Mr. Henrich Wetter did not remain long in Pollington-terrace on the day of his introduction to Mrs. Claxton. He saw at once that Mrs. Claxton was delicate and out of health, and he was far too clever a man of the world to let the occasion of his first visit be remembered by her as one when she was bored or wearied. While he remained, he discussed pleasantly enough those agreeable nothings, which make up the conversation of society, in a soft mellifluous voice, and exhibited an amount of deference to both ladies.
On taking his leave, Mr. Wetter rather thought that he had created a favourable impression upon Alice, while Pauline thought just the contrary. But the fact was that Alice was not impressed much either one way or the other. The man was nothing to her; no man was anything to her now, or ever would be again, she thought; but she supposed he was gentlemanly, and she knew he was Madame Du Tertre's cousin, and she was grateful for the kindness which Madame Du Tertre had shown to her. So when Mr. Wetter rose to depart, Alice feebly put out her little hand to him, and expressed a hope that he would come again to see his cousin. And Mr. Wetter bowed over her hand, and much to Pauline's disgust declared he should have much pleasure in taking Mrs. Claxton at her word. His farewell to Pauline was not less ceremonious, though he could scarcely resist grinning at her when Mrs. Claxton's back was turned. And so he went his way.
It accorded well with Pauline's notions that immediately after Mr. Wetter's departure, Alice should complain of fatigue, and should intimate her intention of retiring into her own room; for the fact was that she herself was somewhat dazed and disturbed by the occurrences of the day, and was longing for an opportunity of being alone and thinking them out at her leisure.
So, as soon as she had the room to herself, Pauline reduced the light of the lamp and turned the key in the door--not that she expected any intrusion, it was merely done out of habit--and then pushing the chairs and the table aside, made a clear path for herself in front of the fire, and commenced walking up and down it steadily. Pauline Lunelle! She had not heard the name for years. What scornful emphasis that man laid on it as he pronounced it! How he had boasted of his money and position! With what dire vengeance had he threatened her if she refused to aid him in his schemes! Of what those schemes were he had given her no idea, but they were pretty nearly certain to be bad and vicious. She recollected the opinion she had had of Henrich Wetter in the old days at Marseilles, and it was not a flattering one. People considered him an eligible match, and were greatly astonished when she had refused his hand; she, a poor dame du comptoir, to give up the opportunity of an alliance with such a rising man! But she had her feeling about it then, and she had it now.
It was, then, as she suspected during their interview at Rose Cottage. Wetter had seen Alice, had been attracted by her beauty, and had found, as he imagined, in Pauline an instrument ready made to his hand to aid him in his purpose. That acquaintance with her past life gave him a firm hold upon her, of which he would not hesitate to avail himself. Was it necessary that she should be thus submissive, thus bound to do what she was bid, however repulsive it might be to her? There was nothing of actual guilt or shame in that past life which Monsieur Wetter could bring against her; she had been merry, light, and frivolous, as was usual with people of her class--ah, of her class--the sting was there! Would Martin Gurwood have suffered her to hold the position in that household? Would he have trusted or borne with her at all, had he known that in her early days she had been the dame du comptoir at a restaurant in a French provincial town?
How insultingly that man had spoken of her dead husband! Her dead husband? Yes, Tom Durham was dead! She had long since ceased to have any doubt on that point. There was no motive that she could divine for his keeping himself in concealment, and she had for some time been convinced that all he had said to her was true, and that his plan of action was genuine, but that he had been drowned in attempting to carry it out. Where was the anguish that six months ago she would have experienced in acknowledging the truth of this conviction? Why does the idea of Tom Durham's death now come to her with an actual sense of relief? Throughout her life, Pauline, however false to others, had been inexorably true to herself; and that she now feels not merely relief but pleasure in believing Tom Durham to be dead, she frankly acknowledges.
Whence this apparently inexplicable alteration in her ideas? She must have been fond of Tom Durham; for had she not toiled for him and suffered for his sake? How is it, then, that she could bring herself to think of his death with something more than calmness? Because she loved another man, whom to win would be life, redemption, rehabilitation; to keep whom in ignorance of the contamination of the past she would do or suffer anything! There was but one way in which that past could be learned, and that was through Wetter. He alone held the key to that mystery, and to him, therefore, must the utmost court be paid--his will must be made her law. Stay, though! If Monsieur Wetter's projects are as base as she is half inclined to suspect them, by aiding them in ever so little, even by keeping silence about her suspicions, she betrays Martin's confidence and injures some of his best feelings!
What a terrible dilemma for her to be placed in! In that household where she has accepted a position of trust, and is accredited by Martin as Alice's guardian. In that position it was her duty to shield the young girl in every possible way, and not even to have permitted such a person as she believed Monsieur Wetter to be to have been introduced into the house. Being herself the actual means of introducing him, had she not virtually betrayed the trust reposed in her? and yet--and yet! Let her once set this man at defiance, and he would not scruple to utter words which would have the effect of exiling her from the house, and taking from her every chance of seeing the man for whom alone in the world she had a gentle feeling. A word from Wetter would be sufficient to annihilate the fairy palace of hope which during the last few days she had been building, and to send her forth a greater outcast than ever upon the world!
No, that could not be expected of her; it would be too much! The glimpse of happiness which she had recently enjoyed, unsubstantial though it was--a mere figment of her own brain, a dream, a delusion--had yet so far impressed her, that she could not willingly bring herself to part with it; nor, as she felt after more mature reflection, was there any necessity for her so doing. She might safely temporise; the occasion when she would be called upon to act decisively was not imminent; the performers were only just placeden scène, and there could be no possible chance of a catastrophe for some time to come. There was very little chance that Alice Claxton, modest and retiring, filled with the memories of her 'dear old John,' to whom she was always referring, would be disposed to accept the proferred attention of such a man as Monsieur Wetter. Whether Monsieur Wetter succeeded or not with Alice would entirely depend upon himself. He could not possibly know anything of her former life, and could therefore bring no undue influence to bear in his favour; and Pauline thought, even suppose, as was most likely, that Alice repulsed him, he could not turn round upon her. She had done her best; she had given him the introduction he required; and if he did not prosper in his suit no blame could be attached to her. Matters must remain so, she thought, and she would wait the result with patience.
