L'AMIE DE LA MAISON.
The breakfasts in Great Walpole-street, looked upon as meals, were
neither satisfactory nor satisfying. Of all social gatherings a
breakfast is perhaps the one most difficult to make agreeable to
yourself and your guests. There are men, at other periods of the day
bright, sociable, and chatty, who insist upon breakfasting by
themselves, who glower over their tea and toast, and growl audibly if
their solitude is broken in upon; there are women capable of
everything in the way of self-sacrifice and devotion except getting up
to breakfast. A breakfast after the Scotch fashion, with enormous
quantities of Finnan-haddy, chops, steaks, eggs and ham, jam and
marmalade, tea and coffee, is a good thing; so is a French breakfast
with two delicate cutlets, or a succulent filet, a savoury omelette, a
pint bottle of Nuits, a chasse, and a cigarette. But the morning meals
in Great Walpole-street were not after either of these fashions. After
the servants had risen from their knees, and shuffled out of the room
in Indian file at the conclusion of morning prayers, the butler
re-entered bearing a hissing silver urn, behind which Mrs. Calverley
took up her position, and proceeded to brew a tepid amber-coloured
fluid, which she afterwards dispensed to her guests. The footman had
followed the butler, bearing, in his turn, a dish containing four thin
greasy strips of bacon, laid out side by side in meek resignation,
with a portion of kidney keeping guard over them at either end. There
was a rack filled with dry toast, which looked and tasted like the
cover of an old Latin dictionary; there was a huge bread-platter, with
a scriptural text round its margin, and a huge bread-knife with a
scriptural text on its blade; and on the sideboard, far away in the
distance, was the shadowy outline of what had once been a ham, and a
mountain and a promontory of flesh, with the connecting link between
them almost cut away, representing what had once been a tongue. On two
or three occasions, shortly after Madame Du Tertre had first joined
the household, she mentioned to Mrs. Calverley that she was subject to
headaches, which were only to be gotten rid of by taking a sharp
half-hour's walk in the air immediately after breakfast; the fact
being that Pauline was simply starved, and that if she had been
followed she would have been found in the small room of Monsieur
Verrey's café in Regent-street engaged with a cutlet, a pint of
Beaune, and the _Siècle_ newspaper. To John Calverley, also, these
gruesome repasts were most detestable, but he made up for his enforced
starvation by a substantial and early luncheon in the City.
On the morning after Humphrey Statham's departure for Cornwall, the
breakfast-party was assembled in Great Walpole-street. But the host
was not among them. He had gone away to his ironworks in the North, as
he told his guest: "on his own vagaries," as his wife had phrased it,
with a defiant snort: and Mrs. Calverley, Madame Du Tertre, and Martin
Gurwood were gathered round the festive board. The two ladies were
sipping the doubtful tea, and nibbling the leathery toast, while Mr.
Garwood, who was an early riser, and who, before taking his morning
constitutional in Guelph Park, had solaced himself with a bowl of
bread-and-milk, had pushed aside his plate, and was reading out from
the _Times_ such scraps of intelligence as he thought might prove
interesting. On a sudden he stopped, the aspect of his face growing
rather grave, as he said:
"Here is some news, mother, which I am sure will prove distressing to
Mr. Calverley, even if his interests do not suffer from the event
which it records."
"I can guess what it is," said Mrs. Calverley, in her thin acid voice;
"I have an intuitive idea of what has occurred. I always predicted it,
and I took care to let Mr. Calverley know my opinion--the Swartmoor
Iron works have failed?"
"No, not so bad as that," said Mr. Gurwood, "nor, indeed, is it any
question of the Swartmoor Ironworks. I will tell you what is said, and
you will be able to judge for yourself how far Mr. Calverley may be
interested." And in the calm, measured tone habitual to him from
constant pulpit practice, Martin Gurwood read out the paragraph which
had so startled Humphrey Statham on the previous evening.
When Martin Gurwood finished reading, Madame Du Tertre, who had
listened attentively, wheeled round in her chair and looked hard at
Mrs. Calverley. That lady's placidity was, however, perfectly
undisturbed. With her thin bony hand she still continued her
employment of arranging into fantastic shapes the crumbs on the
table-cloth, nor did she seem inclined to speak until Pauline said:
"To me this seems a sad and terrible calamity. If I, knowing nothing
of this unfortunate gentleman, am grieved at what I hear, surely you,
madame, to whom he was doubtless well known, must feel the shock
acutely."
