'Great Walpole-street, Wednesday.
'MY DEAR MARTIN,--Although I have been gifted with a singularly patient disposition, with the power of enduring a large amount of weariness and suffering without complaint, yet as a worm will turn, so do I at length lift up my voice to protest against my son's treatment of me. There are not, I imagine, many mothers in this world who have made such sacrifices for their offspring as I have for you, Martin; there are certainly very few sons who have received such an offer from their parents as that made by me to you when last you were in London, and yet the treatment which I receive at your hands is in exact conformity with that which has been my lot during my ill-fated life. My long-suffering has been overlooked, my kindness unappreciated, my actions misunderstood.
'Martin, are you, or are you not, going to take advantage of the offer which I made you to take your position in my establishment, give up your country parish, and become a shining light in the metropolis? One would have thought such an opportunity, combining as it would an admirable position in society, not vain and frivolous, but solid and respectable and eminently fitted for a clergyman, with the command of wealth, which would have placed you entirely at your ease, would have been such a one as you would not have hesitated to avail yourself of; and yet weeks, I may say months, have passed since I first broached the subject to you, and I have as yet received no definite reply. I must ask you to let me hear from you at once, Martin, upon this point. I always thought the late Mr. Calverley the most dilatory of men, and I do not wish to see his bad example imitated by my own flesh and blood.
'I suppose that, independently of other considerations, the son of any other woman would have thought of his mother's loneliness, and done his best to console her even under much less agreeable circumstances; but I am fated I know, and I do not repine. One thing, however, I am determined on, and that is, I will not bear this solitude any longer; I must have a companion of some kind; and upon your answer will depend what steps I shall take. By the way, talking of companions, Madame Du Tertre has called here once or twice lately. She seems very comfortable in her new place, and talked a great deal about you. But I have no fear; my son will always know his proper position in society. Write to me at once, Martin; and believe me
'Your affectionate mother,
'JANE CALVERLEY.'
A faint smile played over Martin's lips as he perused two or three portions of this letter, and when he came to its conclusion he laid it aside with a shrug of the shoulder.
'Poor mother,' he muttered, 'she is right so far. I certainly ought to have given her an answer upon that matter long since. I will write to her to-night. Now let's see what Statham has to say.'
'The letter from Statham was that described in a previous chapter. Martin's exclamation on reading it has been already recorded. After a little time he placed both letters in his pocket, clasped his hands behind him, and walked up and down the gravel path.
'I must go to London at once,' he said. 'I will answer this letter in person. Statham would not have written in this way if he had not imagined that there were some danger. This man must be paying Alice no ordinary attention if Humphrey's suspicions are excited. I will go to London at once, and take the opportunity of seeing my mother at the same time.'
The next day Martin Gurwood presented himself in 'Change-alley, and was told by Mr. Collins that Mr. Statham was in, and would see him.
In what he called his dreary solitude in South Audley-street (the landlord being of a different opinion, who was accustomed to mention it as elegant quarters for a nobleman or private gentleman, and to charge three hundred a year for the accommodation), Mr. Henrich Wetter was walking to and fro, just as Martin Gurwood, tired out by his night's journey, was beginning to open his eyes and to realise the fact that he was in the Great Northern Hotel. Now sipping his coffee, now nibbling at his dry toast, while all the time achieving his toilet, Mr. Wetter communed with himself. His thoughts were of a pleasant character no doubt, for there was a smile upon his face, and he occasionally suspended his operations both of breakfasting and dressing, in order to rub his hands softly together in the enjoyment of some exquisite sly joke.
'I think so,' he said, pausing in his walk, leaning his elbows on the velvet mantelpiece of the sitting-room, and regarding himself approvingly in the looking-glass; 'I think the time has come for me to bring this little affair to a crisis; dalliance is very delightful for boys; the bashful glances, the sidelong looks, the tremulous hand-clasps, and all that sort of thing, are very charming in one's youthful days, but as one advances in life one finds that procrastination in such affairs is a grand mistake; either it is to be, or it is not to be; and it is advisable to know one's fate, to "put it to the touch, and win or lose it all," as the poet says, as speedily as possible. I rather think it is to be in this instance. The young lady, who chooses to pass herself off as Mrs. Claxton, is remarkably quiet and demure; I should almost be inclined to characterise her as one of those English bread-and-butter misses, if I had not been acquainted with her antecedents. "Yes," and "No, thank you," and "O, indeed!"--that is about the average style of her conversation; no apparent appreciation of anything spiritual; no smart reply; no oeillade; nothing piquante or provocative about her; compared to a Frenchwoman or a New-York belle, she is positively insipid; and yet she has fascinated me in a way that is quite inexplicable to myself. It is not her beauty; for, though she is undoubtedly pretty in her simple English style, I have known hundreds of more beautiful women. I think the charm must lie in that very want of manner of which I have just been complaining; in her modesty and quiet grace, and in the complete absence of her knowledge of her own powers of attraction; but whatever it may be, it has had an enormous effect upon me, and I believe myself to be more in love with her than I have been for many years with any woman.
'She likes me too I think, if one can judge by the manner of any one so thoroughly undemonstrative. She always makes me welcome when I call at the house, and accepts, passively indeed, but still accepts, such small courtesies as I have thought it right to offer her. A woman like that, accustomed to affection and attention--for I have no doubt old Calverley was very fond of her in his way--must necessarily want something to cling to, and Alice has nothing; for though she is very fond of little Bell, the child is not her own flesh and blood, and here I have the whole field clear to myself; without any fear of rivalry; for I do not count Humphrey Statham as a rival,' continued Mr. Wetter, as a contemptuous smile passed across his face, 'though he is evidently deeply smitten. I can judge that by the manner in which he scowled at me the other evening when he found me comfortably seated there, and by the awkward uncouth manners, mainly consisting of silent glaring, which an Englishman always adopts whenever he wants to ingratiate himself with a woman. No, no, Mr. Humphrey Statham, yours is not the plan to win little Alice's heart. Besides, if I find you making too much play, I could command the services of my dear cousin; I could insist that Madame Du Tertre, my old friend Mademoiselle Pauline Lunelle, should interest herself on my side, and she has evidently immense influence over the little woman.
