In the house in Great Walpole-street there was little change. Things went on in pretty much the same manner as when John Calverley was in the habit of creeping back to his dismal home with sorrow in his heart, or when Pauline sat watching and plotting in the solitude of her chamber. Since her second husband's death Mrs. Calverley seemed to have eschewed even the small amount of society which she had previously kept; the heavy dinner-parties were given up, and the only signs of so-called social intercourse were the fortnightly meetings of a Dorcas Club which was held under Mrs. Calverley's auspices, and at which several elderly ladies of the neighbourhood discussed tea and scandal under the pretence of administering to the necessities of the poor. At other times, the mistress of the house led a life which was eminently solitary and self-contained. She read occasionally, it is true; but when she called at the circulating library, she brought away with her, for her amusement or edification, no story in which, under the guise of fiction, the writer had endeavoured to portray any of the varieties of shifting human nature which had come beneath his ken; no poem glowing with passion and ardour, or sweetly musical with melodious numbers. Hard, strong books of travel through districts with immense unpronounceable names; tales of missionary enterprise set forth in the coldest, baldest, and least-educated style, relieved with frequent interpolations of theological phraseology; reviews which had once been potential, but whose feeble echoes Of former trumpet fanfarons now fell idly on inattentive ears; polemical discussions on religious questions, and priestly biographies--lives of small men, containing no proper precept, setting no worthy example--these were Mrs. Calverley's favourite reading. The butler declared that she read nothing at all; that though these books were brought from Mudie's on the back seat of the carriage, and were afterwards displayed on the drawing-room table, one at a time occupying the post of honour on his mistress's lap, she never so much as glanced at them, but sat staring with her steely blue eyes straight in front of her; a state of things which, rigorously persisted in, afflicted the butler, on his own statement, with a disease known to him as 'the creeps,' and which was considered generally so uncanny throughout the lower regions, that had not the wages been good and the table liberal, the whole household would have departed in a body.
About four o'clock on a dull afternoon in the very early spring, Mrs. Calverley was seated in her drawing-room in that semi-comatose state which inspired her domestics with so much terror. Some excuse, however, was to be made for her not attempting, on the present occasion, to read the book which lay idly in her lap, the time being 'between the lights,' as the phrase goes, when the gathering gloom of light, aided by the ever-present thickness of the London atmosphere, blots out the sun's departing rays before the time recorded in the almanac. It was very seldom, indeed, that Mrs. Calverley suffered her thoughts to dwell upon any incident of her immediately passed life. On what had happened during her girlhood, when she was the spoiled and petted heiress, on certain episodes in the career of jolly George Gurwood, her first husband, in which she had borne a conspicuous part, she was in the habit of bestowing occasional remembrances; but all that concerned her later life she wilfully and deliberately shut out from her mind. And this not from any sting of conscience, for Mrs. Calverley considered herself far too immaculate to be open to any such vulgar, consideration, but, as she said to herself, because everything of that kind was too near to allow her to form an impartial judgment upon it. It chanced, however, that upon this particular day, the deceased John Calverley had been frequently present to his widow's recollection. There was nothing extraordinary in this; it arose from the fact that that very morning, in looking through the contents of an old trunk which had long since been consigned to the lumber-room, Mrs. Calverley had come upon an old fly-blown water-colour drawing of a youth with a falling linen collar, a round jacket, and white-duck trousers, a drawing which bore some faint general resemblance to John even as she remembered him. Pondering over this work of art in a dreamy fashion, Mrs. Calverley found herself wondering whether her late husband's mental condition in youth had been as frank and ingenuous as that to be gathered from his physical portrait; and, secondly, whether she had not either faultily misapprehended or wilfully misconstrued that mental and moral condition even during the time that she had been acquainted with him. Two or three times later in the day her mind had wandered to the same topic, and now, as she sat in the dull drawing-room in the failing light, her thoughts were full on him. It was pleasant, she remembered, though she had not thought so at the time, to be looking forward in expectation of his return home at a certain hour; pleasant to know that he would probably be detained beyond the appointed time, thereby giving her opportunity for complaint; pleasant to have some one to vent her annoyance upon who would feel it so keenly, and reply to it so little. She had not hitherto looked at her loss from this point of view, and she was much struck by the novelty of it; though she had never had any opinion of Mr. Calverley, she was willing to admit that he was not absolutely bad-hearted; nay, there were times when--
Her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, who announced that a young lady was below desiring to speak to Mrs. Calverley.
'A lady! What kind of a lady?'
'A--a widow, mum,' replied the butler, pointing in an imbecile way, first at Mrs. Calverley's cap, and then at his own head.
'Ah,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a deep groan, and shaking her head to and fro--for she never missed an opportunity of making capital out of her condition before the servants--'one who has known grief; eh, James? And she wants to see me?'
'Asked first if you lived here, mum, and then was very particular in wishing to see you. A pleasant-spoken young woman, mum, and not like any begging-letter impostor, or coves--or people I mean--of that sort.'
'You can light the gas, James, and then show the lady up. No, stay; show her up at once, and do not light the gas until I ring.'
Since she had known Madame Du Tertre, Mrs. Calverley had taken some interest in her own personal appearance, and not having seen her toilet-glass since the morning, she had an idea that she might have become somewhat-dishevelled.
The butler left the room, and presently returned, ushering in a lady who, so far as Mrs. Calverley could make out in the uncertain light, was young, of middle height, and dressed in deep mourning.
The mistress of the mansion motioned her visitor to a seat, and making a stiff bow said:
'You wish to speak to me, I believe?'
'I wish to speak with Mrs. Calverley.'
'I am Mrs. Calverley. What is your business?'
'Your--your husband died recently?'
'About six months ago. How very curious! What is your object in asking these questions?'
'Bear with me, pray! Do not think me odd; only answer me what I ask you--my reasons for wishing you to do so are so urgent.'
