AN EXPLOSION.
In what he called his dreary solitude in South Audley-street (the
landlord being of a different opinion, who was accustomed to mention
it as elegant quarters for a nobleman or private gentleman, and to
charge three hundred a year for the accommodation), Mr. Henrich Wetter
was walking to and fro, just as Martin Gurwood, tired out by his
night's journey, was beginning to open his eyes and to realise the
fact that he was in the Great Northern Hotel. Now sipping his coffee,
now nibbling at his dry toast, while all the time achieving his
toilet, Mr. Wetter communed with himself. His thoughts were of a
pleasant character no doubt, for there was a smile upon his face, and
he occasionally suspended his operations both of breakfasting and
dressing, in order to rub his hands softly together in the enjoyment
of some exquisite sly joke.
'I think so,' he said, pausing in his walk, leaning his elbows on the
velvet mantelpiece of the sitting-room, and regarding himself
approvingly in the looking-glass; 'I think the time has come for me to
bring this little affair to a crisis; dalliance is very delightful
for boys; the bashful glances, the sidelong looks, the tremulous
hand-clasps, and all that sort of thing, are very charming in one's
youthful days, but as one advances in life one finds that
procrastination in such affairs is a grand mistake; either it is to
be, or it is not to be; and it is advisable to know one's fate, to
"put it to the touch, and win or lose it all," as the poet says, as
speedily as possible. I rather think it is to be in this instance. The
young lady, who chooses to pass herself off as Mrs. Claxton, is
remarkably quiet and demure; I should almost be inclined to
characterise her as one of those English bread-and-butter misses, if I
had not been acquainted with her antecedents. "Yes," and "No, thank
you," and "O, indeed!"--that is about the average style of her
conversation; no apparent appreciation of anything spiritual; no smart
reply; no oeillade; nothing piquante or provocative about her;
compared to a Frenchwoman or a New-York belle, she is positively
insipid; and yet she has fascinated me in a way that is quite
inexplicable to myself. It is not her beauty; for, though she is
undoubtedly pretty in her simple English style, I have known hundreds
of more beautiful women. I think the charm must lie in that very want
of manner of which I have just been complaining; in her modesty and
quiet grace, and in the complete absence of her knowledge of her own
powers of attraction; but whatever it may be, it has had an enormous
effect upon me, and I believe myself to be more in love with her than
I have been for many years with any woman.
'She likes me too I think, if one can judge by the manner of any one
so thoroughly undemonstrative. She always makes me welcome when I call
at the house, and accepts, passively indeed, but still accepts, such
small courtesies as I have thought it right to offer her. A woman like
that, accustomed to affection and attention--for I have no doubt old
Calverley was very fond of her in his way--must necessarily want
something to cling to, and Alice has nothing; for though she is very
fond of little Bell, the child is not her own flesh and blood, and
here I have the whole field clear to myself; without any fear of
rivalry; for I do not count Humphrey Statham as a rival,' continued
Mr. Wetter, as a contemptuous smile passed across his face, 'though he
is evidently deeply smitten. I can judge that by the manner in which
he scowled at me the other evening when he found me comfortably seated
there, and by the awkward uncouth manners, mainly consisting of silent
glaring, which an Englishman always adopts whenever he wants to
ingratiate himself with a woman. No, no, Mr. Humphrey Statham, yours
is not the plan to win little Alice's heart. Besides, if I find you
making too much play, I could command the services of my dear cousin;
I could insist that Madame Du Tertre, my old friend Mademoiselle
Pauline Lunelle, should interest herself on my side, and she has
evidently immense influence over the little woman.
'I think,' said Mr. Wetter, softly stroking his long fair beard
as he surveyed himself in the glass, 'I think I will go up to
Pollington-terrace about mid-day to-day; I am looking very well, and
feeling bright and in excellent spirits; and as my plan is well
conceived and well matured, there is no reason why I should any longer
delay putting it into execution. It would be advisable, however,' said
he, reflecting, 'that my dear cousin should not be in the house at the
moment of my visit; I will send down a note to her begging her to come
and see me in the City--a hint which I think she will not dare to
disobey; and while she is making her way eastward, I will go over to
Pollington-terrace.'
