Mr. Spivey's Clerk/Chapter 10

I went away from Grandchester House feeling more miserable than when I entered it. Julia Dumbury's vehement denunciation of Lestrange filled me with all manner of sorrowful anticipations. If he was really all that she proclaimed him, then indeed Maggie was not safe in his hands. But was Mrs. Dumbury right? I remembered the little scene in Jermyn Street, the expression on her face, almost vindictive and certainly not boding any good to Lestrange. I remembered also the burning of the flowers and letters, and the passionate way in which she kissed both before committing them to the flames. She had evidently been deeply in love with Lestrange, and I had heard ​that women whose love is rejected very often transform their affection into hatred. After all, then, her denunciation of Lestrange might arise from spiteful feeling and not from fact. I took heart at that and resolved to trouble Julia Dumbury no longer. I had done what I could, and now I must wait until Tom came home. It would be my task to comfort him.

The weeks went slowly by and things jogged on in pretty much the same way with us in Canonbury Square. Mrs. Christmas, having made up her mind that Maggie was going to make a lengthy stop with her friends in the country, assumed the reins of government, and succeeded beyond my expectations, though I believe that Sarah Ann, who had been well-trained by Julia, was responsible in no small degree for the order and decorum of our household. I never mentioned Maggie to Mrs. Christmas, and that good lady never spoke of her to me, except to remark now and then that Miss Primrose was making a long ​stay, and would probably get her friends to help her with the wedding clothes.

About six weeks after Maggie went away I said farewell to Mr. Spivey's establishment for ever. Somehow I had not felt at home there after Tom Christmas went away. I grew more and more tired of Mr. Spivey and his surroundings. Certain small differences arose between us on the question of salary. Mr. Spivey discovered that I, in my own spare time, had been so base as to contribute articles of a frivolous nature to certain of the weekly papers, and remarked that any product of my pen ought to have been handed over to Mr. McFlynn for the benefit of that gentleman's journal. I replied that I should be glad, indeed, to contribute to Mr. McFlynn's columns providing that he, Mr. Spivey, would remunerate me in a fitting manner—a remark which brought clouds to Spivey's brow, and many "hums" and "hahs" to his tongue. He thought that I was already well paid, my "wage" being a ​very good one. I answered that I had lately often earned more by a single evening's work than by a long week's toil in his employ, and hinted that it was time I saw something in the shape of an increased salary. At which audacious proposal Mr. Spivey grew apoplectic, and said that there were hundreds of deserving young people who would gladly take my place at a smaller "wage." There was only one answer to that statement. I placed my resignation in Mr. Spivey's hands and left him the next week, determined henceforth to do anything in the way of hack-work, but never again to put my neck under the yoke of a little cad. Vale Spivey.

So the office in Paternoster Row knew me no more. I took a little room in Fleet Street and began to write for the dailies, and weeklies, and monthlies. Heavens! what hard work it was, and what a tremendous number of people seemed to be at it. Paragraphs, articles, "jokes," tales, comic poems—all these I manufactured and some​times sold. I wrote penny novels and even a shilling shocker, and somehow kept my head above water quite as well as when I drudged at Spivey's. Very often Mr. McFlynn came panting up the dingy stairs to my dingier room, and asked me to write him a column or two, taking care to be free with Dukes and Duchesses, and not forgetting that a blank or a few asterisks were wonderfully enlivening. And at first Mr. Jones used to appear daily with a very humble request from Mr. Spivey that I would please enlighten him on some point of office work with which I was specially familiar, and about which no one else knew anything. I used to take a savage, an almost fiendish delight in making my late employer pay through the nose for these services, and charged him half-a-guinea per hour whenever he sent me work which no one else could do. I was overjoyed to find that Spivey often paid me twice as much in this way for a few hours' work as he would have paid me for a whole week's labour ​under the old conditions. Penny wise and pound foolish Spivey!