'The lady's voice was agitated, her manner eager and unusual. Mrs. Calverley did not quite know what to make of her visitor. She might be a maniac, but then why her interest in the deceased Mr. Calverley? Another, and to her idea, a much more likely explanation of that mystery arose in Mrs. Calverley's mind. Who was this hussy who was so inquisitive about other women's husbands? She should like to see what the bold-faced thing looked like. And she promptly rang the bell to summon James to light the gas.
'You will answer me--will you not?' said the pleading voice.
'It depends upon what you ask,' replied Mrs. Calverley with a smile.
'Tell me then--Mr. Calverley--your husband--was he very fond of you?'
The few scattered bristles which did duty as Mrs. Calverley's eyebrows rose half an inch nearer her forehead with astonishment.
'Yes,' she replied after a moment's reflection; 'of course he was--devoted.'
Something like a groan escaped from the stranger.
'And you--you loved him?'
'Very much in the same way,' said Mrs. Calverley, feeling herself for the first time in her life imbued with a certain amount of grim humour--'quite devoted to him.'
'Yes,' said the visitor sadly, 'that I can fully understand. Did you ever see or hear of his partner, Mr. Claxton?'
'I never saw him,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'I've heard of him often enough, oftener than I like. It was he that persuaded Mr. Calverley to going into that speculation about those iron-works which Mr. Jeffreys can make nothing of. But he wasn't a partner in the house; there are no partners in the house--only some one that Mr. Calverley knew in the City, and probably a designing swindler, for Mr. Calverley was a weak man, and this Claxton--'
'Mr. Claxton was the best man that ever walked this earth!' cried Alice, breaking forth, 'the kindest, the dearest, and the best.'
'Heyday!' cried Mrs. Calverley with a snort of defiance. 'And who may you be, who knows so much about Mr. Claxton, and who wants to know so much about Mr. Calverley?'
'That is right, James,' she added, 'light the gas;' and then she said in a lower tone, 'I shall be better able to judge the kind of visitor I have.'
'The gas was lighted and the servant left the room; Mrs. Calverley rose stiffly from her chair and advanced towards Alice, who remained seated.
'What is this,' she said in a strong voice, 'and who are you? coming here tricked out in these weeds to make inquiries, and to utter sentiments at which modest women would blush. Who are you, I say?'
But while Mrs. Calverley had been speaking Alice had looked up, and her eyes had fallen upon a picture hanging against the wall. A big crayon head of John, her own old John, jut as she had known him, with the large bright eyes, the heavy thoughtful brow, and the lines round the mouth somewhat deeply graven. For an instant she bent her head before the picture, the next, with the tears welling up into her eyes, and in a low soft voice, without the slightest exaggeration in tone or manner, she said:
'You ask me who I am, and I will tell you!' Then pointing up to the portrait, 'I am that man's widow!'
'What!' screamed Mrs. Calverley. 'Do you know who that was?'
'No,' said Alice, 'except that he was my husband.'
'Why, woman!' exclaimed the outraged mistress of the house, in a torrent of rage, 'that was Mr. Calverley!'
'I know nothing,' said Alice, 'save that in the sight of Heaven he was my husband. Call him by what name you will, he had neither lot nor part with you. You tell me that he loved you, was devoted to you--it is a lie! You talk of your love for him, and that may be indeed, for he was meant to be loved! But he was mine, all mine--ah, my dear John! ah, my darling old John!'
She broke down utterly here, and fell on her knees before the picture, in a flood of tears.
'Well, upon my word,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'this is a little too much! No one who knows me would imagine for a minute that I should condescend to quarrel about Mr. Calverley with any trolloping miss who chooses to come here! And no one who knew Mr. Calverley, selfish and neglectful as he was, and without the least consideration for me, would suspect him of being such a Bluebeard or a Mormon as you endeavour to make him out! How dare you come here with a tale like this! How dare you present yourself before me with your brazen face and your well-prepared story, unless it is, as I suppose, to induce me to give you hush-money to stop your mouth. Do you imagine for an instant that I am to be taken in by such a ridiculous plot? Do you imagine for an instant that--'
She stopped, for there was a sound of voices outside, and the next moment the door opened and Martin Gurwood, closely followed by Humphrey Statham, entered the room.
Mrs. Calverley dropped the arm which she had extended in monition, and Alice ran to place herself by Martin Gurwood's side.
'Save me from her!' she cried, shrinking on his arm. 'Save me from this woman!'
'Do not be afraid,' said Martin, endeavouring to calm her. 'We thought to find you here, but hoped to be in time to prevent your suffering any annoyance. Mother,' he added, turning to Mrs. Calverley, 'there is some mistake here.'
'There must be some mistake, indeed,' observed Mrs. Calverley, with great asperity, 'when I find my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, taking part against his mother with a woman who, take the most charitable view of it, is only fitted for Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum.'
'Not to take part against you, mother? Surely--'
'Well, I don't know what you call it,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'or whether you consider it quite decorous to keep your arm round that young person before your mother's face! Or whether'--here the worthy lady gave a short nod towards Statham--'gentlemen with whom I have but slight personal acquaintance think themselves justified in coming into my house uninvited! I am an old-fashioned person, and I daresay don't understand these matters, but in my time they would not have been tolerated.'
'See, dear mother,' said Martin quietly, 'you do us all, and more especially this lady, great injustice!'
'O, very likely,' said Mrs. Calverley, sarcastically; 'very likely she is right and I am wrong! She has just told me that she was Mr. Calverley's wife, and no doubt you will bear out that that is correct, and that I have been dreaming for the last twelve years.'
'If you will permit me to speak, madam,' said Humphrey Statham in his deep tones, 'I think I can prove to you that this lady has, or imagines she has, grounds for the statement which she has made, and that while you have been deeply injured, her injuries are worse, and more serious than yours.'
'You will hear Mr. Statham, if you please, mother,' said Martin Gurwood; 'I am here to attest the truth of all that he will say.'
And then, with homely natural eloquence springing from the depth of his feeling, Humphrey Statham told, in nervous unadorned language, the story of the betrayal of the woman whom he loved. On the dead man's perfidy he dwelt as lightly as he could, more lightly still on the probable causes which had induced the dead man to waver in his faith, and to desert the home which had been rendered so unattractive to him; but he spoke earnestly and manfully of the irremediable wrong done to Alice, and of the manner in which her life had been sacrificed; and, finally, he produced the document in John Calverley's handwriting, which had just been discovered, to show how completely she had been made the victim of a fraud.
