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 he 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.'