“W e have somehow contrived to lose sight of the barouche,” exclaimed Coverdale, after looking up and down the line of carriages in vain; “I expect they must have escaped us when that white-nosed horse shyed at Punch; I fancied I knew which way they had turned, but I must have gone down a wrong street—poor old Crane will be in fits—I wonder what we had better do?”
“What I should suggest is to walk slowly backwards and forwards inside the gate, and watch for their arrival,” returned Arabella, wishing in her secret soul that one of the barouche-horses might have fallen dead lame, or that any other catastrophe, not involving injury to life or limb, might have befallen the rest of the party.
After parading up and down with most laudable perseverance for nearly half an hour, during which time the crowd grew thicker and thicker, and everybody arrived except the party they were in search of, Harry suddenly exclaimed,—
“You’ll be tired to death with all this pushing and squeezing; they must have come some shorter way, and got here before us; let us go on to the conservatory, we shall meet them there, I dare say.”
When they reached the conservatory, however, they found the crowd so dense that to attempt to discover their missing friends would have involved a difficulty, beside which that popular definition of a forlorn hope, “looking for a needle in a bottle of hay,” would have sunk into comparative insignificance. There were a couple of chairs near the exit from the conservatory, from which a lady and gentleman rose as they approached.
“Suppose we take possession of those seats,” suggested Arabella, “and watch the people as they come out; I must honestly confess I am both hot and tired.”
“I sympathise in the first adjective,” returned Harry, taking off his hat to allow the air to cool his heated brow; “I’ve walked up hill through heather on the moors for six hours at a stretch, and not been so warm as this; but then I must own I was in better condition; one eats too many dinners in London, don’t you see, and can’t get exercise enough to keep a fellow in working order.”
Having made a suitable reply to this and sundry other thoroughly Harry Coverdale-ish remarks, Miss Crofton turned the conversation by asking—
“Pray, is that Mr. D’Almayne a particular favourite of yours?”
“Not a bit of it,” was the unhesitating reply; “rather the other thing, in fact. I consider him a confounded puppy; and have what you ladies call a presentiment that some of these days I shall be obliged to give him a lesson which he will not forget in a hurry.”
“Then you also have observed—” began Arabella.
“I have observed nothing in particular,” interrupted Harry, quickly; “but I know this, if I were old Crane I would not have an insufferable, ridiculous, young fop dangling about my house every day, and all day long.”
“I think it is silly and imprudent in Kate to allow it,” returned Arabella, “and I ventured to tell her so, but she did not take the hint kindly, and I have not attempted to recur to the subject. I am afraid her marriage has not improved her; I really believe since I spoke to her she has been kinder to Mr. D’Almayne than before; he and his insinuating young friend, Lord Alfred Courtland, have almost lived in Park Lane this last week.”
“His friend!” exclaimed Harry, “little Alfred is my friend—he and I were at school together—that is, he was at the bottom when I was at the top; I introduced him to D’Almayne myself, and now I wish I had left it alone; oh, there’s no harm in little Alfred—besides, I never heard him speak a dozen words to Kate Crane.” A meaning smile passed across his companion’s handsome features, but she only said,—
“I am sorry he is your friend; I am afraid Mr. D’Almayne is a dangerous acquaintance for so vain and weak a young man.”
“Alfred is no fool, though perhaps firmness is not his strong point,” returned Coverdale; “vain perhaps he is—all handsome boys are, I suppose. But why do you say you are sorry he is my friend?”
Miss Crofton was silent for a minute, then in a timid and hesitating voice replied,—
“You will be angry with me if I tell you my reason for disliking Lord Alfred’s constant visits; you will doubt what I say, and impute to me all kinds of false and evil motives for saying it.”
“Go on,” returned Harry, in a low, stern voice, “you have said too much for me to rest satisfied not to hear more—tell me all you know or suspect; but take care—if, as you say, you value my good opinion—that you speak only the simple truth.”
Thus urged, Miss Crofton proceeded cautiously to relate, that much as it grieved her to say anything which might cause him pain or annoyance, she would not disguise from him that she felt convinced Lord Alfred Courtland was deeply smitten with Alice, and that his frequent visits to Park Lane were the result of his admiration—that, moreover, Horace D’Almayne was evidently doing his best to nurse what had been a mere boyish fancy into a warmer and stronger feeling; of his motive she was unable to judge, but of the fact she was certain; she believed, moreover, that he possessed a strong and daily increasing influence over the young man.
“And Alice?” inquired Coverdale, with flashing eyes, “what of Alice? Beware how you tell me that she encourages this misguided, foolish boy! for by heaven, if you do, and it should appear that you have misjudged her, I should be tempted to inform her and all the world the reason which has induced you to invent such malicious calumnies!”
“You wrong me by your unkind suspicions,” was Arabella’s calm reply, “as much as you wrong yourself by an ungenerous threat which you would be incapable of executing; it is not for me to judge Mrs. Coverdale one way or the other. I have satisfied my conscience in warning you; I leave you now to examine and observe for yourself, and test the truth of my statement—but of one thing I am certain, Horace D’Almayne has some deep scheme in petto, and that he is an unscrupulous adventurer, clever enough to render him a most dangerous associate for any one—a person to beware of, in short.”
“If I become convinced he is putting young Alfred up to any such rascality as you imagine, I’ll break the scoundrel’s neck for him!” growled Coverdale, in a tone like the rumbling of distant thunder.