Sitting bolt upright on her chair, and slowly rubbing her withered hands one over the other, Mrs. Calverley listened to Statham's speech. When he stopped she bridled up and said with asperity,
'A very pretty story indeed; very well concocted and arranged between you all. Of course, I may believe as much of it as I choose! There's no law, I imagine, to compel me to swallow it whole, even though my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, sits by and nods his head in confirmation of his friend. And don't imagine, please, that I am at all surprised at what I hear about Mr. Calverley! I hear it now for the first time, but I always imagined him to be a bad and wicked man, given up to selfishness and debauchery, and quite without the power of appreciating the blessings of a well-ordered home. The young woman needn't start! I am not going to demean myself by engaging in any controversy with her, and wish rather to ignore her presence. But I will say,' said Mrs. Calverley, drawing herself up, 'but I will say that I had not expected to find that my son was sanctioning these proceedings, and conniving at the disgrace which was being heaped upon me.'
'Mother!' cried Martin Gurwood, appealingly.
'It might,' continued Mrs. Calverley, with great placidity, 'it might have been imagined that, as my son, and leaving out all question of his clerical position, he would have adopted another course, but such do not appear to have been his views. Let me tell him,' she cried, turning upon Martin with sudden fierceness, 'that henceforward he is no son of mine That I renounce him and leave him to shift for himself; he has no longer any expectations from me! On certain conditions I promised to share all with him now, and leave him my sole heir at my death. But I revoke what I said; I am mistress of my own fortune, and will continue to be so. Not one penny of it shall go to him.'
'You are, of course, at liberty to do what you like with your fortune, mother,' said Martin quietly, 'and it would never occur to me for an instant--'
'Stay!' interrupted Statham, taking his friend by the arm and pointing to Alice; 'there is no use in prolonging this painful discussion, and Mrs. Claxton is completely exhausted.'
'You are right,' said Martin, rising from his seat, 'we have been somewhat thoughtless in thus overtaxing her strength, and will take her home at once.' Then advancing, he said, in a low tone, 'Mother, will you see me to-morrow?'
'Mr. Martin Gurwood,' said Mrs. Calverley, in a clear cold voice, 'with my own free will I will never look upon you again! And though the name that I bear is that of one who was a scoundrel, I am glad that it is not the name which is disgraced by you!'
And thus those two parted.
When they reached the street, Humphrey Statham stopped short, and turning to Martin, said, 'You had better see Mrs. Claxton to her home. The excitement of the day has been too much for her, and the sooner she is under the fostering care of Madame Du Tertre--it seems impossible for me to call her by any other name--the less chance there will be of her suffering any ill-effects.'
'Will you not go with us?' asked Martin, looking directly at his friend for the first time since the dread explanation concerning Emily Mitchell had passed between them, and still speaking with nervous trepidation; 'will you not go with us?'
'No,' replied Humphrey, 'not now; there is something which I think ought to be done, and I am the proper person to do it.'
'His manner was so odd that both Alice and Martin were struck by it at once, and the latter, taking Humphrey by the arm, drew him aside for a moment and said,
'I have an idea of what now fills your mind, and of the errand on which you are going. You will not suffer yourself to run into any danger?'
'Danger!'
'I repeat the word--danger! Life has a new happiness in store for you now, Humphrey Statham, and should consequently be more precious than you have ever yet considered it.'
His voice had regained its usual clear tone, and as he spoke he looked frankly in his friend's eyes. In the gaze which met his own, Martin saw that the deadly wrong which he had unwittingly wrought upon his companion was forgiven, and had he doubted it, the grasp with which his hand was seized would have been sufficient proof.
'Don't fear for me, old friend,' said Humphrey, his face glowing with delight at the idea which Martin's words had aroused; 'depend upon it I will run no risks, and neither by word or act give a chance by which I or others could be compromised. But it is necessary that a word of warning should be spoken in a certain quarter, with energy and promptitude. So for the present farewell.'
He turned to Alice as he finished speaking, and raising his hat was about to move away. But she put out her hand to him, and said, with pretty becoming hesitation, 'I cannot thank you as I ought, Mr. Statham, for the manner in which you have just pleaded my cause with--with that lady, any more than I can show my gratitude for the constant kindness I have met with at your hands.'
Humphrey Statham attempted to make a reply, but gave utterance to nothing. The words failed him, and for the first time in his life perhaps he was fairly nonplused. As the sweet young voice rang on his ear, as he felt the pressure of the warm soft hand, a strange vibration ran through him, and he knew himself on the point of giving way to an exhibition of feeling, the possibility of which a few months previously he would have laughed to scorn. So with a bow and a smile he turned on his heel and hurried rapidly away.
Martin watched his friend's departing figure for a moment, then with a half-sigh he said to his companion, 'I am glad that you spoke your thanks to Humphrey so warmly, Alice; for he has been your truest and best friend.'
'Rather say one of them,' said Alice, laying her hand lightly on his arm; 'you take no credit to yourself, Mr. Gurwood.'
The colour had faded from his cheeks and from his compressed lips ere he replied coldly, 'I take as much as is my due. Now let me call a cab and take you home, for on our way there I have something more to say to you.'
'Something more,' she cried, with a frightened air. 'O, Mr. Gurwood, nothing more dreadful, I hope; nothing that--'
'Do you imagine for an instant that I would put you to unnecessary suffering,' he said, almost tenderly, looking down into her pleading upturned eyes; 'that I, or any of us, would not shield you from any possible annoyance. No, what I have to say to you will, I think, be rather pleasant to you than otherwise. Here is the cab; I will tell you as we go along.'
When they were seated in the vehicle, Martin said to his companion, 'You have now, Alice, had Madame Du Tertre for your friend quite long enough to judge of her disposition, and to know whether the desire to serve your interests which she originally professed was dictated by a spirit of regard for you, or merely assumed to serve her own purposes.'
