Mr Gideon Maggleby had been married rather less than two-and-twenty
hours, when at about nine o’clock on the morning of March 23, 1868, he
walked into the room in which he had so often breakfasted and dined
with his late friend and partner, Solomon Pudster. Mr Maggleby, who was
pre-eminently a man of business, had not seen fit to go to the Isle
of Wight or to Paris to spend his honeymoon; and Mrs Maggleby, who
was nothing if not a woman of sound sense, had loyally accepted the
decision of her third lord and master. They had agreed to stay in town,
and not to allow their new happiness to interfere with their material
interests in Mincing Lane. Mr Maggleby had determined, however, to make
a holiday of the day after his wedding; to stay at home in the morning
with his wife, to escort her to Madame Tussaud’s in the afternoon, and
to take her to the play in the evening.
With this comfortable programme in his mind’s eye, Mr Maggleby came
down to breakfast in his flowered dressing-gown. Mrs Maggleby, he knew,
would not be many minutes behind him, and he therefore rang the bell
for the coffee, and turned lazily towards the table, upon which lay
two piles of letters. The smaller heap chiefly consisted of missives
addressed to Mrs Pudster, for the marriage of the previous day had not
as yet been noised abroad in the country, and Mrs Maggleby had several
female correspondents who communicated with her much more often than
she communicated with them. The larger bundle was made up of letters
addressed either to Mr Maggleby or to Messrs Pudster and Maggleby, the
letters to the firm having been already brought down from Mincing Lane
by a confidential clerk.
It was a chilly morning; and Mr Maggleby, with the letters in his hand,
sank into an easy-chair by the fireside, and then began to polish
his spectacles. But ere he had time to complete that operation, one
envelope attracted the attention of his not very dim-sighted eyes.
It bore the post-mark ‘Plymouth,’ and was addressed in a familiar
hand-writing. Without waiting to put on his spectacles, Mr Maggleby
seized this envelope and tore it open. For an instant he stared at the
letter which it contained; then he turned white, and fell back with a
groan. But Mr Maggleby was a man of considerable self-command, and he
soon partly recovered himself.
‘Maria must not see me in this agitated state,’ he murmured, as he
rose. ‘I shall go back to my dressing-room, and decide upon some plan
of action before I face her.’ And with unsteady steps, he quitted the
dining-room, taking with him the letter that was the cause of his
emotion.
Almost immediately afterwards, a servant entered with the coffee and
some covered dishes, which she set upon the table; and no sooner had
she withdrawn than Mrs Maggleby appeared. Mrs Maggleby looked blooming,
and was evidently in capital spirits. She caught up her letters, sat
down smiling in the very easy-chair from which her husband had risen a
few minutes earlier, and began to read. The first letters to be opened
were, of course, those which were addressed to her in her new name.
They contained congratulations upon her marriage. Then she attacked
the envelopes that were addressed to Mrs Pudster. One contained a
bill; another contained a request for Mrs Pudster’s vote and interest
on behalf of Miss Tabitha Gabbles, a maiden lady who was seeking
admission into the Home for the Daughters of Decayed Trinity Pilots;
and a third brought a lithographed letter from the Marquis of Palmyra,
imploring the recipient to make some small subscription to the funds
of the Association for the Encouragement of Asparagus Culture in the
Scilly Islands. There were also letters from Miss Martha Tigstake
and Mrs Benjamin Bowery, dealing with nothing in particular and with
everything in general; and finally there was a letter bearing the
post-mark ‘Plymouth.’ Mrs Maggleby opened it carelessly; but a single
glance at its contents caused her to start up, grasp convulsively at
the mantelpiece, utter an exclamation, and tremble like a leaf.
‘Poor Gideon!’ she said. ‘What a fearful blow! He mustn’t see me in
this agitated state. I shall go up-stairs again, and decide upon some
plan of action before I face him.’ And Mrs Maggleby, letter in hand and
pale as death, quitted the room, leaving the coffee and the eggs and
bacon and the crumpets to get cold.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Mr Maggleby ventured down-stairs
again. He was dressed as if to go to the City, and in his hand he held
a letter which bore the simple address, ‘Maria.’ This letter he laid
upon his wife’s plate. It was worded as follows:
MY DEAREST LIFE—I am suddenly and unexpectedly summoned to
Mincing Lane on business of the greatest importance. I do
not know exactly when I shall return, but you must not be
anxious.—Yours devotedly,