Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to
consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a
sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to
collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing
around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision
subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly
bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition
the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her
widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.
In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the
patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must
not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you.
You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account
be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and
then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the
sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and
closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at
motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to
bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation,
and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same
order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just
the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table,
the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to
their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline
seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant,
fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards
to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her
forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with
the gentlest touch imaginable.
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task,
and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign
of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are
anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite
different from her usual clear voice,
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has
happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he
dead?'
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'
'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice.
'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at
once?'
'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do
not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were
to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting
out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at
last, and fell into a fainting fit.'
'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.
'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained
in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'
'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by
your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without
my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'
'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said
Pauline softly. 'It is so.'
Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and
she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over
which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with
her hands, and sobbing forth broken ejaculations of misery and despair.
Pauline did not attempt to interfere with her while she was in this
state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate, waiting until
the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should
subside. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow,
the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still
continued to flow, the ejaculations softened down into one oft-repeated
wail, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'
Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will
become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying
here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with
your future.'
'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that?
How can they give me back my husband?'
'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly,
'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary and more
hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,'
she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, 'that
you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the
gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'
'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'
'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'
'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I
recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this
parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'
'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr.
Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'
'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then,
it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'
'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the
explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very
kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the
next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'
'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round
her with a sigh.
'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be
better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively;
Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear,
I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some
arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can.
I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are
almost yourself again.'
'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself
again!'
Meanwhile the mistress of the house in Great Walpole-street had been in
anything but an enviable frame of mind. It has been observed of Mrs.
Calverley, that even when she was Miss Lorraine, and during the lives
of both her husbands, her favourite position was standing upon her
dignity, a position which, with some persons, is remarkably difficult
to maintain.
Mrs. Calverley was of opinion that by the conduct both of her companion
and of her son, her dignity had been knocked from under her, and
she had been morally upset, and that, too, at a time when she had
calculated on receiving increased homage: on taking her place as
acknowledged head of the household. That Madame Du Tertre should ask to
be relieved from her attendance at a time when of all others she might
have known that her presence would be necessary to console her friend
in her affliction, And to aid her in devising schemes for the future,
was in itself a scandal and a shame. But that her son Martin, who, as
a clergyman of the Church o England, ought to be a pattern of filial
obedience and all other virtues, should neglect his mother in the way
that he did, going away to keep what he called business appointments
day after day; above all, that he should omit to give her any definite
answer to the generous proposition which she had made him, was more
scandalous and more shameful.
So Mrs. Calverley remained swelling with spite and indignation, all the
more fierce and bitter because she had to keep them to herself. And
these were the first days of her triumph--days which she had thought to
spend very differently, in receiving the delicate flattery and veiled
homage which she had been accustomed to from Pauline, in listening to
the protestations of gratitude which she had expected from her son. Now
both of these persons were absent--for Martin was so little at Great
Walpole-street that his mother had small opportunity of conversation
with him--and she was left in her grim solitude; but she knew sooner
or later they would return, and when she did get the opportunity she
was perfectly prepared to make it as uncomfortable for each of them as
possible.
It was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Calverley, who had so far
given in to the fashion of the time, as to take her five-o'clock
tea--which was served, not with the elegant appliances now common,
but in a steaming breakfast-cup on an enormous silver salver--had
settled herself to the consumption of what might be called her meal,
when Pauline entered the room. She came forward rapidly, and taking
her patroness's hand, bent over it and raised it to her lips. Mrs.
Calverley gave her hand, or rather let it be taken, with sufficiently
bad grace. She sat poker-like in her stiffness, with her lips tightly
compressed. It was not her business to commence the conversation, and
the delay gave her longer time to reflect upon the bitter things she
fully intended to say.
'So at last I am able to once more reach my dear friend's side,'
said Pauline, seating herself in close proximity. She saw at once
the kind of reception in store for her, and though the course on
which she had determined rendered her independent of Mrs. Calverley's
feelings towards her, she was too good a diplomatist to provoke where
provocation was unnecessary.
'You certainly have not hurried yourself to get there,' said Mrs.
Calverley, clipping the words out from between her lips. 'I have now
been left entirely to myself for--'
'Do not render me more wretched by going into the details of the time
of my absence,' said Pauline; 'it has impressed itself upon me with
sufficient distinctness already.'
'I should have thought, madame,' said Mrs. Calverley unrelentingly,
'that strictly brought up as you have always represented yourself to
be, you would have understood, however pleasantly your time may have
been occupied, that your duty required you to be in this house.'
