HUMPHREY STATHAM GROWS UNEASY.
What has come over the ruling spirit of the offices in 'Change Alley?
The partners in the great mercantile houses, whose shipbroking is
there carried on, cannot understand it, and the men in the tall fluffy
hats, the frock-coats, and the shepherd's plaid trousers, whom no one
would suspect to be the captains of merchant vessels fully
certificated, long-serviced, and ready to sail on any navigable water
in the world, shrug their shoulders and mutter hoarsely to each other
in the luncheon-room at Lloyd's, that 'something must be up with Mr.
Statham.' The clerk who gives a maritime flavour to the office by
wearing a pea-jacket, and who in default of any possible boating on
the Thames or Serpentine is, during the winter, compelled to give vent
to his nautical tendencies by vocal references at convivial
supper-parties to his Lovely Nan, his Polly of Portsmouth, and other
of the late Mr. Dibdin's creation, opines that there is a young woman
in the case, and that his governor has 'got smote.' Another of the
clerks, an elderly man with a wooden leg and a melancholy mind, who
had more than once failed in business on his own account, began to
hint in a mysterious manner that he foresaw bankruptcy impending, and
that they should all have to look out for new situations before the
spring. Mr. Collins, to whom all the querists addressed themselves,
and at whom all the indirect hints were levelled, said nothing; he
even refused to admit to the general public that there was any
perceptible difference in Mr. Statham's manner. Only in conjugal
confidence, as he smoked his after-supper pipe in the neatly-furnished
parlour of his residence in Balaclava-buildings East, Lower
Clapham-road, he confessed to Mrs. C. that the chief had somehow lost
his relish for business, and that he did not think Mr. S. was the man
he had been.
If you had asked Humphrey Statham himself if there were any real
foundation for these whispered hints and innuendoes, he would have
laughed in your face. The forebodings of the melancholy man as to
there being a decline in the business, he would have settled at once
by a reference to Mr. Collins, who would have shown that never since
he had been connected with the firm had their dealings been so large,
and apparently so safe. As to Mr. Collins's connubial confidences,
Humphrey Statham, if he had been made aware of them, would have said
that they were equally ridiculous. Perhaps it was true that he did not
care so much for business, was not so constantly at his desk, or such
a dead hand at a bargain as he used to be; but it was natural enough
that he should begin to slack off a little. He had been an idle clog
in his early days, but ever since he settled down in the City, there
were few men who had worked harder than he. The ten thousand pounds
originally left him by his father he had more than trebled, and his
personal disbursements certainly did not amount to more than six or
seven hundred a year. Why should he slave away every moment of his
life? Why should he be at the beck and call of every one who wanted
his advice? They paid him for it, it was true. But he wanted something
else besides payment now--amongst other things a certain amount of
leisure for day-dreaming.
But what about the suggestion thrown out by the young gentleman of
nautical tendency,--the suggestion involving the idea that his
principal's absence of mind was referable to his thoughts being
occupied with a young woman? Day-dreaming was surely in favour of the
nautical young gentleman's theory. When Humphrey Statham, after giving
strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, no matter who might
want him, threw himself back in his chair, and burying his hands in
his trousers' pockets, indulged in a long reverie, his thoughts
reverted not to any business transactions in which he might have been
engaged, but to the day when he first went to Rose Cottage in the
assumed character of a charity agent, and to the person with whom he
had the interview there. To Alice, as he saw her then for the first
time, with the look of interest and anxiety in her pale wistful face,
with the tears standing in her large hazel eyes, how graceful and
elegant were all her movements; in how tender and womanlike a manner,
regardless of her own trouble, which, though not absolutely
pronounced, she felt to be impending, she sympathised with him in the
presumed object of his mission, and promised him aid! Then she would
rise before his mind as he had seen her since, chilled, almost numbed
with sorrow, caring for nothing, taking no interest in all that was
proposed to her, though always grateful and recognisant. That look of
hopeless, helpless sorrow haunted Humphrey Statham's life. Could it
never be banished from her pale face? Would her eyes never brighten
again with joy? The sorrowful look was a tribute to one who had
cruelly deceived her, who had merited her bitterest hatred for the
manner in which he had treated her. A word, probably, would disperse
those clouds of grief, would turn her from a weeping mourner to an
outraged woman, would show her how terrible was her present position,
and would probably render her wildly anxious to escape from it. But to
speak that word to Alice, to acquaint her with John Calverley's crime,
would be to point out to her her own degradation, to inflict upon her
the sharpest wounds that brutality could devise, to uproot her faith
in honesty and goodness, and to send her forth cowering before the
world. The man who could do this would prove himself Alice Claxton's
direst enemy; it was Humphrey Statham's hope to take rank as one of
her dearest friends; and in this hope he suffered and was silent.
