THINKING IT OUT.
Mr. Henrich Wetter did not remain long in Pollington-terrace on the
day of his introduction to Mrs. Claxton. He saw at once that Mrs.
Claxton was delicate and out of health, and he was far too clever a
man of the world to let the occasion of his first visit be remembered
by her as one when she was bored or wearied. While he remained, he
discussed pleasantly enough those agreeable nothings, which make up
the conversation of society, in a soft mellifluous voice, and
exhibited an amount of deference to both ladies.
On taking his leave, Mr. Wetter rather thought that he had created a
favourable impression upon Alice, while Pauline thought just the
contrary. But the fact was that Alice was not impressed much either
one way or the other. The man was nothing to her; no man was anything
to her now, or ever would be again, she thought; but she supposed he
was gentlemanly, and she knew he was Madame Du Tertre's cousin, and
she was grateful for the kindness which Madame Du Tertre had shown to
her. So when Mr. Wetter rose to depart, Alice feebly put out her
little hand to him, and expressed a hope that he would come again to
see his cousin. And Mr. Wetter bowed over her hand, and much to
Pauline's disgust declared he should have much pleasure in taking Mrs.
Claxton at her word. His farewell to Pauline was not less ceremonious,
though he could scarcely resist grinning at her when Mrs. Claxton's
back was turned. And so he went his way.
It accorded well with Pauline's notions that immediately after Mr.
Wetter's departure, Alice should complain of fatigue, and should
intimate her intention of retiring into her own room; for the fact was
that she herself was somewhat dazed and disturbed by the occurrences
of the day, and was longing for an opportunity of being alone and
thinking them out at her leisure.
So, as soon as she had the room to herself, Pauline reduced the light
of the lamp and turned the key in the door--not that she expected any
intrusion, it was merely done out of habit--and then pushing the
chairs and the table aside, made a clear path for herself in front of
the fire, and commenced walking up and down it steadily. Pauline
Lunelle! She had not heard the name for years. What scornful emphasis
that man laid on it as he pronounced it! How he had boasted of his
money and position! With what dire vengeance had he threatened her if
she refused to aid him in his schemes! Of what those schemes were he
had given her no idea, but they were pretty nearly certain to be bad
and vicious. She recollected the opinion she had had of Henrich Wetter
in the old days at Marseilles, and it was not a flattering one. People
considered him an eligible match, and were greatly astonished when she
had refused his hand; she, a poor dame du comptoir, to give up the
opportunity of an alliance with such a rising man! But she had her
feeling about it then, and she had it now.
It was, then, as she suspected during their interview at Rose Cottage.
Wetter had seen Alice, had been attracted by her beauty, and had
found, as he imagined, in Pauline an instrument ready made to his hand
to aid him in his purpose. That acquaintance with her past life gave
him a firm hold upon her, of which he would not hesitate to avail
himself. Was it necessary that she should be thus submissive, thus
bound to do what she was bid, however repulsive it might be to her?
There was nothing of actual guilt or shame in that past life which
Monsieur Wetter could bring against her; she had been merry, light,
and frivolous, as was usual with people of her class--ah, of her
class--the sting was there! Would Martin Gurwood have suffered her to
hold the position in that household? Would he have trusted or borne
with her at all, had he known that in her early days she had been the
dame du comptoir at a restaurant in a French provincial town?
How insultingly that man had spoken of her dead husband! Her dead
husband? Yes, Tom Durham was dead! She had long since ceased to have
any doubt on that point. There was no motive that she could divine for
his keeping himself in concealment, and she had for some time been
convinced that all he had said to her was true, and that his plan of
action was genuine, but that he had been drowned in attempting to
carry it out. Where was the anguish that six months ago she would have
experienced in acknowledging the truth of this conviction? Why does
the idea of Tom Durham's death now come to her with an actual sense of
relief? Throughout her life, Pauline, however false to others, had
been inexorably true to herself; and that she now feels not merely
relief but pleasure in believing Tom Durham to be dead, she frankly
acknowledges.
Whence this apparently inexplicable alteration in her ideas? She must
have been fond of Tom Durham; for had she not toiled for him and
suffered for his sake? How is it, then, that she could bring herself
to think of his death with something more than calmness? Because
she loved another man, whom to win would be life, redemption,
rehabilitation; to keep whom in ignorance of the contamination of the
past she would do or suffer anything! There was but one way in which
that past could be learned, and that was through Wetter. He alone held
the key to that mystery, and to him, therefore, must the utmost court
be paid--his will must be made her law. Stay, though! If Monsieur
Wetter's projects are as base as she is half inclined to suspect them,
by aiding them in ever so little, even by keeping silence about her
suspicions, she betrays Martin's confidence and injures some of his
best feelings!