'However pleasantly my time may have been occupied!' cried Pauline.
'Each word that you utter is an additional stab. It is duty and duty
alone which has called me away from your side. It is duty which imposes
a farther task upon me, cruel, heart-rending task, which I have yet
to declare to you! And you, who have been a life-long martyr to the
discharge of your own duty, ought to have some pity for me in the
discharge of mine.'
These last words were excellently chosen for her purpose. That she was
a martyr, and an unrecognised martyr, was the one text on which Mrs.
Calverley preached: to acknowledge her in that capacity was to pay
her the greatest possible compliment. So, considerably mollified, she
replied, 'If I felt annoyed at your absence, Palmyre, it was for your
sake more than for my own. The loss of your society is a deprivation to
me, but I am accustomed to deprivations and to crosses of all kinds.
I devoted myself to my husband--and had he listened to the counsel I
gave him, he would be here at this moment--and I am prepared to devote
myself to my son.'
'Ah,' said Pauline with earnestness, 'Monsieur Martin!'
'Yes, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'Monsieur Martin, as you speak
of him in your foreign way, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, as he is
generally called. I am prepared to devote myself to him. I have told
him that I will remove him from that desolate country parish, and
establish him here in London in a church of his own, that he shall live
with me in this house, share my wealth, and dispense my charities.'
'Martin in London,' thought Pauline to herself. 'Then it is in London
that Alice and I must take up our abode.' Then she said aloud, 'And
what does Monsieur Martin say to this grand, this generous proposition,
madame?'
'Ay, exactly--what does he say!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'You may well
ask that! You and every one else would have thought that he would have
jumped at such an offer, wouldn't you? And so he would, doubtless, if
it had come from any one else, but it is my lot to suffer!'
'He has not refused it, madame?'
'No, he has not refused; he has given me no definite answer any way.'
'Ah, he will not refuse you, I am sure,' said Pauline, clasping her
hands; 'the prospect of such a life with such a mother must overcome
even his strict notions of self-denial. Ah, madame, if you could only
know what a thrill of joy your words have sent through my heart, how
what you have said has tended to disperse the black clouds which were
gathering over me!'
'Dear me, Palmyre,' cried Mrs. Calverley, in her blank unimaginative
way, 'black clouds! What on earth are you talking about?'
'I told you just now that I had a yet farther sacrifice to make to
duty. It is a sacrifice so great, so painful to me, that I hardly dared
to hint at it; but what you have said just now robs it somewhat of its
sting. What a comfort it would be to me to know that you had some one
to look after and cherish you, as you ought to be cherished, when I am
gone.'
'What's that you said, Palmyre?' cried Mrs. Calverley, sharply indeed,
but nothing like so viciously as Pauline had expected. 'You are gone!
What do you mean by that?'
'When I am gone,' repeated Pauline, 'in obedience to duty which calls
upon me. Ah, dear friend, why are you wealthy, and in high position,
surrounded by comforts and luxury? If you were poor and needy, sick and
struggling, I could reconcile it with my duty to remain here with you;
as it is, I am called upon to leave you, and to devote myself to those
to whom my poor services can be useful.'
'You must be more explicit, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still
without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty as she was, she had been
somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion
the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed
materially lightened.
'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you
who have a benevolent heart.'
'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
'My cousin?' cried Pauline.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'your cousin, who was lying ill at the
poor lodging, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not
speak our language, and was utterly helpless; she is worse, I suppose?
Perhaps she is dead!'
'Tiens,' said Pauline to herself; 'it is lucky she reminded me about
the cousin; in all the confusion and plotting I had almost forgotten
what I had said. No, my dear friend,' she said aloud, 'my poor cousin
still lives, and is, indeed, considerably easier and better than when
I first went to her. A relation of hers, a brother-in-law, has found
her out, and is being kind to her, as the poor are always kind to one
another; not, indeed, that this brother-in-law can be called poor,
except in comparison with persons of wealth like yours. He is an old
friend of mine; he knew my father, the artillery officer at Lyons,
and used often to come to my husband's house when we were in business
there.'
'He admired you then, and he has made an offer now, and you are going
to be married to him?' said Mrs. Calverley, with an icy smile. 'Is that
it, Palmyre; is that the sacrifice you feel yourself called upon to
make?'
'Ah, my friend,' cried Pauline, 'there is no question of anything of
that sort for me; my heart is buried in grief. No, this worthy man, who
has known me so long, knows that I am what you call in your language,
but for which we have no word in French, respectable. He knows that I
can be trusted, and he offers to me a place of trust; he asks me to
undertake a sacred charge.'