And Martin Gurwood, the man for whom alone in the world she had a gentle feeling, the man whom she loved--yes, whom she loved! She was not ashamed, but rather proud to acknowledge it to herself; the man with the shy retiring manner, the delicate appearance, the soft voice, so different from all the other men with whom her lot in life had thrown her--the very atmosphere seemed to change as she thought of him. How well she recollected her first introduction to him in the grim house in Great Walpole-street, and the distrust, almost amounting to dislike, with which she had regarded him! She had intended pitting herself against him then; she would now be only too delighted for the opportunity of showing him how faithfully she could serve him. Distrust! Ay, she remembered the suspicion she had entertained, that there was a secret on his mind which he kept hidden from the world. She thought so still. It pleased her to think so; for in her, with all her realism and practical business purpose, there was a strong dash of superstition and imagination, and that unconscious link between them, the fact that they each had something to conceal, seemed to afford her ground for hope.
Yes, her position towards Martin, though not quite what she might have desired, was by no means a bad one. He had had to trust her, he had had to acknowledge her intellectual superiority; he, a lonely man gradually growing accustomed to women's society. He hated it at first, but now he liked it; missed it when he was forced to absent himself: she had heard him say as much. She seated herself where Alice had previously sat, and leaned her arm upon the table, supporting her chin with her hand. Might not he, she thought, might not he come to care for her, to love her--well enough? That would be all she could expect, all she could hope--well enough! A few years ago she would have scorned the idea; even up to within the last few weeks she would not have accepted any half-hearted affection. A passionate domineering woman, with the hot southern blood running in her veins, unaccustomed, in that way at all events, to be checked or stayed, she must have had all or none. But now what a difference! Her love was now tempered by discretion, her common sense was allowed its due influence; and she was too wise, and in her inmost heart too sad, to expect a passionate attachment from the man whom she had set up as her idol. In the new-born humility which has come from this true love she will be satisfied to give that, and to take in return whatever he may have to offer her.
Married to Martin Gurwood, to the man whom she loved! Could such a lot possibly be in store for her? Could she dare to dream of such a haven of rest, after her life-long suffering with storms and trials? She was free now; of that there was no doubt; and he himself had acknowledged her energy and talent. The position which she then held was in the eyes of the world no doubt inferior to his--would be made more inferior if he accepted his share of the wealth which his mother had offered him. But he is not a man, unless she has read him wrongly, if he would otherwise marry her, to be deterred by social considerations; he is far beyond and above such mean and petty weaknesses. In her calm review of the position occupied by each of them, Pauline could see but one hopeless obstacle to her chance of inducing Martin Gurwood to marry her--that sole obstacle would be another affection. Another affection! Good Heaven!--Alice!
The suspicion went through her like a knife. Her brain seemed to reel, her arms dropped powerless on the table before her, and she sank back in the chair.
Alice! Let her send her thoughts back to the different occasions when she had seen Alice and Martin Gurwood together; let her dwell upon his tone and manner to the suffering girl, and the way in which she appeared to be affected by them. When did they first meet? Not until comparatively recently, their first interview being confessedly that which she, unseen by them, had watched from the narrow lane. In the room at Pollington-terrace, by the dull red light shed by the expiring embers, Pauline saw it as plainly as she had seen it in reality; the pitying expression in Martin's face on that occasion, the eyes full of sorrowful regard, the hands that sought to raise her prostrate body, but the motion of which was checked, as they were folded across his breast. He was not in love with her then. Pauline recollected making the remark to herself at the time; but since then what opportunities had they not had of meeting, how constantly they had been thrown together, and how, as proved by the anxiety he had shown, and the trouble he has taken on her behalf, his sympathy and regard for the desolate girl had deepened and increased!
Why, should she doubt Martin Gurwood's disinterestedness in this matter? Why should she ascribe to him certain feelings by which he may possibly never have been influenced? He was a man of large heart and kindly sympathies by nature, developed by his profession and by his constant intercourse with the weak and suffering. He would doubtless have befriended any woman in similar circumstances who might have been brought under his notice. Befriended? Yes, but not, as Pauline honestly allowed to herself, in the same way. His words would have been kind, and his purse would have been open; but in all his kindness to Alice there was a certain delicate consideration, which long before she even thought it would trouble her, Pauline had frequently remarked, and which she understood and appreciated all the better, perhaps, because she had had no experience of any such treatment in her life. That consideration spoke volumes as to the character of Martin's feelings towards Alice, and Pauline's heart sank within her as she thought of it.
Meanwhile she must suffer quietly, and hope for the best; that was all left for her to do. She was surprised at the calmness of her despair. In the old days her fiery jealousy of Torn Durham had leapt forward at the slightest provocation, rendering her oftentimes the laughing-stock of her husband and his ribald friends; now, when the first gathering of the suspicion crossed her mind that a man, far dearer to her than ever her husband had been, was in love with another woman, she accepted the position, not without dire suffering it is true, but with calmness and submission. It might not be the case, after all. From what little she had seen of Alice, Pauline scarcely suspected her of being the right woman to understand or appreciate Martin Gurwood. She had been accustomed to be petted and spoiled by an old man, who was her slave; she was not intended by nature to be much more than a spoilt child, a doll to be petted and played with, and the finer traits in Martin's character would be lost upon her. She was grateful to him as her benefactor, of course, but she had never exhibited any other feeling towards him, and Pauline did not think that she would allow her gratitude to have much influence over her future. Moreover--but, as Pauline knew perfectly well, little reliance was to be placed upon that--she professed herself inconsolable for her recent loss, and talked of perpetual widowhood as her only possible condition. So that Pauline thought that there were two chances, either of which would suit her--one that Alice would never marry again; the other that she might marry some one else in preference to Martin Gurwood.