I looked out anxiously for a letter from Tom Christmas. I was anxious to know how he had taken the bad news. I knew how much he had loved Maggie Primrose, and dreaded the shock that he must experience on opening my letter. I almost feared lest he should come home by the next steamer and seek Lestrange out and kill him. But I soon remembered that Tom Christmas was not of the man-slaying order, and that he would be much more likely to kill his own hopes than to murder the man who had helped to destroy them!

At last the letter came. Going down one morning to my solitary breakfast—Mrs. Christmas invariably took her first meal in the privacy of her own apartment—I found it lying by my plate and feared to open it. I let it lie there, and tried to eat. But the first mouthful choked me, and I took it up, and tore away the thin envelope, and read it resolutely through.

​He was stunned, but not killed. It had been a heavy blow, he said, but he was thankful that Maggie had found out her mistake before it was too late. He hoped that she would be happy, and that she would not allow her happiness to be marred by any thoughts of him. He thought it best not to reply to the letter she had sent him through me, but he asked me to tell her if I saw her again that his one wish was for her happiness.

In all the letter there was no mention of Lestrange. There was no outburst of fury, none of the "It was thou, mine own particular friend," style which is so common in melodrama and fiction. Tom Christmas was a man for facts, and he accepted his sweetheart's faithlessness as a fact, and said no more.

The letter went on to tell me about his own plans. He had lately received a communication, he said, from Mr. Spivey, who was delighted with the way in which he had so far executed his commission; and desired him to remain in ​Melbourne a few months longer, so that he could find a responsible manager, and indoctrinate him in the ways of the Spivey establishment. Accordingly, said Tom, it would be spring before he returned home again. When he did come back, he concluded, he should settle down at his own post and let the daily round and common task satisfy him for the remainder of his days.

So that was all, and I was somewhat relieved, and felt that Tom Christmas had borne the shock like a man. And yet I would much rather he had flown into a passion and sworn a little, and thrown out hints about the frailty of woman, and generally thrown off steam, than that he should have exhibited so much fortitude and resignation. For I knew that the human heart and the steam-boiler are, after all, very much alike—they must either open the escape-valve or burst.

I was very busy during the winter that immediately followed, and I was glad to be so; ​for otherwise I should have felt lonely and companionless. I began once or twice to regret the old days when Julia was with us; for, bigot as she was, she was still much livelier company than Mrs. Christmas, whose sole idea of conversation was that she should talk and every one else listen. I looked forward to Tom's return, and remembered with a sigh that he must be changed. Change, change, there was little else but change on every side.

It was nearly April. The crocuses and snowdrops in the parks were already bright and fresh in the trim flower-beds; the spring sun was warm and cheery in Piccadilly; the great folks were beginning to come back to town, and everything in London seemed busier and brighter. I had had a hard winter, and I welcomed the change. I only wanted Tom Christmas back to be quite content with my lot. I looked forward to greeting him, to cheering him up, to having him back to our old studies, to hearing him talk, ​to arguing with him, to telling him all that I had done in his absence. I had heard from him about the end of February, and he told me I might expect to see him about the middle of April. And while I was making ready for his coming, and considering what I could best do to hide away the sorrow that I felt on his account, there came news—news of Maggie. I knew it was bad news as soon as I saw the letter. It was lying waiting for me when I went home one night. Mrs. Christmas was enjoying the honour of a month's visit at Grandchester Palace, and a sister of Mrs. Migson's was keeping house in her stead. And so there was no one with me when I took up my missive of sorrow.

It was a thin, foreign-looking envelope, addressed in flowing female characters to Monsieur Leonard Tempest, and it bore a French postmark. I had no friends or relations in France. It must contain news of Maggie.

​I tore it open, and found a large, thin sheet of paper, closely written on all four sides. The letter was in English, and the handwriting clear and pretty, although the writer had chosen to cross the lines instead of taking a new sheet. I glanced at the signature; it was unknown to me. I sat down, and began to read the long epistle with as much patience as I could command.