Mr. Wetter came to this determination, and to the conclusion of his
dressing and his breakfast simultaneously. He then called a cab, and
proceeded to the City, having the satisfaction on his way thither of
passing another cab proceeding in the same direction, in the occupant
of which he recognised Humphrey Statham. The two gentlemen exchanged
salutations; Mr. Wetter's being bland and courteous, Mr. Statham's
short and reserved; but Mr. Wetter was very much tickled at the
thought of their having met on that particular day, and the smile of
satisfaction never left his face until he arrived at his office. Once
there, he threw himself into his business with his accustomed energy,
for no thought of pleasure passed, or gratification in store, ever
caused him to be the least inattentive to the main chance; foreign
capitalists and English merchants, flashy promoters of fraudulent
companies, and steady-going sober bank directors--men from the
West-end, who, filled with the stories of fabulous fortunes made by
City speculations, and believing in Henrich Wetter's widespread
renown, came to him for advice and assistance; members of parliament
and peers of the realm--all of these had interviews with Mr. Wetter
during the two hours which he chose that day to devote to business,
and all found him clear-headed, and apparently without thought for any
other matter than that which each submitted to him. But when the clock
on his mantelpiece pointed to the hour of one, there was scarcely any
occasion for him to look to it, for the great rush of pattering feet
down the court which his window overlooked, and in which a celebrated
chop-house was situate, informed him that the clerks' dinner-hour had
arrived; and Mr. Wetter rang his bell, and, summoning his private
secretary, intimated his intention of striking work for the day. The
confidential young gentleman, too well trained to say anything at this
unwonted proceeding on his employer's part, found it impossible to
prevent his expressing his surprise by an elevation of his eyebrows--a
movement which Mr. Wetter did not fail to observe, though he made no
comment on it, but he closed his desk, and washed his hands leisurely,
chatting to his companion meanwhile; and then effecting his retreat by
the private staircase--for it was not advisable that the clerks should
see their chief's departure--he stepped into the street, and hailing a
cab was driven away to Pollington-terrace.
Mr. Wetter's self-communings while riding in the cab were much of the
same kind as those which had occupied him during his morning's toilet.
He had directed his driver to take a back route and to avoid the main
thoroughfare, lest he should be seen by Pauline on her journey down to
the City; and there was comparatively so little traffic along the
gaunt streets and in the grim old squares through which he passed,
that his attention was not distracted, and the current of his thoughts
but little disturbed. He would make his formal declaration that day;
he had determined upon that; he should tell Alice that he loved her,
that he had in vain struggled against the passion which she had
inspired in his breast the first time he accidentally saw her, now
some time ago, in the garden at Rose Cottage. She would listen, blush,
and probably be moved to tears; she would talk about marriage, of
course--that was always the way with women in her position--and he
would fence lightly with the subject, giving her no positive assurance
either way. Not that the idea of marrying Alice had ever entered into
his mind, but that he thought it would be better to avoid the
discussion, certainly to avoid the trouble of having to prove to her
how impossible it would be for him to take such a step until he had
established himself more firmly in her favour. There would be little
difficulty in the matter, he thought, though more than if she were a
woman of expensive tastes and luxurious habits. That her manner of
life, simple and modest as it was, seemed to satisfy her, Mr. Wetter
regarded as the most adverse element in the plan of his campaign; but
she would naturally desire to be once more the mistress of a pretty
house, such as she had inhabited when he first saw her, and to be
freed from the companionship and supervision of Madame Du Tertre. To
suggest that by accepting his offer she could be released from the
enforced company of that lady was, Mr. Wetter thought, a great stroke
of generalship.
He alighted from the cab at the corner of the terrace, according to
his custom, for his tact told him that the frequent arrival of
gentlemen visitors in hansom cabs was likely to scandalise Mrs.
Claxton in her neighbours' eyes, and walked quietly up the street. To
Mr. Wetter such expeditions were by no means rare, and if any one had
told him he would have been nervous, he would have laughed in his
informant's face; but, to do him justice, he felt a certain inward
trepidation, and, though a cool wintry breeze was blowing, he raised
his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow as he stood upon the
doorstep after ringing at the bell. He asked for Madame Du Tertre at
first, and his surprise and slight annoyance at learning that she was
from home were admirably feigned. Then he asked for Mrs. Claxton. The
servant recognised him as one of the few regular visitors to the
house, as the only one, moreover, who had been in the habit of placing
largess in her sooty palm, and as a nice, well-dressed, good-looking
gentleman at all times. 'Mrs. Claxton was at home,' she said. 'Would he
walk in?'
