Martin Gurwood and Humphrey Statham dined together that day at a club, of which the latter was a member, and sat together until late in the night, discussing memories of old times and the strange occurrences of recent days. When Martin returned to Great Walpole-street, he was surprised to learn from the servant who let him in, that Mrs. Calverley had not retired to rest, and that she desired to speak with him when he came in. A guilty pang shot through Martin's breast as he listened. What could be the meaning of this? Could his mother have discovered the secret of the Hendon mystery, and was she waiting to objurgate him for the part which he had taken in concealing it from her? Martin knew that, some day or other, such a contingency would arise, but he hoped that when it did he would have Statham by his side. He looked to Statham now for advice and assistance in every phase which the matter could assume, and dreaded being left to his own resources.  
He found his mother in her bedroom, attired in a skimpy flannel dressing-gown, and sitting before the fire with her slippered feet upon the fender. She looked round on his opening the door, and uttered a sound which was partly a snort of defiance, and partly a groan of resignation.
 
'You wish to see me, mother, James tells me,' said Martin. 'I had no idea you would have been up, or I would have returned home sooner.'
 
'I wish to see somebody, Martin,' returned Mrs. Calverley querulously. 'I thought that my life could not have been more wretched and solitary than it was in Mr. Calverley's time, but even he used to come home occasionally, while now I sit by myself from morning till night. Persons who are engaged and paid to be my companions go away, and even my son gives himself up to his own devices, and does not come home until close upon midnight.'
 
'My dear mother,' said Martin, 'as I said before, if I had had any idea that you were sitting up, I would have returned sooner. Tell me now,' he said, pulling his chair close to hers, 'what do you want me to do?'
 
'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Calverley; 'I never want any one to do anything for me. But I wanted to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes to such an unimportant person as myself, about the future.'
 
'She knows nothing about Hendon,' thought Martin to himself; 'or she would not have been able to have kept off from the subject for a minute.' And greatly relieved at this idea, he said pleasantly, 'You know, mother, that I should be only too glad to carry out any of your wishes.'
 
'And you will hate an opportunity of proving what you say, Martin. You know that by Mr. Calverley's will I am now absolute mistress of the business in Mincing-lane. On our marriage, Mr. Calverley, in what I considered then the most ungenerous manner, reserved to himself the power of disposing of that business as he thought best; but I suppose he afterwards came into a better frame of mind, for he has left it entirely to me. The business as it stands at present will, I learn from Mr. Jeffreys, bring me in a very large income. Now I am the
last woman in the world to set an undue value upon riches, and my
only care for them is that they may enable me to do more good to my fellow-creatures. Are you attending to me, Martin?' she said to her son, who was looking vacantly into the fire.
 
'Certainly, mother,' said Martin, starting.
 
'Perhaps you will favour me with your particular attention just now,' said Mrs. Calverley, with some asperity, 'when I tell you that what I have got to say concerns yourself. If your character were different, you might think to yourself that, rich as I shall be, I might take the opportunity of making you independent, but such I know would not be your wish. You are one of those who rightly think that it is your mission to discharge your duty in the state of life to which you have been called, and I agree with you. There is to me no more beautiful sight than that of a minister engaged in the exercise of his vocation; the only change I would propose to you would be one in the scene of your labours.'
 
'A change in the scene?' cried Martin.
 
'Exactly,' answered Mrs. Calverley. 'I should wish you to relinquish the vicarage of Lullington, and to establish yourself in London.'
 
'London?' cried Martin.
 
'Certainly,' said his mother; 'where there is money there is influence, and there would not, I imagine, be any difficulty in obtaining for you an incumbency in London; or if it came to that, there are always proprietary chapels to be purchased, and in them perhaps you would be more unfettered, and more able to conduct the services according to your own views.'
 