"Monsieur,
"At the desire of our Reverend Mother Superior, I write to inform you that we have at this present moment a young lady staying in our House who is very ill, and with whose friends we should like to communicate if it be in any way possible. The reason why I am addressing you, monsieur, is briefly this: we found in the young lady's pocket a small book in which was entered the name and address which ​I shall write on the cover of this letter. There were no other letters or papers, and though the young lady's linen is marked with the letters M. P., we could gain no clue from that as to her identity or address. And as it is very probable, monsieur, that she will never regain consciousness, we judge it well to write to you at once, in the hope that you may prove to be her brother or friend, or that you may even help us to place ourselves in communication with our patient's family. And in order that you may understand all about the matter, our Reverend Mother instructs me, monsieur, to tell you all that we know of this unfortunate young lady for whose sad fate we have all so much of pity.

"You must know, monsieur, that this village of Fontrenelle, which is about three leagues from Villefranche, is somewhat celebrated for its rural air and surroundings, and that tourists come here now and then, and stay at the hotel of the 'Three Swans.' It is not a large hotel, monsieur; ​but then the village is a very small one, and the tourists only come in small numbers as yet, the fame of Fontrenelle not having penetrated much beyond our own department, and there being so many more places which are better worth visiting.

"To the 'Three Swans,' monsieur, there came about three weeks or a month ago a gentleman and lady, who engaged the best suite of rooms, and appeared rich and prosperous. The gentleman was tall, and very handsome and distinguished in appearance, and gave his orders like one who has been accustomed to obedience all his life. The lady was young and pretty, and very graceful, monsieur, and spoke kindly to all who approached her. She had beautiful brown eyes and hair, and her face was one which you could not help admiring, so winning an expression did it wear. And yet sometimes, Madame Pierrot, the good landlady of the 'Three Swans,' tells me, she looked sad and ​troubled, and there was an expression of much sorrow in her face.

"These two, monsieur, were English; but the gentleman spoke French perfectly, and with the real Parisian accent, while the lady spoke it not quite so well. They did not give their names at the hotel, and, when they first came, the husband told Master Pierrot that he could not say how long they would remain, but probably until they grew tired of Fontrenelle. He was very particular, this distinguished-looking gentleman, that his apartments should be situated in the most retired part of the house, and he was accustomed to remain up late at night, writing at a large desk, while madame sat near him, and worked or read.

"It was easy to see, I suppose, that the young lady adored her husband. Madame Pierrot tells me, monsieur, that never did she see such absolute devotion. Alas! I fear that her love was returned but slightly, monsieur, and that the so​handsome gentleman was cold of heart. Nay, he must have been heartless, or he would have loved his wife with a devotion equal to that which she showed him. Mon Dieu! if you could but see her, monsieur, as she now lies, like a beautiful lily on her bed in this chamber where I now write.

"When these two, then, had lived at the 'Three Swans' about ten days, monsieur, it was noticed that there was some trouble between the handsome gentleman and the young lady. He was gloomy and morose; she wept much and remained in her own apartment, no longer taking pleasure in walking about our little village or conversing with its inhabitants. Also, Madame Pierrot tells me, there were words passed between the two which should not be used by husband and wife. Occasionally, too, Madame Pierrot overheard mutual upbraiding and recrimination, and after such scenes monsieur would go away from the hotel and remain on the hills until nightfall, ​and madame would remain in her room and weep in solitude. So that you see, monsieur, it was not all sunshine with these two.