It was growing late, and Pauline, wearied and exhausted, extinguished the lamp, and made the best of her way up the staircase in the dark. As she passed by the door of the room in which Alice slept, she thought she heard a stifled cry. She paused for an instant and listened; the cry was repeated, followed by a low moan. Alarmed at this, Pauline tried the door; it was unfastened, and yielded to her touch. Hurrying in, she found Alice sitting upright in her bed, her hair streaming over her shoulders, and an expression of terror in her face.
'What on earth is the matter, poor child?' cried Pauline, putting her arm round the girl, and peering into the darkness. 'What has disturbed you in your sleep?'
'Nothing,' said Alice, placing her hand upon her heart to still its beating; 'nothing--at least, only a foolish fancy of my own. Do not leave me,' she cried, as Pauline moved away from her.
'I am not going to leave you, dear, be sure of that,' said Pauline; 'I am only going to get a light in order that I may be certain where I am and what I am about. There,' she said, as, after striking a match and lighting the gas, she returned to the bed. 'Now you shall tell me what frightened you and caused you to cry out so loudly.'
'Nothing but a dream,' said Alice. 'Is it not ridiculous? But I could not help it, indeed I could not. I cried out involuntarily, and had no idea of what had happened until you entered the room.'
'And what was the dream that caused so great an effect?' asked Pauline, seating herself on the bed and taking Alice's trembling hand in hers.
'A very foolish one,' said Alice. 'I thought I was in the garden at Hendon, walking with dear old John and talking'--here her voice broke and the tears rolled down her face--'just as I used to talk to him, very stupidly no doubt, but he enjoyed it and so did I, and we liked it better, I think, because no one else understood it. We were crossing the lawn and going down towards the shrubbery, when a cold chilling wind seemed to blast across from the churchyard, and immediately afterwards a man rushed up--I could not see his face, for he kept it averted--and pulled John away from me and held him struggling in his arms. I could not tell now how it came about, but I found myself at the man's feet, imploring him to let John come to me. And the man told me to look up; and when I looked up John was gone, vanished, melted away! And when I called after him, the man bade me hold my peace, for that John was not what I had fancied him to be, but, on the contrary, the worst enemy I had ever had. Then the scene changed, and I was in an hospital, or some place of the sort, and long rows of white beds and sick people lying in them. And in one of them was John, so altered, so shrunken, pale, and wobegone; and when he saw me he bowed his head and lifted up his hands in supplication, and all he said was, "Forget! forget!" in such a piteous tone; and I thought he did not know me, and in my anguish I screamed out and woke. Was it not a strange dream?'
'It was indeed,' said Pauline meditatively, 'but all dreams are--'
'Stay,' cried Alice, interrupting her; 'I forgot to tell you that when I was struggling with the man who kept me away from John, I managed to look at his face, and it was the face of the gentleman who came here last night--your cousin, you know.'
'Ay,' said Pauline, looking at her quietly; 'there is nothing very strange in that. You see so few people, that a fresh face is apt to be photographed on your mind, and thus my unfortunate cousin was turned into a monster in your dream. Do you think you are sufficiently composed now for me to leave you?'
'I'd rather you would stay a little longer, if you don't mind,' said Alice, laying her hand on her friend's. 'I know I'm very foolish, but I scarcely think I could get to sleep if I were left just now.'
'I am not at all sure,' said Pauline gently, 'that we have been right in keeping you so much secluded as we have done hitherto, and in declining the civilities and hospitalities which have been offered to us by all the people here about. I am afraid you are getting into rather a morbid state, Alice, and that this dream of yours is a proof of it.'
'I cannot bear the notion of seeing any one else,' said Alice.
'That is another proof of the morbid state to which I was referring,' said Pauline. 'You would very soon get over that, if the ice were once broken.'
'But surely we see enough people. Whenever he is in town, Mr. Gurwood comes to see us.'
Pauline's eyes were fixed full on Alice's face as she pronounced Martin's name, but they did not discover the slightest flush on the girl's cheeks, nor was there the least alteration in her tone.
'True,' said Pauline; 'and Sir. Statham comes to see us now and then.'
'O yes,' said Alice; 'I suppose whenever he has nothing more important to do; but Mr. Statham's time is valuable, and very much filled up, I have heard Mr. Gurwood say.'
'But even Mr. Statham and Mr. Gurwood,' said Pauline, forcing herself to smile, seen at long intervals, 'give us scarcely sufficient intercourse with the outer world to prevent our falling into what I call a perfectly morbid state; and on the next visit paid us by either of these gentlemen, I shall lay my ideas before them, and ask for authority to enlarge our circle. Now, dear, you are dropping with sleep, and all your terror seems thoroughly subsided. So, good-night. I will leave the light burning to drive away the evil dreams.'
As Pauline bent over Alice, the girl threw her arms round her friend's neck, and kissing her, thanked her warmly for her attention.
'A strange dream indeed!' said Pauline, as she walked slowly up the staircase to her own room. 'She was told that old John, as she calls him, instead of being what she always imagined, was really her worst enemy. And the man who told her so proved to be Henrich Wetter! A very strange dream indeed!'