Mr. Wetter's nervous trepidation increased as he heard the street-door
close behind him, and he was glad when he found himself alone in the
room to which he was ushered, the servant retiring and promising to
let her mistress know of his advent. Examining himself in the glass,
he saw that he was paler than usual, and that his nether lip trembled.
'It's a deuced odd thing,' he muttered, 'I never felt like this
before. I wish there was a glass of brandy handy. What can there be in
this woman to upset a man like myself, so perfectly accustomed to such
matters?'
The next moment Alice entered the room. Mr. Wetter had admired her
from the first time he set eyes upon her, but thought he had never
seen her looking so lovely as now, with her healthy red and white
complexion set off by her black dress; her shining head with its crisp
ripples of dark brown hair, and her hazel eyes, in which a deep,
settled, somewhat mournful look had succeeded to the ever-flashing
brightly glances of yore. There was something of an air of constraint
about her as she bowed to Mr. Wetter and timidly held out her hand.
'You are surprised to see me, Mrs. Claxton, are you not?' said Wetter,
doing his best to conquer the nervousness which still beset him--'to
see me at such a time of the day, I mean. I have hitherto availed
myself of the privilege of calling upon you in the evening, which, on
account of my being a busy man, you were good enough to extend to me;
but, having occasion to be in this neighbourhood, I took advantage of
the opportunity to inquire after your health.'
Alice murmured something to the effect that she was much obliged to
him, but Mr. Wetter's quick eye detected that she too was nervous and
uncomfortable. And Mr. Wetter thought that this was not a bad chance.
'I am sorry,' said Alice, after a slight pause, 'that Madame Du Tertre
is not within.'
'I am also sorry to miss my cousin,' said Mr. Wetter, 'she is always
so spirituelle, so amiable. But, to tell the truth, my visit of to-day
was not to her, and even had she been at home, I should have asked to
see you.'
'To see me, Mr. Wetter! And why?'
'Because, Mrs. Claxton, I have something to say to you, and to you
alone. A woman even of your small experience,' he continued, with the
faintest sneer playing round his mouth, 'cannot fail to have observed
that you have made upon me more than an ordinary impression; that even
during our brief acquaintance you have inspired me with feelings such
as we are not often permitted in our lives to experience.'
Alice was silent. As she listened to his first words, as the tone in
which he spoke fell upon her ear, the scene then passing seemed to
fade away, and there arose before her mind, a vision of the river-walk
along the banks of the Ouse, just abreast of Bishopthorpe, where in
the calm summer evening Arthur Preston had insulted her with his base
proposal. Mr. Wetter augured well from this silence, and proceeded
more volubly.
'I have known you longer than you imagine,' he said, 'and have admired
you from the first instant I set eyes upon you. I was so captivated
that I determined at all hazards to make your acquaintance; and when I
had done so, I discovered that you were more charming than ever, that
I was more hopelessly enslaved. And then came the fierce desire to win
you, to take you all to myself, to hold you as my own, my only love.'
She was silent still, her eyes fixed on vacancy, though her lips
trembled. Henrich Wetter bent forward and laid his hand upon her
fingers as they twitched nervously in her lap. 'Alice,' he whispered,
'do you hear me?'
The touch roused her at once. 'Yes,' she said, quickly withdrawing her
hand from his as though she had been stung, and rising from her chair,
'I do hear what pains and grieves me in the highest degree.'
'Pains and grieves you, Alice--'
'My name is Mrs. Claxton, and I desire you will call me by it. Yes,
pains and grieves me, Mr. Wetter,' she continued in a breaking voice,
and with a sudden abnegation of her dignity: 'it is cruel in you, it
is not like a gentleman to speak to me in this way without the
slightest encouragement, and within six months of my husband's death.'
Not like a gentleman! That phrase, quietly spoken as it was, and
without any attempt at dramatic emphasis, cut Henrich Wetter to the
soul. He was not a gentleman by birth or breeding, by nature, or even
by education--and he knew it. His life was one long struggle to
deceive on this point those with whom he was brought into contact. He
was always suspecting that his position as gentleman was being called
in question, and often he would sit with lowering brow and flaming
cheek construing the most innocent observations into personal
reflections on himself. Not a gentleman! For an instant he winced
under the phrase, and then with his blood boiling he determined to be
revenged.
He had his voice perfectly under his command as he leant lazily back
in his chair and looked up at her.
'Your husband's death!' he echoed. 'Don't you think, Mrs.--Mrs.
Claxton, you had better drop all that nonsense with me?'
Alice scarcely understood his words, but there was no mistaking the
marked insolence of his tone. 'I--I don't understand you,' she said,
in amazement.
'O, yes, you do!' said Mr. Wetter, with the same lazy air. 'I am not
Mr. Statham, you know, nor one of your neighbours in the terrace here.
I am a man of the world, and understand these matters. Don't talk
about dead husbands to me!'
For an instant Alice stood petrified. For an instant a vague idea
flashed across her that John might not be dead after all. She had
never seen him after death. Could there by any possibility have been a
mistake in his identity?
'I don't understand you, Mr. Wetter,' she said, in a low, hurried
voice. 'Do you mean to say that my husband, Mr. Claxton, is not dead?'
'I mean to say,' said Wetter, 'what you know very well, that the man
with whom you lived in the cottage at Hendon--I saw you there--was not
your husband at all.'
Alice bent forward, leaning her hands upon the table, and looking at
him for an instant with parted lips and heaving breast. Then she said,
'Not my husband! John Claxton not my husband!'
'John Claxton indeed!' cried Wetter. 'Now, how perfectly ridiculous it
is in you to attempt to keep up this nonsense with me! Call the man by
his right name--acknowledge him in his proper position!'
She bent nearer to him with her eyes fixed upon his, and said in a low
voice, 'Are you mad, or am I?'
In an instant Wetter's intelligence showed him the real state of the
case. This woman was not what he had supposed. She believed herself
what she professed to be, the widow of a man named Claxton, not the
mistress of dead John Calverley. What should he do? His rage was over,
his reason had returned, and he was prepared to act in the way which
would best serve his purpose. Should he withdraw from the position he
had advanced, getting out of it as best he might, or should he point
out to her how matters really stood, the fraud of which he had been
the victim, involving her degradation and her shame? That would be the
better plan, he thought, for the end he had in view. To destroy her
worship of John Calverley's memory, to point out to her how low she
had fallen, and then to offer himself as her consoler. That was the
best game in his power, and he determined to play it.
His manner had lost all its insolence, all its familiarity, as he
courteously motioned her to a seat, and said, 'Sit down, madam, and
hear me. Either you are wishing to deceive me, or, as I rather
believe, you have yourself been made the victim of a gross deception.
If the latter be the case, you will require all your nerve to bear
what I am going to tell you. The man whom you knew under the name of
Claxton, and whom you believed to be your husband, was in reality John
Calverley, a married man, married long since to a woman of double your
age.'
She did not start, she did not cry. She looked hard at him, and said
in a voice that seemed to force itself with difficulty through her
compressed lips, 'It is not true! It is a lie!'
'It is true--I swear it!' cried Henrich Wetter. 'I knew Mr. Calverley
in business years ago. Some months before his death I saw him walking
with you in the garden at Hendon, and recognised him at once. I
determined to see you again, but Mr. Calverley's death intervened,
and--' He paused as he saw Alice pointing towards the door.
'Go,' she said, 'if you please--leave me at once, I must be left
alone.'
Mr. Wetter rose. He had made his coup, and he knew that then at least
there was nothing farther to be done. So he took up his hat, made a
quiet and respectful bow, and left the room without uttering a word.
Then Alice flung her arms upon the table, and then burying her head
between them, gave way to the violence of her grief. What wild
exclamations of rage and despair are those which she utters amidst her
bursts and sobbings? What reproaches, what maledictions against him
now discovered to be the author of her misery?
The only distinguishable words are, 'O, my poor dear John! O, my dear
old John!'