'I think,' said Mr. Wetter, softly stroking his long fair beard as he surveyed himself in the glass, 'I think I will go up to Pollington-terrace about mid-day to-day; I am looking very well, and feeling bright and in excellent spirits; and as my plan is well conceived and well matured, there is no reason why I should any longer delay putting it into execution. It would be advisable, however,' said he, reflecting, 'that my dear cousin should not be in the house at the moment of my visit; I will send down a note to her begging her to come and see me in the City--a hint which I think she will not dare to disobey; and while she is making her way eastward, I will go over to Pollington-terrace.'
Mr. Wetter came to this determination, and to the conclusion of his dressing and his breakfast simultaneously. He then called a cab, and proceeded to the City, having the satisfaction on his way thither of passing another cab proceeding in the same direction, in the occupant of which he recognised Humphrey Statham. The two gentlemen exchanged salutations; Mr. Wetter's being bland and courteous, Mr. Statham's short and reserved; but Mr. Wetter was very much tickled at the thought of their having met on that particular day, and the smile of satisfaction never left his face until he arrived at his office. Once there, he threw himself into his business with his accustomed energy, for no thought of pleasure passed, or gratification in store, ever caused him to be the least inattentive to the main chance; foreign capitalists and English merchants, flashy promoters of fraudulent companies, and steady-going sober bank directors--men from the West-end, who, filled with the stories of fabulous fortunes made by City speculations, and believing in Henrich Wetter's widespread renown, came to him for advice and assistance; members of parliament and peers of the realm--all of these had interviews with Mr. Wetter during the two hours which he chose that day to devote to business, and all found him clear-headed, and apparently without thought for any other matter than that which each submitted to him. But when the clock on his mantelpiece pointed to the hour of one, there was scarcely any occasion for him to look to it, for the great rush of pattering feet down the court which his window overlooked, and in which a celebrated chop-house was situate, informed him that the clerks' dinner-hour had arrived; and Mr. Wetter rang his bell, and, summoning his private secretary, intimated his intention of striking work for the day. The confidential young gentleman, too well trained to say anything at this unwonted proceeding on his employer's part, found it impossible to prevent his expressing his surprise by an elevation of his eyebrows--a movement which Mr. Wetter did not fail to observe, though he made no comment on it, but he closed his desk, and washed his hands leisurely, chatting to his companion meanwhile; and then effecting his retreat by the private staircase--for it was not advisable that the clerks should see their chief's departure--he stepped into the street, and hailing a cab was driven away to Pollington-terrace.
Mr. Wetter's self-communings while riding in the cab were much of the same kind as those which had occupied him during his morning's toilet. He had directed his driver to take a back route and to avoid the main thoroughfare, lest he should be seen by Pauline on her journey down to the City; and there was comparatively so little traffic along the gaunt streets and in the grim old squares through which he passed, that his attention was not distracted, and the current of his thoughts but little disturbed. He would make his formal declaration that day; he had determined upon that; he should tell Alice that he loved her, that he had in vain struggled against the passion which she had inspired in his breast the first time he accidentally saw her, now some time ago, in the garden at Rose Cottage. She would listen, blush, and probably be moved to tears; she would talk about marriage, of course--that was always the way with women in her position--and he would fence lightly with the subject, giving her no positive assurance either way. Not that the idea of marrying Alice had ever entered into his mind, but that he thought it would be better to avoid the discussion, certainly to avoid the trouble of having to prove to her how impossible it would be for him to take such a step until he had established himself more firmly in her favour. There would be little difficulty in the matter, he thought, though more than if she were a woman of expensive tastes and luxurious habits. That her manner of life, simple and modest as it was, seemed to satisfy her, Mr. Wetter regarded as the most adverse element in the plan of his campaign; but she would naturally desire to be once more the mistress of a pretty house, such as she had inhabited when he first saw her, and to be freed from the companionship and supervision of Madame Du Tertre. To suggest that by accepting his offer she could be released from the enforced company of that lady was, Mr. Wetter thought, a great stroke of generalship.
He alighted from the cab at the corner of the terrace, according to his custom, for his tact told him that the frequent arrival of gentlemen visitors in hansom cabs was likely to scandalise Mrs. Claxton in her neighbours' eyes, and walked quietly up the street. To Mr. Wetter such expeditions were by no means rare, and if any one had told him he would have been nervous, he would have laughed in his informant's face; but, to do him justice, he felt a certain inward trepidation, and, though a cool wintry breeze was blowing, he raised his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow as he stood upon the doorstep after ringing at the bell. He asked for Madame Du Tertre at first, and his surprise and slight annoyance at learning that she was from home were admirably feigned. Then he asked for Mrs. Claxton. The servant recognised him as one of the few regular visitors to the house, as the only one, moreover, who had been in the habit of placing largess in her sooty palm, and as a nice, well-dressed, good-looking gentleman at all times. 'Mrs. Claxton was at home,' she said. 'Would he walk in?'
Mr. Wetter's nervous trepidation increased as he heard the street-door close behind him, and he was glad when he found himself alone in the room to which he was ushered, the servant retiring and promising to let her mistress know of his advent. Examining himself in the glass, he saw that he was paler than usual, and that his nether lip trembled.
'It's a deuced odd thing,' he muttered, 'I never felt like this before. I wish there was a glass of brandy handy. What can there be in this woman to upset a man like myself, so perfectly accustomed to such matters?'
The next moment Alice entered the room. Mr. Wetter had admired her from the first time he set eyes upon her, but thought he had never seen her looking so lovely as now, with her healthy red and white complexion set off by her black dress; her shining head with its crisp ripples of dark brown hair, and her hazel eyes, in which a deep, settled, somewhat mournful look had succeeded to the ever-flashing brightly glances of yore. There was something of an air of constraint about her as she bowed to Mr. Wetter and timidly held out her hand.
'You are surprised to see me, Mrs. Claxton, are you not?' said Wetter, doing his best to conquer the nervousness which still beset him--'to see me at such a time of the day, I mean. I have hitherto availed myself of the privilege of calling upon you in the evening, which, on account of my being a busy man, you were good enough to extend to me; but, having occasion to be in this neighbourhood, I took advantage of the opportunity to inquire after your health.'
