CHAPTER II.
Mr Gideon Maggleby had been married rather less than two-and-twenty hours, when at about nine o’clock on the morning of March 23, 1868, he walked into the room in which he had so often breakfasted and dined with his late friend and partner, Solomon Pudster. Mr Maggleby, who was pre-eminently a man of business, had not seen fit to go to the Isle of Wight or to Paris to spend his honeymoon; and Mrs Maggleby, who was nothing if not a woman of sound sense, had loyally accepted the decision of her third lord and master. They had agreed to stay in town, and not to allow their new happiness to interfere with their material interests in Mincing Lane. Mr Maggleby had determined, however, to make a holiday of the day after his wedding; to stay at home in the morning with his wife, to escort her to Madame Tussaud’s in the afternoon, and to take her to the play in the evening.
With this comfortable programme in his mind’s eye, Mr Maggleby came down to breakfast in his flowered dressing-gown. Mrs Maggleby, he knew, would not be many minutes behind him, and he therefore rang the bell for the coffee, and turned lazily towards the table, upon which lay two piles of letters. The smaller heap chiefly consisted of missives addressed to Mrs Pudster, for the marriage of the previous day had not as yet been noised abroad in the country, and Mrs Maggleby had several female correspondents who communicated with her much more often than she communicated with them. The larger bundle was made up of letters addressed either to Mr Maggleby or to Messrs Pudster and Maggleby, the letters to the firm having been already brought down from Mincing Lane by a confidential clerk.
It was a chilly morning; and Mr Maggleby, with the letters in his hand, sank into an easy-chair by the fireside, and then began to polish his spectacles. But ere he had time to complete that operation, one envelope attracted the attention of his not very dim-sighted eyes. It bore the post-mark ‘Plymouth,’ and was addressed in a familiar hand-writing. Without waiting to put on his spectacles, Mr Maggleby seized this envelope and tore it open. For an instant he stared at the letter which it contained; then he turned white, and fell back with a groan. But Mr Maggleby was a man of considerable self-command, and he soon partly recovered himself.
‘Maria must not see me in this agitated state,’ he murmured, as he rose. ‘I shall go back to my dressing-room, and decide upon some plan of action before I face her.’ And with unsteady steps, he quitted the dining-room, taking with him the letter that was the cause of his emotion.
Almost immediately afterwards, a servant entered with the coffee and some covered dishes, which she set upon the table; and no sooner had she withdrawn than Mrs Maggleby appeared. Mrs Maggleby looked blooming, and was evidently in capital spirits. She caught up her letters, sat down smiling in the very easy-chair from which her husband had risen a few minutes earlier, and began to read. The first letters to be opened were, of course, those which were addressed to her in her new name. They contained congratulations upon her marriage. Then she attacked the envelopes that were addressed to Mrs Pudster. One contained a bill; another contained a request for Mrs Pudster’s vote and interest on behalf of Miss Tabitha Gabbles, a maiden lady who was seeking admission into the Home for the Daughters of Decayed Trinity Pilots; and a third brought a lithographed letter from the Marquis of Palmyra, imploring the recipient to make some small subscription to the funds of the Association for the Encouragement of Asparagus Culture in the Scilly Islands. There were also letters from Miss Martha Tigstake and Mrs Benjamin Bowery, dealing with nothing in particular and with everything in general; and finally there was a letter bearing the post-mark ‘Plymouth.’ Mrs Maggleby opened it carelessly; but a single glance at its contents caused her to start up, grasp convulsively at the mantelpiece, utter an exclamation, and tremble like a leaf.
‘Poor Gideon!’ she said. ‘What a fearful blow! He mustn’t see me in this agitated state. I shall go up-stairs again, and decide upon some plan of action before I face him.’ And Mrs Maggleby, letter in hand and pale as death, quitted the room, leaving the coffee and the eggs and bacon and the crumpets to get cold.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Mr Maggleby ventured down-stairs again. He was dressed as if to go to the City, and in his hand he held a letter which bore the simple address, ‘Maria.’ This letter he laid upon his wife’s plate. It was worded as follows:
My dearest Life—I am suddenly and unexpectedly summoned to Mincing Lane on business of the greatest importance. I do not know exactly when I shall return, but you must not be anxious.—Yours devotedly,
Gideon.
Mr Maggleby hastily seized a tepid crumpet, and without the formality of seating himself at the table, devoured the clammy dainty. Then, hearing his wife upon the stairs, he rushed like a madman from the room, and an instant afterwards, left the house and quietly closed the front-door behind him.
Mrs Maggleby, whose face bore traces of recent weeping, entered the dining-room as if she expected to find the place tenanted by a ghost. Discovering, however, that it was empty, she resumed her seat by the fire, and, with an hysterical outburst, buried her head in her hands.