One of her dearest friends! Nothing more than that; he had never dared
to hope that he should be anything more to her. She was likely to
remain constant to the memory of him whom she believed to have been
her husband, and no one who had her welfare at heart would attempt to
shake her in that constancy. With the exception of the doctors,
indeed--who were not likely to trouble themselves--there was no one
capable of giving her the information so fatal to her peace of mind,
save the three tried friends who were occupying themselves in watching
over her. Three tried friends? Yes, he thought he might say that; for
this Frenchwoman, whom he had distrusted at first, seemed to be
fulfilling her self-imposed duty with strictness and singleness of
purpose. Humphrey Statham was not a man likely to be imposed upon by
specious assurances, unless they were carried out by corresponding
acts. When Martin Gurwood had made him acquainted with Madame Du
Tertre's proposal, he had agreed to their acceptance _faut de mieux_,
but only as a temporary measure, and without any opinion of their
lasting qualities. However, since Pauline's association with the
Pollington-terrace household, he had carefully watched her, and in
spite as it were of himself, found himself compelled to give her
credit for unselfishness and devotion to Alice's cause. What might be
her motive, what the guiding-string of her conduct, so long as it
involved no danger to Alice, was no concern of his. Humphrey Statham
was too much a man of the world to ascribe it entirely to the sense of
wishing to do her duty, or the gratification of an overweening
affection which she had taken for the deserted girl. He argued rather
that she herself had been the victim of some treachery or some
disappointment in a degree similar to that unconsciously suffered by
Alice, and that hence arose her sympathy for Mrs. Claxton, which,
added to a dislike of the world, had induced her to seek for the
position of Alice's companion. But this idea Humphrey Statham kept to
himself; as being one rather likely to frighten a man of Martin
Gurwood's simplicity, and to render him distrustful of the woman who
was really of very great use and assistance to them.
Martha Gurwood had returned to Lullington, the affairs of the parish,
as he stated, demanding his presence. Mrs. Calverley had demurred to
his going, objecting to being left alone. Martin had employed a curate
during his absence--she said, a man sufficiently qualified to attend
to the spiritual wants of the farmers and persons of that kind, of
whom the parish was composed. But Martin thought otherwise. He had
been away quite long enough, too long, he argued, for a proper
discharge of his duties. There might have been many occasions on which
the parishioners who knew him well would have come to him for
assistance, while they would have been diffident in appealing in the
same way to a stranger. His mother retorted, although he had not
chosen to give her any explicit answer, she had made him an offer, the
acceptance of which would remove him from Lullington, and then the
farmers and labourers would be compelled to pocket their pride--if it
could be called pride in such persons--and either seek aid from the
stranger or go without. To which Martin had replied that if he were to
yield up his living, his successor, from the mere fact of his
position, would not be a stranger, but would be the proper person to
apply to. So Martin Gurwood had gone back to Lullington, leaving his
mother highly incensed at his departure; and his friend, Humphrey
Statham, had no one to talk to about Mrs. Claxton's beauty, patience,
and forlorn condition.
It was on that account that Humphrey chiefly missed Martin. There was
not much else in common between the two men; indeed, they had been
acquainted for years without the acquaintance ripening into intimacy.
From other persons and common friends Martin Gurwood had heard of
Statham's cleverness and tact. On the occasion when he wanted a friend
possessing such qualities he had sought out his old acquaintance, and
found that rumour had not belied him. On his part Statham had to
admire Martin Gurwood's simplicity and earnestness, and having the
Hendon mystery to deal with, and a certain number of complications to
steer through, the alliance between them was close and firm; but it
had Alice Claxton and her welfare for its basis and its mainspring,
and nothing more. Not that Humphrey Statham wanted anything more; he
would have liked Martin Gurwood, however the connection with him had
been brought about; but associated as it was with Alice, this most
recent friendship had a most appreciable value in his eyes.