Alice murmured something to the effect that she was much obliged to him, but Mr. Wetter's quick eye detected that she too was nervous and uncomfortable. And Mr. Wetter thought that this was not a bad chance.
'I am sorry,' said Alice, after a slight pause, 'that Madame Du Tertre is not within.'
'I am also sorry to miss my cousin,' said Mr. Wetter, 'she is always so spirituelle, so amiable. But, to tell the truth, my visit of to-day was not to her, and even had she been at home, I should have asked to see you.'
'To see me, Mr. Wetter! And why?'
'Because, Mrs. Claxton, I have something to say to you, and to you alone. A woman even of your small experience,' he continued, with the faintest sneer playing round his mouth, 'cannot fail to have observed that you have made upon me more than an ordinary impression; that even during our brief acquaintance you have inspired me with feelings such as we are not often permitted in our lives to experience.'
Alice was silent. As she listened to his first words, as the tone in which he spoke fell upon her ear, the scene then passing seemed to fade away, and there arose before her mind, a vision of the river-walk along the banks of the Ouse, just abreast of Bishopthorpe, where in the calm summer evening Arthur Preston had insulted her with his base proposal. Mr. Wetter augured well from this silence, and proceeded more volubly.
'I have known you longer than you imagine,' he said, 'and have admired you from the first instant I set eyes upon you. I was so captivated that I determined at all hazards to make your acquaintance; and when I had done so, I discovered that you were more charming than ever, that I was more hopelessly enslaved. And then came the fierce desire to win you, to take you all to myself, to hold you as my own, my only love.'
She was silent still, her eyes fixed on vacancy, though her lips trembled. Henrich Wetter bent forward and laid his hand upon her fingers as they twitched nervously in her lap. 'Alice,' he whispered, 'do you hear me?'
The touch roused her at once. 'Yes,' she said, quickly withdrawing her hand from his as though she had been stung, and rising from her chair, 'I do hear what pains and grieves me in the highest degree.'
'Pains and grieves you, Alice--'
'My name is Mrs. Claxton, and I desire you will call me by it. Yes, pains and grieves me, Mr. Wetter,' she continued in a breaking voice, and with a sudden abnegation of her dignity: 'it is cruel in you, it is not like a gentleman to speak to me in this way without the slightest encouragement, and within six months of my husband's death.'
Not like a gentleman! That phrase, quietly spoken as it was, and without any attempt at dramatic emphasis, cut Henrich Wetter to the soul. He was not a gentleman by birth or breeding, by nature, or even by education--and he knew it. His life was one long struggle to deceive on this point those with whom he was brought into contact. He was always suspecting that his position as gentleman was being called in question, and often he would sit with lowering brow and flaming cheek construing the most innocent observations into personal reflections on himself. Not a gentleman! For an instant he winced under the phrase, and then with his blood boiling he determined to be revenged.
He had his voice perfectly under his command as he leant lazily back in his chair and looked up at her.
'Your husband's death!' he echoed. 'Don't you think, Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton, you had better drop all that nonsense with me?'
Alice scarcely understood his words, but there was no mistaking the marked insolence of his tone. 'I--I don't understand you,' she said, in amazement.
'O, yes, you do!' said Mr. Wetter, with the same lazy air. 'I am not Mr. Statham, you know, nor one of your neighbours in the terrace here. I am a man of the world, and understand these matters. Don't talk about dead husbands to me!'
For an instant Alice stood petrified. For an instant a vague idea flashed across her that John might not be dead after all. She had never seen him after death. Could there by any possibility have been a mistake in his identity?
'I don't understand you, Mr. Wetter,' she said, in a low, hurried voice. 'Do you mean to say that my husband, Mr. Claxton, is not dead?'
'I mean to say,' said Wetter, 'what you know very well, that the man with whom you lived in the cottage at Hendon--I saw you there--was not your husband at all.'
Alice bent forward, leaning her hands upon the table, and looking at him for an instant with parted lips and heaving breast. Then she said, 'Not my husband! John Claxton not my husband!'
'John Claxton indeed!' cried Wetter. 'Now, how perfectly ridiculous it is in you to attempt to keep up this nonsense with me! Call the man by his right name--acknowledge him in his proper position!'
She bent nearer to him with her eyes fixed upon his, and said in a low voice, 'Are you mad, or am I?'
In an instant Wetter's intelligence showed him the real state of the case. This woman was not what he had supposed. She believed herself what she professed to be, the widow of a man named Claxton, not the mistress of dead John Calverley. What should he do? His rage was over, his reason had returned, and he was prepared to act in the way which would best serve his purpose. Should he withdraw from the position he had advanced, getting out of it as best he might, or should he point out to her how matters really stood, the fraud of which he had been the victim, involving her degradation and her shame? That would be the better plan, he thought, for the end he had in view. To destroy her worship of John Calverley's memory, to point out to her how low she had fallen, and then to offer himself as her consoler. That was the best game in his power, and he determined to play it.
His manner had lost all its insolence, all its familiarity, as he courteously motioned her to a seat, and said, 'Sit down, madam, and hear me. Either you are wishing to deceive me, or, as I rather believe, you have yourself been made the victim of a gross deception. If the latter be the case, you will require all your nerve to bear what I am going to tell you. The man whom you knew under the name of Claxton, and whom you believed to be your husband, was in reality John Calverley, a married man, married long since to a woman of double your age.'
She did not start, she did not cry. She looked hard at him, and said in a voice that seemed to force itself with difficulty through her compressed lips, 'It is not true! It is a lie!'
'It is true--I swear it!' cried Henrich Wetter. 'I knew Mr. Calverley in business years ago. Some months before his death I saw him walking with you in the garden at Hendon, and recognised him at once. I determined to see you again, but Mr. Calverley's death intervened, and--' He paused as he saw Alice pointing towards the door.
'Go,' she said, 'if you please--leave me at once, I must be left alone.'
Mr. Wetter rose. He had made his coup, and he knew that then at least there was nothing farther to be done. So he took up his hat, made a quiet and respectful bow, and left the room without uttering a word.
