IN THE CITY.
The descriptions of the great house of Calverley and Company given
respectively by Mr. and Mrs. Calverley, though differing essentially
in many particulars, had each a substratum of truth. The house had
been founded half a century before by John Lorraine, the eldest son of
a broken-down but ancient family in the north of England, who in very
early years had been sent up to London to shift for himself, and
arriving there with the conventional half-crown in his pocket, was, of
course, destined to fame and fortune. Needless to say that, like so
many other merchant princes, heroes of history far more veracious than
this, his first experiences were those of struggling adversity. He
kept the books, he ran the errands, he fetched and carried for his
master--the old East-India agent in Great St. Helen's--and by his
intelligence and industry he commended himself to the good graces of
his superiors; and was not only able to maintain himself in a
respectable position, but to provide for his two younger brothers, who
were sipping from the fount of learning at the grammar-school of
Penrith. These junior scions being brought to town, and applying
themselves, not, indeed, with the same energy as their elder brother,
but with a passable amount of interest and care to the duties set
before them, were taken into partnership by John Lorraine when he went
into business for himself, and helped, in a certain degree, to
establish the fortunes of the house. Of these fortunes John Lorraine
was the mainspring and the principal producer. He had wonderful powers
of foresight; and uncommon shrewdness in estimating the chances of any
venture proposed to him; and with all these he was bold and lucky;
'far too bold,' his old employers said, with shaking heads, as they
saw him gradually but surely outstripping them in the race; 'far too
lucky,' his detractors growled, when they saw speculations, which had
been offered to them and promptly declined, prosper auriferously in
John Lorraine's hands.
As soon as John Lorraine saw the tide of fortune strongly setting in,
he took to himself a wife, the daughter of one of his City friends, a
man of tolerable wealth and great experience, who in his early days
had befriended the struggling boy, and who thought his daughter could
not have achieved higher honour or greater happiness. Whatever honour
or happiness may have accrued to the young lady on her marriage did
not last long, for, shortly after giving birth to her first child, a
daughter, she died; and thenceforward John Lorraine devoted his life
to the little girl, and to the increased fortune which she was to
inherit. When little Jane had arrived at a more than marriageable age,
and from a pretty fubsy baby had grown into a thin, acidulated,
opiniated woman (a result attributable to the manner in which she had
been spoiled by her indulgent father), John Lorraine's mind was mainly
exercised as to what manner of man would propose for her with a
likelihood of success. Hitherto, love-affairs had been things almost
unknown to his Jane, not from any unwillingness on her part to make
their acquaintance, but principally because, notwithstanding the
fortune which it was known she would bring to her husband, none of the
few young men who from time to time dined solemnly in the
old-fashioned house in Brunswick-square, or acted as cavalier to its
mistress to the Antient Concerts, or the King's Theatre, could make up
their minds to address her in anything but the most common phrases.
That Miss Jane had a will of her own, and a tart manner of expressing
her intention of having that will fulfilled, was also matter of common
gossip. Stories were current among the clerks at Mincing-lane of the
"wigging" which they had heard her administering to her father, when
she drove down to fetch him away in her chariot, and when he kept her
unduly waiting; the household servants in Brunswick-square had their
opinion of Miss Jane's temper; and the tradesmen in the neighbourhood
looked forward to the entrance of her thin, dark figure into their
shops every Tuesday morning, for the performance of settling the
books, with fear and trembling.
Old John Lorraine, fully appreciating his daughter's infirmities,
though, partly from affection, partly from fear, he never took upon
himself to rebuke them, began to think that the fairy prince who was
to wake this morally slumbering virgin to a sense of something better,
to larger views and higher aims, to domestic happiness and married
bliss, would never arrive. He came at last, however, in the person of
George Gurwood; a big, broad-shouldered, jovial fellow, who, as a son
of another of Lorraine's early friends, had some time previously been
admitted as a partner into the house. Everybody liked good-looking,
jolly George Gurwood. Lambton Lorraine and Lowther Lorraine, who,
though now growing elderly men, had retained their bachelor tastes and
habits, and managed to get through a great portion of the income
accruing to them from the business, were delighted with his jovial
manners, his sporting tendencies, his convivial predilections. When
the fact of George's paying his addresses to their niece was first
promulgated, Lambton had a serious talk with his genial partner,
warning him against tying himself for life to a woman with whom he had
no single feeling in common. But George laughed at the caution, and
declined to be guided by it. "Miss Lorraine was not much in his line,"
he said; "perhaps a little given to tea and psalm-smiting; but it would
come all right: he should get her into a different way; and as the
dear old guv'nor" (by which title George always affectionately spoke
of his senior partner) "seemed to wish it he was not going to stand in
the way. He wanted a home, and Jane should make him a jolly one, he'd
take care of that."
