HAGAR'S VISIT.
In the house in Great Walpole-street there was little change. Things
went on in pretty much the same manner as when John Calverley was in
the habit of creeping back to his dismal home with sorrow in his
heart, or when Pauline sat watching and plotting in the solitude of
her chamber. Since her second husband's death Mrs. Calverley seemed to
have eschewed even the small amount of society which she had
previously kept; the heavy dinner-parties were given up, and the only
signs of so-called social intercourse were the fortnightly meetings of
a Dorcas Club which was held under Mrs. Calverley's auspices, and at
which several elderly ladies of the neighbourhood discussed tea and
scandal under the pretence of administering to the necessities of the
poor. At other times, the mistress of the house led a life which was
eminently solitary and self-contained. She read occasionally, it
is true; but when she called at the circulating library, she brought
away with her, for her amusement or edification, no story in which,
under the guise of fiction, the writer had endeavoured to portray any
of the varieties of shifting human nature which had come beneath his
ken; no poem glowing with passion and ardour, or sweetly musical with
melodious numbers. Hard, strong books of travel through districts with
immense unpronounceable names; tales of missionary enterprise set forth
in the coldest, baldest, and least-educated style, relieved with
frequent interpolations of theological phraseology; reviews which had
once been potential, but whose feeble echoes Of former trumpet
fanfarons now fell idly on inattentive ears; polemical discussions on
religious questions, and priestly biographies--lives of small men,
containing no proper precept, setting no worthy example--these were
Mrs. Calverley's favourite reading. The butler declared that she read
nothing at all; that though these books were brought from Mudie's on
the back seat of the carriage, and were afterwards displayed on the
drawing-room table, one at a time occupying the post of honour on his
mistress's lap, she never so much as glanced at them, but sat staring
with her steely blue eyes straight in front of her; a state of things
which, rigorously persisted in, afflicted the butler, on his own
statement, with a disease known to him as 'the creeps,' and which was
considered generally so uncanny throughout the lower regions, that had
not the wages been good and the table liberal, the whole household
would have departed in a body.
About four o'clock on a dull afternoon in the very early spring, Mrs.
Calverley was seated in her drawing-room in that semi-comatose state
which inspired her domestics with so much terror. Some excuse,
however, was to be made for her not attempting, on the present
occasion, to read the book which lay idly in her lap, the time being
'between the lights,' as the phrase goes, when the gathering gloom of
light, aided by the ever-present thickness of the London atmosphere,
blots out the sun's departing rays before the time recorded in the
almanac. It was very seldom, indeed, that Mrs. Calverley suffered her
thoughts to dwell upon any incident of her immediately passed life. On
what had happened during her girlhood, when she was the spoiled and
petted heiress, on certain episodes in the career of jolly George
Gurwood, her first husband, in which she had borne a conspicuous part,
she was in the habit of bestowing occasional remembrances; but all
that concerned her later life she wilfully and deliberately shut out
from her mind. And this not from any sting of conscience, for Mrs.
Calverley considered herself far too immaculate to be open to any such
vulgar, consideration, but, as she said to herself, because everything
of that kind was too near to allow her to form an impartial judgment
upon it. It chanced, however, that upon this particular day, the
deceased John Calverley had been frequently present to his widow's
recollection. There was nothing extraordinary in this; it arose from
the fact that that very morning, in looking through the contents of an
old trunk which had long since been consigned to the lumber-room, Mrs.
Calverley had come upon an old fly-blown water-colour drawing of a
youth with a falling linen collar, a round jacket, and white-duck
trousers, a drawing which bore some faint general resemblance to John
even as she remembered him. Pondering over this work of art in a
dreamy fashion, Mrs. Calverley found herself wondering whether her
late husband's mental condition in youth had been as frank and
ingenuous as that to be gathered from his physical portrait; and,
secondly, whether she had not either faultily misapprehended or
wilfully misconstrued that mental and moral condition even during the
time that she had been acquainted with him. Two or three times later
in the day her mind had wandered to the same topic, and now, as she
sat in the dull drawing-room in the failing light, her thoughts were
full on him. It was pleasant, she remembered, though she had not
thought so at the time, to be looking forward in expectation of his
return home at a certain hour; pleasant to know that he would probably
be detained beyond the appointed time, thereby giving her opportunity
for complaint; pleasant to have some one to vent her annoyance upon
who would feel it so keenly, and reply to it so little. She had not
hitherto looked at her loss from this point of view, and she was much
struck by the novelty of it; though she had never had any opinion of
Mr. Calverley, she was willing to admit that he was not absolutely
bad-hearted; nay, there were times when--
Her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, who
announced that a young lady was below desiring to speak to Mrs.
Calverley.
'A lady! What kind of a lady?'
'A--a widow, mum,' replied the butler, pointing in an imbecile way,
first at Mrs. Calverley's cap, and then at his own head.
'Ah,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a deep groan, and shaking her head to
and fro--for she never missed an opportunity of making capital out of
her condition before the servants--'one who has known grief; eh, James?
And she wants to see me?'
'Asked first if you lived here, mum, and then was very particular in
wishing to see you. A pleasant-spoken young woman, mum, and not like
any begging-letter impostor, or coves--or people I mean--of that
sort.'