Then Alice flung her arms upon the table, and then burying her head between them, gave way to the violence of her grief. What wild exclamations of rage and despair are those which she utters amidst her bursts and sobbings? What reproaches, what maledictions against him now discovered to be the author of her misery?
The only distinguishable words are, 'O, my poor dear John! O, my dear old John!'
Humphrey Statham looked up from his writing in astonishment at the sight of his friend.
'Why, Martin,' he cried, rising and extending his hand, 'this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought I might have a line from you some time during the day, but I never anticipated that the letter which I sent you would have the effect of drawing you from your peaceful retreat, more especially as in your last you spoke so strongly in praise of your tranquil existence as contrasted with the excitement and worry here.'
Martin Gurwood recollected that letter. It was written but a few days previously, when his hopes of winning Alice were at their highest, before this element of discord, this stranger of whose presence Statham had warned him, had come into the field. In his friend's remark, however, Martin found something which instinctively set him on his guard. It would not do, he thought, to let it be seen how acute was his interest in the subject on which Statham had written to him; mere friendship, mere regard for Alice's welfare would have contented itself with some far less active demonstration; and though there was no reason that he knew of for concealing the state of his feelings from his friend, as he had hitherto kept them to himself, he thought it was better not to parade them until some more fitting opportunity.
So with something like a blush, for the smallest prevarication was strange to him, Martin said, 'You must not look upon your spells as so potent, my dear friend; the same post which brought me your letter brought me one from my mother, requesting an immediate decision on a matter which has been for some time in abeyance, and as this rendered it necessary for me to come to town, I took advantage of the opportunity to drop in upon you.'
'I am too pleased to see you to question what has brought you here,' said Humphrey, with a smile, 'and am grateful to Mrs. Calverley for her maternal despotism. And now tell me, what did you think of the news I sent you?'
In spite of the strong effort to the contrary, the flush rose in Martin's cheeks, contrasting ill with the assumed calmness of manner with which he said, 'I received it with great regret.'
'By Jove, Martin, regret is a mild term to express the feeling with which I am inspired in this matter,' said Humphrey Statham vigorously. 'You have seen nothing of what has been going on, nor do I think it likely that with your ignorance of the world and its ways you would have been able to understand it if you had; but I think it desirable that you, whom we have all tacitly placed in the position of Alice's--of Mrs. Claxton's--guardian, should take some immediate action.'
Martin coloured afresh. 'This--this gentleman--' he said.
'Do not misuse a good word,' said Statham, interrupting him. 'Henrich Wetter, the person of whom we are speaking, is by no means a gentleman in any sense of the term. He is a sharp, shrewd, clever knave, always keeping within the limits of the law, but within those limits thoroughly unscrupulous. He is good-looking, too, and wonderfully plausible; a more undesirable visitor for our friend in Pollington-terrace could scarcely be imagined.'
'And yet he is a cousin of Madame Du Tertre's, and came there through her introduction, I thought you said,' remarked Martin.
'Yes,' said Humphrey, with some hesitation; 'that is a part of the business which I don't quite clearly understand, and on which I have my doubts. There is one thing, however, certain; that is, that he is there very frequently, and that it is advisable he should have a hint to discontinue his visits.'
'And by whom is that hint to be given to him?'
'Of course by Mrs. Claxton. But if her ignorance of the ways of the world prevents her from seeing the necessity of taking such a step, that necessity should be made clear by some one who has the right of advising her. In point of fact--by you!'
'It is my ignorance of the ways of the world upon which you were speaking just now,' said Martin, with a half smile.
'And no one could have a finer theme on which to discourse; but in certain matters you are good enough to be guided by me.'
'And you say that--'
'I say,' interrupted Humphrey Statham with vehemence, 'that Mr. Henrich Wetter is the last man who should be on intimate visiting terms at Mrs. Claxton's house. He is known not merely to have, but to boast of a certain unenviable reputation which, notwithstanding his undoubted leading position in the business world, causes him to be shunned socially by those who value the fair fame of their womankind.'
'This is bad hearing, indeed,' said Martin Gurwood nervously.
'Bad hearing,' interrupted Statham, emphasising his remark with outstretched hand, 'for any one to whom Alice is--I mean to say for any one who has Mrs. Claxton's interest at heart, it is, indeed, bad hearing.'
Something in the tone of Humphrey Statham's voice, something in the unusual earnest expression of his face, caused Martin to keep his eyes fixed upon his friend with peculiar intensity. What was the reason of the thrill which passed through him as Humphrey had stumbled at the mention of Alice's name? What revelation, which should sting and overwhelm him, was about to be made by the man whose placid and unruffled nature he had often envied, whose heart he had always regarded as a part of his anatomy which did its work well, which beat warmly for his friends, but otherwise gave him little or no trouble?
Humphrey Statham did not keep him very long in suspense. 'Look here, Martin,' said he, 'if you were to tell the people at Lloyd's, that I, Humphrey Statham, of 'Change-alley, was in some respects a fatalist, they would surely laugh at you, and tell you that fatalism and marine insurance did not go very well together. And yet it is to a certain extent the fact. Your arrival here this morning was no chance work, the spirit which prompted you to answer my appeal in person instead of by letter was--there, don't laugh at me--I felt it directly I saw you enter the room, and determined on my course of action, determined on making a clean breast of it, and telling my old friend what I have for some time now been wearing in my heart of hearts.'
He paused, as though expecting his companion to make some remark; but Martin Gurwood sat silent, merely inclining his head, with his hands nervously clutching at the table before him.
'I hardly know how to tell you, after all,' said Humphrey, with something like a blush on such portions of his cheeks as his beard left uncovered; 'and you do not give a fellow the slightest help. You will think it strange in me, queer odd sort of fish that I am, having lived for so many years--for all my life, as far as you know--a solitary, self-contained, oyster-like existence, to acknowledge that I am as vulnerable as other men. But it is so; and on the principle of there being no fool like an old fool, I imagine that my hurt is deeper and more deadly than in ninety-nine other cases. No need to beat about the bush any longer, Martin; I tell you, as my old friend, that I am in love with Alice Claxton.'
