Within half an hour after Pauline's return, Alice Claxton awoke to consciousness, dully and heavily at first, with dazed eyes, with a sense of oppression at her head and heart, with an impossibility to collect her thoughts, to make out where she was, or what was passing around her. Gradually this feeling of helplessness and indecision subsided. She recognised Pauline, who was bending over her and softly bathing her forehead with eau-de-cologne; and with that recognition the flood-gates of memory were opened, and the recollection of her widowhood and her grief rushed into her mind.  
In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
 
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
 
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable.
 
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.'
 
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice,
 
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?'
 
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'
 
'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice. 'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at once?'
 
'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at last, and fell into a fainting fit.'
 
'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.
 
'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'
 
'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'
 
'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said Pauline softly. 'It is so.'
 
Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with her hands, and sobbing forth broken ejaculations of misery and despair. Pauline did not attempt to interfere with her while she was in this state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate, waiting until the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should subside. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow, the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still continued to flow, the ejaculations softened down into one oft-repeated wail, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'
 
Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with your future.'
 
'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that? How can they give me back my husband?'
 
'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly, 'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary and more hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,' she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, that you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'
 
'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'
 
'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'
 
'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'
 
'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr. Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'
 
'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then, it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'
 
'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'
 
'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round her with a sigh.
 
'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively; Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear, I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can. I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are almost yourself again.'
 
'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself again!'
 
 
Meanwhile the mistress of the house in Great Walpole-street had been in anything but an enviable frame of mind. It has been observed of Mrs. Calverley, that even when she was Miss Lorraine, and during the lives of both her husbands, her favourite position was standing upon her dignity, a position which, with some persons, is remarkably difficult to maintain.
 
Mrs. Calverley was of opinion that by the conduct both of her companion and of her son, her dignity had been knocked from under her, and she had been morally upset, and that, too, at a time when she had calculated on receiving increased homage: on taking her place as acknowledged head of the household. That Madame Du Tertre should ask to be relieved from her attendance at a time when of all others she might have known that her presence would be necessary to console her friend in her affliction, And to aid her in devising schemes for the future, was in itself a scandal and a shame. But that her son Martin, who, as a clergyman of the Church o England, ought to be a pattern of filial obedience and all other virtues, should neglect his mother in the way that he did, going away to keep what he called business appointments day after day; above all, that he should omit to give her any definite answer to the generous proposition which she had made him, was more scandalous and more shameful.
 
So Mrs. Calverley remained swelling with spite and indignation, all the more fierce and bitter because she had to keep them to herself. And these were the first days of her triumph--days which she had thought to spend very differently, in receiving the delicate flattery and veiled homage which she had been accustomed to from Pauline, in listening to the protestations of gratitude which she had expected from her son. Now both of these persons were absent--for Martin was so little at Great Walpole-street that his mother had small opportunity of conversation with him--and she was left in her grim solitude; but she knew sooner or later they would return, and when she did get the opportunity she was perfectly prepared to make it as uncomfortable for each of them as possible.
 
It was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Calverley, who had so far given in to the fashion of the time, as to take her five-o'clock tea--which was served, not with the elegant appliances now common, but in a steaming breakfast-cup on an enormous silver salver--had settled herself to the consumption of what might be called her meal, when Pauline entered the room. She came forward rapidly, and taking her patroness's hand, bent over it and raised it to her lips. Mrs. Calverley gave her hand, or rather let it be taken, with sufficiently bad grace. She sat poker-like in her stiffness, with her lips tightly compressed. It was not her business to commence the conversation, and the delay gave her longer time to reflect upon the bitter things she fully intended to say.
 
'So at last I am able to once more reach my dear friend's side,' said Pauline, seating herself in close proximity. She saw at once the kind of reception in store for her, and though the course on which she had determined rendered her independent of Mrs. Calverley's feelings towards her, she was too good a diplomatist to provoke where provocation was unnecessary.
 
'You certainly have not hurried yourself to get there,' said Mrs. Calverley, clipping the words out from between her lips. 'I have now been left entirely to myself for--'
 
'Do not render me more wretched by going into the details of the time of my absence,' said Pauline; 'it has impressed itself upon me with sufficient distinctness already.'
 
'I should have thought, madame,' said Mrs. Calverley unrelentingly, 'that strictly brought up as you have .always represented yourself to be, you would have understood, however pleasantly your time may have been occupied, that your duty required you to be in this house.'
 
'However pleasantly my time may have been occupied!' cried Pauline. 'Each word that you utter is an additional stab. It is duty and duty alone which has called me away from your side. It is duty which imposes a farther task upon me, cruel, heart-rending task, which I have yet to declare to you! And you, who have been a life-long martyr to the discharge of your own duty, ought to have some pity for me in the dis............