'You can light the gas, James, and then show the lady up. No, stay;
show her up at once, and do not light the gas until I ring.'
Since she had known Madame Du Tertre, Mrs. Calverley had taken some
interest in her own personal appearance, and not having seen her
toilet-glass since the morning, she had an idea that she might have
become somewhat-dishevelled.
The butler left the room, and presently returned, ushering in a lady
who, so far as Mrs. Calverley could make out in the uncertain light,
was young, of middle height, and dressed in deep mourning.
The mistress of the mansion motioned her visitor to a seat, and making
a stiff bow said:
'You wish to speak to me, I believe?'
'I wish to speak with Mrs. Calverley.'
'I am Mrs. Calverley. What is your business?'
'Your--your husband died recently?'
'About six months ago. How very curious! What is your object in asking
these questions?'
'Bear with me, pray! Do not think me odd; only answer me what I ask
you--my reasons for wishing you to do so are so urgent.'
'The lady's voice was agitated, her manner eager and unusual. Mrs.
Calverley did not quite know what to make of her visitor. She might be
a maniac, but then why her interest in the deceased Mr. Calverley?
Another, and to her idea, a much more likely explanation of that
mystery arose in Mrs. Calverley's mind. Who was this hussy who was so
inquisitive about other women's husbands? She should like to see what
the bold-faced thing looked like. And she promptly rang the bell to
summon James to light the gas.
'You will answer me--will you not?' said the pleading voice.
'It depends upon what you ask,' replied Mrs. Calverley with a smile.
'Tell me then--Mr. Calverley--your husband--was he very fond of you?'
The few scattered bristles which did duty as Mrs. Calverley's eyebrows
rose half an inch nearer her forehead with astonishment.
'Yes,' she replied after a moment's reflection; 'of course he
was--devoted.'
Something like a groan escaped from the stranger.
'And you--you loved him?'
'Very much in the same way,' said Mrs. Calverley, feeling herself for
the first time in her life imbued with a certain amount of grim
humour--'quite devoted to him.'
'Yes,' said the visitor sadly, 'that I can fully understand. Did you
ever see or hear of his partner, Mr. Claxton?'
'I never saw him,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'I've heard of him often
enough, oftener than I like. It was he that persuaded Mr. Calverley to
going into that speculation about those iron-works which Mr. Jeffreys
can make nothing of. But he wasn't a partner in the house; there are
no partners in the house--only some one that Mr. Calverley knew in the
City, and probably a designing swindler, for Mr. Calverley was a weak
man, and this Claxton--'
'Mr. Claxton was the best man that ever walked this earth!' cried
Alice, breaking forth, 'the kindest, the dearest, and the best.'
'Heyday!' cried Mrs. Calverley with a snort of defiance. 'And who may
you be, who knows so much about Mr. Claxton, and who wants to know so
much about Mr. Calverley?'
'That is right, James,' she added, 'light the gas;' and then she said
in a lower tone, 'I shall be better able to judge the kind of visitor
I have.'
'The gas was lighted and the servant left the room; Mrs. Calverley
rose stiffly from her chair and advanced towards Alice, who remained
seated.
'What is this,' she said in a strong voice, 'and who are you? coming
here tricked out in these weeds to make inquiries, and to utter
sentiments at which modest women would blush. Who are you, I say?'
But while Mrs. Calverley had been speaking Alice had looked up, and
her eyes had fallen upon a picture hanging against the wall. A big
crayon head of John, her own old John, jut as she had known him, with
the large bright eyes, the heavy thoughtful brow, and the lines round
the mouth somewhat deeply graven. For an instant she bent her head
before the picture, the next, with the tears welling up into her eyes,
and in a low soft voice, without the slightest exaggeration in tone or
manner, she said:
'You ask me who I am, and I will tell you!' Then pointing up to the
portrait, 'I am that man's widow!'
'What!' screamed Mrs. Calverley. 'Do you know who that was?'
'No,' said Alice, 'except that he was my husband.'
'Why, woman!' exclaimed the outraged mistress of the house, in a
torrent of rage, 'that was Mr. Calverley!'
'I know nothing,' said Alice, 'save that in the sight of Heaven he was
my husband. Call him by what name you will, he had neither lot nor
part with you. You tell me that he loved you, was devoted to you--it
is a lie! You talk of your love for him, and that may be indeed, for
he was meant to be loved! But he was mine, all mine--ah, my dear John!
ah, my darling old John!'
She broke down utterly here, and fell on her knees before the picture,
in a flood of tears.
'Well, upon my word,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'this is a little too
much! No one who knows me would imagine for a minute that I should
condescend to quarrel about Mr. Calverley with any trolloping miss who
chooses to come here! And no one who knew Mr. Calverley, selfish and
neglectful as he was, and without the least consideration for me,
would suspect him of being such a Bluebeard or a Mormon as you
endeavour to make him out! How dare you come here with a tale like
this! How dare you present yourself before me with your brazen face
and your well-prepared story, unless it is, as I suppose, to induce me
to give you hush-money to stop your mouth. Do you imagine for an
instant that I am to be taken in by such a ridiculous plot? Do you
imagine for an instant that--'
She stopped, for there was a sound of voices outside, and the next
moment the door opened and Martin Gurwood, closely followed by
Humphrey Statham, entered the room.