"I am glad to say," said Mrs. Calverley coldly, "that I am not called
upon to exhibit any emotion in the present instance. So little does
Mr. Calverley think fit to acquaint me with the details of his
business, that I was not aware that it was in contemplation to
establish an agency at Ceylon, nor did I ever hear of the name of the
person who, doubtless by his own imprudence, seems to have lost his
life."
"You never saw Mr.--Mr.--how is he called, Monsieur Gurwood?"
"Durham is the name given here," said Martin, referring to the
newspaper.
"Ah, you never saw Mr. Durham, madame?"
"I never saw him; I never even heard Mr. Calverley mention his name."
"Poor man, poor man!" murmured Madame Du Tertre with downcast eyes;
"lost so suddenly, as your Shakespeare says--'sent to his account with
all his imperfections on his head.' It is terrible to think of; is it
not Monsieur Martin?"
"To be cut off with our sins yet inexpiated," said Martin Gurwood, not
meeting the searching glance riveted upon him, "is, as you say, Madame
Du Tertre, a terrible thing. Let us trust this unfortunate man was not
wholly unprepared."
"If he were a friend of Mr. Calverley's," hissed the lady at the end
of the table, "and he must have been to have been placed in a position
of trust, it is, I should say, most improbable that he was fitted for
the sudden change."
That morning Madame Du Tertre, although her breakfast had been of the
scantiest, did not find it necessary to repair to Verrey's. When the
party broke up she retired to her room, took the precaution of locking
the door, and having something to think out, at once adopted her old
resource of walking up and down.
She said to herself: "The news has arrived, and just at the time that
I expected it. He has been bold, and everything has turned out exactly
as he could have wished. People will speak kindly of him and mourn
over his fate, while he is far away and living happily, and laughing
in his sleeve at the fools whose compassion he evokes. What would I
give to be there with him on the same terms as those of the old days!
I hate this dull British life, this ghastly house, these people,
precise, exact, and terrible. I loathe the state of formality in which
I live, the restraint and reticence I am obliged to observe! What is
it to me to ride in a carriage by the side of that puppet downstairs,
to sit in the huge dull rooms, to be waited upon by the silent solemn
servants?" And her eyes blazed with fire as she sang in a soft low
voice:
"Les gueux, les gueux
Sont les gens heureux;
Ils s'aiment entre eux.
Vivent les gueux!"
As she ceased singing she stopped suddenly in her walk, and said,
"What a fool I am to think of such things, to dream of what might have
been, when all my hope and desire is to destroy what is, to discover
the scene of Tom Durham's retreat, and to drive him from the enchanted
land where he and she are now residing! And this can only be done by
steady continuance in my present life, by passive endurance, by
never-flagging energy and perpetual observation. Tiens! Have I not
done some good this morning, even in listening to the bêtise talk of
that silly woman and her sombre son? She had never seen Tom Durham,"
she said, "had never heard of him, he has never been brought to the
house: this, then, gives colour to all that I have suspected. It is,
as I imagined, through the influence of the old man Claxton that Tom
was nominated as agent of the house of Calverley. Mr. Calverley
himself probably knows nothing of him, or he would most assuredly have
mentioned the name to his wife, have asked him to dinner, after the
English fashion, before sending him out to such a position. But no,
his very name is unknown to her, and it is evident that he is the sole
protégé of Monsieur Claxton--Claxton, from whom the pale-faced woman
who is his wife, his mistress--what do I know or care--obtained the
money with which Tom Durham thought to buy my silence and his freedom.
Not yet, my dear friend, not yet! The game between us promises to be
long, and to play it properly with a chance of success will require
all my brains and all my patience. But the cards are already beginning
to get shuffled into their places, and the luck has already declared
on my side."