'There can be no question in the matter,' said Alice, almost indignantly; 'nothing can exceed the devotion which Pauline has exhibited to me ever since we came together. She is infinitely more like an elder sister to me than a person whose acquaintance I seem to have made by the merest chance.'
'There is often more than chance in these matters,' said Martin gravely; 'more than there seems to be in the chance use of a word. You have said that Pauline has seemed to you as an elder sister--suppose she really stood to you in that position?
'That could scarcely be,' said Alice; 'for years and years I had no relation but my poor brother, and since his death--'
'Since his death Providence has sent some one to fill his place much more efficiently than he ever filled it himself; so far as you are concerned, my poor child,' said Martin.
And then he told her what had occurred between them and Pauline at Statham's office, omitting, of course, all reference to the jealous feelings by which the Frenchwoman had at first been actuated, and dwelling upon the self-sacrifice and devotion with which she had espoused her kinswoman's cause.
Alice was much touched at this narrative, and when they reached home she embraced Pauline with such tenderness, that the latter knew at once that her story had been told; knew too, that Martin had been silent about the incidents of her early life and the reasons which had originally prompted her to throw herself in Alice's way, and was proportionately grateful to him.
Late that night, when they were together, Alice lying in her bed and Pauline sitting by her side, the two women had a long, earnest, and affectionate talk, in the course of which the strange events which the day had brought to light came under discussion. It was evident to Pauline that Alice had braced herself up to talk of her own position, and of the deception of which she had been the victim; but the Frenchwoman saw that her companion was in no condition to bear the excitement which such a topic would necessarily evoke, and gradually, but skilfully, drew her away from it. The case, however, was different when Alice depicted the rage and consternation of Mrs. Calverley at learning the part taken by her son in the concealment of the Claxton mystery. This was a point in which Pauline took the keenest interest, and she induced Alice to dilate on it at her will, framing her questions with much subtlety, and pondering over each answer she received. When Alice stated Mrs. Calverley's intention of disinheriting her son, and leaving him to struggle on in the comparatively obscure position which he then occupied, something like a ray of light shot into Pauline's darkened soul. Should the intention thus announced be carried out, should Martin be left to his own resources, she might then have the chance, such as never could occur to her under other circumstances, of proving her disinterested love for him. For the man of wealth, for the man even with great expectations, she could do nothing; any advances which she might make, any assistance which she might offer; the world would but regard as so much small bait thrown out for the purpose of securing a greater booty; and he, knowing as he did the circumstances of her previous life, the scheming predatory manner of her early existence, would too surely be of the opinion of the world. But if he were poor, and broken, and humbled, grieving over the alienation of his mother, and feeling himself solitary and shunned, her self-appointed task in winning him, in proving to him her devotion, in placing at his disposal the small means which she had, the worldly talent which even he acknowledged she possessed, would be a very much easier one.
'Mistress of her own fortune, and would continue to remain so; that is what she said, is it?' Pauline asked, after a pause.
'That is what she said, and that she renounced her son, and revoked all the declarations she had hitherto made in his favour,' said Alice. 'Was it not dreadful for poor Mr. Gurwood? I do pity him so.'
'Do you?' said Pauline, turning her searching gaze full upon the girl's face. 'Yes, I daresay you do. It is natural you should; Mr. Gurwood has been a good friend to you.'
'The best--almost the best--I had in the world.'
'Almost the best! Why, who could rank equal with him?'
'Mr. Gurwood himself said Mr. Statham,' cried Alice with downcast eyes.
'Ay, ay,' said Pauline quickly. Then, after an interval of a few minutes, the old cynical spirit coming over her, she added, more as if talking to herself than to her companion, 'I don't think we need trouble ourselves much, for Mr. Gurwood's sake, about that old woman's threat. I know her well; she is hard and cold and proud; but with all those charming qualities, and like many of your rigid English Pharisees, she is superstitious to a degree. She dare not make a will for fear of dying immediately she had signed her name to it; and if she dies without a will, her son inherits all her property.Vogue la galère,! Mr. Gurwood's chances are not so bad after all. There,' she added, in a softened voice, seeing Alice gazing at her in astonishment, 'get to sleep now, child; you have had a long and trying day, and must be quite wearied out.'
Alice fell asleep almost immediately, but for more than an hour afterwards Pauline sat with her feet on the fender gazing into the slowly dying embers and pondering over the circumstances by which she was surrounded. 'What was that Alice had said, that she so pitied Martin Gurwood? Yes, those were the words, and pity was akin to love.' But the expression on her face when she spoke had, as Pauline had noticed, nothing significant or tell-tale in it. Was there anything in the suspicion concerning Alice and Martin which had once crossed her mind? She thought not, she hoped not. And yet, what interest had she in that? There was but little chance that this one real passion of her life, her love for this quiet sedate young clergyman, this man so different in manner, thought, and profession from any other she had ever known--there was but little chance that her devotion would be recognised by or even known to him. Well, even in this world justice is sometimes meted out, as Père Gosselin used to tell her--ah,grand Dieu, how far away in the mists of ages seem Père Gosselin and the chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde and all the old Marseilles life!--and so she supposes she ought not to expect much happiness, and with a shrug of her shoulders and a wearied sigh, Pauline crept silently to her bed.
* * * * *
When Mr. Wetter, at the conclusion of his interview with Alice, took his departure from Pollington-terrace, he found himself unexpectedly with some spare time upon his hands. The result of that interview had been so different from what he had anticipated, his preconceived arrangement had been so rudely overthrown, that he was almost unable at first to realise his position, and was in some doubt as to the nature of the next steps it would be best for him to take.