What has come over the ruling spirit of the offices in 'Change Alley? The partners in the great mercantile houses, whose shipbroking is there carried on, cannot understand it, and the men in the tall fluffy hats, the frock-coats, and the shepherd's plaid trousers, whom no one would suspect to be the captains of merchant vessels fully certificated, long-serviced, and ready to sail on any navigable water in the world, shrug their shoulders and mutter hoarsely to each other in the luncheon-room at Lloyd's, that 'something must be up with Mr. Statham.' The clerk who gives a maritime flavour to the office by wearing a pea-jacket, and who in default of any possible boating on the Thames or Serpentine is, during the winter, compelled to give vent to his nautical tendencies by vocal references at convivial supper-parties to his Lovely Nan, his Polly of Portsmouth, and other of the late Mr. Dibdin's creation, opines that there is a young woman in the case, and that his governor has 'got smote.' Another of the clerks, an elderly man with a wooden leg and a melancholy mind, who had more than once failed in business on his own account, began to hint in a mysterious manner that he foresaw bankruptcy impending, and that they should all have to look out for new situations before the spring. Mr. Collins, to whom all the querists addressed themselves, and at whom all the indirect hints were levelled, said nothing; he even refused to admit to the general public that there was any perceptible difference in Mr. Statham's manner. Only in conjugal confidence, as he smoked his after-supper pipe in the neatly-furnished parlour of his residence in Balaclava-buildings East, Lower Clapham-road, he confessed to Mrs. C. that the chief had somehow lost his relish for business, and that he did not think Mr. S. was the man he had been.
If you had asked Humphrey Statham himself if there were any real foundation for these whispered hints and innuendoes, he would have laughed in your face. The forebodings of the melancholy man as to there being a decline in the business, he would have settled at once by a reference to Mr. Collins, who would have shown that never since he had been connected with the firm had their dealings been so large, and apparently so safe. As to Mr. Collins's connubial confidences, Humphrey Statham, if he had been made aware of them, would have said that they were equally ridiculous. Perhaps it was true that he did not care so much for business, was not so constantly at his desk, or such a dead hand at a bargain as he used to be; but it was natural enough that he should begin to slack off a little. He had been an idle clog in his early days, but ever since he settled down in the City, there were few men who had worked harder than he. The ten thousand pounds originally left him by his father he had more than trebled, and his personal disbursements certainly did not amount to more than six or seven hundred a year. Why should he slave away every moment of his life? Why should he be at the beck and call of every one who wanted his advice? They paid him for it, it was true. But he wanted something else besides payment now--amongst other things a certain amount of leisure for day-dreaming.
But what about the suggestion thrown out by the young gentleman of nautical tendency,--the suggestion involving the idea that his principal's absence of mind was referable to his thoughts being occupied with a young woman? Day-dreaming was surely in favour of the nautical young gentleman's theory. When Humphrey Statham, after giving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, no matter who might want him, threw himself back in his chair, and burying his hands in his trousers' pockets, indulged in a long reverie, his thoughts reverted not to any business transactions in which he might have been engaged, but to the day when he first went to Rose Cottage in the assumed character of a charity agent, and to the person with whom he had the interview there. To Alice, as he saw her then for the first time, with the look of interest and anxiety in her pale wistful face, with the tears standing in her large hazel eyes, how graceful and elegant were all her movements; in how tender and womanlike a manner, regardless of her own trouble, which, though not absolutely pronounced, she felt to be impending, she sympathised with him in the presumed object of his mission, and promised him aid! Then she would rise before his mind as he had seen her since, chilled, almost numbed with sorrow, caring for nothing, taking no interest in all that was proposed to her, though always grateful and recognisant. That look of hopeless, helpless sorrow haunted Humphrey Statham's life. Could it never be banished from her pale face? Would her eyes never brighten again with joy? The sorrowful look was a tribute to one who had cruelly deceived her, who had merited her bitterest hatred for the manner in which he had treated her. A word, probably, would disperse those clouds of grief, would turn her from a weeping mourner to an outraged woman, would show her how terrible was her present position, and would probably render her wildly anxious to escape from it. But to speak that word to Alice, to acquaint her with John Calverley's crime, would be to point out to her her own degradation, to inflict upon her the sharpest wounds that brutality could devise, to uproot her faith in honesty and goodness, and to send her forth cowering before the world. The man who could do this would prove himself Alice Claxton's direst enemy; it was Humphrey Statham's hope to take rank as one of her dearest friends; and in this hope he suffered and was silent.
One of her dearest friends! Nothing more than that; he had never dared to hope that he should be anything more to her. She was likely to remain constant to the memory of him whom she believed to have been her husband, and no one who had her welfare at heart would attempt to shake her in that constancy. With the exception of the doctors, indeed--who were not likely to trouble themselves--there was no one capable of giving her the information so fatal to her peace of mind, save the three tried friends who were occupying themselves in watching over her. Three tried friends? Yes, he thought he might say that; for this Frenchwoman, whom he had distrusted at first, seemed to be fulfilling her self-imposed duty with strictness and singleness of purpose. Humphrey Statham was not a man likely to be imposed upon by specious assurances, unless they were carried out by corresponding acts. When Martin Gurwood had made him acquainted with Madame Du Tertre's proposal, he had agreed to their acceptancefaut de mieux, but only as a temporary measure, and without any opinion of their lasting qualities. However, since Pauline's association with the Pollington-terrace household, he had carefully watched her, and in spite as it were of himself, found himself compelled to give her credit for unselfishness and devotion to Alice's cause. What might be her motive, what the guiding-string of her conduct, so long as it involved no danger to Alice, was no concern of his. Humphrey Statham was too much a man of the world to ascribe it entirely to the sense of wishing to do her duty, or the gratification of an overweening affection which she had taken for the deserted girl. He argued rather that she herself had been the victim of some treachery or some disappointment in a degree similar to that unconsciously suffered by Alice, and that hence arose her sympathy for Mrs. Claxton, which, added to a dislike of the world, had induced her to seek for the position of Alice's companion. But this idea Humphrey Statham kept to himself; as being one rather likely to frighten a man of Martin Gurwood's simplicity, and to render him distrustful of the woman who was really of very great use and assistance to them.
