley, hesitating, "I can possibly undertake--"
 
"One moment, Mr. Calverley," said Pauline. "The responsibility of declining to take this money will be far greater than of accepting it; for if you decline to act for me, I will consult no one else; I will act on my own impulse, and shall probably either invest the sum in some swindling company, or squander and spend it."
 
"You must not do that," said John promptly; "you must not think of doing that. Two thousand pounds is not a very large sum of money; but properly invested, a lady without encumbrance," said John, with a dim recollection of the formula of servants' advertisements, "might live very comfortably on the interest, more especially if she had no home to keep up."
 
"But, monsieur, I must always have a home, a lodging, a something to live in," said Pauline with a shrug.
 
"Yes, of course," said John Calverley, rather absently; for at that moment a notable plan had suggested itself to him, and he was revolving it in his mind. "Where are you living now, Madame Du Tertre?"
 
"I have a lodging--a bed-room--in Poland-street," she replied.
 
"Dear me," said John Calverley, in horrified amazement. "Poland-street? I know, of course; back of the Pantheon--very stuffy and grimy, children playing battledore and shuttlecock in the street, organ-men and fish-barrows, and all that kind of thing; not at all pleasant."
 
"No," said Pauline, with a repetition of her shrug; "but beggars have no choice, as the proverb says."
 
"Did it ever occur to you," said John nervously, "that you might become a companion to a lady--quite comfortable, you know, and well treated, made one of the family, in point of fact?" he added, again recurring to the advertisement formula.
 
Pauline's eyes glistened at once, but her voice was quite calm as she said: "I have never thought of such a thing. I don't know whether I should like it. It would, of course, depend upon the family."
 
"Of course," assented John. "I was thinking of-- Do you play the piano, Madame Du Tertre?"
 
"O yes, sufficiently well."
 
"Ah," said John unconsciously, "some of it does go a long way. Well, I was thinking that perhaps--"
 
"Mrs. Calverley, sir," said Mr. Briscoe, throwing open the door.
 
Mrs. Calverley walked into the room, looking so stern and defiant that her husband saw he must take immediate action to prevent the outbreak of a storm. Since that evening in Great Walpole-street, when John Calverley had plucked up his spirit, and ventured to assert himself, his wife, though cold and grim as ever, had kept more outward control over her temper, and had almost ceased to give vent to the virulent raillery in which she formerly indulged. Like most despots she had been paralysed when her meek slave rebelled against her tyranny, and had stood in perpetual fear of him ever since.
 
"You come at a very opportune moment, Jane," said John Calverley.
 
"It scarcely seems so," said his wife, from between her closed lips. "I was afraid I might be regarded as an unpleasant interruption to a private interview."
 
"It is I, madam," said Pauline, rising, "who am the interrupter here. My business with Mr. Calverley is ended, and I will now retire."
 
"Pray stay, Madame Du Tertre," said John, motioning her again to her chair.--"This lady, Jane, is Madame Du Tertre, a foreigner and a stranger in England."
 
"But not a stranger to the history of Madame Calverley," said Pauline, rising gracefully; "not a stranger to the beneficence, the charities, the piety of Mademoiselle Lorraine; not a stranger," she added, in a lower tone, "to the sainted sufferings of Madame Gurwood. Ah, madame, though I have been but a very short time in this great city of London, I have heard of you, of your religion, and your goodness, and I am honoured in the opportunity of being able to kiss your hand." And suiting the action to the word, Pauline took Jane Calverley's plum-coloured gauntlet into her own neatly-gloved palm and pressed it to her lips.
 
Mrs. Calverley was so taken aback at this performance, that, beyond muttering "not worthy" and "too generous," she said nothing. But her husband marked the faint blush of satisfaction which spread over her clay-coloured complexion, and took advantage of the impression made to say:
 
"Madame Du Tertre, my dear Jane, is a French lady, a widow with a small fortune, which she wishes me to invest for her in the best way possible. In the mean time she is a stranger here in London, as I said before, and she has no comfortable lodging and no friends. I thought perhaps that, as I am compelled by business to be frequently absent from home, and am likely to continue to be so, it might break the loneliness of your life if Madame Du Tertre, who speaks our language well, and plays the piano, and is no doubt generally accomplished, might come as your visitor for a short time, and then if you found you suited each other, one might make some more permanent arrangement."
 
When Jane Calverley first entered the room and saw a lady gossipping with her husband, she thought she had discovered the means of bringing him to shame, and making his life a burden to him. Now in his visitor she saw, as she thought, a woman possessing qualities such as she admired, but for which she never gave her husband credit, and one who might render her efficient aid in her life's campaign against him. Even if what had been told her were false, and that this woman were an old friend of his, as a visitor in Great Walpole-street Mrs. Calverley would have her under her own eye, and she believed sufficiently in her own powers of penetration to enable her to judge of the relations between them. So that, after a little more talk, the visit was determined on, and it was arranged that the next day Madame Du Tertre should remove to her new quarters.
 
"And now," said Pauline, as she knocked at Mr. Mogg's door, whither the Calverley's carriage had brought her, "and now, Monsieur Tom Durham, gare à vous! for this day I have laid the beginning of the train which, sooner or later, shall blow your newly-built castle of happiness into the air!"
 
CHAPTER VIII.  THE VICAR OF LULLINGTON.
 Jolly George Gurwood's only child, tie little boy whom his grandfather, old John Lorraine, made so much of during the latter years of his life, after having been educated at Marlborough and Oxford, was admitted into holy orders, and, at the time of our story, was Vicar of Lullington, a rural parish, about one hundred and twenty miles from London, on the great Northern road. A pleasant place Lullington for a lazy man. A quiet, sleepy little village of half a hundred houses, scattered here and there, with a chirpy little brook singing its way through what was supposed the the principal street, and hurrying onwards though great broad tracts of green pasturage, where in the summer time the red-brown cattle drank of it, and cooled their heated limbs in its refreshing tide, until it was finally swallowed up in the silver Trent.
 
Lullington Church was not a particularly picturesque edifice, for it resembled a large barn, with a square, weather-beaten tower at one end of it; nor was the churchyard at all likely to be provocative of an elegy, or of anything but rheumatism, being a damp, dreary little spot, with most of its tombstones covered with green moss, and with a public footpath, with a stile at either end, running through the middle of it. But to the artists wandering through that part of the country (they were not numerous, for Notts and Lincoln have not much to offer to the sketcher), the vicarage made up for the shortcomings of the church. It was a square, old-fashioned, red-bricked house, standing in the midst of a garden full of greenery; and whereas the church looked time-worn and cold, and had even on the brightest summer day, a teeth-chattering, gruesome appearance, the vicarage had a jolly cheerful expression, and when the sun gleamed on its little diamond-shaped windows, with their leaden casements, you were inexplicably reminded of a red-faced, genial old gentleman, whose eyes were twinkling in delight at some funny story which he had just heard.
 
It was just the home for a middle-aged man with a wife and family; for it had a large number of rooms of all kinds and shapes, square bed-chambers, triangular nooks, long passages, large attics, wherein was accommodation for half-a-dozen servants, and ramshackle stables, where as many horses could be stowed away. It was just the house for a man of large means, who would not object to devoting a certain portion of his leisure to his parochial duties, but whose principal occupation would be in his garden or his greenhouses. Such a man was Martin Gurwood's predecessor, who had held the living for fifty years, and had seen some half-score boys and girls issue from the vicarage into the world to marry and settle themselves in various ways of life. The Reverend Anthony Camden was known as a rose-grower throughout three adjoining counties, and had even obtained special prizes at Crystal-Palace and Botanical-Garden shows. He was a bit of a fisherman too, and had been in his younger days something of a shot. Not being much of a reader, except of the Field and the Gardeners' Chronicle, he would have found the winter evenings dull, had it not been for the excitement of perpetually re-arranging his large collection of moths and butterflies, renewing their corks and pins, and putting fresh pieces of camphor into the corners of the glazed drawers which contained them. Mr. Camden knew all about crops and manure, and sub-soiling and drainage; the farmers for miles round used to come to the vicarage to consult him, and he always gave them beer and advice both of the best quality. He played long-whist and preached short sermons; and when he died in a green old age, it was universally voted in Lullington and its neighbourhood, that it would be impossible to replace him.
 
Certainly, there could not have been a more marked contrast than between him and his successor. Martin Gurwood was a man of six-and-twenty, unmarried, with apparently no thought in life beyond his sacred calling and the duties appertaining to it. Only half the rooms in the vicarage were furnished; and, except on such rare occasions as his mother or some of his friends coming to stay with him, only two of them on the ground-floor, one the vicar's study, the other his bed-chamber, were used. The persistent entreaties of his old housekeeper had induced him to relent from his original intention of allowing the garden to go to rack and ruin, and it was accordingly handed over to the sexton, who in so small a community had but little work in his own particular line, and who kept up the old-fashioned flowers and the smooth-shaven lawns in which their late owner had so much delighted. But Martin Gurwood took no interest in the garden himself, and only entered it occasionally of an evening, when he would stroll up and down the lawn, or one of the gravel walks, with his head bent forward and his hands clasped behind him, deep in meditation. He kept a horse, certainly--a powerful big-boned Irish hunter--but he only rode her by fits and starts, sometimes leaving her in the stable for weeks together, dependent on such exercise as she could obtain in the spare moments of her groom, at other times persistently riding her day after day, no matter what might be the weather. On those occasions the vicar did not merely go out for a mild constitutional, to potter round the outskirts of his parish, or to trot over to the market-town; he was out for hours at a stretch, and generally brought the mare home heated and foam-flecked. Indeed, more than one of his parishioners had seen their spiritual guide riding across country, solitary indeed, but straight, as though he were marking out the line for a steeple-chase, stopping neither for hedge, bank, nor brook, the Irish mare flying all in her stride, her rider sitting with his hands down on her withers, his lips compressed, and his face deadly pale. "Tekkin it out of hisself, mebbe," said Farmer Barford, when his son described to him this sight which he had seen that afternoon; "for all he's so close, and so meek and religious, there's a spice of the devil in him as in every other man; and, Bill, my boy, that's the way he takes it out of hisself." Thus Farmer Barford, and to this effect spoke several of the parishioners in committee assembled over their pipes and beer at the Dun Cow.
 
They did not hint anything of the kind to the vicar himself, trust them for that! Martin Gurwood could not be called popular amongst the community in which his lot was cast; he was charitable to a degree, lavish with his money, thinking nothing of passing days and nights by the bedside of the sick, contributing more than half the funds necessary for the maintenance of the village schools, accessible at all times, and ready with such advice or assistance as the occasion demanded; but yet they called him "high and standoffish." Old Mr.. Camden, making a house-to-house visitation perhaps once a year, when the fit so seized him, "going his rounds," as he called it, would sit down to dinner in a farm-house kitchen, or take a mug of beer with the farmer while they talked about crops, and occasionally would preside at a harvest-home supper, or a Christmas gathering. Martin Gurwood did nothing of this kind; he was always polite, invariably courteous, but he never courted anything like fellowship or bonhomie. He had joined the village cricket-club on his first arrival, and showed himself an excellent and energetic player; but the familiarity engendered in the field seemed displeasing to him, and though he continued his subscription, he gradually withdrew from active membership. Nor was his religious ardour particularly pleasing to the parishioners, who, under Mr. Camden's lax rule, had thought it sufficient if they put-in an appearance at morning service, and thus cleared off the debt of attendance until the succeeding Sunday. They could not understand what the parson meant by having prayers at eight o'clock every morning: who did he expect would go at such a time, they wondered? Not they, nor their men, who were far away in the fields before that time; not the missuses, who had the dairy and the house to attend to; not the girls, who were looking after the linen and minding the younger children; nor the boys, who, if not at school, were out at farm-work. It was all very well for the two Miss Dyneleys, the two maiden ladies living at Ivy Cottage, who had money coming in regular, paid them by the Government (the Lullington idea of consols was not particularly clear), and had naught to do from morning till night; it filled-up their time like, and was a kind of amusement to them. All very well for old Mr. Willis, who had made his fortune, it was said, by being a tailor in London, who had bought the Larches where Squire Needham used to live in the good old times, who could not ride, or drive, or shoot, or fish, or do anything but walk about his garden with a spud over his shoulders, and who was said to be dying to get back to business. These and some two or three of the bigger girls from the Miss Gilks's seminary for young ladies, were all that attended at "Mattins," as the name of the morning service stood in Early-english type on the index-board in the churchyard; but Martin Garwood persevered and went through the service with as much earnestness and devotion as though the church had been full and the bishop of the diocese seated in the vicar's pew.
 
There was the usual element of squirearchy in the neighbourhood, and on Martin's first introduction into its parish the squires' wives drove over, leaving their own and their husbands' cards, and invitations to dinner, duly arranged for a time when the moon was at its full. Mr. Gurwood responded to these invitations, and made his appearance at the various banquets. Accustomed to old Mr. Camden with his red face, his bald head, his white whiskers, and black suit cut in the fashion of a quarter of a century ago, the county people were at first rather impressed with Martin Gurwood's thin handsome face, and small well-dressed figure. It was a relief, the women said, to see a gentleman amongst them, and they were all certain that Mr. Gurwood would be an acquisition to the local society; but as the guests were driving homeward from the first of these feasts, several of the male convives imparted to their wives their idea that the new Vicar of Lullington was not merely unfit to hold a candle to his predecessor, but was likely to prove a meddlesome, disagreeable fellow. It seemed that after the ladies had retired, the conversation becoming as usual rather free, Mr. Gurwood had sat in blank, stony silence, keeping his eyes steadily fixed upon the contents of his dessert plate, and neither by look nor word giving the slightest intimation that he was aware of what was going on. But when rallied from his silence by Mr. Lidstone, a man of low tastes and small education, but enormously wealthy, Mr. Gurwood had spoken out and declared that if by indulging in such conversation, and telling such stories, they chose to ignore the respect due to themselves, they ought at least, while he was among them, to recollect the respect due to him, and to the calling which he represented. He had no desire to assume the character of a wet blanket or a kill-joy, but they must understand that for the future they must chose between his presence and the indulgence in such conversation; and as they had evidently not expected any such demonstration in the present instance, he would relieve them of his company at once, and leave them to decide whether or not he should again come amongst them as a guest. So saying, the parson had walked out of the window on to the lawn as cool as a cucumber, and left the squirearchy gaping in astonishment.
 
They were Boeotian, these county people, crass, ignorant, and rusted with prejudice from want of contact with the world, but they were by no means bad-hearted, and they took the parson's remonstrance in very good part. Each one who had already sent Martin Gurwood an invitation, managed to grip his hand before the evening was over, and took occasion to renew it, declaring he should have no occasion to reiterate the remarks which he had just made, and which they perfectly understood. Nor had he; he went a round of these solemn festivities, finding each one, both during the presence of the ladies and after their withdrawal, perfectly decorous, but unspeakably dull. He had not been sufficiently long in the neighbourhood for the local gossip to possess the smallest interest to him; he was not sufficient of an agriculturist to discuss the different methods of farming or the various qualities of food; he could talk about Oxford indeed, where some of his hosts or their friends had young relations whom he had known; he could and did sing well certain Italian songs in a rich tenor voice; and he discussed church architecture and decorations with the young ladies. But the old squires and the young squires cared for none of these things. They remembered how old Anthony Camden would sit by while the broadest stories were told, looking, save from the twinkle in his eye and the curling of his bulbous nether lip, as though he heard them not; with what feeling he would troll out a ballad of Dibdin's, or a bacchanalian ditty; and how the brewing of the bowl of punch, the "stirrup-cup," was always intrusted to his practised hand. Martin Gurwood took a glass of cold water before leaving; and if he were dining out any distance always had the one hired fly of the neighbourhood to convey him back to the vicarage. No wonder that the laughter-loving, roisterous squires shook their heads when they thought of old Anthony Camden, and mourned over the glories of those departed days.
 
Martin Gurwood was not, however, at Lullington just now. He had induced an old college friend to look after the welfare of his parishioners while he ran up, as he did once or twice in the year, to stay for a fortnight with his mother in Great Walpole-street. John Calverley, who had a strong liking for Martin, a feeling which the vicar cordially reciprocated, was anxious that his step-son should come to them at Christmas; being an old-fashioned soul with a belief in holly and yule logs, and kindly greetings and open-hearted charities, at what he invariably spoke of as that "festive season," and having an intense desire to interpose at such a time a friendly aegis between him and the stony-faced Gorgon, whom it was his lot through life to confront. But Martin Gurwood, regarding the Christmas season in a very different light, urged that at such a time it would be impossible for him to absent himself from his duties, and after his own frigid manner refused to be tempted by the convivial blandishments which John held out to him, or to be scared by the picture of the grim loneliness of the vicarage which his stepfather drew for his edification. So, in the early days of November, when the Lullington farmers were getting well into their hunting, and the London fogs, scarcely long enough to embrace the entire length of Great Walpole-street, blotted out its middle and its lower end, leaving the upper part comparatively bright and airy, Martin Gurwood came to town and took up his abode in Mrs. Calverley's best spare bedroom.
 
The other spare bedroom in the house was occupied by Madame Pauline Du Tertre, who had for some time been installed there, and had regularly taken up her position as the friend of the family and confidential adviser to the female head of the house. Immediately on gaining her footing within the walls, Pauline had succeeded in establishing herself in the good graces of the self-contained, silent woman, who hitherto had never known what it was to have any one to share her confidences, to listen patiently to her never-ceasing complaints, and to be able and willing to make little suggestions which chimed-in with Mrs. Calverley's thoughts and wishes. Years ago, before her first marriage, Jane Calverley had had a surfeit of toadyism and flattery from her poor relations and dependants, and from the servants, who cringed to and fawned upon the young girl as though they had been southern slaves and she their owner. But in George Gurwood's days, and since her marriage with her second husband, Mrs. Calverley had made no friends, and even those whose interest it was to stand well with her had found it impossible to break through the barriers of icy reserve with which she surrounded herself. They did not approach her in the proper manner perhaps, they did not go to work in the right way. Commonly bred and ill-educated people as they were, they imagined that the direct road to Jane Calverley's favour lay in pitying her and speaking against her husband, with whom she was plainly at strife. As is usual with such people, they overacted their parts; they spoke strongly and bitterly in their denunciation of Mr. Calverley; they were coarse, and their loud-trumpeted compassion for their mistress jarred upon its recipient. Jane Calverley was a proud as well as a hard woman, and her mind revolted against the idea of being openly compassionated by her inferiors; so she kept her confidences rigidly locked in her own breast, and Pauline's was the first hand to press a spring by which the casket was opened.
 
Before the Frenchwoman had been in the house twenty-four hours, she had learned exactly the relations of its inmates, and as much as has been already set forth in these pages of their family history. She had probed the characters of the husband and the wife, had listened to the mother's eulogies of her saintly son, and had sighed and shaken her head in seeming condolence over the vividly-described shortcomings of Mr. Calverley. Without effusion, and with only the dumb sympathy conveyed by her eloquent eyes and gestures, Pauline managed to lead her new-found friend, now that she comprehended her domestic troubles, and would do her best to aid her in getting rid of them, and in many other ways she made herself useful and agreeable to the cold, friendless woman who was her hostess. She re-arranged the furniture of the dreary drawing-room, lighting it up here and there with such flowers as were procurable, and with evergreens, which she bought herself; she covered the square formal chairs and couches with muslin antimacassars, and gave the room, what it had never hitherto had, the semblance of a woman's presence. She accomplished what everybody had imagined to be an impossibility, an alteration in the style of Mrs. Calverley's costume; she made with her own hands a little elegant cap with soft blond falling from it, which took away from that rigid outline of the chin; and instead of the wisp of black net round her throat, she induced Mrs. Calverley to wear a neat white muslin handkerchief across her chest. The piano, seldom touched, save when Mrs. Calverley, in an extraordinary good temper, would, for her husband's edification, thump and strum away at an overture in Semiramide and other set pieces, which she had learned in her youth, was now regularly brought into use, and in the evening Pauline would seat herself at it, playing long selections from Mendelssohn and Beethoven, or singing religious songs by Mozart, the listening to which made John Calverley supremely happy, and even brought something like moisture into his wife's steely eyes. It is probable that had Mrs. Calverley had any notion that these songs were the composition of a Roman Catholic, and were many of them used in what she was accustomed to speak of as "Popish ceremonies," she would never have been induced even to listen to them; but with unerring judgment Pauline had at once divined this phase in her employer's character, and, while the particular sect to which she belonged was of no importance to herself, had taken care to make Mrs. Calverley understand that Luther had no more devoted adherent.
 
"She is a Huguenot, my dear," said Mrs. Calverley to Martin Gurwood, shortly after his arrival, and before she had presented him to the new inmate of the house; "a Huguenot of ancient family, who lost all their property a long time ago by the revocation of the edict of somebody--Nancy, I think, was the name. You will find her a most amiable person, richly endowed with good gifts, and calculated, should she not suffer from the evil effects of Mr. Calverley's companionship, to prove an inestimable blessing to me."
 
Martin Gurwood expressed himself well pleased to hear this account of his mother's new-found friend; but, on being presented to Pauline, he scarcely found the description realised. His natural cleverness had been sharpened by his public-school and university education; and, though during the last few years of his life he had been buried in comparative obscurity, he retained sufficient knowledge of the world to perceive that a woman like Madame Du Tertre, bright, clever, to a certain degree accomplished, and possessing immense energy and power of will, would not have relegated herself to such a life as she was then leading without having a strong aim to gain. And what that aim was he was determined to find out.
 
But, though these were Martin Gurwood's thoughts, he never permitted a trace of them to appear in his manner to Madame Du Tertre, which was scrupulously courteous, if nothing more. Perhaps it was from his mother that he inherited a certain cold propriety of bearing and frigidity of demeanour, which his acquaintances generally complained of. The farmers of Lullington, comparing it with the geniality of their previous pastor, found it insufferable; and his college friends, who had come in contact with him of late years, thought he was a totally changed being from the high-spirited fellow who had been one of the noisiest athletes of his day. Certain it was that he was now pensive and reserved; nay more, that when out of Lullington in company--that is to say, either with any of his former colleagues, or of a few persons who were visitors at the house in Great Walpole-street--he seemed desirous almost of shunning observation, and of studiously keeping in the back-ground, when his mother's pride in him would have made him take a leading part in any conversation that might be going on. Before he had been two days in the house Pauline's quick instinct had detected this peculiarity, and she had mentally noted it among the things which, properly worked, might help her to the elucidation of the plan to which she had devoted her life. She determined on making herself agreeable to this young man, on forcing him into a certain amount of intimacy and companionship; and so skilful were her tactics, that, without absolute rudeness, Martin Gurwood found it impossible entirely to withdraw from her advances.
 
One night she challenged him to chess, and during the intervals of the game she endeavoured to learn more of him than she had hitherto been able to do in mere desultory conversation in the presence of others.
 
Mrs. Calverley was hard at work at the Berlin-wool frame, putting the final touches to Jael and Sisera; John Calverley, with the newspaper in his lap, was fast asleep in his easy-chair; and the chess-players were at the far end of the room, with a shaded lamp between them.
 
They formed a strange contrast this couple: he, with his wavy chestnut hair, his thin red-and-white, clear-cut, whiskerless face, his shifting blue eyes, and his weak irresolute mouth; she, with her olive complexion, her blue-black hair, her steady earnest gaze, her square firm jaw, and the deep orange trimmings of her black silk dress, showing off strangely against her companion's sable-hued clerical dress.
 
"You are too strong for me, monsieur," said Pauline, at the conclusion of the first game; "but I will not yield you the victory without a farther struggle."
 
"I was going to say you played an excellent game, Madame Du Tertre; but after your remark, it would sound: as though I were complimenting myself," said Martin. "I have but few opportunities for chess-playing now, but it was a favourite game of mine at college; and I knew many a man who prided himself on his play whose head for it was certainly not so good as yours."
 
"You have not many persons in your--what you call your parish--who play chess?"
 
"No, indeed," said Martin; "cribbage I believe to be the highest flight in that line amongst the farmers."
 
"Madame Calverley has explained to me the style of place that it is. Is it not wearisome to you to a degree to pass your existence in such a locale amongst such a set of people?"
 
"It is my duty, Madame Du Tertre," said Martin, "and I do not repine."
 
"Ah, monsieur," said Pauline, with an inclination of her head and downcast eyes, "I am the last person in the world to rebel against duty, or to allow that it should not be undertaken in that spirit of Christianity which you have shown. But are you sure, Monsieur Martin, that you are acting rightly? However good your intentions may be, with your devotion to the cause you have espoused, and with your great talents, you should be taking a leading position in the great battle of religion; whereas, by burying yourself in this hole, there you lose for yourself the opportunity of fame, while the Church loses a brilliant leader."
 
"I have no desire for fame, Madame Du Tertre; and if I can only do my duty diligently, it is enough for me."
 
"Yes; but there is another thing. Pardon me, Monsieur Martin, I am a strange woman and some years older than you, so that you must not think me guilty of an impertinence in speaking freely to you. Your Church--our Church--does not condemn its ministers to an ascetic or a celibate life--that is one of the wildest errors of Romanism. Has it never struck you that in consenting to remain amongst persons with whom you have nothing in common--where you are never likely to meet a woman calculated so to excite your admiration and affection as to induce you to make her your wife, you are rather following the Roman than the Protestant custom?"
 
A faint flush, duly marked by Pauline's keen eyes, passed over Martin Gurwood's handsome features. "I have no intention of marrying," he said, in a low voice.
 
"Not now perhaps," said Pauline, "because you have not yet seen anyone whom you could love. A man of your taste and education is always fastidious; but, depend upon it, you will some day find some lovely girl of ancient family who--"
 
"It will be time enough then to speak of it, Madame Du Tertre, would it not?" said Martin Gurwood, flushing again. "Now, if you please, we will resume our game."
 
When Pauline went to her bedroom that night she locked the door, threw herself into an easy-chair in front of the fire, and remained buried in contemplation. Then she rose, and as she strolled towards the dressing-table, said half aloud: "That man is jealously guarding a secret--and it is his own!"
 
CHAPTER IX.  TOM DURHAM'S FRIEND.
 On the morning after the Reverend Martin Gurwood and Madame Du Tertre had had their game at chess, and held the conversation just recorded, a straggling sunbeam, which had lost its way, turned by accident into 'Change-alley, and fell straight on to the bald head of a gentleman in the second-floor of one of the houses there. This gentleman, who, according to the inscription on the outer door jamb, was Mr. Humphrey Statham, was so astonished at the unexpected solar apparition, that he laid down the bundle of red tape with which he was knotting some papers together, and advancing to the grimy window, rubbed a square inch of dirt off the pane, and bending down, looked up at as much as he could discern of the narrow strip of dun-coloured sky which does duty for the blue empyrean to the inhabitants of 'Change-alley. The sun but rarely visits 'Change-alley in summer, and in winter scarcely ever puts in--an appearance; the denizens endeavour to compensate themselves for its absence by hanging huge burnished tin reflectors outside their windows, or giving up all attempts at deception, and sitting under gaslight from morning till eve. So that what Mr. Statham saw when he looked up was as satisfactory as it was unexpected, and he rubbed his hands together in sheer geniality, as he muttered something about having "decent weather for his trip."
 
A tall, strongly-built man, and good-looking after his fashion, with a fringe of dark-brown hair round his bald crown, large regular features, piercing hazel eyes, somewhat overhanging brows, a pleasant mobile mouth, and a crisp brown beard.
 
Humphrey Statham was a ship-broker, though, from a cursory glance at his office, it would have been difficult to guess what occupation he pursued, furnished as it was in the ordinary business fashion. There was a large leather-covered writing-table, at which he was seated, a standing desk in the window, an old worn stained leather easy-chair for clients, the customary directories and commercial lists on shelves against the wall, the usual Stationers' Almanac hanging above the mantelpiece, the usual worn carpet and cinder-browned hearth-rug. In the outer office, where the four clerks sat, and where the smaller owners and the captains had to wait Mr. Statham's leisure (large owners and underwriters being granted immediate audience), the walls were covered with printed bills, announcing the dates of departure of certain ships, the approaching sale of others; the high desks were laden with huge ledgers and files of Lloyd's lists; and one of the clerks, who took a deep interest in his business, gave quite a maritime flavour to the place by invariably wearing a particular short pea-jacket and a hard round oilskin hat.
 
Not much leisure had these clerks; they were, to use their own phrase, "at it" from morning till night, for Mr. Statham's business was a large one, and though all the more important part of it was discharged by himself, there was plenty of letter-writing and agreement copying, ledger-entering, and running backwards and forwards between the office and Lloyd's when the "governor," as they called him, was busy with the underwriters. This year had been a peculiarly busy one; so busy, that Mr. Statham had been unable to take his usual autumnal holiday, a period of relaxation which he always looked forward to, and which, being fond of athletics, and still in the very prime of life, he usually passed among the Swiss Alps. This autumn he had passed it at Teddington instead of Courmayeur, and had substituted a couple of hours' pull on the river in the evening for his mountain climbing and hairbreadth escapes. But the change had not been sufficient; his head was dazed, he suffered under a great sense of lassitude; and his doctor had ordered him to knock-off work, and to start immediately for a clear month's vacation. Where he was to go he had scarcely made up his mind. Of course, Switzerland in November was impossible, and he was debating between the attractions of a month's snipe-shooting in Ireland and the delight of passing his time on board one of the Scilly Islands pilot-boats, roughing it with the men, and thoroughly enjoying the wild life and the dangerous occupation. A grave, plain-mannered man in his business--somewhat over cautious and reserved they thought him at Lloyd's--Humphrey Statham, when away for his holiday, had the high spirits of a boy, and never was so happy as when he had thrown off all the ordinary constraints of conventionality, and was leading a life widely different from that normally led by him, and associating with persons widely different from those with whom he was ordinarily brought into contact. Mr. Statham was, however, in his business just now, and had not thrown off his cautious habits. By his side stood a large iron safe, with one or two of its drawers open, and before him lay a number of letters and papers, which he read through one by one, or curiously glanced at, duly docketed them, made some memorandum regarding them in his note-book, and stowed them away in a drawer in the safe. As he read through some of them, he smiled; at others he glanced with an angry frown or a shoulder-shrug of contempt; but there were one or two during the perusal of which the lines in his face seemed to deepen perceptibly, and before he laid them aside he pondered long and deeply over their contents.
 
"What a queer lot it is!" said Humphrey Statham wearily, throwing himself back in his chair; "and how astonished people would be if they only knew what a strange mass of human interests these papers represent! With the exception of Collins, outside there, no one, I suppose, comes into this room who does not imagine that this safe contains nothing but business memoranda, insurances, brokerages, calculations, and commissions; details concerning the Lively Polly of Yarmouth, or the Saucy Sally of Whitstable; or who has the faintest idea that among the business documents there are papers and letters which would form good stock-in-trade for a romance writer! Why on earth do those fellows spin their brains, when for a very small investment of cash they could get people to tell them their own experiences, actual facts and occurrences, infinitely more striking and interesting than the nonsense which they invent? Every man who has seen anything of life must at one time or other have had some strange experience: the man who sells dog-collars and penknives at the corner of the court; the old broken-down hack in the outer office, who was a gentleman once, and now copies letters and runs errands for fifteen shillings a week; and I, the solemn, grave, trusted man of business--I, the cautious and reserved Humphrey Statham--perhaps I too have had my experiences which would work into a strange story! A story I may have to tell some day--may have to tell to a man, standing face to face with him, looking straight into his eyes, and showing him how he has been delivered into my hands." And Humphrey Statham crossed his arms before him and let his chin sink upon his breast, as he indulged in a profound reverie.
 
We will anticipate the story which Mr. Statham imagined that he would some day have to tell under such peculiar circumstances.
 
Humphrey Statham's father was a merchant and a man of means, living in good style in Russell-square; and, though of a somewhat gloomy temperament and stern demeanour, in his way fond of his son, and determined that the lad should be educated and prepared for the position which he would afterwards have to assume. Humphrey's mother was dead--had died soon after his birth--he had no brothers or sisters; and as Mr. Statham had never married again, the household was conducted by his sister, a meek long-suffering maiden lady, to whom hebdomadal attendance at the Foundling Chapel was the one joy in life. It had first been intended that the child should be educated at home; but he seemed so out of place in the big old-fashioned house, so strange in the company of his grave father or melancholy aunt, that, to prevent his being given over entirely to the servants, whom he liked very much, and with whom he spent most of his time, he was sent at an early age to a preparatory establishment, and then transferred to a grammar-school of repute in the neighbourhood of London. He was a dare-devil boy, full of fun and mischief, capital at cricket and football, and though remarkably quick by nature, and undoubtedly possessing plenty of appreciative common-sense and savoir faire, yet taking no position in the school, and held in very cheap estimation by his master. The half-yearly reports which, together with the bills for education and extras, were placed inside Master Humphrey's box, on the top of his neatly-packed clothes, and accompanied him home at every vacation from Canehambury, did not tend to make Mr. Statham any the less stern, or his manner to his son any more indulgent. The boy knew--he could not help knowing--that his father was wealthy and influential, and he had looked forward to his future without any fear, and, indeed, without very much concern. He thought he should like to go into the army, which meant to wear a handsome uniform and do little or nothing, to be petted by the ladies, of whose charms he had already shown himself perfectly cognisant, and to lead a life of luxury and ease. But Mr. Statham had widely different views. Although he had succeeded to his business, he had vastly improved it since he became its master, and had no idea of surrendering so lucrative a concern to a stranger, or of letting it pass out of the family. As he had worked, so should his son work in his turn; and accordingly, Master Humphrey on his removal from Canehambury was sent to a tutor resident in one of the Rhineland towns, with a view to his instruction in French and German, and to his development from a careless, high-spirited lad into a man of business and of the world.
 
The German tutor, a dreamy misty transcendentalist, was eminently unfitted for the charge intrusted to him. He gave the boy certain books, and left him to read them or not, as he chose; he set him certain tasks, but never took the trouble to see how they had been performed, or, indeed, whether they had been touched at all, till he was remarkably astonished after a short time to find his pupil speaking very excellent German, and once or twice took the trouble to wonder how "Homfrie," as he called him, could have acquired such a mastery of the language. Had an explanation of the marvel ever been asked of Humphrey himself, he could have explained it very readily. The town selected for his domicile was one of the celebrated art-academies of Germany, a place where painters of all kinds flocked from all parts to study under the renowned professors therein resident. A jovial, thriftless, kindly set of Bohemians these painters, in the strict sense of the word, impecunious to a degree, now working from morn till eve for days together, now not touching pencil or maulstick for weeks, living in a perpetual fog of tobacco, and spending their nights in beer-drinking and song-singing, in cheap epicureanism and noisy philosophical discussions. To this society of careless convives Humphrey Statham obtained a ready introduction, and among them soon established himself as a prime favourite. The bright face and interminable spirits of "Gesellschap's Englander," as he was called (Gesellschap was the name of his tutor), made him welcome everywhere. He passed his days in lounging from studio to studio, smoking pipes and exchanging jokes with their denizens, occasionally standing for a model for his hosts, now with bare neck and arms appearing as a Roman gladiator, now with casque and morion as a young Flemish burgher of Van Artevelde's guard, always ready, always obliging, roaring at his own linguistic mistakes, but never failing to correct them; while at night at the painters' club, the Malkasten, or the less aristocratic Kneipe, his voice was the cheeriest in the chorus, his wit the readiest in suggesting tableaux vivants, or in improvising practical jokes.
 
A pleasant life truly, but not, perhaps, a particularly reputable one. Certainly not one calculated for the formation of a City man of business according to Mr. Statham's interpretation of the term. When at the age of twenty the young man tore himself away from his Bohemian comrades, who kissed him fervently, and wept beery tears at his departure, and, in obedience to his father's commands, returned to England and to respectability, to take up his position in the paternal counting-house, Mr. Statham was considerably more astonished than gratified at the manner in which his son's time had been passed, and at its too evident results. About Humphrey there was nothing which could be called slang in the English sense of the term, certainly nothing vulgar; but there was a reckless abandon, a defiance of set propriety, a superb scorn for the respectable conventionality regulating the movements and the very thoughts of the circle in which Mr. Statham moved, which that worthy gentleman observed with horror, and which he considered almost as loathsome as vice itself. Previous to his presentation to the establishment over which he was to rule, Humphrey's long locks were clipped away, his light downy beard shaved off, his fantastic garments exchanged for sad-coloured soberly-cut clothes; and when this transformation had been accomplished, the young man was taken into the City and placed in the hands of Mr. Morrison the chief clerk, who was enjoined to give a strict account of his business qualifications. Mr. Morrison's report did not tend to dissipate the disappointment which had fallen like a blow on the old man's mind. Humphrey could talk German as glibly and with as good an accent as any Rhinelander from Manheim to Düsseldorf; he had picked up a vast amount of conversational French from the French artists who had formed part of his jolly society; and had command of an amount of argot which would have astonished Monsieur Philarète Chasles himself; but he had never been in the habit of either reading or writing anything but the smallest scraps of notes; and when Mr. Morrison placed before him a four-sided letter from their agent at Hamburg, couched in commercial German phraseology, and requested him to re-translate and answer it, Humphrey's expressive face looked so woe-begone and he boggled so perceptibly over the manuscript, that one of the junior clerks saw the state of affairs at a glance, and confidentially informed his neighbour at the next desk that "young S. was up a tree."
 
It was impossible to hide these shortcomings from Mr. Statham, who was anxiously awaiting Mr. Morrison's report; and after reading it, and assuring himself of its correctness by a personal examination of his son, his manner, which ever since Humphrey's return had been frigid and reserved, grew harsh and stern. He took an early opportunity of calling Humphrey into his private room, and of informing him that he should have one month's probation, and that if he did not signally improve by the end of that time, he would be removed from the office, as his father did not choose to have one of his name the laughing-stock of those employed by him. The young man winced under this speech, which he received in silence, but in five minutes after leaving his father's presence his mind was made up. He would go through the month's probation, since it was expected of him, but he would not make the smallest attempt to improve himself; and he would leave his future to chance. Punctually, on the very day that the month expired, Mr. Statham again sent for his son; told him he had discovered no more interest in, or inclination for, the business than he had shown on his first day of joining the house, and that in consequence he must give up all idea of becoming a partner, or, indeed, of having anything farther to do with the establishment. An allowance of two hundred pounds a year would be paid to him during his father's lifetime, and would be bequeathed to him in his father's will; he must never expect to receive anything else, and Mr. Statham broadly hinted, in conclusion, that it would be far more agreeable to him if his son would take up his residence anywhere than in Russell-square, and that he should feel particularly relieved if he never saw him again.
 
This arrangement suited Humphrey Statham admirably. Two hundred a year to a very young man, who has never had any command of money, is an important sum. He left the counting-house; and whatever respect and regard he may have felt for his father had been obliterated by the invariable sternness and opposition with which all his advances had been received. Two hundred a year! He would be off back at once to Rhineland, where, among the painters, he could live like a prince with such an income; and he went--and in six months came back again. The thing was changed somehow; it was not as it used to be. There were the same men, indeed, living the same kind of life, equally glad to welcome their English comrade, and to give him the run of their studios and their clubs and kneipes; but after a time this kind of life seemed very flat and vapid to Humphrey Statham. The truth is, that during his six weeks' office experience he had seen something of London; and on reflection he made up his mind that, after all, it was perhaps a more amusing place than any of the Rhineland towns. On his return to London he took a neat lodging, and for four or five years led a purposeless idle life, such a life as is led by hundreds of young men who are burdened with that curse--a bare sufficiency, scarcely enough to keep them, more than enough to prevent them from seeking employment, and to dull any aspirations which they may possess. It was during this period of his life that Humphrey made the acquaintance of Tom Durham, whose gaiety, recklessness, and charm of manner, fascinated him at once; and he himself took a liking to the frank, generous, high-spirited young man, Tom Durham's knowledge of the world made him conscious that, though indolent, and to a certain extent dissipated, Humphrey Statham was by no means depraved, and to his friend Mr. Durham therefore exhibited only the best side of his nature. He was engaged in some wild speculations just at that time, and it was while careering over the country with Tom Durham in search of a capitalist to float some marvellous invention of that fertile genius, that Humphrey Statham met with an adventure which completely altered the current of his life.
 
They were making Leeds their headquarters, but Tom Durham had gone over to Batley for a day or two, to see the owner of a shoddy mill, who was reported to be both rich and speculative; and Humphrey was left alone. He was strolling about in the evening, thinking what a horrible place Leeds was, and what a large sum of money a man ought to be paid for living in it, when he was overtaken and passed by a girl, walking rapidly in the direction of Headingley. The glimpse he caught of her face showed him that it was more than ordinarily beautiful, and Humphrey quickened his lazy pace, and followed her until he saw her safely housed in a small neat dwelling. The next day he made inquiries about this girl, the transient glance of whose face had made such an impression upon him, and found that her name was Emily Mitchell; that her father, now dead, had been a booking-clerk in one of the large factories; that she was employed in a draper's shop; and that she lived with her uncle and aunt in the small house to which Humphrey had tracked her. Humphrey Statham speedily made Miss Mitchell's acquaintance, found her more beautiful than he had imagined, and as fascinating as she was lovely; fascinating not in the ordinary sense of the word, not by coquetry or blandishment, but by innate refinement, grace, and innocence. After seeing her and talking with her a few times, Humphrey could no longer control his feelings, and finding that he was not indifferent to Emily--his good looks, his frank nature, and his easy bearing, well qualified him to find favour in the eyes of such a girl--he spoke out plainly to her uncle, and told him how matters stood. He was in love with Emily, he said, and most anxious to marry, but his income was but 200l. a year, not sufficient to maintain her, even in the quiet way both he and she desired they should live; but he was young, and though he had been idle, now that he had an incentive to work he would show what he could do. It was possible that, seeing the difference in him, his father might be inclined to relent, and put something in his way, or some of his father's friends might give him employment. He would go to London and seek for it at once, and so soon as he saw his way to earning 200l. a year in addition to his annuity, he would return and claim Emily for his wife.
 
In this view the uncle, a practical old north-countryman, coincided; the young people could not marry upon the income which Mr. Humphrey possessed; they had plenty of life before them; and when the young man came back and proved that he had carried out his promise, no obstacle should be made by Emily's friends.
 
Humphrey Statham returned to London, and wrote at once to his father, telling him that he had seen the errors of his youth, and was prepared to apply himself to any sort of business which his father could place in his way. In reply he received a curt note from Mr. Statham, stating that the writer did not know of any position which Humphrey could competently fulfil, reminding him of the agreement between them, and hinting dislike at the reopening of any correspondence or communication. Foiled at this point, Humphrey Statham secretly took the advice of old Mr. Morrison, the chief clerk in his father's office, a kindly as well as a conscientious man, who had endeavoured to soften the young man's lot during the few weeks he had passed in the dull counting-house, and at his recommendation Humphrey established himself as a ship-broker, and for two years toiled on from morning till night, doing a small and not very remunerative business, but proving to such as employed him that he possessed industry, energy, and tact. During this period he ran down to Leeds, at four distinct intervals, to pass a couple of days with Emily, whose uncle had died, and who remained in the house of her helpless bed-ridden aunt. At the end of this time Mr. Statham died, leaving in his will a sum of 10,000l. to his son, "as a recognition of his attempt to gain a livelihood for himself;" and bequeathing the rest of his fortune to various charities.
 
So at last Humphrey Statham saw his way to bringing Emily home in triumph as his wife, and with this object he started: for Leeds, immediately after his father's funeral. He had written to her to announce his arrival, and was surprised not to find her awaiting him on the platform. Then he jumped into a cab, and hurried out to Headingley. On his arrival at the little house, the stupid girl who attended on the bed-ridden old woman seemed astonished at seeing him, and answered his inquiries after Emily inconsequently, and with manifest terror. With a sudden sinking of the heart Humphrey made his way to the old lady's bedside, and from her quivering lips learned that Emily had disappeared.
 
Yes! Emily had fled from her home, so said her aunt, and so said the few neighbours who, roused at the sight of a cab, had come crowding into the cottage. About a week ago, they told him, she had gone out in the morning to her work as usual, and had never returned. She left no letter of explanation, and no trace of her flight had been discovered; there was no slur upon her character, and, so far as their knowledge went, she had made no strange acquaintance. She received a number of letters, which she had always said were from Mr. Statham. What did he come down there for speering after Emily, when, of all persons in the world, he was the likeliest to tell them where she had been?
 
Humphrey Statham fell back like a man stunned by a heavy blow. He had come down there to carry out the wish of his life; to tell the woman whom, in the inmost depths of his big manly heart he worshipped, that the hope of his life was at last accomplished, and that he was at length enabled to take her away, to give her a good position, and to devote the remainder of his existence to her service. She was not there to hear his triumphant avowal--she had fled, no one knew where, and he saw plainly enough that, not merely was all sympathy withheld from him, but that he was suspected by the neighbours to have been privy to, and probably the accomplice of, her flight, and that his arrival there a few days afterwards with the apparent view of making inquiries was merely an attempt to hoodwink them, and to divert the search which might possibly be made after her into another direction.
 
Under such circumstances, an ordinary man would have fallen into a fury, and burst out into wild lamentation or passionate invective; but Humphrey Statham was not an ordinary man. He knew himself guiltless of the crime of which by Emily's friends and neighbours he was evidently suspected, but he also knew that the mere fact of her elopement, or at all events of her quitting her home without consulting him on the subject, showed that she had no love for him, and that therefore he had no right to interfere with her actions. He told the neighbours this in hard, measured accents, with stony eyes and colourless cheeks. But when he saw that even then they disbelieved him, that even then they thought he knew more of Emily Mitchell's whereabouts than he cared to say, he instructed the local authorities to make such inquiries as lay in their power, and, offered a reward for Emily Mitchell's discovery to the police. He returned, to London an altered man; his one hope in life had been rudely extinguished, and there was nothing now left for him to care for. He had a competency, but it was valueless to him now; the only one way left to him of temporarily putting aside his great grief was by plunging into work, and busying his mind with those commercial details which at one time he had so fervently abhorred, and now, when it was no longer a necessity for him, business came to him in galore, his name and fame were established in the great City community, and no man in his position was more respected, or had a larger number of clients.
 
"Too late comes this apple to me," muttered Humphrey Statham, quoting Owen Meredith, as he shook himself out of the reverie into which he had fallen. "Nearly four years ago since I paid my last visit to Leeds; more than three since, as a last resource, I consulted the Scotland-yard people, and instructed them to do their best in elucidating the mystery. The Scotland-yard people are humbugs; I have never heard of them since, and shall never hear of Emily again. Good God, how I loved her! how I love her still! Was it that she stands out in my memory as my first and only real love, lit up perhaps by boyish fancy--the same fancy that makes me imagine that my old bare cock-loft in the Adelphi was better than my present comfortable rooms in Sackville-street. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans. No, she was more than that. She was the only woman that ever inspired me with anything like real affection, and I worship her--her memory I suppose I must call it now--as I worshipped her own sweet self an hour before I learned of her flight. There, there is an end of that. Now let me finish-up this lot, and leave all in decent order, so that if I end my career in a snipe-bog, or one of the Tresco pilot-boats goes down while I am on board of her, old Collins may have no difficulty in disposing of the contents of the safe."
 
Out of the mass of papers which had originally been lying before him, only two were left. He took up one of them and read the indorsement, "T. Durham--to be delivered to him or his written order (Akhbar K)." This paper he threw into the second drawer of the safe; then he took up the last, inscribed "Copy of instructions to Tatlow in regard to E. M."
 
"Instructions to Tatlow, indeed!" said Humphrey Statham, with curling lip; "it is more than three years since those instructions were given, but hitherto they have borne no fruit. I have half a mind to destroy them; it is scarcely possible--"
 
His reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door. Bidden to come in, Mr. Collins, the confidential clerk, put in his head, and murmured, "Mr. Tatlow, from Scotland-yard."
 
"In the very nick of time," said Humphrey Statham, with a half-smile; "send Mr. Tatlow in at once."
CHAPTER X.  MR. TATLOW ON THE TRACK.
 "Mr. Tatlow?" said Humphrey Statham, as his visitor entered.
"Servant, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, a Somewhat ordinary-looking man, dressed in black.
 
"I had no idea this case had been placed in your hands, Mr. Tatlow," said Humphrey. "I have heard of you, though I have never met you before in business, and have always understood you to be an experienced officer."
 
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, with a short bow. "What may have altered your opinion in that respect now?"
 
"The length of time which has elapsed since I first mentioned this matter in Scotland-yard. That was three years ago, and from that day to this I have had no communication with the authorities."
 
"Well, sir, you see," said Mr. Tatlow, "different people have different ways of doing business; and when the inspector put this case into my hands, he said to me, 'Tatlow,' said he, 'this is a case which will most likely take considerable time to unravel, and it's one in which there will be a great many ups and downs, and the scent will grow warm and the scent will grow cold, and you will think you have got the whole explanation of the story at one moment, and the next you'll think you know nothing at all about it. The young woman is gone,' the inspector says, 'and you'll hear of her here and you'll hear of her there, and you'll be quite sure you've got hold of the right party, and then you'll find it's nothing of the sort, and be inclined to give up the business in despair; and then suddenly, perhaps, when you're engaged on something else, you'll strike into the right track, and bring it home in the end. Now, it's no good worrying the gentleman,' said the inspector, 'with every little bit of news you hear, or with anything that may happen to strike you in the inquiry, for you'll be raising his spirits at one time, and rendering him more wretched in another; and my advice to you is, not to go near him until you have got something like a clear and complete case to lay before him.' Those were the inspector's words to me, sir--upon which advice I acted."
 
"Very good counsel, Mr. Tatlow, and very sensible of you to follow it," said Humphrey Statham. "Am I to understand from this visit that your case is now complete?"
 
"Well, sir, as complete as I can make it at present," said Mr. Tatlow.
 
"You have found her?" cried Humphrey Statham eagerly, the blood flushing into his cheeks.
 
"I know where the young woman is now," said Mr. Tatlow evasively; "but do not build upon that, sir," he added, as he marked his questioner's look of anxiety. "We were too late, sir; you will never see her again."
 
"Too late!" echoed Humphrey. "What do you mean? Where is she? I insist upon knowing!"
 
"In Hendon churchyard, sir," said Mr. Tatlow quietly; "that's where the young woman is now."
 
Humphrey Statham bowed his head, and remained, silent for some few moments; then, without raising his eyes, he said: "Tell me about it, Mr. Tatlow, please; I should like to have all details from first to last."
 
"Don't you think," said Mr. Tatlow kindly--"don't you think I might look in some other time, sir?--you don't seem very strong just now; and it's no use a man trying his nerves when there is no occasion for it."
 
"Thank you," said Humphrey Statham, "I would sooner hear the story now. I have been ill, and am going out of town, and it may be some little-time before I return, and I should like, while I am away, to be able to think over what has--to know about--tell me, please, at once."
 
"The story is not a long one, sir," said Mr. Tatlow; "and when you see how plain and clear it tells, I daresay you will think the case was not a difficult one, for all it took so long to work out; but you see this is fancy-work, as I may call it, that one has to take up in the intervals of regular business, and to lay aside again whenever a great robbery or a murder crops up, and just as one is warm and interested in it, one may be sent off to Paris or New York, and when you come back you have almost to begin again. There was one advantage in this case, that I had it to myself from the start, and hadn't to work up anybody else's line. I began," continued Mr. Tatlow, after a momentary pause, taking a notebook from his pocket and reading from its pages, "at the very beginning, and first saw the draper people at Leeds, where Miss Mitchell was employed. They spoke very highly of her, as a good, industrious girl, and were very sorry when she went away. She gave them a regular month's notice, stating that she had an opportunity of bettering herself by getting an engagement at a first-class house in London. Did the Leeds drapers, Hodder by name, say anything to Miss M.'s friends? No, they did not," continued Mr. Tatlow, answering himself; "most likely they would have mentioned it if the uncle had been alive--a brisk, intelligent man--but he was dead at that time, and no one was left but the bedridden old woman. After her niece's flight she sent down to Hodder and Company, and they told her what Miss M. had told them, though the old woman and her friends plainly did not believe it. It was not until some weeks afterwards that one of Hodder's girls had a letter from a friend of hers, who had previously been with their firm, but was now engaged at Mivenson's, the great drapers in Oxford-street, London, to say that Emily Mitchell had joined their establishment; she was passing under the name of Moore, but this girl knew her at once, and agreed to keep her confidence. Now to page forty-nine. That's only a private memorandum for my own information," said Mr. Tatlow, turning over the leaves of his book. "Page forty-nine. Here you are! Mivenson's, in Oxford-street--old gentleman out of town--laid up with the gout--saw eldest son, partner in the house--recollected Miss Moore perfectly, and had come to them with some recommendation--never took young persons into their house unless they were properly recommended, and always kept register of reference. Looking into register found Emily M. had been recommended by Mrs. Calverley, one of their customers, most respectable lady, living in Great Walpole-street. Made inquiry myself about Mrs. C., and made her out to be a prim, elderly, evangelical party, wife of City man in large way of business. Emily M. did not remain long at Mivenson's. Not a strong girl; had had a fainting fit or two while in their employ, and one day she wrote to say she was too ill to come to work, and they never saw her again. Could they give him the address from which she wrote?" Certainly. Address-book sent for; 143 Great College-street, Camden Town. Go to page sixty. Landlady at Great College-street perfectly recollected Miss Moore. Quiet, delicate girl, regular in her habits; never out later than ten at night; keeping no company, and giving no trouble. Used to be brought home regular every night by a gentleman--always the same gentleman, landlady thought, but couldn't swear, as she had never made him out properly, though she had often tried. Seen from the area, landlady remarked, people looked so different. Gentleman always took leave of Miss Moore at the door, and was never seen again in the neighbourhood until he brought her back the next night. Landlady recollected Miss Moore's going away. When she gave notice about leaving, explained to landlady that she was ill and was ordered change of air; didn't seem to be any worse than she had been all along, but, of course, it was not her (the landlady's) place to make any objection. At the end of the week a cab was sent for, Miss Moore's boxes were put into it, and she drove away. Did the landlady hear the address given to the cabman? She did. 'Waterloo Station, Richmond line.' That answer seemed to me to screw up the whole proceedings; trying to find the clue to a person, who, months before, had gone away from the Waterloo Station, seemed as likely as feeling for a threepenny-piece in a corn-sack. I made one or two inquiries, but heard nothing, and had given the whole thing up for as good as lost, when--let me see, page two hundred and one.
 
"Here you are! Memoranda in the case of Benjamin Biggs, cashier in the Limpid Water Company, charged with embezzlement. Fine game he kept up, did Mr. Biggs. Salary about two hundred a year, and lived at the rate of ten thousand. Beautiful place out of town, just opposite Bobbington Lock, horses, carriages, and what you please. I was engaged in Biggs' matter, and I had been up to Bobbington one afternoon--for there was a notion just then that Biggs hadn't got clear off and might come home again--so I thought I'd take a lodging and hang about the village for a week or two. It was pleasant summer weather, and I've a liking for the river and for such a place as Bushey Park, though not with many opportunities of seeing much of either. I had been through Biggs' house, and was standing in Messenger's boat-yard, looking at the parties putting off in the water, when a voice close to my ear says, 'Hallo, Tatlow! What's up?' and looking round I saw Mr. Netherton Whiffle, the leading junior at the Bailey, and the most rising man at the C.C.C. I scarcely knew him at first, for he had got on a round straw hat instead of his wig, and a tight-fitting jersey instead of his gown; and when I recognised him and told him what business I had come down upon, he only laughed, and said that Biggs knew more than me and all Scotland-yard put together; and the best thing that I could do was to go into the 'Anglers' and put my name to what I liked at his expense. He's a very pleasant fellow, Mr. Whiffle; and while I was drinking something iced I told him about my wanting a lodging, and he recommended me to a very respectable little cottage kept by the mother of his gardener. A pretty place it was to not looking on the river, but standing in a nice neatly-kept garden, with the big trees of Bushey Park at the back of you, and the birds singing beautiful. I fancy, when I am superannuated I should like a place of that sort for myself and Mrs. T. Nice rooms too; the lodgings, a bedroom and sitting-room, but a cut above my means. I was saying so to the old woman--motherly old creature she was--as we were looking round the bedroom, when I caught sight of something which fixed my attention at once. It was an old black box, like a child's school-trunk, with on the outside lid 'E. M.' in brass letters, and a railway label of the G.N.R., 'Leeds to London,' still sticking on it. Something told me I had 'struck ile,' as the Yankees say; and I asked the old woman to whom that box belonged. 'To her,' she said, she supposed; 'leastways it had been there for many months, left behind by a lodger who had gone away and never sent for it.' It took a little hot rum-and-water to get the lodger's story out of that old lady, sir; not a refreshing drink on a summer's day, but required to be gone through in the course of duty, and it was worth it, as you will see.
 
