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.