'Dear me,' again ejaculated Mrs. Calverley; 'what might that be?'
'This old friend of mine finds himself left as guardian and trustee
for the widow and orphan of his former ward, a wretched young man--he
must have been born under an evil star, for nothing seemed to prosper
with him--and who has just died of consumption at Nice. The widow is,
as I understand, a weak creature, very young, very pretty, and utterly
inexperienced. Her husband during his lifetime never allowed her to
do anything, and the consequence is that she is quite ignorant of the
ways of the world, and would be easily snapped up by any one who might
choose to take advantage of her. Being, as I have said, very pretty,
and having a small competence of her own, I need scarcely tell you that
there would be plenty of wretches on the look-out for her.'
'Wretches, indeed!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'One of the few curses of
wealth is that it renders one liable to be so beset.'
'My old friend,' then pursued Pauline, 'a warm-hearted man, who
preserves a grateful recollection of the manner in which at the outset
of his life he was befriended by his dead ward's father, and desirous
of shielding the widow and orphans to the best of his power, offered
me a modest salary to take up my abode with this young woman, and to
become her protector and look after her generally.'
'Well,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff, 'and what did you say to
that?'
'I refused altogether. I told him that I was already living with
one whom fortune had cruelly treated in depriving her of her only
protector, and who from her resignation and goodness commanded my
deepest sympathy. But my old friend refused to accept this explanation,
and after questioning me closely about you and your position, pointed
out that if I were doing a good action in living with you, who were
wealthy and powerful, how much more rigorously should I be discharging
my duty in giving myself up to those who, while equally afflicted
with you in the loss of those they loved, were not endowed with your
circumstances, worse than all, were not endowed with your patience and
Christian resignation.'
A faint flush of pleasure glowed on Mrs. Calverley's pale cheeks.
'There is something in that,' she said; 'it was a sensible remark. My
trouble has been lifelong, I have been schooled in it from my youth;
but this poor person is only just beginning to know the miseries of the
world. Well, Palmyre, what did you say then?'
'I felt, dear friend, that, as you say, the argument was strong, the
appeal almost irresistible; but I said that I could give no definite
reply; that, however strongly my duty might call me elsewhere, my heart
was with you; that I would lay the case before you, exactly as it
stood, and unless I had your free consent I should not separate myself
from you.'
Outwardly calm and composed, Mrs. Calverley was inwardly in a state
of great delight. Not merely did she see her way to getting rid of
her companion without any trouble, but she would receive the greatest
credit for her magnanimity and self-denial in giving Pauline up to
those whose need was greater than her own. It was, however, necessary
that she should be cautious and reticent to the last, so before
pledging herself to anything definite Mrs. Calverley said:
'You, Palmyre, who know my character so well, must be perfectly aware
that the circumstances which you have narrated to me are such as would
command my warmest sympathies, but before I give you any definite
answer, I should like to ask you one or two questions. The little
household over which you are called upon to preside will be established
in France, I presume?'
'No,' said Pauline, 'In England. The poor widow is an Englishwoman, and
declines to go away with her little child, a charming little creature,
from the land of her birth.'
'In England?' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'And whereabouts in England?'
'Nothing is yet settled,' said Pauline, 'but I have no doubt that I
should have some hand in deciding that, and all my influence would be
used to remain in the neighbourhood of London.'
Mrs. Calverley was overjoyed at this announcement; she thought she saw
her way to making use of her quondam ally without the necessity of
recompensing her.
She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said, in a tone which she
tried to modulate as much as possible, but which was unmistakably
triumphant, 'I have reflected, Palmyre, and I find it is again my duty
to exercise that power of self-denial with which I have fortunately
been imbued. These poor creatures have greater need of you than I, and
however much I may suffer by the abnegation, I waive my claim upon
you--I give you up to them.'
'You are an angel,' said Pauline, bending down to kiss her friend's
hand. Her face was necessarily hidden, but if any one could have caught
a glimpse of it they would have seen on it an expression of intense
amusement.
'I shall see you again, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
'O, certainly,' said Pauline; 'I shall let you know as soon as anything
is settled, and I sincerely trust that my duties will not be so
constant and so binding as to prevent my frequently coming to visit my
best and dearest friend.'
'Does she take me for a fool, this woman?' said Pauline when she had
gained the solitude of her bedroom, 'or is she so blinded by her own
folly as to believe that other people are so weak as she? However, the
difficulty, such as it was, has been easily arranged, and all is now
clear for me to commence my new manner of life.'
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Yellow Flag, Volume 2 (of 3), by Edmund Yates