"In the previous summer the rooms had been taken by a gentleman who gave the name of Smith, and who the next day brought down the young lady and her boxes. She was pretty but very delicate-looking, and seemed to have very bad health. He came down three or four times a week, and then she brightened up a bit, and seemed a little more cheerful; but when she was alone she was dreadfully down, and the landlady had seen her crying by the hour together. They lived very quietly; no going out, no water-parties, no people to see them, bills of lodging paid for every week; quite the regular thing. This went on for two or three months; then the gentleman's visits grew less frequent, he only came down once or twice a week, and, on more than one occasion, the old woman sitting in the kitchen thought she heard high words between them. One Saturday afternoon, when Mr. Smith had gone away, about an hour after his departure the lady packed all her things, paid up the few shillings which remained after his settlement, and ordered a fly to take her to the station. There was no room on the fly for the little box which I had seen, and she said she would send an address to which it could be forwarded. On the Monday evening Mr. Smith came down as usual; he was very much astonished to find the lady gone, but, after; reading a letter which she had left for him, he seemed very much agitated, and sent out for some brandy; then he paid the week's rent, which was demanded instead of the notice, and left the place. The box had never been sent for, nor had the old woman ever heard anything farther of the lady or the gentleman.
 
"The story hangs together pretty well, don't it, sir? E. M. and the railway ticket on the box (r forgot to say that I looked inside, and saw the maker's, name, 'Hudspeth, of Boar-lane, Leeds') looked pretty much like Emily Mitchell, and the old woman's description of Mr. Smith tallied tolerably with that given by the lodging-house keeper in Camden Town, who used to notice the gentleman from the area. But there we were shut up tight again. The flyman recollected taking the lady to the station, but no one saw her take her ticket; and there was I at a standstill.
 
"It is not above a fortnight ago, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, in continuation, "that I struck on the scent again; not that I had forgotten it, or hadn't taken the trouble to pull at anything which I thought might be one of its threads when it came in my way. A twelvemonth ago I was down at Leeds, after a light-hearted chap who had forgotten his own name, and written his master's across the back of a three-and-sixpenny bill-stamp; and I thought I'd take the opportunity of looking in at Hodder the draper's, and ask whether anything had been heard of Miss M. The firm hadn't heard of her, and was rather grumpy about being asked; but I saw the girl from whom I had got some information before--she, you recollect, sir, who had a friend at Mivenson's in Oxford-street, and told me about E. M. being there--and I asked her and her young man to tea, and set the pumps agoing. But she was very bashful and shamefaced, and would not say a word, though evidently she knew something; and it was only when she had gone up to put her bonnet on, that I got out of the young man that Emily Mitchell had been down there, and had been seen in the dusk of the evening going up to the old cottage at Headingley, and carrying a baby in her arms."
 
"A baby!" cried Humphrey Statham.
 
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, "a female child a few weeks old. She was going up to her aunt, no doubt, but the old woman was dead. When they heard at Hodder's that Emily was about the place, and with a child too, the firm was furious, and gave orders that none of their people should speak to or have any communication with her; but this girl--Mary Keith she's called; I made a note of her name, sir, thinking you would like to know it--she found out where the poor creature was, and offered to share her wages with her and the child to save them from starvation."
 
"Good God!" groaned Humphrey Statham; "was she in want, then?"
 
"Pretty nearly destitute, sir," said Tatlow; "would have starved probably, if it had not been for Mary Keith. She owned up to that girl, sir, all her story, told her everything, except the name of the child's father, and that she could not get out of her anyhow. She spoke about you too, and said you were the only person in the world who had really loved her, and that she had treated you shamefully. Miss Keith wanted her to write to the child's father, and tell him how badly off she was; but she said she would sooner die in the streets than ask him for money. What she would do, she said, would be to go to you--she wanted to see you once more before she died--and to ask you to be a friend to her child! She knew you would do it, she said--though she had behaved to you so badly--for the sake of old days.
 
"I sha'n't have to try you with very much more, sir," said Tatlow kindly, as he heard a deep groan break from Humphrey Statham's lips, and saw his head sink deeper on his breast. "Miss Keith advised E. M. to write to you; but she said no--she wanted to look upon your face again before she died, she said, and she knew that event was not far off. So she parted with her old friend, taking a little money, just enough to pay her fare up to town. She must have changed her mind about that, from what I learned afterwards. I made inquiries here and there for her in London in what I thought likely places, but I could hear nothing of her, so the scent grew cold, and still my case was incomplete. I settled it up at last, as I say, about a fortnight ago. I had occasion to make some inquiries at Hendon workhouse about a young man who was out on the tramp, and who, as I learned, had slept there for a night or two in the previous week; and I was talking matters over with the master, an affable kind of man, with more common-sense than one usually finds in officials of his sort, who are for the most part pig-headed and bad-tempered. The chap that I was after had been shopman to a grocer in the City, and had run away with his master's daughter, having all the time another wife; and this I suppose led the conversation to such matters; and I, always with your case floating in my head, asked him whether there were many instances of foundlings and suchlike being left upon their hands? He said no; that they had been very lucky--only had one since he had been master there, and that one they had been fortunate enough to get rid of. How was that, I asked him; what was the case? Case of a party"--and here Mr. Tatlow referred to his note-book again--"found the winter before last by Squire Mullins' hind lying against a haystack in the four-acre meadow, pressing her baby to her breast--both of them half-frozen. She was taken to the workhouse, but only lived two days, and never spoke during that time. Her shoes were worn very thin, and she had parted with most of her clothing, though what she kept had been good, and still was decent. No wedding-ring, of course. One thing she hadn't parted with; the master's wife saw the old woman try to crib it from the dead body round whose neck it hung, and took it from her hand. It was a tiny gold cross--yes, sir, I see you know it all now--inscribed 'H. to E., 30th March 1864'--the very trinket which you had described to our people; and when I heard that, I knew I had tracked Emily Mitchell home at last."
 
Mr. Tatlow ceased speaking; but it was some minutes before Humphrey Statham raised his head. When at length he looked up, there were traces of tears on his cheeks, and his voice was broken with emotion as he said, "The child--what about it? did it live?"
 
"Yes, sir," replied Tatlow, "the child lived, and fell very comfortably upon its legs. It was a bright, pretty little creature, and one day it attracted the notice of a lady who had no children of her own, and, after some inquiries, persuaded her husband to adopt it."
 
"What is her name, and where does she live?" asked Mr. Statham.
 
"She lives at Hendon, sir, and her name is Claxton. Mr. Claxton is, oddly enough, a sleeping partner in the house of Mr. Calverley, whose good lady first recommended E. M. to Mivenson's, as you may recollect."
 
There was silence for full ten minutes--a period which Mr. Tatlow occupied in a deep consultation with his note-book, in looking out of window, at the tips of his boots, at the wall in front of him; anywhere rather than at the bowed head of Humphrey Statham, who remained motionless, with his chin buried in his chest. Mr. Tatlow had seen a good deal of suffering in his time, and as he noticed, without apparently looking at the tremulous emotion of Mr. Statham's hands, tremulous despite their closely-interlaced fingers, and the shudder which from time to time ran through his massive frame, he knew what silent anguish was being bravely undergone, and would on no account have allowed the sufferer to imagine that his mental tortures were either seen or understood. When Humphrey Statham at length raised his head, he found his visitor intently watching the feeble gyrations of a belated fly, and apparently perfectly astonished at hearing his name mentioned.
 
"Mr. Tatlow," said Humphrey, in a voice which, despite his exertions to raise it, sounded low and muffled, "I am very much your debtor; what I said at the commencement of our interview about the delay which, as I imagined, had occurred in clearing-up this mystery, was spoken in ignorance, and without any knowledge of the facts. I now see the difficulties attendant upon the inquiry, and I am only astonished that they should have been so successfully surmounted, and that you should have been enabled to clear-up the case as perfectly as you have done. That the result of your inquiries has been to arouse in me the most painful memories, and to--and to reduce me in fact to the state in which you see me--is no fault of yours. You have discharged your duty with great ability and wondrous perseverance, and I have to thank you more than all for the delicacy which you have shown during the inquiry, and during the narration to me of its results."
 
Mr. Tatlow bowed, but said nothing.
 
"For the ordinary charges of the investigation," continued Humphrey Statham, "your travelling expenses and suchlike, I settle, I believe, with the people at Scotland-yard; but," he added, as he took his cheque-book from the right-hand drawer of his desk, "I wish you to accept for yourself this cheque for fifty pounds, together with my hearty thanks."
 
He filled-up the cheque, tore it from the book, and pushed it over to the detective as he spoke, at the same time holding out his hand.
 
Mr. Tatlow rose to his feet, looking somewhat embarrassed. It had often been his good fortune to be well paid for his services, but to be shaken hands with by a man in the position of Mr. Statham, had not previously come in his way. He was confused for an instant, but compromised the matter by gravely saluting after the military fashion with his left hand, while he gave his right to his employer.
 
"Proud, sir, and grateful," he said. "It has been a long case, though not a particularly stiff one, and I think it has been worked clean out to the end. I could have wished--but, however, that is neither here nor there," said Mr. Tatlow, checking himself with a cough. "About the child, sir; don't you wish any farther particulars about the child?"
 
"No," said Humphrey Statham, who was fast relapsing into his moody state; "no, nothing now, at all events. If I want any farther information, I shall send to you, Tatlow, direct; you may depend upon that. Now, once more, thanks, and good-bye."
 
 
Half an hour had elapsed since Mr. Tatlow had taken his departure, and still Humphrey Statham sat at his desk buried in profound reverie, his chin resting on his breast, his arms plunged almost elbow-deep into his pockets. At length he roused himself, locked away the cheque-book which lay fluttering open before him, and passing his hand dreamily through the fringe of hair on his temples, muttered to himself:
 
"And so there is an end of it. To die numbed and frozen in a workhouse-bed. To bear a child to a man for whom she ruined my life, and who in his turn ruined hers. My Emily perishing with cold and want! I shall meet him yet, I know I shall. Long before I heard of this story, when I looked upon him only as a successful rival, who was living with her in comfort and luxury, and laughing over my disappointment, even then I felt convinced that the hour would come when I should hold him by the throat and make him beg his miserable life at my hands. Now, when I know that his treatment of her has been worse even than his treatment of me, he will need to beg hard indeed for mercy, if I once come across his path. Calverley, eh?" he continued, after a moment's pause, and in a softer voice, "the husband of the lady who has adopted the child, is a partner in Calverley's house, Tatlow said. That is the house for which Tom Durham has gone out as agent. How strangely things come about! for surely Mrs. Calverley, doubtless the wife of the senior partner of the firm, is the mother of my old friend Martin Garwood? What two totally different men! Without doubt unacquainted with each other, and yet with this curious link of association in my mind. Her child! Emily's child within a couple of hours' ride! I could easily find some excuse to introduce myself to this Mrs. Claxton, and to get a glimpse of the girl--she is Emily's flesh and blood, and most probably would be like her. I have half a mind to--No, I am not well enough for any extra excitement or exertion, and the child, Tatlow says, is happy and well-cared for; I can see her on my return--I can then manage the introduction in a more proper and formal manner; I can hunt-up Martin Gurwood, and through him and his mother I can obtain an introduction to this partner in Calverley's house, and must trust to my own powers of making myself agreeable to continue the acquaintance on a footing of intimacy, which will give me constant opportunities of seeing Emily's child. Now there is more than ever necessity to get out of this at once. All clear now, except those two packets; one Tom Durham's memorandum, which must be kept anyhow, so in it goes into the safe. The other, the instructions for Tatlow--that can be destroyed--no, there is no harm in keeping that for a little; one never knows how things may turn out--in it goes too." And as he spoke he placed the two packets in the drawer, closed and locked the safe. "Collins!" he called; and the confidential clerk appeared. "You have all that you want--the cheques, the duplicate key of the safe, the pass-book?"
 
"Yes, sir," said Collins; "everything except your address."
 
"By Jove," said Humphrey Statham, "I had forgotten that! even now I am undecided. Tossing shall do it. Heads the Drumnovara snipe-bog; tails the Tresco pilot-boat. Tails it is! the pilot-boat has won. So, Collins, my address--never to be used except in most urgent necessity--is, 'P.O., Tresco, Scilly,' left till called for. Now you have my traps in the outer office; tell them to put them on a hansom cab, and you will see no more of me for six weeks."
 
 
As the four-fifty "galloper" for Exeter glided out of the Paddington Station, Humphrey Statham was seated in it, leisurely cutting the leaves of the evening paper which he had just purchased. The first paragraph which met his eye ran as follows:
 
 
"(REUTER'S TELEGRAM.)
 
"Gibraltar.
 
 
"The captain of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's steam-ship Masillia, just arrived here, announces the supposed death, by drowning, of a passenger named Durham, agent to Messrs. Calverley and Company, of Mincing-lane, who was proceeding to Ceylon. The unfortunate gentleman retired to bed on the first night of the vessel's sailing from Southampton, and as he was never seen afterwards, it is supposed he must have fallen overboard during the night, when the Masillia was at anchor off Hurst Castle."
 
CHAPTER XI.  L'AMIE DE LA MAISON.
 The breakfasts in Great Walpole-street, looked upon as meals, were neither satisfactory nor satisfying. Of all social gatherings a breakfast is perhaps the one most difficult to make agreeable to yourself and your guests. There are men, at other periods of the day bright, sociable, and chatty, who insist upon breakfasting by themselves, who glower over their tea and toast, and growl audibly if their solitude is broken in upon; there are women capable of everything in the way of self-sacrifice and devotion except getting up to breakfast. A breakfast after the Scotch fashion, with enormous quantities of Finnan-haddy, chops, steaks, eggs and ham, jam and marmalade, tea and coffee, is a good thing; so is a French breakfast with two delicate cutlets, or a succulent filet, a savoury omelette, a pint bottle of Nuits, a chasse, and a cigarette. But the morning meals in Great Walpole-street were not after either of these fashions. After the servants had risen from their knees, and shuffled out of the room in Indian file at the conclusion of morning prayers, the butler re-entered bearing a hissing silver urn, behind which Mrs. Calverley took up her position, and proceeded to brew a tepid amber-coloured fluid, which she afterwards dispensed to her guests. The footman had followed the butler, bearing, in his turn, a dish containing four thin greasy strips of bacon, laid out side by side in meek resignation, with a portion of kidney keeping guard over them at either end. There was a rack filled with dry toast, which looked and tasted like the cover of an old Latin dictionary; there was a huge bread-platter, with a scriptural text round its margin, and a huge bread-knife with a scriptural text on its blade; and on the sideboard, far away in the distance, was the shadowy outline of what had once been a ham, and a mountain and a promontory of flesh, with the connecting link between them almost cut away, representing what had once been a tongue. On two or three occasions, shortly after Madame Du Tertre had first joined the household, she mentioned to Mrs. Calverley that she was subject to headaches, which were only to be gotten rid of by taking a sharp half-hour's walk in the air immediately after breakfast; the fact being that Pauline was simply starved, and that if she had been followed she would have been found in the small room of Monsieur Verrey's café in Regent-street engaged with a cutlet, a pint of Beaune, and the Siècle newspaper. To John Calverley, also, these gruesome repasts were most detestable, but he made up for his enforced starvation by a substantial and early luncheon in the City.
 
On the morning after Humphrey Statham's departure for Cornwall, the breakfast-party was assembled in Great Walpole-street. But the host was not among them. He had gone away to his ironworks in the North, as he told his guest: "on his own vagaries," as his wife had phrased it, with a defiant snort: and Mrs. Calverley, Madame Du Tertre, and Martin Gurwood were gathered round the festive board. The two ladies were sipping the doubtful tea, and nibbling the leathery toast, while Mr. Garwood, who was an early riser, and who, before taking his morning constitutional in Guelph Park, had solaced himself with a bowl of bread-and-milk, had pushed aside his plate, and was reading out from the Times such scraps of intelligence as he thought might prove interesting. On a sudden he stopped, the aspect of his face growing rather grave, as he said:
 
"Here is some news, mother, which I am sure will prove distressing to Mr. Calverley, even if his interests do not suffer from the event which it records."
 
"I can guess what it is," said Mrs. Calverley, in her thin acid voice; "I have an intuitive idea of what has occurred. I always predicted it, and I took care to let Mr. Calverley know my opinion--the Swartmoor Iron works have failed?"
 
"No, not so bad as that," said Mr. Gurwood, "nor, indeed, is it any question of the Swartmoor Ironworks. I will tell you what is said, and you will be able to judge for yourself how far Mr. Calverley may be interested." And in the calm, measured tone habitual to him from constant pulpit practice, Martin Gurwood read out the paragraph which had so startled Humphrey Statham on the previous evening.
 
When Martin Gurwood finished reading, Madame Du Tertre, who had listened attentively, wheeled round in her chair and looked hard at Mrs. Calverley. That lady's placidity was, however, perfectly undisturbed. With her thin bony hand she still continued her employment of arranging into fantastic shapes the crumbs on the table-cloth, nor did she seem inclined to speak until Pauline said:
 
"To me this seems a sad and terrible calamity. If I, knowing nothing of this unfortunate gentleman, am grieved at what I hear, surely you, madame, to whom he was doubtless well known, must feel the shock acutely."
 
"I am glad to say," said Mrs. Calverley coldly, "that I am not called upon to exhibit any emotion in the present instance. So little does Mr. Calverley think fit to acquaint me with the details of his business, that I was not aware that it was in contemplation to establish an agency at Ceylon, nor did I ever hear of the name of the person who, doubtless by his own imprudence, seems to have lost his life."
 
"You never saw Mr.--Mr.--how is he called, Monsieur Gurwood?"
 
"Durham is the name given here," said Martin, referring to the newspaper.
 
"Ah, you never saw Mr. Durham, madame?"
 
"I never saw him; I never even heard Mr. Calverley mention his name."
 
"Poor man, poor man!" murmured Madame Du Tertre with downcast eyes; "lost so suddenly, as your Shakespeare says--'sent to his account with all his imperfections on his head.' It is terrible to think of; is it not Monsieur Martin?"
 
"To be cut off with our sins yet inexpiated," said Martin Gurwood, not meeting the searching glance riveted upon him, "is, as you say, Madame Du Tertre, a terrible thing. Let us trust this unfortunate man was not wholly unprepared."
 
"If he were a friend of Mr. Calverley's," hissed the lady at the end of the table, "and he must have been to have been placed in a position of trust, it is, I should say, most improbable that he was fitted for the sudden change."
 
That morning Madame Du Tertre, although her breakfast had been of the scantiest, did not find it necessary to repair to Verrey's. When the party broke up she retired to her room, took the precaution of locking the door, and having something to think out, at once adopted her old resource of walking up and down.
 
She said to herself: "The news has arrived, and just at the time that I expected it. He has been bold, and everything has turned out exactly as he could have wished. People will speak kindly of him and mourn over his fate, while he is far away and living happily, and laughing in his sleeve at the fools whose compassion he evokes. What would I give to be there with him on the same terms as those of the old days! I hate this dull British life, this ghastly house, these people, precise, exact, and terrible. I loathe the state of formality in which I live, the restraint and reticence I am obliged to observe! What is it to me to ride in a carriage by the side of that puppet downstairs, to sit in the huge dull rooms, to be waited upon by the silent solemn servants?" And her eyes blazed with fire as she sang in a soft low voice:
 
"Les gueux, les gueux Sont les gens heureux; Ils s'aiment entre eux. Vivent les gueux!"
 
As she ceased singing she stopped suddenly in her walk, and said, "What a fool I am to think of such things, to dream of what might have been, when all my hope and desire is to destroy what is, to discover the scene of Tom Durham's retreat, and to drive him from the enchanted land where he and she are now residing! And this can only be done by steady continuance in my present life, by passive endurance, by never-flagging energy and perpetual observation. Tiens! Have I not done some good this morning, even in listening to the bêtise talk of that silly woman and her sombre son? She had never seen Tom Durham," she said, "had never heard of him, he has never been brought to the house: this, then, gives colour to all that I have suspected. It is, as I imagined, through the influence of the old man Claxton that Tom was nominated as agent of the house of Calverley. Mr. Calverley himself probably knows nothing of him, or he would most assuredly have mentioned the name to his wife, have asked him to dinner, after the English fashion, before sending him out to such a position. But no, his very name is unknown to her, and it is evident that he is the sole protégé of Monsieur Claxton--Claxton, from whom the pale-faced woman who is his wife, his mistress--what do I know or care--obtained the money with which Tom Durham thought to buy my silence and his freedom. Not yet, my dear friend, not yet! The game between us promises to be long, and to play it properly with a chance of success will require all my brains and all my patience. But the cards are already beginning to get shuffled into their places, and the luck has already declared on my side."
 
A few mornings afterwards Mrs. Calverley, on coming down to breakfast, held an open paper in her hand; laying it on the table and pointing at it with her bony finger, when the servants had left the room, she said, "I have an intimation here that Mr. Calverley will return this evening. He has not thought fit to write to me, but a telegram has been received from him at the office; and the head-clerk, who, I am thankful to say, still preserves some notion of what is due to me, has forwarded the information."
 
"Is not this return somewhat unexpected?" asked Pauline, looking inquisitively at her hostess.
 
"Mr. Calverley's return is never either unexpected or expected by me," said the lady; "he is immersed in business, which I trust may prove as profitable as he expects, though in my father's time--"
 
"Perhaps," interrupted Martin Gurwood, cutting in to prevent the repetition of that wail over the decadence of the ancient firm which he had heard a thousand times, "perhaps Mr. Calverley's return has on this occasion been hastened by the news of the loss of his agent, which I read out to you the other day. There is more about it in the paper this morning."
 
"More! What more?" cried Pauline, eagerly.
 
"Nothing satisfactory, I am sorry to say. The body has not been found, nor is there any credible account of how the accident happened; the farther news is contained in a letter from one of the passengers. It seems that this unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Durham, had, even during the short time which he was on board the ship, succeeded in making himself very popular with the passengers. He had talked to some of them of the importance of the position which he was going out to fill, of his devotion to business and to his employer; and it is agreed on all sides that the well-known firm of which he was the agent will find it difficult to replace him, so zealous and so interested in their behalf did he show himself. He was one of the last who retired to rest; and when in the morning he did not put in an appearance, nothing was thought of it, as it was imagined--not that he had succumbed to sea-sickness, as he had described himself as an old sailor, who had made many voyages--but that he was fatigued by the exertions of the previous day. Late in the evening, as nothing had been heard of him, the captain resolved to send the steward to his cabin; and the man returned with the report that the door was unlocked, the berth unoccupied, and Mr. Durham not to be found. An inquiry was at once set on foot, and a search made throughout the ship; but without any result. The only idea that could be arrived at was, that, finding the heat oppressive, or being unable to sleep, he made his way to the deck, and, in the darkness of the night, had missed his footing and fallen overboard. Against this supposition was the fact that Mr. Durham was not in the least the worse for liquor when last seen, and that neither the officers nor the men on duty throughout the night had heard any splash in the water or any cry for help. The one thing certain was, that the man was gone; and all that could now be done was to transship his baggage at Gibraltar, that it might be returned to England, and to make public the circumstances for the information of his friends."
 
"It seems to me," said Martin Gurwood, as he finished reading, "that unless the drowning of this poor man had actually been witnessed, nothing could be much clearer. He is seen to retire to rest in the night; he is never heard of again; there is no reason why he should attempt self-destruction; on the contrary, he is represented as glorying in the position to which he had been appointed, and full of life, health, and spirits."
 
"There is one point," said Mrs. Calverley, "to which I think exception may be taken, and that is, that he was sober. These sort of persons have, I am given to understand, a great tendency to drink and vice of every description, and the fact that he was probably a boon companion of Mr. Calverley's, and on that account appointed to this agency, makes me think it more than likely that he had a private store of liquor, and was drowned when in a state of intoxication."
 
"There is nothing in the evidence which has been made public," said Martin Gurwood, in a hard caustic tone, "to warrant any supposition of that kind. In any case, it is not for us to judge the dead and--"
 
"Perhaps," said Pauline, interposing, to avert the storm which she saw gathering in Mrs. Calverley's knitted brows, "perhaps when Mr. Calverley returns to-night, he will be able to give us some information on the subject. A man so trusted, and appointed to such a position, must naturally be well known to his employer."
 
The lamps were lit in the drawing-room, and the solemn servants were handing round the tea, when a cab rattled up to the door, and immediately afterwards John Calverley, enveloped in his travelling-coat and many wrappers, burst into the apartment. He made his way to his wife, who was seated at the Berlin-wool frame, on which the Jael and Sisera had been supplanted by a new and equally interesting subject, and bending down offered her a salute, which she received on the tip of her ear; he shook hands heartily with Martin Garwood, politely with Pauline, and then discarding his outer garments, planted himself in the middle of the room, smiling pleasantly, and inquired, "Well, what's the news?"
 
"There is no news here," said Mrs. Calverley, looking across the top of the Berlin-wool frame with stony glance; "those who have been careering about the country are most likely to gather light and frivolous gossip. Do you desire any refreshment, Mr. Calverley?"
 
"No, thank you, my dear," said John. "I had dinner at six o'clock, at Peterborough--swallowed it standing--cold meat, roll, glass of ale. You know the sort of thing, Martin--hurried, but not bad, you know--not bad."
 
"But after such a slight refreshment, Monsieur Calverley," said Pauline, rising and going towards him, "you would surely like some tea?"
 
"No, thank you, Madame Du Tertre; no tea for me. I will have a little--a little something hot later on, perhaps--and you too, Martin, eh?--no, I forgot, you are no good at that sort of thing. And so," he added, turning to his wife, "you have, you say, no news?"
 
"Mrs. Calverley does herself injustice in saying any such thing," said Pauline, interposing; "the interests of the husband are the interests of the wife, and, when it is permitted, of the wife's friends; and we have all been distressed beyond measure to hear of the sad fate which has befallen your trusted agent."
 
"Eh," said John Calverley, looking at her blankly, "my trusted agent? I don't understand you."
 
"These celebrated Swartmoor Ironworks are not beyond the reach of the post-office, I presume?" said Mrs. Calverley, with a vicious chuckle.
 
"Certainly not," said John.
 
"And telegrams occasionally find their way there, I suppose?"
 
"Undoubtedly."
 
"How is it, then, Mr. Calverley, that you have not heard what has been in all the newspapers, that some man named Durham, calling himself your agent, has been drowned on his way to India, where he was going in your employ?"
 
"Drowned!" said John Calverley, turning very pale, "Tom Durham drowned! Is it possible?"
 
"Not merely possible, but strictly true," said his wife. "And what I want to know is, how is it that you, buried down at your Swartmoors, or whatever you call them, have not heard of it before?"
 
"It is precisely because I was buried down there that the news failed to reach me. When I am at the ironworks I have so short a time at my disposal that I never look at the newspapers, and the people at Mincing-lane have strict instructions never to communicate with me by letter or telegram except in the most pressing cases; and Mr. Jeffreys, I imagine, with that shrewdness which distinguishes him, saw that the reception of such news as this would only distress me, while I could be of no possible assistance, and so wisely kept it back until my return."
 
"I am sure I don't see why you should be so distressed because one of your clerks got drunk and fell overboard," said Mrs. Calverley. "I know that in my father's time--"
 
"This Mr. Durham must have been an especially gifted man, I suppose, or you would scarcely have appointed him to such an important berth? Was it not so?" asked Pauline.
 
"Yes," said Mr. Calverley, hesitating. "Tom Durham was a smart fellow enough."
 
"What I told you," said Mrs. Calverley, looking round. "A smart fellow, indeed! but not company for his employer's wife, whatever he may have been for--"
 
"He was a man whom I knew but little of Jane," said John Calverley, with a certain amount of sternness in his voice; "but he was introduced to me by a person of whom I have the highest opinion, and whom I wished to serve. On this recommendation I took Mr. Durham, and the little I saw of him was certainly in favour of his zeal and brightness. Now, if you please, we will change the conversation."
 
That night, again, Madame Du Tertre might have been seen pacing her room. "The more I see of these people," she said to herself, "the more I learn of the events with which my life is bound up, so much the more am I convinced that my first theory was the right one. This Monsieur Calverley, the master of this house--what was his reason for being annoyed, contrarié, as he evidently was, at being questioned about Durham? Simply because he himself knew nothing about him, and could not truthfully reply to the pestering inquiries of that anatomie vivante, his wife, as to who he was, and why he had not been presented to her, the reigning queen of the great firm. Was I not right there in my anticipations? 'He was introduced to me,' he said, 'by a person of whom I have the highest opinion, and whom I wished to serve;' that person, without doubt, was Claxton--Claxton, the old man, who, in his turn, was the slave of the pale-faced woman, whom Tom Durham had befooled! A bon chat, bon rat! They are well suited, these others, and Messrs. Calverley and Claxton are the dupes, though perhaps"--and she stopped pondering, with knitted brow--"Mr. Calverley knows all, or rather half, and is helping his friend and partner in the matter. I will take advantage of the first opportunity to press this subject farther home with Monsieur Calverley, who is a sufficiently simple bon homme; and perhaps I may learn something that may be useful to me from him."
 
The opportunity which Pauline sought occurred sooner than she expected. On the very next evening, Martin Gurwood being away from home, attending some public meeting on a religious question, and Mrs. Calverley being detained in her room finishing some letters which she was anxious to dispatch, Pauline found herself in the drawing-room before dinner, with her host as her sole companion.
 
When she entered she saw that Mr. Calverley had the newspaper in his hand, but his eyes were half closed and his head was nodding desperately. "You are fatigued, monsieur, by the toils of the day," she said. "I fear I interrupted you?"
 
"No," said John Calverley, jumping up, "not at all, Madame Du Tertre; I was having just forty Winks, as we say in English; but I am quite refreshed and all right now, and am very glad to see you."
 
"It must be hard work for you, having all the responsibility of that great establishment in the City on your shoulders."
 
"Well, you see, Madame Du Tertre," said John, with a pleasant smile, "the fact is I am not so young as I used to be, and though I work no more, indeed considerably less, I find myself more tired at the end of the day."
 
"Ah, monsieur," said Pauline, "that is the great difference between the French and English commerce, as it appears to me. In France our négociants have not merely trusted clerks such as you have here, but they have partners who enjoy their utmost confidence, who are as themselves, in fact, in all matters of their business."
 
"Yes, madame, but that is not confined to France; we have exactly the same thing in England. My house is Calverley and Co.; Co. stands for 'company,' vous savvy," said John, with a great dash at airing his French.
 
"Ah, you have partners?" asked Pauline. "Well, no, not exactly," said John evasively, looking over her bead, and rattling the keys in his trousers-pockets.
 
"I think I heard of one Monsieur Claxton."
 
"Eh," said John, looking at her disconcertedly, "Claxton, eh? O yes, of course."
 
"And yet it is strange that, intimate, lié, bound up as this Monsieur Claxton must be with you in your affairs, you have never brought him to this house--Madame Calverley has never seen him. I should like to see this Monsieur Claxton, do you know? I should--"
 
But John Calverley stepped hurriedly forward and laid his hand upon her arm. "Stay, for God's sake," he said, with an expression of terror in every feature; "I hear Mrs. Calverley's step on the stairs. Do not mention Mr. Claxton's name in this house; I will tell you why some other time--only--don't mention it!"
 
"I understand," said Pauline quietly; and when Mrs. Calverley entered the room, she found her guest deeply absorbed in the photographic album.
 
That night the party broke up early. Mr. Calverley, though he used every means in his power to disguise the agitation into which his conversation with Pauline had thrown him, was absent and embarrassed; while Pauline herself was so occupied in thought over what had occurred, and so desirous to be alone, in order that she might have the opportunity for full reflection, that she did not, as usual, encourage her hostess in the small and spiteful talk in which that lady delighted, and none were sorry when the clock, striking ten, gave them an excuse for an adjournment.
 
"Allons donc," said Pauline, when she had once more regained her own chamber, "I have made a great success to-night, by mere chance-work too, arising from my keeping my eyes and ears always open. See now! It is evident, from some cause or other--why, I cannot at present comprehend--that this man, Monsieur Calverley, is frightened to death lest his wife should see his partner! What does it matter to me, the why or the wherefore? The mere fact of its being so is sufficient to give me power over him. He is no fool; he sees the influence which I have already acquired over Mrs. Calverley, and he knows that were I just to drop a hint to that querulous being, that jealous wretch, she would insist on being made known to Claxton, and having all the business transactions between them explained to her. Threaten Monsieur Calverley with that, and I can obtain from him what I will, can be put on Tom Durham's track, and then left to myself to work out my revenge in my own way! Ah, Monsieur and Madame Mogg, of Poland-street, how can I ever be sufficiently grateful for the chance which sent me to lodge in your mansarde, and first gave me the idea of making the acquaintance of the head of the great firm of Calverley and Company!"
 
The next morning, when, after breakfast, and before starting for the City, Mr. Calverley went into the dull square apartment behind the dining-room, dimly lighted by a window, overlooking the leads, which he called his study, where some score of unreadable books lay half reclining against each other on shelves, but the most used objects in which were a hat and clothes-brush, some walking-canes and umbrellas, he was surprised to find himself closely followed by Madame Du Tertre; more surprised when that lady closed the door quietly, and turning to him said, with meaning:
 
"Now, monsieur, five words with you."
 
"Certainly, madame," said John very much taken aback; "but is not this rather an odd place--would not Mrs. Calverley think--?"
 
"Ah, bah," said Pauline, with a shrug and a gesture very much more reminiscent of the dame du comptoir than of the dame de compagnie. "Mrs. Calverley has gone down-stairs to battle with those wretched servants, and she is, as you know, safe to be there for half an hour. What I have to say will not take ten minutes--shall I speak?"
 
John bowed in silence, looking at the same time anxiously towards the study-door.
 
"You do not know much of me, Monsieur Calverley, but you will before I have done. I am at present--and am, I fancy, likely to remain--an inmate of your house; I have established myself in Mrs. Calverley's good graces, and have, as you must know very well, a certain amount of influence with her; but it was you to whom I made my original appeal; it is you whom I wish to retain as my friend."
 
John Calverley, with flushing cheeks, and constantly-recurring glance towards the door, said, "that he was very proud, and that if he only knew what Madame Du Tertre desired--"
 
"You shall know at once, Monsieur Calverley: I want you to accept me as your friend, and to prove that you do so by giving me your confidence."
 
John Calverley started.
 
"Yes, your confidence," continued Pauline. "I have talent and energy, and, when I am trusted, could prove myself a friend worth having; but I am too proud to accept half-confidences, and where no trust is reposed in me I am apt to ally myself with the opposite faction. Why not trust in me, Monsieur Calverley--why not tell me all?"
 
"All--what all, madame?"
 
"About your partner, Monsieur Claxton, and the reason why you do not bring him--"
 
"Hush! pray be silent, I implore you!" said John Calverley, stepping towards her and taking both her hands in his. "I cannot imagine," he said, after a moment's pause, "what interest my business affairs can have for you; but since you seem to wish it, you shall know them all; only not here and not now."
 
"Yes," said Pauline, with provoking calmness, '"in the City, perhaps?"
 
"Yes; at my office in Mincing-lane."
 
"And when?"
 
"To-morrow week, at four o'clock; come down there then, and I will tell you all you wish to know."
 
"Right," said Pauline, slipping out of the room in an instant. And before John Calverley let himself out at the street-door, he heard the drawing-room piano ringing out the grand march from the Prophète under her skilful hands.
 
Three days afterwards a man came up from the office with a letter for Mrs. Calverley. It was from her husband, stating he had a telegram calling him down to Swartmoor at once, and requesting that his portmanteau might be packed and given to the messenger. This worthy was seen and interrogated by the mistress of the house. "He knew nothing about the telegram," he said, "but when his master gave him the letter he looked bothered and dazed-like."
 
Mrs. Calverley shook her head, and opined that her prophecies anent the downfall of the Swartmoor Ironworks were about to be realised. But Pauline did not seem to be much put out at the news. "It is important, doubtless," she said to herself, "and he must go; but he will return in time to keep his appointment with me."
 
The day arrived and the hour, and Pauline was punctual to her appointment, but Mr. Calverley had not arrived, though one of the clerks said he had left word that it was probable he might return on that day. That was enough for Pauline; she would await his arrival.
 
An hour passed.
 
Then there was a great tearing up and down stairs, and hurrying to and fro, and presently, when a white-faced clerk came in to get his hat, he stared to see her there. He had forgotten her, though it was he who had ushered her into the waiting-room.
 
"There was no use in her remaining there any longer," he said; "the head-clerk, Mr. Jeffreys, had been sent for to Great Walpole-street; and though nobody knew anything positive, everybody felt that something dreadful had occurred."
 
CHAPTER XII.  "When Doctors Disagree."
 When Alice first heard the news of Tom Durham's death, she was deeply and seriously grieved. Not that she had seen much of her half-brother at any period of her life, not that there was any special bond of sympathy between them, nor that the shifty, thriftless ne'er-do-well possessed any qualities likely to find much favour with a person of Alice's uprightness and rectitude of conduct. But the girl could not forget the old days when Tom, as a big strong lad, just returned from his first rough introduction to the world, would take her, a little delicate mite, and carry her aloft on his shoulders round the garden, and even deprive himself of the huge pipe and the strong tobacco which he took such pride in smoking, because the smell was offensive to her. She could not forget that whenever he returned from his wanderings, short as his stay in England might be, he made a point of coming to see her, always bringing some little present, some quaint bit of foreign art-manufacture, which he knew Would please her fancy; and though his purse was generally meagrely stocked, always asking her whether she was in want of money, and offering to share its contents with her. More vividly than all she recalled to mind his softness of manner and gentleness of tone, on the occasion of their last parting; she recollected how he had clasped her to his breast at the station, and how she had seen the tears falling down his cheeks as the train moved away; she remembered his very words: "I am not going to be sentimental, it isn't in my line; but I think I like you better than anybody else in the world, though I didn't take to you much at first." And again: "So I love you, and I leave you with regret." Poor Tom, poor dear Torn! such was the theme of Alice's daily reflection, invariably ending in her breaking down and comforting herself with a good cry.
 
But, in addition to the loss of her brother, Alice Claxton had great cause for anxiety and mental disturbance. John had returned from his last business tour weary, dispirited, and obviously very much out of health. The brightness had faded from his blue eyes, the lines round them and his mouth seemed to have doubled both in number and depth, his stoop was considerably increased, and instead of his frank hearty bearing, he crept about, when he thought he was unobserved, with dawdling footsteps, and with an air of lassitude pervading his every movement. He strove his best to disguise his condition from Alice; he struggled hard to talk to her in his old cheerful way, to take interest in the details of her management of the house and garden, to hear little Bell her lessons, and to play about with the child on days when the weather rendered it possible for him to go into the shrubbery. But even during the time when Alice was talking or reading to him, or when he was romping with the child, he would suddenly subside into a kind of half-dazed state, his eyes staring blankly before him, his hands dropped listlessly by his side; he would not reply until he had been spoken to twice or thrice, and would then look up as though he had either not heard or not understood the question addressed to him. If it was painful to Alice to see her husband in that state, it was far more distressing to observe his struggles to recover his consciousness, and his attempts at being more like his old self. In his endeavours to talk and laugh, to rally his young wife after his usual fashion, and to comprehend and be interested in the playful babble of the child, there was a ghastly galvanised vivacity most painful to behold.
 
Watching her husband day by day with the greatest interest and care, studying him so closely that she was enabled to anticipate his various changes of manner, and almost to foretell the next expression of his face, Alice Claxton became convinced that there was something seriously the matter with him, and it was her duty, whether he wished it or not, to call in medical advice. Mr. Broadbent, the village apothecary, had had a great deal of experience, and was invariably spoken of as a clever, kind-hearted man. When the Claxtons first established themselves at Rose Cottage, the old-fashioned residents in the neighbourhood duly called and left their cards; but after John had consulted with Alice, telling her that he left her to do entirely as she thought fit in the matter, but that for his own part he had no desire to commence a new series of acquaintance, it was agreed between them that it would be sufficient to deliver cards in return, and all farther attempts at social intercourse were politely put aside and ignored. In such a village as Hendon was a few years ago, it was, however, impossible without actual rudeness to avoid the acquaintance of the vicar and the doctor, and consequently the Reverend Mr. Tomlinson and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Broadbent, were on visiting terms at Rose Cottage.
 
Visiting terms, so far as the Tomlinsons were concerned, meant an interchange of dinners twice in the year; but Mr. Broadbent was seen, by Mrs. Claxton at least, far more frequently. The story of little Bell's adoption had got wind throughout the neighbourhood, and the spinsters and the gushing young ladies, who thought it "so romantic," unable to effect an entrance for themselves into the enchanted bower, anxiously sought information from Mr. Broadbent, who was, as they knew, a privileged person. The apothecary was by no means backward in purveying gossip for the edification of his fair hearers, and his eulogies of Mrs. Claxton's good looks, and his detailed descriptions of little Bell's infantile maladies, were received with much delight at nearly all the tea-tables in the neighbourhood. Whether John Claxton had heard of this, whether he had taken any personal dislike to Mr. Broadbent, or whether it was merely owing to his natural shyness and reserve, that he absented himself from the room on nearly every occasion of the doctor's visits, Alice could not tell; but such was the case. When they did meet, they talked politely, and seemed on the best of terms; but John seemed to take care that their meetings should be as few as possible.
 
What was to be done? John had now been home three days, and was visibly worse than on his arrival. Alice had spoken to him once or twice, seriously imploring him to tell her what was the matter with him, but had been received the first time with a half-laugh, the second time with a grave frown. He was quite well, he said, quite well, so far as his bodily health was concerned; a little worried, he allowed; business worries, which a woman could not understand, matters connected with the firm which gave him a certain amount of anxiety--nothing more. Alice thought that this was not the whole truth, and that John, in his love for her, and desire to spare her any grief, had made light of what was really serious suffering. The more she thought over it, the more anxious and alarmed she became, and at length, when on the fourth morning after John's return, she had peeped into the little library and seen her husband sitting there at the window, not heeding the glorious prospect before him, not heeding the book which lay upon his lap, but lying backwards in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed, his complexion a dull sodden red, she determined on at once sending for Mr. Broadbent, without saying a word to John about it. An excuse could easily be found; little Bell had a cold and was slightly feverish, and the doctor had been sent for to prescribe for her; and though he could see Mr. Claxton and have a talk with him, Alice would take care that John should not suspect that he was the object of Mr. Broadbent's visit.
 
Mr. Broadbent came, pleasant and chatty at first, imagining he had been sent for to see the little girl in one of the ordinary illnesses of childhood; graver and much less voluble as, on their way up to the nursery, Mrs. Claxton confided to him her real object in requesting his presence. Little Bell duly visited, the conspiring pair came down stairs again, and Alice going first, opened the door and discovered Mr. Claxton in the attitude in which she had last seen him, fast asleep and breathing heavily. He roused himself at the noise on their entrance, rubbed his eyes, and rose wearily to his feet, covered with confusion as soon as he made out that Alice had a companion.
 
"Well, John," cried Alice, with a well-feigned liveliness, "you were asleep, I declare! See, here is Mr. Broadbent come to shake hands with you. He was good enough to come round and look at little Bell, who has a bad cold, poor child, and a little flushing in the skin, which frightened me; but Mr. Broadbent says it's nothing."
 
"Nothing at all, Mr. Claxton, take my word for it," said the doctor, who had by this time advanced into the room, and by a little skilful manoeuvring had got his back to the window, while he had turned John Claxton, whose hand he held, with his face to the light; "nothing at all, the merest nothing; but ladies, as you know, are even frightened at that, particularly where little ones are concerned. Well, Mr. Claxton," continued the doctor, who was a big jolly man, with a red face, a pair of black bushy whiskers, and a deep voice, "and how do you find yourself, sir?"
 
"I am quite well, thank you, doctor," said John Claxton, plucking up and striving to do his best; "I may say quite well."
 
"Lucky man not to find all your travelling knock you about," said the doctor. "I have known several men--commercials--who say they cannot stand the railway half so well as they used to do the old coaches--shakes them, jars them altogether. By the way, there is renewed talk about our having a railway here. Have you heard anything about it?"
 
"Not I," said John Claxton, "and I fervently hope it will not come in my time. I am content with old Davis's coach."
 
"Ah," said the doctor with a laugh, "you must find old Davis's coach rather a contrast to some of the railways you are in the habit of scouring the country in, both in regard to speed and comfort. However, I must be off; glad to see you looking so well. Good-morning. Now, Mrs. Claxton," added the doctor, as he shook hands with John, "if you will just come with me, I should like to look at that last prescription I wrote for the little lady upstairs."
 
No sooner were they in the dining-room, with the door closed behind them, than Alice laid her hand upon the doctor's arm, and looked up into his face pale and eager with anxiety.
 
"Well," she said, "how does he look? what do you think? Tell me at once."
 
"It is impossible, my dear Mrs. Claxton," said the good-natured apothecary, looking at her kindly, and speaking in a softened voice; "it is impossible for me to judge of Mr. Claxton's state from a mere cursory glance and casual talk; but I am bound to say that, from what I could observe, I fancy he must be considerably out of health."
 
"So I thought," said Alice; "so I feared." And her tears fell fast.
 
"You must not give way, my dear madam," said Mr. Broadbent. "What I say may be entirely unfounded. I am, recollect, only giving you my impression after a conversation with your husband, in which, at your express wish, I refrained from asking him anything about himself."
 
"If I could manage to persuade him to see you, would you come in this afternoon or tomorrow morning, Mr. Broadbent?"
 
"I would, of course, do anything you wished; but as Mr. Claxton has never hitherto done me the honour to consult me professionally, and as it seems to me to be a case the diagnosis of which should be very carefully gone into, I would recommend that he should consult some physician of eminence. Possibly he knows such a one."
 
"No," said Alice, "I have never heard him mention any physician since our marriage."
 
"If that be the case, I would strongly advise you to call in Doctor Houghton. He is a man of the greatest eminence; and, as it happens, I see him every day just now, as we have a regular consultation at the Rookery--you know, the large place on the other side of the village, where poor Mr. Piggott is lying dangerously ill. If you like, I will mention the case to Doctor Haughton when I see him to-morrow."
 
"Thank you, Mr. Broadbent; I am deeply obliged to you, but I must speak to John first. I should not like to do anything without his knowledge. I will speak to him this afternoon, and send a note round to you in the evening." And Mr. Broadbent, much graver and much less boisterous than usual, took his departure.
 
John Claxton remained pretty much in the same dozing kind of state during the day. He came in to luncheon, and made an effort to talk cheerfully upon the contents of the newspaper and suchlike topics, and afterwards he had a romp in the hall with little Bell, the weather being too raw for the child to go out of doors. But two or three turns at the battledore and shuttlecock, two or three spinnings of the big humming-top, two or three hidings behind the greatcoats, seemed to be enough for him, and he rang for the nurse to take the child to her room just as the little one was beginning to enter into the sport of the various games. Alice had been in and out through the hall during the pastime, and saw the child go quietly off, bearing her disappointment bravely, and saw her husband turn listlessly into the library, his hands buried in the pockets of his shooting-jacket and his head sunk upon his breast. Poor little Alice! Her life for the last few years had been so bright and so full of sunshine; her whole being was so bound up with that of her kind thoughtful husband, who had taken her from almost penial drudgery and made her the star and idol of his existence, that when she saw him fighting bravely against the illness which was bearing him down, and ever striving to hide it from her, she could not make head against the trouble, but retired into a corner of her pretty little drawing-room and wept bitterly.
 
Then when the fit of weeping was over, she roused herself; her brain cleared and her determination renewed. "It is impossible that this can go on," she said to herself; "I have a part and share in John's life now; it belongs to me almost as much as to him, and it is my duty to see that it is not endangered. He will be angry, I know, but I must bear his anger. After what Mr. Broadbent said this morning, it is impossible that I can allow matters to remain in their present state without acting upon the advice which he gave me; and be the result what it may, I will do so."
 
The autumn twilight had fallen upon the garden, wrapping it in its dim grey folds, the heavy mists were beginning to rise from the damp earth, and the whole aspect outside was dreary and chilly. But when Alice entered the little library she found John Claxton standing at the window, with his head lying against the pane, and apparently rapt in the contemplation of the cheerless landscape.
 
"John," she said, creeping close to him, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, "John."
 
"Yes, dear," he replied, passing his arm round her and drawing her closely to him. "You wondered what had become of me; you came to reproach me for leaving you so long to yourself?"
 
"No, John, not that," said Alice; "there is noting in the wide world for which I have to reproach you; there has been nothing since you first made me mistress of your house."
 
"And of my heart, Alice; don't forget that," said her husband, tenderly; "of my heart."
 
"And of your heart," she repeated. "But when you gave me that position you expected me to take with it its responsibilities as well as its happiness, did you not? You did not bring me here to be merely a toy or a plaything--no,--I don't mean that exactly; I mean not merely to be something for your petting and your amusement--you meant me to be your wife, John; to share with you your troubles and anxieties, and to have a voice of my own, a very little one, in the regulation of all things in which you were concerned?"
 
"Certainly, Alice," said her husband; "have I not shown this?"
 
"Always before, John, always up to within the last few days. And if you are not doing so now, it is, I know, from no lack of love, but rather out of care and thoughtfulness for me."
 
"Why, Alice," said John, with a struggle to revive his old playful manner, "what is the matter with you? How grave the little woman is to-night."
 
"Yes, John; I am grave, because I know you are ill, and that you are striving to hide it from me lest I should be alarmed. That is not the way it should be, John; you know we swore to be loyal to each other in sickness as well as in health, and it would be my pride as well as my duty to take up my place by you in sickness and be your nurse."
 
"I want no nurse, little woman," he said, bending tenderly over her. "As I told you this morning, I am quite well only a little--" And then his brain reeled, and his legs tottered beneath him, and had he not caught hold of the chair standing at his elbow, he would have fallen to the ground.
 
"You are ill, John; there is the proof," Alice cried, after he had seated himself and thrown himself heavily back in the chair. She knelt by his side, bathing his forehead with eau-de-cologne. "You are ill, and must be attended to at once. Now listen; do you understand me?"
 
A feeble pressure of her hand intimated assent.
 
"Well, then, Mr. Broadbent mentioned quite by accident this morning that a celebrated London physician, a Doctor Haughton I think he called him, was in the habit of coming up here every day just now to visit Mr. Piggott it the Rookery; and it struck me at the time that it would be a very good plan if we could send round to the Rookery and ask this Doctor Haughton to call in as he was passing and see you."
 
"No!" cried John Claxton in a loud voice, as he started up in his chair; "no, I forbid you distinctly to do anything of the kind. I will have no strange doctor admitted into this house. Understand, Alice, these are my orders, and I insist on their being obeyed."
 
"That is quite enough, John," said Alice; "you know that your will is my law; still I hope to make you think better of it for your own sake and for mine."
 
They said no more about it just then. Alice remained kneeling by her husband, holding his hand in hers, and softly smoothing his hair, and bathing his forehead, until the dinner was announced. The threat of calling in Doctor Haughton seemed to have had an inspiriting effect on the invalid. He ate and drank more than he had done on the three previous days, and talked more freely and with greater gaiety. So comparatively lively was he, that Alice began to hope that he had been merely suffering, as he had said, under an accumulation of business worries, and that with a little rest and quiet he would recover his ordinary health and spirits.
 
Quite late in the evening, as they were sitting together in the library, John began talking to his wife about Tom Durham. He had scarcely touched upon the subject since the news of the unfortunate man's death had arrived in England, and even now he introduced it cautiously and with becoming reverence.
 
"Of course it was a sad blow," he said, "and just now it seems very hard for you to bear; but don't think I have failed to notice, Alice, how, in your love and care for me, you have set aside your own grief lest the sight of your sorrow should distress me."
 
"I don't know that I deserve any gratitude for that, John; my care for you is so very much greater than any other feeling which can possibly enter into my mind, that it stands apart and alone, and I cannot measure others by it. And yet I was very fond of poor Tom," she said, pensively.
 
"It will be a comfort for us to think, not now so much as hereafter, that we did our best to start him in an honest career, and to give him the chance of achieving a good position," said John Claxton. "He had seen a great many of the ups and downs of life, had poor Tom Durham."
 
"He was a strange mixture of good and evil," said Alice; "but to me he was always uniformly kind and affectionate. He had a strange regard for me, as being, I suppose, something totally different from what he was usually brought in contact with; he took care that I should see nothing but the best and brightest side of him, though of course I knew from others that he was full of faults."
 
"And you loved him all the same?"
 
"And yet, as you say, I loved him all the same."
 
"And nothing you could hear now would alter your opinion of him?"
 
"No, John, I think--I am sure not. I am a strange being, and this is one of my characteristics, that no fault known at the time or discovered afterwards, could in the slightest degree influence my feelings towards one whom I had really loved."
 
"You are sure of that, Alice?" said John Claxton, bending down and looking earnestly at her.
 
"Quite sure," she replied.
 
"That is one of the sweetest traits in your sweet self," said her husband, kissing her fervently.
 
The next morning Mr. Claxton's improvement seemed to continue. He was up tolerably early, ate a good breakfast, and talked with all his accustomed spirit. Alice began to think that she had been precipitate in her idea of calling in medical advice, particularly in sending for a stranger like Doctor Haughton, and was glad that John had overruled her in the matter. Later in the morning, the air being tolerably mild, and the sun shining, he went with little Bell into the garden, first walking quietly round the paths, and afterwards, in compliance with the child's request, giving himself up for a romping game at play. It was while engaged in this game that John Claxton felt as though he had suddenly lost his intellect, that everything was whirling round him in wild chaotic disorder, then that he was stricken blind and deaf, then that with one great blow depriving him almost of life, he was smitten to the earth. On the earth he lay; while the child, conceiving this to be a part of the game, ran off with shrieks of delight to some new hiding-place. On the earth he lay, how long he knew not, having only the consciousness, when he came to himself; of being dazed and stunned, and sore all over, as though he had been severely beaten.
 
John Claxton knew what this meant. He felt it would be almost impossible any longer to hide the state in which he was from the eager anxious eyes of his wife. He would make one more attempt, however; so, bracing himself together, he managed to proceed with tolerable steadiness towards the house. Alice came out to meet him, beaming with happiness.
 
"What has become of you, you silly John?" she cried. "I have been looking for you everywhere. Bell told me she left you hiding somewhere in the garden, and I have just sent up for my cloak, determined to search for you myself."
 
"Bell was quite right, dear," said John, slowly and with great effort. "I was hiding, as she said; but as she did not come to find me, I thought I had better make the best of my way without her."
 