'A most unsatisfactory and ridiculous conclusion,' said he to himself, dropping from the hurried pace at which he had quitted the house into a leisurely amble; 'most unsatisfactory and highly ridiculous, to think that a man of my experience, who has been in the habit of treating matters of this kind for so many years, and with so many different styles of persons, should allow himself to be shut up and put down by that mild-spoken innocent, is beyond all powers of comprehension. I suppose it was because she was innocent that I gave way. I had expected something so completely different, that when it dawned upon me that she was speaking the truth, and that she actually had believed herself to be that old rascal's wife, I was so taken aback, that my usualsavoir-fairecompletely deserted me. No doubt about the fact, though I think women's attempts at innocence are generally spoiled by being overdone; but this seemed in every way to be the genuine article. What a scoundrel must that Calverley have been This is just another instance of those men who are so highly respectable, and looked up to as patterns of all the domestic virtues, turning out after death to have been the most consummate hypocrites and shams, and infinitely worse than most of us, who, because we are less circumspect, have obtained the reputation of being black sheep. I myself never went in for being particularly straitlaced, but certainly I was never guilty of such a cold-blooded piece of villany as that perpetrated by the respectable patriarch of Great Walpole-street.
'What an idiot I was not to have recognised at once that a person of her appearance and manner could not be what she seemed, not to have discovered that she was in a false position, and ignorant herself of what must have been thought about her! Then, of course, I should have approached her in a different manner, made other plans equally easy of execution and far more certain of success. What an idiot I am,' he continued, striking his cane with vehemence against the ground, 'to think about her any more! There are hundreds of women quite as pretty and far more fascinating who would be only too well pleased to receive any attention from me, so why do I worry myself about one who has given me such a decided rebuff. Why? Most likely from the fact that that very rebuff has given piquancy to the adventure, that I am disinclined, because unaccustomed, to sit down under a sense of failure, and because--there!--because she seems to have bewitched me, and at my time of life, with all my experience, I am as much in love with her as if I were a boy suffering under my first passion.'
With a gesture of contempt for his own folly Mr. Wetter called a cab, and caused himself to be conveyed to his lodgings in South Audley-street, whence, at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he issued to mount his horse, which he had ordered to be brought round to him, and to ride off at a sharp pace. Whither? With the one idea of Alice dominant in his mind, he thought he would like to see once more the spot to which his attention had once been attracted; and though he had not much daylight before him, he turned his horse's head in the direction of Hendon.
Daylight was in truth beginning to wane, and Miss M'Craw, who was true to her old habits, and kept up as strict a system of espionage upon the family of the American gentleman, then domiciled in Rose Cottage, as ever she had upon Alice and John Calverley, was thinking of retiring from her post of observation at the window, when the figures of the horseman and his chestnut thoroughbred, which had formerly been so familiar to her, once more met her view.
Miss M'Craw strained almost out of the window with astonishment. 'What on earth has brought him back after so long an absence?' she said to herself. 'He cannot possibly be going to call upon those horrible American people.'
From her employment of this adjective, it will be gathered that Miss M'Craw did not cherish a particularly friendly feeling towards the new occupants of Rose Cottage. The fact was that her inquisitiveness and propensity to scandal came speedily under the observation of Mr. Hiram B. Crocker, the American gentleman in question, who described them under the head of 'general cussedness,' declined the acquaintance of Miss M'Craw, and had huge hoardings built up in the corners of his grounds for the purpose of intercepting her virgin gaze.
No, the equestrian was not going to call at Rose Cottage; did not stop at the gate, but rode slowly on until he reined-in his horse in the accustomed spot on the brow of the hill, and raising himself in his stirrups stood for an instant looking into the garden. He remembered then how he had first seen her tending her flowers, and looking eagerly out, evidently awaiting the arrival of some one, and how in a subsequent ramble he had discovered that some one to be John Calverley of Great Walpole-street, and all that had happened therefrom.
'How well the cards lay to my hand at one time,' he said to himself with an impatient gesture; 'and what a mess I have made of the game.' And with that he shook his horse's bridle and cantered away.
When Mr. Wetter reached South Audley-street, he found his groom standing on the curbstone, and a gentlemen in the act of knocking at the door. Alighting, he found this gentleman, to his great astonishment, to be Mr. Humphrey Statham; and at sight of him an uneasy pang shot through Mr. Wetter's mind. Humphrey Statham was, as he knew, an intimate friend of Mrs. Claxton's, and his visit there was doubtless on business connected with her. If she had described the scene which had passed between them that morning, that business would doubtless be of a very unpleasant character, and Mr. Wetter was not a brave man physically. He had borne in his time a vast amount of moral obloquy, and borne it well; but he had a horror of anything like physical pain, and Humphrey Statham was a big, strong, and resolute man. No wonder, therefore, that the article which did Mr. Wetter duty for a conscience quailed within him, or that he felt sorely uncomfortable when he recognised the visitor on his doorstep.
But he was the last man to give any early outward sign of such emotion, and it was in sprightly tones and with an air of easy jauntiness that he said,
'My dear Mr. Statham, I congratulate myself immensely on having returned so exactly in the nick of time, if, as I imagine, you were about to do me the honour of paying me a visit.'
'I was coming to call upon you, Mr. Wetter,' said Statham simply.
'Then pray walk in,' said Wetter, opening the door with his key, and following closely after him up the stairs. 'Take that chair; you will find it, I think, a particularly comfortable one; and,' going to an old oak sideboard, 'let me give you an appetiser, a petit verre of absinthe or vermouth. They are both here, and either of them is a most delicious ante-prandial specific.'
'No, thank you,' said Humphrey Statham; 'I will not drink with you.'
Whether intentionally or not, he laid such stress on the last words that Mr. Wetter looked up at him for an instant with flashing eyes. But his voice was quite calm when, a minute after he said, 'I will not attempt to persuade you. There is no such mistaken hospitality as that. And now, as a man of your business habits does not waste his time without a purpose, I will inquire the object of this visit.'
'It is not one into which business enters, in the strict sense of the word,' said Statham.
'So much the better,' said Mr. Wetter, with a gay smile. 'What is not a visit of business must be a visit of pleasure.'
'I hope you will find it so,' said Statham grimly. 'Its object, so far as I am concerned, is very easily stated. You were at Mrs. Claxton's to-day?'
'I was,' said Wetter, putting a bold face on the matter.
'And when there you thought it expedient to your purpose, and being expedient for your purpose, not below your dignity as a man, to subject your hostess for the time to the grossest insult that could be passed upon any one.'