As he spoke some one touched him on the shoulder, and looking round, he was more surprised than pleased to see the object of his kind intentions standing behind the chair on which he was seated. How long he might have been there, or how much of their conversation he might have heard, it was impossible to tell; but so convinced was Coverdale that D’Almayne had been playing the eavesdropper, that he was on the point of inquiring what amount of information he had thus acquired, and especially whether he had clearly understood the fate that awaited him, if he were really inciting “little Alfred” to make love to his wife, when D’Almayne, who possessed a womanly predilection for always having the first and last word, began—
“Pardon me if I interrupt what appears a most interesting conversation, but I have been hunting all over the gardens for the last half-hour to find you. Mr. Crane imagines you have eloped with his phaeton and horses, and Mrs. Coverdale is so completely au désespoir at the loss of her husband, that even Lord Alfred Courtland’s attentions are powerless to console her;—really, Miss Crofton, it is too cruel of you to seduce Benedick from his allegiance to his Beatrice—you might be content with enslaving us poor bachelors!”
This speech was not particularly palatable to Arabella, and she would probably have passed it over in contemptuous silence had she not glanced at Coverdale; but, perceiving by his flashing eye and quivering lip that he was so angry that he literally dared not trust himself to reply, she hastened to prevent anything unpleasant occurring between them, by observing in her usual calm, slightly sarcastic manner—
“It is like Mr. D’Almayne’s policy to screen himself by throwing the blame on the injured party. We have been roaming up and down like restless ghosts, hunting for Mrs. Crane and Mrs. Coverdale for the last half-hour—ever since we arrived, in fact, until I grew so tired, that out of compassion Mr. Coverdale allowed me to sit down and rest.”
“One word, Mr. D’Almayne,” interrupted Harry, regardless of an imploring look and gentle pressure of the arm from Arabella Crofton, “you made a joke (for I suppose you do not wish me to consider you spoke seriously) about my wife a minute ago; now I’m a quick-tempered fellow—touchy you may call it, upon some points, and this happens to be one of them; so to prevent anything disagreeable, I tell you frankly I don’t like such jokes—you understand?”
Horace did understand; he glanced at Harry’s face. The handsome mouth was sternly compressed—the small, well-cut nostril quivered, and the large dark eyes flashed with the anger he could scarcely restrain, his tall form was drawn up to its full height—his broad chest dilated, and the muscles stood out on his stalwart arms until their shape became visible beneath the “Zephyr Paletot;” altogether, Coverdale did not look just then the kind of man with whom it would be pleasant to quarrel: so D’Almayne, deeming “discretion the better part of valour,” smiled, and said something which might mean anything, and conveyed a clear idea of nothing, in his most fascinating manner, and then piloted his companions to the spot where he had agreed on a rendezvous at a certain time with the Crane party. They had not yet made their appearance, however, and D’Almayne (who, since Harry gave him the “caution” conveyed in his last speech, had evinced a marked desire to keep on good terms with, and out of arms reach of, so dangerous an acquaintance), guessing their whereabouts, volunteered to go and fetch them.
“Pray do not quarrel with that man,” urged Arabella, as D’Almayne quitted them; “you are as little his equal in scheming and manœuvring, as he is yours in strength and courage, and for this reason he is more to be dreaded than if he were a very Hercules; do not lose your temper with him, for by so doing you will put yourself in the wrong and play his game; come, be guided by me in this matter; believe me, my only object is to secure your happiness.”
As she spoke, she looked up in his face with such an expression of interest, not to say affection, that Coverdale, whose anger at the worst was always a very evanescent affair, felt an impulse of pity for her, which appeared in the softened tones of his voice, as he replied:—
“Don’t be afraid; I’m not going to give him his deserts at present, and I’m very sorry I spoke harshly to you just now; but I know Alice to be so good, and true, and pure—innocent and spotless as a child (by heaven, the slightest blow to my faith in her would drive me mad!), and the mere mention of that foolish boy supposing her to be a fit recipient for his romantic sentimental nonsense, made me lose my temper: but you need not fear my doing anything hasty. I shall, as you advise, observe Alfred Courtland, and if, as I feel certain, his attentions annoy Alice, I shall speak to him seriously and kindly (I know the boy has a good heart, and that it is D’Almayne who has set him on this business, if he is set on it); then, finding I am aware of it, his fancy will die a natural death; but I have little expectation that my preaching will be required. Alice’s indifference will work the best cure.”
As he spoke, the Crane party came in sight, Kate and her husband leading the van, closely attended by Horace D’Almayne; while, at some little distance behind them, lingered Alice on the arm of Lord Alfred Courtland. As they came up, he was addressing her in an earnest, pleading manner. Alice appeared thoughtful and distraite, but the moment her eye fell upon Harry and Miss Crofton she started, coloured up, and turning to her companion, said in a hurried, eager tone—
“Such constancy and perseverance, my lord, deserve rewarding,” and as she spoke she gave him a rosebud she carried in her hand, which he fastened in his button-hole with an expression of eager delight.
Alice’s words and action were neither of them lost upon her husband or his companion.