"Not before you were required, sir. I was waiting for you to give me my monthly cheque. Don't you know that to-day is the twenty-fourth, when I always pay my old pensioners and garden people?"
 
"Is to-day the twenty-fourth?" asked John Claxton, his face flushing very red, as he fumbled in his pocket for his note-book.
 
"Certainly, John. Thursday the twenty-fourth, and--"
 
"I must go," said John Claxton hoarsely, after he had found his note-book and looked into it; "I must go to London at once."
 
"To London, John?"
 
"Yes, at once; particular appointment with Mr. Calverley for to-day. I cannot think how I have forgotten it; but I must go."
 
"You are not well enough to go, John; you must not."
 
"I tell you I must and will!" said John Claxton fiercely. "I shall come back to-night; or, if I have to go off out of town, I will tell you where to send my portmanteau. Don't be angry, dear. I didn't mean to be cross--I didn't indeed; but business--most important business."
 
He spoke thickly and hurriedly, his veins were swollen, and his eyes seemed starting out of his head.
 
"Won't you wait for Davis's coach, John?" said Alice softly. "It will start in half an hour."
 
"No, no; let it pick me up on the road. Tell Davis to look out for me; a little walk will do me good. Give me my hat and coat; and now, God bless you, my darling. You are not angry with me? Let me hear that before I start."
 
"I never was angry with you, John. I never could be angry with you so long as I live."
 
He wound his arms around her and held her to his heart; then with rapid shambling steps he started off down the high-road. He walked on and on; he must have gone, he thought, at least two miles; would the coach never come? The excitement which sustained him at first now began to fail him; he felt his legs tottering under him; then suddenly the blindness and the deafness came on him again, the singing in his ears, the surging in his brain; and he fell by the roadside, helpless and senseless.
 
The delightfully-interesting case of Mr. Piggott of the Rookery had brought together Doctor Haughton and Mr. Broadbent, after a separation of many years, and led them to renew the old friendship, which had been interrupted since their student days at St. George's. Nature was not doing much for Mr. Piggott, and the case was likely to be pleasantly protracted; so that on this very day Doctor Haughton had asked Mr. Broadbent to come and dine and sleep at his house in Saville-row, where he would meet with some old friends and several distinguished members of the profession; and the pair were rolling easily into town in Doctor Haughton's carriage, with the black bag, containing Mr. Broadbent's evening dress, carefully placed under the coachman's legs.
 
"What is this? A knot of people gathered by the roadside, all craning forward eagerly, and looking at something on the ground. The coachman's practised eye detects an accident instantly, and he whips up his horses and stops them just abreast of the crowd.
 
"What is it?" cried the coachman.
 
"Man in a fit," cried one of the crowd.
 
"That be blowed," said another; "he won't have any more of such fits as them, I reckon. The man's dead; that's what he is."
 
Hearing these words Mr. Broadbent opened the door and pushed his way among the crowd. Instantly he returned, his face full of horror.
 
"Good God!" he said to his companion, "who do you think it is? The man--the very man about whom I was speaking to you just now--Claxton."
 
Doctor Haughton descended from the carriage in a more leisurely and professional manner, stepped among the people, who made way for him right and left, knelt by the prostrate body; lifted its arms and applied his fingers to its wrists. Then he shook his head.
 
"The man is dead," he said; "there can be no doubt about that." And he bent forward to look at the features. Instantly recognising him, he sprang back. "Who did you say this man was?" he said, turning to Mr. Broadbent.
 
"Claxton--Mr. Claxton, of Rose Cottage."
 
"Nothing of the sort," said the doctor. "I knew him well; it is Mr. Calverley, of Great Walpole-street."
 
"My good sir," said Mr. Broadbent, "I knew the man well. I saw him only yesterday."
 
"And I knew Mr. Calverley well. He was one of Chipchase's patients, and I attended him when Chipchase was out of town. We can soon settle this--Here, you lad, just stand at those horses' heads--Gibson," to his coachman, "get down, and come here. Did you ever see that gentleman before?" pointing to the body.
 
The man bent forward and took a long and solemn stare.
 
"Certainly, sir," he replied at length, touching his hat; "Mr. Calverley, sir, of Great Walpole-street. Seen him a score of times."
 
"What do you think of that?" said Doctor Haughton, turning to his companion.
 
"Think!" said Mr. Broadbent, "I will tell you what I think--that Mr. Claxton of Rose Cottage and Mr. Calverley of Great Walpole-street were one and the same man!"
 
 
 
 
 
END OF VOL. I.
Volume 2 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.
 
Pauline was shown into the little glazed room, already familiar to her, and was speedily joined by the head-clerk, to whom she handed Mrs. Calverley's note. After reading it Mr. Jeffreys hesitated, but only for an instant. From his boyhood he had been brought up by Mr. Calverley, had served him for thirty years with unswerving fidelity, and had loved him as deeply as his unsentimental business nature would permit. In his late master's lifetime no request of Mrs. Calverley's, unendorsed by her husband, would have had the smallest weight with the head-clerk. But Mr. Calverley was no longer the chief of the house; no one knew how matters would turn out, or into whose hands the business would fall; and Mr. Jeffreys had understood from Messrs. Pembertons, the lawyers, that Mrs. Calverley was appointed as executrix, and knew that it would be as well for him to secure a place in her favour. So taking a key from his pocket he requested the visitor to follow him, and ushered her up the stairs into the room on the first floor.
 
There it was, with the exception of the absence of the central figure, exactly as she had last seen it. There stood his desk, the
blotting-pad scribbled with recent memoranda, the date-index still showing the day on which he had last been there, the pen-rack, the paper--all the familiar objects, as though awaiting his return. Mr. Jeffreys walked to the window and pulled up the blind; then looked round the room, and in spite of himself, as it were, heaved a deep sigh.
 
'It is Mrs. Calverley's wish, madam, I see,' he said, referring to the letter which he held in his hand, 'that you should be left alone. If you should require any assistance or information from me, and will sound this bell,' he pointed to the spring-bell on the table, which his master had used for summoning him, and him alone, 'I shall be in the next room, and will wait upon you at once.' Then he bowed and retired.
 
Left to herself, and certain that the door was safely closed, Pauline took the bunch of keys from her pocket, and soon hit upon the one she required. One by one the drawers lay open before her; some almost empty, some packed to the brim, most of them with a top layer of dust, as though their contents had been undisturbed for years. What did she find in them? An assemblage of odds and ends, a collection of papers and written documents, of printed prospectuses of stock-jobbing companies, some of which had never seen the light, while others had perished in their speedily-blossomed maturity years ago. One contained a set of red-covered domestic account-books, neatly tied together with red tape, and on examining these Pauline found them to be the receipted books of the butcher, baker, &c., 'in account with Mr. John Calverley, 48 Colebrook-row, Islington,' and referring to a period when the dead man was only a struggling clerk, and lived with his old. mother in the suburbs. In another lay scores of loose sheets of paper covered with his manuscript notes and calculations, the first rough draft of his report on the affairs of Lorraine Brothers, 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 memorandum, 'Died April 13th, 1858;' two newspaper cuttings, one announcing the death of Mrs. Calverley, of Colebrook-row, Islington, at the date just mentioned; the other the marriage of John Calverley, Esq., with Jane, widow of the late George Gurwood, Esq., and only daughter of John Lorraine, Esq., of Mincing-lane and Brunswick-square. Then Pauline came upon a packet of letters stained and discoloured with age, which on examination proved to have been written to him by his mother at various dates, while he was absent travelling on the business of the firm.
 
And nothing else. That box seemed to have been used by the dead man as a sacred depository for the relics of the old woman whom he had loved with such filial tenderness, whose memory he had so fondly cherished. Stay! Here was something else, an envelope cleaner, fresher, and of newer shape than the others. She took it out and opened it eagerly. Ah, at last! It contained a half-sheet of note paper, on which were these words:
 
'October 4, '70. Transferred to private account two thousand pounds. To be given to T.D. at request of A.C.'
 
She had found something, then--not much, but something. T.D. was, of course, Tom Durham, and the A.C. at whose request the money was to be paid to him was equally, of course, Mr. Claxton. She had never heard his Christian name; it must be Albert, Alfred, Andrew, or something of the kind.
 
Pauline replaced the paper in the envelope, which she put into her pocket. No need to tell Mrs. Calverley anything about that--that was her prize: It contained no reference to the Swartmoor Ironworks, and would have no interest for the widow. So she locked the box, and replaced it in its former position under the desk, pressed the spring bell (the familiar sound of which made Mr. Jeffreys jump off his chair), thanked the chief-clerk on his appearance, and took leave of him with much suavity. Then she took a cab, and returning straight to Great Walpole-street, reported to Mrs. Calverley the total failure of her mission.
 
There is bustle and confusion in Great Walpole-street, for the time has arrived when It is to be removed. At the Oxford Arms, intersecting Horatio-street, the hearse and the mourning-coaches have been drawn up for some time, and the black-job gentlemen are busying themselves, some in fixing plumes to the horses' heads, while others are getting out the trappings, staves, hat-bands, and other horrible insignia of their calling. Then, the cold fowls and sherry having been consumed by the mourners, the dismal procession files off to Kensal Green. Whence, in less than a couple of hours, it comes rattling back with some of the occupants of its carriages laughing, and all of them talking--all save Martin Gurwood, who, in addition to his real grief at the loss of the dead man, is thinking that about that time Humphrey Statham has gone on his mission to the cottage at Hendon.
CHAPTER IV.  TAKE HER UP TENDERLY.
 The blinds are up at the house in Great Walpole-street, some of the windows have been open to get rid of the prevalent 'stuffiness,' and after the late melancholy week a general reaction towards sprightliness has set in among the household. This is confined to the lower regions, of course; up-stairs Mrs. Calverley, to whom the astute French milliner, aided and abetted by the counsel of Pauline, has actually given something like shape, sits full dressed and complacent, reading the letters of condolence which arrive by every post, and listening to the loud rings which precede the leaving of cards and the making of kind inquiries. Pauline is very attentive to her friend, listening patiently, now to her querulous complaints as to the hardness of her fate, now to her childish delight at being the object of so many sympathetic letters and calls; she is unwearied in her endeavours to amuse Mrs. Calverley, and she succeeds so well that that worthy lady has given up her intention of visiting Brighton, which would not at all have coincided with Pauline's plans.
 
For, on farther thinking over the subject, she has become more and more convinced that Martin Gurwood is in possession of some secret regarding Mr. Calverley's death, and she cannot divest herself of the idea that this secret has some bearing on the matter which she has nearest at heart--the identification of Claxton, as a means to the discovery of Tom Durham. The reverend is preoccupied now, and even graver than usual. If she could only induce this old woman to let her have a little time to herself, she could watch where he goes to! Now at this very minute, on the morning after the funeral, the servant is brushing Mr. Gurwood's hat in the hall, and he is about to start on some expedition which might perhaps have as much interest for her as for him.
 
Unconscious of the excitement he was causing to his mother's visitor, Martin Gurwood sallied forth and walked down Great Walpole-street in quest of a cab to take him to the City. The good-looking young clergyman, handsome despite his grave and somewhat ascetic appearance, was an object of much remark. The nursery-maids, who were convoying their little charges to scamper about Guelph-park, were in some instances outspoken in their admiration of him. The people hiding behind the wire-blinds in the physician's dining-room, waiting their turn for an audience, looked out with envy at his trim figure and brisk activity, and turned back in disgust to refresh themselves with the outside sheet of the Times, or to stare with feeble curiosity at their fellow-victims. But, however bright may have been his personal appearance, it is certain that he was in a state of great mental disquietude, and when he ascended the dingy stairs leading to Humphrey Statham's office his heart was beating audibly.
 
Mr. Collins was a man who never repeated a mistake; so that when he caught sight of Martin he gave him precedence over the business people who were waiting in the outer office, and showed him at once into Mr. Statham's sanctum.
 
Humphrey was not at his desk; he had pulled his arm-chair in front of the fire and was reclining in it, his feet stretched out on the fender, his hands plunged in his trousers-pockets. So deep in rumination was he that he did not look up at the opening of the door, but thinking it was merely Collins with some business question, waited to be spoken to.
 
'Asleep?' said Martin Gurwood, bending over him, and touching him lightly on the shoulder.
 
'What, is it you?' cried Humphrey, starting up. 'Asleep, no! but, I confess, perfectly rapt and engrossed in thought.'
 
'And the subject was--?'
 
'Exactly the subject which you have come to talk to me about. Ah, my dear fellow, I have had the most extraordinary time since I saw you.'
 
'You have been to Hendon?'
 
'Yes; I went yesterday.'
 
'And you saw this young woman?'
 
'I did.'
 
'Well, what is she like? Does she agree? What terms did you offer her?'
 
'Stay, it is impossible for me to answer all your questions at once. You must let me tell my story my own way, while you sit there, and don't interrupt me. Yesterday morning I drove out to Hendon in a hansom cab, and while the driver was pulling up for refreshment I made my way to Rose Cottage, where I had been told Mrs. Claxton lived. Such a pretty place, Gurwood! Even in this wretched weather one could not fail to understand how lovely it must be in summer time, and even now how trim and orderly it was! I walked round and round it before I could make up my mind to ring the bell--I must tell you I had already arranged in my mind a little plot for representing myself as deeply interested in some charity for which I intended to request her
aid--but the place looked so different to what I had expected, so cosy and homely, that I hesitated about entering it under a false pretence, even though I knew my motive to be a good one. However, at last I made up my mind and pulled the bell. It was answered by a tidy, pleasant faced, middle-aged woman. I asked if Mrs. Claxton were at home, and she answered yes, but doubted whether I could see her, inviting me at the same time to walk in while she took my message to her mistress. And then she ushered me into what was the dining-room, I suppose--all dark-green paper and black oak furniture, and some capital-proofs on the wall; and as I was mooning about and staring at everything, the door opened, and a lady came into the room.'
 
'A lady?' echoed Martin involuntarily.
 
'I said a lady, and I meant it, and I hold to the term,' said Humphrey Statham, looking straight at him. 'I don't know what her birth and breeding may have been--I should think both must have been good--but I never saw a more perfectly lady-like or a sweeter manner.'
 
'What is the character of her personal appearance?' asked Martin coldly.
 
'You mean what is she like to look at, I suppose?' said Statham. 'Quite young, not more than two or three and twenty, I should think, with a slight girlish figure, and a bright, healthy, wholesome face. You know what I mean by wholesome--beaming hazel eyes, clear
red-and-white complexion, sound white teeth, and in her eyes a look of frank honesty and innocence which should be her passport through the world.'
 
'She will stand in need of some such recommendation, poor girl,' said Martin, shaking his head.
 
'I am not at all sure about that,' said Humphrey, energetically; 'certainly not so much as you think. You wait until I have told you all about it, and I shall be greatly surprised if you are not of my opinion in the matter. Let me see, where was I? O, she had just come into the room. Well, I rose on her entrance, but she very courteously motioned me to my seat again, and asked me my business. I confess, at that moment I felt like a tremendous impostor; I had not been the least nervous before, as, with such a woman as I had expected to meet, I could have brazened it out perfectly; but this was a very different affair. I felt it almost impossible to tell even a white lie to this quiet little creature. However, I blundered out the story I had concocted as best I could, and she listened earnestly and attentively. When I stopped speaking she told me that her means were not very large, but that she would spare me as much as she could. She took out her purse, but I thought that was a little too much, so I muttered something about having no receipt with me, and told her it would be better for her to send her subscription to the office. I thought I might as well learn a little more; so I introduced Mr. Claxton's name, suggesting, I think, that he should interest some of his City friends in the charity; but her poor little face fell at once. Mr. Claxton was away, she said, travelling on business, and she burst into tears. I was very nearly myself breaking down at this, but she recovered herself quickly, and begged me to excuse her. Mr. Claxton was not in good health, she said, at the time of his departure, and as she had not heard from him since, she could not help being nervous.'
 
'This is very dreadful,' said Martin Gurwood, covering his face with his hand.
 
'Ah, but if you had only seen her,' said Humphrey; 'Her pale wistful face, her large eyes full of tears! I declare I very nearly dropped the mask and betrayed myself. I asked her if Mr. Claxton were well known on the line on which he was travelling, suggesting that, if that were the case, and he had been taken ill, some one would surely have written to her. But she didn't seem to know where he had gone, and she did not like to make any inquiries. Mr. Claxton was, she said, a partner in the firm of Calverley and Company of Mincing-lane, and she had thought of going down there to make inquiries concerning him. But she remembered that some time ago Mr. Claxton had warned her in the strongest manner against ever going to the City house, or taking notice to any one of his absence, however prolonged it might be. It was one of the laws of business, she supposed, she said, with a faint smile; but she had now become so nervous that she was very nearly breaking it.'
 
'That is precisely the catastrophe which we have been trying to avert,' said Martin.
 
'And which we shall certainly not be able to avert in the manner we originally intended,' said Humphrey Statham.
 
'The story grows blacker as you proceed with it,' said Martin, looking uneasily at his companion. 'From all I gather from you, it seems evident that--this--'
 
'This lady,' said Mr. Statham, almost sternly.
 
'Certainly; this lady is quiet, sensible, and well-behaved.'
 
'More than that,' said Humphrey eagerly. 'After I left her, I had my luncheon at the inn. I dropped in at the little post-office and stationer's shop; I chatted with half a dozen people about Mrs. Claxton, and from one and all I heard the same story, that she is kind-hearted, charitable, and unceasing in doing good; that she is the vicar's right hand among the school-children, and that she is a pattern wife.'
 
'Wife!' echoed Martin Gurwood; 'do you you mean to say--'
 
'I mean to say, Martin Gurwood,' said Statham, bending forward and speaking in a deep earnest voice, 'that I have not the smallest doubt that the woman of whom we are speaking was married to the man whom you buried yesterday. I mean to say that at this instant she believes herself to be his wife, and that it will be next to impossible to make her understand the awful position in which she is placed. I mean to say that she is the victim of as black a fraud as ever was perpetrated, and that--there, I won't say any more; the man's dead, and we have all need of forgiveness.'
 
'The Lord help her in her trouble!' said Martin Gurwood solemnly, bowing his head. 'If what you say is right, and I feel it is, the mystery of the double name is now made clear.'
 
'Yes,' said Statham; 'had this lady been what we originally supposed, it is probable that he would not have given himself the trouble of inventing any such mystery; but being, as she fondly imagined herself, his wife, it was necessary to give her a name by which she might pass unrecognised by any of his friends who might accidentally come across her. The whole scheme must have been deliberately concocted, and with its association of Claxton as a partner in Calverley's house is diabolically ingenious.'
 
There was silence for a few moments, broken by Martin Gurwood. 'The question comes back to us again,' he said; 'what are we to do?'
 
'It comes back,' said Humphrey; 'but this time I have no hesitation as to how it should be answered. When we last entered into this subject, after long discussion we decided that the inhabitant of Rose Cottage must be informed of what had taken place, and that an annuity must be offered her on condition of her keeping the knowledge of her position and even her existence from Mrs. Calverley. Now, part of our programme must be held to, and part abandoned.'
 
'It is our duty, I imagine, to break to her what has occurred,' said Martin.
 
'And to do so without a day's delay,' said Humphrey. 'That is necessary for our own sake as well as for hers. I did my best to impress upon her the inadvisability of her going to the house in the City; but as each day passes and no news is heard of him whom she awaits, her anxiety will increase more and more, and there is no knowing what rash step she may take.'
 
'Of course, if she went to Mincing-lane, she would learn at once that no Mr. Claxton was known there, and that Mr. Calverley was dead. Putting the two facts together, she would at once understand what had occurred.'
 
'Ay, and she would not be long in realising her own position, poor thing; for of course she would hear of Mrs. Calverley, and then nothing could be kept from her. No, to such a woman the horrible truth blurted out in that way might prove fatal; and though to die might possibly be the best thing that could happen to her, we must do our best to prevent any such calamity. The truth must be told to her, but it must be told kindly and gently, and it must be pointed out to her that as she has sinned unwittingly, she will not be condemned.'
 
'Is she to be told that?' cried Martin Gurwood. 'If whoever breaks the news to her talks to her after that fashion, he will be right if he is alluding to the divine mercy, but can he say the same to the world? Will not the world condemn her, point at her the finger of scorn, bid her not darken its respectable doors? Will not women priding themselves on their goodness and their charity take delight in hunting her down, and withdrawing themselves from the contamination of her presence? Will she not henceforth, and for the rest of her life, lie under a ban, be kept apart, sent to Coventry, have to perform social quarantine, and to keep the Yellow Flag flying to warn all who approach her of the danger they run?'
 
Humphrey Statham looked at his companion with surprise. He had never seen him so animated before. 'You are right,' he said. 'Heaven help her! it is the penalty which she will have to pay for this man's sin, in which no one will believe that she did not participate. There are thousands who will be ready to speak pityingly of him, while their hearts will be closed against her. Such is the justice of the world.'
 
'It must be our task, provided all that you imagine turns out to be true,' said Martin, 'to endeavour to alleviate her position as much as possible.'
 
'As a relative of the dead man who has worked this wrong, and as a clergyman, your influence and example can do her more good than those of any other person. Except, perhaps, Mrs. Calverley,' added Statham, after a pause, 'who, I hope, for more reasons than one, will never know anything of Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton's existence.'
 
'All that I can do, I will do most earnestly,' said Martin.
 
'You must do something more, Martin Gurwood,' said Humphrey; 'you must go to Hendon to-morrow and break the news to this poor creature.'
 
'I!' cried Martin Gurwood; it is impossible--I--'
 
'You, and no one else,' said Humphrey. 'In the first place you are more accustomed than I am to such deeply painful scenes as that which will ensue. It is fitting that the words which you will have to say to her should come from the mouth of a man like you, a servant of God, keeping himself unspotted from the world, rather than from any of us who are living this driving, tearing, work-a- day life.'
 
Martin Gurwood was silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the ground; then he said with a shudder, 'I cannot do it. I feel I cannot do it.'
 
'O yes, you can, and you said Humphrey, touching him kindly on the shoulder.
 
'Shall I have to tell her--all?'
 
'The all is unfortunately simple enough. You will have to tell her that so far as she was concerned, the life of this man who has just passed away was a fraud and a pretence; that his name was not Claxton, but Calverley; that he was not her husband, for at the very time when he, as she thought, made her his wife, he was married to another woman. You will have to expose all his baseness and his treachery; and you will find that she will speak pityingly of him, and forgive him, as women always do forgive those who ruin them body and soul.'
 
'You think they do?' said Martin Gurwood, looking at him earnestly.
 
'I know it,' said Statham. 'But that is neither here nor there. You must undertake this duty, Martin, for it lies more in your province than in mine. If my original notion had proved correct, I could have assumed the requisite amount of sternness, and should have done very well; but as matters stand at present I should be quite out of my element. It is meant for you, Martin, and you must do it.'
 
'I will do my best,' said Martin, though I shudder at the task, and greatly fear my own powers in being able to carry it through: Am I to say anything about the annuity, as we settled before?'
 
'No, I think not,' said Humphrey Statham promptly; 'that is a part of the affair which need not be touched on just yet; and when it comes to the front, I had better take it in hand. Not that you would not deal with it with perfect delicacy, but it requires a little infusion of business, which is more in my way. You are perfectly certain you are right in what you told me the other day about the will? No mention of any one who could possibly be this lady whom we know as Mrs. Claxton?'
 
'None. Every person named in the will is known to me or to my mother.'
 
'Have you been through Mr. Calverley's private papers?'
 
'I have gone through most of them; they were not numerous, and were very methodically arranged.'
 
'And you have found nothing suspicious in them, no memorandum making provision for any one?'
 
'Nothing of the kind. But last night Mr. Jeffreys brought up to me the banker's pass-book of the firm, and I noticed that about four months ago a sum of two thousand pounds was transferred from the business account to Mr. Calverley's private account, and I thought that was remarkable.'
 
'It was, and to have noticed it does you credit. I had no idea you had so much business discrimination.'
 
'You have not heard all,' said Martin. 'On my pointing this out to Mr. Jeffreys, of course without hinting what idea had struck me, he told me that three or four years ago, he could not recollect the exact date off-hand, a very much larger sum, ten thousand pounds, in fact, had been transferred from one account to the other in the same way.'
 
'Then it seems pretty clear to me,' said Humphrey Statham, that we shall not have to tax our inventive faculties, or to bewilder Mr. Jeffreys with any mysterious story for the purpose of furnishing Mrs. Claxton with proper means of support.'
 
'You imagine this money was devoted to her service?' asked Martin.
 
'I have very little doubt about it. The ten thousand pounds were no doubt set aside and invested in some safe concern, yielding a moderate rate of interest, say five or six per cent, and settled upon her. From this she would have a decent yearly income, more than enough, if I may judge from what I saw of her yesterday, to keep her in comfort. I don't know what the two thousand pounds transferred recently can have been for, unless it was that Mr. Calverley found his health beginning to fail, and desired to make a larger provision for her.'
 
'Might not this second sum have been given as a bribe to some one?' asked Martin, 'for the sake of buying somebody's silence--some one who discovered what was going on, and threatened to reveal it?'
 
'Most assuredly it might,' said Statham, in astonishment, 'and it is by no means unlikely that it was applied in that manner. I am amazed, Martin, at your fertility of resource; I had no idea that you had so much acquaintance with human nature.'
 
'In any case, then,' said Martin Gurwood, ignoring the latter portion of his companion's speech, 'it will not be necessary for me to touch upon the question of money in my interview with Mrs. Claxton.'
 
'Certainly not,' said Humphrey, 'beyond broadly hinting, if you find it necessary, that she will be properly cared for. But my own feeling is, that she will be far too much overwhelmed to think of anything beyond the loss she has sustained, and her consequent present misery.'
 
'You do not under-state the unpleasantness and the difficulty of the mission you have proposed for me,' said Martin, with a half-smile.
 
'I do not over-state it, my dear Gurwood, believe me,' said Statham. 'And all I can do now is to wish you God-speed in it.'<.p> 
When Martin Gurwood returned to Great Walpole-street that afternoon, he found that Mr. Jeffreys had been sent for by Mrs. Calverley, and was installed in the dining-room, with various books and documents, which he was submitting to the widow. Madame Du Tertre sat at her friend's right hand, taking notes of such practical business suggestions as occurred to Mrs. Calverley, and of the replies to such inquiries as she herself thought fit to make. To Martin's great relief the banker's pass-book, which he had seen on the previous evening, was not amongst those produced.
 
Mrs. Calverley looked somewhat confused at her son's entrance. 'I asked Mr. Jeffreys to bring these books up here, Martin,' she said, 'as it was impossible for me to go to the City just yet, and I wanted to have a general idea of how matters stood.'
 
'You did perfectly right, my dear mother,' said Martin absently, throwing himself into a chair. His conversation with Statham, the story he had heard, and the task he had undertaken, were all fresh in his mind, and he could not concentrate his attention on anything else.
 
'You seem fatigued, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline, eyeing him closely; 'the worry of the last few days has been too much for you.'
 
'It is not that, Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, rousing himself; 'the fact is, I have been engaged in the City all day, and that always tires me.'
 
'In the City!' repeated Pauline. Madame asked Monsieur Jeffreys, and he told us you had not been there.'
 
'Not to Mincing-lane. I had an engagement of my own in the City, which has occupied me all day.'
 
'Ah! and you found that very fatiguing? The roar and the noise of London, the crowded streets, the want of fresh air, all this must be very unpleasant to you, Monsieur Martin. You will be glad to get back to your quiet, your country, and your--what you call--parish.'
 
'But I shall not be able to return there for some little time to come, I fear,' said Martin; 'I have a great deal yet to do in London.'
 
'I should like you to go through some of these books with me
to-morrow. Mr. Jeffreys can leave them here, and can come up
to-morrow, and--'
 
'Not to-morrow, mother,' said Martin. 'I have an engagement of importance which will occupy me the whole day.'
 
Mrs. Calverley looked displeased. 'It is much better not to postpone these matters,' she said.
 
But Martin Gurwood answered shortly, 'It cannot be to-morrow, mother; the appointment which I have made must be kept.' And as he looked up, the tell-tale colour came again to his cheeks as he saw Madame Du Tertre's eyes eagerly fastened on him.
 
'An appointment which must be kept,' muttered Pauline to herself, as she locked her chamber-door for the night. I was right, then! This man has been away all day, engaged on some business which he does not name. He has an appointment for to-morrow, about the nature of which he is also silent. I am convinced that he is keeping something secret, and have an inexplicable feeling that that something has to do with me. Mrs. Calverley will have to pass her day in solitude to-morrow, for I too have an appointment which I must keep, and when Monsieur Martin has an interview with his friend, I shall not be far away.
 
 
Madame Du Tertre was with her dear friend very early the next morning. She had received a letter, she said, from a poor cousin of hers, who, helpless and friendless, had arrived in London the previous evening. Pauline must go to her at once, but would return by dinner-time. Mrs. Calverley graciously gave her consent to this proceeding, and Pauline took her leave.
 
Soon after breakfast Martin Gurwood issued from the house, and hailing the driver of a hansom cab, which was just coming out from the adjacent mews, fresh for its day's work, stepped lightly into the vehicle, and was driven off. Immediately afterwards, a lady, wearing a large black cloth cloak and hat, with a thick veil, called the next hansom that appeared and bade its driver keep the other cab, now some distance ahead, in view.
 
An ostler, who was passing by, with a bit of straw in his mouth, and an empty sack thrown over his shoulders, heard the direction given and grinned cynically.
 
'The old game! Always a woman for that sort of caper!' he muttered to himself as he disappeared down the mews.
CHAPTER V.  PARSON'S WORK.
 Martin Gurwood had a disturbed ride to Hendon. The difficulty of the task which he had undertaken to discharge seemed to increase as he progressed towards his destination, and he lay back in the cab buried in thought, revolving in his mind the best manner of breaking the fearful news of which he was the bearer, and wondering how it would be received. From time to time he raised himself to gaze at the prettiness of the scenery through which he was passing, to look at the wild, gorse-covered expanse of Hampstead Heath, and to refresh his eyes, wearied with the dull monotony of the London bricks and the glare of the London pavement, with that soft greenery which is so eminently characteristic of our northern suburbs; but the thought of the duty before him prevented his enjoying the sight as he otherwise would, and resuming his reverie, he remained absorbed until he roused himself at the entrance of Hendon village.
 
'There is the finger-post, that Statham spoke of, and the little pond close by,' he said to himself. 'It is no use taking the cab any farther; I suppose I had better make the best of my way to Rose Cottage on foot.' So saying, he raised his stick, and, obedient to the signal, the cabman drew up at the side of the road. You had better go and put up your horse at the inn,' said Martin to him; it has been a long pull for him, poor animal, and. I shall be some little time before I want to return.'
 
The driver carefully inspected his fare. He had come a long way, and was now setting down, not at any house, not at any lodge, but in an open country road. Was it a case of--no!' The gravity of Martin Gurwood's face, the length of his coat, the spotless stiffness of his white cravat, had their effect even on this ribald of the cab-rank.
 
'You will come for me, sir, then, to the public when you want me?' he said, touching his hat with his forefinger, and drove away contented.
 
Then Martin Gurwood, following Statham's directions, walked slowly up the little street, took the turning leading to the church, and looked out for Rose Cottage. There it was, standing some distance back from the road, with the ruddy glow of the Virginia creeper not yet wholly gone from it. Martin Gurwood stopped at the garden-gate and looked at the little paradise, so trim and orderly, so neatly kept, so thoroughly comfortable, and yet so fully unpretentious, with the greatest admiration. Then he lifted the latch and walked towards the house.
 
The gate swung to behind him, and Alice, who was in her bedroom hearing little Bell her lessons, heard the clanking of the latch. She laid down her book, and stopping the child's babbling by her uplifted finger, leant her head to listen.
 
'What is it, mamma?' asked little Bell, in wonderment.
 
'Hush, dear,' said Alice, 'I heard the garden gate. No sound of wheels! Then he cannot have brought his luggage; still it must be John.'
 
She rose from her seat, and hurried down the stairs into the little hall. Just as she reached the half-glass door, and had her hand upon the lock, a man stepped into the portico; the figure was strange to her--it was not John.
 
She felt as though she must faint; her grasp on the door relaxed, and she staggered against the wall. Seeing her condition the gentleman entered the hall, took her with a kind firm hold by the arm, and led her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open. She went passively, making no resistance, taking no notice, but throwing herself into a chair, and staring blankly at him, stricken dumb with sickening apprehension.
 
'I am speaking to Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton?' he said, after a moment's pause, in a soft, kind voice.
 
He was a young man, she began to notice, fair and good-looking, and dressed in clerical garb. That last fact had a peculiar significance for her. In the far north-east of England, on the sea-coast, where some of Alice's early days had been passed, it was the practice of the fishermen, when one of their number had been lost, to get the parson to go to the newly-made widow and break the news to her. In a stormy season Alice had often seen the sable-garbed messenger proceeding on his doleful mission, and the remembrance of him and of the 'parson's work,' as it was called, when he was so engaged, rose vividly before her, and inspired her with sudden terror.
 
'You are a clergyman?' she said, looking hard at him.
 
'I am,' he replied, still in the same soft tone. 'My name is
Gurwood--Martin Gurwood; and I have come here to--'
 
'You have come here to tell me something dreadful--I know it, I feel it--something dreadful about my husband!'
 
She pushed her hair back from off her face, and leaned forward on the table, looking at him, her eyes staring, her lips apart. Martin thought he had scarcely ever seen anything so beautiful.
 
'My visit to you certainly relates to Mr. Claxton,' he began, and then he hesitated and looked down.
 
'Ah!' she cried, immediately noticing his confusion, 'it is about John, then. There is something wrong, I know. Tell me all about it at once. I can bear it. I am strong--much stronger than I look. I entreat you not to keep me in suspense.'
 
'I am deeply grieved for you, madam,' said Martin, 'for you are right in anticipating that I bring bad news about Mr. Claxton. During his absence from home, he was attacked by a very sharp illness.'
 
'He was ill when he left here,' cried Alice. 'I knew it; and Mr. Broadbent, the doctor, knew it too, though I could not get him to say so. He ought not to have gone away. I ought not to have let him go. Now tell me, sir, pray; he has been very ill, you say; is he better?'
 
'I trust he is better,' said Martin solemnly.
 
Something in his tone struck Alice at once.
 
'Ah,' she cried, with a short sharp scream, 'I know now--he is dead!' And covering her face with her hands, she sobbed violently.
 
Martin Gurwood sat by, gazing at her with tear-dimmed eyes. He was not a man given to the reading of character; he had not been in the room with this girl for more than five minutes, he had not exchanged ten sentences with her, and yet he was certain that Humphrey Statham was perfectly right in the estimate which he had formed of her, and that, however cruelly she might have been treated, she herself was wholly innocent.
 
After some moments, Alice raised her head from out her hands.
 
'I can listen to you now,' she said very quietly. 'Will you tell me all about it? I suppose it was because I recognised you as a clergyman that gave me the intuitive knowledge that something dreadful had happened, and that you had come to tell me all. I am ready to hear it now.'
 
Martin Gurwood was horribly discomposed at this. He felt he could give her no information; for it would be impossible to tell her that the man whom she supposed to be her husband had died on the day that he left Hendon, as she would naturally inquire why the news of his death had so long been kept from her, and Martin owned to himself that he was not good at invention. He did not know what to say, and he therefore remained silent, his hand fluttering nervously round his mouth.
 
'My dear madam,' commenced Martin, with much hesitation, 'beyond the awful fact, there is indeed nothing to tell.'
 
She looked disappointed for an instant; then, striving to control the working of her lips, she said:
 
'Did he ask for me? Did he speak of me before--before-- Ah, my darling John! My dear, good old John, kindest, best, and dearest. I cannot bear it. What shall I do!'
 
She broke down utterly, and again buried her face, down which the tears were streaming, in her hands.
 
Knowing the impossibility of affording her any relief, Martin Gurwood sat helplessly by. He could only wait until the outburst of grief should moderate; he knew that it was of no use attempting to check it; so he waited.
 
Presently she raised her head.
 
'I thought I had more command over myself,' she said. 'I did not know I was so weak. But when there is any occasion for me to act, I shall be found strong enough. Tell me, sir, if you please, where is he? When will they bring him home?'
 
Martin Gurwood was not prepared for this question; it was not one of those which he had talked over with Statham. Its being put so straightforward and direct, was a contingency which he never contemplated, and he knew not how to meet it.
 
'Where is he?' repeated Alice, observing his hesitation. 'There is perhaps some difficulty about his being brought here.'
 
'There--there is,' said Martin Gurwood, catching at the chance.
 
'Then I will go to him. I will be taken to him at once.'
 
'There will be some difficulty about that, my dear madam,' said Martin. 'I am afraid it cannot be managed so easily as you seem to anticipate.'
 
'Difficulty! Cannot be managed! I do not understand what you mean, sir.'
 
'Why,' said Martin, hesitating worse than ever, 'you see that--in these matters--'
 
'In these matters, who should be with them, who should be by them,' cried Alice, 'but their nearest and dearest? Who shall tell me not to go to my husband? Who shall gainsay my right to be by him at such a time? He had no relatives; he was mine--mine alone, and I was all the world to him! O, my dear old John!' And again she burst into an agony of tears.
 
Martin Gurwood was almost at his wits' end. He foresaw that if the question were put to him again--as it would be put, he knew, so soon as her access of grief was over--if Alice again called upon him to take her to her husband, in default of any reasonable excuse he should probably be forced to confess the truth, and then he must be prepared to take the consequences, which he knew would be serious. This girl's utter prostration and humiliation, Mrs. Calverley's first outburst of rage, and subsequent malignant revenge, the shattering of the dead man's reputation, and the despicable slander and gossip which would ensue, Martin Gurwood thought of all these; knew that their being called into action was dependent on how to manage to get through the next few minutes. Why on earth had he undertaken this business? Why had not Statham, whose experience in such matters ought to have forewarned him that such a point was likely to arise--why had he not instructed him how to deal with it? From her point of view, this poor girl was, no doubt, strictly right. She considered herself to be the dead man's widow (Martin had now not the smallest doubt on that point), and was therefore perfectly justified in demanding to be taken to him. Even if Martin Gurwood 's conscience would have absolved him from telling a white lie on the occasion, his inventive powers were not of calibre sufficient to devise the necessary fiction; he felt there was no chance for him but to tell Alice as little of the truth as would satisfy her, in as roundabout a manner as he could manage, and then to risk the result.
 
Just as he had arrived at this determination he raised his eyes, and saw a little child run past the window. A small, delicate-looking girl, with long fair hair streaming down her shoulders, prettily, even elegantly dressed, and laughing heartily as she pursued a large elastic ball which bounded before her. Martin saw her but for an instant, then she disappeared down the garden path.
 
But that momentary glimpse was sufficient to give Martin Gurwood an idea. And when Alice raised her tear-blurred face, now stern with the expression of a set and determined purpose, he was to a certain extent prepared for her.
 
'You must take me to my husband,' she said quietly. 'I am grateful to you for coming here Mr.--'
 
'Gurwood--my name is Martin Gurwood.'
 
'I am grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Gurwood, and for the delicate manner in which you have performed your task. But now I wish to be taken to my husband. I have a right to make that claim, and I do so.'
 
'My dear madam,' said Martin Gurwood, in the same quiet tone, but with much more firmness than he had hitherto exhibited, 'I will not allow that you owe me the smallest obligation; but if you did, the way in which you could best repay me would be by exciting yourself as little as possible. Under these most painful circumstances, you must not give way, Mrs. Claxton; you must keep up as best you can, for the sake of his memory, for the sake of the child which he has left behind him.'
 
'Little Bell? the child who is playing in the garden, and who just now passed the window?'
 
'Yes, a fragile, fair, bright-looking mite.'
 
'Little Bell! She is not Mr. Claxton's child, sir, nor mine, but she is another living proof of John's goodness, and thoughtfulness, and care for others.' She rose from her seat as she spoke, and wandered in a purposeless manner to the window. 'So thoughtful, so unselfish, so generous,' she murmured. 'It is three years ago since little Bell first came here.'
 
'Indeed!' said Martin, delighted at the unexpected reprieve, and anxious to divert her thoughts as long as possible from the one dread subject. 'Indeed! And where did she come from?'
 
'From the workhouse,' said Alice, not looking at him, but gazing straight before her through the window, against which her forehead was pressed--'from the workhouse. It was John's doing that we brought her here--all John's doing. It was from Mr. Tomlinson, the clergyman,' she continued, in a low tone, and with a certain abrupt incoherence of manner, that we heard about it--such cold weather, with the snow lying deep in the fields. Mr. Tomlinson told us that they had found her lying against a haystack in one of Farmer Mullins's fields, half frozen, and with a baby at her breast. So thin, and pale, and delicate, she looked when we went down to see her lying in the workhouse bed. She had been starved as well as frozen, Mr. Broadbent said, and her cheeks were hollow, and there were great dark circles round her eyes. But she must have been pretty, O so pretty! Her chestnut hair was soft and delicate, and her poor thin hands, almost transparent, were white and well-shaped.'
 
In his first relief from the repetition of her demand which he expected Alice would make, Martin Gurwood did not pay much attention to the commencement of her little story, but as it progressed his interest became excited, and at this point he left his chair and stood by her at the window.
 
'Who was she?' he asked. 'Where did she come from?'
 
'We never knew,' said Alice, shaking her head. 'She never spoke from the time they found her until her death, two days after; but she had never been married; there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and when they told me that, I turned to John and spoke to him.'
 
'Do you recollect what you said?' asked Martin, half with a desire to satisfy his own curiosity, half wishing to lead her on.
 
'Recollect?' said Alice. 'I remember the very words. "O John," I said, "my dear old John, isn't it an awful thing to think how this poor creature has been deceived; you may depend upon it, John," I said, "that the man who has brought her to this shame made her a promise of marriage, or deceived her in some cruel and heartless manner."'
 
'Did you say that?' asked Martin, in a low voice.
 
'I did, and more. "Her death will lie at his door, John," I said, "as surely as if he had killed her with his hand. He did kill her, first her soul and then her body, and he will be held responsible for the murder of each!" I recollect then that John threw his arms around me and implored me to stop. His face was quite white, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks, for he had the tenderest heart. And then when the poor girl died, he proposed that we should take the baby and adopt it for our own; and we did so. Strange it was, I recollect, that for weeks after that, whenever John was at home, and in one of his silent moods, which came upon him first about that time, I would see him of an evening, when he thought I was not looking at him, with his eyes fixed upon me, and with the tears stealing down his cheeks.'
 
Was it strange, knowing what he did? Martin thought not; but he did not speak.
 
'He was thinking of that poor girl, I suppose,' murmured Alice, half to herself; 'thinking of all the troubles and sufferings she had come through; thinking, I shouldn't wonder, that they might have been mine, if I had not been mercifully placed in a different position, and out of the reach of temptation; for he had the tenderest heart, and he loved me so dearly--O so dearly! that the mere thought of anything happening to me to cause me pain or suffering, was enough to make him utterly wretched.' Then the sense of her situation dawning again upon her, she cried out: 'And now he is lost to me for ever! There is no one now to think of or take care of me! We were all in all to each other, and now I am left alone in the world; what shall I do, O, what shall I do!'
 
It had been Martin Gurwood 's lot, in the discharge of his clerical duties, to listen a hundred times in his life to this despairing wail from women just robbed of their husbands by death: a hundred times had he cheered the darkened and dispirited soul with recapitulations of the Almighty goodness, with the hope that the parting from the loved and lost one was but temporary and not of long duration, and that in the future the two reunited might enjoy an eternity of bliss such as they had never known before. What could he say to the woman now writhing before him in misery and despair? What word of encouragement, what scrap of hope could he whisper into her dulled ear? How could he, with the fearful knowledge which he had acquired, speak to her of the future of this man, whose memory she so blindly worshipped, ignorant of the manner in which he had basely betrayed her? How could he even speak kindly of the dead man's past, and echo the terms of affection in which she mentioned him, knowing as he did the full measure of the deceit and iniquity practised upon her by the man whom she imagined to have been her husband?
 
No! In all Martin Gurwood's clerical career (and the experiences of a zealous and earnest clergyman in an agricultural district are fraught with more horrors, and tend to a lower appreciation of the human race than the uninitiated would believe), he had never had to deal with such a case as this. In his reproof he could temper justice with mercy, in his consolation he could bid 'despair and anguish flee the struggling soul;' but to attempt now to cast down the idol from its pedestal, to attempt to show to the heartbroken woman, whose sobs were resounding through the room, that the man whose loss she was deploring had been her worst and bitterest enemy, to point out that the emotion which he had exhibited at the story of the outcast woman and her baby, was merely caused by 'the conscience-prick and the memory-smart,' proving to him the similarity of his own crime with that of the man on whom he was invited to sit in judgment--to do all or any of this was beyond Martin Gurwood's power; he ought to have done it, he knew, but he was only human after all, and he decided to leave it alone.
 
The story of the frozen woman with the baby in her arms--his thoughts had wandered away to that--slight and delicate was she, and with long chestnut hair--what a strange coincidence! That this man, who had himself deceived a young and trusting woman, should by his unsuspecting victim be called upon to exercise his charity towards another victim, should be expected to denounce the crime of which he had himself been guilty! How strange to think that--Martin was interrupted in his reverie by a movement on Alice's part. She had risen to her feet, twisted her dishevelled hair into a knot behind her head, and stood pale and statuesque before him.
 
'I shall be ready in five minutes,' she said, 'and I shall then expect you to take me straight to where my husband's body is lying. If you refuse to do so, I shall call upon you to tell me where it is--to
give me the address. I have a right as his wife--O, my God!' she moaned--'as his widow! to demand that, and I shall do so.'
 
The critical time had arrived. Martin knew that, and felt stronger and more self-reliant than he had anticipated. The fact was, that he thought he saw a way of tiding the matter over until he could communicate with Humphrey Statham, and possibly get his friend to take the burden of the disclosure upon himself.
 
'My dear madam,' he said, 'I can quite appreciate your anxiety, which is perfectly natural under the circumstances, and which I shall be most anxious to alleviate; but I must ask you to have a little patience. This evening--should you still wish it--you shall be taken to the place where Mr. Claxton's body was conveyed.'
 
'Where is that place, Mr. Gurwood?' cried Alice. There is some mystery about this which I do not understand; I insist upon knowing where this place is!'
 
'You shall know,' said Martin, quietly. 'The place to which the body was conveyed was Mr. Calverley's house in Great Walpole-street.'
 
'Mr. Calverley's! What, John's partner?'
 
'Mr. Calverley, of Mincing-lane. You have heard of him?'
 
'O, a thousand times. Mr. Claxton was a sleeping partner in the house of Calverley and Company, you know. O, of course it was quite natural that my poor darling should be carried there! I am so relieved, Mr. Gurwood. I was afraid that poor John had been taken to some horrid place, and thought that was the reason why you objected to my going there; but as he is at Mr. Calverley's house--'
 
'For that reason you must defer going there until the evening,' said Martin Gurwood, with more firmness than he had hitherto shown. 'This sad event has thrown the house into great confusion, and it will be necessary that I should go back and apprise Mrs. Calverley, whom you do not know, I think, of your intention of coming there tonight.'
 
'I suppose you are right,' said Alice, in a disappointed tone. 'I suppose, even at such a dreadful time as this, there are regulations and observances which must be respected. Will you promise me that you will come to me this evening?'
 
'Either I myself or some friend whom I can trust,' said Martin. 'And now I must leave you; for the time is short, and I have a great deal to do in it.'
 
He took one glance at her pale, tearful face, with even more than interest, and withdrew.
 
He was thinking to himself how very beautiful she was, when his reflections were checked by his catching sight of a female figure, in a black cloak, in the path before him.
 
On his near approach the lady raised her veil, and to his astonished eyes revealed the features of Madame Du Tertre.
CHAPTER VI.  RUN TO EARTH.
 The driver of the hansom cab which Pauline had chartered did his duty nobly by his fare. In going so long a distance, and on a comparatively deserted road, he knew too well the impossibility of concealing his pursuit from the observation of his brother Jehu; indeed, no sooner did they pass the confines of Guelph Park than the driver who had Martin in his charge turned round, and there ensued between the two men an interchange of signs familiar only to the initiated of the craft, which set them both at their ease, and prevented farther interrogation. Pauline's driver followed the other hansom at sufficient distance never to lose sight of it; and when Martin Gurwood stopped the cab and alighted from it, the pursuing cabman drew up at a convenient bend of the road and communicated the fact to his fare. Then Pauline jumped out, discharged the man--she would provide her own means of return, she said--and slowly and stealthily followed Martin's retreating figure.
 
The pursuit in which she was engaged was by no means unpleasant to Pauline; indeed, she rather liked it. There was, as has before been noticed, something stealthy and cat-like in her nature and her manner; and the mere fact that, unknown to him, she was watching a person who was evidently engaged in a private mission, the discovery of which might seriously affect him, and would in any event be disagreeable to him, had for her a potent charm. As she journeyed onward in the cab, her thoughts had been fixed upon the object of Martin Gurwood's secret expedition. That it was of importance she was certain, or he would not otherwise have refused with so much decision his mother's request that he should devote the day to the inspection of documents in Mr. Jeffrey's company. That it had to do with the mystery of Calverley and Claxton, and consequently with the greater, and to her far more interesting mystery of Tom Durham's disappearance, she fully believed. As yet she had been able to discover nothing concerning the paper which she had found in the wooden box underneath Mr. Calverley's desk, the memorandum of the transfer of two thousand pounds 'to be given to T.D. at the request of A.C.' Perhaps the very business on which she was engaged might give her some clue to it--might reveal the identity of this Claxton which Mr. Calverley had so pertinaciously concealed from her. Once brought face to face with him, she could readily trust to her own wit and tact to extract from him the information she required, or, at all events, to learn something that would be of service to her in accomplishing her self-imposed task.
 
What can there be for Martin Gurwood to search after in this queer, out-of-the-world village, amongst these old-fashioned cottages, standing back in gardens, where the size of the trees, the hedges, and the evergreens shows the length of time they have been growing? This man Claxton cannot live in this place, so remote from the bustle of life, so inaccessible to ordinary traffic. This is a spot to which one might retire for rest and. repose after a long career of business. What has brought Martin Gurwood to such a place? Whom can he be seeking here?
 
As these thoughts passed through Pauline's mind, the object of her pursuit turned from the high road and passed out of her sight. She noted the spot where he had disappeared, and when she reached it was just in time to see him leaning over the half-gate, and contemplating the garden stretched out before him. Pauline paused at the end of the road until she saw him open the gate and enter the garden; then she slowly sauntered on.
 
When Pauline reached the gate Martin Gurwood had disappeared. The gate, slammed to by the spring attached to it, was still vibrating on its hinges, his retreating footsteps on the gravel path were still faintly audible, but the man himself was not to be seen. So far, then, she had succeeded. She had tracked him to the house which he had come to visit; now she must ascertain: what was his business there.
 
How to set about this perplexed her sorely. A score of different notions rushed into her mind. It would be easy to ascertain the name and character of the occupant of the house from any of the tradespeople in the village, but on looking round Pauline found that there were no shops within sight, and she was fearful that during the time occupied by her absence Martin Gurwood might leave the place. Should she open the gate, boldly march up the carriage-drive, and ask for the master of the house, trusting to herself to find some pretext for addressing him when he came? That would lay her open to the chance of Martin Gurwood's seeing her before she had been able to gain any information, and either postponing the business which had brought him there, or deceiving her as to its nature. She must think it all over more carefully before she acted, and meanwhile she would walk round and survey the premises.
 
The cottage stood, as has been stated, in the midst of a very large old-fashioned garden. On the left of this garden was a narrow path, bounded on one side by the garden itself; on the other by a huge hedge belonging to Doctor Broadbent, and encouraged by him in its wildest luxuriance, to screen his premises from the observation of such of the villagers as used the path for the short cut from the village to the London road. The hedge had at one time been equally luxuriant on the Rose-Cottage side, but Alice had strong notions of the necessity for plenty of air, and had persuaded John to have it trimmed to a moderate height. 'What on earth do we want with that great green screen keeping off every breath of air,' she said; 'and as for what Mr. Broadbent says about privacy, that is all nonsense. Not ten people in the day go down the lane, and none of them ever think of looking into our garden. If they did, they would be perfectly welcome; would they not, John? I am sure there is nothing here that we wish to conceal; is there, dear?' And John acquiescing, as he did in everything she proposed, the hedge was trimmed accordingly. So that Pauline, walking down this path, found that as soon as she had proceeded a certain distance she had an uninterrupted view of the back of the house, and of a large portion of the garden.
 
She knew nothing of horticulture, and had never given any attention to gardens, they had not come into her line of life, but she was always observant, and she noticed the trim and orderly manner in which this place was kept, and thought that it reflected great credit on the gardener, whom she saw in the distance wheeling away a great load of dead leaves, which he had collected into a heap and pressed into his barrow. She was about to call the man to her, and compliment him on the state of his garden, at the same time taking advantage of the opportunity of asking a few questions about his employer, when a little girl, with long fair hair streaming down her back, ran out of the shrubbery in chase of an india-rubber ball which bounded before her.
 
Pauline drew back for an instant, but the child did not notice her, so engrossed was she by her game. In a few minutes, however, the ball bounded over the hedge, and fell at Pauline's feet.
 
The child looked round for aid, which was generally available in the person of the gardener; but the gardener had wheeled his barrow out of sight by this time, and all that the child could do, therefore, was to put her finger to her lip, and burst into tears.
 
'Don't cry, my child,' said Pauline softly, speaking to her.
 
The child looked up, but on catching sight of Pauline hid her face in her hands, and cried more copiously than before.
 
'Don't cry, my child,' repeated Pauline; 'don't be afraid. See, here is your ball,' holding it up. 'Shall I throw it to you.'
 
'Ess,' said the child, looking up shyly through her fingers, 'frow it down at wonst, pease.'
 
Pauline complied. The ball fell at the child's feet, and rolled a little distance behind her, but she took no notice of it; she was fully occupied in examining her newly found friend.
 
Out of her great blue eyes the child stared in silence for some moments, then coming closer to the hedge she said, still staring earnestly, 'Are you a Hinjin?'
 
Pauline was completely puzzled.
 
'A what, child?' she asked.
 
'A Hinjin,' repeated the child. Do you tum from Hinjia?'
 
'Gr--r--rand Dieu!' cried Pauline, surprised into one of the exclamations of her old life. 'No, child; what makes you think that?'
 
'Tos you have dot a brack face, and you speak so funny,' said the child.
 
Pauline smiled. 'A black face,' she said to herself. 'I am swarthy enough, I know; but if this child thinks me black, she must needs have lived with very fair people. She seems sufficiently intelligent, and may probably be able to give me some information. What is your name, my dear?' she said to the child.
 
'Bell,' said the child promptly.
 
'Bell!' repeated Pauline; what a pretty name--blonde et belle! What is your other name, my dear?'
 
The child thought for a moment, and then said gravely, 'Lickle Bell.'
 
'O, but you must have some other name besides that,' said Pauline. 'What is your other name?'
 
'No more,' said the child, shaking her head.
 
'Yes, but your nom de famille--your family name. You have that?'
 
'No, no, no,'. said the child, emphasising each word with a shake of her head.
 
'But your papa--'
 
'He's dorn away travelling on 'ail'oad.'
 
'Gone travelling on the railroad, has he? Has your mamma gone with him?'
 
'No, me mamma's at home--been teaching me my 'cripture 'istory.'
 
'What a kind, good mamma!' said Pauline, with a curling lip. 'And what is your mamma's name, dear?'
 
'Misse C'axton, 'Ose Tottage, 'Endon, Mid'sex,' said the child, all in a breath, the sentence being evidently the result of much practice.
 