Martha Gurwood had returned to Lullington, the affairs of the parish, as he stated, demanding his presence. Mrs. Calverley had demurred to his going, objecting to being left alone. Martin had employed a curate during his absence--she said, a man sufficiently qualified to attend to the spiritual wants of the farmers and persons of that kind, of whom the parish was composed. But Martin thought otherwise. He had been away quite long enough, too long, he argued, for a proper discharge of his duties. There might have been many occasions on which the parishioners who knew him well would have come to him for assistance, while they would have been diffident in appealing in the same way to a stranger. His mother retorted, although he had not chosen to give her any explicit answer, she had made him an offer, the acceptance of which would remove him from Lullington, and then the farmers and labourers would be compelled to pocket their pride--if it could be called pride in such persons--and either seek aid from the stranger or go without. To which Martin had replied that if he were to yield up his living, his successor, from the mere fact of his position, would not be a stranger, but would be the proper person to apply to. So Martin Gurwood had gone back to Lullington, leaving his mother highly incensed at his departure; and his friend, Humphrey Statham, had no one to talk to about Mrs. Claxton's beauty, patience, and forlorn condition.
It was on that account that Humphrey chiefly missed Martin. There was not much else in common between the two men; indeed, they had been acquainted for years without the acquaintance ripening into intimacy. From other persons and common friends Martin Gurwood had heard of Statham's cleverness and tact. On the occasion when he wanted a friend possessing such qualities he had sought out his old acquaintance, and found that rumour had not belied him. On his part Statham had to admire Martin Gurwood's simplicity and earnestness, and having the Hendon mystery to deal with, and a certain number of complications to steer through, the alliance between them was close and firm; but it had Alice Claxton and her welfare for its basis and its mainspring, and nothing more. Not that Humphrey Statham wanted anything more; he would have liked Martin Gurwood, however the connection with him had been brought about; but associated as it was with Alice, this most recent friendship had a most appreciable value in his eyes.
Martin was gone, and there was no longer any one to whom Humphrey Statham could indulge in confidential converse; so he took to reveries and day-dreaming, and thus gave rise to all the odd talk and speculation about him which was rife in the City. He had settled with Martin before he left, however, that he should go up, for a time at least, twice or thrice a week, perhaps, to Pollington-terrace to see how Mrs. Claxton was getting on, and write fully and candidly to Martin his impressions of what he saw; and for a time nothing could be pleasanter reading to one interested in the success of the new establishment than these letters. Alice seemed gradually to be gaining health and strength; and if it could not be said that her spirits were much improved, certainly in that way she had suffered no relapse. Madame Du Tertre had come out infinitely more favourably than Humphrey had expected of her. She was unwearying in her devotion to her young friend, and her affectionate surveillance was just exactly what was wanted to a young woman in Alice's position. The matter of fending off neighbourly acquaintance, which they had so much dreaded, had been admirably managed by Madame Du Tertre, who had pleaded her young friend's recent bereavement and ill health as an excuse for their not entering into society; while she had rendered herself most popular by the courteous way in which she had made the announcement, by her kindness to the children, and hersavoir fairein general. Martin Gurwood read all this with as great a pleasure as Humphrey Statham wrote it. All things taken into consideration, nothing could be progressing more favourably than the establishment in Pollington-terrace, built though it was, as both men knew, upon a quicksand, and liable to be engulfed at any moment.
These visits to Pollington-terrace were the holidays in Humphrey Statham's life, the days to be marked with a white stone, to be dwelt upon both in anticipation and recollection--days to be made much of, too, and not to be carelessly enjoyed. Humphrey Statham, since his early youth a prudent man, was not inclined to be prodigal even of such delights. Immediately after Martin's departure for the country he had been a pretty constant visitor at Pollington-terrace, for the purpose, of course, of keeping his friend properly posted up in all the movements of its denizens; but after a little he thought it better to put in an appearance less frequently, and he mortified himself accordingly. One night, after a ten days' interval, Humphrey thought he should be justified in paying his respects to the lady, and providing himself with subject-matter for another letter to-morrow. Being, as has been said, a man of worldly wisdom, it was his habit to dismiss his cab at the end of the terrace, and proceed on foot to his destination, hansom cabs being looked upon by the staid neighbourhood as skittish vehicles, generally subversive of morals. When Humphrey reached the house, he saw upon the window-blind the unmistakable shadow of a man's head. Had Martin Gurwood suddenly returned to town? No--as the thought flashed across his mind, the head turned, showing him the profile, with a hook nose, and a flowing beard, with neither of which could the Vicar of Lullington be accredited. Humphrey Statham stopped short, scarcely daring to believe his senses. An instant's reflection convinced him of his folly. What rule was there forbidding these ladies to receive their acquaintances in their own house? Who was he to be startled at the unfamiliar silhouette on a window-blind? Why should such a sight cause him to stop suddenly in his walk, and set his heart thumping wildly beneath his waistcoat? Martha, the little maid-of-all-work was, at all events, not influenced by anything that had occurred. She grinned when she saw Mr. Statham in her usual friendly manner, and introduced him into the parlour with her accustomed briskness of bearing.
Mrs. Claxton was there, so was Madame Du Tertre, so was the original of the silhouette on the window-blind. A tall man this, with a hooked nose, and a blonde silky beard, and an easy pleasant manner, introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin, Mr. Henrich Wetter. A deuced sight too easy a manner, thought Humphrey Statham to himself, as he quietly remarked the way in which the new-comer paid to Alice attentions, with which no fault could be found, but were unmistakably annoying to the looker-on, and to that looker-on the behaviour of the strange visitor was so ineffably, so gallingly patronising! Mr. Statham, did he catch the name rightly? Was it Mr. Humphrey Statham of Old 'Change? O, of course, then, he was well known to everybody. They were neighbours in the City. He was very pleased to make Mr. Statham's personal acquaintance.