Jane Lorraine married George Gurwood, but she did not make him a home.
Her rigid bearing and unyielding temper were too strong for his
plastic, pliable nature; for many months the struggle for mastery was
carried on between them, but in the end George--jolly George no
longer--gave way. He had made a tolerably good fight of it, and had
used every means in his power to induce her to be less bitter, less
furtive, less inexorable in the matter of his dinings-out, his
sporting transactions, his constant desire to see his table surrounded
by congenial company. "I have tried to gentle her," he said to Lowther
Lorraine one day, "as I would a horse, and there has never been one of
them yet that I could not coax and pet into good temper; I'd spend any
amount of money on her, and let her have her own way in most things if
she would only just let me have mine in a few. I have tried her with a
sharp bit and a pair of 'persuaders,' but that was no more use than
the gentling. She's as hard as nails, Lowther, my boy, and I don't see
my way out of it, that's the truth. So come along and have a B and S."
If having a B and S--George's abbreviation for soda-water and
brandy--would have helped him to see his way out of his difficulties,
he would speedily have been able to perceive it, for thenceforward his
consumption of that and many other kinds of liquids was enormous.
Wretched in his home, George Gurwood took to drinking to drown care,
but, as in most similar cases, the demon proved himself far too
buoyant to be overwhelmed even by the amount which George poured upon
him. He was drinking morning, noon, and night, and was generally in a
more or less muddled state. When he went to business, which was now
very seldom, some of the clerks in the office laughed at him, which
was bad enough, while others pitied him, which was worse. The story of
George's dissipation was carefully kept from John Lorraine, who had
virtually retired from the business, and devoted himself to nursing
his rheumatism, and to superintending the education of his grandson, a
fine boy of five or six years of age; but Lambton and Lowther held
many colloquies together, the end of them all being that they agreed
they could not tell what was to be done with George Gurwood. What was
to be done with him was soon settled by George Gurwood himself. Even
his powerful constitution had been unable to withstand the ravages
which constant drinking had inflicted upon it. He was seized with an
attack of delirium tremens while attending a race-meeting at Warwick,
and during the temporary absence of the night-nurse jolly George
Gurwood terminated his earthly career by jumping from the bedroom
window of the hotel into the yard below.
Then it was that the investigation of the affairs of the firm,
consequent upon the death of one of the partners, revealed the serious
state in which matters stood. All the name and fame, the large
fortune, the enormous colonial business, the commercial credit which
John Lorraine had spent his life in building up, had been gradually
crumbling away. Two years more of this decadence, such as the perusal
of the firm's books exhibited had taken place during the last ten
years, and the great house of Lorraine Brothers would be in the
Bankruptcy Court. Then it was that Mr. Calverley, hitherto known only
as a plodding reliable head-clerk, thoroughly conversant with all
details of business, but never having shown any peculiar capabilities,
came forward and made his mark. At the meeting of the creditors he
expounded his views so lucidly, and showed so plainly how, by
reorganising the business in every department, it could once more be
put on a safe and proper footing, and reinstated in its old position
as one of the leading houses in the City, that the helm was at once
put into his hands. So safely and so prosperously did he steer the
ship, that, before old John Lorraine died, he saw the business in
Mincing-lane, though no longer conducted under its old name (Mr.
Calverley had made a point of that, and had insisted on claiming
whatever was due to his ability and exertions), more flourishing than
in its best days; while Lambton and Lowther, who had been paid out at
the reorganisation of affairs, and had thought themselves very lucky
at escaping being sucked-in by the expected whirlpool, were disgusted
at the triumphant results of the operations of a man by whom they
had set so little store, and complained indignantly of their
ill-treatment.
And then John Calverley, who, as one of the necessities involved in
carrying out his business transactions, had been frequently brought
into communication with the widowed Mrs. Gurwood, first conceived the
idea of making her an offer of marriage. Nearly forty years of his
life had been spent in a state of bachelorhood, though he had not been
without the comforts of a home. He was thoroughly domesticated by
nature, simple in his tastes, shy and shrinking from society, and so
engrossed by his unceasing labour during the day, that it was his
happiness at night to put aside from his mind everything relating,
however remotely, to his City toil, and to sit drinking his tea, and
placidly chatting, reading, or listening to his old mother, from whom
since his childhood he had never been separated. The first great grief
of John Calverley's life, the death of this old lady, took place very
shortly after he had assumed the reins of government in Mincing-lane
and since then his home had been dull and cheerless. He sorely felt
the want of a companion, but he knew nobody whom he could ask to share
his lot. He had but rare opportunities of making the acquaintance of
any ladies, but Mrs. Gurwood had been thrown in his way by chance,
and, after some little hesitation, he ventured to propose to her. The
proposition was not disagreeable to Jane Gurwood. For some time past
she had felt the loss of some constantly present object on which to
vent her bile; her tongue and her temper were both becoming rusty by
disuse; and in the meek, pleasant little man, now rich and well-to-do,
she thought she saw a very fitting recipient for both. So John
Calverley and Jane Gurwood were married, with what result we have
already seen.