What a terrible dilemma for her to be placed in! In that household
where she has accepted a position of trust, and is accredited by
Martin as Alice's guardian. In that position it was her duty to shield
the young girl in every possible way, and not even to have permitted
such a person as she believed Monsieur Wetter to be to have been
introduced into the house. Being herself the actual means of
introducing him, had she not virtually betrayed the trust reposed in
her? and yet--and yet! Let her once set this man at defiance, and he
would not scruple to utter words which would have the effect of
exiling her from the house, and taking from her every chance of seeing
the man for whom alone in the world she had a gentle feeling. A word
from Wetter would be sufficient to annihilate the fairy palace of hope
which during the last few days she had been building, and to send her
forth a greater outcast than ever upon the world!
No, that could not be expected of her; it would be too much! The
glimpse of happiness which she had recently enjoyed, unsubstantial
though it was--a mere figment of her own brain, a dream, a
delusion--had yet so far impressed her, that she could not willingly
bring herself to part with it; nor, as she felt after more mature
reflection, was there any necessity for her so doing. She might safely
temporise; the occasion when she would be called upon to act
decisively was not imminent; the performers were only just placed _en
scène_, and there could be no possible chance of a catastrophe for
some time to come. There was very little chance that Alice Claxton,
modest and retiring, filled with the memories of her 'dear old John,'
to whom she was always referring, would be disposed to accept the
proferred attention of such a man as Monsieur Wetter. Whether Monsieur
Wetter succeeded or not with Alice would entirely depend upon himself.
He could not possibly know anything of her former life, and could
therefore bring no undue influence to bear in his favour; and Pauline
thought, even suppose, as was most likely, that Alice repulsed him, he
could not turn round upon her. She had done her best; she had given
him the introduction he required; and if he did not prosper in his
suit no blame could be attached to her. Matters must remain so, she
thought, and she would wait the result with patience.
And Martin Gurwood, the man for whom alone in the world she had a
gentle feeling, the man whom she loved--yes, whom she loved! She was
not ashamed, but rather proud to acknowledge it to herself; the man
with the shy retiring manner, the delicate appearance, the soft voice,
so different from all the other men with whom her lot in life had
thrown her--the very atmosphere seemed to change as she thought of
him. How well she recollected her first introduction to him in the
grim house in Great Walpole-street, and the distrust, almost amounting
to dislike, with which she had regarded him! She had intended pitting
herself against him then; she would now be only too delighted for the
opportunity of showing him how faithfully she could serve him.
Distrust! Ay, she remembered the suspicion she had entertained, that
there was a secret on his mind which he kept hidden from the world.
She thought so still. It pleased her to think so; for in her, with all
her realism and practical business purpose, there was a strong dash of
superstition and imagination, and that unconscious link between them,
the fact that they each had something to conceal, seemed to afford her
ground for hope.
Yes, her position towards Martin, though not quite what she might have
desired, was by no means a bad one. He had had to trust her, he had
had to acknowledge her intellectual superiority; he, a lonely man
gradually growing accustomed to women's society. He hated it at first,
but now he liked it; missed it when he was forced to absent himself:
she had heard him say as much. She seated herself where Alice had
previously sat, and leaned her arm upon the table, supporting her chin
with her hand. Might not he, she thought, might not he come to care
for her, to love her--well enough? That would be all she could expect,
all she could hope--well enough! A few years ago she would have
scorned the idea; even up to within the last few weeks she would not
have accepted any half-hearted affection. A passionate domineering
woman, with the hot southern blood running in her veins, unaccustomed,
in that way at all events, to be checked or stayed, she must have had
all or none. But now what a difference! Her love was now tempered by
discretion, her common sense was allowed its due influence; and she
was too wise, and in her inmost heart too sad, to expect a passionate
attachment from the man whom she had set up as her idol. In the
new-born humility which has come from this true love she will be
satisfied to give that, and to take in return whatever he may have to
offer her.