Mrs. Claxton, the wife of the man at whose request Mr. Calverley had given the two thousand pounds to Tom Durham. Ah, how Pauline's heart bounded, and how the colour flushed into her swarthy cheeks, at hearing those words! She had been right, then; the instinct that so seldom deserted her had served her truly in this instance. She had felt all along that the secret business on which Martin Gurwood had been engaged had some reference to her affairs, and now she had proved it.
 
What were the relations between Martin Gurwood and Mrs. Claxton? Pshaw! Had her steady business-like brain taken to weaving romances? What more likely than that Mrs. Calverley's son should come out to seek an interview on business matters with the wife of her dead husband's partner? Stay, though--with the partner, yes; but the child had said that Mr. Claxton was away travelling on business. Pauline knew of her own knowledge that Mrs. Calverley had never seen Mr. Claxton, much less his wife, and recognised at once that had business been the object of the interview, it was Mr. Jeffreys who would have been dispatched to seek an interview with the partner, and not Mr. Gurwood to see the wife. The mystery still remained in fullest force, and had yet to be elucidated by her.
 
Of what more use could the child be to her? The child, who, seeing her newly-found friend immersed in her own thoughts, had again turned to her ball. There might be still some more information to be obtained, and Pauline would try and gain it.
 
'And so your papa is not at home?' she commenced.
 
'Tavelling on 'ail'oad,' said the child, making the ball bound again.
 
'And your mamma is all alone?'
 
'Not all alone now, gemply tum. Mamma thought it was papa, and me got off 'cripture 'istory. Me saw it was strange gemply, and run off wif my ball.'
 
'A strange gentleman, eh?' said Pauline. Did you never see him before?'
 
'Me never saw him before; me wish he would always come at
lesson-time.'
 
'And how long has your papa been away from home?'
 
'Two, free weeks, two, free months. Me frow my ball to you, and you frow me back again.'
 
As she spoke the ball came bounding across the hedge. Pauline took it up and threw it back to the child.
 
'Do you know Mr. Calverley, dear?' she asked, as Bell stood with the ball in her hand, ready to launch it at her again.
 
'Misse Calverley,' repeated the child, 'me not know him; me know Doctor Broadbent, what brings nassie powders in his pocket.'
 
'You don't know Mr. Calverley?'
 
'No, me not know Misse Calverley. Me go and get George to play at ball,' she added, after a moment's pause, finding that there was no more amusement to be had from her newly-found friend, and running away after the gardener.
 
Pauline watched the child disappear in the shrubbery, then folding her arms across her breast, fell into her old habit of walking to and fro to think out, the emotions under which she was labouring.
 
'Perhaps she had deceived herself after all, perhaps her fertile brain had been conjuring up and giving life and name to a set of phantoms. There was no evidence to connect this Mrs. Claxton with the pale-faced woman whom she had seen at Southampton, who might have been a mere emissary of Tom's, employed by him to get the money and bring it to him there. It seemed impossible that the wife of such a man as Mr. Claxton, who was on all sides represented to be a partner in the house of Calverley and Company, could descend to such a position; it seemed impossible that--' She stopped in her, walk motionless and transfixed.
 
She had been looking at the house, and at one of the lower windows, a large French window opening on to the grounds, she suddenly saw the figure of a woman. She recognised it in an instant; recognised it as the pale-faced woman whom she had seen walking to and fro on the railway platform at Southampton with Tom Durham, and of whom he had taken such an affectionate farewell; pale-faced still, and tearful, with bent head, and wringing hands. She stands for a moment alone, the next instant she is joined by Martin Gurwood, who seems by his actions to be exhorting her to confidence and courage. It is, of course, by their actions alone that Pauline can judge what they are doing, but her southern nature leads her to translate their pantomime, feeble though it may be, more readily than could any one less accustomed to gesture and action. See her bent head, her shrinking figure, her hands outspread before her. Then notice his look turned upward, the growing uprightness of his stately figure, his elevated hand. Evidently she is giving way under the weight of some distress, while he is consoling her, and, as Pauline judges from his actions, pointing out to her the course of duty. The reverend's consolation has but little effect, Pauline thinks, as the pale-faced woman, giving way to her grief, sinks upon the ground, and lies prostrate at her companion's feet.
 
Now to see what is the exact state of the relations between them, now to see whether the secret which from the first she has believed Martin Gurwood to be concealing in his breast has reference to a woman; whether this misogynist, as his friends think him, and as he strives to prove himself, is but as other men are, frail and feeble, liable to be diverted from his path of duty, and to be turned hither and thither by a woman's influence.
 
By Martin's actions the reply is patent to her at once. Had be been this woman's lover, had he been striving to become her lover, he would have cast himself down on his knees beside her, and striven to have raised her, bidding her repose herself and her grief on him. As it was, he stood there looking at her, as Pauline could distinguish, with eyes full of sorrowful regard, with head bent, and hands that involuntarily sought to raise her, and were then restrained and folded across his breast. No farther action, no movement of his lips so far as she could see. 'It is in his capacity as priest,' she said to herself, 'that he is here; there is no question of his being this woman's lover; evidently she is suffering from some great trouble, and he has come to announce it to her. They are not as our priests, these Protestants, and he is an Englishman besides. He has told his story in their usual cold, matter-of-fact unimpassioned way, and awaits now quietly until she shall arise from the swoon into which the receipt of the intelligence has thrown her. So far I have been wrong. That he has a secret, I still believe; but that it is not in the least connected with this woman I am sure. What it may be I have still to learn; and I will learn it, that it may give me power over him, and, through him, over his mother, whom I intend to minister to my comforts, and to be my principal source of support for years to come. This pale-faced woman too!' She had thought that she had brought down both the birds with one stone; now each mystery was still a sealed book to her.
 
How was she to get at them? It would have been useless to inquire of the tradespeople in the village now, who would simply tell her what she knew already, the name of the occupant of Rose Cottage, of his station in life, of his position as Mr. Calverley's partner. Of all this she was already aware. From whom was she to learn more? From Martin Gurwood himself, and no one else. She must brave it out with him; she must bring to that interview, which must take place at once, all her courage and all her knowledge of the world; the one to bear her up in confronting the rage which he would undoubtedly feel at finding he had been followed; the other in enabling her to see through any deception he might try to practise upon her.
 
See! they move. The pale-faced woman rises from the floor. Ah, with what dignity, Pauline acknowledges to herself, keeping her eyes straight upon the window. She stands upright now before her companion, and is evidently speaking with simple unexaggerated action. He is striving to refute what she is saying, if he can be judged by the bending of his shoulders, by the moving of his hand. He fails, though; Pauline sees that. Then he bows in taking his leave, and disappears.
 
What she has to do must be done at once. She is to meet and confront him, and brazen it out before him. She had noticed that the cab in which he had come, after setting him down, had rolled off in the direction of the village. To get to the village, he must pass the end of the path in which she then stood. If she could get there before him, she would be in time. In another instant she had gathered her skirt around her, and set off into a swift and steady run. She reached the end of the path as Martin Gurwood emerged through the garden-gate, and remained still, awaiting his approach.
 
He came on steadily, his eyes fixed upon the ground, until he was within a short distance of her. Then he looked up, and wavered in his walk for an instant, seeing her planted directly in his path. For an instant; the next, he continued his advance--continued it even when she threw back her veil, and when, as she saw by a quick upward glance at him, he recognised her features.
 
It was best, she thought, that she should speak first.
 
'Good morning, Mr. Gurwood,' she said in a light and pleasant tone. 'You are surprised to see me here?'
 
His face was stern and rigid, as he replied: 'Had it been any one else, I might have been surprised; in Madame Du Tertre such conduct appears to me perfectly natural, and what I always imagined her perfectly capable of being guilty of.'
 
'Such conduct! guilty of!' she repeated. 'This is harsh language, Monsieur Martin. Of what conduct, pray, have I been guilty?'
 
'Of following me and spying out my actions, madame; of that there can be little doubt.'
 
'And yet at that you are not surprised,' she said, with a laugh. 'You had so low an opinion of me, that you take "such conduct" as a matter of course. Well, I am not disposed to deny it. I have followed you, and I have, as you call it, spied upon your actions. It is for you to explain them.'
 
'To explain them!' cried Martin Gurwood, with a burst of indignation; 'to whom, pray? To my conscience I can explain them readily enough; to those who have any claim upon me to ask for an explanation, I can give it. But to you, in what capacity am I to explain it?'
 
'In my capacity as Mrs. Calverley's friend and agent,' said Pauline, making a bold stroke. 'I am here in her interests; it is by her that I am authorised to do what I have done.'
 
The shot had told; she saw its effect at once in his blanched cheek and his hesitating manner.
 
'You have come here as my mother's agent?' he asked.
 
'I have,' she replied, looking him straight in the face.
 
'Then,' he said after a moment's pause, 'If you are really and truly her friend, I must ask you in her interests to conceal from her all you have seen; to tell her a story in no way bearing upon the truth, to divert her thoughts and suspicions--for she must needs suspect, if she has employed you, as you say, to watch me in what I do--into some totally different channel.'
 
Pauline smiled grimly. 'I thought so,' she exclaimed. 'It will not suit the Reverend Martin Gurwood, rigid moralist, the most holy of men, to have it known, even by his mother, that he has been to visit a pretty woman, and that his conversation with her has been of such effect that she has cast herself at his feet during her husband's absence, and that he has been enabled to give her consolation in her deepest sorrow.'
 
'If your taunt fell upon me, and upon me alone,' said Martin, drawing himself up, and looking straight at her, 'it would be harmless enough, but I have others to think of, and others to shield. If you knew who the lady is of whom you are speaking in this thoughtless manner, you would--'
 
'I know well enough,' said Pauline, with a sneer; 'this woman--this friend of yours, is the wife of Mr. Claxton, the partner of your mother's husband, whom you have just buried.'
 
'You think so,' cried Martin. 'She thinks so herself; but it is for me to undeceive you, though I have kept the truth from her. This woman is one whom Mr. Calverley most basely deceived. Under a false name--the name which you have mentioned--he wooed and won her; and she, at this moment, believes herself to be his widow.'
CHAPTER VII.  A THIRD IN THE PLOT.
 Even Pauline's stoical calmness was not proof against the announcement which she had just heard from Martin Gurwood. She staggered back, staring wildly at him, and putting her hand to her head as though doubting the evidence of her senses. Martin, thinking she as about to fall, proffered his arm, but she put it aside gently.
 
'Thank you,' she said; 'I shall be very well presently; the shock was a little too much for me. To have one's faith in such a man's character rudely shaken, is-- But I will not add to your distress, Monsieur Martin, by any observations of mine. You are going this way? Then let us walk together. After a little reflection, I shall be better able to comprehend the full nature of the disclosure you have been good enough to make to me.'
 
Martin bowed. And they set off walking towards the village, both silent and buried in their own thoughts.
 
Pauline had indeed need for a little quiet, in which she might turn over in her mind the news which she had just heard, and calculate its bearing on her future. Mr. Calverley, under the assumed name of Claxton, was living with this woman at Hendon; and of course was in the habit of visiting her, when he pretended that he was away on business, inspecting the ironworks in the North. Pauline saw that at once, and half smiled as she allowed to herself that Mrs. Calverley's hatred of the Swartmoor ironworks was not without cause. And as for the reverend's story that the woman had been betrayed by a false marriage--bah! that was to be taken for what it was worth.
 
What a strange old man, this Calverley! How rusé, how cunning! He had deceived even her. So quiet and staid and long-suffering as he seemed! It was not difficult to understand now why Mr. Claxton had never been formally presented to the household at Great Walpole-street. She
was--stay, though! the link connecting her with Tom Durham, that was still wanting, and must be found. Could the reverend help her to it? She would try.
 
'Tell me, Monsieur Martin, is this the first time you have seen this poor creature who has been so cruelly deceived?'
 
When Martin Gurwood raised his face, his cheeks were flushed at the imputation which he conceived Pauline's question to convey. ''This is the first time I have seen the lady,' he said, in a grave tone, 'and it is only lately that I have known of her existence.'
 
'Indeed,' said Pauline. 'And from whom did you hear of her
existence--not from Madame Calverley?'
 
'Good Heavens, no!' cried Martin. It is of the utmost importance, for more reasons than one, that my mother should know nothing of this sad affair.'
 
'Exactly,' said Pauline, looking at him narrowly; 'I perfectly agree with you. Then from whom did you have the information? You will pardon me, Monsieur Martin,' she added in a soft voice, 'but I take such an interest in this sad affair.'
 
'From Mr. Broadbent, the doctor residing in this village. He happened to be with Doctor Haughton when the body was found, and recognised it as that of the gentleman whom he had known as Mr. Claxton.'
 
'O, indeed! how sadly interesting!' she said. 'This reverend knows nothing about this pale-faced woman,' she thought to herself, 'and cannot help me in any way respecting her. Why my husband left me, where he is now, that tormenting mystery of my life, is still--save that I know that he and this woman are not now together--as far from solution as ever. That knowledge is, however, a point gained, and possessed as I am of this secret, I think I shall be enabled not merely to prevent their coming together again, but to have my revenge on her for what she has done already. And now let us see how the land lies, and how this reverend intends to proceed in the matter. His plumes were rather ruffled, I thought, just now; I must set them straight again.'
 
She turned to Martin Gurwood, who, with his eyes still downcast, was striding by her side, and said, 'I have been thinking over what you told me, Monsieur Martin, and I do not remember ever to have heard a sadder story. Ah, Monsieur Martin, it is lucky that it is into your hands that this poor young woman has fallen--you whose life has been so pure and blameless--'
 
'Madame Du Tertre,' he interrupted hurriedly, 'I must beg of you--'
 
'I repeat, Monsieur Martin, you whose life has been so pure and blameless--have I not heard of it from your mother? have I not watched it for some time myself?--can feel true Christian pity for this girl so cruelly betrayed. You are right, too, in keeping the mere fact of her existence secret from Madame Calverley. She would be furious, that good lady, and not without cause. She would be furious; and when she is furious she loses her head, and would bring trouble and scandal upon the family. Do you know what I have been thinking about during our walk, Monsieur Martin? I have been thinking that you will require my assistance in this matter.'
 
'Your assistance, Madame Du Tertre?'
 
'Mine, Monsieur Martin. You who can see things so clearly will not require to be told that I have great influence with Madame Calverley; that influence shall be exercised in your behalf. I will enter into a compact with you to help you in aiding this unhappy woman, of whom you take so compassionate a view, by every means in my power, provided you do not interfere with any plans of mine as regards your mother.'
 
'I--I must first know what those plans are before I can agree to your proposition, madame,' said Martin, with hesitation.
 
'Are you in a position to make terms?' asked Pauline, with a short, hard laugh. 'I do not know myself what those plans are at
present--nothing to hurt you or any one, you may be sure; but you see I am in possession of your secret, and can work for or against you as I choose. There, don't look so scared, Monsieur Martin; I meant no harm. You will find me a trusty ally; a woman can do more in these cases than any man, however well-intentioned; and we may perhaps keep the truth of her real position from this poor creature for a time. And whenever it must be told, you may depend upon it I should break it to her better than you would.'
 
Martin glanced hurriedly at her as he comprehended the full force of what she said--as the exact position in which they stood to each other dawned upon him. He had been taken unawares, when his nervous system, always highly strung, was at its extreme point of tension after the interview with Alice, and scarce thinking what he was saying, he blurted out the secret which should never have passed his lips, and the revelation of which involved such dire consequences. What would Humphrey Statham say when he knew what had happened, as know it he must? He, cool, far-seeing, and methodical, would be sure to reproach his friend with having acted on headstrong impulse. Martin blamed his own rashness; but what was said could not be unsaid. Madame Du Tertre, as she had remarked, was in possession of the facts, and the only way to treat her now was to make her a friend instead of an enemy, and to give in to her as far as was compatible with the plan already laid. down. Her tendency was at present undoubtedly amiable, Martin thought, and it was best to encourage that spirit. He knew that in her assertion of her power over Mrs. Calverley she spoke truth, and it was all-important that that power should be exercised in their favour. His mother was splenetic and stubborn; once raised to a sense of her injuries, she would leave nothing undone to sweep this wretched woman from her path, and to crush her altogether. For Alice's sake, it was most important that the knowledge of her real position should be withheld from her as long as possible, and that when the announcement had to be made, it should be made with due delicacy. He had been wrong in taking any outsider into his confidence, but under existing circumstances it was clear that Madame Du Tertre should be won over to their side, and treated with the respect which she seemed inclined to exact.
 
So, his mind filled with these thoughts, Martin Gurwood turned
to her and said: 'You are perfectly right, Madame Du Tertre; your
co-operation will be most valuable to me; and as to the terms which you propose, I am quite willing to accept them, recognising the rectitude of the principles by which you are governed.'
 
Recollecting his warlike declaration at the commencement of their interview, Pauline was more than half inclined to smile at this utterance, but she checked herself, and said: 'Then it is understood, Monsieur Martin, that our alliance commences from this moment. To prove my interest in it, I should be glad if you would tell me what immediate steps you propose taking in reference to this poor lady. Very much will depend upon your present action; and I am anxious to know what it is.'
 
'Well,' replied Martin, rather taken aback by her prompt decision, 'the fact is that you will probably be called upon to exert your powers of diplomacy at once.'
 
'Such powers,' said Pauline, 'unless ready on an emergency, are but little worth. This poor creature does not know her position; under what circumstances have you left her?'
 
'I had a long and most heart-rending interview with her,' said Martin, 'part of which it appears you saw. I had to break to her that the man whom she supposed to be her husband, and whom she loved with all the strength and fidelity of her girlish nature, was dead--that was enough for once. I had not the heart--I had not the courage even to tell her that he was not her husband, but her betrayer; a being whose memory should be loathed and abhorred, rather than worshipped.'
 
'There was no necessity for that just now,' said Pauline; 'that announcement can be made later on, and then can be made more quietly and delicately. What else did you say?'
 
'I told her when I left her that I would return and take her to London, to-night.'
 
'To London! To what part of London?'
 
'To Mrs. Calverley's house, where I was compelled to tell her--her husband's body was lying. Of course she had heard of Mr. Calverley as her husband's partner, and with this explanation she seemed content.'
 
'Ah, poor creature!' cried Pauline, 'She does not know, then, that the body has already been buried?'
 
'No, I did not tell her that, and fortunately she did not ask me the date of the death.'
 
'And when you made this promise, may I ask what plan was in your mind?'
 
'My idea was,' said Martin, blushing somewhat as the vagueness of this same idea dawned upon him; 'my idea was, to go to a friend of mine named Statham, a very clever man, kind-hearted, and with a vast knowledge of the world, who has already helped me in this business, and indeed has seen Mrs.--the young woman I mean--and first gave me the notion that she was not what one might have imagined she would have been.'
 
'O, indeed,' said Pauline, eyeing him closely, 'this Mr. Statham has seen the poor lady, and finds her thus?'
 
'Exactly,' replied Martin. 'Well, I thought I would go to Statham and tell him what I had done, and get him to come down with me here this afternoon, and then I thought that between us both we might tell
her--tell her--all!'
 
'I can imagine how much of the narration would fall to Mr. Statham's share,' said Pauline, with a quiet smile. 'Now, I don't know Mr. Statham, and cannot therefore judge of his method of treating the subject, but I think I have a better plan to propose, and as it is one in which I assign the principal part to myself, I am perhaps qualified to speak about it.'
 
'I am sure,' said Martin, jumping at the idea of any relief for himself or his friend, 'that we shall be delighted to enter into it, provided of course that it is consonant, as I know it will be, with our idea of sparing Mrs.--this lady's feelings as much as possible.'
 
'For that,' said Pauline, 'you may depend upon me, understanding that is the mainspring of my motive in offering my services to you. As I have told you before, in such matters as these, a woman's delicacy is of course required, and I am convinced that I shall be enabled to do more with her than Mr. Statham, even with all the honesty and astuteness for which you give him credit. My idea is, that you should not return to this place. Your natural candour and straightforwardness prevent your being much of a diplomatist, Monsieur Martin, and it is due to your sacred office that you should be mixed up as little as possible in an affair of this kind. I have but little doubt that the successful commencement of the work is due to your kindness and consideration; but I think its carrying out should now be left to other hands.'
 
'And those hands are?'
 
'For the present, mine. Instead of your going to Rose Cottage this evening, as you have arranged, I propose you should send me as your representative.'
 
'But you are not known to this poor girl--she will refuse to see you.'
 
'Not if I bring proper credentials from you. A letter, for instance.'
 
'A letter; to what effect?'
 
'Telling her that you are unable to come, and that you have sent me in your place.'
 
'In my place, repeated Martin. 'But, as I have told you before, I had arranged with her that she should go to London with me.'
 
'That arrangement can continue, only the letter should say that she could go with me instead of with you.'
 
'And what on earth will you do with her when you get her to town?'
 
'I do not intend taking her to town at all.'
 
'My dear Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, looking up, with a shade of annoyance in his face, 'we are evidently playing at cross purposes, and I shall be glad if you will explain yourself to me.'
 
'My dear Monsieur Martin, as I told you before, you are too honest and straightforward, not merely to practise diplomacy, but, as I find now, to comprehend it. Armed with this letter from you, I shall go and see this young lady--she will be most anxious to start off at once with me, and I shall make no opposition. On the contrary, I shall express my extreme readiness, but shall suggest that, as she is weak and unnerved by the events of the day, she had better take some restorative. Now, among other odd varieties in my life, I have been a garde-malade, and I know quite sufficient of medicine to enable me to administer to our young friend, with perfect safety and without the remotest chance of doing her any harm, a draught, which, instead of being a restorative, will be a powerful soporific.'
 
'Soporific!' cried Martin, aghast.
 
'How wrong of me to have used that word!' said Pauline, who could not refrain from smiling at the horror-struck expression of his face; 'It fills your mind with thoughts of castles and spectres and bleeding nuns; it is in truth the language of romance. I should have said an anodyne, which means exactly the same thing, but being a medical term is more proper for use.
 
'Well, but,' said Martin, very little relieved by the explanation, 'the effect will be still the same. This draught, by whatever name you may choose to call it, which you propose to give her, will send her into a deep sleep.'
 
'Unquestionably.'
 
'And what is the object of that?'
 
'The object of that,' cried Pauline, beginning to lose patience, 'the object of that, my dear sir, is to prevent this lady from leaving her house, to give us twenty-four or thirty-six hours, as the case may be, to turn ourselves round in, and see what is best to be done.'
 
'I do not like it, I confess,' said Martin, hesitating; 'it appears to me a strong proceeding.'
 
'My good Monsieur Martin, is not the whole affair one which necessitates a strong proceeding, as you call it? The matter seems to me to stand thus: You have told this young woman that her husband's body is lying at the house in Great Walpole-street; you have promised that you will take her there this evening. If you do not arrive at
the time appointed, she will become suspicious, and go off by
herself--with what result we can imagine. If you go there, and decline to take her, making what excuse may occur to you, she, having probably had enough of such excuses already, will go off just the same--she knows the address--with the same result. Suppose you go there determined to reveal the truth; suppose you tell her that the man whom she worshipped was a villain, that his name was not Claxton, but Calverley, and that she was not his wife; what do you arrive at? So far as we are concerned, at exactly the same result. There is a dreadful scene; she refuses to believe anything you say; she insists upon going off to Mrs. Calverley; and there is, to use your charming English expression, all the fat in the fire. You will not accuse me of exaggeration Monsieur Martin; I am representing things exactly as they will happen, am I not?'
 
'Upon my word, I believe you are,' said Martin Gurwood; it is a most unfortunate state of affairs, most unfortunate, and I really do not see what we are to do.'
 
'Wait,' said Pauline, 'until you have heard the result of my proposition, which you condemned so quickly as dangerous. And first, as to the danger. I will guarantee that she shall not suffer in the smallest degree; but even if you thought the effects of the draught were strong, and it were necessary to call in Doctor Broadbent, we need not object to that, as he would be certain, not to betray us. If I am allowed to have my own way, I shall so regulate the strength of the draught that she does not return wholly and entirely to consciousness until after forty-eight hours; then the story can be told to her of the sudden manner in which she was seized by illness, and she can be informed that while she was in a state of unconsciousness the funeral had taken place. There is nothing extraordinary in these circumstances, which are simple and coherent, and there is no reason to think that her suspicions will be aroused.'
 
But, though perhaps with less hesitation than before, Martin Gurwood still shook his head. 'I do not like it,' he said; 'it is such an underhand proceeding.'
 
'What have all your proceedings been since you first found the position in which you were placed with regard to this woman?' asked Pauline. 'This is one of those matters which it is not possible to treat by ordinary means. Bah, Monsieur Martin, let us have no more of this childishness. Will the plan which I propose get you out of the mess in which you are involved?'
 
'Yes--it seems so--I should think it would--'
 
'Then leave it to me to carry out.'
 
'I think I had better consult Mr. Statham in the matter, Madame Du Tertre, if you have no objection,' said Martin. 'You see I have taken his advice already--and could see more--'
 
'My good monsieur,' said Pauline impatiently, 'I have no objection to your consulting Mr. Statham, or any one for the matter of that, but do you see that time presses? We are already in the afternoon, and it is this evening that action must be taken. I confess I do not see how Mr. Statham can improve upon my proposition.'
 
'No,' said Martin, 'I do not know that he could.' His yielding nature was no match for this woman's determination. 'Then the best thing I can do is, I suppose, to get back to London?'
 
'Yes,' said Pauline, with a smile; 'but I must trouble you to take me with you. I have sent away my cabman, and I must see Mrs. Calverley, and make up some story to account to her for the two or three days during which I must necessarily be absent from her. Ah, Monsieur Martin, what a world of deceit it is!'
 
'Did you say that you were coming back in my cab, Madame Du Tertre?' said Martin, looking rather blank.
 
'Yes,' she said with a laugh, 'I must. I have no other means of getting back to town. But don't fear, Monsieur Martin; I will bring no disgrace upon you--you shall set me down as soon as we reach the outskirts of town, and I will go to Great Walpole-street by myself. When you get there you must write me the letter to this poor girl; you can give it to me as I come downstairs after my explanation with Mrs. Calverley.'
 
 
When Madame Du Tertre walked into the drawing-room in Great
Walpole-street, she saw from the expression of Mrs. Calverley's face that that sainted woman was considerably out of temper. Mrs. Calverley kept her eyes rigidly fixed on her work, and took no notice of Pauline's entrance.
 
'Ah, behold a pleasant woman,' muttered the Frenchwoman between her teeth. 'It is well that I have something to look forward to in the future; for the position here is not a particularly pleasant one, and is sufficiently hardly earned.--And how are you this evening, my kind friend?' she said at last, gliding into a chair by Mrs. Calverley's side.
 
'If you call me your kind friend, I am sorry I cannot return the compliment, Madame Du Tertre,' hissed Mrs. Calverley spitefully. 'I thought the arrangement between us was, that you were to be my companion, and endeavour to cheer me up with some of the liveliness of your nation, at least I know that was suggested by Mr. Calverley when he made the engagement; and instead of that, here I have been left by myself the whole day, without one creature to come and say a word to me.'
 
'Ah, my kind friend,' said Pauline--'for so you have always proved yourself to me--it is only in a matter of necessity that I would ask to be absent from your side. My poor cousin--she that I spoke about to you--is lying ill at a poor lodging. She has no friend in this wide London, does not know one creature beside myself; she has no money, she cannot speak your language, and is utterly helpless. I am the sole person on whom she can rely. I have been with her all day; it is from my hand alone that she will take her medicine and her drink; and I have come to ask you to excuse me for yet a little while longer, until she has reached the crisis of her malady.'
 
'It is nothing catching, I hope?' said Mrs. Calverley, pulling her skirts close round her.
 
'Ah, no; she is poitrinaire--consumptive, as you call it. I have been talking to her about you, telling her how nobly you have borne your present sorrow, and she is interested about you, my dear friend. She asked permission, when she recovers, to come and see you.'
 
The coarse compliment acted as was intended, and Pauline received Mrs. Calverley's gracious permission to absent herself for as long as was requisite.
 
As she came down the stairs she saw Martin Gurwood standing at the study-door. He stepped forward, and without a word placed a letter, addressed to Mrs. Claxton, into her hands.
 
Then Pauline went to her bedroom, and descending therefrom with a small bag in her hand, hailed a hansom, and for a second time that day was conveyed to Hendon.
 
In the dusk of the evening, Alice, long since attired in her bonnet and shawl, and waiting eagerly for Martin Gurwood, saw a woman alight at her door. Little Bell, who had been playing about in the garden, saw her too, and running up to Alice, cried, 'O mamma, you recollect what I told you about the dark lady? She has come again. Here she is at the gate.'
CHAPTER VIII.  SO FAR SUCCESSFUL.
 When Martin Gurwood knew that Pauline had started again for Hendon, that there was no possibility of departing from the scheme which she had proposed, and to the carrying into effect of which he had given his reluctant consent, he felt more than ever nervous and uncomfortable. That he had made a great mistake in admitting Madame Du Tertre into his confidence at all, and that he had enormously magnified that error by permitting her to take a leading part in the plot, and to import into it mystery and a positive danger, he knew full well. How he should be able to account for his proceedings to Humphrey Statham, who, he felt sure, would be eminently dissatisfied with all that had been done, he did not know.
 
That was a wretched evening for Martin Gurwood. He and his mother dined in solemn state together, and during the repast and afterwards, when they were seated in the vast drawing-room, where Mrs. Calverley's worktable and reading-lamp formed a mere oasis of light in the midst of the great desert of darkness, he had to listen to an unbroken plaint, carried on in an unvaried monotone. 'Was there ever such a life as hers? What had she done that she should be so afflicted? Why was her advice never taken? If it had been, Mr. Gurwood would not have killed himself with drink; Mr. Calverley would have had nothing to do with the ironworks worry, which had undoubtedly caused his death. What was to become of the business? The arrangements made in Mr. Calverley's will sounded all very right and proper, but she very much questioned whether they would be found to work well. Was not too much mastery and power given to Mr. Jeffreys? He had been a confidential clerk certainly, but it was by no means to be argued from that that he would be either as industrious or as useful when placed in command. She could bear testimony to that from her experience of Mr. Calverley, whom she had known in both positions.' And so on, and so on.
 
Mrs. Calverley did not require, or indeed expect, any reply to her series of wearisome questions, or comment on her dull string of complaints. She was quite satisfied with the interjectional 'Ah!' 'Well!' and 'Indeed!' which Martin threw in from time to time; and it was well that she required nothing more, for her companion would have been entirely unable to give her a rational answer, or, even had he been called upon to do so, to state what she was talking about. Martin Gurwood's thoughts were at Rose Cottage. Madame Du Tertre must have arrived there by that time; must have seen that poor pretty young creature. A strange woman Madame Du Tertre, and, to his mind, not too trustworthy; but she had expressed kindly feelings towards this girl, and when she saw her, that kindly feeling could not fail to be increased. That was a horrible notion--taking advantage of her weakness to give her a sleeping draught. He did not like to think of that; and yet he was compelled to admit that he did not see how anything else could have been done. Pauline's possession of their secret was an unpleasant element in the story which he had to tell Statham; but had he not taken her into his confidence he felt that he should have bungled the business which he had undertaken, and that very likely by that time both Mrs. Calverley and the tenant of Rose Cottage would have become acquainted with the positions which they held towards each other. How long they could be kept in ignorance of those positions was a matter of doubt; but for the temporary respite they were indebted to Madame Du Tertre; and Martin thought he would put that very strongly to Humphrey Statham the next morning. His last thoughts before dropping off to sleep were given to Rose Cottage, and in his dreams he saw the pretty pale-faced, tearful girl with the dark-eyed, black-browed woman bending over her.
 
He expected a letter from Hendon by the early morning's post, but it was midday before it arrived. Martin sat in the dining-room by himself, anxiously expecting it; he heard the postman's knock resounding through the street, and when it reached the door, he felt an inclination to rush out and clear the letterbox himself. Only one letter was brought in to him by the footman, but he knew at a glance that it was the one he wanted. Martin waited until the servant had left the room before he broke the seal; then he seated himself in the big arm-chair, and read as follows:
 
 
'Hendon, Thursday, midnight.
 
 
'MY DEAR M. MARTIN,--You will, I know, be most anxious to learn how I have prospered in my undertaking; and I would willingly have given you earlier information had it been possible. As, however, it is advisable to observe secrecy, I shall not intrust a messenger with my letters, but shall send them by the post, and take them to the office myself. This may occasionally cause some slight delay, but it will be surest and safest in the end.
 
'By the place from which this letter is dated, you will see that I have carried out my intention. I am writing at a table by her bedside; and as I raise my eyes from the paper they fall upon her lying asleep close by me. Ah, M. Martin, I told you that I was a woman fertile in resources, and generally successful in what I attempt. That there was no vanity or boasting in this, my present position gives, I think, ample proof.
 
'But to tell you my story from its commencement. I took the letter which you handed me, and, fortified by the inward feeling that, though you said nothing, you had breathed a silent prayer for my success, I set out once more for the place where we had held our morning's conversation. On arriving at the gate, I perceived my little playfellow of the morning. Ah, I forgot to mention to you that while you were in the house, and just before you appeared at the dining-room window, I had made acquaintance with a very pretty child, whom I had found playing in the garden, and had ingratiated myself with her by returning the ball which she had thrown to my side of the hedge. It is part of the scheme of my life, M. Martin, to ingratiate myself with everybody; some day they may have an opportunity of making themselves useful to me.
 
'Behold an exact example of this in the present instance! The child saw me at once, and ran forward to announce my arrival to her mother. Had I in the morning been cross or ungracious, had I made a bad impression, that impression would have been communicated by the child, and my reception would at once have been compromised. As it was, the child cried out, "The dark lady has come again; here she is at the gate;" and went on to mention my having returned the ball, and spoken pleasantly to her. I heard this, for by that time I had walked up the garden, and was close by the door. There she stood in the porch, her bonnet and shawl on, her head bent eagerly forward, peering into the dusk. She was waiting for you, M. Martin, and so intent was she on your coming, that she seemed unable to think of anything else. My arrival did. not impress her at all; until I mentioned your name she scarcely looked at or listened to me.
 
'The name roused her at once. Where were you? she asked. You had promised to be there more than an hour ago to take her to London. Why did I speak of you? What brought me there?
 
'My morning's adventure with the child served me just then. I said--do not be angry, M. Martin, I was compelled to make some excuse--I said that I was the wife of your brother (I would have said your sister, but my French accent would have betrayed me); that I had been with you there in the morning, to be ready in case my services were needed; that while you entered the house I remained outside and talked with the child, as she had already heard; that I had come direct from you that evening, and that I was the bearer of a letter which would explain my errand.
 
'"A letter!" she cried. "Then he is not coming?"
 
'"The letter will show you, madame, that he cannot come, hut that he has sent me to take his place, and to act precisely as he would have done."
 
'She looked disappointed, but she took the letter, and walking into the little hall, where a light was burning, read it eagerly. Then she said, 'You know the contents, madame. Mr. Gurwood says that you, instead of him, will be my guide--let us start at once.'
 
'I suppose she saw something in my face, for she changed colour almost immediately, and said that she begged my pardon, that she was acting very inhospitably, and that I doubtless required some refreshment after my drive. Not refreshment, I told her, but rest. Five minutes would make very little difference to her. If she would allow me to sit down for that time, I should be ready to start at its expiration. She didn't like the delay, poor child; I saw that plainly enough; but she was too kind, too well-bred to refuse, and she took me into the dining-room and rang for wine.
 
'I was glad to hear her give this order, partly because I stood in great need of refreshment myself, for I had had no chance of taking any in Walpole-street, but principally because ever since my arrival I had been wondering how I should find an opportunity of administering that little draught, upon the action of which my hopes for successfully carrying out our plans depended. You know my original idea was to give her this draught under the guise of a restorative; but when once I saw her, I allowed to myself that this plan would not do. Partly from the glimpse I had caught of her at the dining-room window, partly from your description, I had presupposed her to be a weak, irresolute creature, capable of being easily swayed, glad to accept any suggestion without deliberating whether it might be for her good or her harm; a pretty fool, in fact.
 
Mrs. Claxton--it is a nice-sounding name, and one may as well call her by it as by any other--is pretty and delicate, but by no means weak; and any person who would attempt to influence her must have an exceptionally strong will. I saw this at a glance, and recognised the fact, that being, as she is, quick-witted, her suspicions might be aroused, in which case there would be an end to our scheme. It was necessary, therefore, to try other tactics, and I was beating my brain for them, when the entrance of the servant with the wine and glasses gave me the requisite clue. The poor girl, with trembling hand, poured me out a glass of wine, and then left the room to fetch some biscuits, for which I had ventured to ask. I took the opportunity of her absence to pour some wine into the other glass, and to fill it up with the contents of the little bottle I had brought in my bag. The liquid was colourless and tasteless; and though I half smiled to myself as I emptied it into the wine-glass, the action reminding me as it did of the heroines of M. Eug?ne Sue's novels, or of the Porte St. Martin dramas, I knew well enough that its result, though sufficient for our purpose, would be harmless.
 
'Mrs. Claxton returned with the biscuits. "See," said I, pointing to the glass, "I have poured out some wine for you. You have passed a day of intense excitement, and have still a most trying ordeal to go through; you will need to have all your courage and all your wits about you. Drink this, it will give you strength." She smiled
feebly,--such a desolate, dreary smile,--but made no objection; on the contrary, "She had had nothing all day," she said, "and thought that the wine might do her good." So she took the glass and quietly swallowed its contents.
 
'I suppose if you had been there,t M. Martin, you would have expected to see the girl drop down, her eyes closed, her senses gone? That is the way in the novels and the drama, but that is not the effect of the little tisane which I have more than once had occasion to prepare. That effect never varies. Mrs. Claxton watched me with apparent interest as I was eating my biscuit, and, though she said nothing, she seemed perfectly to understand me when I proposed to go. At that moment, seeing the nurse pass by the window, carrying the little child, who was being taken to bed, I beckoned to her. The woman opened the door, and I had just said to her, "Please tell my cabman we are coming out," when Mrs. Claxton sank backwards in her chair: I had been anticipating this; so bidding the nurse carry the child away, and send one of the other servants to me, I bent over the poor girl, and with the aid of the housemaid, who speedily arrived, went through the usual restorative processes which are employed with persons who are supposed to have swooned. While these, which I need scarcely say were of no effect, were being carried on, I learned from the servant that, owing to the news which had been brought to her by the clergyman that morning, her mistress had been in a dreadful low state all day, and that the wonder of the household was that she had kept up so long. This state of things exactly favouring my purpose, I soon disposed of the idea which had been started by the nurse, that Doctor Broadbent should be sent for; and when I had had the poor girl carried
up-stairs, my announcement that I should instal myself as nurse, and pass the night by her bedside, excited no great surprise.
 
'Lying there, with her long hair floating over the pillow, her features tranquil and composed, her breathing soft and regular, she is very beautiful! So beautiful that I can quite understand the dead man being in love with her. So beautiful that, were I writing to anyone but you, M. Martin, I should say I could almost forgive him for it. Meanwhile, it is satisfactory to us to think that the respite which we have gained by her inaction is purchased at the cost of no pain or ill suffered by her. Her sleep is as sound and as health-giving as though it had been natural, and there is no doubt that the rest will really be of service to her in serving as a preparation for the troubled time to come.
 
'So here ends my bulletin. What events to-morrow may have in store for us, of course I know not; but I think that the patient will sleep for at least another twenty-four hours, and I knew you would be desirous to hear as soon as possible of her state. If you have anything to say to me, you can send it safely by letter; but if I do not hear from you, I shall hold to the plan which we arranged together.
 
 
'Your friend,
 
'PALMYRE DU TERTRE.
 
 
Six a.m.
 
'P.S.--I have kept my letter open till now. She still remains in the same state.'
 
 
The emotions experienced by Martin Gurwood when he arrived at the conclusion of this lengthy epistle were so conflicting, that he thought it advisable to give as little personal consideration to the matter as possible, and to lose no time in submitting his story and the letter to Humphrey Statham, and obtaining that clear-headed friend's advice upon both.
 
On arriving at 'Change Alley, and revealing himself to the gaze of Mr. Collins, Martin was surprised to find that confidential creature brighten up at his approach, and to hear him express pleasure at his arrival.
 
'Glad to see you, Mr. Gurwood,' he said. 'Perhaps now you have come, the governor will be a little easier in his mind. He has been in and out of the room half a dozen times in the day for the last three days, asking us all if we were quite sure that you had not been, and giving directions that you were to be sent in to him directly you arrived. I will go in and tell him at once.'
 
The chief-clerk passed into his principal's room, and returned immediately. 'You are to go in,' he said: and the next moment Humphrey Statham had Martin Gurwood by the hand.
 
'Here at last!' he cried. 'I have been expecting you from hour to hour--what on earth has detained you?'
 
'Nothing. I came as quickly as I could --directly I had anything to say; as I will prove to you in a minute. But what has made you so strangely anxious?'
 
'My dear fellow, I am anxious about anything in which I take an interest, and I have taken an interest in this matter. Now to the point. You have seen this lady?'
 
'I have.'
 
'And you have broken the truth to her; explained to her the fearful position in which she stands?'
 
'I have not.'
 
'Gurwood!' said Humphrey Statham, taking a pace backward, and looking steadily at his friend. 'Is this the way in which you have discharged your mission? Did you not undertake--'
 
'Wait and hear me before you condemn,' cried Martin, raising his hand in appeal. 'I am as weak as water--no one knows that better than myself--but I had made up my mind to go through with this duty, and I would have done so, had it not been for circumstances against which I could not struggle. Have you never heard me mention the name of Madame Du Tertre?'
 
'Madame Du Tertre?' repeated Humphrey, somewhat astonished at what he imagined to be his friend's sudden branching off from the subject. 'No, I have never heard the name.'
 
'She is a Frenchwoman, who, through some strange influence, I never knew exactly what, has been acting as my mother's companion for some little time, living in the house in Great Walpole-street, and being, in fact, half friend, half servant--you comprehend the position?'
 
Humphrey Statham bowed his head in acquiescence.
 
'She is a woman of great strength of character--little as I know of the world I am able to see that--and has not merely obtained a vast influence over my mother, but, as I now believe, she has made herself thoroughly acquainted with most of our private affairs.'
 
'You don't mean to say that she knows--?'
 
'Wait and hear me. This woman, from something that occurred during Mrs. Calverley's lifetime, seems to have entertained some suspicion of the Claxton mystery. The morning after his death, when I happened to be alone in the room with her, she found some means of alluding to some partnership in the house at Mincing-lane, and of introducing the name of Claxton. I tried to pass the thing off as lightly as I could, but I was horribly confused, and I daresay I made a mess of it; at all events her suspicions were not abated; for when I came out of Rose Cottage, after my first interview with that poor creature, I found this Frenchwoman waiting for me close by the gate.'
 
'She had followed you to Hendon, then,' cried Statham. 'What explanation did you give for your being there?'
 
'What explanation could I give? Even though I had designed to tell a lie, I could not have framed one calculated to have escaped her detection.'
 
'Do you mean to say, then, that this intriguing Frenchwoman, who is in Mrs. Calverley's confidence, knows all?'
 
'All!'
 
Humphrey Statham shrugged his shoulders, plunged his hands into his trousers-pockets, and sank back into his chair with the air of a man for whom life has no farther interest.
 
'You cannot realise my position,' cried Martin. 'It was with this very power that she possesses over Mrs. Calverley that she threatened me. And she has expressed her willingness to aid us in our plans, provided I do not interfere with her management of my mother.'
 
'If anything were to be said to her it would have been well to tell her all,' said Humphrey Statham; 'a half-confidence is always a mistake. So this charming creature knows all about the double mystery of Calverley and Claxton, and promises to render us assistance in our endeavours to do the best for all persons concerned! Well, it is a most confounded nuisance that she knows anything about it; but as it is, I don't know that she may not be made useful.'
 
'She has made herself useful already,' said Martin Gurwood. 'You ought not to have sent me on this errand, which I was utterly unfit to fulfil. I saw this poor girl, and, as kindly as I could, told her of the death of this man--her husband, as I called him--but when she pressed to be taken to him, imagining that he was only just dead, I was entirely nonplussed, and knew not what to say. You had given me no instructions on that head, you know.'
 
'By Jove, no; that was an omission,' said Statham, rubbing his head. 'How did you manage?'
 
'After a struggle I told her that the body was lying at Mr. Calverley's house in Great Walpole-street, and that as she did not know Mrs. Calverley, it would be necessary to apprise that lady of her visit. So I left her, promising to return in the evening and take her with me. It was then I met Madame Du Tertre.'
 
'Well, what did she say?'
 
'She said that my plan was absurd, and that it was all-important that the actual state of things should be kept from Mrs. Claxton for some time longer.'
 
'She was right in both instances,' said Humphrey Statham, nodding. 'But how did she propose to do it? I confess I don't see my way.'
 
'How she has done it you will perceive by this letter, which I have just received.'
 
Martin handed Pauline's letter to his friend, and watched him keenly as he perused it.
 
Humphrey Statham read the document through with great attention. Only twice he showed symptoms of astonishment--once by his uplifted eyebrows, once by a low but prolonged whistle. When he had finished reading the letter, he still retained it in his hand.
 
'She is a clever woman, by Jove!' he said, 'and a thoroughly unscrupulous one; this letter shows that. I don't like this sleeping-draught business; that is a remarkably awkward feature in the case, though it seems to be going on all well, and it certainly is giving us the time we required. When this poor girl wakes, you and I must both of us be present to tell her plainly the truth; you in your clerical capacity, and I--well--in my worldly capacity, I suppose. "Very beautiful,"mother's part is due eh?' he said, referring to the letter. 'She is very beautiful. A soft, touching kind of beauty which appeals to me more than any other. And the child,' he continued, again glancing at the letter. 'You remarked that I took special interest in this matter, Gurwood! You would scarcely fancy now that that child is the link between me and the Claxton mystery!'
 
'The child!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'How is that?'
 
'I will tell you the story some day,' said Statham, looking moodily into the fire. 'Depend upon it, my friend, not every woman who is betrayed is so mercifully deceived as this poor creature has been!'
CHAPTER IX.  THE SMALL HOURS IN LONDON.
 Martin Gurwood and Humphrey Statham dined together that day at a club, of which the latter was a member, and sat together until late in the night, discussing memories of old times and the strange occurrences of recent days. When Martin returned to Great Walpole-street, he was surprised to learn from the servant who let him in, that Mrs. Calverley had not retired to rest, and that she desired to speak with him when he came in. A guilty pang shot through Martin's breast as he listened. What could be the meaning of this? Could his mother have discovered the secret of the Hendon mystery, and was she waiting to objurgate him for the part which he had taken in concealing it from her? Martin knew that, some day or other, such a contingency would arise, but he hoped that when it did he would have Statham by his side. He looked to Statham now for advice and assistance in every phase which the matter could assume, and dreaded being left to his own resources.
 
He found his mother in her bedroom, attired in a skimpy flannel dressing-gown, and sitting before the fire with her slippered feet upon the fender. She looked round on his opening the door, and uttered a sound which was partly a snort of defiance, and partly a groan of resignation.
 
'You wish to see me, mother, James tells me,' said Martin. 'I had no idea you would have been up, or I would have returned home sooner.'
 
'I wish to see somebody, Martin,' returned Mrs. Calverley querulously. 'I thought that my life could not have been more wretched and solitary than it was in Mr. Calverley's time, but even he used to come home occasionally, while now I sit by myself from morning till night. Persons who are engaged and paid to be my companions go away, and even my son gives himself up to his own devices, and does not come home until close upon midnight.'
 
'My dear mother,' said Martin, 'as I said before, if I had had any idea that you were sitting up, I would have returned sooner. Tell me now,' he said, pulling his chair close to hers, 'what do you want me to do?'
 
'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Calverley; 'I never want any one to do anything for me. But I wanted to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes to such an unimportant person as myself, about the future.'
 
'She knows nothing about Hendon,' thought Martin to himself; 'or she would not have been able to have kept off from the subject for a minute.' And greatly relieved at this idea, he said pleasantly, 'You know, mother, that I should be only too glad to carry out any of your wishes.'
 
'And you will hate an opportunity of proving what you say, Martin. You know that by Mr. Calverley's will I am now absolute mistress of the business in Mincing-lane. On our marriage, Mr. Calverley, in what I considered then the most ungenerous manner, reserved to himself the power of disposing of that business as he thought best; but I suppose he afterwards came into a better frame of mind, for he has left it entirely to me. The business as it stands at present will, I learn from Mr. Jeffreys, bring me in a very large income. Now I am the
last woman in the world to set an undue value upon riches, and my
only care for them is that they may enable me to do more good to my fellow-creatures. Are you attending to me, Martin?' she said to her son, who was looking vacantly into the fire.
 
'Certainly, mother,' said Martin, starting.
 
'Perhaps you will favour me with your particular attention just now,' said Mrs. Calverley, with some asperity, 'when I tell you that what I have got to say concerns yourself. If your character were different, you might think to yourself that, rich as I shall be, I might take the opportunity of making you independent, but such I know would not be your wish. You are one of those who rightly think that it is your mission to discharge your duty in the state of life to which you have been called, and I agree with you. There is to me no more beautiful sight than that of a minister engaged in the exercise of his vocation; the only change I would propose to you would be one in the scene of your labours.'
 
'A change in the scene?' cried Martin.
 
'Exactly,' answered Mrs. Calverley. 'I should wish you to relinquish the vicarage of Lullington, and to establish yourself in London.'
 
'London?' cried Martin.
 
'Certainly,' said his mother; 'where there is money there is influence, and there would not, I imagine, be any difficulty in obtaining for you an incumbency in London; or if it came to that, there are always proprietary chapels to be purchased, and in them perhaps you would be more unfettered, and more able to conduct the services according to your own views.'
 
'But, my dear mother,' said Martin, 'I am by no means sure--'
 
'That you would be popular,' interrupted Mrs. Calverley. 'You need not fear about that. I fancy there are few better judges of preaching than myself, and I have always been satisfied with the sermons which I have heard you deliver. It would be a great pleasure to me to know that my son's merits were properly recognised. And I don't think,' she added with a slight toss of her head, 'that he would have any reason to be ashamed of his mother, or the style in which she lived. We may not be aristocrats, and our lives may not be attended by the sloth, luxury, and pomp which surround that portion of the community; but for solid wealth and the comfort which it brings, the home which has been raised by British industry need be surpassed by none.'
 
Mrs. Calverley paused; and Martin, for want of something better to say, said, 'Of course, mother, I quite agree with you.'
 
'My notion,' pursued his mother, 'is that you should live with me, and act as my right hand in all matters of business, and as a dispenser of my charity. My life has been one long martyrdom; it has pleased Heaven to afflict me with two unworthy husbands, men incapable of understanding those finer feelings which I possess, and which have been the sole means of lightening the burden laid upon me. I hope I may now be permitted in some degree to recompense myself for the solitude and submission in which I have lived, and to have a little sunshine at the close of a life which has been one long sacrifice for others. I hope that--Martin, Martin, what are you thinking of?'
 
What was he thinking of as he sat there with his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed intently on the fire? What were those words ringing in his ears--solitude, submission, sacrifice? Ah, how hollow and empty they sounded, these querulous complaints, this Pharisaical self-laudation, when he thought of the manner in which, under the influence of his wife's temper, John Calverley's life had been warped and twisted until his weak nature had been betrayed into the commission of a fearful crime, the result of which was yet impending over the head of that poor trusting girl! What was he thinking of? Of the little right he had in the thought even then floating through
his mind, to condemn the dead man whose power of will had been so weak, whose temptation had been so strong! Who was he, to gauge and measure another man's sins, and to preach the doctrine of resistance, when-- What was he thinking of?' Mrs. Calverley's words repeated for the third time recalled him from his reverie.
 
'What was I thinking of? Why, of course of the proposition you have just made to me, mother,' he said aloud.
 
'It is one which scarcely seems to me to need much reflection,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly. 'In making it I have, as usual, not considered myself, but left the advantages wholly to you.'
 
'Of course, mother, I fully appreciate your kindness,' said Martin; 'and the mere fact of living with you, and being able to relieve the solitude under which you suffer, would, of course, have much weight with me. By the way, you were alluding just now to Madame Du Tertre's absence. I have never hitherto had an opportunity of asking you how she first became an inmate of this house.'
 
'Not through any invitation of mine,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'though I am bound to say that as soon as she came here she saw the melancholy life I led, and endeavoured to alleviate it to the best of her power. One of the few things I have to thank Mr. Calverley for is his introduction of Madame Du Tertre.'
 
'O,' said Martin, looking very much astonished; 'it was through Mr. Calverley that you made her acquaintance?'
 
'Certainly,' said his mother. 'I went down to Mincing-lane one day, and found Madame Du Tertre closeted with Mr. Calverley in his private room. I thought they would be confused at my entrance; but Mr. Calverley, quite at his ease, presented his companion to me as a French lady, a widow with a small fortune, which she had brought to him to invest. He stated, at the same time, that she was a stranger in London, and without friends, and suggested that, as he was compelled to be much away--compelled, indeed!' repeated Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff of defiance--'it might break the solitude of my life if this French lady, a cheerful person, playing the piano, and that sort of thing, came to live with me as my companion.'
 
'O, that was what Mr. Calverley proposed,' said Martin reflectively. 'And you agreed to it?'
 
'I agreed to it as a temporary measure,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'but it seemed to work well, and has continued ever since.'
 
'You had never seen Madame Du Tertre before? never heard Mr. Calverley mention her name?'
 
'Certainly not; neither the one nor the other. What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'
 
But Martin had fallen back again into his chair. His eyes were once more riveted on the fire, and his ears were deaf to his mother's voice. What a curious woman his mother was! How weak, even in the grim obstinacy on which she prided herself! how liable to be deceived, in spite of all the suspicion which she exhibited! This Madame Du Tertre, then, had been introduced into the house by Mr. Calverley, and his mother had accepted her as her companion on the very slight evidence of the story which Mr. Calverley had told her, and which might have been concocted between him and the Frenchwoman a few minutes before her arrival.
 
What had been Madame Du Tertre's object in seeking for an introduction into this house? What could be her motive for allying herself with such a woman as Mrs. Calverley? Whatever motive it might have been, it was still in existence, for had she not made it a condition of assisting him with Alice that he would not interfere with her plans as regarded his mother? What could those plans be? Madame Du Tertre was not a mere wretched creature sponging upon any one who would befriend her, and earning with fulsome adulation her nightly shelter and her daily bread. She had money of her own, as he understood; not much, indeed, but sufficient to provide her with the necessaries of life; and she was the last woman in the world to give up her freedom, and to go in for mere vulgar mercenary scheming for a material home with such a person as Mrs. Calverley, to endure the position of companion in the grim house in Great Walpole-street. She must have something large at stake, must be actuated by some ulterior motive of vast importance. What can that motive be? Who is she? Where did she come from? When and how commenced her acquaintance with Mr. Calverley?
 
'What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'
 
The harsh grating voice recalled him to himself, but even then he was at first a little dazed.
 
'These questions? What questions? O, I recollect; about Madame Du Tertre. Merely curiosity, mother; I could not possibly have any other motive.'
 
'Well, now that I have satisfied your curiosity, and told you all I know--which was little enough, for Mr. Calverley was reticent towards me in that as in all other matters of his life--now that I have done my best to give you this information, perhaps you will be good enough to return to the subject which I started, and tell me what you think about my proposition.'
 
'You won't expect me to give you a definite answer at once, mother? Such a step as leaving one's parish, with all its old friends and associations, and wholly changing the sphere of one's duties, requires much consideration.'
 