Mrs. Calverley dropped the arm which she had extended in monition,
and Alice ran to place herself by Martin Gurwood's side.
'Save me from her!' she cried, shrinking on his arm. 'Save me from
this woman!'
'Do not be afraid,' said Martin, endeavouring to calm her. 'We thought
to find you here, but hoped to be in time to prevent your suffering
any annoyance. Mother,' he added, turning to Mrs. Calverley, 'there is
some mistake here.'
'There must be some mistake, indeed,' observed Mrs. Calverley, with
great asperity, 'when I find my son, a clergyman of the Church of
England, taking part against his mother with a woman who, take the
most charitable view of it, is only fitted for Colney Hatch Lunatic
Asylum.'
'Not to take part against you, mother? Surely--'
'Well, I don't know what you call it,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'or
whether you consider it quite decorous to keep your arm round that
young person before your mother's face! Or whether'--here the worthy
lady gave a short nod towards Statham--'gentlemen with whom I have but
slight personal acquaintance think themselves justified in coming into
my house uninvited! I am an old-fashioned person, and I daresay don't
understand these matters, but in my time they would not have been
tolerated.'
'See, dear mother,' said Martin quietly, 'you do us all, and more
especially this lady, great injustice!'
'O, very likely,' said Mrs. Calverley, sarcastically; 'very likely she
is right and I am wrong! She has just told me that she was Mr.
Calverley's wife, and no doubt you will bear out that that is correct,
and that I have been dreaming for the last twelve years.'
'If you will permit me to speak, madam,' said Humphrey Statham in his
deep tones, 'I think I can prove to you that this lady has, or
imagines she has, grounds for the statement which she has made, and
that while you have been deeply injured, her injuries are worse, and
more serious than yours.'
'You will hear Mr. Statham, if you please, mother,' said Martin
Gurwood; 'I am here to attest the truth of all that he will say.'
And then, with homely natural eloquence springing from the depth of
his feeling, Humphrey Statham told, in nervous unadorned language, the
story of the betrayal of the woman whom he loved. On the dead man's
perfidy he dwelt as lightly as he could, more lightly still on the
probable causes which had induced the dead man to waver in his faith,
and to desert the home which had been rendered so unattractive to him;
but he spoke earnestly and manfully of the irremediable wrong done to
Alice, and of the manner in which her life had been sacrificed; and,
finally, he produced the document in John Calverley's handwriting,
which had just been discovered, to show how completely she had been
made the victim of a fraud.
Sitting bolt upright on her chair, and slowly rubbing her withered
hands one over the other, Mrs. Calverley listened to Statham's speech.
When he stopped she bridled up and said with asperity,
'A very pretty story indeed; very well concocted and arranged between
you all. Of course, I may believe as much of it as I choose! There's
no law, I imagine, to compel me to swallow it whole, even though my
son, a clergyman of the Church of England, sits by and nods his head
in confirmation of his friend. And don't imagine, please, that I am at
all surprised at what I hear about Mr. Calverley! I hear it now for
the first time, but I always imagined him to be a bad and wicked man,
given up to selfishness and debauchery, and quite without the power of
appreciating the blessings of a well-ordered home. The young woman
needn't start! I am not going to demean myself by engaging in any
controversy with her, and wish rather to ignore her presence. But I
will say,' said Mrs. Calverley, drawing herself up, 'but I will say
that I had not expected to find that my son was sanctioning these
proceedings, and conniving at the disgrace which was being heaped upon
me.'
'Mother!' cried Martin Gurwood, appealingly.
'It might,' continued Mrs. Calverley, with great placidity, 'it might
have been imagined that, as my son, and leaving out all question of
his clerical position, he would have adopted another course, but such
do not appear to have been his views. Let me tell him,' she cried,
turning upon Martin with sudden fierceness, 'that henceforward he is
no son of mine That I renounce him and leave him to shift for himself;
he has no longer any expectations from me! On certain conditions I
promised to share all with him now, and leave him my sole heir at my
death. But I revoke what I said; I am mistress of my own fortune, and
will continue to be so. Not one penny of it shall go to him.'
'You are, of course, at liberty to do what you like with your fortune,
mother,' said Martin quietly, 'and it would never occur to me for an
instant--'
'Stay!' interrupted Statham, taking his friend by the arm and pointing
to Alice; 'there is no use in prolonging this painful discussion, and
Mrs. Claxton is completely exhausted.'
'You are right,' said Martin, rising from his seat, 'we have been
somewhat thoughtless in thus overtaxing her strength, and will take
her home at once.' Then advancing, he said, in a low tone, 'Mother,
will you see me to-morrow?'
'Mr. Martin Gurwood,' said Mrs. Calverley, in a clear cold voice,
'with my own free will I will never look upon you again! And though
the name that I bear is that of one who was a scoundrel, I am glad
that it is not the name which is disgraced by you!'
And thus those two parted.