Martin Gurwood started. From the time that Humphrey commenced to hesitate, a strange expression had crept over the face of his friend listening to him; but he was so enwrapped in the exposition of his own feelings that he scarcely noticed it.
'You, Humphrey Statham, in love with Alice Claxton!'
'Yes, I! I, whom every one had supposed to be so absorbed in business as to have no time, no care for what my City friends would doubtless look upon as sentimental nonsense. I knew better than that myself; I knew that my heart had by nature been created capable of feeling love; I knew that from experience, Martin; but I thought that the power of loving had died out, never to come again. I was wrong; it has come again, thank God! Never in my life have I been under the influence of a feeling so deep, so true and tender, as that which I have for Alice Claxton.'
As Humphrey ceased speaking, Mr. Collins put his head into the room, and told his chief that Mr. Brevoort was in his carriage at the end of the court, and desired to see him. In an instant Humphrey resumed his business-like manner.
'Excuse me an instant, Martin; Mr. Brevoort is half paralysed, and cannot leave his carriage, so I must go to him. I shall be back in five minutes; wait here and think over what I have just said to you.--Now, Collins!' And he was gone.
Think over what had just been said to him! Martin Gurwood could do that without a second bidding. The words were ringing in his ears; the sense they conveyed seemed clogging and deadening his brain. Humphrey Statham in love with Alice Claxton--with his Alice--with the woman whom he had come to look upon as his own, and in whose sweet companionship he had fondly hoped to pass the remainder of his life! Her attraction must be great, indeed, if she could win the affections of such a man as Statham--calm, shrewd, and practical, not likely to be influenced merely by a pretty face or an interesting manner. The news came upon Martin like a thunderbolt. In all the long hours which he had devoted to the consideration of his love for Alice--to self-probing and examination--the idea of any rivalry had never entered into his mind. Not that, owing to Alice's secluded life or peculiar position, Martin had imagined himself secure; but the idea had never crossed his mind. She was there, and he loved her; that was all he knew. Something like a pang of jealousy, indeed, he experienced, on reading Humphrey's letter, telling of Mr. Henrich Wetter's visits to Pollington-terrace; but that, though it had the effect of inducing him to start for London, was but a temporary trouble. He had guessed from what Humphrey wrote, he was sure from what Humphrey said, that this Wetter was not the style of man to captivate a woman of Alice's refinement; and he felt that the principal reason for putting a stop to his visits would be the preventing any chance of Alice's being exposed to annoyance or insult.
But what he had just heard placed matters in a very different light. Here was Humphrey Statham avowing his love for Alice; Humphrey, his own familiar friend, whom he had consulted in his trouble when the story of the Claxton mystery was first revealed to shim by Doctor Haughton; Humphrey, who had been the first to see Alice with a view of opening negotiations with her at the time when they so misjudged her real character and position, and who, as Martin well recollected, even then was impressed with her beauty and her modesty, and returned to fight her battles with him. Yes, Humphrey Statham had been her first champion; but that was no reason he should be her last. That gave him no monopoly of right to love and tend her. Was there any baseness, any treachery, Martin wondered, in his still cherishing his own feelings towards Alice, after having heard his friend's confession? Let him think it out then and there; for that was the crowning moment of his life.
He sat there for some minutes, his head bowed, his hands clasped together on his knees. All that he had gone through since he first heard in the drawing-room at Great Walpole-street the true story of John Calverley's death; his first feelings of repulsion and aversion to the woman whom he believed to have been the bane of his mother's life; his colloquies with Statham; his first visit to Hendon; his meeting with Pauline, and their plot for keeping Alice in ignorance of the fact that the funeral had taken place: all this passed through Martin Gurwood's mind during his reverie. Passed through his mind also a recollection of the gradual manner in which he softened to the heartbroken, friendless girl, recognising her as the victim instead of the betrayer, and finding in her qualities which were rare amongst those of her sex who stood foremost and fearless in the approbation of the world. Was the day-dream in which he had of late permitted himself to indulge to vanish in this way? Was he to give up the one great hope of gladdening his life, the mere anticipation of which seemed to have changed the current of his being? No; that was his determination. Humphrey Statham was the best, the truest, the dearest fellow in the world; but this was almost a matter of life and death, in which no question of sentimental friendship should have weight. He would tell Humphrey frankly and squarely what were his own feelings for Alice Claxton, and they would go in then, in rancourless rivalry, each to do his best to win her. And as he arrived at this decision the door opened, and Humphrey Statham returned.
'Well!' he cried, running up in his boisterous way with outstretched hands, 'you have been lost in reflection, I suppose--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy. Not bitter though, I hope; there is no bitterness to you, Martin, in my avowal; nor to any one else, I fancy, for the matter of that, unless it be that precious article, Mr. Wetter.'
'I have been thinking over what you told me, Humphrey; and I was going to--'
'No, no, not yet. I haven't told you half I have to say,' interrupted Statham, pushing his friend back into his chair, and seating himself. 'Of course you're astonished, living the life you do, "celibate as a fly in the heart of an apple," as Jeremy Taylor has it, at any one's falling in love, and at me more than any one else. You think I am not formed for that sort of thing; that I am hard and cold and practical, and that I have been so all my life. You little dream, Martin--for I have never said a word about it, even to you--that some years ago I was so devoted to a woman as to be nearly heartbroken when she abandoned me.'
'Abandoned you!'
'Yes.' He shuddered, and passed his hand across his face. 'I don't like to think about it even now, and should not recur to it if the circumstances had not a connection with Claxton.'
'With Alice!' exclaimed Martin, and bending forward eagerly.
'Yes. I Must tell you the whole story, or you will not understand it; but I will tell it shortly. Some years ago, down in the north, I fell in love with a pretty girl below my own station in life. I pursued the acquaintance, and speedily let her know the state of my feelings towards her; not, as you will readily understand, with any base motives; for I never, thank Heaven, had any desire to play the seducer-- What's the matter, Martin? How white you look! Are you faint?'
'A little faint, thank you; it's quite over now. You were saying--'
'I was saying that I despised the wretchedly-vulgar artifices of the seducer, and that I meant fairly and honourably by this girl. I was not able to marry her immediately, however. I was poor then, and her friends insisted, rightly enough, that I should show I was able to maintain her. I worked hard to that end,' said Humphrey after a short pause; 'but when I went down in triumph to claim her, I found she had fled from Headingly.'
