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.'