A few mornings afterwards Mrs. Calverley, on coming down to breakfast,
held an open paper in her hand; laying it on the table and pointing at
it with her bony finger, when the servants had left the room, she
said, "I have an intimation here that Mr. Calverley will return this
evening. He has not thought fit to write to me, but a telegram has
been received from him at the office; and the head-clerk, who, I am
thankful to say, still preserves some notion of what is due to me, has
forwarded the information."
"Is not this return somewhat unexpected?" asked Pauline, looking
inquisitively at her hostess.
"Mr. Calverley's return is never either unexpected or expected by me,"
said the lady; "he is immersed in business, which I trust may prove as
profitable as he expects, though in my father's time--"
"Perhaps," interrupted Martin Gurwood, cutting in to prevent the
repetition of that wail over the decadence of the ancient firm which
he had heard a thousand times, "perhaps Mr. Calverley's return has on
this occasion been hastened by the news of the loss of his agent,
which I read out to you the other day. There is more about it in the
paper this morning."
"More! What more?" cried Pauline, eagerly.
"Nothing satisfactory, I am sorry to say. The body has not been found,
nor is there any credible account of how the accident happened; the
farther news is contained in a letter from one of the passengers. It
seems that this unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Durham, had, even during
the short time which he was on board the ship, succeeded in making
himself very popular with the passengers. He had talked to some of
them of the importance of the position which he was going out to fill,
of his devotion to business and to his employer; and it is agreed on
all sides that the well-known firm of which he was the agent will find
it difficult to replace him, so zealous and so interested in their
behalf did he show himself. He was one of the last who retired to
rest; and when in the morning he did not put in an appearance, nothing
was thought of it, as it was imagined--not that he had succumbed to
sea-sickness, as he had described himself as an old sailor, who had
made many voyages--but that he was fatigued by the exertions of the
previous day. Late in the evening, as nothing had been heard of him,
the captain resolved to send the steward to his cabin; and the man
returned with the report that the door was unlocked, the berth
unoccupied, and Mr. Durham not to be found. An inquiry was at once set
on foot, and a search made throughout the ship; but without any
result. The only idea that could be arrived at was, that, finding the
heat oppressive, or being unable to sleep, he made his way to the
deck, and, in the darkness of the night, had missed his footing and
fallen overboard. Against this supposition was the fact that Mr.
Durham was not in the least the worse for liquor when last seen, and
that neither the officers nor the men on duty throughout the night had
heard any splash in the water or any cry for help. The one thing
certain was, that the man was gone; and all that could now be done was
to transship his baggage at Gibraltar, that it might be returned to
England, and to make public the circumstances for the information of
his friends."
"It seems to me," said Martin Gurwood, as he finished reading, "that
unless the drowning of this poor man had actually been witnessed,
nothing could be much clearer. He is seen to retire to rest in the
night; he is never heard of again; there is no reason why he should
attempt self-destruction; on the contrary, he is represented as
glorying in the position to which he had been appointed, and full of
life, health, and spirits."
"There is one point," said Mrs. Calverley, "to which I think exception
may be taken, and that is, that he was sober. These sort of persons
have, I am given to understand, a great tendency to drink and vice of
every description, and the fact that he was probably a boon companion
of Mr. Calverley's, and on that account appointed to this agency,
makes me think it more than likely that he had a private store of
liquor, and was drowned when in a state of intoxication."
"There is nothing in the evidence which has been made public," said
Martin Gurwood, in a hard caustic tone, "to warrant any supposition of
that kind. In any case, it is not for us to judge the dead and--"
"Perhaps," said Pauline, interposing, to avert the storm which she saw
gathering in Mrs. Calverley's knitted brows, "perhaps when Mr.
Calverley returns to-night, he will be able to give us some
information on the subject. A man so trusted, and appointed to such a
position, must naturally be well known to his employer."
The lamps were lit in the drawing-room, and the solemn servants
were handing round the tea, when a cab rattled up to the door,
and immediately afterwards John Calverley, enveloped in his
travelling-coat and many wrappers, burst into the apartment. He made
his way to his wife, who was seated at the Berlin-wool frame, on which
the Jael and Sisera had been supplanted by a new and equally
interesting subject, and bending down offered her a salute, which she
received on the tip of her ear; he shook hands heartily with Martin
Garwood, politely with Pauline, and then discarding his outer
garments, planted himself in the middle of the room, smiling
pleasantly, and inquired, "Well, what's the news?"