The offices in Mincing-lane remained pretty much in the same state as
they had been in old John Lorraine's day. They had been painted, of
course, many times since he first entered upon their occupation, but
in the heart of the City the brilliancy of paint does not last very
long, and in a very few months after the ladders and the scaffoldings
had been removed, the outside woodwork relapsed into its state of
grubbiness. There was a talk at one time of making some additions to
the building, to provide accommodation for the increased staff of
clerks which it had been found necessary to engage; but Mr. Calverley
thought that the rooms originally occupied by Lambton and Lowther
Lorraine would do very well for the newly-appointed young gentlemen,
and there accordingly they set up their high desks and stools, their
enormous ledgers and day-books. The elderly men, who had been John
Lorraine's colleagues and subordinates in bygone days, still remained
attached to the business; but their employer, not unmindful of the
good services they had rendered, and conscious, perhaps, that without
their aid he might have had some difficulty in carrying out his
reorganisation so successfully, took means to lighten their duties and
to place them rather in the position of overseers and superintendents,
leaving the grinding desk-work to be performed by their juniors. Of
these young gentlemen there were several. They inhabited the lower
floor of the warehouse, and the most presentable of them were told-off
to see any stray customers that might enter. The ships' captains, the
brokers, and the consignees, knew their way about the premises, and
passed in and out unheeded; but occasionally strangers arrived with
letters of introduction, or foreign merchants put in a fantastic
appearance, and for the benefit of these there was a small glazed
waiting-room set apart, with one or other of the presentable clerks to
attend to them.
About a fortnight after Pauline's first visit, about the middle of the
day, Mr. Walker, one of the clerks, entered the large office and
proceeded to hang up his hat and to doff his coat, preparatory to
putting on a sporting-looking garment made of shepherd's-plaid, with
extremely short tails, and liberally garnished with ink-spots. Judging
from his placid, satisfied appearance, and from the fact that he
carried a toothpick between his lips, which he was elegantly chewing,
one might have guessed without fear of contradiction, that Mr. Walker
had just returned from dinner.
"You shouldn't hurry yourself in this way, Postman, you really
shouldn't," said Mr. Briscoe, one of the presentable clerks
aforenamed. "You will spoil your digestion if you do; and fancy what a
calamity that would be to a man of your figure. You have only been out
an hour and a quarter, and I understand they have sent round from
Lake's to Newgate Market for some more joints."
"Don't you be funny, William," said Mr. Walker, wiping his lips, and
slowly climbing on to his stool; "it isn't in your line, and you might
hurt yourself."
"Hurt myself!" echoed Mr. Briscoe. "I will hurt you, and spoil your
appetite too, when I get the chance, keeping a fellow hanging on here,
waiting for his luncheon, while you are gorging yourself to repletion
for one and ninepence. Only you wait till next week, when it's my turn
to go out at one, and you will see what a twist I'll give you.
However, one comfort is, I'm off at last." And Mr. Briscoe jumped from
his seat, and proceeded towards the hat-pegs.
"No, you're not," said Mr. Walker, who had commenced a light dessert
on a half-hundred of walnuts, which he had purchased at a stall on his
way; "there's a party just come into the private office, William, and
as you're picked out for that berth on account of your beauty and
superior manners, you will have to attend to her. A female party, do
you hear, William; so, brush your hair, and pull down your wristbands,
and make a swell of yourself."
Mr. Briscoe looked with great disgust towards the partition through
the dulled glass, on which he saw the outline of a female figure;
then, stepping across, he opened a pane in the glass, and inquired
what was wanted.
"I called here some time ago," said Pauline, for it was she, "and left
a letter for Mr. Calverley. I was told he was out of town, but would
return in a few days. Perhaps he is now here?"
"Mr. Calverley has returned," said Mr. Briscoe, in his most
fascinating manner, a compound of the familiarity with which he
addressed the waitresses in the eating-houses and the nonchalance with
which he regarded the duchesses in the Park. "I believe he is engaged
just now, but I will let him know you are here. What name shall I
say?"