'But, my dear mother,' said Martin, 'I am by no means sure--'
 
'That you would be popular,' interrupted Mrs. Calverley. 'You need not fear about that. I fancy there are few better judges of preaching than myself, and I have always been satisfied with the sermons which I have heard you deliver. It would be a great pleasure to me to know that my son's merits were properly recognised. And I don't think,' she added with a slight toss of her head, 'that he would have any reason to be ashamed of his mother, or the style in which she lived. We may not be aristocrats, and our lives may not be attended by the sloth, luxury, and pomp which surround that portion of the community; but for solid wealth and the comfort which it brings, the home which has been raised by British industry need be surpassed by none.'
 
Mrs. Calverley paused; and Martin, for want of something better to say, said, 'Of course, mother, I quite agree with you.'
 
'My notion,' pursued his mother, 'is that you should live with me, and act as my right hand in all matters of business, and as a dispenser of my charity. My life has been one long martyrdom; it has pleased Heaven to afflict me with two unworthy husbands, men incapable of understanding those finer feelings which I possess, and which have been the sole means of lightening the burden laid upon me. I hope I may now be permitted in some degree to recompense myself for the solitude and submission in which I have lived, and to have a little sunshine at the close of a life which has been one long sacrifice for others. I hope that--Martin, Martin, what are you thinking of?'
 
What was he thinking of as he sat there with his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed intently on the fire? What were those words ringing in his ears--solitude, submission, sacrifice? Ah, how hollow and empty they sounded, these querulous complaints, this Pharisaical self-laudation, when he thought of the manner in which, under the influence of his wife's temper, John Calverley's life had been warped and twisted until his weak nature had been betrayed into the commission of a fearful crime, the result of which was yet impending over the head of that poor trusting girl! What was he thinking of? Of the little right he had in the thought even then floating through
his mind, to condemn the dead man whose power of will had been so weak, whose temptation had been so strong! Who was he, to gauge and measure another man's sins, and to preach the doctrine of resistance, when-- What was he thinking of?' Mrs. Calverley's words repeated for the third time recalled him from his reverie.
 
'What was I thinking of? Why, of course of the proposition you have just made to me, mother,' he said aloud.
 
'It is one which scarcely seems to me to need much reflection,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly. 'In making it I have, as usual, not considered myself, but left the advantages wholly to you.'
 
'Of course, mother, I fully appreciate your kindness,' said Martin; 'and the mere fact of living with you, and being able to relieve the solitude under which you suffer, would, of course, have much weight with me. By the way, you were alluding just now to Madame Du Tertre's absence. I have never hitherto had an opportunity of asking you how she first became an inmate of this house.'
 
'Not through any invitation of mine,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'though I am bound to say that as soon as she came here she saw the melancholy life I led, and endeavoured to alleviate it to the best of her power. One of the few things I have to thank Mr. Calverley for is his introduction of Madame Du Tertre.'
 
'O,' said Martin, looking very much astonished; 'it was through Mr. Calverley that you made her acquaintance?'
 
'Certainly,' said his mother. 'I went down to Mincing-lane one day, and found Madame Du Tertre closeted with Mr. Calverley in his private room. I thought they would be confused at my entrance; but Mr. Calverley, quite at his ease, presented his companion to me as a French lady, a widow with a small fortune, which she had brought to him to invest. He stated, at the same time, that she was a stranger in London, and without friends, and suggested that, as he was compelled to be much away--compelled, indeed!' repeated Mrs. Calverley, with a sniff of defiance--'it might break the solitude of my life if this French lady, a cheerful person, playing the piano, and that sort of thing, came to live with me as my companion.'
 
'O, that was what Mr. Calverley proposed,' said Martin reflectively. 'And you agreed to it?'
 
'I agreed to it as a temporary measure,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'but it seemed to work well, and has continued ever since.'
 
'You had never seen Madame Du Tertre before? never heard Mr. Calverley mention her name?'
 
'Certainly not; neither the one nor the other. What on earth makes you ask these questions, Martin?'
 
But Martin had fallen back again into his chair. His eyes were once more riveted on the fire, and his ears were deaf to his mother's voice. What a curious woman hi............