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!"

CHAPTER VIII.
THE VICAR OF LULLINGTON.

Jolly George Gurwood's only child, tie little boy whom his
grandfather, old John Lorraine, made so much of during the latter
years of his life, after having been educated at Marlborough and
Oxford, was admitted into holy orders, and, at the time of our story,
was Vicar of Lullington, a rural parish, about one hundred and twenty
miles from London, on the great Northern road. A pleasant place
Lullington for a lazy man. A quiet, sleepy little village of half a
hundred houses, scattered here and there, with a chirpy little brook
singing its way through what was supposed the the principal street,
and hurrying onwards though great broad tracts of green pasturage,
where in the summer time the red-brown cattle drank of it, and cooled
their heated limbs in its refreshing tide, until it was finally
swallowed up in the silver Trent.

Lullington Church was not a particularly picturesque edifice, for it
resembled a large barn, with a square, weather-beaten tower at one end
of it; nor was the churchyard at all likely to be provocative of an
elegy, or of anything but rheumatism, being a damp, dreary little
spot, with most of its tombstones covered with green moss, and with a
public footpath, with a stile at either end, running through the
middle of it. But to the artists wandering through that part of the
country (they were not numerous, for Notts and Lincoln have not much
to offer to the sketcher), the vicarage made up for the shortcomings
of the church. It was a square, old-fashioned, red-bricked house,
standing in the midst of a garden full of greenery; and whereas the
church looked time-worn and cold, and had even on the brightest summer
day, a teeth-chattering, gruesome appearance, the vicarage had a
jolly cheerful expression, and when the sun gleamed on its little
diamond-shaped windows, with their leaden casements, you were
inexplicably reminded of a red-faced, genial old gentleman, whose eyes
were twinkling in delight at some funny story which he had just heard.

It was just the home for a middle-aged man with a wife and family; for
it had a large number of rooms of all kinds and shapes, square
bed-chambers, triangular nooks, long passages, large attics, wherein
was accommodation for half-a-dozen servants, and ramshackle stables,
where as many horses could be stowed away. It was just the house for a
man of large means, who would not object to devoting a certain
portion of his leisure to his parochial duties, but whose principal
occupation would be in his garden or his greenhouses. Such a man was
Martin Gurwood's predecessor, who had held the living for fifty years,
and had seen some half-score boys and girls issue from the vicarage
into the world to marry and settle themselves in various ways of life.
The Reverend Anthony Camden was known as a rose-grower throughout
three adjoining counties, and had even obtained special prizes at
Crystal-Palace and Botanical-Garden shows. He was a bit of a fisherman
too, and had been in his younger days something of a shot. Not being
much of a reader, except of the _Field_ and the _Gardeners'
Chronicle_, he would have found the winter evenings dull, had it not
been for the excitement of perpetually re-arranging his large
collection of moths and butterflies, renewing their corks and pins,
and putting fresh pieces of camphor into the corners of the glazed
drawers which contained them. Mr. Camden knew all about crops and
manure, and sub-soiling and drainage; the farmers for miles round used
to come to the vicarage to consult him, and he always gave them beer
and advice both of the best quality. He played long-whist and preached
short sermons; and when he died in a green old age, it was universally
voted in Lullington and its neighbourhood, that it would be impossible
to replace him.

Certainly, there could not have been a more marked contrast than
between him and his successor. Martin Gurwood was a man of
six-and-twenty, unmarried, with apparently no thought in life beyond
his sacred calling and the duties appertaining to it. Only half the
rooms in the vicarage were furnished; and, except on such rare
occasions as his mother or some of his friends coming to stay with
him, only two of them on the ground-floor, one the vicar's study, the
other his bed-chamber, were used. The persistent entreaties of his old
housekeeper had induced him to relent from his original intention of
allowing the garden to go to rack and ruin, and it was accordingly
handed over to the sexton, who in so small a community had but little
work in his own particular line, and who kept up the old-fashioned
flowers and the smooth-shaven lawns in which their late owner had so
much delighted. But Martin Gurwood took no interest in the garden
himself, and only entered it occasionally of an evening, when he would
stroll up and down the lawn, or one of the gravel walks, with his
head bent forward and his hands clasped behind him, deep in
meditation. He kept a horse, certainly--a powerful big-boned Irish
hunter--but he only rode her by fits and starts, sometimes leaving her
in the stable for weeks together, dependent on such exercise as she
could obtain in the spare moments of her groom, at other times
persistently riding her day after day, no matter what might be the
weather. On those occasions the vicar did not merely go out for a mild
constitutional, to potter round the outskirts of his parish, or to
trot over to the market-town; he was out for hours at a stretch, and
generally brought the mare home heated and foam-flecked. Indeed, more
than one of his parishioners had seen their spiritual guide riding
across country, solitary indeed, but straight, as though he were
marking out the line for a steeple-chase, stopping neither for hedge,
bank, nor brook, the Irish mare flying all in her stride, her rider
sitting with his hands down on her withers, his lips compressed, and
his face deadly pale. "Tekkin it out of hisself, mebbe," said Farmer
Barford, when his son described to him this sight which he had seen
that afternoon; "for all he's so close, and so meek and religious,
there's a spice of the devil in him as in every other man; and, Bill,
my boy, that's the way he takes it out of hisself." Thus Farmer
Barford, and to this effect spoke several of the parishioners in
committee assembled over their pipes and beer at the Dun Cow.

They did not hint anything of the kind to the vicar himself, trust
them for that! Martin Gurwood could not be called popular amongst the
community in which his lot was cast; he was charitable to a degree,
lavish with his money, thinking nothing of passing days and nights by
the bedside of the sick, contributing more than half the funds
necessary for the maintenance of the village schools, accessible at
all times, and ready with such advice or assistance as the occasion
demanded; but yet they called him "high and standoffish." Old Mr..
Camden, making a house-to-house visitation perhaps once a year, when
the fit so seized him, "going his rounds," as he called it, would sit
down to dinner in a farm-house kitchen, or take a mug of beer with the
farmer while they talked about crops, and occasionally would preside
at a harvest-home supper, or a Christmas gathering. Martin Gurwood did
nothing of this kind; he was always polite, invariably courteous, but
he never courted anything like fellowship or bonhomie. He had joined
the village cricket-club on his first arrival, and showed himself an
excellent and energetic player; but the familiarity engendered in the
field seemed displeasing to him, and though he continued his
subscription, he gradually withdrew from active membership. Nor was
his religious ardour particularly pleasing to the parishioners, who,
under Mr. Camden's lax rule, had thought it sufficient if they put-in
an appearance at morning service, and thus cleared off the debt of
attendance until the succeeding Sunday. They could not understand what
the parson meant by having prayers at eight o'clock every morning: who
did he expect would go at such a time, they wondered? Not they, nor
their men, who were far away in the fields before that time; not the
missuses, who had the dairy and the house to attend to; not the girls,
who were looking after the linen and minding the younger children; nor
the boys, who, if not at school, were out at farm-work. It was all
very well for the two Miss Dyneleys, the two maiden ladies living at
Ivy Cottage, who had money coming in regular, paid them by the
Government (the Lullington idea of consols was not particularly
clear), and had naught to do from morning till night; it filled-up
their time like, and was a kind of amusement to them. All very well
for old Mr. Willis, who had made his fortune, it was said, by being a
tailor in London, who had bought the Larches where Squire Needham used
to live in the good old times, who could not ride, or drive, or shoot,
or fish, or do anything but walk about his garden with a spud over his
shoulders, and who was said to be dying to get back to business. These
and some two or three of the bigger girls from the Miss Gilks's
seminary for young ladies, were all that attended at "Mattins," as the
name of the morning service stood in Early-english type on the
index-board in the churchyard; but Martin Garwood persevered and went
through the service with as much earnestness and devotion as though
the church had been full and the bishop of the diocese seated in the
vicar's pew.