"Say Madame Du Tertre, if you please," said Pauline; "and mention that
he has already had a letter from me."
Mr. Briscoe bowed, and delivered his message through a speaking-tube
which communicated with Mr. Calverley's room. In reply he was
instructed to bring the lady upstairs; and bidding Pauline follow him,
he at once introduced her into the presence of his chief.
As his visitor entered, Mr. Calverley rose from the desk at which he
was seated, and graciously motioned her to a chair, looking hard at
her from under his light eyebrows meanwhile.
Pauline was the first to speak. After she had seated herself, and Mr.
Calverley had resumed his place at his desk, she leaned forward and
said, "I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Calverley?"
"That is my name," said John, with a bow and a pleasant smile. "In
what way can I have the pleasure of being of service to you?"
"You speak kindly, Mr. Calverley, and your appearance is just what I
had expected. You received a letter from me--a strange letter you
thought it; is it not so?"
"Well," said John, "it was not the sort of letter I have been in the
habit of receiving; it was not strictly a business kind of letter, you
know."
"It was not addressed to you in your strictly business capacity, Mr.
Calverley; it was written from the heart, a thing which does not often
enter into business matters, I believe. It was written because I have
heard of you as a man of benevolence and charity, interested in the
fate of foreigners and exiles, able, if willing, to do what I wish."
"My dear madam," said John Calverley, "I fear you much exaggerate any
good qualities I may possess. The very nature of my business throws me
into constant communication with people from other countries, and if
they are unfortunate I endeavour to help them to the best of my power.
Such power is limited to the giving away of small sums of money, and
helping them to return to their native country, to getting them
employment if they desire to remain here, or recommending them to
hospitals if they are ill; but yours is a peculiar case, if I
recollect your letter rightly. I have it here, and can refer to it--"
"There is no occasion to do that. I can explain more fully and more
promptly by word of mouth. Mine is, as you say, a peculiar case. I am
the daughter of a retired officer of artillery, who lived at Lyons. At
his death I married Monsieur Du Tertre, who was engaged as a traveller
for one of the large silk factories there. He was frequently coming to
England, and spoke the language well. He taught it to me, and I, to
aid an income which was but small, taught it again to several pupils
in my native city. My husband, like most Frenchmen of his class, took
a vivid interest in politics, and was mixed up in several of the more
prominent Republican societies. One day, immediately after his return
from a foreign journey, he was arrested, and since then, save on the
day of his trial. I have not set eyes upon him. I know not where he
is; he may be in the cachots of Mont Saint Michele; he may be kept au
secret in the Conciergerie; he may be exiled to Cayenne--I know not.
All I know is, I shall never see him again. 'Avec ces gens-là il faut
en finir,' was all the reply I could get to my inquiries--they must be
finished, done with, stamped out, what you will. There," continued
Pauline, brushing her eyes with her handkerchief, "it is not often that
I give way, monsieur; my life is too stern and too hard for that.
After he was taken from me I could remain in Lyons no longer. It is
not alone upon the heads of families that the Imperial Government
revenges itself; so I came away to England, bringing with me all that
I had saved, all that I could scrape together, after selling
everything we possessed, and the result is that I have, monsieur, a
sum of two thousand pounds, which I wish to place in your hands,
begging you to invest it in such a manner as will enable me to live
honestly, and with something like decency, for the remainder of my
days."
John Calverley had listened to this recital with great attention, and
when Pauline ceased speaking, he said to her with a half-grave smile:
"The remainder of your days, madam, is likely, I hope, to be a
tolerably long period; for you are evidently quite a young woman.
Now, with regard to your proposition, you yourself say it is
unbusiness-like, and I must confess it strikes me as being so in the
highest degree. You know nothing of me, beyond seeing my name as a
subscriber to certain charities, or having heard it mentioned as that
of a man who takes some interest in assisting foreigners in distress;
and yet you offer to place in my hands what constitutes your entire
fortune, and intrust me with the disposal of it. I really do not
think," said John Calverley, hesitating, "I can possibly undertake--"
"One moment, Mr. Calverley," said Pauline. "The responsibility of
declining to take this money will be far greater than of accepting it;
for if you decline to act for me, I will consult no one else; I will
act on my own impulse, and shall probably either invest the sum in
some swindling company, or squander and spend it."
"You must not do that," said John promptly; "you must not think of
doing that. Two thousand pounds is not a very large sum of money; but
properly invested, a lady without encumbrance," said John, with a dim
recollection of the formula of servants' advertisements, "might live
very comfortably on the interest, more especially if she had no home
to keep up."
"But, monsieur, I must always have a home, a lodging, a something to
live in," said Pauline with a shrug.