'Confound his patronising airs!' thought Humphrey Statham to himself. 'Who is this German Jew--he is a German, undoubtedly, and probably a Jew--that he should vaunt himself in this manner? And how, in the name of fortune, did he find himself in this house? Madame Du Tertre's cousin, eh! This Wetter, if he be, as he probably is, of the firm of Stutterheim and Wetter, ought to have had sufficient respect for his family to have prevented his cousin from taking the position occupied by Madame Du Tertre. Bah! what nonsense was he talking now? They had all reason to be grateful that Madame Du Tertre was in that position, and she was just the woman who would keep her family in ignorance of the circumstances under which she had achieved it.'
Exactly as he thought? The subsequent conversation showed him how wrong he had been. It turned accidentally enough upon the number of foreigners domesticated in England, a country where, as Mr. Wetter remarked, one would have thought they would have experienced more difficulty in making themselves at home than in almost any other.
'Not that,' he said pleasantly--'not that I have any reason to complain; but I am now a naturalised Englishman, and all my hopes and wishes--mere business hopes and wishes--alas, Mrs. Claxton, I am a solitary man, and have no other matters of interest--are centred in this country. It was here, though I confess with astonishment, that I found my cousin, Madame Du Tertre, a permanent resident.'
'You were not aware then, Monsieur Wetter,' said Statham, finding himself addressed, 'that your cousin was in England?'
'Family differences, common to all nations, had unfortunately separated us, and for some years I had not heard of Pau--Palmyre's movements.'
'You can easily understand, Mr. Statham,' said Pauline, speaking between her set teeth, 'that as my cousin's social position was superior to mine, I was averse to bringing myself under his notice.'
'We will say nothing about that,' said Mr. Wetter, with his pleasant smile. 'I think Mr. Statham will agree with me, that the social position which brings about a constant intercourse with Mrs. Claxton is one which any member of our sex would, to say the least of it, be proud.'
Humphrey Statham glanced round the circle as these words were uttered. Alice looked uncomfortable; Madame Du Tertre, savage and defiant; Mr. Wetter bland and self-possessed. There was silence for a few minutes. Then Pauline said: 'You have been a stranger for some time, Mr. Statham; we had been wondering what had become of you.'
'I am delighted to think that the void caused by my absence has been so agreeably filled,' said Humphrey Statham, with a bow towards Mr. Wetter. The next minute he cursed his folly for having made the speech, seeing by Wetter's look that he had thoroughly appreciated its origin.
'The regret of your absence indicated by Madame Du Tertre I fully share,' he said, with a polite smile. 'It is my great loss that I have not met you before in this charming society. At this dull season of the year, when every one is out of town, I need scarcely say what a godsend it has been to me to have been permitted to pass an evening occasionally with two such ladies; and the knowledge that I might have had the chance of an introduction to Mr. Humphrey Statham would have been, had it been needed, an additional inducement to drag me from my dreary solitude.'
That was an uncomfortable evening for all persons present. Even to Alice--dull, distrait, and occupied with her own sorrow--there was an evident incongruity in the meeting of the two men. Pauline was furious, partly at Wetter's cool treatment of her, partly at the idea that Statham had cross-questioned her as to why she had permitted the intimacy with Wetter to arise. Wetter himself was annoyed at Statham's presence on the scene, while Humphrey Statham went away sorry and sick at heart at all he had seen and heard. The old stories concerning Wetter which floated about society had reached his ears, and the recollection of them rushed upon him as he sat in the cab on his homeward drive. 'How had this man managed to get a footing in Alice's house; a footing he had evidently obtained, for he spoke of frequent visits there, and his manner was that of an habitué of the house? He was introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin; but if that were so, that fact, instead of inspiring confidence in him, was simply sufficient to create distrust of Madame Du Tertre. He was the last man with whom any woman, young and inexperienced, more especially any woman in Alice Claxton's position, should be brought in contact.'
What was best to be done? For an answer to this question Humphrey Statham racked his brain that night. In any case he must write a full account of what he had seen, and of the inference he had drawn therefrom to Martin Gurwood. Martin may not be able to give him any advice, but it was due to him to let him know what had occurred. He, in his simplicity, may see nothing in it; but at all events he must never be able to plead that he was unadvised and unwarned. So before retiring to his rest that night, Humphrey Statham sat down and wrote to his friend a full account of his visit, with a candid statement of the fears and reflections which the presence of such a man as Mr. Wetter in Alice Claxton's household had aroused in him.
'To you,' he said--'to you who have nothing in your life to repair, all this may seem very strained; but I, who havepassé par-là, and have failed to save one whom I might have saved, know what a sting a failure may come to mean for all the days of a man's life.'
'Nothing in my life to repair!' cried Martin Gurwood, after he had read the letter, clasping his hands above his head. 'My God, if there were but any place for repentance, any possibility of reparation!'
It was full time that Martin Gurwood returned to Lullington, for his parishioners had begun to grow impatient at his absence. Although, as we have already shown, the Vicar could not be called popular amongst them, having no tastes in common with theirs and rather aweing them with his dignified reserve, the good people of Lullington had become accustomed to their parson's ways, and were disposed t-o overlook what they thought the oddity of his manners in consideration of his bountiful kindness and the strict fidelity with which he discharged the duties of his office. He was not one of their own sort; he was not a 'good fellow;' there was nothing at all free-and-easy about him; no jokes were cracked before him; no harvest-home suppers, no Christmas merry-makings found him among the assembled company. But the farmers, if they did not like their Vicar, respected him most thoroughly, and thought it something to have amongst them a man on whose advice on all spiritual matters (and in all worldly matters, few indeed though they be, in which honour and honesty are alone concerned) they could fully and firmly rely. So that when Martin Gurwood, on his mother's invitation, went up to London in the autumn of the year, intending to stop there but a very few weeks, the churchwardens and such others of his parishioners as he deigned to take so far into his confidence, were sincere in expressing their wishes for his speedy return.