Martin was gone, and there was no longer any one to whom Humphrey
Statham could indulge in confidential converse; so he took to reveries
and day-dreaming, and thus gave rise to all the odd talk and
speculation about him which was rife in the City. He had settled with
Martin before he left, however, that he should go up, for a time at
least, twice or thrice a week, perhaps, to Pollington-terrace to see
how Mrs. Claxton was getting on, and write fully and candidly to
Martin his impressions of what he saw; and for a time nothing could be
pleasanter reading to one interested in the success of the new
establishment than these letters. Alice seemed gradually to be gaining
health and strength; and if it could not be said that her spirits were
much improved, certainly in that way she had suffered no relapse.
Madame Du Tertre had come out infinitely more favourably than Humphrey
had expected of her. She was unwearying in her devotion to her young
friend, and her affectionate surveillance was just exactly what was
wanted to a young woman in Alice's position. The matter of fending off
neighbourly acquaintance, which they had so much dreaded, had been
admirably managed by Madame Du Tertre, who had pleaded her young
friend's recent bereavement and ill health as an excuse for their not
entering into society; while she had rendered herself most popular by
the courteous way in which she had made the announcement, by her
kindness to the children, and her _savoir faire_ in general.
Martin Gurwood read all this with as great a pleasure as Humphrey
Statham wrote it. All things taken into consideration, nothing
could be progressing more favourably than the establishment in
Pollington-terrace, built though it was, as both men knew, upon a
quicksand, and liable to be engulfed at any moment.
These visits to Pollington-terrace were the holidays in Humphrey
Statham's life, the days to be marked with a white stone, to be dwelt
upon both in anticipation and recollection--days to be made much of,
too, and not to be carelessly enjoyed. Humphrey Statham, since his
early youth a prudent man, was not inclined to be prodigal even of
such delights. Immediately after Martin's departure for the country he
had been a pretty constant visitor at Pollington-terrace, for the
purpose, of course, of keeping his friend properly posted up in all
the movements of its denizens; but after a little he thought it better
to put in an appearance less frequently, and he mortified himself
accordingly. One night, after a ten days' interval, Humphrey thought
he should be justified in paying his respects to the lady, and
providing himself with subject-matter for another letter to-morrow.
Being, as has been said, a man of worldly wisdom, it was his habit to
dismiss his cab at the end of the terrace, and proceed on foot to his
destination, hansom cabs being looked upon by the staid neighbourhood
as skittish vehicles, generally subversive of morals. When Humphrey
reached the house, he saw upon the window-blind the unmistakable
shadow of a man's head. Had Martin Gurwood suddenly returned to town?
No--as the thought flashed across his mind, the head turned, showing
him the profile, with a hook nose, and a flowing beard, with neither
of which could the Vicar of Lullington be accredited. Humphrey Statham
stopped short, scarcely daring to believe his senses. An instant's
reflection convinced him of his folly. What rule was there forbidding
these ladies to receive their acquaintances in their own house? Who
was he to be startled at the unfamiliar silhouette on a window-blind?
Why should such a sight cause him to stop suddenly in his walk, and
set his heart thumping wildly beneath his waistcoat? Martha, the
little maid-of-all-work was, at all events, not influenced by anything
that had occurred. She grinned when she saw Mr. Statham in her usual
friendly manner, and introduced him into the parlour with her
accustomed briskness of bearing.
Mrs. Claxton was there, so was Madame Du Tertre, so was the original
of the silhouette on the window-blind. A tall man this, with a hooked
nose, and a blonde silky beard, and an easy pleasant manner,
introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin, Mr. Henrich Wetter. A deuced
sight too easy a manner, thought Humphrey Statham to himself, as he
quietly remarked the way in which the new-comer paid to Alice
attentions, with which no fault could be found, but were unmistakably
annoying to the looker-on, and to that looker-on the behaviour of the
strange visitor was so ineffably, so gallingly patronising! Mr.
Statham, did he catch the name rightly? Was it Mr. Humphrey Statham of
Old 'Change? O, of course, then, he was well known to everybody. They
were neighbours in the City. He was very pleased to make Mr. Statham's
personal acquaintance.
'Confound his patronising airs!' thought Humphrey Statham to himself.
'Who is this German Jew--he is a German, undoubtedly, and probably a
Jew--that he should vaunt himself in this manner? And how, in the name
of fortune, did he find himself in this house? Madame Du Tertre's
cousin, eh! This Wetter, if he be, as he probably is, of the firm of
Stutterheim and Wetter, ought to have had sufficient respect for his
family to have prevented his cousin from taking the position occupied
by Madame Du Tertre. Bah! what nonsense was he talking now? They had
all reason to be grateful that Madame Du Tertre was in that position,
and she was just the woman who would keep her family in ignorance of
the circumstances under which she had achieved it.'