Married to Martin Gurwood, to the man whom she loved! Could such a lot
possibly be in store for her? Could she dare to dream of such a haven
of rest, after her life-long suffering with storms and trials? She was
free now; of that there was no doubt; and he himself had acknowledged
her energy and talent. The position which she then held was in the
eyes of the world no doubt inferior to his--would be made more
inferior if he accepted his share of the wealth which his mother had
offered him. But he is not a man, unless she has read him wrongly, if
he would otherwise marry her, to be deterred by social considerations;
he is far beyond and above such mean and petty weaknesses. In her calm
review of the position occupied by each of them, Pauline could see but
one hopeless obstacle to her chance of inducing Martin Gurwood to
marry her--that sole obstacle would be another affection. Another
affection! Good Heaven!--Alice!
The suspicion went through her like a knife. Her brain seemed to reel,
her arms dropped powerless on the table before her, and she sank back
in the chair.
Alice! Let her send her thoughts back to the different occasions when
she had seen Alice and Martin Gurwood together; let her dwell upon his
tone and manner to the suffering girl, and the way in which she
appeared to be affected by them. When did they first meet? Not until
comparatively recently, their first interview being confessedly that
which she, unseen by them, had watched from the narrow lane. In the
room at Pollington-terrace, by the dull red light shed by the expiring
embers, Pauline saw it as plainly as she had seen it in reality; the
pitying expression in Martin's face on that occasion, the eyes full of
sorrowful regard, the hands that sought to raise her prostrate body,
but the motion of which was checked, as they were folded across his
breast. He was not in love with her then. Pauline recollected making
the remark to herself at the time; but since then what opportunities
had they not had of meeting, how constantly they had been thrown
together, and how, as proved by the anxiety he had shown, and the
trouble he has taken on her behalf, his sympathy and regard for the
desolate girl had deepened and increased!
Why, should she doubt Martin Gurwood's disinterestedness in this
matter? Why should she ascribe to him certain feelings by which he may
possibly never have been influenced? He was a man of large heart and
kindly sympathies by nature, developed by his profession and by his
constant intercourse with the weak and suffering. He would doubtless
have befriended any woman in similar circumstances who might have been
brought under his notice. Befriended? Yes, but not, as Pauline
honestly allowed to herself, in the same way. His words would have
been kind, and his purse would have been open; but in all his kindness
to Alice there was a certain delicate consideration, which long before
she even thought it would trouble her, Pauline had frequently
remarked, and which she understood and appreciated all the better,
perhaps, because she had had no experience of any such treatment in
her life. That consideration spoke volumes as to the character of
Martin's feelings towards Alice, and Pauline's heart sank within her
as she thought of it.
Meanwhile she must suffer quietly, and hope for the best; that was all
left for her to do. She was surprised at the calmness of her despair.
In the old days her fiery jealousy of Torn Durham had leapt forward at
the slightest provocation, rendering her oftentimes the laughing-stock
of her husband and his ribald friends; now, when the first gathering
of the suspicion crossed her mind that a man, far dearer to her than
ever her husband had been, was in love with another woman, she
accepted the position, not without dire suffering it is true, but with
calmness and submission. It might not be the case, after all. From
what little she had seen of Alice, Pauline scarcely suspected her of
being the right woman to understand or appreciate Martin Gurwood. She
had been accustomed to be petted and spoiled by an old man, who was
her slave; she was not intended by nature to be much more than a
spoilt child, a doll to be petted and played with, and the finer
traits in Martin's character would be lost upon her. She was grateful
to him as her benefactor, of course, but she had never exhibited
any other feeling towards him, and Pauline did not think that she
would allow her gratitude to have much influence over her future.
Moreover--but, as Pauline knew perfectly well, little reliance was to
be placed upon that--she professed herself inconsolable for her recent
loss, and talked of perpetual widowhood as her only possible
condition. So that Pauline thought that there were two chances, either
of which would suit her--one that Alice would never marry again; the
other that she might marry some one else in preference to Martin
Gurwood.
It was growing late, and Pauline, wearied and exhausted, extinguished
the lamp, and made the best of her way up the staircase in the dark.
As she passed by the door of the room in which Alice slept, she
thought she heard a stifled cry. She paused for an instant and
listened; the cry was repeated, followed by a low moan. Alarmed at
this, Pauline tried the door; it was unfastened, and yielded to her
touch. Hurrying in, she found Alice sitting upright in her bed, her
hair streaming over her shoulders, and an expression of terror in her
face.
'What on earth is the matter, poor child?' cried Pauline, putting her
arm round the girl, and peering into the darkness. 'What has disturbed
you in your sleep?'
'Nothing,' said Alice, placing her hand upon her heart to still its
beating; 'nothing--at least, only a foolish fancy of my own. Do not
leave me,' she cried, as Pauline moved away from her.