"About a week ago, then, the troubles of madame approached a crisis. I had occasion, monsieur, to visit the 'Three Swans,' and, on arriving there, I found my friend Madame Pierrot in a state of agitation. The handsome gentleman and the sweet young lady were quarrelling; behold, I could hear it for myself, for Madame Pierrot had conducted me into an apartment adjoining theirs. And indeed I could overhear much of what was said, monsieur, for I can speak the English sufficiently well, having spent six years in a house of our Order in London. And, oh, monsieur, the words that I overheard were sad indeed. The young lady accused the handsome gentleman of ennui, of ennui caused by herself. She said that he was tired of her, disappointed in her and I know not what. Monsieur, it was easy to perceive that the poor thing ​passionately loved him, and that she expected him to love her in the same way. And when he answered nothing, she upbraided him still more. And then, oh, monsieur, he began to speak, so coldly and calmly, and with such exquisite cruelty. He said yes, they had made a mistake, but it could yet be repaired. It was very evident, he said, that they were not suited to each other, and they had therefore better separate. To which, monsieur, she replied very properly that the marriage-tie can be dissolved by no man, and that she had meant her vows. And then—oh, it frightens me yet to think of, monsieur! he laughed, and said that the marriage was nothing, that it was not a marriage at all, in fact, and that they were both free. 'The marriage nothing?' she cried.' 'My God! it is not possible that you have so cruelly deceived me.' 'Not only possible but certain,' he said, coolly. 'It was a mock ceremony. And now I have had enough of this; let us have an understanding and a settlement.' ​But she, monsieur, answered him never a word, only we heard her give a low moan as if in pain, and a sound as though she had sunk down upon the floor. And then monsieur came out of the room and bade Madame Pierrot go to the young lady, and we went in and found her lying on the floor like one dead.

"We sent for the doctor, monsieur, and he shook his head, and asked if madame had not just had a great shock. He told us that she would probably be ill a long time; and, when I heard that, I ran quickly and told our Reverend Mother all the circumstances, and she returned with me, and we had the poor young lady removed to the convent, so that she might be quieter than she could have been at the 'Three Swans.' And there, monsieur, she has lain ever since, and consciousness has not yet returned to her, though this is the sixth day.

"As for monsieur, no one in Fontrenelle has seen him since. He did not return to the hotel, ​and he has sent no word. Only we hear that one answering his description left Villefranche for the south on the evening of the sad day, and we fancy him to have been the missing one.

"And now, monsieur, if you are a relation or friend of this unhappy young lady's, will you not come to her? Alas! it is very probable that she will die, for Dr. Cherbuliez looks more grave each time he comes to visit her. But, think, monsieur, if she should return to consciousness for a few moments, how pleasing to her to find one at her bedside whom she has known in happier days! Oh, monsieur, if you could but see her, as I see her now, looking so fair and fragile, your heart would indeed be melted. Perhaps, monsieur, I am addressing one whom this unfortunate one has wronged? If it be so, forgive her, for His sake who died for all of us poor sinners. And remember, monsieur, that if she has sinned she has also suffered, and that ​for her as for Mary Magdalene our good Lord has mercy and compassion.

The good nun's letter dropped at my feet, and if she had let a tear fall on it while she wrote, I too had added to the tear-stains while I read. Poor Maggie! Poor little primrose, torn and broken by the cruel winds of life! Yes, I would go to her. If she was going to die she should see an old friend's face by her bedside. I would go at once. And woe be to Frank Lestrange if he crossed my path.

I sprang up intent on packing a bag and hurrying away by the night mail to Paris. As my hand was on the door I heard a footstep in the hall whose sound sent the blood throbbing to my heart. I opened the door and saw Tom Christmas.

​He looked older, his hair was shot with gray, and he had grown a beard. But it was the same kind smile, the same warm clasp of the hand, the same affectionate tone. Alas! what sorrow he had come home to!

I led him to a chair, and not trusting myself to speak, put the nun's letter into his hands and then turned away while he read it. It seemed a long time before he folded it up and spoke.

"You were going to her, Len?"

"Yes, Tom."

He picked up the bag which he laid down when he entered, and buttoned his coat again.

"Come," he said, "let us go." And we left the house together.