'I should think when the advantages which are offered to you are properly weighed, you would not be very long in making up your mind. There are few young men circumstanced as you are--and you must be good enough to remember that you have nothing but your living to depend upon--who have such a chance offered to them. I have often noticed with great pain that you are devoid of any ambition in your profession, and are quite content to live among farmers and people of that kind. But that is not the sort of life I choose for my son. It is my wish that you should come up to town, as I have said before; that you should live here, and take up a proper position in society; that you should marry, and--'
 
'Yes, mother,' said Martin, with a faint smile, putting up his hand in protest; 'but surely, as I said before, these are matters which require a little consideration. By the way, supposing this plan of yours were carried out, what do you propose to do with Madame Du Tertre?'
 
'Madame Du Tertre again!' cried Mrs. Calverley. Bless my soul, Martin, how you do harp upon that woman! one would really think that you had fallen in love with her yourself. A nice daughter-in-law she'd' make; only if you're going to marry her I would rather you would keep in the country, if you please; she would quite shine at Lullington.'
 
Mrs. Calverley gave vent to a low sardonic chuckle, the nearest approach she ever made to a laugh; but Martin Gurwood looked very grave.
 
'I do not understand the point of the joke,' he said; 'it is perhaps because I have been for some years accustomed only to the society of Lullington; but I confess I do not see anything particularly odd in my inquiring what was to become of one who is now a prominent member in your household, after you had carried out the change which you propose to make in it.'
 
Mrs. Calverley was always a little afraid of her son, and there was something in the tone of his voice as he made this remark which constrained her to be civil.
 
'I did not mean anything unpleasant,' she said, with less than her usual rigidity of manner; I only thought it odd that you could be in any doubt about the matter. Madame Du Tertre is here as my hired companion--when I say is here, I should say ought to be, for I hold her absence just now to be quite unjustifiable--and when it suits my convenience, and I have quite done with her, I shall pay and dismiss her, as such persons are usually paid and dismissed.'
 
'You will?'
 
'Most certainly! You cannot imagine for an instant that I had any idea of attaching Madame Du Tertre to the new manner of life which I propose for myself and for you?'
 
Martin's thoughts were beginning to wander again. 'No, no, of course not,' he said half vacantly.
 
'Of course not,' repeated Mrs. Calverley. 'I consented to receive Madame Du Tertre as my companion because I was shamefully deserted by Mr. Calverley, and left to pass all my time in moping solitude. I made a home, and a comfortable home, for him, and though, as I have said before, he could not appreciate the finer feelings of my nature, I would have been content to put them on one side. Now, I look forward to a very different state of things. You will be my companion; I shall have you instead of Mr. Calverley to deal with, and you will be able to understand my ways of life, and I shall be able to help you in your career. Under these circumstances Madame Du Tertre would merely be a clog upon both of us. I am by no means sure, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley, growing very stiff and speaking with great fervour--'I am by no means sure that it is a right thing to have a Frenchwoman in the house, even though she is a Huguenot; I have experienced it already on several occasions, when I have found the greatest difficulty in convincing the neighbours that she belonged to the reformed Church. And with you as a clergyman permanently resident in the house, a suspicion of that kind would be extremely unpleasant. Moreover, there are many other reasons which I think would render Madame Du Tertre's farther sojourn here particularly undesirable, and as she is merely one of the household, it will be of course easy enough for me to rid myself of her when I wish. You seem very sleepy, Martin,' said his mother, perceiving that he had relapsed into his former absent condition, 'and I think you had better go to bed now that I have given you an outline of my plan, and it is for you to think it over, and see how it will suit you. If you agree to it, as I have no reason to doubt you will, I shall give Madame Du Tertre notice to leave directly after her return.'
 
Then Martin rose from his seat, touched with his lips his mother's ear, which she turned round to him for the purpose, and retired to his own room.
 
Once there he put on his dressing-gown and slippers, flung himself into an arm-chair, and resumed at his ease the chain of thought which had been so frequently interrupted. But now it contained a new element, which had been imported into it by his mother's last words. Immediately Madame Du Tertre returned to the house she would receive notice that her services would be speedily dispensed with. What would be the Frenchwoman's feelings at such an intimation? She had given
no sign of any intention to leave her present quarters in Great Walpole-street; but, on the contrary, seemed to consider herself completely settled there for some time to come, and was unquestionably desirous of retaining her power over Mrs. Calverley. That, Martin recollected, she had not scrupled to acknowledge to him. On the other hand, inexperienced as Martin was in matters of the world, he had sufficient tact to perceive that his mother, for her own purposes, had always been particularly civil to Madame Du Tertre, and both by her speeches and her actions had led the Frenchwoman to believe that her presence in Great Walpole-street was indispensable to the well-being of the household. When, then, Madame Du Tertre on her return from Hendon is informed by Mrs. Calverley that different arrangements are about to be made, under which her companionship will be no longer required, when she receives that which, no matter how much politeness is imported into the manner of giving it, is in fact her dismissal, will she not, with that shrewdness and suspicion which are so eminently characteristic of her, at once define that this is not the act of Mrs. Calverley, who has always hitherto been so partial to her, but that this conduct on his mother's part is due to his influence? And provided that she attaches importance to the retention of her position in the Great Walpole-street household, as Martin undoubtedly believes she does, will she not instantly seek to revenge herself for what she imagines to be his interference, and has she not a subject for her vengeance immediately to her hand in poor helpless Alice?
 
Who was this woman? What were the motives prompting her to the game she was playing? And what would be its result?
 
The future seemed all dark and vague. The mist hung over it as it did over the sleeping city, a shivering glance at which Martin took from his bedroom window, and saw the first streaks of the wintry dawn struggling fitfully through the black clouds ere he retired to rest.
 
CHAPTER X.  THE SMALL HOURS IN HENDON.
 One o'clock tolled out from the tower of Hendon church as Pauline, who, wearied out by the events of the day, had fallen sound asleep in her chair, opened her eyes, sat upright, and, after an involuntary shudder, quietly rose to her feet and approached the bed.
 
Alice still slept peacefully; her breathing was quiet and regular, and her unruffled brow and motionless lips proved that she was not disturbed by haunting dreams. Pauline bent over the slumbering figure, took up the arm that lay outside the coverlet, and softly felt its pulse, bent her ear towards the sleeper's mouth to listen to her respiration, and then, stealing back to her place as noiselessly as she had approached, threw herself into her chair, and indulged in the luxury of a long but silent yawn.
 
'There,' she said to herself, rubbing her eyes, and resuming her usual comfortable attitude, 'I was right in not denying myself the pleasure of that slumber which I found coming over me, for I am thoroughly refreshed, and equal to very much more than I was before. What a day it has been, my faith! And how wonderfully everything has gone exactly as I could have wished it! This woman sleeping straight on, steadily and tranquil, and without a break; the servants accepting me in the position which I took up so promptly, without a murmur, and only too glad to find the responsibility transferred from themselves to some one else. Responsibility? That reminds me of that sly doctor--how do they call him?--Broadbent! It was right of me to send for him; it might have seemed suspicious had I not done so; and as I knew
so well that he had been perforce admitted into the mystery of Claxton-Calverley, and as I had learned from the servants here that he was always most friendly and kind to this poor doll, I knew that I could explain to him what I had done, and leave it to him to put the people here at their ease. He was out, though, this sly rogue--out, and not expected back until the evening, so they said, though five minutes afterwards I saw a man, who must have been he--black-clothed, grave, the very semblance of an apothecary--come out of the side-door of his garden, and hurry down the path where I stood when I first saw the child. Ah, ha! he has no longer any desire to visit Rose Cottage, this medico so respectable; he fears lest his name should be compromised. I could not help laughing as I saw him creep down the path.
 
'Let me see. I am rested now, and my head is quite clear. Last night there was danger of interruption from the servants, and they have been in and out all day, but now they are thoroughly wearied out, and I have the house to myself. Now is the time for me to look about me, and gain what information I can concerning this young woman's previous life. I think I saw a box or desk of some kind by the side of the dressing-table. O, yes, here it is. What a funny old box!' Pauline walked to the dressing-table, stooped, and from underneath the muslin cover drew forth an old-fashioned writing-desk, made of mahogany, and bound with brass, with a small brass plate on the middle of its lid, on which were engraved the letters A.D.' This inscription caught Pauline's eyes as she took up the desk and placed it on the table by the bedside, within the rays of the shaded lamp.
 
'A.D.,' she muttered to herself. 'What does that mean? It ought undoubtedly to have been A.C. Ah, stay; the box is old-fashioned, and has seen much service. It is probably the desk of her childhood, that she had before what she thought to be her marriage, when the letters of her name were A.D. A.D.' repeated Pauline, reflecting. 'Ah, bah! It is a coincidence, nothing more.' From her pocket she took two bunches of keys, one large, evidently belonging to the housekeeping, the other small and neat. From the smaller bunch she made two or three selections, and at last hit upon the key that opened the desk.
 
The contents of the desk were two packets of letters, one large, one small, each tied round with faded ribbon, two or three loose sheets of blotting-paper, an old diary, and an account-book. Pauline took the larger packet in her hand, and untied the string. The letters slipped asunder: they were all written in the same hand, all addressed to 'Miss Durham, care of J. Preston, Esquire, Heslington-road, York.'
 
'Miss Durham!' A mist seemed to come over Pauline's sight, and she rubbed her eyes quickly to clear it away. Miss Durham! And A. D. on the lid of the desk? Good Heaven! had all the anguish of mind which she had endured, all the jealousy and rage, all the plotting and planning which she had carried on for the last few months, had all these sprung from an unfounded suspicion, from an absurd creation of her own distorted fancy? Miss Durham! There it was plain enough, in a hand that Pauline recognised as Mr. Calverley's. The letters were those addressed by him to Alice before their marriage, were signed 'John Claxton,' and were so bright and buoyant, so full of affectionate enthusiasm, that Pauline could scarcely imagine they were the productions of the staid, grave man whom she had known. Miss Durham! What could it mean? Stay! There was the other packet. In an instant that was undone, and Pauline had seized from it one of the letters. And then there was no more to learn, for at a glance she saw that they were in her husband's handwriting, that they were addressed to his 'Dearest Alice,' by her 'Loving brother, Tom.'
 
The paper dropped from Pauline's hand to the floor, and she sank into her chair with something like a sense of shame upon her. It was then as she had just thought. She had been frightened, as it were, by her own shadow, had herself created the bugbear before which she had fled, or against which she had fought; she had been befooled by her own suspicions, and her foolish fancy had allowed her to be jealous of Tom's sister.
 
Tom's sister! The pale-faced girl lying there, sleeping on so peacefully and unconsciously, was Tom's sister. How could she be supposed to have guessed that? She had seen the girl in Tom's embrace, had seen her bathed in tears and inconsolable at Tom's departure; how could she know that this was his sister, of whose existence she had never been informed?
 
Why had Tom never taken her into his confidence on that point? Why had he never told her that he had a sister of whom he was so fond? Why? And a fierce pang of anger shot through her, and her face drew dark and hard as the reply rose in her mind. She knew the reason well enough--it was because her husband was ashamed of her; ashamed of the unscrupulousness, of the underhand ways, which he was ready enough to use and to call into play when they could be of service to him; because he thought her not good enough to associate with his gentle, womanly, silly little sister, or to appreciate the stupid comfort of the narrow proprieties of her home. Her home! What if Tom could see that home now, and could know the truth about his sister, as she lay there, with no name, no home, no position, a person for her, his distrusted wife, to patronise and befriend if she chose!
 
So this was the trust he had placed in her, his wife, his ally, his colleague, of whose fertile brain and ready hand he had so often boasted. This one honest honourable association (as he had imagined it) he had kept hidden from her. And as this thought germinated and broadened in Pauline's mind her feelings passed into a new channel. She who had been her husband's adviser so long, and who had served him so well; she who had fondly imagined herself the trusted confidante and sharer of his inmost thoughts, now found that she had been slighted and considered not worthy to associate with this innocent piece of prettiness. The strange nature of the woman was roused to deadly retrospective anger, and the kindly contemptuous liking which she had begun to feel for Alice faded away.
 
This pale-faced sleeping girl was her successful rival, though not in the manner she had at first supposed. She had felt an instinctive hatred of her when she saw her on the platform at Southampton, and her instinct never betrayed her. Tom Durham's sister! Pauline remembered that when her husband spoke of his early days, and the inmates of his home, it was always with a softened voice and manner, and with a certain implied respect, as though he were scarcely fitted, through his present surroundings and mode of life, even to mention so sacred a subject. This pale-faced girl had been one of those associations; she was too pure and too innocent, forsooth, to be mixed up with such society as her brother's wife was forced to keep. She, when she recovered her consciousness, would find herself a mark for the finger of scorn, a text for the Pharisee, a pariah, and an outcast.
 
And so that weak, clinging, brainless thing was Tom Durham's sister, and preferred by him to his wife, with her grasp of mind and energy of purpose? The wife was to slave with him, and for him, to do the rough work, to be sent off here and there, travelling night and day, to lie to such a woman, to flatter such a man, to be always vigilant and patient, and to be punished with black looks, and sometimes with curses, if anything went wrong; while from the sister all difficulties and dangers were to be fended off, she was to be lapped in luxury, and her simplicity and innocence were to be as strictly guarded as though she had been a demoiselle in a convent.
 
Well, Pauline thought, the new phase of circumstances need not cause much alteration in the line of conduct she had marked out for herself. The girl lying there was to her in a different position from what she had imagined. So far as she was concerned, there was no question of revenge now, but it would be as well to keep watch over her, and use her as a tool if occasion should arise. The interest which Martin Gurwood felt in Alice would induce him to keep up his acquaintance with her, and to be en rapport with Martin Gurwood was Pauline's fixed intention. Over him she had obtained a strong influence, which she did not intend to give up, while the knowledge that she continued to be acquainted with all that was going on would deprive Martin, or those friends of his of whom he thought so much--this Mr. Statham for instance--from attempting to interfere with the exercise of her power over Mrs. Calverley.
 
And now, for the first time since she had waited for her husband at the Lymington station, Pauline began to believe that the conjecture which she had seen printed in the newspapers had some foundation, and that Tom Durham was really dead. Hitherto she had imagined that he had deceived her, as he had deceived the rest of the world; that the tale which he told her of his intention to dive from the steamer at night, to swim to the shore, and to meet her the next morning, had been merely trumped up in order to turn her off the scent, and to prevent her from tracing him in his flight with the woman of whom he had taken such an affectionate farewell at the Southampton railway station. But the identity of that woman with Alice Claxton being now settled, and it being made perfectly clear that she was Tom Durham's sister, all motive for that worthy's concealment of himself was done away with. There was no reason, so far as Pauline knew, why her husband should not acquaint her with his whereabouts, while there was every reason to believe that, were he on the face of the earth, he would make himself known, if it were only for the sake of reclaiming his two thousand pounds. He must have been drowned, she thought, his strength must have failed him, and he must have gone down when almost within reach of the shore, to which he was hastening. Drowned, dead, lost to her for ever! Not lost as she had once imagined him, seduced by the wiles and fascinations of another woman into temporary forgetfulness of her, for then there was a chance, and more than a chance, almost a certainty, that when those wiles and fascinations ceased to charm he would miss the clear brain and the ready hand on which he had so long relied, and come back to claim their aid once more--not lost in that way, but totally lost, drowned, dead, passed away for ever.
 
To think of her husband in that phase was new to Pauline. She had never contemplated him under such circumstances. She had always thought of him with fierce jealousy, and a burning desire for revenge, as false to her, and neglectful of her. The idea that he was dead, had died guiltless of deceiving her, and with the full intention of carrying out the plan which he had confided to her, had never before entered her mind, and--no, it could not be true; if it had been she would have felt the keenest grief, the deepest sorrow; grief for his loss, regret for the cruel wrong she had done him in suspecting him. She felt nothing of all this now--he could not be dead.
 
Straightway Pauline's thoughts reverted to the circumstances in which she was placed, the persons by whom she was surrounded, and the way in which her future should be managed. If the conclusions at which she had arrived were correct, if Tom Durham were not drowned, but, for some hitherto unexplained purpose of his own, was keeping himself in hiding, it is towards his sister probably that, when he considers it a proper opportunity, he will make some sign. Not to his wife; Pauline knew her husband well enough to understand completely how the knowledge that he had treated her badly in not keeping his appointment that morning, and in concealing himself from her so long, would prevent him from making his first advances to her; the girl slumbering there would be the first person to whom Tom Durham would reveal the fact that he was not dead, and if she, Pauline, ever wished for information about him, it was through that slumbering girl that it must be obtained.
 
She made a sudden change in the plan and prospects of her life, a shuffling of the cards, an entire revision of the game, all settled in an instant, too, as she sat in the easy-chair beside the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the motionless figure. Her sojourn in the wretchedly dull house in Great
Walpole-street should speedily be brought to an end. She had borne long enough with that old woman's grimness and formality, with her icy patronage and impassable stiffness, with her pharisaical utterances and querulous complaints; she would have no more of such a life of dependence. The time during which she had been Mrs. Calverley's companion had not, indeed, been ill-spent. Had she not secured for herself that position, she would probably have remained in ignorance that the woman of whom she saw her husband taking leave was his sister; she would not have been intrusted with the secret of the Calverley and Claxton mystery, the possession of which gave her such power over all those concerned in it; she would never have made the acquaintance of Martin Gurwood. How strangely in earnest that man was, how innocent, and void of guile! And yet she was so sure that the suspicion which she had originally formed about him--that he had a secret of his own--was correct; hence that impossibility to return your gaze, that immediate withdrawal of his soft beautiful eyes, that quivering of his delicate, sensitive mouth. It had served her purpose, that position of dependence, but now she would have no more of it. There is nothing to be gained by continuing with the grim old woman except the money, and Pauline sees her way to an equal amount of money, combined with far more freedom, and an infinitely pleasanter life.
 
A better life, too, if there be anything in that, Pauline wonders, with a shrug of her shoulders; for this slumbering girl, this mere child in her ignorance of the world's ways, is now left to herself, and is henceforth to live alone, with no one to battle for her, no one to shield her from the thousand and one assailants, to guide her through the thousand and one temptations to which she will be exposed. That shall be her task, Pauline thought to herself; to undertake it she had a prescriptive right, if she chose to declare the truth, and to assert her relationship. There would be no occasion, however, to take that step, at all events for the present. She could trust to her influence with Martin Gurwood to procure for her the trust which she coveted, the position of Alice's companion and guardian. Her influence with Martin Gurwood, what did that amount to? Why did she experience an inward thrill of satisfaction in reflecting on that influence? Martin Gurwood! She thought of him as she had seen him first, under his mother's roof; she thought of him on the last occasion of their meeting, when they walked side by side in the Hendon lanes. Yes, her influence with Martin Gurwood was undoubtedly strong, and the knowledge of its strength gave her inexplicable satisfaction.
 
 
At twelve o'clock the next day, Pauline, from her position at the bedroom window, saw a hansom cab stop at the top of the hill, and two gentlemen, one of whom was Martin Gurwood, alight from it. Then Pauline, whose bonnet and shawl lay ready to her hand, put them on without an instant's delay, and sallied forth.
 
She had not advanced more than fifty steps when she saw that her approach was perceived. Martin Gurwood looked up and said something to his companion, who, on their meeting, was presented to her as Mr. Statham.
 
'The friend of whom I have already spoken to you, Madame Du Tertre,' he said, 'and whose advice has been most invaluable to me in this matter.'
 
Pauline gave a direct and earnest glance at Statham, a glance which enabled a woman of her natural quickness to recognise the presence of the characteristics which his friend had declared him to possess. Martin Gurwood was pliant and malleable; this man looked hard and unimpressionable as granite. If he and she were to be thrown much together for the future, it would be advisable, Pauline thought, that her wishes should agree as much as possible with his intentions.
 
'I am pleased to see Mr. Statham,' she said; 'pleased, indeed, to see you both, for I have been anxiously expecting your arrival.'
 
'There is no change in the patient's condition, I suppose?' asked Statham.
 
'None; she still remains perfectly tranquil and asleep; but my own experience, and two or three signs which I have observed, tell me that this sleep will soon be at an end.'
 
'It was in that expectation that we have hurried here,' said Martin Gurwood. 'Mr. Statham is of opinion that it would be impossible to conceal the truth from Mrs. Claxton any longer, and has accompanied me to assist in breaking the news to her.'
 
'Ah, exactly,' said Pauline. 'Will you and Mr. Statham be very much surprised, very much, horrified, if I venture to make a suggestion?'
 
'Not the least,' said Statham. 'I am sure I answer for my friend and myself when I say that we are deeply grateful for the services you have already rendered us, although the means for the end are certainly somewhat strong, and that we shall listen readily to anything you may have to propose.'
 
'Most certainly, yes,' assented Martin Gurwood.
 
'Well, then,' said Pauline, addressing herself to Statham, after a fleeting glance at Martin, 'my proposition is, that this ceremony of the breaking the news, which at such pain to yourself, as I know, you have come to perform, should be dispensed with altogether.'
 
'Dispensed with?' cried Statham.
 
'Altogether,' repeated Pauline.
 
'Do you mean that Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton should not be made acquainted with what has occurred?' asked Martin, in astonishment.
 
'With what has occurred,' said Pauline firmly, 'yes; with the circumstances under which it has occurred, no! She knows that the man whom she considered to be her husband is dead. Let her be informed that, during the unconscious state into which she fell on hearing the news, he has been buried, but for Heaven's sake, monsieur, let her be kept in ignorance of the fact that he was not her husband, and that by his cruelty she is now a woman without name or position, abandoned and outcast. Why should we cover her with shame, and blight her life, with this announcement? A quoi bon? If we do not tell it to her, there is no one else who will. She has no friends but yourselves and me. She is too innocent and ignorant of the world to ask for any papers--a will, or anything of that kind. She has already, without inquiry, accepted Mr. Gurwood's guardianship at once and unsuspectingly, and she has not the faintest dream that the man whom she loved and the position which she held were other than she believed them.'
 
'Well, but--' said Martin.
 
'But what?' said Pauline, turning to him. 'Can you give me one reason why this horrible story should be told to her in its truth, why one more victim should be added to the number of those over whom the yellow flag waves, cutting them off from all the privileges of social citizenship, and dragging them down to the depths of misery and shame? Ah, she is too young and too innocent for such a doom! Am I not right, Mr. Statham? Do you not agree with me?'
 
It was easy to see that the passionate earnestness of Pauline's appeal had not been without its effect on Humphrey Statham. There was a tremulousness in his lip and in his voice as he said, 'You certainly make out a strong case to support your views, Madame Du Tertre; but what do you propose should be done with this young lady?'
 
'I propose,' said Pauline, 'that she should live on in the belief that she is Mr. Claxton's widow; and as it would be impossible, young and unsuspecting as she is, that she should be alone, I propose that I should live with her. Not on her, mind!' she added, with a proud toss of her head. I have a little money of my own--quite enough to keep me in independence--but I am a woman of the world, Mr. Statham, who has learned its ways from dire necessity, and has come out of the struggle I hope unimpaired. I was interested in this girl's story before I saw her; since I saw her my interest has naturally increased. Let it be as I say, and you will find your trust has not been wrongly bestowed!'
 
The two men stepped aside for a few minutes; then Statham, raising his hat, approached Pauline.
 
'Have you well weighed the responsibility you are about to undertake, Madame Du Tertre?'
 
'I have,' she said, looking straight into his eyes, 'and accept it cheerfully.'
 
'Then,' said Humphrey, 'Mr. Gurwood consents that it should be as you say. For the present only, mind; the arrangement is but temporary, and is liable to alteration at any moment.'
 
'I thank Mr. Gurwood most heartily,' said Pauline, turning to Martin, and holding out her hand, 'and you, too, Mr. Statham. As I said before, you will find in this instance that your trust has not been wrongly bestowed. I think, perhaps, it will be better to leave me to announce to Mrs. Calverley my intention of leaving her, and I will take an early opportunity of doing so. I must hurry back now, as there is a chance of our friend waking up at any moment. You shall hear from me to-morrow, with full details of what I purpose to do.'
 
And, as she entered the garden gate, the two men regained their cab and were driven off to London.
 
CHAPTER XI.  MRS. CALVERLEY LOSES HER COMPANION.
 Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.
 
In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
 
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
 
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable.
 
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'
 
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice,
 
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?'
 
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'
 
'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice. 'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at once?'
 
'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at last, and fell into a fainting fit.'
 
'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.
 
'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'
 
'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'
 
'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said Pauline softly. 'It is so.'
 
Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with her hands, and sobbing forth broken ejaculations of misery and despair. Pauline did not attempt to interfere with her while she was in this state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate, waiting until the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should subside. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow, the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still continued to flow, the ejaculations softened down into one oft-repeated wail, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'
 
Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with your future.'
 
'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that? How can they give me back my husband?'
 
'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly, 'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary and more hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,' she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, that you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'
 
'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'
 
'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'
 
'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'
 
'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr. Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'
 
'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then, it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'
 
'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'
 
'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round her with a sigh.
 
'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively; Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear, I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can. I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are almost yourself again.'
 
'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself again!'
 
 
Meanwhile the mistress of the house in Great Walpole-street had been in anything but an enviable frame of mind. It has been observed of Mrs. Calverley, that even when she was Miss Lorraine, and during the lives of both her husbands, her favourite position was standing upon her dignity, a position which, with some persons, is remarkably difficult to maintain.
 
Mrs. Calverley was of opinion that by the conduct both of her companion and of her son, her dignity had been knocked from under her, and she had been morally upset, and that, too, at a time when she had calculated on receiving increased homage: on taking her place as acknowledged head of the household. That Madame Du Tertre should ask to be relieved from her attendance at a time when of all others she might have known that her presence would be necessary to console her friend in her affliction, And to aid her in devising schemes for the future, was in itself a scandal and a shame. But that her son Martin, who, as a clergyman of the Church o England, ought to be a pattern of filial obedience and all other virtues, should neglect his mother in the way that he did, going away to keep what he called business appointments day after day; above all, that he should omit to give her any definite answer to the generous proposition which she had made him, was more scandalous and more shameful.
 
So Mrs. Calverley remained swelling with spite and indignation, all the more fierce and bitter because she had to keep them to herself. And these were the first days of her triumph--days which she had thought to spend very differently, in receiving the delicate flattery and veiled homage which she had been accustomed to from Pauline, in listening to the protestations of gratitude which she had expected from her son. Now both of these persons were absent--for Martin was so little at Great Walpole-street that his mother had small opportunity of conversation with him--and she was left in her grim solitude; but she knew sooner or later they would return, and when she did get the opportunity she was perfectly prepared to make it as uncomfortable for each of them as possible.
 
It was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Calverley, who had so far given in to the fashion of the time, as to take her five-o'clock tea--which was served, not with the elegant appliances now common, but in a steaming breakfast-cup on an enormous silver salver--had settled herself to the consumption of what might be called her meal, when Pauline entered the room. She came forward rapidly, and taking her patroness's hand, bent over it and raised it to her lips. Mrs. Calverley gave her hand, or rather let it be taken, with sufficiently bad grace. She sat poker-like in her stiffness, with her lips tightly compressed. It was not her business to commence the conversation, and the delay gave her longer time to reflect upon the bitter things she fully intended to say.
 
'So at last I am able to once more reach my dear friend's side,' said Pauline, seating herself in close proximity. She saw at once the kind of reception in store for her, and though the course on which she had determined rendered her independent of Mrs. Calverley's feelings towards her, she was too good a diplomatist to provoke where provocation was unnecessary.
 
'You certainly have not hurried yourself to get there,' said Mrs. Calverley, clipping the words out from between her lips. 'I have now been left entirely to myself for--'
 
'Do not render me more wretched by going into the details of the time of my absence,' said Pauline; 'it has impressed itself upon me with sufficient distinctness already.'
 
'I should have thought, madame,' said Mrs. Calverley unrelentingly, 'that strictly brought up as you have .always represented yourself to be, you would have understood, however pleasantly your time may have been occupied, that your duty required you to be in this house.'
 
'However pleasantly my time may have been occupied!' cried Pauline. 'Each word that you utter is an additional stab. It is duty and duty alone which has called me away from your side. It is duty which imposes a farther task upon me, cruel, heart-rending task, which I have yet to declare to you! And you, who have been a life-long martyr to the discharge of your own duty, ought to have some pity for me in the discharge of mine.'
 
These last words were excellently chosen for her purpose. That she was a martyr, and an unrecognised martyr, was the one text on which Mrs. Calverley preached: to acknowledge her in that capacity was to pay her the greatest possible compliment. So, considerably mollified, she replied, 'If I felt annoyed at your absence, Palmyre, it was for your sake more than for my own. The loss of your society is a deprivation to me, but I am accustomed to deprivations and to crosses of all kinds. I devoted myself to my husband--and had he listened to the counsel I gave him, he would be here at this moment--and I am prepared to devote myself to my son.'
 
'Ah,' said Pauline with earnestness, Monsieur Martin!'
 
'Yes, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'Monsieur Martin, as you speak of him in your foreign way, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, as he is generally called. I am prepared to devote myself to him. I have told him that I will remove him from that desolate country parish, and establish him here in London in a church of his own, that he shall live with me in this house, share my wealth, and dispense my charities.'
 
'Martin in London,' thought Pauline to herself. Then it is in London that Alice and I must take up our abode.' Then she said aloud, ''And what does Monsieur Martin say to this grand, this generous proposition, madame?'
 
'Ay, exactly--what does he say!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'You may well ask that! You and every one else would have thought that he would have jumped at such an offer, wouldn't you? And so he would, doubtless, if it had come from any one else, but it is my lot to suffer!'
 
'He has not refused it, madame?'
 
'No, he has not refused; he has given me no definite answer any way.'
 
'Ah, he will not refuse you, I am. sure,' said Pauline, clasping her hands; 'the prospect of such a life with such a mother must overcome even his strict notions of self-denial. Ah, madame, if you could only know what a thrill of joy your words have sent through my heart, how what you have said. has tended to disperse the black clouds which were gathering over me!'
 
'Dear me, Palmyre,' cried Mrs. Calverley, in her blank unimaginative way, 'black clouds! What on earth are you talking about?'
 
'I told you just now that I had a yet farther sacrifice to make to duty. It is a sacrifice so great, so painful to me, that I hardly dared to hint at it; but what you have said just now robs it somewhat of its sting. What a comfort it would be to me to know that you had some one to look after and cherish you, as you ought to be cherished, when I am gone.'
 
'What's that you said, Palmyre?' cried Mrs. Calverley, sharply indeed, but nothing like so viciously as Pauline had expected. 'You are gone! What do you mean by that?'
 
'When I am gone,' repeated Pauline, in obedience to duty which calls upon me. Ah, dear friend, why are you wealthy, and in high position, surrounded by comforts and luxury? If you were poor and needy, sick and struggling, I could reconcile it with my duty to remain here with you; as it is, I am called upon to leave you, and to devote myself to those to whom my poor services can be useful.'
 
'You must be more explicit, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty as she was, she had been somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed materially lightened.
 
'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you who have a benevolent heart.'
 
'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
 
'My cousin?' cried Pauline.
 
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; your cousin, who was lying ill at the poor lodging, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not speak our language, and was utterly helpless; she is worse, I suppose? Perhaps she is dead!'
 
'Tiens,' said Pauline to herself; 'it is lucky she reminded me about the cousin; in all the confusion and plotting I had almost forgotten what I had said. 'No, my dear friend,' she said aloud, 'my poor cousin still lives, and is, indeed, considerably easier and better than when I first went to her. A relation of hers, a brother-in-law, has found her out, and is being kind to her, as the poor are always kind to one another; not, indeed, that this brother-in-law can be called poor, except in comparison with persons of wealth like yours. He is an old friend of mine; he knew my father, the artillery officer at Lyons, and used often to come to my husband's house when we were in business there.'
 
'He admired you then, and he has made an offer now, and you are going to be married to him?' said Mrs. Calverley, with an icy smile. 'Is that it, Palmyre; is that the sacrifice you feel yourself called upon to make?'
 
'Ah, my friend,' cried Pauline, 'there is no question of anything of that sort for me; my heart is buried in grief. No, this worthy man, who has known me so long, knows that I am what you call in your language, but for which we have no word in French, respectable. He knows that I can be trusted, and he offers to me a place of trust; he asks me to undertake a sacred charge.'
 
'Dear me,' again ejaculated Mrs. Calverley; 'what might that be?'
 
'This old friend of mine finds himself left as guardian and trustee for the widow and orphan of his former ward, a wretched young man--he must have been born under an evil star, for nothing seemed to prosper with him--and who has just died of consumption at Nice. The widow is, as I understand, a weak creature, very young, very pretty, and utterly inexperienced. Her husband during his lifetime never allowed her to do anything, and the consequence is that she is quite ignorant of the ways of the world, and would be easily snapped up by any one who might choose to take advantage of her. Being, as I have said, very pretty, and having a small competence of her own, I need scarcely tell you that there would be plenty of wretches on the look-out for her.'
 
'Wretches, indeed!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'One of the few curses of wealth is that it renders one liable to be so beset.'
 
'My old friend,' then pursued Pauline, 'a warm-hearted man, who preserves a grateful recollection of the manner in which at the outset of his life he was befriended by his dead ward's father, and desirous of shielding the widow and orphans to the best of his power, offered me a modest salary to take up my abode with this young woman, and to become her protector and look after her generally.'
 
'Well,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff, 'and what did you say to that?'
 
'I refused altogether. I told him that I was already living with one whom fortune had cruelly treated in depriving her of her only protector, and who from her resignation and goodness commanded my deepest sympathy. But my old friend refused to accept this explanation, and after questioning me closely about you and your position, pointed out that if I were doing a good action in living with you, who were wealthy and powerful, how much more rigorously should I be discharging my duty in giving myself up to those who, while equally afflicted with you in the loss of those they loved, were not endowed with your circumstances, worse than all, were not endowed with your patience and Christian resignation.'
 
A faint flush of pleasure glowed on Mrs. Calverley's pale cheeks. 'There is something in that,' she said; 'it was a sensible remark. My trouble has been lifelong, I have been schooled in it from my youth; but this poor person is only just beginning to know the miseries of the world. Well, Palmyre, what did you say then?'
 
'I felt, dear friend, that, as you say, the argument was strong, the appeal almost irresistible; but I said that I could give no definite reply; that, however strongly my duty might call me elsewhere, my heart was with you; that I would lay the case before you, exactly as it stood, and unless I had your free consent I should not separate myself from you.'
 
Outwardly calm and composed, Mrs. Calverley was inwardly in a state of great delight. Not merely did she see her way to getting rid of her companion without any trouble, but she would receive the greatest credit for her magnanimity and self-denial in giving Pauline up to those whose need was greater than her own. It was, however, necessary that she should be cautious and reticent to the last, so before pledging herself to anything definite Mrs. Calverley said:
 
'You, Palmyre, who know my character so well, must be perfectly aware that the circumstances which you have narrated to me are such as would command my warmest sympathies, but before I give you any definite answer, I should like to ask you one or two questions. The little household over which you are called upon to preside will be established in France, I presume?'
 
'No,' said Pauline, 'In England. The poor widow is an Englishwoman, and declines to go away with her little child, a charming little creature, from the land of her birth.'
 
'In England?' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'And whereabouts in England?'
 
'Nothing is yet settled,' said Pauline, 'but I have no doubt that I should have some hand in deciding that, and all my influence would be used to remain in the neighbourhood of London.'
 
Mrs. Calverley was overjoyed at this announcement; she thought she saw her way to making use of her quondam ally without the necessity of recompensing her.
 
She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said, in a tone which she tried to modulate as much as possible, but which was unmistakably triumphant, I have reflected, Palmyre, and I find it is again my duty to exercise that power of self-denial with which I have fortunately been imbued. These poor creatures have greater need of you than I, and however much I may suffer by the abnegation, I waive my claim upon you--I give you up to them.'
 
'You are an angel,' said Pauline, bending down to kiss her friend's hand. Her face was necessarily hidden, but if any one could have caught a glimpse of it they would have seen on it an expression of intense amusement.
 
'I shall see you again, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
 
'O, certainly,' said Pauline; 'I shall let you know as soon as anything is settled, and I sincerely trust that my duties will not be so constant and so binding as to prevent my frequently coming to visit my best and dearest friend.'
 
'Does she take me for a fool, this woman?' said Pauline when she had gained the solitude of her bedroom, 'or is she so blinded by her own folly as to believe that other people are so weak as she? However, the difficulty, such as it was, has been easily arranged, and all is now clear for me to commence my new manner of life.'
 
 
 
 
 
END OF VOL. II.
Volume 3 CHAPTER I.  ROSE COTTAGE TO LET.
 It was probably not without a certain amount of consideration and circumspection that John Calverley had fixed upon Hendon as the place in which to establish his second home, to which to take the pretty trusting girl who believed herself to be his wife. It was a locality in which she could live retired, and in which there was very little chance of his being recognised. It offered no advantages to gentlemen engaged in the City--it was not accessible by either boat, 'bus, or rail; the pony-carriages of the inhabitants were for the most part confined to a radius of four miles in their journeys, and Davis's coach and the carrier's wagon were the sole means of communication with the metropolis.
 
Also, in his quiet, undemonstrative way, Mr. Calverley had taken occasion to make himself acquainted with the names, social position, and antecedents of all the inhabitants, and to ascertain the chances of their ever having seen or heard of him, which he found on inquiry were very remote. They were for the most part Hendon born and bred, and the few settlers amongst them were retired tradesmen, who had some connection with the place, and who were not likely, from the nature of the business they had pursued while engaged in commerce, to have become acquainted with the person, or even to have heard the name of the head of the firm in Mincing-lane. About the doctor and the clergyman, as being the persons with whom he would most likely be brought into contact, he was specially curious. But his anxiety was appeased on learning that Mr. Broadbent was of a Devonshire family, and had practised in the neighbourhood of Tavistock previous to his purchase of old Doctor Fleeme's practice; while the vicar, Mr. Tomlinson, after leaving Oxford, had gone to a curacy near Durham, whence he had been transferred to Hendon.
 
So, when he had decided upon the house, and Alice had taken possession of it, John Calverley congratulated himself on having settled her down in a place where not merely he was unknown, but where the spirit of inquisitiveness was unknown also. He heard of no gossiping, no inquiries as to who they were, or where they had come from. Comments, indeed, upon the disparity of years between the married couple reached his ears; but that he was prepared for, and did not mind, so long as Alice was loving and true to him. What cared he how often the world called him old, and wondered at her choice?
 
It must be confessed that concerning the amount of gossip talked about him and his household, John Calverley was very much deceived. The people of Hendon was not different from the people of any other place, and though they lived remote from the world, they were just as fond of talking about the affairs of their neighbours as fashionable women round the tea-table in their boudoirs, or fashionable men in the smoking-room of their clubs. They discussed Mrs. A.'s tantrums and Mrs. B.'s stinginess, the doctor's wife's jealousy, and the parson's wife's airs; all each others' shortcomings were regularly gone through, and it was not likely that the household at Rose Cottage would be suffered to escape. On the contrary, it was a standing topic, and a theme for infinite discussion. Not that there was the smallest doubt amongst the neighbours as to the propriety of Alice's conduct, or the least question about her being the old gentleman's wife, but the mere fact of Mr. Claxton's being an old gentleman, and having such a young and pretty wife, excited a vast amount of talk; and when it was found that Mr. Claxton's business caused him to be constantly absent from home, there was no end to the speculation as to what that absence might not give rise. There seemed to be some sort of notion among the inhabitants that Alice would some day be carried bodily away, and many an innocent artist with his sketch-book in his breast-pocket, looking about him in search of a subject, has been put down by Miss M'Craw and her friends as a dangerous character, full of desperate designs upon Mr. Claxton's domestic happiness.
 
Miss M'Craw was a lady who took great interest in her neighbours' affairs, having but few of her own to attend to, and being naturally of an excitable and inquiring disposition, she had made many advances towards Alice, which had not been very warmly reciprocated, and the consequence was that Miss M'Craw devoted a large portion of her time to espionage over the Rose Cottage establishment, and to commenting on what she gleaned in a very vicious spirit. Early in the year in which the village was startled by the news of Mr. Claxton's death, Miss M'Craw was entertaining two or three of her special friends at tea in her little parlour, from the window of which she could command a distant view of the Rose Cottage garden gate, when the conversation, which had been somewhat flagging, happened to turn upon Alice, and thenceforth was carried on briskly.
 
'Now, my dear,' said Miss M'Craw, in pursuance of an observation she had previously made, 'we shall see whether he comes back again to-day. This is Wednesday, is it not? Well, he has been here for the last three Wednesdays, always just about the same time, between six and seven o'clock, and always doing the same thing.'
 
'Who is he? and what is it all about, Martha?' asked Mrs. Gannup, who had only just arrived, and who had been going through the ceremony known as 'taking off her things' in the little back parlour, while the previous conversation had been carried on.
 
'O, you were not here, Mrs. Gannup, and didn't hear what I said,' said Miss M'Craw. 'I was mentioning to these ladies that for the last three Wednesdays there has come a strange gentleman to our village, quite a gentleman too, riding on horseback, and with a groom behind him, well-dressed, and really,' added Miss M'Craw, with a simper, 'quite good-looking!'
 
She was the youngest of the party, being not more than forty-three years old, and in virtue of her youth was occasionally given to giggling and blushing in an innocent and playful manner.
 
'Never mind his good looks, Martha,' said one of the ladies, in an admonitory tone, 'tell Mrs. Gannup what you saw him do.'
 
'Always the same,' said Miss M'Craw. 'He always leaves the groom at some distance behind him, and rides up by the side of the Claxtons' hedge, and sits on his horse staring over into their garden. If you wind up that old music-stool to the top of its screw,' continued the innocent damsel, 'and put it into that corner of the window, and move the bird-cage, by climbing on to it you can see a bit of the Claxtons' lawn; and each time that I have seen this gentleman coming up the hill I have put the stool like that and looked out. Twice Mrs. Claxton was on the lawn, but directly she saw the man staring at her she ran into the house.'
 
'Who,' said Mrs. Gannup, 'who is she that she should not be looked at as well as anybody else? I hate such mock modesty!'
 
'And what I was saying before you came in, dear,' cried Miss M'Craw, who fully agreed with the sentiment just enunciated, 'was, that this being Wednesday, perhaps he will come again to-day. I fixed our little meeting for to-night, in order that you might all be here to see him in case he should come. It is strange, to say the least of it, that a young man should come for three weeks running and stare in at a garden belonging to people whom he does not know, at least, whom I suppose he does not know, for he has never made an attempt to go to the front gate to be let in.'
 
'There is something about these Claxtons--' said Mrs. Gannup.
 
And the worthy lady was not permitted to finish her sentence, for Miss M'Craw, springing up from her chair, cried, 'There he is again, I declare, and punctual to the time I told you. Now bring the music-stool, quick!'
 
Her visitors crowded round the window, and saw a tall man with a long fair beard ride up to the hedge of the Claxtons' garden, as had been described by Miss M'Craw, rein-in his horse, and stand up in his stirrups to look over the hedge.
 
So far the programme had been carried out exactly, to the intense delight of the on-lookers.
 
'Tell us,' cried Mrs. Gannup to Miss M'Craw, who was mounted on a music-stool, 'tell us, is she in the garden?'
 
'She! No,' cried Miss M'Craw, from her coigne of vantage, 'she is not, but he is. Mr. Claxton is walking up and down the lawn with his hands behind his back, and directly the man on horseback saw him he ducked down. See, he is off already!'
 
And as she spoke the rider turned his horse's head, and, followed by his groom, cantered slowly away.
 
When he had gone for about a mile he reduced his horse's pace to a walk, and sitting back in his saddle, indulged in a low, noiseless, chuckling laugh.
 
'It was John Calverley; no doubt about that,' he said to himself. 'I thought it was he a fortnight ago, but this time I am sure of it. Fancy that sedate old fellow, so highly thought of in the City, one of the pillars of British commerce, as they call him, spending his spare time in that pretty box with that lovely creature. From the glance I had of her at the window just now she seems as bewitching as ever. What a life for her, to be relegated to the society of an old fogey like that!--old enough to be her father, at the very least, and knowing nothing except about subjects in which she can scarcely be expected to take much interest. Not much even of that society, I should say; for old Calverley still continues to live with his wife in Walpole-street, and can only come out here occasionally, of course. What a dull time she must have of it, this pretty bird! how she must long for some companionship! for instance, that of a man more of her own age, who has travelled, and who knows the world, and can amuse her, and treat her as she ought to be treated.'
 
Thus communing with himself, the good-looking, light-bearded gentleman rode on towards London, crossing the top of Hampstead Heath, and making his way by a narrow path, little frequented, but apparently well known to him, into the Finchley-road. There, close by the Swiss Cottage, he was joined by another equestrian; a gentleman equally well mounted and almost equally good-looking. This gentleman stared very much as he saw the first-named rider pass by the end of the side-road up which he was passing, and sticking spurs into his horse quickly came up with him.
 
'My dear Wetter,' he cried, after they had exchanged salutations, 'what an extraordinary fellow you are! You have still got the chestnut thoroughbred, I see; do you continue to like him?'
 
'I still have the chestnut thoroughbred, and I continue to like him,' said Mr. Wetter with a smile, 'though why I am an extraordinary fellow for that I am at a loss to perceive.'
 
'Not for that, of course,' said his friend; 'that was merely said par parenthèse. You are an extraordinary fellow because one never sees you in the Park, or in any place of that sort, and because one finds you riding alone here, evidently on your way back from some outlandish place in the north-west. After grinding away in the City, and wearying your brain, as you must do, with your enormous business, one would think you would like a little relaxation.'
 
'It is precisely because I do grind away all the day in the City, I do weary my brain, I do want a little relaxation, that you do not see me in the Park, where I should have to ride up and down that ghastly Row, and talk nonsense to the fribbles and the fools I meet there. It is precisely in search of the relaxation you speak of that I ride out to the north-west or the south-east; it little matters to me where, so long as I can find fresh air and green trees, and the absence of my fellow-creatures.'
 
'You are polite, by Jove,' said his friend with a laugh, 'considering that I have just joined you.'
 
'O, I don't mean you, Lingard,' said Mr. Wetter; 'my ride is over for the day. When I reach the turnpike yonder, I look upon myself as within the confines of civilisation, and behave myself accordingly.'
 
'You certainly are a very extraordinary fellow,' said Mr. Lingard, who was one of those gushing creatures whom nothing could silence. 'They were talking of you only yesterday at the Darnley Club.'
 
'Indeed,' said Wetter, without betraying the slightest interest in his manner; 'and what were they pleased to say of me?'
 
'They were saying what a wonderful fellow you were, considering that whereas, three years ago, you had scarcely been heard of in London, you had made such a fortune and held such a leading position.'
 
'Yes,' said Mr. Wetter, with a pleasant smile; 'they said that, did they?'
 
'What Mr. Sleiner wondered was, that you did not get yourself made a baronet, like those other fellows.'
 
'Ah, that was Sleiner,' said Mr. Wetter, still with his smile.
 
'And Mopkinson said you would not care about that. He believed you intended to marry a woman of high family.'
 
'Ah, that was Mopkinson,' said Mr. Wetter, still smiling.
 
'Podlinbury said marriage was not in your way at all, and then they all laughed.'
 
'Did Podlinbury say that?' said Mr. Wetter, grinning from ear to ear. 'Now I really cannot conceive what should have made them all laugh.'
 
'I cannot imagine myself,' said Mr. Lingard, 'and I told them so, and then they all roared worse than ever.'
 
'Let me make amends for your having been laughed at on my account, my dear Lingard, by asking you to dinner. Come and dine with me at the club to-night. We shall have time to wash our hands and to get to table by half-past eight.'
 
'No, not to-night, thanks,' said Mr. Lingard; 'I am engaged, and I must push on, by the way, for I dine at eight. Shall we meet on Friday?'
 
'Friday! Where?'
 
'At the house of one of your City magnates. You know him, I suppose--Mr. Calverley?'
 
'Mr. Calverley! Is there a dinner at his house in Great Walpole-street on Friday?'
 
'O, yes,' said Mr. Lingard; 'a grand spread, I should imagine. A case of fortnight's invitation. Sorry you are not going; thought I should be sure to meet you there. Ta, ta!' And the young man kissed his hand in adieu and cantered away.
 
'That's a delightful young creature,' said Mr. Wetter to himself, as he watched his friend's departing figure. 'If there were only a few more like him in the City, it would not take me long to complete that fortune which I am piling together. With what frankness and innocence he repeats all that is said about one by one's friends; and how refreshingly he confides to one everything concerning himself, even to his dinner-engagements. By the way, that reminds me of that dinner-party at Calverley's on Friday. At that dinner-party Calverley will necessarily be present. Friday would not be a bad day, therefore, for me to ride up again to Hendon, make some excuse for calling at the nest, and see if I can manage to get a sight of the bird. I will make a mem. to that effect when I go in.'
 
The world was right in declaring Mr. Wetter to be a very wealthy man. He was the second partner in, and English representative of, the great Vienna banking-house of Wetter and Stutterheim, with branches in Paris, London, Frankfort, and New York. He came to London quite unknown, save to a few of his countrymen; but he was speedily spoken of as a man of immense capacity, and as a financier of the first rank. Perfectly steady-going people were Wetter and Stutterheim, doing a straight-forward banking and agency business, with its quintupled operations, based upon the principles laid down by the old house of Krebs et Cie. to whom they had succeeded. Wetter and Stutterheim smiled with scorn at the wonderful schemes which were daily brought forward upon the Stock Exchange, and at the status and supposed success of the persons by whom they were 'promoted' and 'financiered.' They knew well enough how those matters were worked, and knew, too, what was generally the fate of those involved in them. Wetter and Stutterheim were quite content with the state of their balance on the thirty-first of every December, and content with the status which they occupied in the eyes of the chief merchant princes of the various cities where their banking business was carried on.
 
Mr. Stutterheim managed the parent house in Vienna--the parent house, however, did not do a fourth of the business transacted by its London offspring--and only came to London once or twice a year. He was an elderly man, steady and responsible, but did not combine dash and energy with his more solid business qualifications as did Mr. Henrich Wetter, the head of the London house.
 
Mr. Wetter lived in pleasant rooms in South Audley-street; that is to say, he slept in them, and drank a hurried cup of coffee there in the morning when he did not breakfast at his club; but in general he followed the continental fashion, and took his first meal at about twelve o'clock in his private room at the bank, after he had gone through, and given his instructions upon, the morning's letters. He returned to his lodging to dress for dinner; he dressed always punctiliously, whether he dined in society or by himself at the club, and was seldom out of his bed after midnight. A man whom no one could accuse of any positive excess, who lived strictly within his means, and who was never seen in any disreputable company; yet a man at the mention of whose name in certain society there went round winks and shoulder-shrugs, and men hinted 'that they could, and if they would,' &amp;c. Henrich Wetter did not pay much attention to these hints, or rather to the men from whom they came. They were not the style of men whose good or bad words were likely to have the smallest influence on his career; his position was far too secure to be affected by anything they might say.
 
By anything any one might say, for the matter of that. He was full of that thought as he rode home after leaving Mr. Lingard. He had played his cards well in his wildest dreams, but he had never hoped to climb to the height at which he had actually arrived. Wealth? He did not spend a fifth part of his income. His old mother had her villa at Kreuznech, where she lived with his sister Lisbett, while Ernestine was married to Domhardt, who, thanks to him and his lent capital, was doing so well as a wine-grower at Hochheim. Fritz seemed to have settled down at last, and to be establishing for himself a business as Domhardt's agent in Melbourne. There was no one else of his own blood to support. There were others who had claims on him, but those claims were allowed and provided for, and there was still more money than he knew with what to do. Position? Not much doubt about that. Men of the highest rank in the City allowed his status to be equal to their own; and as to his own house, the other partners had practically acknowledged that he was its backbone and their superior. For instance, when there was that question, a month ago, about the manner in which their New York agency was conducted, to whom did they refer but to him? If Rufus P. Clamborough had turned out a rogue, he would have had to go out, he thought, to settle the business there. Yes, to have the money and to have the position were both pleasant things. To gain them he sacrificed nearly all his life, and certainly he needed some little recreation. What a wonderful pretty girl that was at Rose Cottage, and how extraordinary that he should have discovered old John Calverley there! How lucky, too, that he should have met Lingard! The great dinner-party in Great Walpole-street was to be on Friday. On Friday, then, he would ride out by Hendon once again.
 
But Mr. Wetter did not ride out to Hendon on Friday, as he intended. On that Friday night he slept at the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, going off in the tender at 8.30 the next morning to the Cunard steamer China, lying in the Mersey, and not returning to England for nearly six months. On the evening of his meeting Mr. Lingard, on his arrival at South Audley-street, he found a telegram which had been forwarded to him from the City, informing him that Rufus P. Clamborough had by no means come out as rightly as was anticipated, and that it was imperative that some one should go out at once and look after the New York agency. Mr. Wetter was, above all things, a man of business, and he knew that that some one was himself, so he packed his portmanteau and went off. And finding an immense deal of business to be done, and life in New York city anything but disagreeable, he remained there until he had placed the affairs of Stutterheim and Wetter on a satisfactory footing, and then, and not till then, he took ship and came home.
 
Three weeks after Mr. Wetter's return to England, Miss M'Craw saw him once again in the Hendon lane. It was spring time when she had last seen him, but now it was deep autumn, and the dead leaves were whirling through the air, and being gathered into heaps by the old men employed as scavengers by the parish. Miss M'Craw was alone in her little parlour, and had no friends to share her watch. Nevertheless, she did not allow her attention to be diverted from Mr. Wetter for an instant. She saw him ride up, followed by his groom, but instead of gazing over the hedge he rode straight to the front gate, over which appeared a painted board announcing the house as to let, and referring possible inquirers to the village agent and to the auctioneers in London.
 
Miss M'Craw saw Mr. Wetter yield up his horse to his groom, dismount, ring the bell, and pass out of her sight up the garden. When he reached the door it was already opened by the servant, who was standing there, to whom he intimated his desire to see the house. The girl asked him into the dining-room, and withdrew. Five minutes afterwards the door opened, and Pauline entered the room. The sun had set about five minutes previously, and there was, but little daylight left, so little that Mr. Wetter, glancing at the new comer, thought he must have been deceived, and made a step forward, staring hard at her.
 
There was something in the movement which put Pauline on her mettle instantly.
 
'May I ask your business?' said she, in a hard, dry tone.
 
'The voice, the accent--no doubt about it now,' said Mr. Wetter to himself. Then he said aloud, 'I see this house is to let; I ask to be permitted to look over it.'
 
'The house cannot be seen without a card from the agent in the village, Mr. Bowles,' said Pauline, in her former tone. 'And I may as well remark that Mr. Bowles will not give a card to every one. He will expect a reference.'
 
'I shall be very happy to give him one,' said Mr. Wetter, with a sardonic smile. 'My name is Henrich Wetter, formerly clerk to Monsieur Krebs, the banker, of Marseilles; and I shall be happy to refer him to an old acquaintance of mine, Madame Pauline Lunelle, dame du comptoir at the Restaurant du Midi in that city.'
 
CHAPTER II.  DULY PRESENTED.
 The words of recognition uttered by Mr. Wetter filled Pauline with the utmost consternation. What! was this elegant gentleman, who stood before her with an amused smile on his handsome face, the same Henrich Wetter, the blonde and lymphatic clerk to Monsieur Krebs?
 
As she stared at him the features grew familiar to her, and she saw that he was practising no deception. Henrich Wetter! He knew all about her former life, then, and, if he chose, could, with a word, destroy the neat fabric of invention which she had so carefully raised. He could tell any one, whose interest it would be to know it, all about her position at the Restaurant du Midi, all about her marriage with Tom Durham, perhaps even some of the particulars of her life since her marriage. It would be most advisable to keep on good terms with a man of so much knowledge. So, all these thoughts having flashed instantaneously through Pauline's mind, she turned to her companion with a look in which astonishment and delight were admirably blended, and stretched out her hand in the frankest and friendliest manner.
 