'Sir!' cried Wetter, springing up.
'Be patient, Mr. Wetter, please,' said Humphrey Statham calmly; 'I have a great deal more to say. This lady had been made the victim of a most shameful, most diabolical fraud--the innocent victim, mind, of a fraud which robbed her of her good name, and blasted her position among honest men and women. She was ignorant as well as innocent, she knew not how basely she had been deceived; her friends kindly conspired to hide from her the blackness of her surroundings, and to keep her, poor child, in a fool's paradise of her own. And they succeeded until you came.'
'I was the serpent, in point of fact, in this fool's paradise that you speak of.'
'The character fits you to a nicety, Mr. Wetter, and you kept up the allegory by opening the eyes of the woman and causing her to know the position she occupied! Which was a genial, gentlemanly, generous act!'
'Look here,' said Mr. Wetter, 'there is a certain amount of right in what you say, though you are sufficiently hard upon me. But you know all is fair in love.'
'Love!' cried Statham scornfully.
'Well,' said Mr. Wetter, 'it is the most euphonious name for the feeling. All is fair in love or war, and I give you my word that when I spoke to Mrs. Claxton, I fully believed that she knew perfectly well the position she was occupying, and had accepted it of her own free will.'
'Do you believe that now?'
'No, I do not. I am a tolerably good hand at reading character, and there was something in her look and manner which convinced me that her statement, that she really believed Calverley to be Claxton, and imagined herself to be his wife, was true.'
'And yet you had the insolence to offer her--'
'Don't let us use harsh words, please, Mr. Statham. This is all very fine talking, but the fact remains the same. This lady was John Calverley's mistress; nothing can put that aside or blot that out. What I proposed to do was, to make her very rich, and happy, and comfortable. Could a man be found who would do any more? Is there any one who would be such a fool as to marry her?'
'Yes,' said Humphrey Statham, rising from his seat and confronting his companion; 'yes, Mr. Wetter,' he said, speaking very slowly, 'there is one man whose dearest hope in life it is to marry Alice Claxton. You are a man of the world, Mr. Wetter, and having said that much, I need add nothing to make you understand that it will be best and safest for you to respect her for the future. I came here this evening to impress this upon you, and having done so, I take my leave. Goodnight.'
And as he walked out, he saw by the expression of Mr. Wetter's face that no farther interference on the part of that gentleman was to be looked for.
The next morning, at about twelve o'clock, Martin Gurwood arrived in Pollington-terrace, and found Alice alone in the drawing-room.
'I came especially to see you,' he said, after the first greeting, 'and yet I scarcely expected to find you had left your room so early. Yesterday was a day of severe trial to you, dear Mrs. Claxton, but you seem to have gone through it bravely.'
'If I did,' said Alice, with a half-mournful smile, 'I think it must have been owing to my pride. I did not know I possessed any of that quality until there came occasion for its display. But I suffered dreadfully from reaction during the night, and was as low and as hysterical as my worst enemy could wish me.'
'But that feeling has passed away now?'
'O yes; with the morning light came brighter thoughts and better sense; and when your name was announced, I was thinking seasonably enough, as it seemed to me, of the mercy of Providence in giving me such kind friends in the midst of my affliction.'
'I am glad to find you in this frame of mind, dear Mrs. Claxton, as I have come to talk to you on a subject which will require your particular attention.'
His voice faltered as he spoke, and the colour forsook her cheeks as she listened to him.
'My particular attention,' she repeated, with a forced smile. 'It must be something serious, then.'
'It is serious, but not, I hope, distasteful,' said Martin. 'I have been with Mr. Statham this morning. I went to him to give him the opportunity of speaking to me upon a matter which I knew he had most deeply at heart, and which must sooner or later have been broached by him.'
He looked at her keenly, watching the effect of his words. Her face expressed great interest, but no alarm, no regret. He was glad of that, he thought to himself.
'I was with Humphrey for an hour, and when I left him I told him I should come straight to you. Mine is a strange errand, Alice'--it was perhaps the first time he had addressed her by her Christian name, and the word as spoken by him rang musically but mournfully on her ear--'a strange errand for a confirmed old bachelor!'
Alice started at the word.
'Yes,' continued Martin, very pale, but striving hard to smile and to command the inflexions of his voice, 'it is the old story of people preaching what they never intend to practise. Dear Alice, Humphrey Statham loves you, and I am here to ask you to marry him?'
Bravely done, Martin, at last! Bravely done, though you were asking for what you knew was equivalent to your death-warrant; bravely spoken, without a break in your voice, though her dear eyes were fixed upon you, and you had taken into yours that little hand which you were urging her to bestow upon another.
Alice was motionless for a moment. Then she drew back, shuddering and crying, 'I cannot, I cannot.'
'Stay, Alice,' said Martin, in his soft soothing tone. 'Humphrey Statham is a great and a good man, and you owe him much. You know that I would not unnecessarily wound your feelings, dear Alice; but I must tell you that when we first discovered who you were, it was entirely owing to Humphrey Statham's chivalry, patience, and good sense that matters were arranged as they were, and that you were up to yesterday kept in ignorance of the fraud which had been practised. On you. I, misinformed and bigoted as I was, had intended to take other steps, but I yielded to Humphrey's calm counsel. Ever since that hour he has watched over your best interests with the keenest sympathy. Any comfort you have experienced is due to his fostering care and forethought, and so late as yesterday you yourself heard him plead your cause with eloquence, which was inspired by his affection for you.'
He paused for a moment, and Alice spoke. 'It is not that,' she said; 'it is not that. I know all I owe to Mr. Statham; I have long since acknowledged to myself how kind and good he has been to me. But,' she added, with downcast eyes and flushing cheeks, 'how can I let a man like that take me for his wife? He thinks he loves me now, and doubtless he does. He is not the man to be led away by his feelings, but the love of any man for me would be exposed to a worse trial than that of time or use. Could Mr. Statham bear to know that the world was talking of his wife, to guess what it said? Is not the world filled with persons like Mr. Wetter, and should I not by marrying any honest man expose him to the sneers and gibes of such a crew. I could not do it! I would not do it!'