"There is no news here," said Mrs. Calverley, looking across the top
of the Berlin-wool frame with stony glance; "those who have been
careering about the country are most likely to gather light and
frivolous gossip. Do you desire any refreshment, Mr. Calverley?"
"No, thank you, my dear," said John. "I had dinner at six o'clock, at
Peterborough--swallowed it standing--cold meat, roll, glass of ale.
You know the sort of thing, Martin--hurried, but not bad, you
know--not bad."
"But after such a slight refreshment, Monsieur Calverley," said
Pauline, rising and going towards him, "you would surely like some
tea?"
"No, thank you, Madame Du Tertre; no tea for me. I will have a
little--a little something hot later on, perhaps--and you too, Martin,
eh?--no, I forgot, you are no good at that sort of thing. And so," he
added, turning to his wife, "you have, you say, no news?"
"Mrs. Calverley does herself injustice in saying any such thing," said
Pauline, interposing; "the interests of the husband are the interests
of the wife, and, when it is permitted, of the wife's friends; and we
have all been distressed beyond measure to hear of the sad fate which
has befallen your trusted agent."
"Eh," said John Calverley, looking at her blankly, "my trusted agent?
I don't understand you."
"These celebrated Swartmoor Ironworks are not beyond the reach of the
post-office, I presume?" said Mrs. Calverley, with a vicious chuckle.
"Certainly not," said John.
"And telegrams occasionally find their way there, I suppose?"
"Undoubtedly."
"How is it, then, Mr. Calverley, that you have not heard what has been
in all the newspapers, that some man named Durham, calling himself
your agent, has been drowned on his way to India, where he was going
in your employ?"
"Drowned!" said John Calverley, turning very pale, "Tom Durham
drowned! Is it possible?"
"Not merely possible, but strictly true," said his wife. "And what I
want to know is, how is it that you, buried down at your Swartmoors,
or whatever you call them, have not heard of it before?"
"It is precisely because I was buried down there that the news failed
to reach me. When I am at the ironworks I have so short a time at my
disposal that I never look at the newspapers, and the people at
Mincing-lane have strict instructions never to communicate with me by
letter or telegram except in the most pressing cases; and Mr.
Jeffreys, I imagine, with that shrewdness which distinguishes him, saw
that the reception of such news as this would only distress me, while
I could be of no possible assistance, and so wisely kept it back until
my return."
"I am sure I don't see why you should be so distressed because one of
your clerks got drunk and fell overboard," said Mrs. Calverley. "I
know that in my father's time--"
"This Mr. Durham must have been an especially gifted man, I suppose,
or you would scarcely have appointed him to such an important berth?
Was it not so?" asked Pauline.
"Yes," said Mr. Calverley, hesitating. "Tom Durham was a smart fellow
enough."
"What I told you," said Mrs. Calverley, looking round. "A smart
fellow, indeed! but not company for his employer's wife, whatever he
may have been for--"
"He was a man whom I knew but little of Jane," said John Calverley,
with a certain amount of sternness in his voice; "but he was
introduced to me by a person of whom I have the highest opinion, and
whom I wished to serve. On this recommendation I took Mr. Durham, and
the little I saw of him was certainly in favour of his zeal and
brightness. Now, if you please, we will change the conversation."
That night, again, Madame Du Tertre might have been seen pacing her
room. "The more I see of these people," she said to herself, "the more
I learn of the events with which my life is bound up, so much the more
am I convinced that my first theory was the right one. This Monsieur
Calverley, the master of this house--what was his reason for being
annoyed, contrarié, as he evidently was, at being questioned about
Durham? Simply because he himself knew nothing about him, and could
not truthfully reply to the pestering inquiries of that anatomie
vivante, his wife, as to who he was, and why he had not been presented
to her, the reigning queen of the great firm. Was I not right there in
my anticipations? 'He was introduced to me,' he said, 'by a person of
whom I have the highest opinion, and whom I wished to serve;' that
person, without doubt, was Claxton--Claxton, the old man, who, in his
turn, was the slave of the pale-faced woman, whom Tom Durham had
befooled! A bon chat, bon rat! They are well suited, these others, and
Messrs. Calverley and Claxton are the dupes, though perhaps"--and she
stopped pondering, with knitted brow--"Mr. Calverley knows all, or
rather half, and is helping his friend and partner in the matter. I
will take advantage of the first opportunity to press this subject
farther home with Monsieur Calverley, who is a sufficiently simple bon
homme; and perhaps I may learn something that may be useful to me from
him."