It is popularly asserted and believed that everything has two sides to it. Even a plum-pudding has an inside and an out; and that romantic malady, yclept “love unrequited,” although at first sight it appears an entirely one-sided affair, often demonstrates its bilateral capabilities by proving a much less heart-rending business than was imagined, when the lapse of time enables one to discern the bright side of the picture. The Crane expedition to the Horticultural Fête formed no exception to this law of nature:—thus, at the moment when Harry, like Hamlet’s unfortunate papa, was having poison poured into his ear, and was gradually working himself up to the bolster-scene-in-Othello pitch, Alice, that pleasant little Desdemona, unconsciously amused herself with Cassio, Lord Courtland, emulating Dr. Watts’s “busy bee,” by flitting from flower to flower, laughing at very small jokes, and altogether conducting herself with great levity, and in a singularly undignified manner—at least, so Mr. Crane thought; and as he was said to be made of gold, his opinions ought to have partaken of the value of that precious metal. But Mr. Crane had never quite forgiven Alice for not appreciating his many excellences, and was disposed to judge her harshly. After a time, however, when the novelty of the scene began to wear off—when Alice had reviewed the contents of Howell and James’s, Swan and Edgar’s, Redmayne’s, and other ruination shops, on the fair forms of the ladies of the land—when she had “oh-how-beautiful-ed” and “isn’t-it-lovely-ed” the flowers to her heart’s content—when she had heard, and longed to dance to, the Guard’s band, suddenly a dark vision rose to her mind’s eye—her husband tête-à-tête with that evil mystery, Arabella Crofton, obscured the sunshine of her spirit; the rose-coloured spectacles through which she had beheld Vanity Fair fell off; the serpent had entered in; and, for Alice Coverdale, Chiswick was Paradise no longer. Thereupon she decided that Lord Alfred was a silly, tiresome boy, and worried her with his childish nonsense; that Mr. Crane was a fractious old idiot, who ought to be shut up in an appropriate asylum; that Kate looked bored and tired, which she did not wonder at; that Horace D’Almayne was fitter for the Zoological than the Horticultural Gardens, and deserved to be caged with the chimpanzees without loss of time; and, finally (forgetting their separation had resulted from a caprice of her own), that Harry was very unkind to stay away from her in that way, with that hateful creature, Arabella Crofton, whom she was sure he liked after all, though he did pretend to treat her so coldly.
Then people began to push and crowd, and dresses became tumbled; and D’Almayne having left the party to look for Harry and Miss Crofton, Mr. Crane misled them, and they fell into difficulties, and were very hot and uncomfortable; and Alice quite pined to meet her husband, whose sturdy arm would have supported her, and whose tall figure and broad shoulders would have forced a way for her through the crowd. Next, Lord Alfred began to tease her to give him a flower from her bouquet, and got snubbed for his pains; until Horace D’Almayne, returning, made his report, viz., that, after much toil and trouble, he had at length discovered Miss Crofton and Mr. Coverdale, seated together in a shady corner, apparently absorbed in some deeply interesting topic of conversation. This information, tallying so exactly with her worst fears, and finding poor little Mrs. Coverdale both vexed and tired, very nearly produced a burst of tears, to avoid which pathetic display she did that which the unfortunate first Mrs. Dombey failed to effect—viz., she “made an effort,” and became, not exactly herself again, but Alice Coverdale as she appeared when enacting the heartless coquette. And this she did, poor child! not from a want, but from a superfluity of heart. So, seeking to read her truant husband a practical moral lesson on the iniquity of charioteering dangerous damsels, in common with whom he possessed mysterious antecedents, she afforded Lord Alfred a “material guarantee” of her favour, in the shape of the flower he had coveted; and having thus firmly riveted his chains, ostensibly petted and made much of her captive. This conduct on his wife’s part was by no means calculated to soothe Harry Coverdale, pained, ruffled, and excited by his conversation with Arabella Crofton; and, without reflecting on the prudence or politeness of such a proceeding, he left his late companion to take care of herself, and stalking with stately steps, as of an offended lion, up to Lord Alfred Courtland, observed, in a tone of dignified irony—
“I am much obliged to your Lordship for taking such extreme care of Mrs. Coverdale, but will now relieve you from any further trouble on her account: take my arm, Alice.”
Lord Alfred, strong in the possession of his rosebud, felt inclined to resist, and murmured something about its being a pleasure rather than a trouble; while Alice was just determining to support her swain, when luckily she happened to read in Harry’s flashing eye symptoms of the approach of an attack of his “quiet manner,” so hastily disengaging her arm, she placed it within that of her husband, saying, as she did so—
“I am not going to let this truant escape, now that I have caught him. He deserves punishment—so I shall inflict my society upon him for the rest of the afternoon, unless,” she added, with a glance which bewitched Lord Alfred more completely than before, “I should find any stringent necessity to exercise my feminine prerogative of changing my mind.”
“Your friend Mr. Coverdale’s method of relieving you of your fair charge was more vigorous than polite, mon cher,” remarked D’Almayne to Lord Alfred, who, feeling he was de trop, had left the wedded pair to their own devices. “However, I think I have obtained a clue, which I have only to follow up, to arrive at a discovery which will help you on with your pretty little lady-patroness, by rendering her more the femme incomprise, and neglected wife than ever.”
“Indeed!” was the reply; “what a clever fellow you are! I certainly owe Coverdale one, for his manner to me just now was anything but nice. Tell me, what have you discovered?”