'You must not be astonished at my not recognising you, Monsieur Wetter,' she said; 'it is long since we met, and in the interval you are so much changed, and, if I may say it, so much improved.'
 
Mr. Wetter smiled blandly and easily.
 
'And you, Pauline--' he said.
 
Pauline started as he pronounced the name. Her husband was the only man who had so addressed her since the old days at Marseilles, and, of course, she had not heard it since his death.
 
'And you, Pauline,' he continued, 'how well and handsome you look! How prosperous you seem!'
 
'Do I, Monsieur Wetter?' she said, with a characteristic shoulder-shrug, 'do I? It must be, then, because I have a light heart and a strong will of my own; for I have not been without my troubles, and heavy ones too. However, these are matters in which you could feel no possible interest, and with which I will not pretend to worry you.'
 
'I feel no interest in what concerns you?' said Mr. Wetter, with elevated eyebrows. 'Why, what do you imagine brought me to this house?'
 
'Information that the house was to let, and a desire to see if it would suit your purpose.'
 
'Suit my purpose?' repeated Mr. Wetter, with a half-sneering laugh. 'And what do you imagine my purpose to be, Pauline? I am a man of action and of business. It would not suit me to drone away my life in this rural solitude; my home must be in London, where my time is spent.'
 
'Perhaps you came to look at the house for a friend?' said Pauline.
 
'Wrong again,' he cried; 'my friends are like myself, men to whom this house, from its situation, would be absolutely useless. Now, what do you say if I were to tell you,' he said, leaning on the table, and bending towards her as he spoke, 'that the memory of the old days has never passed away from my mind, of the old days when Adolphe de Noailles and I ran neck and neck for the hand of the prettiest girl in Marseilles and when we were both beaten by the English escroc who took her away from us?'
 
'Monsieur Wetter,' said Pauline, holding up her hand, 'he was my husband.'
 
'You are right in saying was, Pauline; for he is dead, and you are free. You see,' he added, in amusement at the amazed expression on her face, 'I keep myself tolerably well informed as to the movements of those in whom I have at any time taken an interest.'
 
'And by your--your inquiries you learned that I was here?' she asked.
 
'No,' he replied; 'truth to tell, that was entirely accidental. I have only just returned from America, and as I was riding by here a few days ago I thought I perceived you at the window. At first I doubted the evidence of my senses, and even when I had satisfied myself; I was so completely upset that I could not attempt to come in. I went home meditating on what I had seen, and determining to come out again on the first opportunity. As I rode out to-day I was debating within myself what excuse I could possibly offer for intruding upon you without announcing myself; as I wished to ascertain whether you would recognise me, when the board at the gate, advertising the house to let, fortunately afforded me the necessary excuse; and how the rest of the little comedy was played out you are aware.'
 
Pauline looked at him earnestly for some moments, as though desirous of ascertaining whether he had correctly stated the motive by which he professed himself animated. The result of her survey seemed to be satisfactory, for she said to him:
 
'I need scarcely tell you, Monsieur Wetter, that I am much flattered by what you have said, or that I am very much pleased to see you again.'
 
'And on my part,' said he, taking her hand and, gallantly raising it to his lips, 'I need scarcely say that the pleasure is mutual. I hope I shall often be allowed to visit you in this house?'
 
'Not in this house,' said Pauline. 'You forget the board at the gate. There is no deception about that. This house is veritably to let, and we are about to leave it as soon as possible.'
 
'Why?' said Mr. Wetter, interrogatively.
 
'Why?' interrupted Pauline. 'I forgot to mention that I am not here alone, and that this is not my house. There is another lady with me.'
 
'O, indeed; another lady?' said Wetter, brightening. 'And who may she be?'
 
The change in his manner was not lost upon Pauline.
 
'She is a lady who has just lost her husband,' said she coldly. 'Her bereavement is so recent, and she feels it so acutely, that she will see no one, nor will she remain in this house where she lived with him.'
 
'Poor creature!' said Mr. Wetter, shaking his head. 'No one with any feeling would desire to intrude upon her. And will you continue to live with her when she moves to a new abode?'
 
'I shall,' said Pauline, still coldly. 'She depends upon me greatly for advice and assistance.'
 
'And that new abode will be--?' he asked insinuatingly.
 
'I cannot say at present,' she replied; 'nothing is decided. We have, indeed, scarcely had time to look out.'
 
'You will let me know when you have fixed upon a spot, will you not?' he said. 'I am going out of town for some shooting, but I shall not be more than a month away; and I should like to carry with me the thought that the renewal of an acquaintance so dear to me is not a mere temporary measure.'
 
His manner was as earnest and as gallant as before, and his eyes were as expressive as his words; but Pauline still answered him coldly: 'You shall have a line from me stating where I have pitched my tent if you will tell me where to send it.'
 
He gave her his address in South Audley-street; and as there was nothing more to be done, rose and took his leave. As he bade her adieu he once more raised her hand to his lips, and reiterated his hope of speedily hearing from her.
 
Pauline walked to the window, and looked out after him. She heard his retreating footsteps, but it was too dark to see his figure. Then, as she turned away, her face was set and rigid, and she muttered to herself; 'Connu, monsieur! connu! Though I was very nearly being taken in by your bland manner and the softly sympathetic voice in which you spoke of those old memories. If it had not been for that sly look at the corner of your eyes, which you always had, and which I recognised at once when you spoke of the subject in which you were really interested, I might have imagined that it was on my account you had taken the trouble to ride out here, that to renew your friendship with me was the one great wish of your life. It is all plain to me now. He has seen Alice, and is dying for an introduction to her. He tried, to avail himself of the circumstance of the house being to let, was baffled for the moment when he recognised me, but had sufficient mother-wit to enable him to concoct a story by which I was so nearly taken in. I, with whom all vanity ought to have died out years ago, whose knowledge of the world ought to have led me at once to suspect the hollowness of Monsieur Wetter's profession!
 
'He wants an introduction to Alice, that is it undoubtedly; and for what end? He is amazingly changed, this gar?on! He is no longer lymphatic, romantic in the highest degree, mawkish, or Teutonic; he rides on horseback, and affects the air of conquest. There is about him a smack of the gallant, of the coureur des dames. He is a man whom Alice would not like, but still it is as well that she did not see him at this particular time. He is going out of town, he said; and when he comes back we shall have moved into another house, our change of address will not be recorded in the fashionable newspapers, and, as I shall take care that it is not sent to Monsieur Wetter at South Audley-street, it is probable that he will know nothing about it. And so,' she added, drawing down the blinds as she heard Alice's footsteps on the stairs, 'bon soir, Monsieur Wetter.'
 
And for his own part, Mr. Wetter, as he rode back to London, was full of his reflections.
 
'What a wonderful thing,' he thought to himself; 'that I should have come across Pauline Lunelle in that house; and how lucky that I recognised her instantly, and was enabled, by playing upon her vanity, to put her off the scent of the real motive of my visit, and induce her to believe that I had come to see her! Let me see; all the points of the story seem to fit and dovetail together admirably. Pauline spoke of her companion as a widow--yes, that's right. I saw the notice of John Calverley's death just before I left New York. She said too, that her husband, the escroc, was dead--that also is right. I recollect reading the story of his having been drowned some time ago. Ay, and now I remember that it spoke of him, Mr. Durham, as having been in the employ of Messrs. Calverley. This would account for Pauline's presence in that house, and her intended connexion with that pretty girl. So far so good; je prend mon bien o&ugrave; je le trouve; and I think in the present instance I shall not have far to look for it. Mademoiselle Pauline Lunelle, ex-dame du comptoir, will be too much frightened at the idea of having the story of her own youth set before her friends to refuse to aid me in any way that I may wish.'
 
It was curious to note how Alice had accepted Pauline's companionship as a matter of course, and how she seemed to cling to the Frenchwoman for society in that dark period of her life. When Martin Gurwood visited her soon after her convalescence, he conducted himself, under Humphrey Statham's directions, with all the formality and authority of a duly appointed guardian, and as such Alice received him. Amongst the business matters which were discussed between them, the appointment of Pauline to her new charge naturally held a prominent place. Martin imagined that he might have had some difficulty in bringing Alice to his views; but Pauline had already made herself so useful and agreeable to the broken-hearted girl, relieving her of all trouble, and showing, without the least ostentation, that she thoroughly sympathised with her grief; that Alice was only too glad to learn that, for some time at least, her home was to be shared by a person so capable of understanding her position and ministering to her wants. And Martin Gurwood himself did not fail to notice the alteration in Madame Du Tertre's demeanour, the gentleness of her manner towards Alice, the delicacy with which she warded off any chance allusion that might have pained her, and the eagerness and anxiety she exhibited to do her service. Martin mentioned these facts to Humphrey Statham, who received the communication in the most matter-of-fact manner, and said something to the effect 'that he was glad to hear that the Frenchwoman was earning her money;' which Martin, who was essentially soft-hearted, and who surrounded everything connected with Alice with a halo of romance, thought rather a brutal speech.
 
Uncaring in most matters, assenting not languidly--for, poor child, she strove to feign an interest which she did not feel, and failed most signally in the attempt--to all that was proposed to her, Alice had yet one real anxiety, and that was to get away as quickly as possible from Rose Cottage. The place had become hateful to her; everywhere, in the house, in the garden, there was something to remind her of the kind old man who had loved her so, and whom she had lost for ever. She wanted to be rid of it all, not merely the house, but the furniture, with its haunting memories; and most fortunately there arrived one day an American gentleman, whose business compelled him to dwell in England for a few years, during which period he must be two or three times a week in London, and who was so charmed with the cottage and its contents that he took the lease of the first, and purchased the second 'right away,' as he expressed it, at the price demanded for it.
 
Then what was to be done, and where were they to go to? Alice had expressed a decided objection to the country; and it was accordingly decided that the new residence must be either in London itself, or in some immediate suburb. So advertisements in the newspapers were eagerly consulted, and likely house-agents were daily besieged by Martin Gurwood and Statham; until one day, just before the time when it was necessary that Rose Cottage should be given up, the latter gentleman brought word that he had seen what he thought would be a suitable house. It was the corner house in a new street of the old village of Chelsea, and from its side-window one had a pleasant glimpse of the river and the green fields and waving trees on the farther shore. A neat, unpretending, comfortable little house, neatly and comfortably furnished with the money derived from the sale of the contents of Rose Cottage, suited to Alice's means, where she could live peaceably, exciting less curiosity, perhaps, than in a more retired spot. From nine in the morning till five in the evening scarcely a man, save the tradespeople of the neighbourhood, were seen in the street, but there were plenty of lady-like women and children, with their nursemaids, passing to and fro, and to many of these Alice became speedily known as 'the pretty, delicate-looking lady at number nine.' All attempts at visiting were declined on the score of Mrs. Claxton's ill health, and the necessity for her maintaining perfect quietude. But Pauline had a bowing acquaintance with several of the neighbours, and was highly popular among the children.
 
In the early days of their tenancy Martin Gurwood was a daily visitor; and the intense respectability of his appearance did much to influence the neighbours in Alice's favour. On several occasions he was accompanied by Humphrey Statham; and when, after a short time, Martin had to return to his vicarage at Lullington, Mr. Statham, came up once or twice a week and took tea with the ladies, both of whom were impressed with his gentlemanly bearing, his modesty, and his practical good sense. They had no other visitors; so it was not astonishing that one evening, when their only servant was out, and Alice, feeling somewhat fatigued, was lying down in her bedroom, Pauline, seated at the window in the dusk, seeing a tall bearded gentleman making for the house, imagined him to be Humphrey Statham, and went herself to let him in. But her surprise was only equalled by her dismay when, on looking up, she found herself confronted by Henrich Wetter.
 
For an instant she stood in the doorway irresolute, but as the new-comer politely but firmly pressed into the passage, she felt constrained to ask him to walk into the parlour, and followed him there.
 
'Now really I am obliged to call this an exhibition of very bad manners, my dear Madame Durham.'
 
'For Heaven's sake!' cried Pauline, interrupting him; 'I am Madame Du Tertre!'
 
'By all means,' said Mr. Wetter pleasantly; 'my dear Madame Du Tertre, then. In the first place you failed in fulfilling your agreeable promise to send me your new address; and when, with infinite labour and pains, I have discovered it, you seem as though you were inclined to close your door against me.'
 
'It was a mistake,' murmured Pauline; 'I did not recognise you in the darkness; I took you for some one else.'
 
'Took me for some one else!' he repeated with a laugh. 'Mistook me for one of those gay gallants who besiege your door, and who is out of favour for the time!'
 
The levity of his tone grated on Pauline's ear. 'You are labouring under a mistake, Monsieur Wetter,' she said. 'We, that is to say I, have but few friends, and certainly no acquaintances of the kind you indicate.'
 
'Do you look upon me as one of those acquaintances of the kind I indicate,' said Mr. Wetter, lying lazily back in his chair and smiling placidly at her, 'and that it is for that reason you have failed in sending me your address?'
 
'It is so long since we knew anything of each other, that I should be uncertain in what category of my acquaintance to class you, Monsieur Wetter,' said Pauline, becoming desperately annoyed at his self-sufficiency and nonchalance. 'The reason that you did not receive my address was, that I had lost yours, and I did not know where to write to you.'
 
'Quite a sufficient excuse,' he said, 'and no more need be said about the matter, unless I call your attention to the fact, that despite your negligence, I have discovered you, and have brought to that discovery an amount of perseverance and skill which would--'
 
'Which would have been better employed in a worthier cause,' said Pauline, interrupting him.
 
'A worthier cause!' said Mr. Wetter. 'How could that be? There can be nothing better than the restoration of an old friendship, unless,' he added, half under his breath, 'unless it be the commencement of a new one.'
 
His tone was so eminently provoking, that despite her better reason, Pauline suffered herself to be betrayed into an expression of annoyance.
 
'It is not the restoration of an old friendship that brings you here, Monsieur Wetter,' she said, settling herself stiffly, and glaring at him. 'Your memory, of which you prate, cannot serve you very well if you take me for a fool.'
 
'My dear Mademoiselle Lunelle, Madame Durham, Madame--I beg your pardon, I have forgotten the most recent appellation--you do me a serious injustice in imagining that I take you for anything of the kind. The way in which you managed your affairs at Marseilles would have prevented my having any such ideas.'
 
'And yet you think to blind and hoodwink me by pretending that you are very glad to see me.'
 
'I am very glad to see you,' said Mr. Wetter, smiling; 'I can give you my word of honour of that.'
 
'But why--why, I ask?' said Pauline vehemently.
 
'Because I think you can be of use to me,' said Mr. Wetter, bending forward, and bringing his hand down with force upon the table. 'It is well to be explicit about that.'
 
'Of use to you,' said Pauline. 'In what way?'
 
'By introducing me to the lady who was living with you out in that country place where I last had the pleasure of seeing you, who is now living with you in this house. I have taken a fancy to her, and desire the pleasure of making her acquaintance.'
 
'Monsieur, que d'honneur!' exclaimed Pauline, with curling lip, and making him a mock obeisance. 'How flattered she ought to be at this proof of your esteem!'
 
'Don't be satirical, Mademoiselle Lunelle--it is best to stick to the name which I know once to have been really yours,' said Mr. Wetter, with a certain amount of savageness; 'don't be satirical; it does not become you, and it offends me.'
 
'Offends!' cried Pauline.
 
'Offends,' repeated Mr. Wetter. 'I have asked you to do nothing extraordinary, nothing but what any gentleman might ask of any lady.'
 
'And suppose I were to refuse--suppose I were to decide from pique, jealousy, or whatever other motive you may choose to accredit me with, that it was inexpedient for me to present you to my friend--what then?'
 
'Then,' said Mr. Wetter, with smiling lips, but with an unpleasant look in his eyes, 'I should be forced to present myself. I have made up my mind to make this lady's acquaintance, and it's a characteristic of mine, that I invariably carry out what I once undertake, and in making her acquaintance, I should have occasion to inquire how much she knew of the character and antecedents of the person who was domesticated with her.'
 
'You threaten?' cried Pauline.
 
'Everything,' said Mr. Wetter, again bringing his hand down upon the table. 'And I not merely threaten, but I execute! Your position at Marseilles, the name and social status of your husband, and the circumstances under which you married him,--all these will be news I should think to Mrs.--by the way you have not told me how the lady calls herself.'
 
While he had been speaking Pauline's head had fallen upon her breast. She raised it now but a very little as she said, 'Her name is Claxton; I will present you to her whenever you choose.'
 
'Of course you will,' said Mr. Wetter, gaily touching her hand with the back of his. 'And there is no time like the present for such a pleasurable interview. She is in the house, I suppose.'
 
'She is,' said Pauline.
 
'Very well, then; introduce me at once. By the way, it will be advisable perhaps to say that I am your cousin, or something of that sort. We are both foreigners, you know, and English people are not clever in distinguishing between Germans and French either in name or accent.'
 
Pauline bowed her head and left the room. Five minutes afterwards she returned, bringing Alice with her. Her lips trembled, and her face was deadly pale, as she said, 'My dear, permit me to present to you my cousin, Monsieur Henrich Wetter.'
 
CHAPTER III.  THINKING IT OUT.
 Mr. Henrich Wetter did not remain long in Pollington-terrace on the day of his introduction to Mrs. Claxton. He saw at once that Mrs. Claxton was delicate and out of health, and he was far too clever a man of the world to let the occasion of his first visit be remembered by her as one when she was bored or wearied. While he remained, he discussed pleasantly enough those agreeable nothings, which make up the conversation of society, in a soft mellifluous voice, and exhibited an amount of deference to both ladies.
 
On taking his leave, Mr. Wetter rather thought that he had created a favourable impression upon Alice, while Pauline thought just the contrary. But the fact was that Alice was not impressed much either one way or the other. The man was nothing to her; no man was anything to her now, or ever would be again, she thought; but she supposed he was gentlemanly, and she knew he was Madame Du Tertre's cousin, and she was grateful for the kindness which Madame Du Tertre had shown to her. So when Mr. Wetter rose to depart, Alice feebly put out her little hand to him, and expressed a hope that he would come again to see his cousin. And Mr. Wetter bowed over her hand, and much to Pauline's disgust declared he should have much pleasure in taking Mrs. Claxton at her word. His farewell to Pauline was not less ceremonious, though he could scarcely resist grinning at her when Mrs. Claxton's back was turned. And so he went his way.
 
It accorded well with Pauline's notions that immediately after Mr. Wetter's departure, Alice should complain of fatigue, and should intimate her intention of retiring into her own room; for the fact was that she herself was somewhat dazed and disturbed by the occurrences of the day, and was longing for an opportunity of being alone and thinking them out at her leisure.
 
So, as soon as she had the room to herself, Pauline reduced the light of the lamp and turned the key in the door--not that she expected any intrusion, it was merely done out of habit--and then pushing the chairs and the table aside, made a clear path for herself in front of the fire, and commenced walking up and down it steadily. Pauline Lunelle! She had not heard the name for years. What scornful emphasis that man laid on it as he pronounced it! How he had boasted of his money and position! With what dire vengeance had he threatened her if she refused to aid him in his schemes! Of what those schemes were he had given her no idea, but they were pretty nearly certain to be bad and vicious. She recollected the opinion she had had of Henrich Wetter in the old days at Marseilles, and it was not a flattering one. People considered him an eligible match, and were greatly astonished when she had refused his hand; she, a poor dame du comptoir, to give up the opportunity of an alliance with such a rising man! But she had her feeling about it then, and she had it now.
 
It was, then, as she suspected during their interview at Rose Cottage. Wetter had seen Alice, had been attracted by her beauty, and had found, as he imagined, in Pauline an instrument ready made to his hand to aid him in his purpose. That acquaintance with her past life gave him a firm hold upon her, of which he would not hesitate to avail himself. Was it necessary that she should be thus submissive, thus bound to do what she was bid, however repulsive it might be to her? There was nothing of actual guilt or shame in that past life which Monsieur Wetter could bring against her; she had been merry, light, and frivolous, as was usual with people of her class--ah, of her class--the sting was there! Would Martin Gurwood have suffered her to hold the position in that household? Would he have trusted or borne with her at all, had he known that in her early days she had been the dame du comptoir at a restaurant in a French provincial town?
 
How insultingly that man had spoken of her dead husband! Her dead husband? Yes, Tom Durham was dead! She had long since ceased to have any doubt on that point. There was no motive that she could divine for his keeping himself in concealment, and she had for some time been convinced that all he had said to her was true, and that his plan of action was genuine, but that he had been drowned in attempting to carry it out. Where was the anguish that six months ago she would have experienced in acknowledging the truth of this conviction? Why does the idea of Tom Durham's death now come to her with an actual sense of relief? Throughout her life, Pauline, however false to others, had been inexorably true to herself; and that she now feels not merely relief but pleasure in believing Tom Durham to be dead, she frankly acknowledges.
 
Whence this apparently inexplicable alteration in her ideas? She must have been fond of Tom Durham; for had she not toiled for him and suffered for his sake? How is it, then, that she could bring herself to think of his death with something more than calmness? Because she loved another man, whom to win would be life, redemption, rehabilitation; to keep whom in ignorance of the contamination of the past she would do or suffer anything! There was but one way in which that past could be learned, and that was through Wetter. He alone held the key to that mystery, and to him, therefore, must the utmost court be paid--his will must be made her law. Stay, though! If Monsieur Wetter's projects are as base as she is half inclined to suspect them, by aiding them in ever so little, even by keeping silence about her suspicions, she betrays Martin's confidence and injures some of his best feelings!
 
What a terrible dilemma for her to be placed in! In that household where she has accepted a position of trust, and is accredited by Martin as Alice's guardian. In that position it was her duty to shield the young girl in every possible way, and not even to have permitted such a person as she believed Monsieur Wetter to be to have been introduced into the house. Being herself the actual means of introducing him, had she not virtually betrayed the trust reposed in her? and yet--and yet! Let her once set this man at defiance, and he would not scruple to utter words which would have the effect of exiling her from the house, and taking from her every chance of seeing the man for whom alone in the world she had a gentle feeling. A word from Wetter would be sufficient to annihilate the fairy palace of hope which during the last few days she had been building, and to send her forth a greater outcast than ever upon the world!
 
No, that could not be expected of her; it would be too much! The glimpse of happiness which she had recently enjoyed, unsubstantial though it was--a mere figment of her own brain, a dream, a delusion--had yet so far impressed her, that she could not willingly bring herself to part with it; nor, as she felt after more mature reflection, was there any necessity for her so doing. She might safely temporise; the occasion when she would be called upon to act decisively was not imminent; the performers were only just placed en scène, and there could be no possible chance of a catastrophe for some time to come. There was very little chance that Alice Claxton, modest and retiring, filled with the memories of her 'dear old John,' to whom she was always referring, would be disposed to accept the proferred attention of such a man as Monsieur Wetter. Whether Monsieur Wetter succeeded or not with Alice would entirely depend upon himself. He could not possibly know anything of her former life, and could therefore bring no undue influence to bear in his favour; and Pauline thought, even suppose, as was most likely, that Alice repulsed him, he could not turn round upon her. She had done her best; she had given him the introduction he required; and if he did not prosper in his suit no blame could be attached to her. Matters must remain so, she thought, and she would wait the result with patience.
 
And Martin Gurwood, the man for whom alone in the world she had a gentle feeling, the man whom she loved--yes, whom she loved! She was not ashamed, but rather proud to acknowledge it to herself; the man with the shy retiring manner, the delicate appearance, the soft voice, so different from all the other men with whom her lot in life had thrown her--the very atmosphere seemed to change as she thought of him. How well she recollected her first introduction to him in the grim house in Great Walpole-street, and the distrust, almost amounting to dislike, with which she had regarded him! She had intended pitting herself against him then; she would now be only too delighted for the opportunity of showing him how faithfully she could serve him. Distrust! Ay, she remembered the suspicion she had entertained, that there was a secret on his mind which he kept hidden from the world. She thought so still. It pleased her to think so; for in her, with all her realism and practical business purpose, there was a strong dash of superstition and imagination, and that unconscious link between them, the fact that they each had something to conceal, seemed to afford her ground for hope.
 
Yes, her position towards Martin, though not quite what she might have desired, was by no means a bad one. He had had to trust her, he had had to acknowledge her intellectual superiority; he, a lonely man gradually growing accustomed to women's society. He hated it at first, but now he liked it; missed it when he was forced to absent himself: she had heard him say as much. She seated herself where Alice had previously sat, and leaned her arm upon the table, supporting her chin with her hand. Might not he, she thought, might not he come to care for her, to love her--well enough? That would be all she could expect, all she could hope--well enough! A few years ago she would have scorned the idea; even up to within the last few weeks she would not have accepted any half-hearted affection. A passionate domineering woman, with the hot southern blood running in her veins, unaccustomed, in that way at all events, to be checked or stayed, she must have had all or none. But now what a difference! Her love was now tempered by discretion, her common sense was allowed its due influence; and she was too wise, and in her inmost heart too sad, to expect a passionate attachment from the man whom she had set up as her idol. In the new-born humility which has come from this true love she will be satisfied to give that, and to take in return whatever he may have to offer her.
 
Married to Martin Gurwood, to the man whom she loved! Could such a lot possibly be in store for her? Could she dare to dream of such a haven of rest, after her life-long suffering with storms and trials? She was free now; of that there was no doubt; and he himself had acknowledged her energy and talent. The position which she then held was in the eyes of the world no doubt inferior to his--would be made more inferior if he accepted his share of the wealth which his mother had offered him. But he is not a man, unless she has read him wrongly, if he would otherwise marry her, to be deterred by social considerations; he is far beyond and above such mean and petty weaknesses. In her calm review of the position occupied by each of them, Pauline could see but one hopeless obstacle to her chance of inducing Martin Gurwood to marry her--that sole obstacle would be another affection. Another affection! Good Heaven!--Alice!
 
The suspicion went through her like a knife. Her brain seemed to reel, her arms dropped powerless on the table before her, and she sank back in the chair.
 
Alice! Let her send her thoughts back to the different occasions when she had seen Alice and Martin Gurwood together; let her dwell upon his tone and manner to the suffering girl, and the way in which she appeared to be affected by them. When did they first meet? Not until comparatively recently, their first interview being confessedly that which she, unseen by them, had watched from the narrow lane. In the room at Pollington-terrace, by the dull red light shed by the expiring embers, Pauline saw it as plainly as she had seen it in reality; the pitying expression in Martin's face on that occasion, the eyes full of sorrowful regard, the hands that sought to raise her prostrate body, but the motion of which was checked, as they were folded across his breast. He was not in love with her then. Pauline recollected making the remark to herself at the time; but since then what opportunities had they not had of meeting, how constantly they had been thrown together, and how, as proved by the anxiety he had shown, and the trouble he has taken on her behalf, his sympathy and regard for the desolate girl had deepened and increased!
 
Why, should she doubt Martin Gurwood's disinterestedness in this matter? Why should she ascribe to him certain feelings by which he may possibly never have been influenced? He was a man of large heart and kindly sympathies by nature, developed by his profession and by his constant intercourse with the weak and suffering. He would doubtless have befriended any woman in similar circumstances who might have been brought under his notice. Befriended? Yes, but not, as Pauline honestly allowed to herself, in the same way. His words would have been kind, and his purse would have been open; but in all his kindness to Alice there was a certain delicate consideration, which long before she even thought it would trouble her, Pauline had frequently remarked, and which she understood and appreciated all the better, perhaps, because she had had no experience of any such treatment in her life. That consideration spoke volumes as to the character of Martin's feelings towards Alice, and Pauline's heart sank within her as she thought of it.
 
Meanwhile she must suffer quietly, and hope for the best; that was all left for her to do. She was surprised at the calmness of her despair. In the old days her fiery jealousy of Torn Durham had leapt forward at the slightest provocation, rendering her oftentimes the laughing-stock of her husband and his ribald friends; now, when the first gathering of the suspicion crossed her mind that a man, far dearer to her than ever her husband had been, was in love with another woman, she accepted the position, not without dire suffering it is true, but with calmness and submission. It might not be the case, after all. From what little she had seen of Alice, Pauline scarcely suspected her of being the right woman to understand or appreciate Martin Gurwood. She had been accustomed to be petted and spoiled by an old man, who was her slave; she was not intended by nature to be much more than a spoilt child, a doll to be petted and played with, and the finer traits in Martin's character would be lost upon her. She was grateful to him as her benefactor, of course, but she had never exhibited any other feeling towards him, and Pauline did not think that she would allow her gratitude to have much influence over her future. Moreover--but, as Pauline knew perfectly well, little reliance was to be placed upon that--she professed herself inconsolable for her recent loss, and talked of perpetual widowhood as her only possible condition. So that Pauline thought that there were two chances, either of which would suit her--one that Alice would never marry again; the other that she might marry some one else in preference to Martin Gurwood.
 
It was growing late, and Pauline, wearied and exhausted, extinguished the lamp, and made the best of her way up the staircase in the dark. As she passed by the door of the room in which Alice slept, she thought she heard a stifled cry. She paused for an instant and listened; the cry was repeated, followed by a low moan. Alarmed at this, Pauline tried the door; it was unfastened, and yielded to her touch. Hurrying in, she found Alice sitting upright in her bed, her hair streaming over her shoulders, and an expression of terror in her face.
 
'What on earth is the matter, poor child?' cried Pauline, putting her arm round the girl, and peering into the darkness. 'What has disturbed you in your sleep?'
 
'Nothing,' said Alice, placing her hand upon her heart to still its beating; 'nothing--at least, only a foolish fancy of my own. Do not leave me,' she cried, as Pauline moved away from her.
 
'I am not going to leave you, dear, be sure of that,' said Pauline; 'I am only going to get a light in order that I may be certain where I am and what I am about. There,' she said, as, after striking a match and lighting the gas, she returned to the bed. 'Now you shall tell me what frightened you and caused you to cry out so loudly.'
 
'Nothing but a dream,' said Alice. 'Is it not ridiculous? But I could not help it, indeed I could not. I cried out involuntarily, and had no idea of what had happened until you entered the room.'
 
'And what was the dream that caused so great an effect?' asked Pauline, seating herself on the bed and taking Alice's trembling hand in hers.
 
'A very foolish one,' said Alice. 'I thought I was in the garden at Hendon, walking with dear old John and talking'--here her voice broke and the tears rolled down her face--'just as I used to talk to him, very stupidly no doubt, but he enjoyed it and so did I, and we liked it better, I think, because no one else understood it. We were crossing the lawn and going down towards the shrubbery, when a cold chilling wind seemed to blast across from the churchyard, and immediately afterwards a man rushed up--I could not see his face, for he kept it averted--and pulled John away from me and held him struggling in his arms. I could not tell now how it came about, but I found myself at the man's feet, imploring him to let John come to me. And the man told me to look up; and when I looked up John was gone, vanished, melted away! And when I called after him, the man bade me hold my peace, for that John was not what I had fancied him to be, but, on the contrary, the worst enemy I had ever had. Then the scene changed, and I was in an hospital, or some place of the sort, and long rows of white beds and sick people lying in them. And in one of them was John, so altered, so shrunken, pale, and wobegone; and when he saw me he bowed his head and lifted up his hands in supplication, and all he said was, "Forget! forget!" in such a piteous tone; and I thought he did not know me, and in my anguish I screamed out and woke. Was it not a strange dream?'
 
'It was indeed,' said Pauline meditatively, 'but all dreams are--'
 
'Stay,' cried Alice, interrupting her; 'I forgot to tell you that when I was struggling with the man who kept me away from John, I managed to look at his face, and it was the face of the gentleman who came here last night--your cousin, you know.'
 
'Ay,' said Pauline, looking at her quietly; 'there is nothing very strange in that. You see so few people, that a fresh face is apt to be photographed on your mind, and thus my unfortunate cousin was turned into a monster in your dream. Do you think you are sufficiently composed now for me to leave you?'
 
'I'd rather you would stay a little longer, if you don't mind,' said Alice, laying her hand on her friend's. 'I know I'm very foolish, but I scarcely think I could get to sleep if I were left just now.'
 
'I am not at all sure,' said Pauline gently, 'that we have been right in keeping you so much secluded as we have done hitherto, and in declining the civilities and hospitalities which have been offered to us by all the people here about. I am afraid you are getting into rather a morbid state, Alice, and that this dream of yours is a proof of it.'
 
'I cannot bear the notion of seeing any one else,' said Alice.
 
'That is another proof of the morbid state to which I was referring,' said Pauline. 'You would very soon get over that, if the ice were once broken.'
 
'But surely we see enough people. Whenever he is in town, Mr. Gurwood comes to see us.'
 
Pauline's eyes were fixed full on Alice's face as she pronounced Martin's name, but they did not discover the slightest flush on the girl's cheeks, nor was there the least alteration in her tone.
 
'True,' said Pauline; 'and Sir. Statham comes to see us now and then.'
 
'O yes,' said Alice; 'I suppose whenever he has nothing more important to do; but Mr. Statham's time is valuable, and very much filled up, I have heard Mr. Gurwood say.'
 
'But even Mr. Statham and Mr. Gurwood,' said Pauline, forcing herself to smile, seen at long intervals, 'give us scarcely sufficient intercourse with the outer world to prevent our falling into what I call a perfectly morbid state; and on the next visit paid us by either of these gentlemen, I shall lay my ideas before them, and ask for authority to enlarge our circle. Now, dear, you are dropping with sleep, and all your terror seems thoroughly subsided. So, good-night. I will leave the light burning to drive away the evil dreams.'
 
As Pauline bent over Alice, the girl threw her arms round her friend's neck, and kissing her, thanked her warmly for her attention.
 
'A strange dream indeed!' said Pauline, as she walked slowly up the staircase to her own room. 'She was told that old John, as she calls him, instead of being what she always imagined, was really her worst enemy. And the man who told her so proved to be Henrich Wetter! A very strange dream indeed!'
 
CHAPTER IV.  HUMPHREY STATHAM GROWS UNEASY.
 What has come over the ruling spirit of the offices in 'Change Alley? The partners in the great mercantile houses, whose shipbroking is there carried on, cannot understand it, and the men in the tall fluffy hats, the frock-coats, and the shepherd's plaid trousers, whom no one would suspect to be the captains of merchant vessels fully certificated, long-serviced, and ready to sail on any navigable water in the world, shrug their shoulders and mutter hoarsely to each other in the luncheon-room at Lloyd's, that 'something must be up with Mr. Statham.' The clerk who gives a maritime flavour to the office by wearing a pea-jacket, and who in default of any possible boating on the Thames or Serpentine is, during the winter, compelled to give vent to his nautical tendencies by vocal references at convivial supper-parties to his Lovely Nan, his Polly of Portsmouth, and other of the late Mr. Dibdin's creation, opines that there is a young woman in the case, and that his governor has 'got smote.' Another of the clerks, an elderly man with a wooden leg and a melancholy mind, who had more than once failed in business on his own account, began to hint in a mysterious manner that he foresaw bankruptcy impending, and that they should all have to look out for new situations before the spring. Mr. Collins, to whom all the querists addressed themselves, and at whom all the indirect hints were levelled, said nothing; he even refused to admit to the general public that there was any perceptible difference in Mr. Statham's manner. Only in conjugal confidence, as he smoked his after-supper pipe in the neatly-furnished parlour of his residence in Balaclava-buildings East, Lower Clapham-road, he confessed to Mrs. C. that the chief had somehow lost his relish for business, and that he did not think Mr. S. was the man he had been.
 
If you had asked Humphrey Statham himself if there were any real foundation for these whispered hints and innuendoes, he would have laughed in your face. The forebodings of the melancholy man as to there being a decline in the business, he would have settled at once by a reference to Mr. Collins, who would have shown that never since he had been connected with the firm had their dealings been so large, and apparently so safe. As to Mr. Collins's connubial confidences, Humphrey Statham, if he had been made aware of them, would have said that they were equally ridiculous. Perhaps it was true that he did not care so much for business, was not so constantly at his desk, or such a dead hand at a bargain as he used to be; but it was natural enough that he should begin to slack off a little. He had been an idle clog in his early days, but ever since he settled down in the City, there were few men who had worked harder than he. The ten thousand pounds originally left him by his father he had more than trebled, and his personal disbursements certainly did not amount to more than six or seven hundred a year. Why should he slave away every moment of his life? Why should he be at the beck and call of every one who wanted his advice? They paid him for it, it was true. But he wanted something else besides payment now--amongst other things a certain amount of leisure for day-dreaming.
 
But what about the suggestion thrown out by the young gentleman of nautical tendency,--the suggestion involving the idea that his principal's absence of mind was referable to his thoughts being occupied with a young woman? Day-dreaming was surely in favour of the nautical young gentleman's theory. When Humphrey Statham, after giving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, no matter who might want him, threw himself back in his chair, and burying his hands in his trousers' pockets, indulged in a long reverie, his thoughts reverted not to any business transactions in which he might have been engaged, but to the day when he first went to Rose Cottage in the assumed character of a charity agent, and to the person with whom he had the interview there. To Alice, as he saw her then for the first time, with the look of interest and anxiety in her pale wistful face, with the tears standing in her large hazel eyes, how graceful and elegant were all her movements; in how tender and womanlike a manner, regardless of her own trouble, which, though not absolutely pronounced, she felt to be impending, she sympathised with him in the presumed object of his mission, and promised him aid! Then she would rise before his mind as he had seen her since, chilled, almost numbed with sorrow, caring for nothing, taking no interest in all that was proposed to her, though always grateful and recognisant. That look of hopeless, helpless sorrow haunted Humphrey Statham's life. Could it never be banished from her pale face? Would her eyes never brighten again with joy? The sorrowful look was a tribute to one who had cruelly deceived her, who had merited her bitterest hatred for the manner in which he had treated her. A word, probably, would disperse those clouds of grief, would turn her from a weeping mourner to an outraged woman, would show her how terrible was her present position, and would probably render her wildly anxious to escape from it. But to speak that word to Alice, to acquaint her with John Calverley's crime, would be to point out to her her own degradation, to inflict upon her the sharpest wounds that brutality could devise, to uproot her faith in honesty and goodness, and to send her forth cowering before the world. The man who could do this would prove himself Alice Claxton's direst enemy; it was Humphrey Statham's hope to take rank as one of her dearest friends; and in this hope he suffered and was silent.
 
One of her dearest friends! Nothing more than that; he had never dared to hope that he should be anything more to her. She was likely to remain constant to the memory of him whom she believed to have been her husband, and no one who had her welfare at heart would attempt to shake her in that constancy. With the exception of the doctors, indeed--who were not likely to trouble themselves--there was no one capable of giving her the information so fatal to her peace of mind, save the three tried friends who were occupying themselves in watching over her. Three tried friends? Yes, he thought he might say that; for this Frenchwoman, whom he had distrusted at first, seemed to be fulfilling her self-imposed duty with strictness and singleness of purpose. Humphrey Statham was not a man likely to be imposed upon by specious assurances, unless they were carried out by corresponding acts. When Martin Gurwood had made him acquainted with Madame Du Tertre's proposal, he had agreed to their acceptance faut de mieux, but only as a temporary measure, and without any opinion of their lasting qualities. However, since Pauline's association with the Pollington-terrace household, he had carefully watched her, and in spite as it were of himself, found himself compelled to give her credit for unselfishness and devotion to Alice's cause. What might be her motive, what the guiding-string of her conduct, so long as it involved no danger to Alice, was no concern of his. Humphrey Statham was too much a man of the world to ascribe it entirely to the sense of wishing to do her duty, or the gratification of an overweening affection which she had taken for the deserted girl. He argued rather that she herself had been the victim of some treachery or some disappointment in a degree similar to that unconsciously suffered by Alice, and that hence arose her sympathy for Mrs. Claxton, which, added to a dislike of the world, had induced her to seek for the position of Alice's companion. But this idea Humphrey Statham kept to himself; as being one rather likely to frighten a man of Martin Gurwood's simplicity, and to render him distrustful of the woman who was really of very great use and assistance to them.
 
Martha Gurwood had returned to Lullington, the affairs of the parish, as he stated, demanding his presence. Mrs. Calverley had demurred to his going, objecting to being left alone. Martin had employed a curate during his absence--she said, a man sufficiently qualified to attend to the spiritual wants of the farmers and persons of that kind, of whom the parish was composed. But Martin thought otherwise. He had been away quite long enough, too long, he argued, for a proper discharge of his duties. There might have been many occasions on which the parishioners who knew him well would have come to him for assistance, while they would have been diffident in appealing in the same way to a stranger. His mother retorted, although he had not chosen to give her any explicit answer, she had made him an offer, the acceptance of which would remove him from Lullington, and then the farmers and labourers would be compelled to pocket their pride--if it could be called pride in such persons--and either seek aid from the stranger or go without. To which Martin had replied that if he were to yield up his living, his successor, from the mere fact of his position, would not be a stranger, but would be the proper person to apply to. So Martin Gurwood had gone back to Lullington, leaving his mother highly incensed at his departure; and his friend, Humphrey Statham, had no one to talk to about Mrs. Claxton's beauty, patience, and forlorn condition.
 
It was on that account that Humphrey chiefly missed Martin. There was not much else in common between the two men; indeed, they had been acquainted for years without the acquaintance ripening into intimacy. From other persons and common friends Martin Gurwood had heard of Statham's cleverness and tact. On the occasion when he wanted a friend possessing such qualities he had sought out his old acquaintance, and found that rumour had not belied him. On his part Statham had to admire Martin Gurwood's simplicity and earnestness, and having the Hendon mystery to deal with, and a certain number of complications to steer through, the alliance between them was close and firm; but it had Alice Claxton and her welfare for its basis and its mainspring, and nothing more. Not that Humphrey Statham wanted anything more; he would have liked Martin Gurwood, however the connection with him had been brought about; but associated as it was with Alice, this most recent friendship had a most appreciable value in his eyes.
 
Martin was gone, and there was no longer any one to whom Humphrey Statham could indulge in confidential converse; so he took to reveries and day-dreaming, and thus gave rise to all the odd talk and speculation about him which was rife in the City. He had settled with Martin before he left, however, that he should go up, for a time at least, twice or thrice a week, perhaps, to Pollington-terrace to see how Mrs. Claxton was getting on, and write fully and candidly to Martin his impressions of what he saw; and for a time nothing could be pleasanter reading to one interested in the success of the new establishment than these letters. Alice seemed gradually to be gaining health and strength; and if it could not be said that her spirits were much improved, certainly in that way she had suffered no relapse. Madame Du Tertre had come out infinitely more favourably than Humphrey had expected of her. She was unwearying in her devotion to her young friend, and her affectionate surveillance was just exactly what was wanted to a young woman in Alice's position. The matter of fending off neighbourly acquaintance, which they had so much dreaded, had been admirably managed by Madame Du Tertre, who had pleaded her young friend's recent bereavement and ill health as an excuse for their not entering into society; while she had rendered herself most popular by the courteous way in which she had made the announcement, by her kindness to the children, and her savoir faire in general. Martin Gurwood read all this with as great a pleasure as Humphrey Statham wrote it. All things taken into consideration, nothing could be progressing more favourably than the establishment in Pollington-terrace, built though it was, as both men knew, upon a quicksand, and liable to be engulfed at any moment.
 
These visits to Pollington-terrace were the holidays in Humphrey Statham's life, the days to be marked with a white stone, to be dwelt upon both in anticipation and recollection--days to be made much of, too, and not to be carelessly enjoyed. Humphrey Statham, since his early youth a prudent man, was not inclined to be prodigal even of such delights. Immediately after Martin's departure for the country he had been a pretty constant visitor at Pollington-terrace, for the purpose, of course, of keeping his friend properly posted up in all the movements of its denizens; but after a little he thought it better to put in an appearance less frequently, and he mortified himself accordingly. One night, after a ten days' interval, Humphrey thought he should be justified in paying his respects to the lady, and providing himself with subject-matter for another letter to-morrow. Being, as has been said, a man of worldly wisdom, it was his habit to dismiss his cab at the end of the terrace, and proceed on foot to his destination, hansom cabs being looked upon by the staid neighbourhood as skittish vehicles, generally subversive of morals. When Humphrey reached the house, he saw upon the window-blind the unmistakable shadow of a man's head. Had Martin Gurwood suddenly returned to town? No--as the thought flashed across his mind, the head turned, showing him the profile, with a hook nose, and a flowing beard, with neither of which could the Vicar of Lullington be accredited. Humphrey Statham stopped short, scarcely daring to believe his senses. An instant's reflection convinced him of his folly. What rule was there forbidding these ladies to receive their acquaintances in their own house? Who was he to be startled at the unfamiliar silhouette on a window-blind? Why should such a sight cause him to stop suddenly in his walk, and set his heart thumping wildly beneath his waistcoat? Martha, the little maid-of-all-work was, at all events, not influenced by anything that had occurred. She grinned when she saw Mr. Statham in her usual friendly manner, and introduced him into the parlour with her accustomed briskness of bearing.
 
Mrs. Claxton was there, so was Madame Du Tertre, so was the original of the silhouette on the window-blind. A tall man this, with a hooked nose, and a blonde silky beard, and an easy pleasant manner, introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin, Mr. Henrich Wetter. A deuced sight too easy a manner, thought Humphrey Statham to himself, as he quietly remarked the way in which the new-comer paid to Alice attentions, with which no fault could be found, but were unmistakably annoying to the looker-on, and to that looker-on the behaviour of the strange visitor was so ineffably, so gallingly patronising! Mr. Statham, did he catch the name rightly? Was it Mr. Humphrey Statham of Old 'Change? O, of course, then, he was well known to everybody. They were neighbours in the City. He was very pleased to make Mr. Statham's personal acquaintance.
 
'Confound his patronising airs!' thought Humphrey Statham to himself. 'Who is this German Jew--he is a German, undoubtedly, and probably a Jew--that he should vaunt himself in this manner? And how, in the name of fortune, did he find himself in this house? Madame Du Tertre's cousin, eh! This Wetter, if he be, as he probably is, of the firm of Stutterheim and Wetter, ought to have had sufficient respect for his family to have prevented his cousin from taking the position occupied by Madame Du Tertre. Bah! what nonsense was he talking now? They had all reason to be grateful that Madame Du Tertre was in that position, and she was just the woman who would keep her family in ignorance of the circumstances under which she had achieved it.'
 
Exactly as he thought? The subsequent conversation showed him how wrong he had been. It turned accidentally enough upon the number of foreigners domesticated in England, a country where, as Mr. Wetter remarked, one would have thought they would have experienced more difficulty in making themselves at home than in almost any other.
 
'Not that,' he said pleasantly--'not that I have any reason to complain; but I am now a naturalised Englishman, and all my hopes and wishes--mere business hopes and wishes--alas, Mrs. Claxton, I am a solitary man, and have no other matters of interest--are centred in this country. It was here, though I confess with astonishment, that I found my cousin, Madame Du Tertre, a permanent resident.'
 
'You were not aware then, Monsieur Wetter,' said Statham, finding himself addressed, 'that your cousin was in England?'
 
'Family differences, common to all nations, had unfortunately separated us, and for some years I had not heard of Pau--Palmyre's movements.'
 
'You can easily understand, Mr. Statham,' said Pauline, speaking between her set teeth, 'that as my cousin's social position was superior to mine, I was averse to bringing myself under his notice.'
 
'We will say nothing about that,' said Mr. Wetter, with his pleasant smile. 'I think Mr. Statham will agree with me, that the social position which brings about a constant intercourse with Mrs. Claxton is one which any member of our sex would, to say the least of it, be proud.'
 
Humphrey Statham glanced round the circle as these words were uttered. Alice looked uncomfortable; Madame Du Tertre, savage and defiant; Mr. Wetter bland and self-possessed. There was silence for a few minutes. Then Pauline said: 'You have been a stranger for some time, Mr. Statham; we had been wondering what had become of you.'
 
'I am delighted to think that the void caused by my absence has been so agreeably filled,' said Humphrey Statham, with a bow towards Mr. Wetter. The next minute he cursed his folly for having made the speech, seeing by Wetter's look that he had thoroughly appreciated its origin.
 
'The regret of your absence indicated by Madame Du Tertre I fully share,' he said, with a polite smile. 'It is my great loss that I have not met you before in this charming society. At this dull season of the year, when every one is out of town, I need scarcely say what a godsend it has been to me to have been permitted to pass an evening occasionally with two such ladies; and the knowledge that I might have had the chance of an introduction to Mr. Humphrey Statham would have been, had it been needed, an additional inducement to drag me from my dreary solitude.'
 
That was an uncomfortable evening for all persons present. Even to Alice--dull, distrait, and occupied with her own sorrow--there was an evident incongruity in the meeting of the two men. Pauline was furious, partly at Wetter's cool treatment of her, partly at the idea that Statham had cross-questioned her as to why she had permitted the intimacy with Wetter to arise. Wetter himself was annoyed at Statham's presence on the scene, while Humphrey Statham went away sorry and sick at heart at all he had seen and heard. The old stories concerning Wetter which floated about society had reached his ears, and the recollection of them rushed upon him as he sat in the cab on his homeward drive. 'How had this man managed to get a footing in Alice's house; a footing he had evidently obtained, for he spoke of frequent visits there, and his manner was that of an habitué of the house? He was introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin; but if that were so, that fact, instead of inspiring confidence in him, was simply sufficient to create distrust of Madame Du Tertre. He was the last man with whom any woman, young and inexperienced, more especially any woman in Alice Claxton's position, should be brought in contact.'
 
What was best to be done? For an answer to this question Humphrey Statham racked his brain that night. In any case he must write a full account of what he had seen, and of the inference he had drawn therefrom to Martin Gurwood. Martin may not be able to give him any advice, but it was due to him to let him know what had occurred. He, in his simplicity, may see nothing in it; but at all events he must never be able to plead that he was unadvised and unwarned. So before retiring to his rest that night, Humphrey Statham sat down and wrote to his friend a full account of his visit, with a candid statement of the fears and reflections which the presence of such a man as Mr. Wetter in Alice Claxton's household had aroused in him.
 
'To you,' he said--'to you who have nothing in your life to repair, all this may seem very strained; but I, who have passé par-là, and have failed to save one whom I might have saved, know what a sting a failure may come to mean for all the days of a man's life.'
 
'Nothing in my life to repair!' cried Martin Gurwood, after he had read the letter, clasping his hands above his head. 'My God, if there were but any place for repentance, any possibility of reparation!'
 
CHAPTER V.  MARTIN GURWOOD'S RECKONING WITH HIMSELF.
 It was full time that Martin Gurwood returned to Lullington, for his parishioners had begun to grow impatient at his absence. Although, as we have already shown, the Vicar could not be called popular amongst them, having no tastes in common with theirs and rather aweing them with his dignified reserve, the good people of Lullington had become accustomed to their parson's ways, and were disposed t-o overlook what they thought the oddity of his manners in consideration of his bountiful kindness and the strict fidelity with which he discharged the duties of his office. He was not one of their own sort; he was not a 'good fellow;' there was nothing at all free-and-easy about him; no jokes were cracked before him; no harvest-home suppers, no Christmas merry-makings found him among the assembled company. But the farmers, if they did not like their Vicar, respected him most thoroughly, and thought it something to have amongst them a man on whose advice on all spiritual matters (and in all worldly matters, few indeed though they be, in which honour and honesty are alone concerned) they could fully and firmly rely. So that when Martin Gurwood, on his mother's invitation, went up to London in the autumn of the year, intending to stop there but a very few weeks, the churchwardens and such others of his parishioners as he deigned to take so far into his confidence, were sincere in expressing their wishes for his speedy return.
 
But if the inhabitants of Lullington were sorry for their pastor's departure at the time of his leaving them, much more bitterly did they regret it after they had had a little experience of his locum tenens. The gentleman who had temporarily undertaken the spiritual care of the Lullingtonians was a man of birth and ability, an old college friend of Martin Gurwood, and emphatically a scholar and a gentleman. He had married when very young, and had a large family; he was miserably poor, and it was principally with the view of helping him that Martin had requested him to fill his place during his absence. Mr. Dill was only too glad to find some place which he could occupy rent-free, and where he had a better chance of being able to work undisturbed by the racket of his children than in the noisy lodging in town. So he moved all his family by the third-class train, and in less than an hour after their arrival the boys were playing hockey on the lawn, the girls were swinging in the orchard, Mrs. Dill was in her usual state of uncertainty as to where she had packed away any of the 'things,' and Mr. Dill, inked up to the eyebrows and attired in a ragged grey duffel dressing-gown, was seated in Martin Gurwood's arm-chair hard at work at his Greek play.
 
Although not much given to cultivating politeness, the Lullington farmers, out of respect for Martin Gurwood, thought it advisable to tender a welcome to their Vicar's representative, and appointed two of their number to carry out the determination. The deputation did not succeed in obtaining admittance; Mr. Dill's old servant, a kind of female Caleb Balderstone, meeting them in the hall and declaring her master to be 'at work'--a condition in which e was never to be interrupted. The deputation retired in dudgeon, and that evening at the Dun Cow described their reception amidst the sympathising groans of their assembled friends. It was unanimously decided that when Mr. Dill called upon any of them he should be accommodated with that species of outspoken candour which was known in those parts as 'a piece of their mind.' It is impossible to say what effect this intended frankness would have had upon the temporary occupant of the Lullington pulpit, inasmuch as that during his whole time of residence Mr. Dill never called on one of the parishioners. Many of them never saw him except on Sundays; others caught glimpses of him, a small homely-looking man, striding about the garden dressed in the before-mentioned ragged morning-gown, very short pepper-and-salt trousers, white socks not too clean, and low shoes, gazing now on to the ground, now into the skies, muttering to himself; and apparently enforcing his arguments with extended forefinger, but so entranced and enrapt in his cogitation as to be conscious of nothing passing around him, or to gaze placidly into the broad countenances of Hodge or Giles staring at him over the hedge, without the least notion that they were there. On Sundays, however, it was a very different matter. Then Mr. Dill was anything but preoccupied. He gave himself up entirely and earnestly to the duty of addressing his congregation; but he addressed them with such ferocity, and the doctrine which he preached was so stern and uncompromising--so different from anything that they had been accustomed to hear from the gentle lips of Martin Gurwood--that the congregation, for the time struck rigid with awe and dismay, no sooner found themselves outside the porch than they gathered into a knot in the churchyard and determined on writing off at once to their Vicar to request him to remove his substitute.
 
The letter, in the form of a round-robin, was duly signed and dispatched, and produced a reply from Martin, counselling moderation, and promising the exertion of his influence with Mr. Dill. That influence had a somewhat salutary effect, and on the next Sunday the discourse was incomprehensible instead of denunciatory in its tone. But there was no sympathy between Mr. Dill and those with whom his lot was cast, and spiritual matters in Lullington had come to a very low ebb indeed when Martin Gurwood returned to his parishioners. Then they revived at once. The Vicar's arrival was hailed with the greatest delight; he was greeted with a cordiality which he had never before experienced, and, after the celebration of service on the ensuing Sunday, there was quite a demonstration of affection towards him on the part of the warm-hearted, if somewhat narrow-minded, people, amongst whom he had not laboured in vain.
 
But when the gloss of renewed confidence and regard began to wear off, it was noticed among the farmers that the Vicar's reserve, which had been the original stumbling block to his popularity with his parishioners, had, if anything, rather grown than decreased since his visit to London. Martin Gurwood did his duty regular as heretofore; attended schools, visited the sick, was always accessible when wanted; but he seemed more than ever anxious to escape to his solitude; the services of the Irish mare were brought into constant requisition, and she was ridden harder than ever. All this was not lost upon the observant eye of Farmer Barford.
 
