Lady Tattersall Trottemout lived in the Brompton and Kensington region, and knew everybody. Her deceased papa had walked into Manchester some fifty years since, with a good head on his shoulders, and fourpence-halfpenny in his breeches-pocket. Being tired with his walk, he sat down in Manchester, and rested there for the space of forty years, during which time, by a process peculiar to that city, his fourpence-halfpenny grew into an hundred and forty thousand pounds. Unto him was born, in lawful wedlock, one only daughter, the subject of the present brief memoir, who, on his retirement to “t’ Oud Churchyard” (as, in his Lancashire dialect, he was accustomed to denominate his final resting-place in the burial-ground of the Collegiate Church), inherited the fourpence-halfpenny and its compound interest; with which, when her mourning for her father was ended, she purchased Sir Tattersall Trottemout. This noble baronet, who was by no means worth the price she gave for him, had been essentially a fast man, and had run through everything he could lay his “blood-red hand” upon—his own fortune and the fortunes of several of his relations included—and when they were all gone and spent, he ran through his reputation; which last “rapid act” did not take him long, as that “bubble” was not as “wide as a church-door, nor deep as a draw-well,” when he began upon it. Thus, finding himself under a cloud and in difficulties—the only things he had yet encountered which he could not run through (the good old days of “pinking” one’s tailor instead of paying him being unfortunately past)—Sir T. T. felt that his time was come, and that he must prepare his mind for another—that is, a married—life. So, ætatis forty-five, he went into dock, dyed his hair and whiskers, purchased a new set of teeth, laid in a stock of patent leather boots, and ran down to Manchester to captivate an heiress. The respectable owner of the enlarged and embellished fourpence-halfpenny had, at that epoch, been about one year under the turf which his future son-in-law had been on for above twenty; and his orphan daughter, of sweet nineteen, was immediately smitten and wounded by the aristocratic appearance and distinguished manners of the broken-down titled blackleg who sought her... fortune. She, being then a simple-minded, honest girl, absurd as it may appear, loved the creature; and, despite the advice of several kind-hearted, strong-headed, fearfully vulgar old men, who were her trustees, guardians, legal advisers, &c. &c. (policemen, so to speak, appointed by the lamented deceased to prevent his developed fourpence-halfpenny being prematurely reduced to its pristine elements), this young lady vowed she would marry Sir Tattersall Trottemout—and did so. But, as the baronet’s talent for running through any amount of cash was rumoured even at Manchester, the ancient policemen tied up the fourpence-halfpenny so tightly that nobody could manufacture ducks and drakes with it—not even Sir Tat. Trott.: so, after a few abortive attempts, that ornament to his order gave up his evil courses, and settled down quietly on cigars, brandy and water, and whist with half-crown points—a notable example of the reformatory powers of matrimony. His lady-wife went through the usual agreeable process of awaking from “Love’s young dream,” and discovering that, after the manner of Caliban, she had, in her simplicity,—
“Made a wonder of a poor drunkard,”
she, like a sensible woman, resolved to put up with her bad bargain, keep her husband in respectable order, and create or discover some fresh interest in life for herself. In accordance with this determination, she restricted the marital cigars and brandy and water to certain definite limits; tested several phases of London society; and then took her line, and chose her associates accordingly. Being an intellectual woman, and having literary taste up to a certain point, she affected the society of artists of all classes, and in every department of art. Thus, at her soirees, you might meet literary men of various species: historians, novelists, journalists, critics, et hoc genus omne; painters, sculptors, musicians; the leading actors of the day, male and female,—in fact, all the celebrities whom the London season delighteth to honour. But, knowing that talent requires an intelligent audience, Lady Tattersall Trottemout associated a certain proportion of the profanum vulgus to worship her collected divinities. Her parties, therefore, soon became noted as the most agreeable of their kind; and to one of these meetings, in which dancing was to be the chief feature of the evening, were our friends in Park Lane invited. Harry had promised Alice that, if it were possible, he would return to escort her to this notable gathering; however, on the appointed evening, ten o’clock arrived, but no Coverdale. Alice was rather frightened and considerably annoyed, but Kate persuaded her that there was no just cause for alarm; and so, leaving a note for Harry, begging him to join them, if he should arrive in time to make it worth while to do so, they proceeded to the “spacious mansion” of Lady Tattersall Trottemout.