"Yes, of course," said John Calverley, rather absently; for at that
moment a notable plan had suggested itself to him, and he was
revolving it in his mind. "Where are you living now, Madame Du
Tertre?"
"I have a lodging--a bed-room--in Poland-street," she replied.
"Dear me," said John Calverley, in horrified amazement.
"Poland-street? I know, of course; back of the Pantheon--very stuffy
and grimy, children playing battledore and shuttlecock in the street,
organ-men and fish-barrows, and all that kind of thing; not at all
pleasant."
"No," said Pauline, with a repetition of her shrug; "but beggars have
no choice, as the proverb says."
"Did it ever occur to you," said John nervously, "that you might become
a companion to a lady--quite comfortable, you know, and well treated,
made one of the family, in point of fact?" he added, again recurring
to the advertisement formula.
Pauline's eyes glistened at once, but her voice was quite calm as she
said: "I have never thought of such a thing. I don't know whether I
should like it. It would, of course, depend upon the family."
"Of course," assented John. "I was thinking of-- Do you play the
piano, Madame Du Tertre?"
"O yes, sufficiently well."
"Ah," said John unconsciously, "some of it does go a long way. Well, I
was thinking that perhaps--"
"Mrs. Calverley, sir," said Mr. Briscoe, throwing open the door.
Mrs. Calverley walked into the room, looking so stern and defiant that
her husband saw he must take immediate action to prevent the outbreak
of a storm. Since that evening in Great Walpole-street, when John
Calverley had plucked up his spirit, and ventured to assert himself,
his wife, though cold and grim as ever, had kept more outward control
over her temper, and had almost ceased to give vent to the virulent
raillery in which she formerly indulged. Like most despots she had
been paralysed when her meek slave rebelled against her tyranny, and
had stood in perpetual fear of him ever since.
"You come at a very opportune moment, Jane," said John Calverley.
"It scarcely seems so," said his wife, from between her closed lips.
"I was afraid I might be regarded as an unpleasant interruption to a
private interview."
"It is I, madam," said Pauline, rising, "who am the interrupter here.
My business with Mr. Calverley is ended, and I will now retire."
"Pray stay, Madame Du Tertre," said John, motioning her again to her
chair.--"This lady, Jane, is Madame Du Tertre, a foreigner and a
stranger in England."
"But not a stranger to the history of Madame Calverley," said Pauline,
rising gracefully; "not a stranger to the beneficence, the charities,
the piety of Mademoiselle Lorraine; not a stranger," she added, in a
lower tone, "to the sainted sufferings of Madame Gurwood. Ah, madame,
though I have been but a very short time in this great city of London,
I have heard of you, of your religion, and your goodness, and I am
honoured in the opportunity of being able to kiss your hand." And
suiting the action to the word, Pauline took Jane Calverley's
plum-coloured gauntlet into her own neatly-gloved palm and pressed it
to her lips.
Mrs. Calverley was so taken aback at this performance, that, beyond
muttering "not worthy" and "too generous," she said nothing. But her
husband marked the faint blush of satisfaction which spread over her
clay-coloured complexion, and took advantage of the impression made to
say:
"Madame Du Tertre, my dear Jane, is a French lady, a widow with a
small fortune, which she wishes me to invest for her in the best way
possible. In the mean time she is a stranger here in London, as I said
before, and she has no comfortable lodging and no friends. I thought
perhaps that, as I am compelled by business to be frequently absent
from home, and am likely to continue to be so, it might break the
loneliness of your life if Madame Du Tertre, who speaks our language
well, and plays the piano, and is no doubt generally accomplished,
might come as your visitor for a short time, and then if you found you
suited each other, one might make some more permanent arrangement."
When Jane Calverley first entered the room and saw a lady gossipping
with her husband, she thought she had discovered the means of bringing
him to shame, and making his life a burden to him. Now in his visitor
she saw, as she thought, a woman possessing qualities such as she
admired, but for which she never gave her husband credit, and one who
might render her efficient aid in her life's campaign against him.
Even if what had been told her were false, and that this woman were an
old friend of his, as a visitor in Great Walpole-street Mrs. Calverley
would have her under her own eye, and she believed sufficiently in her
own powers of penetration to enable her to judge of the relations
between them. So that, after a little more talk, the visit was
determined on, and it was arranged that the next day Madame Du Tertre
should remove to her new quarters.
"And now," said Pauline, as she knocked at Mr. Mogg's door, whither
the Calverley's carriage had brought her, "and now, Monsieur Tom
Durham, _gare à vous!_ for this day I have laid the beginning of the
train which, sooner or later, shall blow your newly-built castle of
happiness into the air!"