“Well, it seems nothing very remarkable at first; but many a large and goodly oak has grown from as small an acorn. Listen—the immaculate Harry Coverdale has a private understanding with that dark-eyed gipsy, Arabella Crofton; they are a great deal more intimate and confidential in a tête-à-tête, than they allow themselves to appear in general society. I must try and learn what passed between them in Italy, and I think I can do so with very little trouble. I saw a man in town yesterday, Archie Campbell, who married one of the Muir girls, with whom the fair—or rather the dark—Arabella lived as governess, when they tried to exchange their Scotch brogue for the lingua Toscana. She went to Italy with them, and there met Harry Coverdale—that I know as a fact; for additional particulars, I shall apply to the said Archie.”
“Then do you think—do you conceive—do you mean to imply, in fact, that Mr. Coverdale is attached to this Miss Crofton?” stammered Lord Alfred, colouring, as though he, and not Alice’s husband, were the supposed delinquent.
“You always put things into such plain words, mon cher; it is a foolish habit, and the sooner you can divest yourself of it the better,” was D’Almayne’s reply; “probably the mighty Nimrod, in flirting with Miss Crofton, means no more harm than you do by your Platonic attachment for his pretty wife. Nevertheless, if such should prove the fact, and you gently insinuate the same to la belle Alice, the chances are that she will be kinder than ever, to evince her gratitude for your having rendered her jealous of her husband—not that you seem to require any help—I saw where that rosebud came from, coquin; but now you may, if you will, render me a service; find your way to the entrance-gate, and wait till my friend, Monsieur Guillemard, makes his appearance—probably you will find him waiting there already—and having discovered him, bring him here.”
As the obedient lordling strolled away on his mission, the indefatigable Horace gathered a rose; then approaching Kate Crane, he lisped in his most dreamy and affected style—
“I’ve been searching everywhere to find a rose of that peculiar tint which might harmonise and yet contrast well with your dress; at length, I am charmed to say my efforts have been successful. Mr. Crane, will you favour me by presenting this rose to Madame? Coming through your hands, I feel sure it will be accepted.”
“No, positively; that is, really it will be much more fitting—if I may be allowed to say so—that, as you have been so obliging as to find it, you should yourself present it. Mrs. Crane will, I feel convinced, be happy to acknowledge your politeness, by accepting a flower offered—if I may be permitted to say so—with such propriety and respect.”
D’Almayne appeared about to avail himself of the permission which Mr. Crane thus graciously accorded him; when suddenly drawing back, he exclaimed, “Excuse me one minute; the thorns are so very sharp, I am afraid to hand it to you without some protection against them;”—then, taking a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, he wound it round the stem of the flower, and fixing his eyes with a meaning look on those of Kate, he gave her the rose. Having done so, he began talking to Mr. Crane; and soon contrived, by a judicious selection of topics, chiefly connected with the Stock Exchange, to engross that zealous Mammonite’s attention. As soon as his wife perceived this to be the case, she unrolled the paper from the stem of the rose, and, glancing at it hastily, perceived the following words written in Horace D’Almayne’s neat hand: “Give me five minutes’ conversation—I will make the opportunity, if you will avail yourself of it.” Instantly crushing it in her hand, she rushed into conversation with Arabella Crofton, on the merits and demerits of certain new annuals; which subject, skilfully managed, lasted her until Lord Alfred Courtland returned, arm in arm with Monsieur Guillemard, better got up, more jaunty, and in yellower kid gloves than ever. This vivacious foreigner was instantly captured by Horace, and desired to explain, “as he alone could do,” the peculiar advantages of that famous investment in Terra Cotta preference bonds, as Mr. Crane had an odd £10,000 lying comparatively fallow—only at three-and-a-half per cent—which he would be glad to put out well. So, foolish avarice and clever roguery ambled off together. Then D’Almayne contrived to dispatch Coverdale and his wife to look at a wonderful specimen of the Hypothetica Screamans, and to saddle Lord Alfred with Arabella Crofton, although that smitten young aristocrat would have preferred to have trotted mildly about after Alice, like a pet lamb. Having disposed of these supernumeraries, he as a matter of course offered his arm to Kate, who had quietly acquiesced in his arrangements, and followed at such a judicious distance that, although they still belonged to the party, in effect they enjoyed all the advantages of a tête-à-tête.
D’Almayne was the first to break silence. “This is most kind,” he said, “and leads me to hope that you are at length beginning to understand me—to perceive that my only wish is to act the part of a true friend towards you. I have a conviction that I owe a duty to you, for I often reflect with pain how large a share I had in bringing about your marriage.”
At these words Kate gave a slight start, and her colour deepened: not appearing to observe these signs of agitation, her companion resumed:
“You may not be aware that it was by my advice that Mr. Crane transferred his attentions from your cousin (whose affection for Mr. Coverdale I perceived would oppose an effectual barrier to his wishes) to yourself:—my object in doing so was twofold. Mr. Crane had shown me much kindness and attention; he was anxious to marry some one whose presence would invest his home with an air of distinction and attractiveness which his wealth could never bestow. The moment I beheld Miss Marsden, I felt that no one could do so more efficiently. Thus, from an impulse of gratitude towards Mr. Crane, I persuaded him that it would be in every way a most suitable and desirable match, and induced him to make such an offer to Mr. Hazlehurst as should neutralize any objection that gentleman might have had to your occupying the position he had destined for his daughter. Again mistaking, in great measure, both your character and that of Mr. Crane, I believed you would have suited each other far better than I fear is the case: I fancied you ambitious, and that the power which wealth would bestow would render you not only contented, but happy; while I trusted marriage would develop in Mr. Crane traits of generosity and tenderness of which I now am forced to confess his nature is incapable. Had I guessed this sooner, I need scarcely add, the respect and admiration I have always experienced for one so gifted as you are, would have prevented my advocating the match. All that now remains for me is to compensate, as far as it is in my power to do so, for any little failures in tact (believe me they are nothing more) of which my excellent friend, Mr. Crane, may be guilty; and I speak thus honestly and openly, in order that, appreciating my motives, you may place full confidence in me, and thus enable me,”—and here he sank his voice almost to a whisper—“to assist you in bearing the burden which I have unconsciously helped to place upon you.”
“I must believe you mean kindly by me,” was Kate’s reply; “but you are aware that, with me, deeds tell better than words. Has the application been made?”
“Yes.”
“And with what result? But I fear I need scarcely ask.”
“Not a favourable one, I regret to say. Mr. Crane saw Mrs. Leonard, hoping, I fancy, that she might have learned some tidings of her husband; but when he became aware of the object of her visit, he not only refused to assist her, or to do anything for her children, but grew irritated, reproached her with what he termed her husband’s infamous conduct, declared he had lost thousands of pounds by his negligence, and wound up by threatening that, if she ever set foot in his house again, he would give her in charge to the police. When I visited her, I found her in tears, and utterly heart-broken by this failure of her last hope.”
“You must go to her again,” exclaimed Kate, eagerly; “tell her you have mentioned her necessities to a lady of your acquaintance, who is willing, and, thank God, able to assist her; give her money; find out what she most requires; devise some plan by which she may be enabled to support herself and educate her children. Oh! if I can save this poor family from ruin, it will be some little——” She checked herself abruptly, then continued: “Mr. Crane is most liberal to me, and allows me more than I have the least occasion or desire to spend on myself—so do not let them want for anything. And oh! be most careful—you say she is a lady, poor thing!—be most careful not to wound her feelings. You do not know how shrinkingly sensitive poverty makes natures that are at all refined.”
“I fear Mr. Crane’s words, spoken, I dare say, under a very just feeling of annoyance, both pained and irritated her,” returned D’Almayne. “She naturally draws a strong line between the fact that her husband has been imprudent and unfortunate, and the insinuation that he had been criminal. Mr. Crane, I grieve to say, appeared to doubt the truth of her statement, that Mr. Leonard was ignorant of his partner’s intended flight and defalcation.”
“Ungenerous! cruel!” murmured Kate, carried away by her excitement, and forgetting, or perhaps at the moment scarcely heeding, the fact that D’Almayne’s quick ears were eagerly drinking in these acknowledgments of the estimation in which she held her husband.
“I am most anxious to save you all trouble in this matter,” resumed D’Almayne; “but it would be a great satisfaction to me, and relieve me of a responsibility for which I am scarcely fitted, if you would not object to visit Mrs. Leonard yourself: She is already most anxious to see and thank the kind benefactress to whom I have informed her she is indebted. Were you once to talk to her, you would perceive the gentle yet strong nature we have to deal with; you would learn her hopes, fears, and prospects, from her own lips, rather than through such an unworthy interpreter as myself; you would see the interesting children;—may I hope that you will consent?”
Kate paused—considered; but her answer demands a fresh chapter.
The question we left Kate Crane considering in the last chapter she decided thus:—
“I should like to visit Mrs. Leonard,” she said slowly. “I feel the truth of all you urge—but there are difficulties in the way; Mr. Crane would greatly disapprove of such a proceeding on my part.”
“He need never know it,” suggested D’Almayne, in a voice little above a whisper.
“He need not,” returned Kate, calmly, “but I have since my marriage made it a point of conscience never to do anything which I should object to Mr. Crane’s hearing of; I still consider the rule a good one, and am disinclined to break through it.”
“Does not your sensitive conscience,” rejoined D’Almayne, “lead you to refine rather too much, until, adhering to the form of goodness, you in a great degree lose the substance, and thus, by a chivalrous scruple of never disobeying your husband, miss an opportunity of doing real good, by which you would neutralise the injury which Mr. Crane’s peculiarities may otherwise inflict upon this unfortunate family? I think, if you reflect on this for a minute, your excellent sense will convince you that your amiable but romantic scruple is fallacious.”
Kate did reflect, and apparently her convictions assumed the shape D’Almayne had predicted, for she replied in a less assured voice than that in which she had formerly addressed him—
“Mr. D’Almayne, you have spoken more honestly and openly to-day than you have ever done before, and I will treat you with equal frankness. You were acquainted with Mr. Crane before I had ever heard his name; you appear to know him well; you have alluded generally to his good points, and have pointed out his weak ones with equal talent and perspicuity. I neither admit nor deny your statements—but, in the individual instance before us, I believe that you are right. You have been very kind in this matter; you first introduced this poor Mrs. Leonard to my notice; you have since taken much disinterested trouble on her account; you possess great tact, and have divined the happiness it affords me to assist those who, from misfortune and poverty, have fallen from the rank of gentlewomen;—therefore, in this matter, I feel you have a claim to work with me; for the first time, therefore, I will repose confidence in you. I wish to visit this poor lady—how am I to accomplish it without my husband’s knowledge?”
Horace D’Almayne had won his point, Horace D’Almayne was happy! yet he did not clap his hands, neither did he hurrah wildly, nor dance a lively measure around Kate Crane, whom he believed he had circumvented in a different manner; but he forced his imperturbable countenance into an expression of philanthropic benevolence and gratitude, and arranged with Mrs. Crane a plan by which, during her husband’s daily worship in the temple of Mammon his god—an edifice more familiarly known in the good city of London as the Stock Exchange—she should visit unfortunate Mrs. Leonard, and witness with her own eyes how justly the prince of this world (who is identical with the monarch of a lower kingdom still) distributes his subjects’ property.
About this time all the members of this disunited party assembled, and jointly and severally ended their day’s enjoyment (?) by returning home tired, dejected, and suffering more or less from that ailment which defies those guinea-pigs, “the faculty”—an ailment as rife in St. James’s as are cholera and smallpox within the precincts of St. Giles’s—an ailment which, thanks to those bitter curses, the forms, ceremonies, requirements, and prejudices of society, afflicts and hangs heavily on many an honest man and loving woman—an ailment indigenous even in our glorious constitution, and which has as many aliases as shapes, the spleen, ennui, but truest name of all, the Heart-ache!
“Ogni Medaglia ha il suo reverso,” there is no rule without its exception! Horace D’Almayne was the exception to this particular rule—he was not troubled with heart-ache, because, in the metaphysical sense of the word, he did not possess a heart; but nature had made it up to him by giving him a very clear head, and thus it reasoned:—
“Yes, my pretty Kate, tout va bien; you have grown civil, almost kind—not yet affectionate, but that is to come. Yet she is clever; doubts, suspects me!—what children women are, even clever women; once appeal to their feelings, their impulses—bah! their reason lies captive before you—they are puppets in your hand. Ah! c’est bien drôle cette petite existence ici bas! for the rest, all goes well; the beautiful Kate shall compromise herself—the millionaire shall open wider his purse strings—the bank wins for me—the little Alfred plays my game—courage, Horace! thy star is in the ascendant, you will die a rich man yet!”
The morning after the Horticultural Fête, Coverdale suggested to his wife that they had, in his opinion, spent sufficient time and money in the gay metropolis, and that agricultural and manorial duties called him to the country forthwith; but Alice pleaded so earnestly for only one week more of dissipation, with Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s soirée dansante at the end of it, that Harry could not find it in his heart to refuse her. Scarcely had he yielded the point, when a letter arrived from Tom Rattleworth, Magistrate, and Master of Fox-hounds, to inform him that, owing to the baneful influence of a certain grand seigneur in the neighbourhood, it was proposed to enclose a common and turn a road, which would destroy a favourite fox cover, and give Coverdale half-a-mile further to drive to the nearest railway-station—that the matter was to be decided at the next meeting of Magistrates—that he (Thomas) had striven tooth and nail to get up an opposition, in which he had been tolerably successful, and that he considered it only required Coverdale’s presence to prevent the evil altogether. Thus urged, Harry had but one course to pursue, viz., commend his wife to Mrs. Crane’s safe custody, and start for Coverdale Park forthwith, promising to return in time for “Lady Tat. Trott.‘s benefit,” as he was pleased to term it. Alice at first opposed his going, but when she found the question resolved itself into one of these alternatives, either that she must let him go alone, or give up her ball and accompany him, her opposition ceased. So Harry packed his carpet-bag and departed—and the hours rolled by on their patent noiseless wheels, until the time appointed for that notable solemnity, Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s soirée dansante, arrived.
On that day Lord Alfred Courtland invited to a quiet dinner, at his comfortable bachelor lodgings, Horace D’Almayne, Monsieur Guillemard, and a youth who, because he was in every particular Lord Alfred’s exact opposite, was an especial crony of his.
Jack Beaupeep, ætatis twenty-five, was a clerk in a public office with a salary of £150 per annum, on which, by means of his talents, he contrived to live at the rate of——anything under a thousand. As, however, we shall not have very much to do with him in the course of this history, we will spare the reader further details by summing up his character in the two expressive words, “fast” and “funny.” Everybody knows a fast, funny man; and his was a bad case of the complaint. At a quarter to eight, P.M., on the day in question, this excellent young buffoon of private life betook himself to Lord Alfred’s lodgings, and finding himself first in the field, looked around with a practised eye for the best means of turning the situation to comic effect. First he perceived a valuable statuette of Venus, as she appeared before the discovery of the art of dress-making, for which his innate sense of propriety led him to improvise a petticoat, by means of a doyley and a small portion of the red tape of old England, purloined from her Britannic Majesty’s stores that morning, and secreted by the delinquent for any possible exigencies of practical jesting. Having attired this young lady to his satisfaction, he obligingly bestowed on her a real Havannah cigar, which, thrust through an opening left by the sculptor in her clenched hand, with the end resting against her ambrosial lips, resembled a speaking-trumpet, and gave her that “ship-ahoy!” kind of appearance with which early engravers were pleased to endow Fame. He then wrote and watered on the pedestal of the statuette thus embellished a label, bearing the inscription, “Eugénie, Empress of the French,” murmuring to himself, “Delicate little compliment to the illustrious foreigner who is coming.” Next he availed himself of a pair of boxing-gloves; “unearthing,” as he termed it, the rolls inserted in two of the dinner napkins, and substituting for them these elementary instructors in the noble art of self-defence; and, lastly, espying the cruet-stand, he had just time to reverse the contents of the pepper and sugar casters, and confuse all the sauces, when to him entered Lord Alfred Courtland.
This young nobleman’s appearance had considerably changed since first we had the pleasure of describing him. By abstruse study, and unflagging attention to the sayings and doings of men-about-town, he had acquired many noble attributes—he could lounge and dawdle, and walk with a pert yet lazy roll in his gait, as of a tipsy dancing-master, or of a cock-sparrow afflicted with sciatica; he could lisp as though his very tongue was too about-town-ish to speak plain, unadulterated English; he could make play with his eyes half shut, like a timid girl, or stare with them offensively wide open, like an insolent coxcomb, though he was not quite perfect in this last manœuvre as yet. Also, his clothes were large and loose enough for himself and half another man-about-town besides; and he had a bunch of baby’s toys, modelled in gold, dangling from his watch-chain—Lilliputian house furniture, and a gun, and a sword, and a pistol to match, and a little man in armour with impossible features, accompanied by a horrid little skull of the same after his decease, with two of his little golden marrow-bones crossed under it, as if they were saying their prayers; there was likewise a ridiculous fish, which wagged its tail, and a fox’s mask, as it is “knowing” to term the physiognomy of that astute quadrupedal martyr; the whole to conclude with a limp and jointed Punchinello, or Tomfool, as a pendant (in every sense of the word) to the fool of larger growth who wore these childish absurdities. Thus attired and adorned, Lord Alfred Courtland withdrew one white hand from a pocket of his liberal trousers, and, laying it on Beaupeep’s shoulder, with a want of energy, general lassitude, and fish-out-of-water-ishness of manner, which did him infinite credit, drawled forth—
“Ah! my dear fellar! this is very good of you, to come at such short notice!”
“Not at all, not at all,” was the brisk reply, for Beaupeep did not go in for, or revere, the all-to-pieces style, but rather made it a theme for playful jesting; “when I got your invite, I just scribbled off a line to Palmerston to say I’d dine with him to-morrow instead of to-day.”
Lord Alfred quietly raised his eyebrows, while, nothing abashed, Beaupeep continued—
“It’s very jolly to be on those terms with a man like ‘Pam.,’ and I consider it quite sufficient recompense for my unwearying devotion to my public duties.”
“It really won’t do with me, my dear Jack,” interrupted Lord Alfred, in a tone of affectionate remonstrance; “reflect how long we’ve known each other!”
“By the way,” recommenced Jack, ignoring the interruptional rebuke, “talking of ‘Pam.’ puts me in mind of the Foreign Office, which, not unnaturally, leads to the inquiry of who may be the illustrious ‘Mossoo’ who is to make our fourth to-day?”
“Monsieur Guillemard! oh, he is a very gentlemanly and intelligent Frenchman, and a particular friend of Horace D’Almayne’s.”
“But what is he?” continued Beaupeep, pertinaciously; “is he a noble political exile, or a perruquier from the Palais Royal, who can’t meet his liabilities? does he gain a frugal living by imparting a knowledge of his native tongue in six lessons, at half-a-crown each? or——”
“Hush! here he is,” interrupted Lord Alfred, as a smart rat-tat-tat at the house-door announced an arrival; “he has something to do with the funds, and the financial interests, and the Rothschilds, and all that mysterious pounds, shillings, and pence business, in regard to which I have, I am afraid, no clearly defined ideas.”
“Except to spend ’em first, and make your governor shell-out afterwards, you lucky beggar you!” was the plainly audible aside, as the servant announced Monsieur Guillemard and Mr. D’Almayne.
After the ceremony of introducing the volatile Jack to the new comers had been performed, that individual immediately attached himself, and devoted his conversation to Monsieur Guillemard, whom he persisted in addressing as “Mossoo le Comte,” and whom he seemed to imagine just caught in some very foreign country indeed, and ignorant of the simplest English manners and customs; a delusion to which that gentleman’s limited acquaintance with Bindley Murray’s, or, indeed, any other British grammar, lent some slight colouring.
“I think I observed, Mossoo le Comte, that you came in a Hansom cab?” remarked Jack.
“Yers, we promenaded in a ver handsome carb, a handsome hors also; you shall drive some much more handsome hors in your street than with us,” was the reply.
“The native British cab is a great and noble product of the liberal institutions of this free and happy land,” returned Jack, oratorically; “if an Englishman chooses to walk, an enlightened legislature not only allows him to do so, but provides him with a granite pavement to walk upon; if he chooses to ride, the legislature has a cab awaiting his slightest wink—a mere contraction of the eyelid, Mossoo le Comte, obtains for the wearied Englishman a luxurious vehicle, a swift and steady horse, and a skilful driver, prepared to convey him one mile in any conceivable direction, for the trifling outlay of sixpence sterling.”
“With the advantage of studying the patois of Billingsgate in for the money, when the cabman returns thanks for his fare,” added D’Almayne.
Jack Beaupeep favoured him with a glance of inquiry which, if it had been framed in words, would have run thus—“Are you a knave or a fool?” Apparently deciding in favour of the former hypothesis, he resumed—
“The additional attraction to which you so perspicuously allude, my dear sir, involves yet another striking peculiarity—viz., this driver, who so carefully conducts you through the crowded thoroughfares of our colossal metropolis, is no servile hireling, no parasitical serf to crouch at your feet, but a man, sir—a freeborn Briton—with as much vested right in ‘Rule Britannia’ as yourself. Sir! when a dissatisfied cabman alludes to my eyes and limbs, I open widely those aspersed optics, proudly draw up those vituperated limbs, and rejoice that he and I are fellow-countrymen!”