Exactly as he thought? The subsequent conversation showed him how
wrong he had been. It turned accidentally enough upon the number of
foreigners domesticated in England, a country where, as Mr. Wetter
remarked, one would have thought they would have experienced more
difficulty in making themselves at home than in almost any other.
'Not that,' he said pleasantly--'not that I have any reason to
complain; but I am now a naturalised Englishman, and all my hopes and
wishes--mere business hopes and wishes--alas, Mrs. Claxton, I am a
solitary man, and have no other matters of interest--are centred in
this country. It was here, though I confess with astonishment, that I
found my cousin, Madame Du Tertre, a permanent resident.'
'You were not aware then, Monsieur Wetter,' said Statham, finding
himself addressed, 'that your cousin was in England?'
'Family differences, common to all nations, had unfortunately
separated us, and for some years I had not heard of Pau--Palmyre's
movements.'
'You can easily understand, Mr. Statham,' said Pauline, speaking
between her set teeth, 'that as my cousin's social position was
superior to mine, I was averse to bringing myself under his notice.'
'We will say nothing about that,' said Mr. Wetter, with his pleasant
smile. 'I think Mr. Statham will agree with me, that the social
position which brings about a constant intercourse with Mrs. Claxton
is one which any member of our sex would, to say the least of it, be
proud.'
Humphrey Statham glanced round the circle as these words were uttered.
Alice looked uncomfortable; Madame Du Tertre, savage and defiant; Mr.
Wetter bland and self-possessed. There was silence for a few minutes.
Then Pauline said: 'You have been a stranger for some time, Mr.
Statham; we had been wondering what had become of you.'
'I am delighted to think that the void caused by my absence has been
so agreeably filled,' said Humphrey Statham, with a bow towards Mr.
Wetter. The next minute he cursed his folly for having made the
speech, seeing by Wetter's look that he had thoroughly appreciated its
origin.
'The regret of your absence indicated by Madame Du Tertre I fully
share,' he said, with a polite smile. 'It is my great loss that I have
not met you before in this charming society. At this dull season of
the year, when every one is out of town, I need scarcely say what a
godsend it has been to me to have been permitted to pass an evening
occasionally with two such ladies; and the knowledge that I might have
had the chance of an introduction to Mr. Humphrey Statham would have
been, had it been needed, an additional inducement to drag me from my
dreary solitude.'
That was an uncomfortable evening for all persons present. Even to
Alice--dull, distrait, and occupied with her own sorrow--there was an
evident incongruity in the meeting of the two men. Pauline was
furious, partly at Wetter's cool treatment of her, partly at the idea
that Statham had cross-questioned her as to why she had permitted the
intimacy with Wetter to arise. Wetter himself was annoyed at Statham's
presence on the scene, while Humphrey Statham went away sorry and sick
at heart at all he had seen and heard. The old stories concerning
Wetter which floated about society had reached his ears, and the
recollection of them rushed upon him as he sat in the cab on his
homeward drive. 'How had this man managed to get a footing in Alice's
house; a footing he had evidently obtained, for he spoke of frequent
visits there, and his manner was that of an habitué of the house? He
was introduced as Madame Du Tertre's cousin; but if that were so, that
fact, instead of inspiring confidence in him, was simply sufficient to
create distrust of Madame Du Tertre. He was the last man with whom any
woman, young and inexperienced, more especially any woman in Alice
Claxton's position, should be brought in contact.'
What was best to be done? For an answer to this question Humphrey
Statham racked his brain that night. In any case he must write a full
account of what he had seen, and of the inference he had drawn
therefrom to Martin Gurwood. Martin may not be able to give him any
advice, but it was due to him to let him know what had occurred. He,
in his simplicity, may see nothing in it; but at all events he must
never be able to plead that he was unadvised and unwarned. So before
retiring to his rest that night, Humphrey Statham sat down and wrote
to his friend a full account of his visit, with a candid statement of
the fears and reflections which the presence of such a man as Mr.
Wetter in Alice Claxton's household had aroused in him.
'To you,' he said--'to you who have nothing in your life to repair,
all this may seem very strained; but I, who have _passé par-là_, and
have failed to save one whom I might have saved, know what a sting a
failure may come to mean for all the days of a man's life.'
'Nothing in my life to repair!' cried Martin Gurwood, after he had
read the letter, clasping his hands above his head. 'My God, if there
were but any place for repentance, any possibility of reparation!'