‘Poor dear Gideon!’ she sobbed. ‘What will become of him and me? We shall be imprisoned for life; I know we shall. The house will have to be shut up; the business will go to ruin; the servants will have to know all. Oh, it is too terrible! But I must compose myself. Gideon will be coming down, and I must be prepared to break the news to him;’ and with great self-command, Mrs Maggleby wiped her eyes and seated herself at the table. As she did so, she caught sight of her husband’s note, which she eagerly opened.
‘He has gone!’ she exclaimed despairingly, when she had read it. ‘I am left alone to bear the trial!—Ah, Gideon, you little know how cruel you are. But I must follow you. We must concert measures at once.’
Once more she went up-stairs. She put on her bonnet and cloak; she covered her flushed face with a thick veil; and without saying a word to any of her servants, she left the house, and made the best of her way to the nearest cabstand.
Meantime, Mr Maggleby had been driven to his place of business in Mincing Lane. He entered his office, and sat down as if dazed, in his private room. Hearing of his principal’s unexpected arrival, the head-clerk, Mr John Doddard, almost immediately appeared. He too was scared and breathless.
‘Read, sir, read!’ he gasped as he thrust an open letter into Mr Maggleby’s hand.
Mr Maggleby mechanically took the letter, and read aloud as follows:
On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday.
Dear Mr Doddard—As you are probably not expecting me, I send a line ashore to let you know that I hope to return in time to be at business at the usual hour on Thursday. Please take care that there is a good fire in my private room, as a visit to Demerara always, as you know, renders me particularly sensitive to cold and damp. I am writing to Mr Maggleby. We have had a capital voyage so far, but the weather in the Channel threatens to be rather dirty. I shall land at Gravesend; and if you can find out when the Camel is likely to be there, you may send down some one to meet me.—Yours faithfully,
Solomon Pudster.
‘I knew it!’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby. ‘I have just received the letter that he speaks of.’
‘What does it all mean?’ asked Mr Doddard. ‘I seem to be dreaming, sir. We buried poor Mr Pudster eight months ago, didn’t we?’
‘So I thought,’ murmured Mr Maggleby vaguely. ‘But this letter is certainly in his handwriting. And look at the post-mark. There it is, as plain as possible: “Plymouth, Mar. 22, 1868.” That was yesterday; and to-day is Wednesday, March 23d.—Just read my letter, Mr Doddard!’ and he pulled from his pocket a missive, which he handed to his clerk.
Mr Doddard read as follows:
On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday.
My dear Gideon—Here I am almost at home again. I fancy that you didn’t expect to see me just at present; for I wasn’t able to write to you before we left Demerara; so, as we are now sending ashore here, I post you a few lines to prepare you for the surprise. It is, as you know, quite unusual for vessels of this line to call at Plymouth, and therefore I haven’t time to send you a long letter; though, if we also call at Southampton, I will write again from there. I have told Doddard to send some one to meet me at Gravesend; let him take down any letters that you may want me to see at once.—Yours affectionately,
Solomon.
‘Well, I never did!’ cried Mr Doddard. ‘Yet I could swear to Mr Pudster’s handwriting anywhere. It is a terrible thing for a man who ought to be lying quietly in his coffin to come back like this, and upset every one’s calculations.’
‘You are certain about the handwriting?’ asked Mr Maggleby anxiously.
‘Quite certain!’ replied Mr Doddard. ‘What a frightful thing for poor Mrs Pudster!’
‘Mrs Maggleby, you mean!’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘Yes. I don’t know how to break it to her. It’s a case of bigamy; isn’t it?’
‘Let us hope for the best, sir. Mr Pudster won’t prosecute, I fancy, considering the peculiar character of the circumstances. It’s his fault. That’s my opinion. I could swear, even now, that we buried him. He must have revived in his coffin, and been dug up again by the gravediggers; and must then have gone over to Demerara, in order to avoid shocking his poor wife.’
‘I wonder our Demerara agents didn’t say something about it when they wrote by the last mail,’ said Mr Maggleby.
‘Oh, of course he kept them quiet, sir. But it’s a cruel case—that’s all I have to say. And though I have known Mr Pudster these thirty years, and liked him too, I don’t hesitate to say that he’s not behaving straightforwardly in this piece of business.’
‘Hush! Wait until you know of his motives,’ said Mr Maggleby.
‘He can’t excuse himself, sir, I tell you,’ rejoined Mr Doddard warmly. ‘If he comes back, I go. So there! And I say it with all respect to you, sir. When a man’s once dead, he’s got no right to come back again. It isn’t natural; and what’s more, it isn’t business-like.’
The bitterness of Mr Doddard’s remarks in this connection may be partly accounted for by consideration of the fact that Mr Maggleby had a few days previously announced his intention of taking the head-clerk into partnership at an early date. Mr Pudster’s return would of course knock this project on the head.
‘Well, Doddard,’ said Mr Maggleby, ‘we can’t mend matters by talking. We can only wait; and perhaps, when we see Mr Pudster, we shall find that’——
But Mr Maggleby’s philosophical remarks were suddenly cut short by the unexpected arrival of Mrs Maggleby upon the scene. She rushed into the private room, stretched forth a letter, and fell sobbing upon her husband’s neck.
