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 discharge of mine.'
These last words were excellently chosen for her purpose. That she was a martyr, and an unrecognised martyr, was the one text on which Mrs. Calverley preached: to acknowledge her in that capacity was to pay her the greatest possible compliment. So, considerably mollified, she replied, 'If I felt annoyed at your absence, Palmyre, it was for your sake more than for my own. The loss of your society is a deprivation to me, but I am accustomed to deprivations and to crosses of all kinds. I devoted myself to my husband--and had he listened to the counsel I gave him, he would be here at this moment--and I am prepared to devote myself to my son.'
'Ah,' said Pauline with earnestness, Monsieur Martin!'