'There would be no question of that,' said Martin Gurwood. 'Recollect that your story in its minutest details is known to Mr. Statham, and that he is the last man in the world likely to act upon impulse, or without a calm analysis of the motives that prompt him. There is no one who can testify to this so strongly as myself, and I can declare to you solemnly that it was made clear to both of us long since how blameless you were, and how grievously you had been sinned against. Do not abide by that hastily-spoken decision, Alice, I beseech you. Think of what a noble fellow Humphrey is; recollect how true and steadfast and triumphant has been his advocacy of your cause; recollect that he is no longer young, and that on your reply to the question I have put to you hangs the hope of his future life.'
Bravely spoken, Martin! The work of expiation progresses nobly now!
Alice was silent for a moment. Then she said, 'If I could think this--'
'Think it, believe it, rely on it! Standing to you, in the relation which was half self-assumed, half imposed upon me by the force of circumstances; loving you, as I do, with a brotherly regard--' (his voice faltered for an instant here; but he quickly regained its command)--'I could not be blinded in a matter in which your future happiness is involved, even by my affection for Humphrey Statham. Hearing this, you need have no farther fear. See, Alice, I may go back to Humphrey and make him happy, may I not? I may tell him, at least, that there is hope?'
Again a pause. Then the low but clear reply:
'You may.'
'God bless you, dear, for those words!' said Martin, bending down and touching her forehead with his lips. 'They will give new life to the noblest fellow in the world!' Then, as he drew back, he muttered to himself; 'It is all over now.'
'And you,' said Alice, laying her hand gently on his arm, 'you spoke of yourself just now as a confirmed bachelor; but I have had other hopes for you.'
'What do you mean?' he cried.
'Women's eyes are quick in such matters,' she said. 'Have you been too absorbed to perceive that there is one by whom your every movement is watched, your every thought anticipated? one for whose first proofs of kindness to me I was indebted to the interest she takes in you? one who--'
'I think you must be mistaken, my dear Alice,' said Martin coldly. 'It has been ordained that my life is to be celibate and solitary; and what pleasure I am to have is to be derived from the contemplation of your happiness. So be it; I accept my fate. Now I must hasten back to Humphrey with the good news.'
He kissed her forehead again, and left the room. As he passed down the stairs, he saw through the open door Pauline seated at the table in the dining-room writing. She looked up at his approach; and though he had intended going straight out, he could not resist her implied invitation to speak to her.
'After all, it will be better so,' he said to himself.
'I thought you would be here this morning, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline timidly. 'You have seen Alice, and you find her better than we could have hoped for, do you not?'
'Yes,' said Martin, 'I certainly found her better; but it was my good fortune to be the bearer of some news to her which I think has left her better still.'
'The idea which had haunted her previously--was it true? had he come to make the announcement?
'You the bearer of news?' she asked in tremulous tones.
'Yes,' he replied cheerily; 'good news for Alice, and news in which you, dear Mrs. Durham, will consequently rejoice. There is every reason that you, who have been so faithful to the trust reposed in you, so stanch a friend to us all, should be the first to hear it. Dear Alice is going to be married to Humphrey Statham.'
The tension of suspense had been so great that Pauline had scarcely strength to express her delight.
'Yes,' said Martin, speaking slowly and with emphasis, but purposely averting his eyes from his companion. 'It is a great blessing to me to know that two persons whom I love so dearly will be happy. I daresay it seems strange to other persons, and indeed it does sometimes to myself, to think that I, who am a confirmed bachelor, and who from very early youth determined to lead a single life, can take interest in settling the domestic matters of my friends. But in this instance, at least, I take the greatest interest; and I am sure that you will have the good sense to understand and appreciate my motive.'
'You pay me a great compliment by saying so, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline in a low constrained voice. Then, after a little pause, she asked, 'Have you five minutes to spare, Monsieur Martin, while I talk to you about myself?'
'Certainly,' said Martin; 'I was on my way to Humphrey with the news.'
'It is good news, and he can wait for it five minutes. If it were bad, it would go to him quickly enough,' said Pauline. 'I will not detain you longer than the time I have mentioned. I told you I wanted to talk to you about myself; and the subject is therefore not one in which I take much pleasure, or, indeed, much interest.'
'You should not speak so bitterly,' said Martin kindly. 'There are two or three of us whose best regard you have won and retain.'
'I did not mean to be bitter, Monsieur Martin,' said Pauline humbly. 'I will put what I have to say in very few words. It will be obvious to you that the time has now arrived when the manner of my life must be again altered. Alice will find, or rather has found, a guardian better able to watch over and protect her; and my part, so far as she is concerned, is played out. You know all my story, Monsieur Martin, and you know human nature sufficiently well to recognise me as a woman of activity, and to be sure that it would be impossible for me to endure the nullity of this English life, in which I have no place; and now that Alice is safe, and going to be happy and respectable for ever, no occupation. I must be kept from thought, too, Monsieur Martin; from thinking of the past--you comprehend that.'
'Not of the immediate past,' he said gently, 'Recollect what use you have been to us: how could we have done without you? It will be pleasant to you to recollect the services you have rendered to this poor girl: how by your aid, at that fearful time of trial in the house at Hendon, we were enabled to overcome the difficulties which arose, and which would have been too much for us, but for your quickness and mother-wit. You will recollect how successfully you have watched over her here, and how her health has suffered but little comparatively from the dreaded shock under your skilful nursing and kind companionship. It will be pleasant to recall all these things, will it not, Pauline?'
'Yes,' said Pauline, pondering; 'but there is another portion of my past upon which I shall not care to dwell. To prevent the thought of that coming over me, and striking sorrow and dismay into my soul, I must give up this dreamy easy-going existence, and take to a life of action. I am not a strong-minded woman, Monsieur Martin; and God knows I do not pretend to have a mission, or any nonsense of that kind. There are not many positions for which I am fitted; some would be beyond my moral, others beyond my physical, strength. But I must have a career of some sort; and away in France there are various means of honest industry for women among my compatriots such as are not to be found here.'