'It's pride, that's what it is, my boy,' said the old man to his son; 'it was so when parson first came down here, and though he got the better of it, it is so again now. It's after having been up to London, and seeing the ways, and wickedness, and goings-on of the grand folks that leaves the sting of envy behind, mebbe; and he knows it's not right, and flies from the temptation back to these quiet parts; and then the thought of what he has seen, and what he has to give up, rankles and galls him sorely.'
 
Farmer Barford was by no means strictly correct in his impression. There was a temptation in London for Martin Gurwood indeed, but it was not of the kind which the worthy old churchwarden imagined; and though the Vicar devoted the greater portion of his thoughts to it, it had not, at first at least, the effect of goading or harassing him in any way. Indeed, instead of attempting to expel the subject from his mind, he loved to brood and ponder over it, turning it hither and thither, dwelling upon it in its every phase, and parting from it to enter once more upon the work-a-day duties of the world with the greatest reluctance.
 
Yes, however much he had attempted to deceive himself when in Alice's presence, to tell himself that the interest he felt in her merely arose from pity for the position in which, by a sad combination of circumstances, she had been placed, Martin Gurwood no sooner found himself in the peaceful retreat of his own home, no longer surrounded by the feverish excitement of London, no longer compelled to be constantly on his guard lest he should betray the Claxton mystery to his mother, lest even he should betray to his friend Statham the secret of his heart, than he acknowledged to himself that he loved Alice. Loved her with depth and intensity such as no one would have accredited him with; loved her with a power of love such as he had never dreamed of possessing, and which astonished him by its force and earnestness. He, the man of saintly reputation, loved with his whole heart this woman, whose name and fame--innocent, and even ignorant of it as she was--were tarnished in the eyes of the world, and quite humbly put to himself the question if he could win her. In the silent watches of the night, or when riding far away from home, he would bring his horse to a stand-still on wind-swept common or barren moorland, and ask himself if he dared--having reference to his own past life--to hope for such happiness. Surely there could be little to cause trouble or anxiety to such a man? he, if any one, could afford to stand the scrutiny of the world, could ignore or laugh at what the world might say respecting his choice of a wife! And what could the world say? The secrecy which had been maintained about the whole matter had been perfect, so perfect as to make him easy about the fact that the dead man whom Alice had believed to be her husband was his stepfather. No one will ever know that but Statham, who is to be trusted, and--and Madame Du Tertre. He had forgotten her, and somehow, at the thought of her his heart turned chill within him. She could be relied upon, however, and Alice would never be troubled by any one or anything more when once he had the right to protect her.
 
To protect her, to watch over and tend her! To listen to the outpourings of her mind, simple and innocent as those of any village girl, to mould her soft nature and note the growth and development under his tuition of the common sense and right feeling which were her undoubted natural gifts. To solace the dead dull level of his daily life with her sweet companionship; to listen, as he had never hoped to listen, to words of love addressed to him--to him whose celibate life had been so long uncheered by fond look or word of affection! Could it be possible that this girl, of whom, as he recollected with something like dismay, he had at first conceived so distorted an idea, of whom he had spoken with so much harshness, and to whom he had so grudgingly extended the common Christian charity due from him in his position to any fellow-creature however erring;--could she, by the mysterious dispensation of Providence, be the one woman reserved as his haven of rest from the buffets of the world, as the hope and comfort of his declining days? Could such a blessing come to him? The whisper of his fate within him seemed to answer, 'No!'
 
And yet why should such happiness be denied him? However lonely had been his own life, there were few men who had greater opportunities of studying the pleasures of domesticity; fewer still more calculated to enjoy the calm blessings of the married state, all-sufficient, all-engrossing in themselves. And Alice, what response could she make to this affection? She was surely heart-whole so far as the present was concerned; she loved no other man; her affection, such as it was, was buried in the grave. Such as it was! Yes, the phrase was harsh-sounding, but true. Communing with himself, Martin Gurwood came to the conclusion that Alice during her life long had never known what it was really to love. There could be no doubt, from all he had heard, from all he had seen, that she had been devoted to John Calverley, but it was the devotion of a young girl to a man many years her senior--to a man with whom their disparity of years prevented her having much in common. The feeling which she had entertained for John Calverley was respect, gratitude, affection if you will, but it was not love. Even if it had been, even if those philosophers, according to whose dicta the first impression made upon a woman's heart by a man, no matter of what age or position, remains for ever branded and ineffaceable, were right--if Alice had been devoted to John Calverley in a sense other than that which he felt inclined to believe--Martin Gurwood acknowledged that he would be only too glad to take her as she was. He would accept with infinite thankfulness such a love as she could give him, and perhaps it would be better so. The dangerous passion which might have been, he would not ask for, he would not dream of. A quiet trusting love, such as her gentle nature could feel so truly, could give so freely, would amply satisfy him; and notwithstanding the never-ceasing whisper of his fate, he inclined to hope that he eventually might obtain it.
 
This hope, not arrived at until after many days' anxious self-communing, brought with it a different train of thought--a better train of mind. He was no longer inclined to be solitary now; he took a pleasure in going among his parishioners; in chatting with the old dames and young lasses; in listening to the farmers, and discussing future plans with them. That was to be the scene of his future labours; that was to be the place where his life with Alice would be passed. He pictured her to himself dispensing her charities, aiding him in his work, proving herself, as she was certain to do, kind, patient, active, exactly fitted for a parson's wife. Far removed from London and its temptations, out of the reach of any who might chance to know her previous history, worshipped and protected by him; the benefactress of the poor and sick; the kindly friend of all; her life at Lullington would be as it ought to have been from the first. And his life? It was almost too much happiness to speculate upon it. With the new hope came renewed health, fresh brightness, unaccustomed geniality. His village friends had never before seen their Vicar so radiantly happy; and farmer Barford bade his son Bill remark that all the direful effects of the visit to London had passed away, and that the Lullington air and the return to his congregation had made their parson a man again.
 
This happy frame of mind was, however, not destined to last long. One bright winter's morning, when Martin Gurwood was walking briskly up and down the long gravel path leading to the garden-gate, now and then diverging for a moment to speak to the old gardener, who was pottering away in the conservatory, and who had as yet scarcely got over his grief for the damage done to his favourite shrubs by Mr. Dill's mischievous children, the heavily-laden village postman saluted the Vicar, and handed him two letters and his weekly copy of the Guardian. There was a time when Martin, in his eagerness to plunge into his journal, would have laid the letters aside for a more favourable opportunity, but now the postman had become a person of the greatest interest to him. On several occasions he had received a letter from Alice--quietly, simply, and naturally written--describing the domestic events of her daily life, and always speaking gratefully of his kindness towards her. This morning, however, there was nothing from Alice; one of the letters was written in his mother's narrow-cramped characters; the other in the bold flowing hand of Humphrey Statham.
 
Martin now never saw his mother's writing without a certain nervous apprehension. However cleverly their precautions had been taken, there was always the chance of Mrs. Calverley's discovering the story of the Claxton mystery, and her son never opened one of her letters without the dread of learning that that discovery had been made. The perusal of the first lines, however, reassured him on that point, though the letter on the whole was not especially gratifying. 
Thus it ran:
 
 
 
'Great Walpole-street, Wednesday.
 
 
'MY DEAR MARTIN,--Although I have been gifted with a singularly patient disposition, with the power of enduring a large amount of weariness and suffering without complaint, yet as a worm will turn, so do I at length lift up my voice to protest against my son's treatment of me. There are not, I imagine, many mothers in this world who have made such sacrifices for their offspring as I have for you, Martin; there are certainly very few sons who have received such an offer from their parents as that made by me to you when last you were in London, and yet the treatment which I receive at your hands is in exact conformity with that which has been my lot during my ill-fated life. My long-suffering has been overlooked, my kindness unappreciated, my actions misunderstood.
 
'Martin, are you, or are you not, going to take advantage of the offer which I made you to take your position in my establishment, give up your country parish, and become a shining light in the metropolis? One would have thought such an opportunity, combining as it would an admirable position in society, not vain and frivolous, but solid and respectable and eminently fitted for a clergyman, with the command of wealth, which would have placed you entirely at your ease, would have been such a one as you would not have hesitated to avail yourself of; and yet weeks, I may say months, have passed since I first broached the subject to you, and I have as yet received no definite reply. I must ask you to let me hear from you at once, Martin, upon this point. I always thought the late Mr. Calverley the most dilatory of men, and I do not wish to see his bad example imitated by my own flesh and blood.
 
'I suppose that, independently of other considerations, the son of any other woman would have thought of his mother's loneliness, and done his best to console her even under much less agreeable circumstances; but I am fated I know, and I do not repine. One thing, however, I am determined on, and that is, I will not bear this solitude any longer; I must have a companion of some kind; and upon your answer will depend what steps I shall take. By the way, talking of companions, Madame Du Tertre has called here once or twice lately. She seems very comfortable in her new place, and talked a great deal about you. But I have no fear; my son will always know his proper position in society. Write to me at once, Martin; and believe me
 
'Your affectionate mother,
 
'JANE CALVERLEY.'
 
A faint smile played over Martin's lips as he perused two or three portions of this letter, and when he came to its conclusion he laid it aside with a shrug of the shoulder.
 
'Poor mother,' he muttered, 'she is right so far. I certainly ought to have given her an answer upon that matter long since. I will write to her to-night. Now let's see what Statham has to say.'
 
'The letter from Statham was that described in a previous chapter. Martin's exclamation on reading it has been already recorded. After a little time he placed both letters in his pocket, clasped his hands behind him, and walked up and down the gravel path.
 
'I must go to London at once,' he said. 'I will answer this letter in person. Statham would not have written in this way if he had not imagined that there were some danger. This man must be paying Alice no ordinary attention if Humphrey's suspicions are excited. I will go to London at once, and take the opportunity of seeing my mother at the same time.'
 
The next day Martin Gurwood presented himself in 'Change-alley, and was told by Mr. Collins that Mr. Statham was in, and would see him.
 
CHAPTER VI.  AN EXPLOSION.
 In what he called his dreary solitude in South Audley-street (the landlord being of a different opinion, who was accustomed to mention it as elegant quarters for a nobleman or private gentleman, and to charge three hundred a year for the accommodation), Mr. Henrich Wetter was walking to and fro, just as Martin Gurwood, tired out by his night's journey, was beginning to open his eyes and to realise the fact that he was in the Great Northern Hotel. Now sipping his coffee, now nibbling at his dry toast, while all the time achieving his toilet, Mr. Wetter communed with himself. His thoughts were of a pleasant character no doubt, for there was a smile upon his face, and he occasionally suspended his operations both of breakfasting and dressing, in order to rub his hands softly together in the enjoyment of some exquisite sly joke.
 
'I think so,' he said, pausing in his walk, leaning his elbows on the velvet mantelpiece of the sitting-room, and regarding himself approvingly in the looking-glass; 'I think the time has come for me to bring this little affair to a crisis; dalliance is very delightful for boys; the bashful glances, the sidelong looks, the tremulous hand-clasps, and all that sort of thing, are very charming in one's youthful days, but as one advances in life one finds that procrastination in such affairs is a grand mistake; either it is to be, or it is not to be; and it is advisable to know one's fate, to "put it to the touch, and win or lose it all," as the poet says, as speedily as possible. I rather think it is to be in this instance. The young lady, who chooses to pass herself off as Mrs. Claxton, is remarkably quiet and demure; I should almost be inclined to characterise her as one of those English bread-and-butter misses, if I had not been acquainted with her antecedents. "Yes," and "No, thank you," and "O, indeed!"--that is about the average style of her conversation; no apparent appreciation of anything spiritual; no smart reply; no oeillade; nothing piquante or provocative about her; compared to a Frenchwoman or a New-York belle, she is positively insipid; and yet she has fascinated me in a way that is quite inexplicable to myself. It is not her beauty; for, though she is undoubtedly pretty in her simple English style, I have known hundreds of more beautiful women. I think the charm must lie in that very want of manner of which I have just been complaining; in her modesty and quiet grace, and in the complete absence of her knowledge of her own powers of attraction; but whatever it may be, it has had an enormous effect upon me, and I believe myself to be more in love with her than I have been for many years with any woman.
 
'She likes me too I think, if one can judge by the manner of any one so thoroughly undemonstrative. She always makes me welcome when I call at the house, and accepts, passively indeed, but still accepts, such small courtesies as I have thought it right to offer her. A woman like that, accustomed to affection and attention--for I have no doubt old Calverley was very fond of her in his way--must necessarily want something to cling to, and Alice has nothing; for though she is very fond of little Bell, the child is not her own flesh and blood, and here I have the whole field clear to myself; without any fear of rivalry; for I do not count Humphrey Statham as a rival,' continued Mr. Wetter, as a contemptuous smile passed across his face, 'though he is evidently deeply smitten. I can judge that by the manner in which he scowled at me the other evening when he found me comfortably seated there, and by the awkward uncouth manners, mainly consisting of silent glaring, which an Englishman always adopts whenever he wants to ingratiate himself with a woman. No, no, Mr. Humphrey Statham, yours is not the plan to win little Alice's heart. Besides, if I find you making too much play, I could command the services of my dear cousin; I could insist that Madame Du Tertre, my old friend Mademoiselle Pauline Lunelle, should interest herself on my side, and she has evidently immense influence over the little woman.
 
'I think,' said Mr. Wetter, softly stroking his long fair beard as he surveyed himself in the glass, 'I think I will go up to Pollington-terrace about mid-day to-day; I am looking very well, and feeling bright and in excellent spirits; and as my plan is well conceived and well matured, there is no reason why I should any longer delay putting it into execution. It would be advisable, however,' said he, reflecting, 'that my dear cousin should not be in the house at the moment of my visit; I will send down a note to her begging her to come and see me in the City--a hint which I think she will not dare to disobey; and while she is making her way eastward, I will go over to Pollington-terrace.'
 
Mr. Wetter came to this determination, and to the conclusion of his dressing and his breakfast simultaneously. He then called a cab, and proceeded to the City, having the satisfaction on his way thither of passing another cab proceeding in the same direction, in the occupant of which he recognised Humphrey Statham. The two gentlemen exchanged salutations; Mr. Wetter's being bland and courteous, Mr. Statham's short and reserved; but Mr. Wetter was very much tickled at the thought of their having met on that particular day, and the smile of satisfaction never left his face until he arrived at his office. Once there, he threw himself into his business with his accustomed energy, for no thought of pleasure passed, or gratification in store, ever caused him to be the least inattentive to the main chance; foreign capitalists and English merchants, flashy promoters of fraudulent companies, and steady-going sober bank directors--men from the West-end, who, filled with the stories of fabulous fortunes made by City speculations, and believing in Henrich Wetter's widespread renown, came to him for advice and assistance; members of parliament and peers of the realm--all of these had interviews with Mr. Wetter during the two hours which he chose that day to devote to business, and all found him clear-headed, and apparently without thought for any other matter than that which each submitted to him. But when the clock on his mantelpiece pointed to the hour of one, there was scarcely any occasion for him to look to it, for the great rush of pattering feet down the court which his window overlooked, and in which a celebrated chop-house was situate, informed him that the clerks' dinner-hour had arrived; and Mr. Wetter rang his bell, and, summoning his private secretary, intimated his intention of striking work for the day. The confidential young gentleman, too well trained to say anything at this unwonted proceeding on his employer's part, found it impossible to prevent his expressing his surprise by an elevation of his eyebrows--a movement which Mr. Wetter did not fail to observe, though he made no comment on it, but he closed his desk, and washed his hands leisurely, chatting to his companion meanwhile; and then effecting his retreat by the private staircase--for it was not advisable that the clerks should see their chief's departure--he stepped into the street, and hailing a cab was driven away to Pollington-terrace.
 
Mr. Wetter's self-communings while riding in the cab were much of the same kind as those which had occupied him during his morning's toilet. He had directed his driver to take a back route and to avoid the main thoroughfare, lest he should be seen by Pauline on her journey down to the City; and there was comparatively so little traffic along the gaunt streets and in the grim old squares through which he passed, that his attention was not distracted, and the current of his thoughts but little disturbed. He would make his formal declaration that day; he had determined upon that; he should tell Alice that he loved her, that he had in vain struggled against the passion which she had inspired in his breast the first time he accidentally saw her, now some time ago, in the garden at Rose Cottage. She would listen, blush, and probably be moved to tears; she would talk about marriage, of course--that was always the way with women in her position--and he would fence lightly with the subject, giving her no positive assurance either way. Not that the idea of marrying Alice had ever entered into his mind, but that he thought it would be better to avoid the discussion, certainly to avoid the trouble of having to prove to her how impossible it would be for him to take such a step until he had established himself more firmly in her favour. There would be little difficulty in the matter, he thought, though more than if she were a woman of expensive tastes and luxurious habits. That her manner of life, simple and modest as it was, seemed to satisfy her, Mr. Wetter regarded as the most adverse element in the plan of his campaign; but she would naturally desire to be once more the mistress of a pretty house, such as she had inhabited when he first saw her, and to be freed from the companionship and supervision of Madame Du Tertre. To suggest that by accepting his offer she could be released from the enforced company of that lady was, Mr. Wetter thought, a great stroke of generalship.
 
He alighted from the cab at the corner of the terrace, according to his custom, for his tact told him that the frequent arrival of gentlemen visitors in hansom cabs was likely to scandalise Mrs. Claxton in her neighbours' eyes, and walked quietly up the street. To Mr. Wetter such expeditions were by no means rare, and if any one had told him he would have been nervous, he would have laughed in his informant's face; but, to do him justice, he felt a certain inward trepidation, and, though a cool wintry breeze was blowing, he raised his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow as he stood upon the doorstep after ringing at the bell. He asked for Madame Du Tertre at first, and his surprise and slight annoyance at learning that she was from home were admirably feigned. Then he asked for Mrs. Claxton. The servant recognised him as one of the few regular visitors to the house, as the only one, moreover, who had been in the habit of placing largess in her sooty palm, and as a nice, well-dressed, good-looking gentleman at all times. 'Mrs. Claxton was at home,' she said. 'Would he walk in?'
 
Mr. Wetter's nervous trepidation increased as he heard the street-door close behind him, and he was glad when he found himself alone in the room to which he was ushered, the servant retiring and promising to let her mistress know of his advent. Examining himself in the glass, he saw that he was paler than usual, and that his nether lip trembled.
 
'It's a deuced odd thing,' he muttered, 'I never felt like this before. I wish there was a glass of brandy handy. What can there be in this woman to upset a man like myself, so perfectly accustomed to such matters?'
 
The next moment Alice entered the room. Mr. Wetter had admired her from the first time he set eyes upon her, but thought he had never seen her looking so lovely as now, with her healthy red and white complexion set off by her black dress; her shining head with its crisp ripples of dark brown hair, and her hazel eyes, in which a deep, settled, somewhat mournful look had succeeded to the ever-flashing brightly glances of yore. There was something of an air of constraint about her as she bowed to Mr. Wetter and timidly held out her hand.
 
'You are surprised to see me, Mrs. Claxton, are you not?' said Wetter, doing his best to conquer the nervousness which still beset him--'to see me at such a time of the day, I mean. I have hitherto availed myself of the privilege of calling upon you in the evening, which, on account of my being a busy man, you were good enough to extend to me; but, having occasion to be in this neighbourhood, I took advantage of the opportunity to inquire after your health.'
 
Alice murmured something to the effect that she was much obliged to him, but Mr. Wetter's quick eye detected that she too was nervous and uncomfortable. And Mr. Wetter thought that this was not a bad chance.
 
'I am sorry,' said Alice, after a slight pause, 'that Madame Du Tertre is not within.'
 
'I am also sorry to miss my cousin,' said Mr. Wetter, 'she is always so spirituelle, so amiable. But, to tell the truth, my visit of to-day was not to her, and even had she been at home, I should have asked to see you.'
 
'To see me, Mr. Wetter! And why?'
 
'Because, Mrs. Claxton, I have something to say to you, and to you alone. A woman even of your small experience,' he continued, with the faintest sneer playing round his mouth, 'cannot fail to have observed that you have made upon me more than an ordinary impression; that even during our brief acquaintance you have inspired me with feelings such as we are not often permitted in our lives to experience.'
 
Alice was silent. As she listened to his first words, as the tone in which he spoke fell upon her ear, the scene then passing seemed to fade away, and there arose before her mind, a vision of the river-walk along the banks of the Ouse, just abreast of Bishopthorpe, where in the calm summer evening Arthur Preston had insulted her with his base proposal. Mr. Wetter augured well from this silence, and proceeded more volubly.
 
'I have known you longer than you imagine,' he said, 'and have admired you from the first instant I set eyes upon you. I was so captivated that I determined at all hazards to make your acquaintance; and when I had done so, I discovered that you were more charming than ever, that I was more hopelessly enslaved. And then came the fierce desire to win you, to take you all to myself, to hold you as my own, my only love.'
 
She was silent still, her eyes fixed on vacancy, though her lips trembled. Henrich Wetter bent forward and laid his hand upon her fingers as they twitched nervously in her lap. 'Alice,' he whispered, 'do you hear me?'
 
The touch roused her at once. 'Yes,' she said, quickly withdrawing her hand from his as though she had been stung, and rising from her chair, 'I do hear what pains and grieves me in the highest degree.'
 
'Pains and grieves you, Alice--'
 
'My name is Mrs. Claxton, and I desire you will call me by it. Yes, pains and grieves me, Mr. Wetter,' she continued in a breaking voice, and with a sudden abnegation of her dignity: 'it is cruel in you, it is not like a gentleman to speak to me in this way without the slightest encouragement, and within six months of my husband's death.'
 
Not like a gentleman! That phrase, quietly spoken as it was, and without any attempt at dramatic emphasis, cut Henrich Wetter to the soul. He was not a gentleman by birth or breeding, by nature, or even by education--and he knew it. His life was one long struggle to deceive on this point those with whom he was brought into contact. He was always suspecting that his position as gentleman was being called in question, and often he would sit with lowering brow and flaming cheek construing the most innocent observations into personal reflections on himself. Not a gentleman! For an instant he winced under the phrase, and then with his blood boiling he determined to be revenged.
 
He had his voice perfectly under his command as he leant lazily back in his chair and looked up at her.
 
'Your husband's death!' he echoed. 'Don't you think, Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton, you had better drop all that nonsense with me?'
 
Alice scarcely understood his words, but there was no mistaking the marked insolence of his tone. 'I--I don't understand you,' she said, in amazement.
 
'O, yes, you do!' said Mr. Wetter, with the same lazy air. 'I am not Mr. Statham, you know, nor one of your neighbours in the terrace here. I am a man of the world, and understand these matters. Don't talk about dead husbands to me!'
 
For an instant Alice stood petrified. For an instant a vague idea flashed across her that John might not be dead after all. She had never seen him after death. Could there by any possibility have been a mistake in his identity?
 
'I don't understand you, Mr. Wetter,' she said, in a low, hurried voice. 'Do you mean to say that my husband, Mr. Claxton, is not dead?'
 
'I mean to say,' said Wetter, 'what you know very well, that the man with whom you lived in the cottage at Hendon--I saw you there--was not your husband at all.'
 
Alice bent forward, leaning her hands upon the table, and looking at him for an instant with parted lips and heaving breast. Then she said, 'Not my husband! John Claxton not my husband!'
 
'John Claxton indeed!' cried Wetter. 'Now, how perfectly ridiculous it is in you to attempt to keep up this nonsense with me! Call the man by his right name--acknowledge him in his proper position!'
 
She bent nearer to him with her eyes fixed upon his, and said in a low voice, 'Are you mad, or am I?'
 
In an instant Wetter's intelligence showed him the real state of the case. This woman was not what he had supposed. She believed herself what she professed to be, the widow of a man named Claxton, not the mistress of dead John Calverley. What should he do? His rage was over, his reason had returned, and he was prepared to act in the way which would best serve his purpose. Should he withdraw from the position he had advanced, getting out of it as best he might, or should he point out to her how matters really stood, the fraud of which he had been the victim, involving her degradation and her shame? That would be the better plan, he thought, for the end he had in view. To destroy her worship of John Calverley's memory, to point out to her how low she had fallen, and then to offer himself as her consoler. That was the best game in his power, and he determined to play it.
 
His manner had lost all its insolence, all its familiarity, as he courteously motioned her to a seat, and said, 'Sit down, madam, and hear me. Either you are wishing to deceive me, or, as I rather believe, you have yourself been made the victim of a gross deception. If the latter be the case, you will require all your nerve to bear what I am going to tell you. The man whom you knew under the name of Claxton, and whom you believed to be your husband, was in reality John Calverley, a married man, married long since to a woman of double your age.'
 
She did not start, she did not cry. She looked hard at him, and said in a voice that seemed to force itself with difficulty through her compressed lips, 'It is not true! It is a lie!'
 
'It is true--I swear it!' cried Henrich Wetter. 'I knew Mr. Calverley in business years ago. Some months before his death I saw him walking with you in the garden at Hendon, and recognised him at once. I determined to see you again, but Mr. Calverley's death intervened, and--' He paused as he saw Alice pointing towards the door.
 
'Go,' she said, 'if you please--leave me at once, I must be left alone.'
 
Mr. Wetter rose. He had made his coup, and he knew that then at least there was nothing farther to be done. So he took up his hat, made a quiet and respectful bow, and left the room without uttering a word.
 
Then Alice flung her arms upon the table, and then burying her head between them, gave way to the violence of her grief. What wild exclamations of rage and despair are those which she utters amidst her bursts and sobbings? What reproaches, what maledictions against him now discovered to be the author of her misery?
 
The only distinguishable words are, 'O, my poor dear John! O, my dear old John!'
 
CHAPTER VII.  THOU ART THE MAN.
 Humphrey Statham looked up from his writing in astonishment at the sight of his friend.
 
'Why, Martin,' he cried, rising and extending his hand, 'this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought I might have a line from you some time during the day, but I never anticipated that the letter which I sent you would have the effect of drawing you from your peaceful retreat, more especially as in your last you spoke so strongly in praise of your tranquil existence as contrasted with the excitement and worry here.'
 
Martin Gurwood recollected that letter. It was written but a few days previously, when his hopes of winning Alice were at their highest, before this element of discord, this stranger of whose presence Statham had warned him, had come into the field. In his friend's remark, however, Martin found something which instinctively set him on his guard. It would not do, he thought, to let it be seen how acute was his interest in the subject on which Statham had written to him; mere friendship, mere regard for Alice's welfare would have contented itself with some far less active demonstration; and though there was no reason that he knew of for concealing the state of his feelings from his friend, as he had hitherto kept them to himself, he thought it was better not to parade them until some more fitting opportunity.
 
So with something like a blush, for the smallest prevarication was strange to him, Martin said, 'You must not look upon your spells as so potent, my dear friend; the same post which brought me your letter brought me one from my mother, requesting an immediate decision on a matter which has been for some time in abeyance, and as this rendered it necessary for me to come to town, I took advantage of the opportunity to drop in upon you.'
 
'I am too pleased to see you to question what has brought you here,' said Humphrey, with a smile, 'and am grateful to Mrs. Calverley for her maternal despotism. And now tell me, what did you think of the news I sent you?'
 
In spite of the strong effort to the contrary, the flush rose in Martin's cheeks, contrasting ill with the assumed calmness of manner with which he said, 'I received it with great regret.'
 
'By Jove, Martin, regret is a mild term to express the feeling with which I am inspired in this matter,' said Humphrey Statham vigorously. 'You have seen nothing of what has been going on, nor do I think it likely that with your ignorance of the world and its ways you would have been able to understand it if you had; but I think it desirable that you, whom we have all tacitly placed in the position of Alice's--of Mrs. Claxton's--guardian, should take some immediate action.'
 
Martin coloured afresh. 'This--this gentleman--' he said.
 
'Do not misuse a good word,' said Statham, interrupting him. 'Henrich Wetter, the person of whom we are speaking, is by no means a gentleman in any sense of the term. He is a sharp, shrewd, clever knave, always keeping within the limits of the law, but within those limits thoroughly unscrupulous. He is good-looking, too, and wonderfully plausible; a more undesirable visitor for our friend in Pollington-terrace could scarcely be imagined.'
 
'And yet he is a cousin of Madame Du Tertre's, and came there through her introduction, I thought you said,' remarked Martin.
 
'Yes,' said Humphrey, with some hesitation; 'that is a part of the business which I don't quite clearly understand, and on which I have my doubts. There is one thing, however, certain; that is, that he is there very frequently, and that it is advisable he should have a hint to discontinue his visits.'
 
'And by whom is that hint to be given to him?'
 
'Of course by Mrs. Claxton. But if her ignorance of the ways of the world prevents her from seeing the necessity of taking such a step, that necessity should be made clear by some one who has the right of advising her. In point of fact--by you!'
 
'It is my ignorance of the ways of the world upon which you were speaking just now,' said Martin, with a half smile.
 
'And no one could have a finer theme on which to discourse; but in certain matters you are good enough to be guided by me.'
 
'And you say that--'
 
'I say,' interrupted Humphrey Statham with vehemence, 'that Mr. Henrich Wetter is the last man who should be on intimate visiting terms at Mrs. Claxton's house. He is known not merely to have, but to boast of a certain unenviable reputation which, notwithstanding his undoubted leading position in the business world, causes him to be shunned socially by those who value the fair fame of their womankind.'
 
'This is bad hearing, indeed,' said Martin Gurwood nervously.
 
'Bad hearing,' interrupted Statham, emphasising his remark with outstretched hand, 'for any one to whom Alice is--I mean to say for any one who has Mrs. Claxton's interest at heart, it is, indeed, bad hearing.'
 
Something in the tone of Humphrey Statham's voice, something in the unusual earnest expression of his face, caused Martin to keep his eyes fixed upon his friend with peculiar intensity. What was the reason of the thrill which passed through him as Humphrey had stumbled at the mention of Alice's name? What revelation, which should sting and overwhelm him, was about to be made by the man whose placid and unruffled nature he had often envied, whose heart he had always regarded as a part of his anatomy which did its work well, which beat warmly for his friends, but otherwise gave him little or no trouble?
 
Humphrey Statham did not keep him very long in suspense. 'Look here, Martin,' said he, 'if you were to tell the people at Lloyd's, that I, Humphrey Statham, of 'Change-alley, was in some respects a fatalist, they would surely laugh at you, and tell you that fatalism and marine insurance did not go very well together. And yet it is to a certain extent the fact. Your arrival here this morning was no chance work, the spirit which prompted you to answer my appeal in person instead of by letter was--there, don't laugh at me--I felt it directly I saw you enter the room, and determined on my course of action, determined on making a clean breast of it, and telling my old friend what I have for some time now been wearing in my heart of hearts.'
 
He paused, as though expecting his companion to make some remark; but Martin Gurwood sat silent, merely inclining his head, with his hands nervously clutching at the table before him.
 
'I hardly know how to tell you, after all,' said Humphrey, with something like a blush on such portions of his cheeks as his beard left uncovered; 'and you do not give a fellow the slightest help. You will think it strange in me, queer odd sort of fish that I am, having lived for so many years--for all my life, as far as you know--a solitary, self-contained, oyster-like existence, to acknowledge that I am as vulnerable as other men. But it is so; and on the principle of there being no fool like an old fool, I imagine that my hurt is deeper and more deadly than in ninety-nine other cases. No need to beat about the bush any longer, Martin; I tell you, as my old friend, that I am in love with Alice Claxton.'
 
Martin Gurwood started. From the time that Humphrey commenced to hesitate, a strange expression had crept over the face of his friend listening to him; but he was so enwrapped in the exposition of his own feelings that he scarcely noticed it.
 
'You, Humphrey Statham, in love with Alice Claxton!'
 
'Yes, I! I, whom every one had supposed to be so absorbed in business as to have no time, no care for what my City friends would doubtless look upon as sentimental nonsense. I knew better than that myself; I knew that my heart had by nature been created capable of feeling love; I knew that from experience, Martin; but I thought that the power of loving had died out, never to come again. I was wrong; it has come again, thank God! Never in my life have I been under the influence of a feeling so deep, so true and tender, as that which I have for Alice Claxton.'
 
As Humphrey ceased speaking, Mr. Collins put his head into the room, and told his chief that Mr. Brevoort was in his carriage at the end of the court, and desired to see him. In an instant Humphrey resumed his business-like manner.
 
'Excuse me an instant, Martin; Mr. Brevoort is half paralysed, and cannot leave his carriage, so I must go to him. I shall be back in five minutes; wait here and think over what I have just said to you.--Now, Collins!' And he was gone.
 
Think over what had just been said to him! Martin Gurwood could do that without a second bidding. The words were ringing in his ears; the sense they conveyed seemed clogging and deadening his brain. Humphrey Statham in love with Alice Claxton--with his Alice--with the woman whom he had come to look upon as his own, and in whose sweet companionship he had fondly hoped to pass the remainder of his life! Her attraction must be great, indeed, if she could win the affections of such a man as Statham--calm, shrewd, and practical, not likely to be influenced merely by a pretty face or an interesting manner. The news came upon Martin like a thunderbolt. In all the long hours which he had devoted to the consideration of his love for Alice--to self-probing and examination--the idea of any rivalry had never entered into his mind. Not that, owing to Alice's secluded life or peculiar position, Martin had imagined himself secure; but the idea had never crossed his mind. She was there, and he loved her; that was all he knew. Something like a pang of jealousy, indeed, he experienced, on reading Humphrey's letter, telling of Mr. Henrich Wetter's visits to Pollington-terrace; but that, though it had the effect of inducing him to start for London, was but a temporary trouble. He had guessed from what Humphrey wrote, he was sure from what Humphrey said, that this Wetter was not the style of man to captivate a woman of Alice's refinement; and he felt that the principal reason for putting a stop to his visits would be the preventing any chance of Alice's being exposed to annoyance or insult.
 
But what he had just heard placed matters in a very different light. Here was Humphrey Statham avowing his love for Alice; Humphrey, his own familiar friend, whom he had consulted in his trouble when the story of the Claxton mystery was first revealed to shim by Doctor Haughton; Humphrey, who had been the first to see Alice with a view of opening negotiations with her at the time when they so misjudged her real character and position, and who, as Martin well recollected, even then was impressed with her beauty and her modesty, and returned to fight her battles with him. Yes, Humphrey Statham had been her first champion; but that was no reason he should be her last. That gave him no monopoly of right to love and tend her. Was there any baseness, any treachery, Martin wondered, in his still cherishing his own feelings towards Alice, after having heard his friend's confession? Let him think it out then and there; for that was the crowning moment of his life.
 
He sat there for some minutes, his head bowed, his hands clasped together on his knees. All that he had gone through since he first heard in the drawing-room at Great Walpole-street the true story of John Calverley's death; his first feelings of repulsion and aversion to the woman whom he believed to have been the bane of his mother's life; his colloquies with Statham; his first visit to Hendon; his meeting with Pauline, and their plot for keeping Alice in ignorance of the fact that the funeral had taken place: all this passed through Martin Gurwood's mind during his reverie. Passed through his mind also a recollection of the gradual manner in which he softened to the heartbroken, friendless girl, recognising her as the victim instead of the betrayer, and finding in her qualities which were rare amongst those of her sex who stood foremost and fearless in the approbation of the world. Was the day-dream in which he had of late permitted himself to indulge to vanish in this way? Was he to give up the one great hope of gladdening his life, the mere anticipation of which seemed to have changed the current of his being? No; that was his determination. Humphrey Statham was the best, the truest, the dearest fellow in the world; but this was almost a matter of life and death, in which no question of sentimental friendship should have weight. He would tell Humphrey frankly and squarely what were his own feelings for Alice Claxton, and they would go in then, in rancourless rivalry, each to do his best to win her. And as he arrived at this decision the door opened, and Humphrey Statham returned.
 
'Well!' he cried, running up in his boisterous way with outstretched hands, 'you have been lost in reflection, I suppose--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy. Not bitter though, I hope; there is no bitterness to you, Martin, in my avowal; nor to any one else, I fancy, for the matter of that, unless it be that precious article, Mr. Wetter.'
 
'I have been thinking over what you told me, Humphrey; and I was going to--'
 
'No, no, not yet. I haven't told you half I have to say,' interrupted Statham, pushing his friend back into his chair, and seating himself. 'Of course you're astonished, living the life you do, "celibate as a fly in the heart of an apple," as Jeremy Taylor has it, at any one's falling in love, and at me more than any one else. You think I am not formed for that sort of thing; that I am hard and cold and practical, and that I have been so all my life. You little dream, Martin--for I have never said a word about it, even to you--that some years ago I was so devoted to a woman as to be nearly heartbroken when she abandoned me.'
 
'Abandoned you!'
 
'Yes.' He shuddered, and passed his hand across his face. 'I don't like to think about it even now, and should not recur to it if the circumstances had not a connection with Claxton.'
 
'With Alice!' exclaimed Martin, and bending forward eagerly.
 
'Yes. I Must tell you the whole story, or you will not understand it; but I will tell it shortly. Some years ago, down in the north, I fell in love with a pretty girl below my own station in life. I pursued the acquaintance, and speedily let her know the state of my feelings towards her; not, as you will readily understand, with any base motives; for I never, thank Heaven, had any desire to play the seducer-- What's the matter, Martin? How white you look! Are you faint?'
 
'A little faint, thank you; it's quite over now. You were saying--'
 
'I was saying that I despised the wretchedly-vulgar artifices of the seducer, and that I meant fairly and honourably by this girl. I was not able to marry her immediately, however. I was poor then, and her friends insisted, rightly enough, that I should show I was able to maintain her. I worked hard to that end,' said Humphrey after a short pause; 'but when I went down in triumph to claim her, I found she had fled from Headingly.'
 
'From where?' cried Martin, starting forward.
 
'Headingly, near Leeds; that was where she lived. She had fled away from there, no one knew whither. A week before I reached the place she was missed--had vanished, leaving no letter of explanation, no trace of the route she had taken. And I never saw her more.'
 
'He paused again; but Martin Gurwood spoke not, bending forward still with his eyes fixed upon his friend.
 
'Poor girl--poor darling girl!' muttered Humphrey, as though communing with himself. 'What an awful fate for one so young and pretty!'
 
'What fate?' cried Martin Gurwood. 'Where is she now?'
 
'Dead,' said Humphrey Statham solemnly. 'Found killed by cold and hunger, with her baby on her breast. It seems that my poor Emily, deserted by the scoundrel who had seduced her--may the eternal--'
 
'Stay!' interrupted Martin Gurwood, wildly throwing up his arms; 'stay! For mercy's sake, do not add your curses to the torture which I have been suffering under for years, and which culminates in this moment!'
 
'You!' said Humphrey, starting back; 'you! Are you mad?'
 
'I would to heaven I were! I would to heaven I had been; for I should have had some excuse! The girl you speak of was called Emily Mitchell. I was the man who entrapped her from Headingly; I was the man who ruined her, body and soul!'
 
Humphrey Statham fell back in his chair; his lips parted, but no sound came from them.
 
'It is right that you should hear all now,' said Martin in a dull low tone; 'though until this instant I never knew who was the man whom I had wronged so deeply; never, of course, suspected it was you. She told me that there was a gentleman far above her station in life who intended to marry her; but she never mentioned his name. I was on a visit to a college friend when I first saw Emily and fell in love with her. I had no evil intentions then; but the thing went on from bad to worse, until I persuaded her to elope with me. Ah, my God!' he cried wildly, 'bear witness to the one long-protracted torture which my subsequent life has been--to the struggles which I have made to shake off the hypocrisy and deceit under whose dominion I have lived, and to stand confessed as the meanest of Thy creatures! Bear witness to these, and let them plead for me!'
 
Then he flung himself forward on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. There came a knock at the door. Humphrey Statham, all horror-stricken as he was, rushed forward to prevent any intrusion. But he was too late; the door opened quickly, and Pauline entered the room.
 
CHAPTER VIII.  THE SEALED PACKET.
 Seeing Martin Gurwood's attitude of despair, and the horror-stricken expression on Humphrey Statham's face, Pauline started back in amazement.
 
'Is it possible,' she cried, 'that some one has been beforehand with me, that you already know the news which I come to bring? But no, that could not be.'
 
She addressed herself to Martin, but, after a brief glance at her, he had resumed his former attitude, and it was Statham who replied. 'You find us talking over a matter which has caused great surprise and pain to both of us, but it is not one,' he added quickly, seeing her start, 'in which, Madame Du Tertre, you could be interested, or of which, indeed, you could have any knowledge. From what you say you would appear to have some communication to make to us--does it concern Mrs. Claxton?'
 
'It does, indeed,' cried Pauline, with a deep sigh, and more than ever disconcerted at a glimpse of Martin Gurwood's tear-blurred face, which he lifted up as he heard her words; 'it does, indeed.'
 
Martin did not say a word, but kept his eyes upon her with a hard stony gaze. But Humphrey Statham cried out:
 
'For God's sake, woman, speak, and do not keep us longer in suspense! Is Alice ill--has anything happened to her?'
 
'What has happened to her you will be able to guess, when you read this slip of paper which, on my return from a false errand on which I had been lured, I found in an envelope addressed to me.'
 
She handed him a note as she spoke. Humphrey Statham took it, and read the following words in Alice's handwriting:
 
'I have found you and your accomplices out! I know my exact position now, and can guess why I was prevented from seeing John after his death!'
 
'Good heavens, what can this mean?' cried Martin Gurwood, after Statham had read aloud the words of the note.
 
'Mean!' said Statham. 'There is one portion of it, at all events, which is sufficiently intelligible. "I know my exact position now;" she has learned what we have been so long endeavouring to hide from her! She knows the exact relation in which she stood with Mr. Calverley.'
 
'Merciful powers, do you think so?' cried Martin.
 
'What other meaning could that phrase convey?' said Humphrey Statham. 'I myself have no doubt of it, and I think Madame Du Tertre is of my opinion; are you not, madame?'
 
'I am, indeed,' said Pauline.
 
'But where can Alice have learned the secret?' said Martin; 'who can have told it to her?'
 
'I have no doubt on that point either,' said Pauline; 'it must have been told to her by Mr. Wetter.'
 
'Wetter!' cried Martin and Humphrey both at the same time.
 
'Mr. Henrich Wetter,' repeated Pauline. 'It was he who beguiled me into the City upon a false pretence, and on my return home I learned from the servant that he had been at the house during my absence, and had a long interview with her mistress. Then I recognised at once that I had been gotten out of the way for this very purpose.'
 
'Your suspicions of this man seem to have been just,' said Martin, turning to Humphrey Statham, and speaking slowly, 'though they did not point in that direction.'
 
'Yes, as I told you before, I knew him to be a bad fellow, and a particularly undesirable acquaintance for Mrs. Claxton,' said Statham. 'But I confess, Madame Du Tertre, that I do not yet see why you should fix upon Mr. Wetter as the guilty person in the present instance, independently, that is to say, of the fact that he was with Mrs. Claxton in the interval between your leaving home and your return, during which she seems to have acquired this information. I should not have thought that Wetter could have known anything about the Calverley and Claxton mystery.'
 
'He knows everything that he wants to know,' cried Pauline with energy; 'He is a fiend, a clever merciless fiend. If it were his interest--and it was, as I happen to know--to make himself acquainted with Alice's history, he would learn it at whatever cost of money, patience, and trouble! It is he that has done this and no one else, be sure of that.'
 
'We must allow then, I suppose,' said Humphrey Statham, referring to the paper which he still held in his hand, 'that the discovery which Mrs. Claxton claims to have made is that of her relations with Mr. Calverley, and it seems likely that she gained the information from Mr. Wetter, who gave it her for his own purpose. I take only a subordinate part in the matter, Martin, as your friend, but it strikes me that it is for you, as Alice's guardian, to ask Madame Du Tertre, who has evidently a bad opinion--worse than mine almost--of Mr. Wetter, why, having that opinion, she introduced this man to Alice, and suffered him to become intimate at Pollington-terrace.'
 
'Why did you do this?' cried Martin, turning almost fiercely upon her. 'You say yourself that this is a bad man, and that nothing will stop him when his mind is once made up to the commission no matter of what crime, and yet you bring him to the house and present him to this girl, whom it was so necessary to shield and protect.'
 
He spoke so wrathfully that Statham looked up in surprise at his friend, and then glancing with pity at the shrinking figure of Pauline, said, in mitigation:
 
'You must recollect that Mr. Wetter discovered Madame Du Tertre's address by accident, and that he was her cousin!'
 
'He is not my cousin,' said Pauline, in a low subdued voice, gazing at Martin with tearful eyes, 'I deceived you in that statement, as in many others about Mr. Wetter, and about myself.'
 
'Not your cousin!' said Martin; 'why, then, did you represent him to be so?'
 
'Because he insisted on it,' said Pauline, gesticulating freely; 'because he had a certain hold over me which I could not shake off, and which he would have exercised to my detriment if I had not implicitly obeyed him.'
 
'But how could he have done anything to your detriment so far as we were concerned?' asked Martin.
 
'Very easily,' replied Pauline. 'It was my earnest desire for--for several reasons to live in the house with Alice as her companion. And Mr. Wetter would have prevented that.'
 
'How could he have done so?'
 
'By exercising the influence which he possessed, and which lay in his acquaintance with a portion of my early life. He would have told you what he knew of me, and you would not have suffered me to remain with Alice.'
 
'You mean to say--' cried Martin, with a certain shrinking.
 
'O, don't mistake me,' she interrupted; 'I was never wicked, as you seem to imagine; only the manner of my bringing-up, and the associations of my youth were such that, if you had known them, you might not have thought me a desirable companion for your friend.'
 
'Let me ask you one question, Madame Du Tertre,' said Humphrey Statham. 'Up to this crisis you have undoubtedly discharged your duties with fidelity, and proved yourself to be Alice Claxton's warm and excellent friend. But what first induced you to seek for that post of companion--what made you desire to ally yourself so closely with this young woman?'
 
'What first influenced me to seek her out?' said Pauline; 'not love for her, you may be assured of that. When first I saw this girl who has played such a part in my life, her head was resting on the shoulder of a man who, in bidding her adieu, bent down to kiss her upturned face, down which the tears were rolling. And that man was my husband.'
 
'Your husband!' cried Martin.
 
'My husband. I knew not who the girl was; I had never seen her before; I had never heard of the existence of any one between whom and my husband there could properly exist such familiarity, and I at once jumped to the conclusion that he was her lover, and I hated her accordingly.'
 
'But you have satisfied yourself that that was not the case,' asked Humphrey Statham hurriedly.
 
'O, yes,' said Pauline; 'but not until a long time after I first saw them together, not until, so far as one of them was concerned, any feeling of mine was useless. I determined that if ever I saw this woman again I would be revenged upon her! Fortune stood my friend; I did see her; I became acquainted with the mystery of her story, and thus supplied myself with a weapon which could at any time be made fatal to her; I won your confidence,' turning to Martin, 'and made myself necessary to you all, and then, and not till then, did I discover how ill-founded and unjust had been my suspicions; not till then did I learn, by the merest accident, that Alice, instead of having been the mistress of my husband, who was dead by that time, was his sister.'
 
'Alice your husband's sister?' cried Martin Gurwood in amazement. 'And you were not aware of that fact until animated by false suspicions you had laid yourself out for revenge upon her?'
 
'Not until I had gained your confidence,' said Pauline, 'or at least taken the first steps towards gaining it. Not until that night at Hendon, when I was left alone with her, and when, while she was under the influence of the narcotic, I looked through her papers--you see I am speaking frankly now, and am desirous of hiding nothing, however much to my own disadvantage it may be--and discovered her relationship to my dead husband.'
 
'Who was your husband?' said Martin Gurwood in a softened voice.
 
'It is not likely that you ever heard of him,' replied Pauline. 'His name was Durham. In his last days he had some connection with the house of Calverley and Co., being sent out as an agent to represent them in Ceylon.'
 
'Durham!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'Surely I have some recollection of that name. Yes; I remember it all now. He was the man who mysteriously disappeared from on board one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's ships, and who was supposed to have fallen overboard and been drowned on his passage out.'
 
'The same,' said Pauline; 'he was my husband.'
 
'Durham!' cried Statham. 'What was his Christian name?'
 
'Thomas. All his friends knew him as Tom Durham.
 
'Tom Durham; I knew him well--at one time intimately; but I had no idea that he was married, much less that you were his wife. I recollect now reading the paragraph about his supposed drowning the last time I left London on my holiday.'
 
'You knew Tom Durham well?' cried Pauline, clasping her hands. 'Mon Dieu, I see it all! You are the H. S., whose letter I have here!'
 
As she spoke she took a pocket-book from the bosom of her dress, and from it extracted a paper, which she handed to Statham.
 
'That is my handwriting, surely,' said Humphrey, running his eyes over the document. 'In it I acknowledge the receipt of a packet which I promised to take care of, and declare I will not give it up save to Tom himself, or to some person duly accredited by him. The packet is in that iron safe, where it has remained ever since.'
 
'What do you imagine it contains?' asked Martin.
 
'I have not the remotest idea,' replied his friend. 'As you will see, by a perusal of this paper, Tom Durham offered to inform me, but I declined to receive his confidence, partly because I thought my ignorance might be of service to him, partly to prevent myself being compromised.'
 
'Do you think it could have any bearing upon Alice?' asked Pauline.
 
'If I thought so, I should not hesitate for an instant to place it in your hands. Whatever may have been the motive by which you were actuated at first, you have been a sure and steady friend to that poor girl, and I have perfect reliance on you.'
 
'This poor man, Durham, will now never come to claim the packet himself,' said Martin Gurwood, 'and his widow is plainly his nearest representative. If there be anything in it which concerns Mrs. Claxton, we should never forgive ourselves for not having taken advantage of the information which it may contain.'
 
'You think, then, perhaps on the whole I should be justified in handing it to Madame Du-- I mean to this lady,' said Statham.
 
'Certainly, I think so.'
 
'So be it,' said Statham, walking round to the desk at which Martin was seated, and taking from the top drawer a key, with which he proceeded to unlock the iron safe; 'there it is,' he added, 'duly marked "Akhbar K," and exactly in the same condition as when I received it from poor Tom's messenger.'
 
And with these words he placed a packet in Pauline's hands.
 
She broke the seals, and the outside cover fell to the ground. Its contents were two sheets of paper, one closely written.
 
'There is nothing but this,' she said, looking though it; then turning to Mr. Statham, 'it will be as well, perhaps,' she said, 'if you were to read it aloud.'
 
Humphrey took the paper from her hand and read as follows:
 
'My dear Humphrey Statham,--Within a week after this reaches you I shall have left England for what may possibly prove a very long absence; and although I am pretty well accustomed to a roving life, and have been so busy, that I have never had time to be superstitious, I, for the first time, feel a desire to leave my affairs as much in order as possible, and to put as good a polish on my name as that name will bear.
 
'After all, however, I do not see that I need inflict a true and particular history of my life and adventures upon a man so busied as yourself. It would not be very edifying reading, my dear Statham, nor do I imagine that being mixed up in any way with my affairs would be likely to do you much good with the governor of the Bank of England or the directors of Lloyd's. I scarcely know how you, a steady, prosperous man of business, ever managed to continue your friendship with a harum-scarum fellow like myself! It was all very well in the early days when we were lads together, and you were madly in love with that Leeds milliner-girl'--Humphrey Statham's voice changed as he read the passage--'but now you are settled and respectable, and I am as great a ne'er-do-weel as ever.
 
'Not quite so great, perhaps, you will think, when you see that I am going to try to make amends for one wrong which I have done. I shall not bother you with anything else, my dear Statham; but I will leave this one matter in your hands, and I am sure that if any question about it ever arises, you will look to it and see it put straight for the sake of our old friendship, and don't break down or give it up because I seem to come out rather rough at the first, dear old man. Read it through, and stand by me.
 
'You do not know--nor any one else scarcely, for the matter of that--that I have a half-sister, the sweetest, prettiest, dearest, and most innocent little creature that ever shed sunshine on a household. She didn't shed it long on ours though; for as soon as she was old enough, she was sent away to earn her own living, which she did by becoming governess in a Quaker's family at York. I was fond of her--very fond in my odd way--but I never saw much of her, as I was always rambling about; and when, after a return from an absence of many months, I heard that Alice was married to an elderly man named Claxton, who was well off, and lived in comfort near London, I thought it was a good job for her, and troubled myself but little more about the matter.
 
'But one day, no matter how, my suspicions were aroused. I made inquiries, and--to cut the matter short--I discovered that the respectable Mr. Claxton, to whom I had heard Alice was married, was a City merchant, whose real name was Calverley, and who had already a wife. I never doubted Alice for a moment; I knew the girl too well for that. I felt certain this old scoundrel had deceived her, and, as they say in the States, "I went for him."
 
'There's no use denying it, Humphrey, I acted like a mean hound; but what was I to do? I was always so infernally hard up. I brought the old boy to his bearings, and made him confess that he had acted a ruffian's part. And then I ought to have killed him, I suppose. But I didn't. He pointed out to me that Alice was in perfect ignorance of her real position, that to be informed of it would probably be her death. And then--he is a tremendously knowing old bird--he made certain suggestions about improving my financial position and getting me regular employment, and giving me a certain sum of money down, so that somehow I listened to him more quietly than I was at first disposed to do. Not that I wasn't excessively indignant on Alice's account. Don't make any mistake about that. I told old Calverley that he had done her a wrong which must be set right, so far as lay in his power; and I made him write out a paper at my dictation and sign it in full, with his head-clerk as witness to the signature. Of course the clerk did not know the contents of the document, but he saw his master sign it, and put his own name as witness. This was done two-days ago, just at the time when they had been writing a lot of letters in the office about my taking up their agency in Ceylon, and no doubt he thought it had something to do with that. I shall enclose that paper in this letter, and you can use it in case of need. Not that I think old Calverley will go away from his word; in the first place, because, notwithstanding this rascally trick he has played poor Alice, he seems a decent kind of fellow; and in the next, because he would be afraid to, so long as I am to the fore. But something might happen to him or to me, and then the paper would be useful.
 
'Here is the whole story, Humphrey, confided to your common sense and judgment, to act with as you think best, by
 
'Your old friend,
 
'TOM DURHAM.'
 
'Something has happened to both of them,' said Humphrey Statham, solemnly, picking up the paper which had fluttered to the ground. 'Now let us look at the enclosure:
 
'I, John Calverley, merchant, of Mincing-lane and Great Walpole-street, do hereby freely confess that having made the acquaintance of Alice Durham, to whom I represented myself as a bachelor of the name of Claxton, I married the said Alice Durham at the church of Saint Nicholas, at Ousegate, in the city of York, I being, at the same time, a married man; and having a wife then, and now, living. And I solemnly swear, and hereby set forth, that the said Alice Durham, now known as Alice Claxton, was deceived by me, had no knowledge of my former marriage, or of my name being other than that which I gave her, but fully and firmly believes herself to be my true and lawful wife.
 
'This I swear,
 
'JOHN CALVERLEY.
 
'Witness, 'THOMAS JEFFREYS,
 
'Head Clerk to Messrs. Calverley and Co.'
 
'That appears to me decisive as an assertion of Alice's innocence,' said Martin Gurwood, looking round as Humphrey finished reading.
 
'To most persons it would be so,' said Statham; 'but Mrs. Calverley, with whom we chiefly have to deal, is not of the ordinary stamp. It will be advisable, however, I think, that we should see her at once, taking this document with us. If Madame Du--if Mrs. Durham's suspicions of Mr. Wetter are well founded, he will not have uttered his bark without being prepared to bite, and it is probably to Mrs. Calverley that he will first address himself.'
 
'Do you wish me to accompany you?' asked Pauline.
 
'No,' said Statham, 'I think you had better return home.'
 
'I think so, too,' said Martin; 'your sister may be expecting you.'
 