For some time, little Mrs. Coverdale was sufficiently amused by observing the appearance, manners, and customs of the various notabilities, as they were pointed out to her by no less a personage than her hostess, who, attracted by the simple beauty of her new acquaintance, and the evident pleasure and interest she took in all that was going on around her, actually devoted to her ten minutes of the valuable time in which, on such occasions, a clever mistress of the house is expected, and actually contrives, to say and do something civil to an hundred and fifty human beings, all prepared to magnify any accidental neglect into an intended slight, and to resent it accordingly. But, ere ten minutes had well elapsed, an illustrious stranger arrived, who was so intensely foreign that he could not be prevailed upon to speak or understand any language of which the deepest philologists present were able to make head or tail, and who, in his consequent bewilderment, had seated himself on the music-stool, with his back towards the key-board of the pianoforte—thereby establishing a complete blockade of that harmonious and indispensable instrument, which no representations in French, German, or Italian, could induce him to relinquish: so a breathless female aide-de-camp, in flaxen ringlets and white muslin, hurried up to report this frightful dilemma to the commandress-in-chief, who, with the greatest presence of mind, dispatched her to summon Count Cacklewitz, the young Hungarian patriot, who, it was generally believed, could speak everything, even his own language, and then hastened in person to raise the siege of the piano-forte. Alice, thus deserted, fell into the hands of a tall, gaunt, blue woman, rejoicing in a red nose and a long fluent tongue, who began to talk high art to her, and confused her about transcendentalism and Carlyle,—the Oxford Graduate (viz., Turner’s single and singular disciple, wonderful Mr. Buskin), and pre-Raphaelism,—the meaning of Tennyson, when he condescends to be obscure (for he can write real poetry, which “he who runs may read” and feel),—and of the dark Brownings, and Macaulay and the romance of history, and many other hackneyed pseudo-literary topics of the day, until our unlucky little heroine lapsed into that state of mental incapacity usually described as not knowing whether one is standing on one’s head or one’s heels. Then began vocal music, which mercifully silenced Alice’s strong-minded persecutor; and a rather raffish baritone gentleman, who wanted shearing dreadfully, and was all voice, eyes, and feathers, like a lean bird, accosted a singularly hard-featured, middle-aged German lady, as “Oh! thou beloved one!” to which she made an appropriately tender soprano reply; and the company listened with much forbearance, for quite ten minutes, to the united affections of this interesting couple, detailed to an accompaniment now rapturous, now pathetic, at the end of which period they both suddenly exalted their voices, bellowed their love at each other in one final outburst of sympathetic insanity, and subsided into a refreshing silence. Then a young lady in a pink sash informed the company that her brain was on fire, her heart consuming, and her digestive organs generally in a state of spontaneous combustion, because her fatherland writhed in the grasp of tyrants—“tra la, tra lira la!”—which unpleasant state of affairs was much applauded by hairy exiles, with microscopic washing bills, which they never paid, and a monomania in regard to freedom, which they never obtained, but which had kept them in hot water (the only water they patronized) from their youth upwards. Lastly, a very mild young gentleman of England excited himself about some “Rivar! rivar! shining rivar!” into which pellucid stream he kept putting his foot “deeper and deeper still,” until every one was so sorry for him, that the whole party appeared on the verge of hysterics, and were forced to conceal their emotion behind fans, flounced pocket-handkerchiefs, and white-gloved hands. Then the votaries of Terpsichore stood at ease upon their light fantastic toes (except in the cases of tightly-shod martyrs), and polking was the order of the night—at which period Alice looked about and wondered what had become of Lord Alfred Courtland, who had said a great deal on the subject of the delight he expected in dancing with her, and had engaged her hand for the first polka.
Now, whether any strictly moral reader, with that bad opinion of poor human nature which very strict morality usually induces, has decided that “every woman is at heart a rake,” and believed our little heroine about to prove herself a “dreadful creature,” and transfer her affections from her lawful husband to her unlawful admirer, we do not know; but if any reader has set his (or her) heart on such a consummation, we are sorry to be obliged to inform him that he is mistaken. Alice considered Lord Alfred a good-natured agreeable boy, whose conversation served to amuse her, and to whose society she had become accustomed; she would a thousand times rather have talked to Harry at any time, but Harry was not always attainable—indeed, the chances were generally against her seeing anything of him from breakfast till dinner-time, and then Lord Alfred became a very good and safe substitute.