There was the usual element of squirearchy in the neighbourhood, and
on Martin's first introduction into its parish the squires' wives
drove over, leaving their own and their husbands' cards, and
invitations to dinner, duly arranged for a time when the moon was at
its full. Mr. Gurwood responded to these invitations, and made his
appearance at the various banquets. Accustomed to old Mr. Camden with
his red face, his bald head, his white whiskers, and black suit cut in
the fashion of a quarter of a century ago, the county people were at
first rather impressed with Martin Gurwood's thin handsome face, and
small well-dressed figure. It was a relief, the women said, to see a
gentleman amongst them, and they were all certain that Mr. Gurwood
would be an acquisition to the local society; but as the guests were
driving homeward from the first of these feasts, several of the male
convives imparted to their wives their idea that the new Vicar of
Lullington was not merely unfit to hold a candle to his predecessor,
but was likely to prove a meddlesome, disagreeable fellow. It seemed
that after the ladies had retired, the conversation becoming as usual
rather free, Mr. Gurwood had sat in blank, stony silence, keeping his
eyes steadily fixed upon the contents of his dessert plate, and
neither by look nor word giving the slightest intimation that he was
aware of what was going on. But when rallied from his silence by Mr.
Lidstone, a man of low tastes and small education, but enormously
wealthy, Mr. Gurwood had spoken out and declared that if by indulging
in such conversation, and telling such stories, they chose to ignore
the respect due to themselves, they ought at least, while he was among
them, to recollect the respect due to him, and to the calling which he
represented. He had no desire to assume the character of a wet blanket
or a kill-joy, but they must understand that for the future they must
chose between his presence and the indulgence in such conversation;
and as they had evidently not expected any such demonstration in the
present instance, he would relieve them of his company at once, and
leave them to decide whether or not he should again come amongst them
as a guest. So saying, the parson had walked out of the window on to
the lawn as cool as a cucumber, and left the squirearchy gaping in
astonishment.

They were Boeotian, these county people, crass, ignorant, and rusted
with prejudice from want of contact with the world, but they were by
no means bad-hearted, and they took the parson's remonstrance in very
good part. Each one who had already sent Martin Gurwood an invitation,
managed to grip his hand before the evening was over, and took
occasion to renew it, declaring he should have no occasion to
reiterate the remarks which he had just made, and which they perfectly
understood. Nor had he; he went a round of these solemn festivities,
finding each one, both during the presence of the ladies and after
their withdrawal, perfectly decorous, but unspeakably dull. He had not
been sufficiently long in the neighbourhood for the local gossip to
possess the smallest interest to him; he was not sufficient of an
agriculturist to discuss the different methods of farming or the
various qualities of food; he could talk about Oxford indeed, where
some of his hosts or their friends had young relations whom he had
known; he could and did sing well certain Italian songs in a rich
tenor voice; and he discussed church architecture and decorations with
the young ladies. But the old squires and the young squires cared for
none of these things. They remembered how old Anthony Camden would sit
by while the broadest stories were told, looking, save from the
twinkle in his eye and the curling of his bulbous nether lip, as
though he heard them not; with what feeling he would troll out a
ballad of Dibdin's, or a bacchanalian ditty; and how the brewing of
the bowl of punch, the "stirrup-cup," was always intrusted to his
practised hand. Martin Gurwood took a glass of cold water before
leaving; and if he were dining out any distance always had the one
hired fly of the neighbourhood to convey him back to the vicarage. No
wonder that the laughter-loving, roisterous squires shook their heads
when they thought of old Anthony Camden, and mourned over the glories
of those departed days.

Martin Gurwood was not, however, at Lullington just now. He had
induced an old college friend to look after the welfare of his
parishioners while he ran up, as he did once or twice in the year, to
stay for a fortnight with his mother in Great Walpole-street. John
Calverley, who had a strong liking for Martin, a feeling which the
vicar cordially reciprocated, was anxious that his step-son should
come to them at Christmas; being an old-fashioned soul with a belief
in holly and yule logs, and kindly greetings and open-hearted
charities, at what he invariably spoke of as that "festive season,"
and having an intense desire to interpose at such a time a friendly
aegis between him and the stony-faced Gorgon, whom it was his lot
through life to confront. But Martin Gurwood, regarding the Christmas
season in a very different light, urged that at such a time it would
be impossible for him to absent himself from his duties, and after his
own frigid manner refused to be tempted by the convivial blandishments
which John held out to him, or to be scared by the picture of the grim
loneliness of the vicarage which his stepfather drew for his
edification. So, in the early days of November, when the Lullington
farmers were getting well into their hunting, and the London
fogs, scarcely long enough to embrace the entire length of Great
Walpole-street, blotted out its middle and its lower end, leaving the
upper part comparatively bright and airy, Martin Gurwood came to town
and took up his abode in Mrs. Calverley's best spare bedroom.

The other spare bedroom in the house was occupied by Madame Pauline Du
Tertre, who had for some time been installed there, and had regularly
taken up her position as the friend of the family and confidential
adviser to the female head of the house. Immediately on gaining her
footing within the walls, Pauline had succeeded in establishing
herself in the good graces of the self-contained, silent woman, who
hitherto had never known what it was to have any one to share her
confidences, to listen patiently to her never-ceasing complaints, and
to be able and willing to make little suggestions which chimed-in with
Mrs. Calverley's thoughts and wishes. Years ago, before her first
marriage, Jane Calverley had had a surfeit of toadyism and flattery
from her poor relations and dependants, and from the servants, who
cringed to and fawned upon the young girl as though they had been
southern slaves and she their owner. But in George Gurwood's days, and
since her marriage with her second husband, Mrs. Calverley had made no
friends, and even those whose interest it was to stand well with her
had found it impossible to break through the barriers of icy reserve
with which she surrounded herself. They did not approach her in the
proper manner perhaps, they did not go to work in the right way.
Commonly bred and ill-educated people as they were, they imagined that
the direct road to Jane Calverley's favour lay in pitying her and
speaking against her husband, with whom she was plainly at strife. As
is usual with such people, they overacted their parts; they spoke
strongly and bitterly in their denunciation of Mr. Calverley; they
were coarse, and their loud-trumpeted compassion for their mistress
jarred upon its recipient. Jane Calverley was a proud as well as a
hard woman, and her mind revolted against the idea of being openly
compassionated by her inferiors; so she kept her confidences rigidly
locked in her own breast, and Pauline's was the first hand to press a
spring by which the casket was opened.

Before the Frenchwoman had been in the house twenty-four hours, she
had learned exactly the relations of its inmates, and as much as has
been already set forth in these pages of their family history. She had
probed the characters of the husband and the wife, had listened to the
mother's eulogies of her saintly son, and had sighed and shaken her
head in seeming condolence over the vividly-described shortcomings of
Mr. Calverley. Without effusion, and with only the dumb sympathy
conveyed by her eloquent eyes and gestures, Pauline managed to lead
her new-found friend, now that she comprehended her domestic troubles,
and would do her best to aid her in getting rid of them, and in many
other ways she made herself useful and agreeable to the cold,
friendless woman who was her hostess. She re-arranged the furniture of
the dreary drawing-room, lighting it up here and there with such
flowers as were procurable, and with evergreens, which she bought
herself; she covered the square formal chairs and couches with muslin
antimacassars, and gave the room, what it had never hitherto had, the
semblance of a woman's presence. She accomplished what everybody had
imagined to be an impossibility, an alteration in the style of Mrs.
Calverley's costume; she made with her own hands a little elegant cap
with soft blond falling from it, which took away from that rigid
outline of the chin; and instead of the wisp of black net round her
throat, she induced Mrs. Calverley to wear a neat white muslin
handkerchief across her chest. The piano, seldom touched, save when
Mrs. Calverley, in an extraordinary good temper, would, for her
husband's edification, thump and strum away at an overture in
_Semiramide_ and other set pieces, which she had learned in her youth,
was now regularly brought into use, and in the evening Pauline would
seat herself at it, playing long selections from Mendelssohn and
Beethoven, or singing religious songs by Mozart, the listening to
which made John Calverley supremely happy, and even brought something
like moisture into his wife's steely eyes. It is probable that had
Mrs. Calverley had any notion that these songs were the composition of
a Roman Catholic, and were many of them used in what she was
accustomed to speak of as "Popish ceremonies," she would never have
been induced even to listen to them; but with unerring judgment
Pauline had at once divined this phase in her employer's character,
and, while the particular sect to which she belonged was of no
importance to herself, had taken care to make Mrs. Calverley
understand that Luther had no more devoted adherent.

"She is a Huguenot, my dear," said Mrs. Calverley to Martin Gurwood,
shortly after his arrival, and before she had presented him to the
new inmate of the house; "a Huguenot of ancient family, who lost all
their property a long time ago by the revocation of the edict of
somebody--Nancy, I think, was the name. You will find her a most
amiable person, richly endowed with good gifts, and calculated, should
she not suffer from the evil effects of Mr. Calverley's companionship,
to prove an inestimable blessing to me."

Martin Gurwood expressed himself well pleased to hear this account of
his mother's new-found friend; but, on being presented to Pauline, he
scarcely found the description realised. His natural cleverness had
been sharpened by his public-school and university education; and,
though during the last few years of his life he had been buried in
comparative obscurity, he retained sufficient knowledge of the world
to perceive that a woman like Madame Du Tertre, bright, clever, to a
certain degree accomplished, and possessing immense energy and power
of will, would not have relegated herself to such a life as she was
then leading without having a strong aim to gain. And what that aim
was he was determined to find out.

