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, but 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&ène 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, 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," 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!'