'You intend to leave England, then?' asked Martin.
'Yes,' said Pauline. 'Why should I remain? As I said before, my part here is played out. Do you think it will be long before Alice is married?'
'I cannot say,' said Martin. 'No date has been mentioned; but if I am consulted, I shall advise that the marriage take place as soon as possible. There is no reason for delay; and for my own part, I am anxious to get home again.'
'You will go back to your country parish?' asked Pauline.
'For a time, certainly,' said Martin; 'but my plans are indefinite.'
'On the day of my sister-in-law's marriage, then, when I have placed her in her husband's hands, and thus satisfied myself that she has no farther need of me, I shall bid her adieu, and shall go to France. And I have a request to make to you, Mr. Gurwood, in your position as Mr. Calverley's executor. You are aware that just before I came to reside in his house, I placed in his hands two thousand pounds, which he was good enough to invest for me. I shall now be glad if you will sell those securities, and let me have the money, for which I shall have a use about that time. Will you do so?'
'Certainly I will. But is there no chance of your altering your decision?'
'None. You think it is a right one, do you not?'
'It is a conscientious one, no doubt; but we shall all miss you very deeply.'
Her earnest eyes were fixed upon him as he spoke. His words were fair, as he meant his tone to be hearty and regretful; but he was not clever enough to hide from her his unmistakable pleasure at her decision. She knew that he approved of her departure for Alice's sake, and, bitterest thought of all to her, felt it a relief for his own.
There was an awkward silence for some minutes. To break it, Martin remarked:
'You will be glad to hear that there is no danger of any farther annoyance from Mr. Wetter. It appears that Humphrey saw him yesterday; and after what passed between them, he is perfectly satisfied that Mr. Wetter will not attempt any farther interference.'
'I am pleased to hear it,' said Pauline, 'but not surprised. Henrich Wetter was always a coward; barking loudly when suffered to run at large, but crouching and submissive directly the whip is shaken over him. No, Alice need fear him no more.'
'One word more,' said Martin, rising from his seat; 'one last word, Madame Du Tertre--I shall always think of you by that name, which is very familiar and very pleasant to me--one last word before I take my leave. Can nothing more be done for you to help you in the life which you have chosen?'
Pauline looked at him steadily.
'Nothing,' she replied.
'Recollect that, though I am but a poor country parson, Humphrey Statham is what may be called a rich man; and I am sure I am justified in speaking for him, and saying that any amount of money which you might require would be at your service.'
'Pauline shook her head.
'Money in my country, more especially in the southern provinces, where my lot will most probably be cast, goes much farther than it does here; and what I have of my own will enable me not merely to live, but, as I trust, to do a certain amount of good to others. I am very grateful all the same, M. Martin, for your generous offer.'
'My generous offer,' said Martin, 'was simply proposing to acknowledge, in a very slight manner, the existence of a debt due to you by Alice's friends, and which can never be repaid. We will see later on if we cannot induce you to alter your decision.'
'Yes,' said Pauline quietly, 'we will see later on.'
Then Martin Gurwood took his leave of her, and walked back to his hotel. It was nearly over now; he had almost completed his self-appointed task. So well had he performed his mission, that Alice evidently had no idea of the sacrifice he was making in yielding her to his friend, no idea even that he had ever cared for her otherwise than as her guardian. That was proved by the manner in which she had hinted at her hope that he might find solace elsewhere. That was a strange notion too! Could it merely have arisen in Alice's imagination, or was there any real foundation for it? Had he been so absorbed in his infatuation about Alice as to have been blind to all else that was passing round him? He did not know; he could not say. If it was so, he had acted rightly and honestly in the course he had taken with Pauline. His infatuation for Alice! That was all over now: in his intemperate youth he had greatly erred, in his forlorn middle age was he not justly punished?
And while Martin was jostling through the crowd, Pauline sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, her mind filled with cognate thoughts. To her also the end had come. What had given the relish in her early days had long since grown distasteful to her; and the hope that had proved the light of her later life had, after doubtful flickering, at length been rudely extinguished; and in the hearts both of Martin and Pauline there was the same dismal consciousness that they were justly punished for the misdeeds of their youth, and that their expiation was necessary and just.
Two months after the date of these occurrences, on a bright and balmy spring morning, at a little City church hiding away somewhere between enormous blocks of warehouses, Humphrey Statham and Alice were married.
Brave to the last, Martin Gurwood performed the service, reading it with a strong manly voice, and imploring the blessing of Heaven on those concerned with unaffected fervour.
When the ceremony was ended, and the bride and bridegroom had departed, Martin joined the one other person who had been present--Pauline.
'Your plans for leaving are matured?' he said.
'So far matured,' she said, with a sad smile, 'that the cab with my luggage is at the end of the street, and that when I leave this, I go on board the steamer.'
'Indeed,' said Martin. 'Then you have taken leave of Alice?'.
'Yes; early this morning.'
'And you have told her of your plans?'
'No, indeed, for they are as yet undecided; but I have told her that I will write and let her know them.'
'Be sure that you do,' said Martin, 'for we are all of us deeply interested in you. I have brought you,' he added, handing her a packet, 'your own two thousand pounds. With them you will find two thousand pounds more--one thousand from Alice as your sister-in-law, one thousand from Humphrey as your dead husband's old friend. They bade me give you this with their united love, and hoped you would not shrink from accepting it.'
Pauline's voice shook very much as she replied, 'I will accept it certainly; I shall hope to find a good use for it.'
'Of that I have no doubt,' said Martin. They had reached the end of the street by this time, and found the luggage-laden cab in waiting. 'Good-bye, Madame Du Tertre,' said Martin, after he had handed her into the vehicle, 'good-bye, and God bless you.'
'Good-bye, M. Martin,' said Pauline, returning his hand-pressure, and looking for an instant straight into his eyes, 'good-bye.' Then when the cab had driven off, she threw up her hands and crying out passionately, 'Adieu à jamais!' pulled her veil over her face and burst into a flood of tears.