Mr Maggleby placed his wife in a chair, opened a cupboard, gave her a glass of wine, took the letter, and read it. Like the others, it was dated from on board the Camel, off Plymouth. ‘My own dearest Wife,’ it ran—‘In a few hours from this I shall, I hope, be with you once more, never again to leave you. I ought to have already apprised you of the probable date of my return; but at the last moment before starting, I had no opportunity of writing. How glad I shall be to see you! My long absence has been a great trial to me, and I feel sure that it has also tried you; but it is now almost at an end. I will, if possible, write again from Southampton, and tell you exactly when to expect me. The sea in the Channel is so rough that at present it is difficult to say when we shall get into the river.—Your ever loving husband,
Solomon.’
‘It is most painful!’ gasped Mrs Maggleby. ‘What can we do, Gideon? You must manage to meet Solomon at Gravesend. Look in the newspaper, and see whether the Camel has been signalled yet. He must hear first of what has happened either from my lips or from yours; and I am really not well enough to go myself. I thought that he was lying cold in his coffin. Oh, that I should have committed bigamy! I ought to have remained faithful to his memory. This is my punishment. But he must—he shall forgive me.’
Mr Doddard had gone into the outer office, and had sent a clerk for a copy of the Times. With this he now returned; and the paper was opened on Mr Maggleby’s table, and eagerly scanned for news of the Camel.
‘Here we have it!’ said Mr Doddard at last. ‘“Steamship Camel, from Demerara to London, with cargo and passengers, was signalled off Dover at one o’clock this morning.”—Then Mr Pudster will be at Gravesend in an hour or two, sir.’
‘Go, Gideon, go!’ exclaimed Mrs Maggleby. ‘Lose no time. Take a special train if necessary. Tell him all, and implore his forgiveness.’
‘Yes, I think I had better go, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘I will send a clerk home with you, and will telegraph to you as soon as I see your—your late husband. In the meantime, try to be calm. Please tell them to call a cab, Doddard.’
Mr Doddard returned to the outer office, and despatched a messenger for two cabs. Mr Maggleby handed Mrs Maggleby into one of them, and a clerk followed her. Then the unfortunate man went back for a moment to his private room to study Bradshaw on the best and speediest route from London to Gravesend. There was a train at a quarter past eleven. It was then a quarter to eleven.
‘And when will he be at Gravesend?’ asked Mr Maggleby.
Mr Doddard turned again to the Times. But instead of at once lighting upon the shipping news, his eye fell upon a paragraph that occupied a not very conspicuous position at the foot of the page. Suddenly he uttered a cry.
‘What’s the matter, Doddard?’ demanded Mr Maggleby, who was rapidly growing impatient.
Mr Doddard replied by bursting into a paroxysm of laughter. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘this is too ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing in my life! It is like a play! Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Your merriment is rather ill-timed,’ cried Mr Maggleby reproachfully. ‘Tell me when Mr Pudster will arrive at Gravesend; and be quick, or I shall lose that train.’
‘A pump, too!’ continued the head-clerk hilariously.
‘You’re mad, I think,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, read this, sir,’ answered Mr Doddard, and he handed the Times to his principal and pointed to the paragraph.
Mr Maggleby testily took the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and read:
‘Extraordinary Discovery at Plymouth.—The corporation of Plymouth recently decided to remove an old and disused pump which for many years has stood handleless and dry on the Hoe. Yesterday morning, some workmen proceeded to remove it, and in its interior they were astonished to discover a number of letters, which had, it is supposed, been put into the hole into which the handle formerly fitted, under the delusion that the pump was a post-office pillar letter-box. The letters were at once taken to the Plymouth post-office, and were without delay forwarded to their destinations.’
‘Can it be true?’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby, with a great sigh of relief. ‘Then the fact of the Camel having been signalled last night off Dover is merely a coincidence?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Mr Doddard.
‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Mr Maggleby fervently. ‘Send the cab away, Doddard. But no! I’ll go home again at once, and set my poor wife at ease. Ha, ha! I do remember now, that when poor Mr Pudster came home from his last voyage, he discovered that some letters which he had posted at Plymouth had not been delivered. We didn’t miss them, because, as you recollect, Doddard, he wrote again from Southampton.’
‘Of course he did, sir,’ said Mr Doddard. ‘Well, let us congratulate ourselves. It would have been a fearful business for Mrs Maggleby to have to go through.’
‘And it would have been bad for you, Doddard, for it would have spoilt your chance of a partnership for some time to come. Now, I’m off.’
Mr Maggleby put the Times in his pocket, and departed; and when he reached his home and showed the paper to his wife, the couple sat together for at least half an hour, talking over the extraordinary nature of the adventure.
‘Well, we shall be able to go to Madame Tussaud’s and the theatre after all, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby at luncheon.
And go they did; and what is more, Mr Doddard became a partner a fortnight later, the firm thenceforward being known as Maggleby and Doddard.