The opportunity which Pauline sought occurred sooner than she
expected. On the very next evening, Martin Gurwood being away from
home, attending some public meeting on a religious question, and Mrs.
Calverley being detained in her room finishing some letters which she
was anxious to dispatch, Pauline found herself in the drawing-room
before dinner, with her host as her sole companion.
When she entered she saw that Mr. Calverley had the newspaper in his
hand, but his eyes were half closed and his head was nodding
desperately. "You are fatigued, monsieur, by the toils of the day," she
said. "I fear I interrupted you?"
"No," said John Calverley, jumping up, "not at all, Madame Du Tertre;
I was having just forty Winks, as we say in English; but I am quite
refreshed and all right now, and am very glad to see you."
"It must be hard work for you, having all the responsibility of that
great establishment in the City on your shoulders."
"Well, you see, Madame Du Tertre," said John, with a pleasant smile,
"the fact is I am not so young as I used to be, and though I work no
more, indeed considerably less, I find myself more tired at the end of
the day."
"Ah, monsieur," said Pauline, "that is the great difference between
the French and English commerce, as it appears to me. In France our
négociants have not merely trusted clerks such as you have here, but
they have partners who enjoy their utmost confidence, who are as
themselves, in fact, in all matters of their business."
"Yes, madame, but that is not confined to France; we have exactly the
same thing in England. My house is Calverley and Co.; Co. stands for
'company,' vous savvy," said John, with a great dash at airing his
French.
"Ah, you have partners?" asked Pauline. "Well, no, not exactly," said
John evasively, looking over her bead, and rattling the keys in his
trousers-pockets.
"I think I heard of one Monsieur Claxton."
"Eh," said John, looking at her disconcertedly, "Claxton, eh? O yes,
of course."
"And yet it is strange that, intimate, lié, bound up as this Monsieur
Claxton must be with you in your affairs, you have never brought him
to this house--Madame Calverley has never seen him. I should like to
see this Monsieur Claxton, do you know? I should--"
But John Calverley stepped hurriedly forward and laid his hand upon
her arm. "Stay, for God's sake," he said, with an expression of terror
in every feature; "I hear Mrs. Calverley's step on the stairs. Do not
mention Mr. Claxton's name in this house; I will tell you why some
other time--only--don't mention it!"
"I understand," said Pauline quietly; and when Mrs. Calverley entered
the room, she found her guest deeply absorbed in the photographic
album.
That night the party broke up early. Mr. Calverley, though he used
every means in his power to disguise the agitation into which his
conversation with Pauline had thrown him, was absent and embarrassed;
while Pauline herself was so occupied in thought over what had
occurred, and so desirous to be alone, in order that she might have
the opportunity for full reflection, that she did not, as usual,
encourage her hostess in the small and spiteful talk in which that
lady delighted, and none were sorry when the clock, striking ten, gave
them an excuse for an adjournment.
"Allons donc," said Pauline, when she had once more regained her own
chamber, "I have made a great success to-night, by mere chance-work
too, arising from my keeping my eyes and ears always open. See now! It
is evident, from some cause or other--why, I cannot at present
comprehend--that this man, Monsieur Calverley, is frightened to death
lest his wife should see his partner! What does it matter to me, the
why or the wherefore? The mere fact of its being so is sufficient to
give me power over him. He is no fool; he sees the influence which I
have already acquired over Mrs. Calverley, and he knows that were I
just to drop a hint to that querulous being, that jealous wretch, she
would insist on being made known to Claxton, and having all the
business transactions between them explained to her. Threaten Monsieur
Calverley with that, and I can obtain from him what I will, can be put
on Tom Durham's track, and then left to myself to work out my revenge
in my own way! Ah, Monsieur and Madame Mogg, of Poland-street, how can
I ever be sufficiently grateful for the chance which sent me to lodge
in your mansarde, and first gave me the idea of making the
acquaintance of the head of the great firm of Calverley and Company!"