But the first polka was over, and a valse à deux temps followed it, neither of which Alice danced, and still no Harry, no Lord Alfred appeared; and in despair she was obliged to say Yes to a heavy cornet in the Life-Guards, who was big enough to eat her, and polked like a polite young elephant. Glad to escape without being squeezed to death or trampled under foot by this ponderous young warrior, Alice had just found a seat, when D’Almayne and Lord Alfred lounged in; the latter immediately joined her, and claimed her promise to dance with him; but Alice was tired and bored, and feeling that it was in some degree owing to him that she had become so, and that he ought to have been there sooner, she replied coldly—
“I promised to reserve the first dance for you, my lord, but the first dance has been over some time, and several others have followed; I do not feel disposed to dance at present.”
Of course, Lord Alfred endeavoured to excuse himself, and when Alice declined dancing, said, “Very well, then he should sit still too—all the night, if she pleased, for he certainly should not dance with any one else.” So, after she had teased him until he very nearly lost the little good temper which the events of the earlier part of the evening had left him, she took compassion on him, and danced with him twice consecutively; but when he urged her to do so a third time, she refused; and on his pressing her, told him plainly, that as her husband was away she felt bound to be more than usually particular, and that it was not étiquette to dance the whole evening with one gentleman; at which rebuff his lordship was pleased to take offence, and leading her to a seat, he bowed and left her. Deserted by his lady-love, and swindled out of his money by his pseudo-friends, this victimised young nobleman looked about for his protector and adviser—at once patron and parasite—Horace D’Almayne, but for some time without success; when at length he did discover him, he was engaged in such an earnest private conversation with some gentleman unknown, that Lord Alfred felt it would be ill-bred to interrupt them; accordingly, he lounged through the rooms, resisting several introductions to “great heiresses” and “loveliest girls in London,” all declared to be dying to dance with him, wandered listlessly into the refreshment-room, drank a tumbler of Champagne and sodawater, and was thinking seriously of turning sulky and going home to bed, when D’Almayne seized him by the arm, exclaiming—
“Alfred, mon cher, where have you hidden yourself? I’ve been hunting for you for the last half hour. Why have you left la belle Coverdale?”
“Oh, yes! that is good! looking for me, indeed, when I passed you twice close enough almost to brush against your elbow, and you never even saw me, so engrossed were you plotting treason with some party unknown,” was the captious reply.
“Ungrateful! when it was for your interest I was exerting myself,” returned D’Almayne, reproachfully; “but you do not explain why you have quitted la belle Alice; you really are not sufficiently attentive; no pretty woman likes to be neglected.”
“She’s a little fickle, heartless coquette, and I’ll let her see that I’m not so completely her slave as she appears to imagine,” answered Lord Alfred, snappishly, at the same time filling his glass with Champagne; “she refused to dance with me more than twice because it was not étiquette, and she wished to be extra particular because her husband was not here. I don’t think he’d overwhelm her with his attentions if he were, unless he means to alter very much. No: the fact is, she is out of humour, and chooses to vent it on me; it would just serve her right if I were to go home, and leave her to her own devices.”
“Do nothing of the kind, mon cher; but listen to me, and—excuse me, but don’t drink any more Champagne, or you’ll do something absurd; your comic friend brewed that Sherry-cobbler too strong. Go quietly back to the Coverdale; try and persuade her to dance, but if she refuses, show no annoyance, and get her to allude again to her husband: then carelessly and incidentally, as if you had no design in what you were saying, suggest that she would scarcely be so particular, if she knew what a naughty boy he had been in Italy, and having excited her curiosity, tell her the following little anecdote.”
As a bevy of men entered the refreshment-room at that moment, D’Almayne, linking his arm with that of Lord Alfred, led him aside, and made to him a communication, the nature of which will appear in the due course of this history. Lord Alfred seemed surprised, and, to his credit be it spoken, even pained, by the information thus afforded him; and when D’Almayne had concluded, his auditor remained a minute or so buried in thought, then he asked abruptly—
“You are sure there is still some clandestine understanding between them—you are quite certain?”
“I am as certain as a man can be of any clandestine proceeding to which he is not a party,” was the reply; “you are aware of what I observed on the occasion of the Horticultural Fête. I now relate to you the antecedents; you are no longer a child, but sufficiently a man of the world to draw your own deductions.” The adroit flattery on the weak point told: faith in truth and honour would argue a want of knowledge of life; so with a slight laugh, assumptive of an omniscience in evil, he replied, “I was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt, if it were possible; but, as you say, the thing is clear enough; and now, how is this to advantage me?”