But, though these were Martin Gurwood's thoughts, he never permitted a
trace of them to appear in his manner to Madame Du Tertre, which was
scrupulously courteous, if nothing more. Perhaps it was from his
mother that he inherited a certain cold propriety of bearing and
frigidity of demeanour, which his acquaintances generally complained
of. The farmers of Lullington, comparing it with the geniality of
their previous pastor, found it insufferable; and his college friends,
who had come in contact with him of late years, thought he was a
totally changed being from the high-spirited fellow who had been one
of the noisiest athletes of his day. Certain it was that he was now
pensive and reserved; nay more, that when out of Lullington in
company--that is to say, either with any of his former colleagues,
or of a few persons who were visitors at the house in Great
Walpole-street--he seemed desirous almost of shunning observation, and
of studiously keeping in the back-ground, when his mother's pride in
him would have made him take a leading part in any conversation that
might be going on. Before he had been two days in the house Pauline's
quick instinct had detected this peculiarity, and she had mentally
noted it among the things which, properly worked, might help her to
the elucidation of the plan to which she had devoted her life. She
determined on making herself agreeable to this young man, on forcing
him into a certain amount of intimacy and companionship; and so
skilful were her tactics, that, without absolute rudeness, Martin
Gurwood found it impossible entirely to withdraw from her advances.

One night she challenged him to chess, and during the intervals of the
game she endeavoured to learn more of him than she had hitherto been
able to do in mere desultory conversation in the presence of others.

Mrs. Calverley was hard at work at the Berlin-wool frame, putting the
final touches to Jael and Sisera; John Calverley, with the newspaper
in his lap, was fast asleep in his easy-chair; and the chess-players
were at the far end of the room, with a shaded lamp between them.

They formed a strange contrast this couple: he, with his wavy chestnut
hair, his thin red-and-white, clear-cut, whiskerless face, his
shifting blue eyes, and his weak irresolute mouth; she, with her olive
complexion, her blue-black hair, her steady earnest gaze, her square
firm jaw, and the deep orange trimmings of her black silk dress,
showing off strangely against her companion's sable-hued clerical
dress.

"You are too strong for me, monsieur," said Pauline, at the conclusion
of the first game; "but I will not yield you the victory without a
farther struggle."

"I was going to say you played an excellent game, Madame Du Tertre;
but after your remark, it would sound: as though I were complimenting
myself," said Martin. "I have but few opportunities for chess-playing
now, but it was a favourite game of mine at college; and I knew many a
man who prided himself on his play whose head for it was certainly not
so good as yours."

"You have not many persons in your--what you call your parish--who
play chess?"

"No, indeed," said Martin; "cribbage I believe to be the highest
flight in that line amongst the farmers."

"Madame Calverley has explained to me the style of place that it is.
Is it not wearisome to you to a degree to pass your existence in such
a locale amongst such a set of people?"

"It is my duty, Madame Du Tertre," said Martin, "and I do not repine."

"Ah, monsieur," said Pauline, with an inclination of her head and
downcast eyes, "I am the last person in the world to rebel against
duty, or to allow that it should not be undertaken in that spirit of
Christianity which you have shown. But are you sure, Monsieur Martin,
that you are acting rightly? However good your intentions may be, with
your devotion to the cause you have espoused, and with your great
talents, you should be taking a leading position in the great battle
of religion; whereas, by burying yourself in this hole, there you lose
for yourself the opportunity of fame, while the Church loses a
brilliant leader."

"I have no desire for fame, Madame Du Tertre; and if I can only do my
duty diligently, it is enough for me."

"Yes; but there is another thing. Pardon me, Monsieur Martin, I am a
strange woman and some years older than you, so that you must not
think me guilty of an impertinence in speaking freely to you. Your
Church--our Church--does not condemn its ministers to an ascetic or a
celibate life--that is one of the wildest errors of Romanism. Has it
never struck you that in consenting to remain amongst persons with
whom you have nothing in common--where you are never likely to meet a
woman calculated so to excite your admiration and affection as to
induce you to make her your wife, you are rather following the Roman
than the Protestant custom?"

A faint flush, duly marked by Pauline's keen eyes, passed over Martin
Gurwood's handsome features. "I have no intention of marrying," he
said, in a low voice.

"Not now perhaps," said Pauline, "because you have not yet seen anyone
whom you could love. A man of your taste and education is always
fastidious; but, depend upon it, you will some day find some lovely
girl of ancient family who--"

"It will be time enough then to speak of it, Madame Du Tertre, would
it not?" said Martin Gurwood, flushing again. "Now, if you please, we
will resume our game."

When Pauline went to her bedroom that night she locked the door, threw
herself into an easy-chair in front of the fire, and remained buried
in contemplation. Then she rose, and as she strolled towards the
dressing-table, said half aloud: "That man is jealously guarding a
secret--and it is his own!"

CHAPTER IX.
TOM DURHAM'S FRIEND.

On the morning after the Reverend Martin Gurwood and Madame Du Tertre
had had their game at chess, and held the conversation just recorded,
a straggling sunbeam, which had lost its way, turned by accident into
'Change-alley, and fell straight on to the bald head of a gentleman in
the second-floor of one of the houses there. This gentleman, who,
according to the inscription on the outer door jamb, was Mr. Humphrey
Statham, was so astonished at the unexpected solar apparition, that he
laid down the bundle of red tape with which he was knotting some
papers together, and advancing to the grimy window, rubbed a square
inch of dirt off the pane, and bending down, looked up at as much as
he could discern of the narrow strip of dun-coloured sky which does
duty for the blue empyrean to the inhabitants of 'Change-alley. The
sun but rarely visits 'Change-alley in summer, and in winter scarcely
ever puts in an appearance; the denizens endeavour to compensate
themselves for its absence by hanging huge burnished tin reflectors
outside their windows, or giving up all attempts at deception, and
sitting under gaslight from morning till eve. So that what Mr. Statham
saw when he looked up was as satisfactory as it was unexpected, and he
rubbed his hands together in sheer geniality, as he muttered something
about having "decent weather for his trip."

A tall, strongly-built man, and good-looking after his fashion, with a
fringe of dark-brown hair round his bald crown, large regular
features, piercing hazel eyes, somewhat overhanging brows, a pleasant
mobile mouth, and a crisp brown beard.

Humphrey Statham was a ship-broker, though, from a cursory glance at
his office, it would have been difficult to guess what occupation he
pursued, furnished as it was in the ordinary business fashion. There
was a large leather-covered writing-table, at which he was seated, a
standing desk in the window, an old worn stained leather easy-chair
for clients, the customary directories and commercial lists on shelves
against the wall, the usual Stationers' Almanac hanging above the
mantelpiece, the usual worn carpet and cinder-browned hearth-rug. In
the outer office, where the four clerks sat, and where the smaller
owners and the captains had to wait Mr. Statham's leisure (large
owners and underwriters being granted immediate audience), the walls
were covered with printed bills, announcing the dates of departure of
certain ships, the approaching sale of others; the high desks were
laden with huge ledgers and files of Lloyd's lists; and one of the
clerks, who took a deep interest in his business, gave quite a
maritime flavour to the place by invariably wearing a particular short
pea-jacket and a hard round oilskin hat.

Not much leisure had these clerks; they were, to use their own phrase,
"at it" from morning till night, for Mr. Statham's business was a
large one, and though all the more important part of it was discharged
by himself, there was plenty of letter-writing and agreement copying,
ledger-entering, and running backwards and forwards between the office
and Lloyd's when the "governor," as they called him, was busy with the
underwriters. This year had been a peculiarly busy one; so busy, that
Mr. Statham had been unable to take his usual autumnal holiday, a
period of relaxation which he always looked forward to, and which,
being fond of athletics, and still in the very prime of life, he
usually passed among the Swiss Alps. This autumn he had passed it at
Teddington instead of Courmayeur, and had substituted a couple of
hours' pull on the river in the evening for his mountain climbing and
hairbreadth escapes. But the change had not been sufficient; his head
was dazed, he suffered under a great sense of lassitude; and his
doctor had ordered him to knock-off work, and to start immediately for
a clear month's vacation. Where he was to go he had scarcely made up
his mind. Of course, Switzerland in November was impossible, and he
was debating between the attractions of a month's snipe-shooting in
Ireland and the delight of passing his time on board one of the Scilly
Islands pilot-boats, roughing it with the men, and thoroughly enjoying
the wild life and the dangerous occupation. A grave, plain-mannered
man in his business--somewhat over cautious and reserved they thought
him at Lloyd's--Humphrey Statham, when away for his holiday, had the
high spirits of a boy, and never was so happy as when he had thrown
off all the ordinary constraints of conventionality, and was leading a
life widely different from that normally led by him, and associating
with persons widely different from those with whom he was ordinarily
brought into contact. Mr. Statham was, however, in his business just
now, and had not thrown off his cautious habits. By his side stood a
large iron safe, with one or two of its drawers open, and before him
lay a number of letters and papers, which he read through one by one,
or curiously glanced at, duly docketed them, made some memorandum
regarding them in his note-book, and stowed them away in a drawer in
the safe. As he read through some of them, he smiled; at others he
glanced with an angry frown or a shoulder-shrug of contempt; but there
were one or two during the perusal of which the lines in his face
seemed to deepen perceptibly, and before he laid them aside he
pondered long and deeply over their contents.

