On taking his leave, Mr. Wetter rather thought that he had created a favourable3 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 fatigue5, 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 longing6 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 steadily8. 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 dire9 vengeance10 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 recollected11 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 eligible12 match, and were greatly astonished when she had refused his hand; she, a poor dame4 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 repulsive13 it might be to her? There was nothing of actual guilt14 or shame in that past life which Monsieur Wetter could bring against her; she had been merry, light, and frivolous15, 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 provincial16 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 motive18 that she could divine for his keeping himself in concealment20, 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 anguish21 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 frankly22 acknowledges.
Whence this apparently23 inexplicable24 alteration25 in her ideas? She must have been fond of Tom Durham; for had she not toiled26 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, rehabilitation27; 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 dilemma28 for her to be placed in! In that household where she has accepted a position of trust, and is accredited29 by Martin as Alice's guardian30. 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 reposed31 in her? and yet--and yet! Let her once set this man at defiance32, and he would not scruple33 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 annihilate34 the fairy palace of hope which during the last few days she had been building, and to send her forth35 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 mere7 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 imminent36; the performers were only just placed en scène, and there could be no possible chance of a catastrophe37 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 entirely38 depend upon himself. He could not possibly know anything of her former life, and could therefore bring no undue39 influence to bear in his favour; and Pauline thought, even suppose, as was most likely, that Alice repulsed40 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 prosper41 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 superstition42 and imagination, and that unconscious link between them, the fact that they each had something to conceal19, 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 previously43 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 passionate44 domineering woman, with the hot southern blood running in her veins45, 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 discretion46, her common sense was allowed its due influence; and she was too wise, and in her inmost heart too sad, to expect a passionate attachment47 from the man whom she had set up as her idol48. In the new-born humility49 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 haven50 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 deterred51 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 affected52 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 prostrate53 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 desolate54 girl had deepened and increased!
Why, should she doubt Martin Gurwood's disinterestedness55 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 kindly56 sympathies by nature, developed by his profession and by his constant intercourse57 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 spoke17 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 fiery58 jealousy59 of Torn Durham had leapt forward at the slightest provocation60, rendering61 her oftentimes the laughing-stock of her husband and his ribald friends; now, when the first gathering62 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 submission63. 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 benefactor64, of course, but she had never exhibited any other feeling towards him, and Pauline did not think that she would allow her gratitude65 to have much influence over her future. Moreover--but, as Pauline knew perfectly66 well, little reliance was to be placed upon that--she professed67 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 exhausted68, 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 stifled69 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 lighting70 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, imploring71 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 supplication72, 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 meditatively73, '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 sufficiently74 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 secluded75 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 morbid76 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 fixed77 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 intervals78, '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 thoroughly79 subsided80. So, good-night. I will leave the light burning to drive away the evil dreams.'
As Pauline bent81 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!'
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1
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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frankly
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inexplicable
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alteration
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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rehabilitation
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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annihilate
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forth
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imminent
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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entirely
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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disinterestedness
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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