But if the inhabitants of Lullington were sorry for their pastor's departure at the time of his leaving them, much more bitterly did they regret it after they had had a little experience of his locum tenens. The gentleman who had temporarily undertaken the spiritual care of the Lullingtonians was a man of birth and ability, an old college friend of Martin Gurwood, and emphatically a scholar and a gentleman. He had married when very young, and had a large family; he was miserably poor, and it was principally with the view of helping him that Martin had requested him to fill his place during his absence. Mr. Dill was only too glad to find some place which he could occupy rent-free, and where he had a better chance of being able to work undisturbed by the racket of his children than in the noisy lodging in town. So he moved all his family by the third-class train, and in less than an hour after their arrival the boys were playing hockey on the lawn, the girls were swinging in the orchard, Mrs. Dill was in her usual state of uncertainty as to where she had packed away any of the 'things,' and Mr. Dill, inked up to the eyebrows and attired in a ragged grey duffel dressing-gown, was seated in Martin Gurwood's arm-chair hard at work at his Greek play.
Although not much given to cultivating politeness, the Lullington farmers, out of respect for Martin Gurwood, thought it advisable to tender a welcome to their Vicar's representative, and appointed two of their number to carry out the determination. The deputation did not succeed in obtaining admittance; Mr. Dill's old servant, a kind of female Caleb Balderstone, meeting them in the hall and declaring her master to be 'at work'--a condition in which e was never to be interrupted. The deputation retired in dudgeon, and that evening at the Dun Cow described their reception amidst the sympathising groans of their assembled friends. It was unanimously decided that when Mr. Dill called upon any of them he should be accommodated with that species of outspoken candour which was known in those parts as 'a piece of their mind.' It is impossible to say what effect this intended frankness would have had upon the temporary occupant of the Lullington pulpit, inasmuch as that during his whole time of residence Mr. Dill never called on one of the parishioners. Many of them never saw him except on Sundays; others caught glimpses of him, a small homely-looking man, striding about the garden dressed in the before-mentioned ragged morning-gown, very short pepper-and-salt trousers, white socks not too clean, and low shoes, gazing now on to the ground, now into the skies, muttering to himself; and apparently enforcing his arguments with extended forefinger, but so entranced and enrapt in his cogitation as to be conscious of nothing passing around him, or to gaze placidly into the broad countenances of Hodge or Giles staring at him over the hedge, without the least notion that they were there. On Sundays, however, it was a very different matter. Then Mr. Dill was anything but preoccupied. He gave himself up entirely and earnestly to the duty of addressing his congregation; but he addressed them with such ferocity, and the doctrine which he preached was so stern and uncompromising--so different from anything that they had been accustomed to hear from the gentle lips of Martin Gurwood--that the congregation, for the time struck rigid with awe and dismay, no sooner found themselves outside the porch than they gathered into a knot in the churchyard and determined on writing off at once to their Vicar to request him to remove his substitute.
The letter, in the form of a round-robin, was duly signed and dispatched, and produced a reply from Martin, counselling moderation, and promising the exertion of his influence with Mr. Dill. That influence had a somewhat salutary effect, and on the next Sunday the discourse was incomprehensible instead of denunciatory in its tone. But there was no sympathy between Mr. Dill and those with whom his lot was cast, and spiritual matters in Lullington had come to a very low ebb indeed when Martin Gurwood returned to his parishioners. Then they revived at once. The Vicar's arrival was hailed with the greatest delight; he was greeted with a cordiality which he had never before experienced, and, after the celebration of service on the ensuing Sunday, there was quite a demonstration of affection towards him on the part of the warm-hearted, if somewhat narrow-minded, people, amongst whom he had not laboured in vain.
But when the gloss of renewed confidence and regard began to wear off, it was noticed among the farmers that the Vicar's reserve, which had been the original stumbling block to his popularity with his parishioners, had, if anything, rather grown than decreased since his visit to London. Martin Gurwood did his duty regular as heretofore; attended schools, visited the sick, was always accessible when wanted; but he seemed more than ever anxious to escape to his solitude; the services of the Irish mare were brought into constant requisition, and she was ridden harder than ever. All this was not lost upon the observant eye of Farmer Barford.
'It's pride, that's what it is, my boy,' said the old man to his son; 'it was so when parson first came down here, and though he got the better of it, it is so again now. It's after having been up to London, and seeing the ways, and wickedness, and goings-on of the grand folks that leaves the sting of envy behind, mebbe; and he knows it's not right, and flies from the temptation back to these quiet parts; and then the thought of what he has seen, and what he has to give up, rankles and galls him sorely.'
Farmer Barford was by no means strictly correct in his impression. There was a temptation in London for Martin Gurwood indeed, but it was not of the kind which the worthy old churchwarden imagined; and though the Vicar devoted the greater portion of his thoughts to it, it had not, at first at least, the effect of goading or harassing him in any way. Indeed, instead of attempting to expel the subject from his mind, he loved to brood and ponder over it, turning it hither and thither, dwelling upon it in its every phase, and parting from it to enter once more upon the work-a-day duties of the world with the greatest reluctance.