"What a queer lot it is!" said Humphrey Statham wearily, throwing
himself back in his chair; "and how astonished people would be if they
only knew what a strange mass of human interests these papers
represent! With the exception of Collins, outside there, no one, I
suppose, comes into this room who does not imagine that this safe
contains nothing but business memoranda, insurances, brokerages,
calculations, and commissions; details concerning the Lively Polly of
Yarmouth, or the Saucy Sally of Whitstable; or who has the faintest
idea that among the business documents there are papers and letters
which would form good stock-in-trade for a romance writer! Why on
earth do those fellows spin their brains, when for a very small
investment of cash they could get people to tell them their own
experiences, actual facts and occurrences, infinitely more striking
and interesting than the nonsense which they invent? Every man who
has seen anything of life must at one time or other have had some
strange experience: the man who sells dog-collars and penknives at the
corner of the court; the old broken-down hack in the outer office, who
was a gentleman once, and now copies letters and runs errands for
fifteen shillings a week; and I, the solemn, grave, trusted man of
business--I, the cautious and reserved Humphrey Statham--perhaps I too
have had my experiences which would work into a strange story! A story
I may have to tell some day--may have to tell to a man, standing face
to face with him, looking straight into his eyes, and showing him how
he has been delivered into my hands." And Humphrey Statham crossed his
arms before him and let his chin sink upon his breast, as he indulged
in a profound reverie.

We will anticipate the story which Mr. Statham imagined that he would
some day have to tell under such peculiar circumstances.

Humphrey Statham's father was a merchant and a man of means, living in
good style in Russell-square; and, though of a somewhat gloomy
temperament and stern demeanour, in his way fond of his son, and
determined that the lad should be educated and prepared for the
position which he would afterwards have to assume. Humphrey's mother
was dead--had died soon after his birth--he had no brothers or
sisters; and as Mr. Statham had never married again, the household was
conducted by his sister, a meek long-suffering maiden lady, to whom
hebdomadal attendance at the Foundling Chapel was the one joy in life.
It had first been intended that the child should be educated at home;
but he seemed so out of place in the big old-fashioned house, so
strange in the company of his grave father or melancholy aunt, that,
to prevent his being given over entirely to the servants, whom he
liked very much, and with whom he spent most of his time, he was sent
at an early age to a preparatory establishment, and then transferred
to a grammar-school of repute in the neighbourhood of London. He was a
dare-devil boy, full of fun and mischief, capital at cricket and
football, and though remarkably quick by nature, and undoubtedly
possessing plenty of appreciative common-sense and savoir faire, yet
taking no position in the school, and held in very cheap estimation by
his master. The half-yearly reports which, together with the bills for
education and extras, were placed inside Master Humphrey's box, on the
top of his neatly-packed clothes, and accompanied him home at every
vacation from Canehambury, did not tend to make Mr. Statham any the
less stern, or his manner to his son any more indulgent. The boy
knew--he could not help knowing--that his father was wealthy and
influential, and he had looked forward to his future without any fear,
and, indeed, without very much concern. He thought he should like to
go into the army, which meant to wear a handsome uniform and do little
or nothing, to be petted by the ladies, of whose charms he had already
shown himself perfectly cognisant, and to lead a life of luxury and
ease. But Mr. Statham had widely different views. Although he had
succeeded to his business, he had vastly improved it since he became
its master, and had no idea of surrendering so lucrative a concern to
a stranger, or of letting it pass out of the family. As he had worked,
so should his son work in his turn; and accordingly, Master Humphrey
on his removal from Canehambury was sent to a tutor resident in one of
the Rhineland towns, with a view to his instruction in French and
German, and to his development from a careless, high-spirited lad into
a man of business and of the world.

The German tutor, a dreamy misty transcendentalist, was eminently
unfitted for the charge intrusted to him. He gave the boy certain
books, and left him to read them or not, as he chose; he set him
certain tasks, but never took the trouble to see how they had been
performed, or, indeed, whether they had been touched at all, till he
was remarkably astonished after a short time to find his pupil
speaking very excellent German, and once or twice took the trouble to
wonder how "Homfrie," as he called him, could have acquired such a
mastery of the language. Had an explanation of the marvel ever been
asked of Humphrey himself, he could have explained it very readily.
The town selected for his domicile was one of the celebrated
art-academies of Germany, a place where painters of all kinds flocked
from all parts to study under the renowned professors therein
resident. A jovial, thriftless, kindly set of Bohemians these
painters, in the strict sense of the word, impecunious to a degree,
now working from morn till eve for days together, now not touching
pencil or maulstick for weeks, living in a perpetual fog of tobacco,
and spending their nights in beer-drinking and song-singing, in cheap
epicureanism and noisy philosophical discussions. To this society of
careless convives Humphrey Statham obtained a ready introduction, and
among them soon established himself as a prime favourite. The bright
face and interminable spirits of "Gesellschap's Englander," as he was
called (Gesellschap was the name of his tutor), made him welcome
everywhere. He passed his days in lounging from studio to studio,
smoking pipes and exchanging jokes with their denizens, occasionally
standing for a model for his hosts, now with bare neck and arms
appearing as a Roman gladiator, now with casque and morion as a young
Flemish burgher of Van Artevelde's guard, always ready, always
obliging, roaring at his own linguistic mistakes, but never failing to
correct them; while at night at the painters' club, the Malkasten, or
the less aristocratic Kneipe, his voice was the cheeriest in the
chorus, his wit the readiest in suggesting tableaux vivants, or in
improvising practical jokes.

A pleasant life truly, but not, perhaps, a particularly reputable one.
Certainly not one calculated for the formation of a City man of
business according to Mr. Statham's interpretation of the term. When
at the age of twenty the young man tore himself away from his Bohemian
comrades, who kissed him fervently, and wept beery tears at his
departure, and, in obedience to his father's commands, returned to
England and to respectability, to take up his position in the paternal
counting-house, Mr. Statham was considerably more astonished than
gratified at the manner in which his son's time had been passed, and
at its too evident results. About Humphrey there was nothing which
could be called slang in the English sense of the term, certainly
nothing vulgar; but there was a reckless abandon, a defiance of set
propriety, a superb scorn for the respectable conventionality
regulating the movements and the very thoughts of the circle in which
Mr. Statham moved, which that worthy gentleman observed with horror,
and which he considered almost as loathsome as vice itself. Previous
to his presentation to the establishment over which he was to rule,
Humphrey's long locks were clipped away, his light downy beard shaved
off, his fantastic garments exchanged for sad-coloured soberly-cut
clothes; and when this transformation had been accomplished, the young
man was taken into the City and placed in the hands of Mr. Morrison
the chief clerk, who was enjoined to give a strict account of his
business qualifications. Mr. Morrison's report did not tend to
dissipate the disappointment which had fallen like a blow on the old
man's mind. Humphrey could talk German as glibly and with as good an
accent as any Rhinelander from Manheim to Düsseldorf; he had picked up
a vast amount of conversational French from the French artists who had
formed part of his jolly society; and had command of an amount of
argot which would have astonished Monsieur Philarète Chasles himself;
but he had never been in the habit of either reading or writing
anything but the smallest scraps of notes; and when Mr. Morrison
placed before him a four-sided letter from their agent at Hamburg,
couched in commercial German phraseology, and requested him to
re-translate and answer it, Humphrey's expressive face looked so
woe-begone and he boggled so perceptibly over the manuscript, that one
of the junior clerks saw the state of affairs at a glance, and
confidentially informed his neighbour at the next desk that "young S.
was up a tree."

It was impossible to hide these shortcomings from Mr. Statham, who was
anxiously awaiting Mr. Morrison's report; and after reading it, and
assuring himself of its correctness by a personal examination of his
son, his manner, which ever since Humphrey's return had been frigid
and reserved, grew harsh and stern. He took an early opportunity of
calling Humphrey into his private room, and of informing him that he
should have one month's probation, and that if he did not signally
improve by the end of that time, he would be removed from the
office, as his father did not choose to have one of his name the
laughing-stock of those employed by him. The young man winced under
this speech, which he received in silence, but in five minutes after
leaving his father's presence his mind was made up. He would go
through the month's probation, since it was expected of him, but he
would not make the smallest attempt to improve himself; and he would
leave his future to chance. Punctually, on the very day that the month
expired, Mr. Statham again sent for his son; told him he had
discovered no more interest in, or inclination for, the business than
he had shown on his first day of joining the house, and that in
consequence he must give up all idea of becoming a partner, or,
indeed, of having anything farther to do with the establishment. An
allowance of two hundred pounds a year would be paid to him during his
father's lifetime, and would be bequeathed to him in his father's
will; he must never expect to receive anything else, and Mr. Statham
broadly hinted, in conclusion, that it would be far more agreeable
to him if his son would take up his residence anywhere than in
Russell-square, and that he should feel particularly relieved if he
never saw him again.

This arrangement suited Humphrey Statham admirably. Two hundred a year
to a very young man, who has never had any command of money, is an
important sum. He left the counting-house; and whatever respect and
regard he may have felt for his father had been obliterated by the
invariable sternness and opposition with which all his advances had
been received. Two hundred a year! He would be off back at once to
Rhineland, where, among the painters, he could live like a prince with
such an income; and he went--and in six months came back again. The
thing was changed somehow; it was not as it used to be. There were the
same men, indeed, living the same kind of life, equally glad to
welcome their English comrade, and to give him the run of their
studios and their clubs and kneipes; but after a time this kind of
life seemed very flat and vapid to Humphrey Statham. The truth is,
that during his six weeks' office experience he had seen something of
London; and on reflection he made up his mind that, after all, it was
perhaps a more amusing place than any of the Rhineland towns. On his
return to London he took a neat lodging, and for four or five years
led a purposeless idle life, such a life as is led by hundreds of
young men who are burdened with that curse--a bare sufficiency,
scarcely enough to keep them, more than enough to prevent them from
seeking employment, and to dull any aspirations which they may
possess. It was during this period of his life that Humphrey made the
acquaintance of Tom Durham, whose gaiety, recklessness, and charm of
manner, fascinated him at once; and he himself took a liking to the
frank, generous, high-spirited young man, Tom Durham's knowledge of
the world made him conscious that, though indolent, and to a certain
extent dissipated, Humphrey Statham was by no means depraved, and to
his friend Mr. Durham therefore exhibited only the best side of his
nature. He was engaged in some wild speculations just at that time,
and it was while careering over the country with Tom Durham in search
of a capitalist to float some marvellous invention of that fertile
genius, that Humphrey Statham met with an adventure which completely
altered the current of his life.

They were making Leeds their headquarters, but Tom Durham had gone
over to Batley for a day or two, to see the owner of a shoddy mill,
who was reported to be both rich and speculative; and Humphrey was
left alone. He was strolling about in the evening, thinking what a
horrible place Leeds was, and what a large sum of money a man ought to
be paid for living in it, when he was overtaken and passed by a girl,
walking rapidly in the direction of Headingley. The glimpse he caught
of her face showed him that it was more than ordinarily beautiful, and
Humphrey quickened his lazy pace, and followed her until he saw her
safely housed in a small neat dwelling. The next day he made inquiries
about this girl, the transient glance of whose face had made such an
impression upon him, and found that her name was Emily Mitchell; that
her father, now dead, had been a booking-clerk in one of the large
factories; that she was employed in a draper's shop; and that she
lived with her uncle and aunt in the small house to which Humphrey had
tracked her. Humphrey Statham speedily made Miss Mitchell's
acquaintance, found her more beautiful than he had imagined, and as
fascinating as she was lovely; fascinating not in the ordinary sense
of the word, not by coquetry or blandishment, but by innate
refinement, grace, and innocence. After seeing her and talking with
her a few times, Humphrey could no longer control his feelings, and
finding that he was not indifferent to Emily--his good looks, his
frank nature, and his easy bearing, well qualified him to find favour
in the eyes of such a girl--he spoke out plainly to her uncle, and
told him how matters stood. He was in love with Emily, he said, and
most anxious to marry, but his income was but 200_l_. a year, not
sufficient to maintain her, even in the quiet way both he and she
desired they should live; but he was young, and though he had been
idle, now that he had an incentive to work he would show what he could
do. It was possible that, seeing the difference in him, his father
might be inclined to relent, and put something in his way, or some of
his father's friends might give him employment. He would go to London
and seek for it at once, and so soon as he saw his way to earning
200_l_. a year in addition to his annuity, he would return and claim
Emily for his wife.

In this view the uncle, a practical old north-countryman, coincided;
the young people could not marry upon the income which Mr. Humphrey
possessed; they had plenty of life before them; and when the young man
came back and proved that he had carried out his promise, no obstacle
should be made by Emily's friends.

Humphrey Statham returned to London, and wrote at once to his father,
telling him that he had seen the errors of his youth, and was prepared
to apply himself to any sort of business which his father could place
in his way. In reply he received a curt note from Mr. Statham, stating
that the writer did not know of any position which Humphrey could
competently fulfil, reminding him of the agreement between them, and
hinting dislike at the reopening of any correspondence or
communication. Foiled at this point, Humphrey Statham secretly took
the advice of old Mr. Morrison, the chief clerk in his father's
office, a kindly as well as a conscientious man, who had endeavoured
to soften the young man's lot during the few weeks he had passed in
the dull counting-house, and at his recommendation Humphrey
established himself as a ship-broker, and for two years toiled on from
morning till night, doing a small and not very remunerative business,
but proving to such as employed him that he possessed industry,
energy, and tact. During this period he ran down to Leeds, at four
distinct intervals, to pass a couple of days with Emily, whose uncle
had died, and who remained in the house of her helpless bed-ridden
aunt. At the end of this time Mr. Statham died, leaving in his will a
sum of 10,000_l_. to his son, "as a recognition of his attempt to
gain a livelihood for himself;" and bequeathing the rest of his
fortune to various charities.

So at last Humphrey Statham saw his way to bringing Emily home in
triumph as his wife, and with this object he started: for Leeds,
immediately after his father's funeral. He had written to her to
announce his arrival, and was surprised not to find her awaiting him
on the platform. Then he jumped into a cab, and hurried out to
Headingley. On his arrival at the little house, the stupid girl who
attended on the bed-ridden old woman seemed astonished at seeing him,
and answered his inquiries after Emily inconsequently, and with
manifest terror. With a sudden sinking of the heart Humphrey made his
way to the old lady's bedside, and from her quivering lips learned
that Emily had disappeared.

Yes! Emily had fled from her home, so said her aunt, and so said the
few neighbours who, roused at the sight of a cab, had come crowding
into the cottage. About a week ago, they told him, she had gone out in
the morning to her work as usual, and had never returned. She left no
letter of explanation, and no trace of her flight had been discovered;
there was no slur upon her character, and, so far as their knowledge
went, she had made no strange acquaintance. She received a number of
letters, which she had always said were from Mr. Statham. What did he
come down there for speering after Emily, when, of all persons in the
world, he was the likeliest to tell them where she had been?

Humphrey Statham fell back like a man stunned by a heavy blow. He had
come down there to carry out the wish of his life; to tell the woman
whom, in the inmost depths of his big manly heart he worshipped, that
the hope of his life was at last accomplished, and that he was at
length enabled to take her away, to give her a good position, and to
devote the remainder of his existence to her service. She was not
there to hear his triumphant avowal--she had fled, no one knew where,
and he saw plainly enough that, not merely was all sympathy withheld
from him, but that he was suspected by the neighbours to have been
privy to, and probably the accomplice of, her flight, and that his
arrival there a few days afterwards with the apparent view of making
inquiries was merely an attempt to hoodwink them, and to divert the
search which might possibly be made after her into another direction.