'From where?' cried Martin, starting forward.
'Headingly, near Leeds; that was where she lived. She had fled away from there, no one knew whither. A week before I reached the place she was missed--had vanished, leaving no letter of explanation, no trace of the route she had taken. And I never saw her more.'
'He paused again; but Martin Gurwood spoke not, bending forward still with his eyes fixed upon his friend.
'Poor girl--poor darling girl!' muttered Humphrey, as though communing with himself. 'What an awful fate for one so young and pretty!'
'What fate?' cried Martin Gurwood. 'Where is she now?'
'Dead,' said Humphrey Statham solemnly. 'Found killed by cold and hunger, with her baby on her breast. It seems that my poor Emily, deserted by the scoundrel who had seduced her--may the eternal--'
'Stay!' interrupted Martin Gurwood, wildly throwing up his arms; 'stay! For mercy's sake, do not add your curses to the torture which I have been suffering under for years, and which culminates in this moment!'
'You!' said Humphrey, starting back; 'you! Are you mad?'
'I would to heaven I were! I would to heaven I had been; for I should have had some excuse! The girl you speak of was called Emily Mitchell. I was the man who entrapped her from Headingly; I was the man who ruined her, body and soul!'
Humphrey Statham fell back in his chair; his lips parted, but no sound came from them.
'It is right that you should hear all now,' said Martin in a dull low tone; 'though until this instant I never knew who was the man whom I had wronged so deeply; never, of course, suspected it was you. She told me that there was a gentleman far above her station in life who intended to marry her; but she never mentioned his name. I was on a visit to a college friend when I first saw Emily and fell in love with her. I had no evil intentions then; but the thing went on from bad to worse, until I persuaded her to elope with me. Ah, my God!' he cried wildly, 'bear witness to the one long-protracted torture which my subsequent life has been--to the struggles which I have made to shake off the hypocrisy and deceit under whose dominion I have lived, and to stand confessed as the meanest of Thy creatures! Bear witness to these, and let them plead for me!'
Then he flung himself forward on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. There came a knock at the door. Humphrey Statham, all horror-stricken as he was, rushed forward to prevent any intrusion. But he was too late; the door opened quickly, and Pauline entered the room.
Seeing Martin Gurwood's attitude of despair, and the horror-stricken expression on Humphrey Statham's face, Pauline started back in amazement.
'Is it possible,' she cried, 'that some one has been beforehand with me, that you already know the news which I come to bring? But no, that could not be.'
She addressed herself to Martin, but, after a brief glance at her, he had resumed his former attitude, and it was Statham who replied. 'You find us talking over a matter which has caused great surprise and pain to both of us, but it is not one,' he added quickly, seeing her start, 'in which, Madame Du Tertre, you could be interested, or of which, indeed, you could have any knowledge. From what you say you would appear to have some communication to make to us--does it concern Mrs. Claxton?'
'It does, indeed,' cried Pauline, with a deep sigh, and more than ever disconcerted at a glimpse of Martin Gurwood's tear-blurred face, which he lifted up as he heard her words; 'it does, indeed.'
Martin did not say a word, but kept his eyes upon her with a hard stony gaze. But Humphrey Statham cried out:
'For God's sake, woman, speak, and do not keep us longer in suspense! Is Alice ill--has anything happened to her?'
'What has happened to her you will be able to guess, when you read this slip of paper which, on my return from a false errand on which I had been lured, I found in an envelope addressed to me.'
She handed him a note as she spoke. Humphrey Statham took it, and read the following words in Alice's handwriting:
'I have found you and your accomplices out! I know my exact position now, and can guess why I was prevented from seeing John after his death!'
'Good heavens, what can this mean?' cried Martin Gurwood, after Statham had read aloud the words of the note.
'Mean!' said Statham. 'There is one portion of it, at all events, which is sufficiently intelligible. "I know my exact position now;" she has learned what we have been so long endeavouring to hide from her! She knows the exact relation in which she stood with Mr. Calverley.'
'Merciful powers, do you think so?' cried Martin.
'What other meaning could that phrase convey?' said Humphrey Statham. 'I myself have no doubt of it, and I think Madame Du Tertre is of my opinion; are you not, madame?'
'I am, indeed,' said Pauline.
'But where can Alice have learned the secret?' said Martin; 'who can have told it to her?'
'I have no doubt on that point either,' said Pauline; 'it must have been told to her by Mr. Wetter.'
'Wetter!' cried Martin and Humphrey both at the same time.
'Mr. Henrich Wetter,' repeated Pauline. 'It was he who beguiled me into the City upon a false pretence, and on my return home I learned from the servant that he had been at the house during my absence, and had a long interview with her mistress. Then I recognised at once that I had been gotten out of the way for this very purpose.'
'Your suspicions of this man seem to have been just,' said Martin, turning to Humphrey Statham, and speaking slowly, 'though they did not point in that direction.'
'Yes, as I told you before, I knew him to be a bad fellow, and a particularly undesirable acquaintance for Mrs. Claxton,' said Statham. 'But I confess, Madame Du Tertre, that I do not yet see why you should fix upon Mr. Wetter as the guilty person in the present instance, independently, that is to say, of the fact that he was with Mrs. Claxton in the interval between your leaving home and your return, during which she seems to have acquired this information. I should not have thought that Wetter could have known anything about the Calverley and Claxton mystery.'
'He knows everything that he wants to know,' cried Pauline with energy; 'He is a fiend, a clever merciless fiend. If it were his interest--and it was, as I happen to know--to make himself acquainted with Alice's history, he would learn it at whatever cost of money, patience, and trouble! It is he that has done this and no one else, be sure of that.'
'We must allow then, I suppose,' said Humphrey Statham, referring to the paper which he still held in his hand, 'that the discovery which Mrs. Claxton claims to have made is that of her relations with Mr. Calverley, and it seems likely that she gained the information from Mr. Wetter, who gave it her for his own purpose. I take only a subordinate part in the matter, Martin, as your friend, but it strikes me that it is for you, as Alice's guardian, to ask Madame Du Tertre, who has evidently a bad opinion--worse than mine almost--of Mr. Wetter, why, having that opinion, she introduced this man to Alice, and suffered him to become intimate at Pollington-terrace.'
'Why did you do this?' cried Martin, turning almost fiercely upon her. 'You say yourself that this is a bad man, and that nothing will stop him when his mind is once made up to the commission no matter of what crime, and yet you bring him to the house and present him to this girl, whom it was so necessary to shield and protect.'
He spoke so wrathfully that Statham looked up in surprise at his friend, and then glancing with pity at the shrinking figure of Pauline, said, in mitigation:
'You must recollect that Mr. Wetter discovered Madame Du Tertre's address by accident, and that he was her cousin!'
'He is not my cousin,' said Pauline, in a low subdued voice, gazing at Martin with tearful eyes, 'I deceived you in that statement, as in many others about Mr. Wetter, and about myself.'
'Not your cousin!' said Martin; 'why, then, did you represent him to be so?'
'Because he insisted on it,' said Pauline, gesticulating freely; 'because he had a certain hold over me which I could not shake off, and which he would have exercised to my detriment if I had not implicitly obeyed him.'
'But how could he have done anything to your detriment so far as we were concerned?' asked Martin.
'Very easily,' replied Pauline. 'It was my earnest desire for--for several reasons to live in the house with Alice as her companion. And Mr. Wetter would have prevented that.'
'How could he have done so?'
'By exercising the influence which he possessed, and which lay in his acquaintance with a portion of my early life. He would have told you what he knew of me, and you would not have suffered me to remain with Alice.'
'You mean to say--' cried Martin, with a certain shrinking.
'O, don't mistake me,' she interrupted; 'I was never wicked, as you seem to imagine; only the manner of my bringing-up, and the associations of my youth were such that, if you had known them, you might not have thought me a desirable companion for your friend.'
'Let me ask you one question, Madame Du Tertre,' said Humphrey Statham. 'Up to this crisis you have undoubtedly discharged your duties with fidelity, and proved yourself to be Alice Claxton's warm and excellent friend. But what first induced you to seek for that post of companion--what made you desire to ally yourself so closely with this young woman?'
'What first influenced me to seek her out?' said Pauline; 'not love for her, you may be assured of that. When first I saw this girl who has played such a part in my life, her head was resting on the shoulder of a man who, in bidding her adieu, bent down to kiss her upturned face, down which the tears were rolling. And that man was my husband.'
'Your husband!' cried Martin.
'My husband. I knew not who the girl was; I had never seen her before; I had never heard of the existence of any one between whom and my husband there could properly exist such familiarity, and I at once jumped to the conclusion that he was her lover, and I hated her accordingly.'
'But you have satisfied yourself that that was not the case,' asked Humphrey Statham hurriedly.
'O, yes,' said Pauline; 'but not until a long time after I first saw them together, not until, so far as one of them was concerned, any feeling of mine was useless. I determined that if ever I saw this woman again I would be revenged upon her! Fortune stood my friend; I did see her; I became acquainted with the mystery of her story, and thus supplied myself with a weapon which could at any time be made fatal to her; I won your confidence,' turning to Martin, 'and made myself necessary to you all, and then, and not till then, did I discover how ill-founded and unjust had been my suspicions; not till then did I learn, by the merest accident, that Alice, instead of having been the mistress of my husband, who was dead by that time, was his sister.'
'Alice your husband's sister?' cried Martin Gurwood in amazement. 'And you were not aware of that fact until animated by false suspicions you had laid yourself out for revenge upon her?'
'Not until I had gained your confidence,' said Pauline, 'or at least taken the first steps towards gaining it. Not until that night at Hendon, when I was left alone with her, and when, while she was under the influence of the narcotic, I looked through her papers--you see I am speaking frankly now, and am desirous of hiding nothing, however much to my own disadvantage it may be--and discovered her relationship to my dead husband.'
'Who was your husband?' said Martin Gurwood in a softened voice.
'It is not likely that you ever heard of him,' replied Pauline. 'His name was Durham. In his last days he had some connection with the house of Calverley and Co., being sent out as an agent to represent them in Ceylon.'
'Durham!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'Surely I have some recollection of that name. Yes; I remember it all now. He was the man who mysteriously disappeared from on board one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's ships, and who was supposed to have fallen overboard and been drowned on his passage out.'
'The same,' said Pauline; 'he was my husband.'
'Durham!' cried Statham. 'What was his Christian name?'
'Thomas. All his friends knew him as Tom Durham.
'Tom Durham; I knew him well--at one time intimately; but I had no idea that he was married, much less that you were his wife. I recollect now reading the paragraph about his supposed drowning the last time I left London on my holiday.'
'You knew Tom Durham well?' cried Pauline, clasping her hands. 'Mon Dieu, I see it all! You are the H. S., whose letter I have here!'
As she spoke she took a pocket-book from the bosom of her dress, and from it extracted a paper, which she handed to Statham.
'That is my handwriting, surely,' said Humphrey, running his eyes over the document. 'In it I acknowledge the receipt of a packet which I promised to take care of, and declare I will not give it up save to Tom himself, or to some person duly accredited by him. The packet is in that iron safe, where it has remained ever since.'
'What do you imagine it contains?' asked Martin.
'I have not the remotest idea,' replied his friend. 'As you will see, by a perusal of this paper, Tom Durham offered to inform me, but I declined to receive his confidence, partly because I thought my ignorance might be of service to him, partly to prevent myself being compromised.'
'Do you think it could have any bearing upon Alice?' asked Pauline.
'If I thought so, I should not hesitate for an instant to place it in your hands. Whatever may have been the motive by which you were actuated at first, you have been a sure and steady friend to that poor girl, and I have perfect reliance on you.'
'This poor man, Durham, will now never come to claim the packet himself,' said Martin Gurwood, 'and his widow is plainly his nearest representative. If there be anything in it which concerns Mrs. Claxton, we should never forgive ourselves for not having taken advantage of the information which it may contain.'
'You think, then, perhaps on the whole I should be justified in handing it to Madame Du-- I mean to this lady,' said Statham.