'I am not going to leave you, dear, be sure of that,' said Pauline; 'I
am only going to get a light in order that I may be certain where I am
and what I am about. There,' she said, as, after striking a match and
lighting the gas, she returned to the bed. 'Now you shall tell me what
frightened you and caused you to cry out so loudly.'
'Nothing but a dream,' said Alice. 'Is it not ridiculous? But I could
not help it, indeed I could not. I cried out involuntarily, and had no
idea of what had happened until you entered the room.'
'And what was the dream that caused so great an effect?' asked
Pauline, seating herself on the bed and taking Alice's trembling hand
in hers.
'A very foolish one,' said Alice. 'I thought I was in the garden at
Hendon, walking with dear old John and talking'--here her voice broke
and the tears rolled down her face--'just as I used to talk to him,
very stupidly no doubt, but he enjoyed it and so did I, and we liked
it better, I think, because no one else understood it. We were
crossing the lawn and going down towards the shrubbery, when a cold
chilling wind seemed to blast across from the churchyard, and
immediately afterwards a man rushed up--I could not see his face, for
he kept it averted--and pulled John away from me and held him
struggling in his arms. I could not tell now how it came about, but I
found myself at the man's feet, imploring him to let John come to me.
And the man told me to look up; and when I looked up John was gone,
vanished, melted away! And when I called after him, the man bade me
hold my peace, for that John was not what I had fancied him to be,
but, on the contrary, the worst enemy I had ever had. Then the scene
changed, and I was in an hospital, or some place of the sort, and long
rows of white beds and sick people lying in them. And in one of them
was John, so altered, so shrunken, pale, and wobegone; and when he saw
me he bowed his head and lifted up his hands in supplication, and all
he said was, "Forget! forget!" in such a piteous tone; and I thought
he did not know me, and in my anguish I screamed out and woke. Was it
not a strange dream?'
'It was indeed,' said Pauline meditatively, 'but all dreams are--'
'Stay,' cried Alice, interrupting her; 'I forgot to tell you that when
I was struggling with the man who kept me away from John, I managed to
look at his face, and it was the face of the gentleman who came here
last night--your cousin, you know.'
'Ay,' said Pauline, looking at her quietly; 'there is nothing very
strange in that. You see so few people, that a fresh face is apt to be
photographed on your mind, and thus my unfortunate cousin was turned
into a monster in your dream. Do you think you are sufficiently
composed now for me to leave you?'
'I'd rather you would stay a little longer, if you don't mind,' said
Alice, laying her hand on her friend's. 'I know I'm very foolish, but
I scarcely think I could get to sleep if I were left just now.'
'I am not at all sure,' said Pauline gently, 'that we have been right
in keeping you so much secluded as we have done hitherto, and in
declining the civilities and hospitalities which have been offered to
us by all the people here about. I am afraid you are getting into
rather a morbid state, Alice, and that this dream of yours is a proof
of it.'
'I cannot bear the notion of seeing any one else,' said Alice.
'That is another proof of the morbid state to which I was referring,'
said Pauline. 'You would very soon get over that, if the ice were once
broken.'
'But surely we see enough people. Whenever he is in town, Mr. Gurwood
comes to see us.'
Pauline's eyes were fixed full on Alice's face as she pronounced
Martin's name, but they did not discover the slightest flush on the
girl's cheeks, nor was there the least alteration in her tone.
'True,' said Pauline; 'and Sir. Statham comes to see us now and then.'
'O yes,' said Alice; 'I suppose whenever he has nothing more important
to do; but Mr. Statham's time is valuable, and very much filled up, I
have heard Mr. Gurwood say.'
'But even Mr. Statham and Mr. Gurwood,' said Pauline, forcing herself
to smile, seen at long intervals, 'give us scarcely sufficient
intercourse with the outer world to prevent our falling into what I
call a perfectly morbid state; and on the next visit paid us by either
of these gentlemen, I shall lay my ideas before them, and ask for
authority to enlarge our circle. Now, dear, you are dropping with
sleep, and all your terror seems thoroughly subsided. So, good-night.
I will leave the light burning to drive away the evil dreams.'
As Pauline bent over Alice, the girl threw her arms round her friend's
neck, and kissing her, thanked her warmly for her attention.
'A strange dream indeed!' said Pauline, as she walked slowly up the
staircase to her own room. 'She was told that old John, as she calls
him, instead of being what she always imagined, was really her worst
enemy. And the man who told her so proved to be Henrich Wetter! A very
strange dream indeed!'