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.