'Certainly, I think so.'
'So be it,' said Statham, walking round to the desk at which Martin was seated, and taking from the top drawer a key, with which he proceeded to unlock the iron safe; 'there it is,' he added, 'duly marked "Akhbar K," and exactly in the same condition as when I received it from poor Tom's messenger.'
And with these words he placed a packet in Pauline's hands.
She broke the seals, and the outside cover fell to the ground. Its contents were two sheets of paper, one closely written.
'There is nothing but this,' she said, looking though it; then turning to Mr. Statham, 'it will be as well, perhaps,' she said, 'if you were to read it aloud.'
Humphrey took the paper from her hand and read as follows:
'My dear Humphrey Statham,--Within a week after this reaches you I shall have left England for what may possibly prove a very long absence; and although I am pretty well accustomed to a roving life, and have been so busy, that I have never had time to be superstitious, I, for the first time, feel a desire to leave my affairs as much in order as possible, and to put as good a polish on my name as that name will bear.
'After all, however, I do not see that I need inflict a true and particular history of my life and adventures upon a man so busied as yourself. It would not be very edifying reading, my dear Statham, nor do I imagine that being mixed up in any way with my affairs would be likely to do you much good with the governor of the Bank of England or the directors of Lloyd's. I scarcely know how you, a steady, prosperous man of business, ever managed to continue your friendship with a harum-scarum fellow like myself! It was all very well in the early days when we were lads together, and you were madly in love with that Leeds milliner-girl'--Humphrey Statham's voice changed as he read the passage--'but now you are settled and respectable, and I am as great a ne'er-do-weel as ever.
'Not quite so great, perhaps, you will think, when you see that I am going to try to make amends for one wrong which I have done. I shall not bother you with anything else, my dear Statham; but I will leave this one matter in your hands, and I am sure that if any question about it ever arises, you will look to it and see it put straight for the sake of our old friendship, and don't break down or give it up because I seem to come out rather rough at the first, dear old man. Read it through, and stand by me.
'You do not know--nor any one else scarcely, for the matter of that--that I have a half-sister, the sweetest, prettiest, dearest, and most innocent little creature that ever shed sunshine on a household. She didn't shed it long on ours though; for as soon as she was old enough, she was sent away to earn her own living, which she did by becoming governess in a Quaker's family at York. I was fond of her--very fond in my odd way--but I never saw much of her, as I was always rambling about; and when, after a return from an absence of many months, I heard that Alice was married to an elderly man named Claxton, who was well off, and lived in comfort near London, I thought it was a good job for her, and troubled myself but little more about the matter.
'But one day, no matter how, my suspicions were aroused. I made inquiries, and--to cut the matter short--I discovered that the respectable Mr. Claxton, to whom I had heard Alice was married, was a City merchant, whose real name was Calverley, and who had already a wife. I never doubted Alice for a moment; I knew the girl too well for that. I felt certain this old scoundrel had deceived her, and, as they say in the States, "I went for him."
'There's no use denying it, Humphrey, I acted like a mean hound; but what was I to do? I was always so infernally hard up. I brought the old boy to his bearings, and made him confess that he had acted a ruffian's part. And then I ought to have killed him, I suppose. But I didn't. He pointed out to me that Alice was in perfect ignorance of her real position, that to be informed of it would probably be her death. And then--he is a tremendously knowing old bird--he made certain suggestions about improving my financial position and getting me regular employment, and giving me a certain sum of money down, so that somehow I listened to him more quietly than I was at first disposed to do. Not that I wasn't excessively indignant on Alice's account. Don't make any mistake about that. I told old Calverley that he had done her a wrong which must be set right, so far as lay in his power; and I made him write out a paper at my dictation and sign it in full, with his head-clerk as witness to the signature. Of course the clerk did not know the contents of the document, but he saw his master sign it, and put his own name as witness. This was done two-days ago, just at the time when they had been writing a lot of letters in the office about my taking up their agency in Ceylon, and no doubt he thought it had something to do with that. I shall enclose that paper in this letter, and you can use it in case of need. Not that I think old Calverley will go away from his word; in the first place, because, notwithstanding this rascally trick he has played poor Alice, he seems a decent kind of fellow; and in the next, because he would be afraid to, so long as I am to the fore. But something might happen to him or to me, and then the paper would be useful.
'Here is the whole story, Humphrey, confided to your common sense and judgment, to act with as you think best, by
'Your old friend,
'TOM DURHAM.'
'Something has happened to both of them,' said Humphrey Statham, solemnly, picking up the paper which had fluttered to the ground. 'Now let us look at the enclosure:
'I, John Calverley, merchant, of Mincing-lane and Great Walpole-street, do hereby freely confess that having made the acquaintance of Alice Durham, to whom I represented myself as a bachelor of the name of Claxton, I married the said Alice Durham at the church of Saint Nicholas, at Ousegate, in the city of York, I being, at the same time, a married man; and having a wife then, and now, living. And I solemnly swear, and hereby set forth, that the said Alice Durham, now known as Alice Claxton, was deceived by me, had no knowledge of my former marriage, or of my name being other than that which I gave her, but fully and firmly believes herself to be my true and lawful wife.
'This I swear,
'JOHN CALVERLEY.
'Witness, 'THOMAS JEFFREYS,
'Head Clerk to Messrs. Calverley and Co.'
'That appears to me decisive as an assertion of Alice's innocence,' said Martin Gurwood, looking round as Humphrey finished reading.
'To most persons it would be so,' said Statham; 'but Mrs. Calverley, with whom we chiefly have to deal, is not of the ordinary stamp. It will be advisable, however, I think, that we should see her at once, taking this document with us. If Madame Du--if Mrs. Durham's suspicions of Mr. Wetter are well founded, he will not have uttered his bark without being prepared to bite, and it is probably to Mrs. Calverley that he will first address himself.'
'Do you wish me to accompany you?' asked Pauline.
'No,' said Statham, 'I think you had better return home.'
'I think so, too,' said Martin; 'your sister may be expecting you.'
Her sister! In her broken condition it was some small comfort to Pauline to hear the acknowledgement of that connection from Martin's lips.