Under such circumstances, an ordinary man would have fallen into a
fury, and burst out into wild lamentation or passionate invective; but
Humphrey Statham was not an ordinary man. He knew himself guiltless of
the crime of which by Emily's friends and neighbours he was evidently
suspected, but he also knew that the mere fact of her elopement, or at
all events of her quitting her home without consulting him on the
subject, showed that she had no love for him, and that therefore he
had no right to interfere with her actions. He told the neighbours
this in hard, measured accents, with stony eyes and colourless cheeks.
But when he saw that even then they disbelieved him, that even then
they thought he knew more of Emily Mitchell's whereabouts than he
cared to say, he instructed the local authorities to make such
inquiries as lay in their power, and, offered a reward for Emily
Mitchell's discovery to the police. He returned, to London an altered
man; his one hope in life had been rudely extinguished, and there was
nothing now left for him to care for. He had a competency, but it was
valueless to him now; the only one way left to him of temporarily
putting aside his great grief was by plunging into work, and busying
his mind with those commercial details which at one time he had so
fervently abhorred, and now, when it was no longer a necessity for
him, business came to him in galore, his name and fame were
established in the great City community, and no man in his position
was more respected, or had a larger number of clients.

"Too late comes this apple to me," muttered Humphrey Statham, quoting
Owen Meredith, as he shook himself out of the reverie into which he
had fallen. "Nearly four years ago since I paid my last visit to
Leeds; more than three since, as a last resource, I consulted the
Scotland-yard people, and instructed them to do their best in
elucidating the mystery. The Scotland-yard people are humbugs; I have
never heard of them since, and shall never hear of Emily again. Good
God, how I loved her! how I love her still! Was it that she stands out
in my memory as my first and only real love, lit up perhaps by boyish
fancy--the same fancy that makes me imagine that my old bare cock-loft
in the Adelphi was better than my present comfortable rooms in
Sackville-street. _Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans_. No,
she was more than that. She was the only woman that ever inspired me
with anything like real affection, and I worship her--her memory I
suppose I must call it now--as I worshipped her own sweet self an hour
before I learned of her flight. There, there is an end of that. Now
let me finish-up this lot, and leave all in decent order, so that if I
end my career in a snipe-bog, or one of the Tresco pilot-boats goes
down while I am on board of her, old Collins may have no difficulty in
disposing of the contents of the safe."

Out of the mass of papers which had originally been lying before him,
only two were left. He took up one of them and read the indorsement,
"T. Durham--to be delivered to him or his written order (Akhbar K)."
This paper he threw into the second drawer of the safe; then he took
up the last, inscribed "Copy of instructions to Tatlow in regard to E.
M."

"Instructions to Tatlow, indeed!" said Humphrey Statham, with curling
lip; "it is more than three years since those instructions were given,
but hitherto they have borne no fruit. I have half a mind to destroy
them; it is scarcely possible--"

His reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door. Bidden to
come in, Mr. Collins, the confidential clerk, put in his head, and
murmured, "Mr. Tatlow, from Scotland-yard."

"In the very nick of time," said Humphrey Statham, with a half-smile;
"send Mr. Tatlow in at once."

CHAPTER X.
MR. TATLOW ON THE TRACK.

"Mr. Tatlow?" said Humphrey Statham, as his visitor entered.

"Servant, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, a Somewhat ordinary-looking man,
dressed in black.

"I had no idea this case had been placed in your hands, Mr. Tatlow,"
said Humphrey. "I have heard of you, though I have never met you
before in business, and have always understood you to be an
experienced officer."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, with a short bow. "What may have
altered your opinion in that respect now?"

"The length of time which has elapsed since I first mentioned this
matter in Scotland-yard. That was three years ago, and from that day
to this I have had no communication with the authorities."

"Well, sir, you see," said Mr. Tatlow, "different people have
different ways of doing business; and when the inspector put this case
into my hands, he said to me, 'Tatlow,' said he, 'this is a case which
will most likely take considerable time to unravel, and it's one in
which there will be a great many ups and downs, and the scent will
grow warm and the scent will grow cold, and you will think you have
got the whole explanation of the story at one moment, and the next
you'll think you know nothing at all about it. The young woman is
gone,' the inspector says, 'and you'll hear of her here and you'll
hear of her there, and you'll be quite sure you've got hold of the
right party, and then you'll find it's nothing of the sort, and be
inclined to give up the business in despair; and then suddenly,
perhaps, when you're engaged on something else, you'll strike into the
right track, and bring it home in the end. Now, it's no good worrying
the gentleman,' said the inspector, 'with every little bit of news you
hear, or with anything that may happen to strike you in the inquiry,
for you'll be raising his spirits at one time, and rendering him more
wretched in another; and my advice to you is, not to go near him until
you have got something like a clear and complete case to lay before
him.' Those were the inspector's words to me, sir--upon which advice I
acted."

"Very good counsel, Mr. Tatlow, and very sensible of you to follow
it," said Humphrey Statham. "Am I to understand from this visit that
your case is now complete?"

"Well, sir, as complete as I can make it at present," said Mr. Tatlow.

"You have found her?" cried Humphrey Statham eagerly, the blood
flushing into his cheeks.

"I know where the young woman is now," said Mr. Tatlow evasively; "but
do not build upon that, sir," he added, as he marked his questioner's
look of anxiety. "We were too late, sir; you will never see her
again."

"Too late!" echoed Humphrey. "What do you mean? Where is she? I insist
upon knowing!"

"In Hendon churchyard, sir," said Mr. Tatlow quietly; "that's where
the young woman is now."

Humphrey Statham bowed his head, and remained, silent for some few
moments; then, without raising his eyes, he said: "Tell me about it,
Mr. Tatlow, please; I should like to have all details from first to
last."

"Don't you think," said Mr. Tatlow kindly--"don't you think I might
look in some other time, sir?--you don't seem very strong just now;
and it's no use a man trying his nerves when there is no occasion for
it."

"Thank you," said Humphrey Statham, "I would sooner hear the story
now. I have been ill, and am going out of town, and it may be some
little-time before I return, and I should like, while I am away, to be
able to think over what has--to know about--tell me, please, at once."

"The story is not a long one, sir," said Mr. Tatlow; "and when you see
how plain and clear it tells, I daresay you will think the case was
not a difficult one, for all it took so long to work out; but you see
this is fancy-work, as I may call it, that one has to take up in the
intervals of regular business, and to lay aside again whenever a great
robbery or a murder crops up, and just as one is warm and interested
in it, one may be sent off to Paris or New York, and when you come
back you have almost to begin again. There was one advantage in this
case, that I had it to myself from the start, and hadn't to work up
anybody else's line. I began," continued Mr. Tatlow, after a momentary
pause, taking a notebook from his pocket and reading from its pages,
"at the very beginning, and first saw the draper people at Leeds,
where Miss Mitchell was employed. They spoke very highly of her, as a
good, industrious girl, and were very sorry when she went away. She
gave them a regular month's notice, stating that she had an
opportunity of bettering herself by getting an engagement at a
first-class house in London. Did the Leeds drapers, Hodder by name,
say anything to Miss M.'s friends? No, they did not," continued Mr.
Tatlow, answering himself; "most likely they would have mentioned it
if the uncle had been alive--a brisk, intelligent man--but he was dead
at that time, and no one was left but the bedridden old woman. After
her niece's flight she sent down to Hodder and Company, and they told
her what Miss M. had told them, though the old woman and her friends
plainly did not believe it. It was not until some weeks afterwards
that one of Hodder's girls had a letter from a friend of hers, who had
previously been with their firm, but was now engaged at Mivenson's,
the great drapers in Oxford-street, London, to say that Emily Mitchell
had joined their establishment; she was passing under the name of
Moore, but this girl knew her at once, and agreed to keep her
confidence. Now to page forty-nine. That's only a private memorandum
for my own information," said Mr. Tatlow, turning over the leaves
of his book. "Page forty-nine. Here you are! Mivenson's, in
Oxford-street--old gentleman out of town--laid up with the gout--saw
eldest son, partner in the house--recollected Miss Moore perfectly,
and had come to them with some recommendation--never took young
persons into their house unless they were properly recommended, and
always kept register of reference. Looking into register found Emily
M. had been recommended by Mrs. Calverley, one of their customers,
most respectable lady, living in Great Walpole-street. Made inquiry
myself about Mrs. C., and made her out to be a prim, elderly,
evangelical party, wife of City man in large way of business. Emily M.
did not remain long at Mivenson's. Not a strong girl; had had a
fainting fit or two while in their employ, and one day she wrote to
say she was too ill to come to work, and they never saw her again.
Could they give him the address from which she wrote?" Certainly.
Address-book sent for; 143 Great College-street, Camden Town. Go to
page sixty. Landlady at Great College-street perfectly recollected
Miss Moore. Quiet, delicate girl, regular in her habits; never out
later than ten at night; keeping no company, and giving no trouble.
Used to be brought home regular every night by a gentleman--always
the same gentleman, landlady thought, but couldn't swear, as she
had never made him out properly, though she had often tried. Seen
from the area, landlady remarked, people looked so different.
Gentleman always took leave of Miss Moore at the door, and was never
seen again in the neighbourhood until he brought her back the next
night. Landlady recollected Miss Moore's going away. When she gave
notice about leaving, explained to landlady that she was ill and was
ordered change of air; didn't seem to be any worse than she had been
all along, but, of course, it was not her (the landlady's) place to
make any objection. At the end of the week a cab was sent for, Miss
Moore's boxes were put into it, and she drove away. Did the landlady
hear the address given to the cabman? She did. 'Waterloo Station,
Richmond line.' That answer seemed to me to screw up the whole
proceedings; trying to find the clue to a person, who, months before,
had gone away from the Waterloo Station, seemed as likely as feeling
for a threepenny-piece in a corn-sack. I made one or two inquiries,
but heard nothing, and had given the whole thing up for as good as
lost, when--let me see, page two hundred and one.

"Here you are! Memoranda in the case of Benjamin Biggs, cashier in the
Limpid Water Company, charged with embezzlement. Fine game he kept up,
did Mr. Biggs. Salary about two hundred a year, and lived at the rate
of ten thousand. Beautiful place out of town, just opposite Bobbington
Lock, horses, carriages, and what you please. I was engaged in Biggs'
matter, and I had been up to Bobbington one afternoon--for there was a
notion just then that Biggs hadn't got clear off and might come home
again--so I thought I'd take a lodging and hang about the village for
a week or two. It was pleasant summer weather, and I've a liking for
the river and for such a place as Bushey Park, though not with many
opportunities of seeing much of either. I had been through Biggs'
house, and was standing in Messenger's boat-yard, looking at the
parties putting off in the water, when a voice close to my ear says,
'Hallo, Tatlow! What's up?' and looking round I saw Mr. Netherton
Whiffle, the leading junior at the Bailey, and the most rising man at
the C.C.C. I scarcely knew him at first, for he had got on a round
straw hat instead of his wig, and a tight-fitting jersey instead of
his gown; and when I recognised him and told him what business I had
come down upon, he only laughed, and said that Biggs knew more than me
and all Scotland-yard put together; and the best thing that I could do
was to go into the 'Anglers' and put my name to what I liked at his
expense. He's a very pleasant fellow, Mr. Whiffle; and while I was
drinking something iced I told him about my wanting a lodging, and he
recommended me to a very respectable little cottage kept by the mother
of his gardener. A pretty place it was to not looking on the river,
but standing in a nice neatly-kept garden, with the big trees of
Bushey Park at the back of you, and the birds singing beautiful. I
fancy, when I am superannuated I should like a place of that sort for
myself and Mrs. T. Nice rooms too; the lodgings, a bedroom and
sitting-room, but a cut above my means. I was saying so to the old
woman--motherly old creature she was--as we were looking round the
bedroom, when I caught sight of something which fixed my attention at
once. It was an old black box, like a child's school-trunk, with on
the outside lid 'E. M.' in brass letters, and a railway label of the
G.N.R., 'Leeds to London,' still sticking on it. Something told me I
had 'struck ile,' as the Yankees say; and I asked the old woman to
whom that box belonged. 'To her,' she said, she supposed; 'leastways
it had been there for many months, left behind by a lodger who had
gone away and never sent for it.' It took a little hot rum-and-water
to get the lodger's story out of that old lady, sir; not a refreshing
drink on a summer's day, but required to be gone through in the course
of duty, and it was worth it, as you will see.

"In the previous summer the rooms had been taken by a gentleman who
gave the name of Smith, and who the next day brought down the young
lady and her boxes. She was pretty but very delicate-looking, and
seemed to have very bad health. He came down three or four times a
week, and then she brightened up a bit, and seemed a little more
cheerful; but when she was alone she was dreadfully down, and the
landlady had seen her crying by the hour together. They lived very
quietly; no going out, no water-parties, no people to see them, bills of
lodging paid for every week; quite the regular thing. This went on for
two or three months; then the gentleman's visits grew less frequent, he
only came down once or twice a week, and, on more than one occasion,
the old woman sitting in the kitchen thought she heard high words
between them. One Saturday afternoon, when Mr. Smith had gone away,
about an hour after his departure the lady packed all her things, paid
up the few shillings which remained after his settlement, and ordered a
fly to take her to the station. There was no room on the fly for the
little box which I had seen, and she said she would send an address to
which it could be forwarded. On the Monday evening Mr. Smith came down
as usual; he was very much astonished to find the lady gone, but, after;
reading a letter which she had left for him, he seemed very much
agitated, and sent out for some brandy; then he paid the week's rent,
which was demanded instead of the notice, and left the place. The box
had never been sent for, nor had the old woman ever heard anything
farther of the lady or the gentleman.

"The story hangs together pretty well, don't it, sir? E. M. and the
railway ticket on the box (r forgot to say that I looked inside, and
saw the maker's, name, 'Hudspeth, of Boar-lane, Leeds') looked pretty
much like Emily Mitchell, and the old woman's description of Mr. Smith
tallied tolerably with that given by the lodging-house keeper in
Camden Town, who used to notice the gentleman from the area. But there
we were shut up tight again. The flyman recollected taking the lady to
the station, but no one saw her take her ticket; and there was I at a
standstill.

"It is not above a fortnight ago, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, in
continuation, "that I struck on the scent again; not that I had
forgotten it, or hadn't taken the trouble to pull at anything which
I thought might be one of its threads when it came in my way. A
twelvemonth ago I was down at Leeds, after a light-hearted chap
who had forgotten his own name, and written his master's across the
back of a three-and-sixpenny bill-stamp; and I thought I'd take the
opportunity of looking in at Hodder the draper's, and ask whether
anything had been heard of Miss M. The firm hadn't heard of her, and
was rather grumpy about being asked; but I saw the girl from whom I
had got some information before--she, you recollect, sir, who had a
friend at Mivenson's in Oxford-street, and told me about E. M. being
there--and I asked her and her young man to tea, and set the pumps
agoing. But she was very bashful and shamefaced, and would not say a
word, though evidently she knew something; and it was only when she
had gone up to put her bonnet on, that I got out of the young man that
Emily Mitchell had been down there, and had been seen in the dusk of
the evening going up to the old cottage at Headingley, and carrying a
baby in her arms."

"A baby!" cried Humphrey Statham.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, "a female child a few weeks old. She was
going up to her aunt, no doubt, but the old woman was dead. When they
heard at Hodder's that Emily was about the place, and with a child
too, the firm was furious, and gave orders that none of their
people should speak to or have any communication with her; but this
girl--Mary Keith she's called; I made a note of her name, sir,
thinking you would like to know it--she found out where the poor
creature was, and offered to share her wages with her and the child to
save them from starvation."

"Good God!" groaned Humphrey Statham; "was she in want, then?"

"Pretty nearly destitute, sir," said Tatlow; "would have starved
probably, if it had not been for Mary Keith. She owned up to that
girl, sir, all her story, told her everything, except the name of the
child's father, and that she could not get out of her anyhow. She
spoke about you too, and said you were the only person in the world
who had really loved her, and that she had treated you shamefully.
Miss Keith wanted her to write to the child's father, and tell him how
badly off she was; but she said she would sooner die in the streets
than ask him for money. What she would do, she said, would be to go
to you--she wanted to see you once more before she died--and to
ask you to be a friend to her child! She knew you would do it, she
said--though she had behaved to you so badly--for the sake of old
days.

"I sha'n't have to try you with very much more, sir," said Tatlow
kindly, as he heard a deep groan break from Humphrey Statham's lips,
and saw his head sink deeper on his breast. "Miss Keith advised E. M.
to write to you; but she said no--she wanted to look upon your face
again before she died, she said, and she knew that event was not far
off. So she parted with her old friend, taking a little money, just
enough to pay her fare up to town. She must have changed her mind
about that, from what I learned afterwards. I made inquiries here and
there for her in London in what I thought likely places, but I could
hear nothing of her, so the scent grew cold, and still my case was
incomplete. I settled it up at last, as I say, about a fortnight ago.
I had occasion to make some inquiries at Hendon workhouse about a
young man who was out on the tramp, and who, as I learned, had slept
there for a night or two in the previous week; and I was talking
matters over with the master, an affable kind of man, with more
common-sense than one usually finds in officials of his sort, who are
for the most part pig-headed and bad-tempered. The chap that I was
after had been shopman to a grocer in the City, and had run away with
his master's daughter, having all the time another wife; and this I
suppose led the conversation to such matters; and I, always with your
case floating in my head, asked him whether there were many instances
of foundlings and suchlike being left upon their hands? He said no;
that they had been very lucky--only had one since he had been master
there, and that one they had been fortunate enough to get rid of. How
was that, I asked him; what was the case? Case of a party"--and here
Mr. Tatlow referred to his note-book again--"found the winter before
last by Squire Mullins' hind lying against a haystack in the four-acre
meadow, pressing her baby to her breast--both of them half-frozen. She
was taken to the workhouse, but only lived two days, and never spoke
during that time. Her shoes were worn very thin, and she had parted
with most of her clothing, though what she kept had been good, and
still was decent. No wedding-ring, of course. One thing she hadn't
parted with; the master's wife saw the old woman try to crib it from
the dead body round whose neck it hung, and took it from her hand. It
was a tiny gold cross--yes, sir, I see you know it all now--inscribed
'H. to E., 30th March 1864'--the very trinket which you had described
to our people; and when I heard that, I knew I had tracked Emily
Mitchell home at last."

Mr. Tatlow ceased speaking; but it was some minutes before Humphrey
Statham raised his head. When at length he looked up, there were
traces of tears on his cheeks, and his voice was broken with emotion
as he said, "The child--what about it? did it live?"

"Yes, sir," replied Tatlow, "the child lived, and fell very
comfortably upon its legs. It was a bright, pretty little creature,
and one day it attracted the notice of a lady who had no children of
her own, and, after some inquiries, persuaded her husband to adopt
it."

"What is her name, and where does she live?" asked Mr. Statham.

"She lives at Hendon, sir, and her name is Claxton. Mr. Claxton is,
oddly enough, a sleeping partner in the house of Mr. Calverley, whose
good lady first recommended E. M. to Mivenson's, as you may
recollect."

There was silence for full ten minutes--a period which Mr. Tatlow
occupied in a deep consultation with his note-book, in looking out of
window, at the tips of his boots, at the wall in front of him;
anywhere rather than at the bowed head of Humphrey Statham, who
remained motionless, with his chin buried in his chest. Mr. Tatlow had
seen a good deal of suffering in his time, and as he noticed, without
apparently looking at the tremulous emotion of Mr. Statham's hands,
tremulous despite their closely-interlaced fingers, and the shudder
which from time to time ran through his massive frame, he knew what
silent anguish was being bravely undergone, and would on no account
have allowed the sufferer to imagine that his mental tortures were
either seen or understood. When Humphrey Statham at length raised his
head, he found his visitor intently watching the feeble gyrations of a
belated fly, and apparently perfectly astonished at hearing his name
mentioned.

"Mr. Tatlow," said Humphrey, in a voice which, despite his exertions
to raise it, sounded low and muffled, "I am very much your debtor;
what I said at the commencement of our interview about the delay
which, as I imagined, had occurred in clearing-up this mystery, was
spoken in ignorance, and without any knowledge of the facts. I now see
the difficulties attendant upon the inquiry, and I am only astonished
that they should have been so successfully surmounted, and that you
should have been enabled to clear-up the case as perfectly as you have
done. That the result of your inquiries has been to arouse in me the
most painful memories, and to--and to reduce me in fact to the state
in which you see me--is no fault of yours. You have discharged your
duty with great ability and wondrous perseverance, and I have to thank
you more than all for the delicacy which you have shown during the
inquiry, and during the narration to me of its results."

Mr. Tatlow bowed, but said nothing.

"For the ordinary charges of the investigation," continued Humphrey
Statham, "your travelling expenses and suchlike, I settle, I believe,
with the people at Scotland-yard; but," he added, as he took his
cheque-book from the right-hand drawer of his desk, "I wish you to
accept for yourself this cheque for fifty pounds, together with my
hearty thanks."

He filled-up the cheque, tore it from the book, and pushed it over to
the detective as he spoke, at the same time holding out his hand.

Mr. Tatlow rose to his feet, looking somewhat embarrassed. It had
often been his good fortune to be well paid for his services, but to
be shaken hands with by a man in the position of Mr. Statham, had not
previously come in his way. He was confused for an instant, but
compromised the matter by gravely saluting after the military fashion
with his left hand, while he gave his right to his employer.

"Proud, sir, and grateful," he said. "It has been a long case, though
not a particularly stiff one, and I think it has been worked clean out
to the end. I could have wished--but, however, that is neither here
nor there," said Mr. Tatlow, checking himself with a cough. "About the
child, sir; don't you wish any farther particulars about the child?"

"No," said Humphrey Statham, who was fast relapsing into his moody
state; "no, nothing now, at all events. If I want any farther
information, I shall send to you, Tatlow, direct; you may depend upon
that. Now, once more, thanks, and good-bye."

Half an hour had elapsed since Mr. Tatlow had taken his departure, and
still Humphrey Statham sat at his desk buried in profound reverie, his
chin resting on his breast, his arms plunged almost elbow-deep into
his pockets. At length he roused himself, locked away the cheque-book
which lay fluttering open before him, and passing his hand dreamily
through the fringe of hair on his temples, muttered to himself:

"And so there is an end of it. To die numbed and frozen in a
workhouse-bed. To bear a child to a man for whom she ruined my life,
and who in his turn ruined hers. My Emily perishing with cold and
want! I shall meet him yet, I know I shall. Long before I heard of
this story, when I looked upon him only as a successful rival, who was
living with her in comfort and luxury, and laughing over my
disappointment, even then I felt convinced that the hour would come
when I should hold him by the throat and make him beg his miserable
life at my hands. Now, when I know that his treatment of her has been
worse even than his treatment of me, he will need to beg hard indeed
for mercy, if I once come across his path. Calverley, eh?" he
continued, after a moment's pause, and in a softer voice, "the husband
of the lady who has adopted the child, is a partner in Calverley's
house, Tatlow said. That is the house for which Tom Durham has gone
out as agent. How strangely things come about! for surely Mrs.
Calverley, doubtless the wife of the senior partner of the firm, is
the mother of my old friend Martin Garwood? What two totally different
men! Without doubt unacquainted with each other, and yet with this
curious link of association in my mind. Her child! Emily's child
within a couple of hours' ride! I could easily find some excuse to
introduce myself to this Mrs. Claxton, and to get a glimpse of the
girl--she is Emily's flesh and blood, and most probably would be like
her. I have half a mind to--No, I am not well enough for any extra
excitement or exertion, and the child, Tatlow says, is happy and
well-cared for; I can see her on my return--I can then manage the
introduction in a more proper and formal manner; I can hunt-up Martin
Gurwood, and through him and his mother I can obtain an introduction
to this partner in Calverley's house, and must trust to my own powers
of making myself agreeable to continue the acquaintance on a footing
of intimacy, which will give me constant opportunities of seeing
Emily's child. Now there is more than ever necessity to get out of
this at once. All clear now, except those two packets; one Tom
Durham's memorandum, which must be kept anyhow, so in it goes
into the safe. The other, the instructions for Tatlow--that can be
destroyed--no, there is no harm in keeping that for a little; one
never knows how things may turn out--in it goes too." And as he spoke
he placed the two packets in the drawer, closed and locked the safe.
"Collins!" he called; and the confidential clerk appeared. "You have
all that you want--the cheques, the duplicate key of the safe, the
pass-book?"

"Yes, sir," said Collins; "everything except your address."

"By Jove," said Humphrey Statham, "I had forgotten that! even now I am
undecided. Tossing shall do it. Heads the Drumnovara snipe-bog; tails
the Tresco pilot-boat. Tails it is! the pilot-boat has won. So,
Collins, my address--never to be used except in most urgent
necessity--is, 'P.O., Tresco, Scilly,' left till called for. Now you
have my traps in the outer office; tell them to put them on a hansom
cab, and you will see no more of me for six weeks."

As the four-fifty "galloper" for Exeter glided out of the Paddington
Station, Humphrey Statham was seated in it, leisurely cutting the
leaves of the evening paper which he had just purchased. The first
paragraph which met his eye ran as follows:

"(REUTER'S TELEGRAM.)
     "_Gibraltar_.

"The captain of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's steam-ship
Masillia, just arrived here, announces the supposed death, by
drowning, of a passenger named Durham, agent to Messrs. Calverley and
Company, of Mincing-lane, who was proceeding to Ceylon. The
unfortunate gentleman retired to bed on the first night of the
vessel's sailing from Southampton, and as he was never seen
afterwards, it is supposed he must have fallen overboard during the
night, when the Masillia was at anchor off Hurst Castle."

CHAPTER XI.
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