Yes, however much he had attempted to deceive himself when in Alice's presence, to tell himself that the interest he felt in her merely arose from pity for the position in which, by a sad combination of circumstances, she had been placed, Martin Gurwood no sooner found himself in the peaceful retreat of his own home, no longer surrounded by the feverish excitement of London, no longer compelled to be constantly on his guard lest he should betray the Claxton mystery to his mother, lest even he should betray to his friend Statham the secret of his heart, than he acknowledged to himself that he loved Alice. Loved her with depth and intensity such as no one would have accredited him with; loved her with a power of love such as he had never dreamed of possessing, and which astonished him by its force and earnestness. He, the man of saintly reputation, loved with his whole heart this woman, whose name and fame--innocent, and even ignorant of it as she was--were tarnished in the eyes of the world, and quite humbly put to himself the question if he could win her. In the silent watches of the night, or when riding far away from home, he would bring his horse to a stand-still on wind-swept common or barren moorland, and ask himself if he dared--having reference to his own past life--to hope for such happiness. Surely there could be little to cause trouble or anxiety to such a man? he, if any one, could afford to stand the scrutiny of the world, could ignore or laugh at what the world might say respecting his choice of a wife! And what could the world say? The secrecy which had been maintained about the whole matter had been perfect, so perfect as to make him easy about the fact that the dead man whom Alice had believed to be her husband was his stepfather. No one will ever know that but Statham, who is to be trusted, and--and Madame Du Tertre. He had forgotten her, and somehow, at the thought of her his heart turned chill within him. She could be relied upon, however, and Alice would never be troubled by any one or anything more when once he had the right to protect her.
To protect her, to watch over and tend her! To listen to the outpourings of her mind, simple and innocent as those of any village girl, to mould her soft nature and note the growth and development under his tuition of the common sense and right feeling which were her undoubted natural gifts. To solace the dead dull level of his daily life with her sweet companionship; to listen, as he had never hoped to listen, to words of love addressed to him--to him whose celibate life had been so long uncheered by fond look or word of affection! Could it be possible that this girl, of whom, as he recollected with something like dismay, he had at first conceived so distorted an idea, of whom he had spoken with so much harshness, and to whom he had so grudgingly extended the common Christian charity due from him in his position to any fellow-creature however erring;--could she, by the mysterious dispensation of Providence, be the one woman reserved as his haven of rest from the buffets of the world, as the hope and comfort of his declining days? Could such a blessing come to him? The whisper of his fate within him seemed to answer, 'No!'
And yet why should such happiness be denied him? However lonely had been his own life, there were few men who had greater opportunities of studying the pleasures of domesticity; fewer still more calculated to enjoy the calm blessings of the married state, all-sufficient, all-engrossing in themselves. And Alice, what response could she make to this affection? She was surely heart-whole so far as the present was concerned; she loved no other man; her affection, such as it was, was buried in the grave. Such as it was! Yes, the phrase was harsh-sounding, but true. Communing with himself, Martin Gurwood came to the conclusion that Alice during her life long had never known what it was really to love. There could be no doubt, from all he had heard, from all he had seen, that she had been devoted to John Calverley, but it was the devotion of a young girl to a man many years her senior--to a man with whom their disparity of years prevented her having much in common. The feeling which she had entertained for John Calverley was respect, gratitude, affection if you will, but it was not love. Even if it had been, even if those philosophers, according to whose dicta the first impression made upon a woman's heart by a man, no matter of what age or position, remains for ever branded and ineffaceable, were right--if Alice had been devoted to John Calverley in a sense other than that which he felt inclined to believe--Martin Gurwood acknowledged that he would be only too glad to take her as she was. He would accept with infinite thankfulness such a love as she could give him, and perhaps it would be better so. The dangerous passion which might have been, he would not ask for, he would not dream of. A quiet trusting love, such as her gentle nature could feel so truly, could give so freely, would amply satisfy him; and notwithstanding the never-ceasing whisper of his fate, he inclined to hope that he eventually might obtain it.
This hope, not arrived at until after many days' anxious self-communing, brought with it a different train of thought--a better train of mind. He was no longer inclined to be solitary now; he took a pleasure in going among his parishioners; in chatting with the old dames and young lasses; in listening to the farmers, and discussing future plans with them. That was to be the scene of his future labours; that was to be the place where his life with Alice would be passed. He pictured her to himself dispensing her charities, aiding him in his work, proving herself, as she was certain to do, kind, patient, active, exactly fitted for a parson's wife. Far removed from London and its temptations, out of the reach of any who might chance to know her previous history, worshipped and protected by him; the benefactress of the poor and sick; the kindly friend of all; her life at Lullington would be as it ought to have been from the first. And his life? It was almost too much happiness to speculate upon it. With the new hope came renewed health, fresh brightness, unaccustomed geniality. His village friends had never before seen their Vicar so radiantly happy; and farmer Barford bade his son Bill remark that all the direful effects of the visit to London had passed away, and that the Lullington air and the return to his congregation had made their parson a man again.
This happy frame of mind was, however, not destined to last long. One bright winter's morning, when Martin Gurwood was walking briskly up and down the long gravel path leading to the garden-gate, now and then diverging for a moment to speak to the old gardener, who was pottering away in the conservatory, and who had as yet scarcely got over his grief for the damage done to his favourite shrubs by Mr. Dill's mischievous children, the heavily-laden village postman saluted the Vicar, and handed him two letters and his weekly copy of theGuardian. There was a time when Martin, in his eagerness to plunge into his journal, would have laid the letters aside for a more favourable opportunity, but now the postman had become a person of the greatest interest to him. On several occasions he had received a letter from Alice--quietly, simply, and naturally written--describing the domestic events of her daily life, and always speaking gratefully of his kindness towards her. This morning, however, there was nothing from Alice; one of the letters was written in his mother's narrow-cramped characters; the other in the bold flowing hand of Humphrey Statham.
Martin now never saw his mother's writing without a certain nervous apprehension. However cleverly their precautions had been taken, there was always the chance of Mrs. Calverley's discovering the story of the Claxton mystery, and her son never opened one of her letters without the dread of learning that that discovery had been made. The perusal of the first lines, however, reassured him on that point, though the letter on the whole was not especially gratifying.
Thus it ran: