MR. WETTER IS INTERVIEWED.
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 usual _savoir-faire_ completely 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.