The next morning, when, after breakfast, and before starting for the
City, Mr. Calverley went into the dull square apartment behind the
dining-room, dimly lighted by a window, overlooking the leads, which
he called his study, where some score of unreadable books lay half
reclining against each other on shelves, but the most used objects in
which were a hat and clothes-brush, some walking-canes and umbrellas,
he was surprised to find himself closely followed by Madame Du Tertre;
more surprised when that lady closed the door quietly, and turning to
him said, with meaning:
"Now, monsieur, five words with you."
"Certainly, madame," said John very much taken aback; "but is not this
rather an odd place--would not Mrs. Calverley think--?"
"Ah, bah," said Pauline, with a shrug and a gesture very much more
reminiscent of the dame du comptoir than of the dame de compagnie.
"Mrs. Calverley has gone down-stairs to battle with those wretched
servants, and she is, as you know, safe to be there for half an hour.
What I have to say will not take ten minutes--shall I speak?"
John bowed in silence, looking at the same time anxiously towards the
study-door.
"You do not know much of me, Monsieur Calverley, but you will before I
have done. I am at present--and am, I fancy, likely to remain--an
inmate of your house; I have established myself in Mrs. Calverley's
good graces, and have, as you must know very well, a certain amount of
influence with her; but it was you to whom I made my original appeal;
it is you whom I wish to retain as my friend."
John Calverley, with flushing cheeks, and constantly-recurring glance
towards the door, said, "that he was very proud, and that if he only
knew what Madame Du Tertre desired--"
"You shall know at once, Monsieur Calverley: I want you to accept me
as your friend, and to prove that you do so by giving me your
confidence."
John Calverley started.
"Yes, your confidence," continued Pauline. "I have talent and energy,
and, when I am trusted, could prove myself a friend worth having; but
I am too proud to accept half-confidences, and where no trust is
reposed in me I am apt to ally myself with the opposite faction. Why
not trust in me, Monsieur Calverley--why not tell me all?"
"All--what all, madame?"
"About your partner, Monsieur Claxton, and the reason why you do not
bring him--"
"Hush! pray be silent, I implore you!" said John Calverley, stepping
towards her and taking both her hands in his. "I cannot imagine," he
said, after a moment's pause, "what interest my business affairs can
have for you; but since you seem to wish it, you shall know them all;
only not here and not now."
"Yes," said Pauline, with provoking calmness, '"in the City, perhaps?"
"Yes; at my office in Mincing-lane."
"And when?"
"To-morrow week, at four o'clock; come down there then, and I will
tell you all you wish to know."
"Right," said Pauline, slipping out of the room in an instant. And
before John Calverley let himself out at the street-door, he heard the
drawing-room piano ringing out the grand march from the _Prophète_
under her skilful hands.
Three days afterwards a man came up from the office with a letter for
Mrs. Calverley. It was from her husband, stating he had a telegram
calling him down to Swartmoor at once, and requesting that his
portmanteau might be packed and given to the messenger. This worthy
was seen and interrogated by the mistress of the house. "He knew
nothing about the telegram," he said, "but when his master gave him
the letter he looked bothered and dazed-like."
Mrs. Calverley shook her head, and opined that her prophecies anent
the downfall of the Swartmoor Ironworks were about to be realised. But
Pauline did not seem to be much put out at the news. "It is important,
doubtless," she said to herself, "and he must go; but he will return
in time to keep his appointment with me."
The day arrived and the hour, and Pauline was punctual to her
appointment, but Mr. Calverley had not arrived, though one of the
clerks said he had left word that it was probable he might return on
that day. That was enough for Pauline; she would await his arrival.
An hour passed.
Then there was a great tearing up and down stairs, and hurrying to and
fro, and presently, when a white-faced clerk came in to get his hat,
he stared to see her there. He had forgotten her, though it was he who
had ushered her into the waiting-room.
"There was no use in her remaining there any longer," he said; "the
head-clerk, Mr. Jeffreys, had been sent for to Great Walpole-street;
and though nobody knew anything positive, everybody felt that
something dreadful had occurred."