Her sister! In her broken condition it was some small comfort to Pauline to hear the acknowledgement of that connection from Martin's lips.
 
 
CHAPTER IX.  HAGAR'S VISIT.
 
 
In the house in Great Walpole-street there was little change. Things went on in pretty much the same manner as when John Calverley was in the habit of creeping back to his dismal home with sorrow in his heart, or when Pauline sat watching and plotting in the solitude of her chamber. Since her second husband's death Mrs. Calverley seemed to have eschewed even the small amount of society which she had previously kept; the heavy dinner-parties were given up, and the only signs of so-called social intercourse were the fortnightly meetings of a Dorcas Club which was held under Mrs. Calverley's auspices, and at which several elderly ladies of the neighbourhood discussed tea and scandal under the pretence of administering to the necessities of the poor. At other times, the mistress of the house led a life which was eminently solitary and self-contained. She read occasionally, it is true; but when she called at the circulating library, she brought away with her, for her amusement or edification, no story in which, under the guise of fiction, the writer had endeavoured to portray any of the varieties of shifting human nature which had come beneath his ken; no poem glowing with passion and ardour, or sweetly musical with melodious numbers. Hard, strong books of travel through districts with immense unpronounceable names; tales of missionary enterprise set forth in the coldest, baldest, and least-educated style, relieved with frequent interpolations of theological phraseology; reviews which had once been potential, but whose feeble echoes Of former trumpet fanfarons now fell idly on inattentive ears; polemical discussions on religious questions, and priestly biographies--lives of small men, containing no proper precept, setting no worthy example--these were Mrs. Calverley's favourite reading. The butler declared that she read nothing at all; that though these books were brought from Mudie's on the back seat of the carriage, and were afterwards displayed on the drawing-room table, one at a time occupying the post of honour on his mistress's lap, she never so much as glanced at them, but sat staring with her steely blue eyes straight in front of her; a state of things which, rigorously persisted in, afflicted the butler, on his own statement, with a disease known to him as 'the creeps,' and which was considered generally so uncanny throughout the lower regions, that had not the wages been good and the table liberal, the whole household would have departed in a body.
 
About four o'clock on a dull afternoon in the very early spring, Mrs. Calverley was seated in her drawing-room in that semi-comatose state which inspired her domestics with so much terror. Some excuse, however, was to be made for her not attempting, on the present occasion, to read the book which lay idly in her lap, the time being 'between the lights,' as the phrase goes, when the gathering gloom of light, aided by the ever-present thickness of the London atmosphere, blots out the sun's departing rays before the time recorded in the almanac. It was very seldom, indeed, that Mrs. Calverley suffered her thoughts to dwell upon any incident of her immediately passed life. On what had happened during her girlhood, when she was the spoiled and petted heiress, on certain episodes in the career of jolly George Gurwood, her first husband, in which she had borne a conspicuous part, she was in the habit of bestowing occasional remembrances; but all that concerned her later life she wilfully and deliberately shut out from her mind. And this not from any sting of conscience, for Mrs. Calverley considered herself far too immaculate to be open to any such vulgar, consideration, but, as she said to herself, because everything of that kind was too near to allow her to form an impartial judgment upon it. It chanced, however, that upon this particular day, the deceased John Calverley had been frequently present to his widow's recollection. There was nothing extraordinary in this; it arose from the fact that that very morning, in looking through the contents of an old trunk which had long since been consigned to the lumber-room, Mrs. Calverley had come upon an old fly-blown water-colour drawing of a youth with a falling linen collar, a round jacket, and white-duck trousers, a drawing which bore some faint general resemblance to John even as she remembered him. Pondering over this work of art in a dreamy fashion, Mrs. Calverley found herself wondering whether her late husband's mental condition in youth had been as frank and ingenuous as that to be gathered from his physical portrait; and, secondly, whether she had not either faultily misapprehended or wilfully misconstrued that mental and moral condition even during the time that she had been acquainted with him. Two or three times later in the day her mind had wandered to the same topic, and now, as she sat in the dull drawing-room in the failing light, her thoughts were full on him. It was pleasant, she remembered, though she had not thought so at the time, to be looking forward in expectation of his return home at a certain hour; pleasant to know that he would probably be detained beyond the appointed time, thereby giving her opportunity for complaint; pleasant to have some one to vent her annoyance upon who would feel it so keenly, and reply to it so little. She had not hitherto looked at her loss from this point of view, and she was much struck by the novelty of it; though she had never had any opinion of Mr. Calverley, she was willing to admit that he was not absolutely bad-hearted; nay, there were times when--
 
Her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, who announced that a young lady was below desiring to speak to Mrs. Calverley.
 
'A lady! What kind of a lady?'
 
'A--a widow, mum,' replied the butler, pointing in an imbecile way, first at Mrs. Calverley's cap, and then at his own head.
 
'Ah,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a deep groan, and shaking her head to and fro--for she never missed an opportunity of making capital out of her condition before the servants--'one who has known grief; eh, James? And she wants to see me?'
 
'Asked first if you lived here, mum, and then was very particular in wishing to see you. A pleasant-spoken young woman, mum, and not like any begging-letter impostor, or coves--or people I mean--of that sort.'
 
'You can light the gas, James, and then show the lady up. No, stay; show her up at once, and do not light the gas until I ring.'
 
Since she had known Madame Du Tertre, Mrs. Calverley had taken some interest in her own personal appearance, and not having seen her toilet-glass since the morning, she had an idea that she might have become somewhat-dishevelled.
 
The butler left the room, and presently returned, ushering in a lady who, so far as Mrs. Calverley could make out in the uncertain light, was young, of middle height, and dressed in deep mourning.
 
The mistress of the mansion motioned her visitor to a seat, and making a stiff bow said:
 
'You wish to speak to me, I believe?'
 
'I wish to speak with Mrs. Calverley.'
 
'I am Mrs. Calverley. What is your business?'
 
'Your--your husband died recently?'
 
'About six months ago. How very curious! What is your object in asking these questions?'
 
'Bear with me, pray! Do not think me odd; only answer me what I ask you--my reasons for wishing you to do so are so urgent.'
 
'The lady's voice was agitated, her manner eager and unusual. Mrs. Calverley did not quite know what to make of her visitor. She might be a maniac, but then why her interest in the deceased Mr. Calverley? Another, and to her idea, a much more likely explanation of that mystery arose in Mrs. Calverley's mind. Who was this hussy who was so inquisitive about other women's husbands? She should like to see what the bold-faced thing looked like. And she promptly rang the bell to summon James to light the gas.
 
'You will answer me--will you not?' said the pleading voice.
 
'It depends upon what you ask,' replied Mrs. Calverley with a smile.
 
'Tell me then--Mr. Calverley--your husband--was he very fond of you?'
 
The few scattered bristles which did duty as Mrs. Calverley's eyebrows rose half an inch nearer her forehead with astonishment.
 
'Yes,' she replied after a moment's reflection; 'of course he was--devoted.'
 
Something like a groan escaped from the stranger.
 
'And you--you loved him?'
 
'Very much in the same way,' said Mrs. Calverley, feeling herself for the first time in her life imbued with a certain amount of grim humour--'quite devoted to him.'
 
'Yes,' said the visitor sadly, 'that I can fully understand. Did you ever see or hear of his partner, Mr. Claxton?'
 
'I never saw him,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'I've heard of him often enough, oftener than I like. It was he that persuaded Mr. Calverley to going into that speculation about those iron-works which Mr. Jeffreys can make nothing of. But he wasn't a partner in the house; there are no partners in the house--only some one that Mr. Calverley knew in the City, and probably a designing swindler, for Mr. Calverley was a weak man, and this Claxton--'
 
'Mr. Claxton was the best man that ever walked this earth!' cried Alice, breaking forth, 'the kindest, the dearest, and the best.'
 
'Heyday!' cried Mrs. Calverley with a snort of defiance. 'And who may you be, who knows so much about Mr. Claxton, and who wants to know so much about Mr. Calverley?'
 
'That is right, James,' she added, 'light the gas;' and then she said in a lower tone, 'I shall be better able to judge the kind of visitor I have.'
 
'The gas was lighted and the servant left the room; Mrs. Calverley rose stiffly from her chair and advanced towards Alice, who remained seated.
 
'What is this,' she said in a strong voice, 'and who are you? coming here tricked out in these weeds to make inquiries, and to utter sentiments at which modest women would blush. Who are you, I say?'
 
But while Mrs. Calverley had been speaking Alice had looked up, and her eyes had fallen upon a picture hanging against the wall. A big crayon head of John, her own old John, jut as she had known him, with the large bright eyes, the heavy thoughtful brow, and the lines round the mouth somewhat deeply graven. For an instant she bent her head before the picture, the next, with the tears welling up into her eyes, and in a low soft voice, without the slightest exaggeration in tone or manner, she said:
 
'You ask me who I am, and I will tell you!' Then pointing up to the portrait, 'I am that man's widow!'
 
'What!' screamed Mrs. Calverley. 'Do you know who that was?'
 
'No,' said Alice, 'except that he was my husband.'
 
'Why, woman!' exclaimed the outraged mistress of the house, in a torrent of rage, 'that was Mr. Calverley!'
 
'I know nothing,' said Alice, 'save that in the sight of Heaven he was my husband. Call him by what name you will, he had neither lot nor part with you. You tell me that he loved you, was devoted to you--it is a lie! You talk of your love for him, and that may be indeed, for he was meant to be loved! But he was mine, all mine--ah, my dear John! ah, my darling old John!'
 
She broke down utterly here, and fell on her knees before the picture, in a flood of tears.
 
'Well, upon my word,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'this is a little too much! No one who knows me would imagine for a minute that I should condescend to quarrel about Mr. Calverley with any trolloping miss who chooses to come here! And no one who knew Mr. Calverley, selfish and neglectful as he was, and without the least consideration for me, would suspect him of being such a Bluebeard or a Mormon as you endeavour to make him out! How dare you come here with a tale like this! How dare you present yourself before me with your brazen face and your well-prepared story, unless it is, as I suppose, to induce me to give you hush-money to stop your mouth. Do you imagine for an instant that I am to be taken in by such a ridiculous plot? Do you imagine for an instant that--'
 
She stopped, for there was a sound of voices outside, and the next moment the door opened and Martin Gurwood, closely followed by Humphrey Statham, entered the room.
 
Mrs. Calverley dropped the arm which she had extended in monition, and Alice ran to place herself by Martin Gurwood's side.
 
'Save me from her!' she cried, shrinking on his arm. 'Save me from this woman!'
 
'Do not be afraid,' said Martin, endeavouring to calm her. 'We thought to find you here, but hoped to be in time to prevent your suffering any annoyance. Mother,' he added, turning to Mrs. Calverley, 'there is some mistake here.'
 
'There must be some mistake, indeed,' observed Mrs. Calverley, with great asperity, 'when I find my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, taking part against his mother with a woman who, take the most charitable view of it, is only fitted for Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum.'
 
'Not to take part against you, mother? Surely--'
 
'Well, I don't know what you call it,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'or whether you consider it quite decorous to keep your arm round that young person before your mother's face! Or whether'--here the worthy lady gave a short nod towards Statham--'gentlemen with whom I have but slight personal acquaintance think themselves justified in coming into my house uninvited! I am an old-fashioned person, and I daresay don't understand these matters, but in my time they would not have been tolerated.'
 
'See, dear mother,' said Martin quietly, 'you do us all, and more especially this lady, great injustice!'
 
'O, very likely,' said Mrs. Calverley, sarcastically; 'very likely she is right and I am wrong! She has just told me that she was Mr. Calverley's wife, and no doubt you will bear out that that is correct, and that I have been dreaming for the last twelve years.'
 
'If you will permit me to speak, madam,' said Humphrey Statham in his deep tones, 'I think I can prove to you that this lady has, or imagines she has, grounds for the statement which she has made, and that while you have been deeply injured, her injuries are worse, and more serious than yours.'
 
'You will hear Mr. Statham, if you please, mother,' said Martin Gurwood; 'I am here to attest the truth of all that he will say.'
 
And then, with homely natural eloquence springing from the depth of his feeling, Humphrey Statham told, in nervous unadorned language, the story of the betrayal of the woman whom he loved. On the dead man's perfidy he dwelt as lightly as he could, more lightly still on the probable causes which had induced the dead man to waver in his faith, and to desert the home which had been rendered so unattractive to him; but he spoke earnestly and manfully of the irremediable wrong done to Alice, and of the manner in which her life had been sacrificed; and, finally, he produced the document in John Calverley's handwriting, which had just been discovered, to show how completely she had been made the victim of a fraud.
 
Sitting bolt upright on her chair, and slowly rubbing her withered hands one over the other, Mrs. Calverley listened to Statham's speech. When he stopped she bridled up and said with asperity,
 
'A very pretty story indeed; very well concocted and arranged between you all. Of course, I may believe as much of it as I choose! There's no law, I imagine, to compel me to swallow it whole, even though my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, sits by and nods his head in confirmation of his friend. And don't imagine, please, that I am at all surprised at what I hear about Mr. Calverley! I hear it now for the first time, but I always imagined him to be a bad and wicked man, given up to selfishness and debauchery, and quite without the power of appreciating the blessings of a well-ordered home. The young woman needn't start! I am not going to demean myself by engaging in any controversy with her, and wish rather to ignore her presence. But I will say,' said Mrs. Calverley, drawing herself up, 'but I will say that I had not expected to find that my son was sanctioning these proceedings, and conniving at the disgrace which was being heaped upon me.'
 
'Mother!' cried Martin Gurwood, appealingly.
 
'It might,' continued Mrs. Calverley, with great placidity, 'it might have been imagined that, as my son, and leaving out all question of his clerical position, he would have adopted another course, but such do not appear to have been his views. Let me tell him,' she cried, turning upon Martin with sudden fierceness, 'that henceforward he is no son of mine That I renounce him and leave him to shift for himself; he has no longer any expectations from me! On certain conditions I promised to share all with him now, and leave him my sole heir at my death. But I revoke what I said; I am mistress of my own fortune, and will continue to be so. Not one penny of it shall go to him.'
 
'You are, of course, at liberty to do what you like with your fortune, mother,' said Martin quietly, 'and it would never occur to me for an instant--'
 
'Stay!' interrupted Statham, taking his friend by the arm and pointing to Alice; 'there is no use in prolonging this painful discussion, and Mrs. Claxton is completely exhausted.'
 
'You are right,' said Martin, rising from his seat, 'we have been somewhat thoughtless in thus overtaxing her strength, and will take her home at once.' Then advancing, he said, in a low tone, 'Mother, will you see me to-morrow?'
 
'Mr. Martin Gurwood,' said Mrs. Calverley, in a clear cold voice, 'with my own free will I will never look upon you again! And though the name that I bear is that of one who was a scoundrel, I am glad that it is not the name which is disgraced by you!'
 
And thus those two parted.
 
CHAPTER X.  MR. WETTER IS INTERVIEWED.
 When they reached the street, Humphrey Statham stopped short, and turning to Martin, said, 'You had better see Mrs. Claxton to her home. The excitement of the day has been too much for her, and the sooner she is under the fostering care of Madame Du Tertre--it seems impossible for me to call her by any other name--the less chance there will be of her suffering any ill-effects.'
 
'Will you not go with us?' asked Martin, looking directly at his friend for the first time since the dread explanation concerning Emily Mitchell had passed between them, and still speaking with nervous trepidation; 'will you not go with us?'
 
'No,' replied Humphrey, 'not now; there is something which I think ought to be done, and I am the proper person to do it.'
 
'His manner was so odd that both Alice and Martin were struck by it at once, and the latter, taking Humphrey by the arm, drew him aside for a moment and said,
 
'I have an idea of what now fills your mind, and of the errand on which you are going. You will not suffer yourself to run into any danger?'
 
'Danger!'
 
'I repeat the word--danger! Life has a new happiness in store for you now, Humphrey Statham, and should consequently be more precious than you have ever yet considered it.'
 
His voice had regained its usual clear tone, and as he spoke he looked frankly in his friend's eyes. In the gaze which met his own, Martin saw that the deadly wrong which he had unwittingly wrought upon his companion was forgiven, and had he doubted it, the grasp with which his hand was seized would have been sufficient proof.
 
'Don't fear for me, old friend,' said Humphrey, his face glowing with delight at the idea which Martin's words had aroused; 'depend upon it I will run no risks, and neither by word or act give a chance by which I or others could be compromised. But it is necessary that a word of warning should be spoken in a certain quarter, with energy and promptitude. So for the present farewell.'
 
He turned to Alice as he finished speaking, and raising his hat was about to move away. But she put out her hand to him, and said, with pretty becoming hesitation, 'I cannot thank you as I ought, Mr. Statham, for the manner in which you have just pleaded my cause with--with that lady, any more than I can show my gratitude for the constant kindness I have met with at your hands.'
 
Humphrey Statham attempted to make a reply, but gave utterance to nothing. The words failed him, and for the first time in his life perhaps he was fairly nonplused. As the sweet young voice rang on his ear, as he felt the pressure of the warm soft hand, a strange vibration ran through him, and he knew himself on the point of giving way to an exhibition of feeling, the possibility of which a few months previously he would have laughed to scorn. So with a bow and a smile he turned on his heel and hurried rapidly away.
 
Martin watched his friend's departing figure for a moment, then with a half-sigh he said to his companion, 'I am glad that you spoke your thanks to Humphrey so warmly, Alice; for he has been your truest and best friend.'
 
'Rather say one of them,' said Alice, laying her hand lightly on his arm; 'you take no credit to yourself, Mr. Gurwood.'
 
The colour had faded from his cheeks and from his compressed lips ere he replied coldly, 'I take as much as is my due. Now let me call a cab and take you home, for on our way there I have something more to say to you.'
 
'Something more,' she cried, with a frightened air. 'O, Mr. Gurwood, nothing more dreadful, I hope; nothing that--'
 
'Do you imagine for an instant that I would put you to unnecessary suffering,' he said, almost tenderly, looking down into her pleading upturned eyes; 'that I, or any of us, would not shield you from any possible annoyance. No, what I have to say to you will, I think, be rather pleasant to you than otherwise. Here is the cab; I will tell you as we go along.'
 
When they were seated in the vehicle, Martin said to his companion, 'You have now, Alice, had Madame Du Tertre for your friend quite long enough to judge of her disposition, and to know whether the desire to serve your interests which she originally professed was dictated by a spirit of regard for you, or merely assumed to serve her own purposes.'
 
'There can be no question in the matter,' said Alice, almost indignantly; 'nothing can exceed the devotion which Pauline has exhibited to me ever since we came together. She is infinitely more like an elder sister to me than a person whose acquaintance I seem to have made by the merest chance.'
 
'There is often more than chance in these matters,' said Martin gravely; 'more than there seems to be in the chance use of a word. You have said that Pauline has seemed to you as an elder sister--suppose she really stood to you in that position?
 
'That could scarcely be,' said Alice; 'for years and years I had no relation but my poor brother, and since his death--'
 
'Since his death Providence has sent some one to fill his place much more efficiently than he ever filled it himself; so far as you are concerned, my poor child,' said Martin.
 
And then he told her what had occurred between them and Pauline at Statham's office, omitting, of course, all reference to the jealous feelings by which the Frenchwoman had at first been actuated, and dwelling upon the self-sacrifice and devotion with which she had espoused her kinswoman's cause.
 
Alice was much touched at this narrative, and when they reached home she embraced Pauline with such tenderness, that the latter knew at once that her story had been told; knew too, that Martin had been silent about the incidents of her early life and the reasons which had originally prompted her to throw herself in Alice's way, and was proportionately grateful to him.
 
Late that night, when they were together, Alice lying in her bed and Pauline sitting by her side, the two women had a long, earnest, and affectionate talk, in the course of which the strange events which the day had brought to light came under discussion. It was evident to Pauline that Alice had braced herself up to talk of her own position, and of the deception of which she had been the victim; but the Frenchwoman saw that her companion was in no condition to bear the excitement which such a topic would necessarily evoke, and gradually, but skilfully, drew her away from it. The case, however, was different when Alice depicted the rage and consternation of Mrs. Calverley at learning the part taken by her son in the concealment of the Claxton mystery. This was a point in which Pauline took the keenest interest, and she induced Alice to dilate on it at her will, framing her questions with much subtlety, and pondering over each answer she received. When Alice stated Mrs. Calverley's intention of disinheriting her son, and leaving him to struggle on in the comparatively obscure position which he then occupied, something like a ray of light shot into Pauline's darkened soul. Should the intention thus announced be carried out, should Martin be left to his own resources, she might then have the chance, such as never could occur to her under other circumstances, of proving her disinterested love for him. For the man of wealth, for the man even with great expectations, she could do nothing; any advances which she might make, any assistance which she might offer; the world would but regard as so much small bait thrown out for the purpose of securing a greater booty; and he, knowing as he did the circumstances of her previous life, the scheming predatory manner of her early existence, would too surely be of the opinion of the world. But if he were poor, and broken, and humbled, grieving over the alienation of his mother, and feeling himself solitary and shunned, her self-appointed task in winning him, in proving to him her devotion, in placing at his disposal the small means which she had, the worldly talent which even he acknowledged she possessed, would be a very much easier one.
 
'Mistress of her own fortune, and would continue to remain so; that is what she said, is it?' Pauline asked, after a pause.
 
'That is what she said, and that she renounced her son, and revoked all the declarations she had hitherto made in his favour,' said Alice. 'Was it not dreadful for poor Mr. Gurwood? I do pity him so.'
 
'Do you?' said Pauline, turning her searching gaze full upon the girl's face. 'Yes, I daresay you do. It is natural you should; Mr. Gurwood has been a good friend to you.'
 
'The best--almost the best--I had in the world.'
 
'Almost the best! Why, who could rank equal with him?'
 
'Mr. Gurwood himself said Mr. Statham,' cried Alice with downcast eyes.
 
'Ay, ay,' said Pauline quickly. Then, after an interval of a few minutes, the old cynical spirit coming over her, she added, more as if talking to herself than to her companion, 'I don't think we need trouble ourselves much, for Mr. Gurwood's sake, about that old woman's threat. I know her well; she is hard and cold and proud; but with all those charming qualities, and like many of your rigid English Pharisees, she is superstitious to a degree. She dare not make a will for fear of dying immediately she had signed her name to it; and if she dies without a will, her son inherits all her property. Vogue la galère,! Mr. Gurwood's chances are not so bad after all. There,' she added, in a softened voice, seeing Alice gazing at her in astonishment, 'get to sleep now, child; you have had a long and trying day, and must be quite wearied out.'
 
Alice fell asleep almost immediately, but for more than an hour afterwards Pauline sat with her feet on the fender gazing into the slowly dying embers and pondering over the circumstances by which she was surrounded. 'What was that Alice had said, that she so pitied Martin Gurwood? Yes, those were the words, and pity was akin to love.' But the expression on her face when she spoke had, as Pauline had noticed, nothing significant or tell-tale in it. Was there anything in the suspicion concerning Alice and Martin which had once crossed her mind? She thought not, she hoped not. And yet, what interest had she in that? There was but little chance that this one real passion of her life, her love for this quiet sedate young clergyman, this man so different in manner, thought, and profession from any other she had ever known--there was but little chance that her devotion would be recognised by or even known to him. Well, even in this world justice is sometimes meted out, as Père Gosselin used to tell her--ah, grand Dieu, how far away in the mists of ages seem Père Gosselin and the chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde and all the old Marseilles life!--and so she supposes she ought not to expect much happiness, and with a shrug of her shoulders and a wearied sigh, Pauline crept silently to her bed.
 
 
* * * * *
 
 
When Mr. Wetter, at the conclusion of his interview with Alice, took his departure from Pollington-terrace, he found himself unexpectedly with some spare time upon his hands. The result of that interview had been so different from what he had anticipated, his preconceived arrangement had been so rudely overthrown, that he was almost unable at first to realise his position, and was in some doubt as to the nature of the next steps it would be best for him to take.
 
'A most unsatisfactory and ridiculous conclusion,' said he to himself, dropping from the hurried pace at which he had quitted the house into a leisurely amble; 'most unsatisfactory and highly ridiculous, to think that a man of my experience, who has been in the habit of treating matters of this kind for so many years, and with so many different styles of persons, should allow himself to be shut up and put down by that mild-spoken innocent, is beyond all powers of comprehension. I suppose it was because she was innocent that I gave way. I had expected something so completely different, that when it dawned upon me that she was speaking the truth, and that she actually had believed herself to be that old rascal's wife, I was so taken aback, that my usual savoir-faire completely deserted me. No doubt about the fact, though I think women's attempts at innocence are generally spoiled by being overdone; but this seemed in every way to be the genuine article. What a scoundrel must that Calverley have been This is just another instance of those men who are so highly respectable, and looked up to as patterns of all the domestic virtues, turning out after death to have been the most consummate hypocrites and shams, and infinitely worse than most of us, who, because we are less circumspect, have obtained the reputation of being black sheep. I myself never went in for being particularly straitlaced, but certainly I was never guilty of such a cold-blooded piece of villany as that perpetrated by the respectable patriarch of Great Walpole-street.
 
'What an idiot I was not to have recognised at once that a person of her appearance and manner could not be what she seemed, not to have discovered that she was in a false position, and ignorant herself of what must have been thought about her! Then, of course, I should have approached her in a different manner, made other plans equally easy of execution and far more certain of success. What an idiot I am,' he continued, striking his cane with vehemence against the ground, 'to think about her any more! There are hundreds of women quite as pretty and far more fascinating who would be only too well pleased to receive any attention from me, so why do I worry myself about one who has given me such a decided rebuff. Why? Most likely from the fact that that very rebuff has given piquancy to the adventure, that I am disinclined, because unaccustomed, to sit down under a sense of failure, and because--there!--because she seems to have bewitched me, and at my time of life, with all my experience, I am as much in love with her as if I were a boy suffering under my first passion.'
 
With a gesture of contempt for his own folly Mr. Wetter called a cab, and caused himself to be conveyed to his lodgings in South Audley-street, whence, at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he issued to mount his horse, which he had ordered to be brought round to him, and to ride off at a sharp pace. Whither? With the one idea of Alice dominant in his mind, he thought he would like to see once more the spot to which his attention had once been attracted; and though he had not much daylight before him, he turned his horse's head in the direction of Hendon.
 
Daylight was in truth beginning to wane, and Miss M'Craw, who was true to her old habits, and kept up as strict a system of espionage upon the family of the American gentleman, then domiciled in Rose Cottage, as ever she had upon Alice and John Calverley, was thinking of retiring from her post of observation at the window, when the figures of the horseman and his chestnut thoroughbred, which had formerly been so familiar to her, once more met her view.
 
Miss M'Craw strained almost out of the window with astonishment. 'What on earth has brought him back after so long an absence?' she said to herself. 'He cannot possibly be going to call upon those horrible American people.'
 
From her employment of this adjective, it will be gathered that Miss M'Craw did not cherish a particularly friendly feeling towards the new occupants of Rose Cottage. The fact was that her inquisitiveness and propensity to scandal came speedily under the observation of Mr. Hiram B. Crocker, the American gentleman in question, who described them under the head of 'general cussedness,' declined the acquaintance of Miss M'Craw, and had huge hoardings built up in the corners of his grounds for the purpose of intercepting her virgin gaze.
 
No, the equestrian was not going to call at Rose Cottage; did not stop at the gate, but rode slowly on until he reined-in his horse in the accustomed spot on the brow of the hill, and raising himself in his stirrups stood for an instant looking into the garden. He remembered then how he had first seen her tending her flowers, and looking eagerly out, evidently awaiting the arrival of some one, and how in a subsequent ramble he had discovered that some one to be John Calverley of Great Walpole-street, and all that had happened therefrom.
 
'How well the cards lay to my hand at one time,' he said to himself with an impatient gesture; 'and what a mess I have made of the game.' And with that he shook his horse's bridle and cantered away.
 
When Mr. Wetter reached South Audley-street, he found his groom standing on the curbstone, and a gentlemen in the act of knocking at the door. Alighting, he found this gentleman, to his great astonishment, to be Mr. Humphrey Statham; and at sight of him an uneasy pang shot through Mr. Wetter's mind. Humphrey Statham was, as he knew, an intimate friend of Mrs. Claxton's, and his visit there was doubtless on business connected with her. If she had described the scene which had passed between them that morning, that business would doubtless be of a very unpleasant character, and Mr. Wetter was not a brave man physically. He had borne in his time a vast amount of moral obloquy, and borne it well; but he had a horror of anything like physical pain, and Humphrey Statham was a big, strong, and resolute man. No wonder, therefore, that the article which did Mr. Wetter duty for a conscience quailed within him, or that he felt sorely uncomfortable when he recognised the visitor on his doorstep.
 
But he was the last man to give any early outward sign of such emotion, and it was in sprightly tones and with an air of easy jauntiness that he said,
 
'My dear Mr. Statham, I congratulate myself immensely on having returned so exactly in the nick of time, if, as I imagine, you were about to do me the honour of paying me a visit.'
 
'I was coming to call upon you, Mr. Wetter,' said Statham simply.
 
'Then pray walk in,' said Wetter, opening the door with his key, and following closely after him up the stairs. 'Take that chair; you will find it, I think, a particularly comfortable one; and,' going to an old oak sideboard, 'let me give you an appetiser, a petit verre of absinthe or vermouth. They are both here, and either of them is a most delicious ante-prandial specific.'
 
'No, thank you,' said Humphrey Statham; 'I will not drink with you.'
 
Whether intentionally or not, he laid such stress on the last words that Mr. Wetter looked up at him for an instant with flashing eyes. But his voice was quite calm when, a minute after he said, 'I will not attempt to persuade you. There is no such mistaken hospitality as that. And now, as a man of your business habits does not waste his time without a purpose, I will inquire the object of this visit.'
 
'It is not one into which business enters, in the strict sense of the word,' said Statham.
 
'So much the better,' said Mr. Wetter, with a gay smile. 'What is not a visit of business must be a visit of pleasure.'
 
'I hope you will find it so,' said Statham grimly. 'Its object, so far as I am concerned, is very easily stated. You were at Mrs. Claxton's to-day?'
 
'I was,' said Wetter, putting a bold face on the matter.
 
'And when there you thought it expedient to your purpose, and being expedient for your purpose, not below your dignity as a man, to subject your hostess for the time to the grossest insult that could be passed upon any one.'
 
'Sir!' cried Wetter, springing up.
 
'Be patient, Mr. Wetter, please,' said Humphrey Statham calmly; 'I have a great deal more to say. This lady had been made the victim of a most shameful, most diabolical fraud--the innocent victim, mind, of a fraud which robbed her of her good name, and blasted her position among honest men and women. She was ignorant as well as innocent, she knew not how basely she had been deceived; her friends kindly conspired to hide from her the blackness of her surroundings, and to keep her, poor child, in a fool's paradise of her own. And they succeeded until you came.'
 
'I was the serpent, in point of fact, in this fool's paradise that you speak of.'
 
'The character fits you to a nicety, Mr. Wetter, and you kept up the allegory by opening the eyes of the woman and causing her to know the position she occupied! Which was a genial, gentlemanly, generous act!'
 
'Look here,' said Mr. Wetter, 'there is a certain amount of right in what you say, though you are sufficiently hard upon me. But you know all is fair in love.'
 
'Love!' cried Statham scornfully.
 
'Well,' said Mr. Wetter, 'it is the most euphonious name for the feeling. All is fair in love or war, and I give you my word that when I spoke to Mrs. Claxton, I fully believed that she knew perfectly well the position she was occupying, and had accepted it of her own free will.'
 
'Do you believe that now?'
 
'No, I do not. I am a tolerably good hand at reading character, and there was something in her look and manner which convinced me that her statement, that she really believed Calverley to be Claxton, and imagined herself to be his wife, was true.'
 
'And yet you had the insolence to offer her--'
 
'Don't let us use harsh words, please, Mr. Statham. This is all very fine talking, but the fact remains the same. This lady was John Calverley's mistress; nothing can put that aside or blot that out. What I proposed to do was, to make her very rich, and happy, and comfortable. Could a man be found who would do any more? Is there any one who would be such a fool as to marry her?'
 
'Yes,' said Humphrey Statham, rising from his seat and confronting his companion; 'yes, Mr. Wetter,' he said, speaking very slowly, 'there is one man whose dearest hope in life it is to marry Alice Claxton. You are a man of the world, Mr. Wetter, and having said that much, I need add nothing to make you understand that it will be best and safest for you to respect her for the future. I came here this evening to impress this upon you, and having done so, I take my leave. Goodnight.'
 
And as he walked out, he saw by the expression of Mr. Wetter's face that no farther interference on the part of that gentleman was to be looked for.
 
CHAPTER XI.  RECOMPENSE.
 The next morning, at about twelve o'clock, Martin Gurwood arrived in Pollington-terrace, and found Alice alone in the drawing-room.
 
'I came especially to see you,' he said, after the first greeting, 'and yet I scarcely expected to find you had left your room so early. Yesterday was a day of severe trial to you, dear Mrs. Claxton, but you seem to have gone through it bravely.'
 
'If I did,' said Alice, with a half-mournful smile, 'I think it must have been owing to my pride. I did not know I possessed any of that quality until there came occasion for its display. But I suffered dreadfully from reaction during the night, and was as low and as hysterical as my worst enemy could wish me.'
 
'But that feeling has passed away now?'
 
'O yes; with the morning light came brighter thoughts and better sense; and when your name was announced, I was thinking seasonably enough, as it seemed to me, of the mercy of Providence in giving me such kind friends in the midst of my affliction.'
 
'I am glad to find you in this frame of mind, dear Mrs. Claxton, as I have come to talk to you on a subject which will require your particular attention.'
 
His voice faltered as he spoke, and the colour forsook her cheeks as she listened to him.
 
'My particular attention,' she repeated, with a forced smile. 'It must be something serious, then.'
 
'It is serious, but not, I hope, distasteful,' said Martin. 'I have been with Mr. Statham this morning. I went to him to give him the opportunity of speaking to me upon a matter which I knew he had most deeply at heart, and which must sooner or later have been broached by him.'
 
He looked at her keenly, watching the effect of his words. Her face expressed great interest, but no alarm, no regret. He was glad of that, he thought to himself.
 
'I was with Humphrey for an hour, and when I left him I told him I should come straight to you. Mine is a strange errand, Alice'--it was perhaps the first time he had addressed her by her Christian name, and the word as spoken by him rang musically but mournfully on her ear--'a strange errand for a confirmed old bachelor!'
 
Alice started at the word.
 
'Yes,' continued Martin, very pale, but striving hard to smile and to command the inflexions of his voice, 'it is the old story of people preaching what they never intend to practise. Dear Alice, Humphrey Statham loves you, and I am here to ask you to marry him?'
 
Bravely done, Martin, at last! Bravely done, though you were asking for what you knew was equivalent to your death-warrant; bravely spoken, without a break in your voice, though her dear eyes were fixed upon you, and you had taken into yours that little hand which you were urging her to bestow upon another.
 
Alice was motionless for a moment. Then she drew back, shuddering and crying, 'I cannot, I cannot.'
 
'Stay, Alice,' said Martin, in his soft soothing tone. 'Humphrey Statham is a great and a good man, and you owe him much. You know that I would not unnecessarily wound your feelings, dear Alice; but I must tell you that when we first discovered who you were, it was entirely owing to Humphrey Statham's chivalry, patience, and good sense that matters were arranged as they were, and that you were up to yesterday kept in ignorance of the fraud which had been practised. On you. I, misinformed and bigoted as I was, had intended to take other steps, but I yielded to Humphrey's calm counsel. Ever since that hour he has watched over your best interests with the keenest sympathy. Any comfort you have experienced is due to his fostering care and forethought, and so late as yesterday you yourself heard him plead your cause with eloquence, which was inspired by his affection for you.'
 
He paused for a moment, and Alice spoke. 'It is not that,' she said; 'it is not that. I know all I owe to Mr. Statham; I have long since acknowledged to myself how kind and good he has been to me. But,' she added, with downcast eyes and flushing cheeks, 'how can I let a man like that take me for his wife? He thinks he loves me now, and doubtless he does. He is not the man to be led away by his feelings, but the love of any man for me would be exposed to a worse trial than that of time or use. Could Mr. Statham bear to know that the world was talking of his wife, to guess what it said? Is not the world filled with persons like Mr. Wetter, and should I not by marrying any honest man expose him to the sneers and gibes of such a crew. I could not do it! I would not do it!'
 
'There would be no question of that,' said Martin Gurwood. 'Recollect that your story in its minutest details is known to Mr. Statham, and that he is the last man in the world likely to act upon impulse, or without a calm analysis of the motives that prompt him. There is no one who can testify to this so strongly as myself, and I can declare to you solemnly that it was made clear to both of us long since how blameless you were, and how grievously you had been sinned against. Do not abide by that hastily-spoken decision, Alice, I beseech you. Think of what a noble fellow Humphrey is; recollect how true and steadfast and triumphant has been his advocacy of your cause; recollect that he is no longer young, and that on your reply to the question I have put to you hangs the hope of his future life.'
 
Bravely spoken, Martin! The work of expiation progresses nobly now!
 
Alice was silent for a moment. Then she said, 'If I could think this--'
 
'Think it, believe it, rely on it! Standing to you, in the relation which was half self-assumed, half imposed upon me by the force of circumstances; loving you, as I do, with a brotherly regard--' (his voice faltered for an instant here; but he quickly regained its command)--'I could not be blinded in a matter in which your future happiness is involved, even by my affection for Humphrey Statham. Hearing this, you need have no farther fear. See, Alice, I may go back to Humphrey and make him happy, may I not? I may tell him, at least, that there is hope?'
 
Again a pause. Then the low but clear reply:
 
'You may.'
 
'God bless you, dear, for those words!' said Martin, bending down and touching her forehead with his lips. 'They will give new life to the noblest fellow in the world!' Then, as he drew back, he muttered to himself; 'It is all over now.'
 
'And you,' said Alice, laying her hand gently on his arm, 'you spoke of yourself just now as a confirmed bachelor; but I have had other hopes for you.'
 
'What do you mean?' he cried.
 
'Women's eyes are quick in such matters,' she said. 'Have you been too absorbed to perceive that there is one by whom your every movement is watched, your every thought anticipated? one for whose first proofs of kindness to me I was indebted to the interest she takes in you? one who--'
 
'I think you must be mistaken, my dear Alice,' said Martin coldly. 'It has been ordained that my life is to be celibate and solitary; and what pleasure I am to have is to be derived from the contemplation of your happiness. So be it; I accept my fate. Now I must hasten back to Humphrey with the good news.'
 
He kissed her forehead again, and left the room. As he passed down the stairs, he saw through the open door Pauline seated at the table in the dining-room writing. She looked up at his approach; and though he had intended going straight out, he could not resist her implied invitation to speak to her.
 
'After all, it will be better so,' he said to himself.
 
'I thought you would be here this morning, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline timidly. 'You have seen Alice, and you find her better than we could have hoped for, do you not?'
 
'Yes,' said Martin, 'I certainly found her better; but it was my good fortune to be the bearer of some news to her which I think has left her better still.'
 
'The idea which had haunted her previously--was it true? had he come to make the announcement?
 
'You the bearer of news?' she asked in tremulous tones.
 
'Yes,' he replied cheerily; 'good news for Alice, and news in which you, dear Mrs. Durham, will consequently rejoice. There is every reason that you, who have been so faithful to the trust reposed in you, so stanch a friend to us all, should be the first to hear it. Dear Alice is going to be married to Humphrey Statham.'
 
The tension of suspense had been so great that Pauline had scarcely strength to express her delight.
 
'Yes,' said Martin, speaking slowly and with emphasis, but purposely averting his eyes from his companion. 'It is a great blessing to me to know that two persons whom I love so dearly will be happy. I daresay it seems strange to other persons, and indeed it does sometimes to myself, to think that I, who am a confirmed bachelor, and who from very early youth determined to lead a single life, can take interest in settling the domestic matters of my friends. But in this instance, at least, I take the greatest interest; and I am sure that you will have the good sense to understand and appreciate my motive.'
 
'You pay me a great compliment by saying so, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline in a low constrained voice. Then, after a little pause, she asked, 'Have you five minutes to spare, Monsieur Martin, while I talk to you about myself?'
 
'Certainly,' said Martin; 'I was on my way to Humphrey with the news.'
 
'It is good news, and he can wait for it five minutes. If it were bad, it would go to him quickly enough,' said Pauline. 'I will not detain you longer than the time I have mentioned. I told you I wanted to talk to you about myself; and the subject is therefore not one in which I take much pleasure, or, indeed, much interest.'
 
'You should not speak so bitterly,' said Martin kindly. 'There are two or three of us whose best regard you have won and retain.'
 
'I did not mean to be bitter, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline humbly. 'I will put what I have to say in very few words. It will be obvious to you that the time has now arrived when the manner of my life must be again altered. Alice will find, or rather has found, a guardian better able to watch over and protect her; and my part, so far as she is concerned, is played out. You know all my story, Monsieur Martin, and you know human nature sufficiently well to recognise me as a woman of activity, and to be sure that it would be impossible for me to endure the nullity of this English life, in which I have no place; and now that Alice is safe, and going to be happy and respectable for ever, no occupation. I must be kept from thought, too, Monsieur Martin; from thinking of the past--you comprehend that.'
 
'Not of the immediate past,' he said gently, 'Recollect what use you have been to us: how could we have done without you? It will be pleasant to you to recollect the services you have rendered to this poor girl: how by your aid, at that fearful time of trial in the house at Hendon, we were enabled to overcome the difficulties which arose, and which would have been too much for us, but for your quickness and mother-wit. You will recollect how successfully you have watched over her here, and how her health has suffered but little comparatively from the dreaded shock under your skilful nursing and kind companionship. It will be pleasant to recall all these things, will it not, Pauline?'
 
'Yes,' said Pauline, pondering; 'but there is another portion of my past upon which I shall not care to dwell. To prevent the thought of that coming over me, and striking sorrow and dismay into my soul, I must give up this dreamy easy-going existence, and take to a life of action. I am not a strong-minded woman, Monsieur Martin; and God knows I do not pretend to have a mission, or any nonsense of that kind. There are not many positions for which I am fitted; some would be beyond my moral, others beyond my physical, strength. But I must have a career of some sort; and away in France there are various means of honest industry for women among my compatriots such as are not to be found here.'
 
'You intend to leave England, then?' asked Martin.
 
'Yes,' said Pauline. 'Why should I remain? As I said before, my part here is played out. Do you think it will be long before Alice is married?'
 
'I cannot say,' said Martin. 'No date has been mentioned; but if I am consulted, I shall advise that the marriage take place as soon as possible. There is no reason for delay; and for my own part, I am anxious to get home again.'
 
'You will go back to your country parish?' asked Pauline.
 
'For a time, certainly,' said Martin; 'but my plans are indefinite.'
 
'On the day of my sister-in-law's marriage, then, when I have placed her in her husband's hands, and thus satisfied myself that she has no farther need of me, I shall bid her adieu, and shall go to France. And I have a request to make to you, Mr. Gurwood, in your position as Mr. Calverley's executor. You are aware that just before I came to reside in his house, I placed in his hands two thousand pounds, which he was good enough to invest for me. I shall now be glad if you will sell those securities, and let me have the money, for which I shall have a use about that time. Will you do so?'
 
'Certainly I will. But is there no chance of your altering your decision?'
 
'None. You think it is a right one, do you not?'
 
'It is a conscientious one, no doubt; but we shall all miss you very deeply.'
 
Her earnest eyes were fixed upon him as he spoke. His words were fair, as he meant his tone to be hearty and regretful; but he was not clever enough to hide from her his unmistakable pleasure at her decision. She knew that he approved of her departure for Alice's sake, and, bitterest thought of all to her, felt it a relief for his own.
 
There was an awkward silence for some minutes. To break it, Martin remarked:
 
'You will be glad to hear that there is no danger of any farther annoyance from Mr. Wetter. It appears that Humphrey saw him yesterday; and after what passed between them, he is perfectly satisfied that Mr. Wetter will not attempt any farther interference.'
 
'I am pleased to hear it,' said Pauline, 'but not surprised. Henrich Wetter was always a coward; barking loudly when suffered to run at large, but crouching and submissive directly the whip is shaken over him. No, Alice need fear him no more.'
 
'One word more,' said Martin, rising from his seat; 'one last word, Madame Du Tertre--I shall always think of you by that name, which is very familiar and very pleasant to me--one last word before I take my leave. Can nothing more be done for you to help you in the life which you have chosen?'
 
Pauline looked at him steadily.
 
'Nothing,' she replied.
 
'Recollect that, though I am but a poor country parson, Humphrey Statham is what may be called a rich man; and I am sure I am justified in speaking for him, and saying that any amount of money which you might require would be at your service.'
 
'Pauline shook her head.
 
'Money in my country, more especially in the southern provinces, where my lot will most probably be cast, goes much farther than it does here; and what I have of my own will enable me not merely to live, but, as I trust, to do a certain amount of good to others. I am very grateful all the same, M. Martin, for your generous offer.'
 
'My generous offer,' said Martin, 'was simply proposing to acknowledge, in a very slight manner, the existence of a debt due to you by Alice's friends, and which can never be repaid. We will see later on if we cannot induce you to alter your decision.'
 
'Yes,' said Pauline quietly, 'we will see later on.'
 
Then Martin Gurwood took his leave of her, and walked back to his hotel. It was nearly over now; he had almost completed his self-appointed task. So well had he performed his mission, that Alice evidently had no idea of the sacrifice he was making in yielding her to his friend, no idea even that he had ever cared for her otherwise than as her guardian. That was proved by the manner in which she had hinted at her hope that he might find solace elsewhere. That was a strange notion too! Could it merely have arisen in Alice's imagination, or was there any real foundation for it? Had he been so absorbed in his infatuation about Alice as to have been blind to all else that was passing round him? He did not know; he could not say. If it was so, he had acted rightly and honestly in the course he had taken with Pauline. His infatuation for Alice! That was all over now: in his intemperate youth he had greatly erred, in his forlorn middle age was he not justly punished?
 
And while Martin was jostling through the crowd, Pauline sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, her mind filled with cognate thoughts. To her also the end had come. What had given the relish in her early days had long since grown distasteful to her; and the hope that had proved the light of her later life had, after doubtful flickering, at length been rudely extinguished; and in the hearts both of Martin and Pauline there was the same dismal consciousness that they were justly punished for the misdeeds of their youth, and that their expiation was necessary and just.
 
Two months after the date of these occurrences, on a bright and balmy spring morning, at a little City church hiding away somewhere between enormous blocks of warehouses, Humphrey Statham and Alice were married.
 
Brave to the last, Martin Gurwood performed the service, reading it with a strong manly voice, and imploring the blessing of Heaven on those concerned with unaffected fervour.
 
When the ceremony was ended, and the bride and bridegroom had departed, Martin joined the one other person who had been present--Pauline.
 
'Your plans for leaving are matured?' he said.
 
'So far matured,' she said, with a sad smile, 'that the cab with my luggage is at the end of the street, and that when I leave this, I go on board the steamer.'
 
'Indeed,' said Martin. 'Then you have taken leave of Alice?'.
 
'Yes; early this morning.'
 
'And you have told her of your plans?'
 
'No, indeed, for they are as yet undecided; but I have told her that I will write and let her know them.'
 
'Be sure that you do,' said Martin, 'for we are all of us deeply interested in you. I have brought you,' he added, handing her a packet, 'your own two thousand pounds. With them you will find two thousand pounds more--one thousand from Alice as your sister-in-law, one thousand from Humphrey as your dead husband's old friend. They bade me give you this with their united love, and hoped you would not shrink from accepting it.'
 
Pauline's voice shook very much as she replied, 'I will accept it certainly; I shall hope to find a good use for it.'
 
'Of that I have no doubt,' said Martin. They had reached the end of the street by this time, and found the luggage-laden cab in waiting. 'Good-bye, Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, after he had handed her into the vehicle, 'good-bye, and God bless you.'
 
'Good-bye, M. Martin,' said Pauline, returning his hand-pressure, and looking for an instant straight into his eyes, 'good-bye.' Then when the cab had driven off, she threw up her hands and crying out passionately, 'Adieu à jamais!' pulled her veil over her face and burst into a flood of tears.
 
CHAPTER XII.  L'ENVOI.
 Away in the pleasant village of Twickenham, at the end of a broad lane turning out of the high-road, stands, shut in by heavy iron gates and in the midst of a large and exquisitely-kept garden, a bluff, red-faced, square-built old-fashioned house. From its windows you look across a broad level mead to the shining Thames, winding like a silver thread amongst the rich pasture-grounds, while from the tall elms, planted with forethought more than a century ago to serve as a screen against the north-east wind, comes the cawing of a colony of rooks, who there have established their head-quarters. Over all, house and garden, river and rookery, mead and landscape, there is an air of peace and prosperity, wealth and comfort, calm and repose. Far away on the horizon a lowering gray cloud shows where the great metropolis seethes and smokes; but so far as freshness and pure air are concerned, you might be in the very heart of the country.
 
Creeping down the great staircase, and sliding along the broad open balustrade, comes a slim elegant little girl of about eight years old, who slips out through the open dining-room window, and running across the garden to the iron gates, peers long and earnestly down the lane. The little girl is disappointed apparently, for when she turns away, she walks soberly back to the house, and stationing herself at the bottom of the staircase, calls out, 'There is no sign of him yet, papa!'
 
'Well,' cries a cheery voice from the upper floor, 'there's plenty of time for him to come yet, little Bell! you are such an impatient little woman.' And with these words, Humphrey Statham walks out on to the landing in his dressing-gown and with a book in his hand.
 
Three years have passed away since the occurrences narrated in the last chapter. They have left but little mark on our old friend; he is a little more bald, perhaps, and there are, here and there, patches of gray in the roots of his crisp beard, but his eyes are as bright and his manner as cheery as ever.
 
'You are such an impatient little woman,' he repeated, pulling the child towards him and kissing her forehead.
 
'No, I am not,' said Bell; 'not impatient generally, poppy, only I want to see the gentleman, and you never will talk to me when you've got a book in your hand.'
 
'Between you and your mamma, what is one to do?' said Humphrey Statham, laughing. 'Mamma wants me to read to her, you want me to play with you, and it is impossible to please both at the same time.'
 
'We both want you, because we're both so fond of you, pappy darling,' said Bell, putting up her face again to be kissed, 'and you ought to be pleased at that. There, I declare then I did hear wheels.' And the child breaks away from Humphrey's grasp, and again rushes to the gate.
 
She is right this time. A fly is driving away, and the gentleman who has alighted from it stands waiting for admittance. A man with a thin face, clean-cut features, and light hair, dressed entirely in black and with a deep mourning band round his hat. He started violently at the sight of the child, but recovered himself with an effort.
 
'You are little Bell?' he said, putting out his hand.
 
'Yes,' she replied, sliding her little fingers into his, and looking up fearlessly into his face. 'I am little Bell, and you are Mr. Gurwood. I know you! Papa and mamma have been expecting you, O, ever so long.'
 
The child pulled him gently towards the house, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold when he was seized in Humphrey Statham's hearty grasp.
 
'Martin, my dear old friend--at last. We thought you would never come, we have waited for you so long.'
 
'So Bell tells me,' said Martin, returning his friend's pressure; 'but you see here I am. You're not looking a bit changed, Humphrey! And your wife?'
 
'Alice! Here she is to answer for herself.'
 
Yes, she was there, more lovely than ever, Martin thought, in the mellowed rounded beauty of her form, and with the innocent trusting expression in her eyes still unchanged.
 
 
Let us, unseen by them, stand by the two old friends as they sit that evening over their wine, in the broad bay-window looking towards the sunset, and from their conversation glean our final records.
 
'And you are very happy, Humphrey?' asked Martin.
 
'Happy!' cried Humphrey Statham; 'my dear Martin, I never knew what happiness was before. I rather think,' he continued, with a smile, 'that laziness may have something to do with it. You see, Alice doesn't care much about my being absent for the whole of the day, as I should necessarily be if I attended strictly to business; and as, living as we do, I do not spend anything like my income, I have knocked off City work to a certain extent, and leave the business in Mr. Collins's charge. He sees how matters are tending, and has made overtures to buy it, and shortly I shall let him have it to himself, I suppose. Not that my life is wholly objectless; there's the garden to look after, and Bell's education to superintend, and Alice to be read to; and then at night I potter away at a book on Maritime Law, which I am compiling, so that I find the twenty-four hours almost too short for what I have to do.'
 
'And Alice?'
 
'I think that I may say she is perfectly happy. I have not a thought which she does not share, not a wish which is not inspired by her.'
 
'And little Bell? What a charming child she has grown to be! To go back, Humphrey, for the first and only time to that conversation which we had in your chambers, I may say that circumstanced as I am in regard to that child, I was delighted to notice the fancy she seemed to take to me to-day.'
 
'Curiously enough she has had from the first mention of your name an odd interest about you, and has frequently asked when you were coming to see us.'
 
'Does--does Alice know anything about that story?'
 
'Only so far as I am concerned. I told her of my early attachment to Emily Mitchell, and the story of how I lost her; but she has not the least idea of Emily's farther career beyond the fact that Bell is Emily's child.'
 
'True to the last, true as steel!' said Martin Gurwood, grasping his friend's hand.
 
'And now tell me of yourself; Martin,' said Humphrey Statham; 'what you are doing, what are your plans?'
 
'It is soon told,' said Martin Gurwood. 'I wrote you of my poor mother's death, and told you that she died without making any will. I am consequently her sole heir, and am a very rich man. The money is no good to me, Humphrey, but it will be a fine portion for little Bell, whom I have made my heiress under your guardianship.'
 
'Time enough to think of that, Martin. What do you intend to do now?'
 
'To work, old friend, according to my lights, in striving to better the condition of my fellow men. Yesterday I resigned the Vicarage of Lullington, and--'
 
'You don't mean to say you are going to become a missionary?'
 
'Not as you seem to suspect,' said Martin, with a smile, 'among savages and cannibals, but among those who perhaps need it not less, the lower classes of London. In striving to do them good, I purpose to spend my life and my income, and it will need but a very moderate amount of success to convince me that I have done rightly.'
 
'It is not for me to quarrel with the decision, Martin,' said Humphrey Statham; 'it is boldly conceived, and I know will be thoroughly carried out. And it will be moreover a satisfaction to me and to Alice to know that the scene of your labours is so close to us. When you want temporary rest and change, you will find your home here. You know that there is no one in the wide world whom it would give my wife and myself so much pleasure to welcome.'
 
'I know it,' said Martin, 'and have my greatest pleasure in knowing it. Now tell me, Humphrey, has anything ever been heard of Madame Du Tertre, of Pauline?'
 
'Nothing,' replied Humphrey Statham, shaking his head; 'as you know, she promised to write to us to tell us of her plans, but she has never done so, and that, I think, is the one grief of Alice's life. Pauline was so true a friend to my wife at a time when she most needed such a friend, that she was most desirous to hear of her again. But it seems as though that were not to be; her name is one of those which are "writ in water."'
 
One more look around ere the curtain falls. See Alice adored by her husband, happy and contented with all the troubles of the past obliterated. See Humphrey Statham devoted to his wife, and finding in her love a recompense for the havoc and the tempest which destroyed his early hope. See Martin Gurwood labouring manfully, steadfastly, among the London poor, inculcating both by precept and example the doctrine to the setting forth of which he has devoted his life. See him making occasional holiday with his old friends, and watching over the growth and education of little Bell; thinking of the providence which has endowed this girl so nobly by the hands of the two men who what are your plans temptations which come to women with poverty and friendlessness; how the Yellow Flag will never flaunt over her beautiful head, a taunt and a warning.
 


THE END.