“My dear Jack, we’re not upon the hustings; we have none of us the slightest intention of coming in for anywhere; and dinner has been served for the last five minutes,” suggested his host, mildly.
Favouring him with a melodramatic scowl, which, at “Sadler’s Wells” or the “Victoria,” would, in theatrical parlance, have “brought down the house,” Jack exclaimed—
“Is it thus a haughty aristocracy strives to trample on the honest poor man! it is not well in ye, my lord, and before an illustrious foreigner, too; alas, my country!”—then perceiving that Guillemard was regarding him with a glance which evinced extreme doubts as to his sanity, that D’Almayne was looking supercilious, and Lord Alfred annoyed at his absurdity, Jack experienced the proud conviction that he had attained his object—viz., to astonish, confuse, and discomfit everybody. Having done so, he dropped the heroic, and condescended to make himself agreeable after the fashion of ordinary mortals, which, as he was really clever and well-informed, he succeeded in doing to a degree that, in great measure, effaced his previous misconduct from the recollection of his associates. He prefaced his reformation, however, by contriving to seat Guillemard by one of the boxing-gloved napkins, a manœuvre which elicited from that perplexed foreigner the exclamation, “Mais que diable! vot shall zies be?” and a reproving “Jack, you idiot, how can you!” from Lord Alfred, who was equally amused and scandalised at his friend’s absurdities. But a Frenchman’s tact is seldom long at fault; and by the time Guillemard had extricated the boxing-glove from its envelope, he continued—
“Ah, je comprends, I apprehend! Monsieur Jacques Pipbo! il est gai, il est farceur, he vos play vot you call von practicable joke, n’est-ce-pas, Milor?—bien comique! ver fonney, ha! ha!”
So, harmony being established, they ate, drank, and were merry; Champagne, Moselle, Rhine wines, French wines, wines with names we know but cannot pronounce, wines with names we do not know and could not spell if we did, were produced, and done justice to, during dinner and dessert; and then they quietly settled down to Claret at 80s. the dozen, which tasted best, as they agreed, out of tumblers; Fribourg’s finest cigars also made their appearance and were not neglected; and for some time these four lords of the creation enjoyed life undisturbed. But Frenchmen seldom sit long over their wine. D’Almayne had too many schemes, which required a cool head to carry them out, to venture to inflame his brain with the juice of the grape; and by ten o’clock Lord Alfred proposed a hand at piquet, to while away an hour or so, until it should be time to adjourn to Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s ball, to which Mentor and his pupil were invited; so Guillemard and his host began to play, Jack Beaupeep and his companion watching them, and betting half-crowns on the varying chances of the game. At first, fortune seemed inclined to befriend Lord Alfred, for he won three times consecutively; and Jack, who, as he observed, was resolved “to back the thorough-bred colt,” realised capital to the amount of seven-and-sixpence.
“Ah! bah! Horace, mon cher! you shall bet wis me contre moi-même! I cannot play for a so little stake, he does not agree wis me!” exclaimed Monsieur Guillemard, tossing down the cards pettishly.
“Let us double them, Monsieur,” began Lord Alfred, eagerly; “I was just going to propose it when you spoke; nothing is more ennuyant than playing for inadequate stakes.”
“Mais oui! you have reason, my Lord. Horace, mon ami, mix me de Veau sucrée wis a Ouinam Laque ice in him; I have thirst; he makes hot this evening.”
“Not a bad idea, only I’ve a better one,” rejoined Lord Alfred; “brew some Sherry-cobbler, Jack; ring the bell, and order the materials: it’s your deal, Monsieur Guillemard.”
Sherry-cobbler is not a safe thing to play piquet upon, especially when your opponent confines himself to eau sucrée. Lord Alfred lost, grew excited, doubled the stakes again and lost, trebled them and won, then played on recklessly against a run of ill-luck, until D’Almayne interfered.
“It is twelve o’clock, Alfred, mon cher; we shall be late for Lady Tatt.‘s.”
“——Lady Tatt.!” was the uncomplimentary reply; “I shall not go.”
D’Almayne leaned over him, and observing in a whisper, “You forget la belle Alice is expecting you,” drew the cards from his reluctant hand.
Rising sulkily, Lord Alfred walked with a slightly unsteady step to a writing-table, took pen and ink, and hastily tracing a few words, handed the paper to Monsieur Guillemard—it was a cheque for £500!
“Ring for the brougham, D’Almayne,” he continued; “Monsieur Guillemard, you must give me my revenge at an early opportunity; good night, Jack;” then turning away with a laugh, as he perceived that youthful legislator, who had “gone in” for Sherry-cobbler rather too zealously, fast asleep on the sofa, he retired to his dressing-room to remove, as far as he was able, the outward effects of wine and excitement.
As he quitted the apartment, D’Almayne, after a hasty glance at the “used up” Jack, drew Guillemard aside, and speaking French, said in an eager whisper, “You are much too precipitate, and will ruin everything; what could persuade you to win so large a sum from him at one sitting?”
“You conceive it that I am too impressed! Regarde! One gave to me this billet at the dinner-table,” was the reply.
Hastily snatching it, D’Almayne read as follows:—
“—— Street, Eleven, p.m.
“Prince Ratrapski, the Russian nobleman, has been playing deeply; has had a run of unparalleled luck, and broken the bank; unless you can come by £500 immediately, there will be an unpleasant exposure, and D’Almayne and yourself will be, before morning, the tenants of a debtor’s prison, with
“Your devoted,
“Le Roux.”