“Do you ask?” was the surprised rejoinder; “I thought you told me just now that the cruel fair one had snubbed you, by throwing her duty to her husband at your head; so it occurred to my simplicity that this information, properly applied, would prevent a recurrence of such rebuff.”
“But surely you would never have me tell her, and her own husband the hero of the adventure!” expostulated Lord Alfred.
“Listen, mon cher, one moment,” was D’Almayne’s reply, spoken in a low, impressive voice; “I do not wish you to follow any particular line of conduct; I have no interest to serve, no desire to gratify, by your doing or abstaining from anything; but when you tell me you desire to gain such and such a social position, and ask my advice as to the best way of attaining your wishes, I, as your friend, point out the means to you—it is for you to judge whether they are such as you choose to employ. You must now excuse me: I see some old acquaintances of mine, to whose memory I am anxious to recall myself.”
“Then you really advise me to tell her!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, seizing D’Almayne’s arm in his eagerness and indecision.
“I really advise nothing of the kind, mon cher,” was the reply; “I have already cautioned you against that abrupt plain-speaking of yours; you should divest yourself of that rustic habit. You could scarcely sin more deeply against good taste and good breeding than to go to la belle Coverdale, and bring a railing accusation against her husband, nor could you divine a plan more certain to frustrate your hopes and wishes; but if, grieving over her misplaced confidence, you philanthropically incline to hint to her that he is scarcely the immaculate ascetic her imagination depicts, c’est tout autre chose! and now you must excuse me;” and as he spoke, he gently freed his coat-sleeve from Lord Alfred’s grasp, and regarding him with a half-sarcastic, half-compassionate, but wholly irritating smile, he turned and quitted the spot.
Thus left to his own reflections, which were none of the most agreeable, Lord Alfred paused for a few moments in indecision; then, with a hand tremulous from excitement, again replenished his glass, tossed down the Champagne, and returned to the dancing-room.
During her admirer’s absence, Alice had, for want of some more interesting occupation, been conversing with Arabella Crofton, using all her skill to try to elicit some particulars of her acquaintance with Harry in Italy, in which endeavour she had been most adroitly foiled by the quiet self-possession of the ci-devant governess, who told her most readily all she did not care to learn, and nothing that she did. As Lord Alfred approached, an individual was introduced to Miss Crofton, who desired the honour of her hand for the next polka, which desire that young lady obligingly gratified, thus affording his lordship an opportunity of seating himself by Alice, of which he instantly availed himself.
“It is never right to believe in a fair lady’s nay,” he began, “so I have returned to afford you an opportunity of confessing your change of mind with a good grace; come, they are just going to begin a new polka, let us take our places.”
“If ladies do always change their minds, I am going to be the interesting exception which proves the rule,” was Alice’s reply.
“How provokingly and unnaturally obstinate you are to-night, Mrs. Coverdale! You pretend to be fond of dancing, and yet, because I ask you, you resolve to sit still!”
“I have already told you my reason,” rejoined Alice; “in Mr. Coverdale’s absence I do not choose to dance the whole evening with any one gentleman.”
“What a pattern wife you are!” was the reply; “you give up your own amusement, and destroy all my pleasure, out of regard for the ghost of a scruple, which I dare say has never entered Mr. Coverdale’s brain; really, the patient Griselda was nothing compared to you.”
Alice was annoyed by his pertinacity, and, considering this speech impertinent, was about to repeat her refusal in terms which would have enlightened his lordship very considerably on these points, when it flashed across her that he might have taken rather too much Champagne; and the idea having occurred to her, his flushed face and excited manner confirmed it. Having sufficient liking for him to wish to prevent him from making himself ridiculous, she good-naturedly resolved to engross his conversation herself, and, aware of what she conceived to be the true state of the case, not to take offence at anything he might say, intending to read him a lecture on the following day. In accordance with this resolution, she replied—
“I consider it a great compliment to be compared to the patient Grisel, more particularly as I was not of opinion that she and I had very many qualities in common. By the way,” she continued, seeking to change the subject, and taking the first idea that occurred to her, “what do you think of the lady whose chair you are occupying? I have never asked your opinion of Miss Arabella Crofton.”
The question was a most unfortunate one. Alice’s continued refusal to dance with him had annoyed Lord Alfred, and wounded his vanity; the reason of her refusal was her absurd devotion (as he considered it) to her husband; and now she, as it were, held the cup of revenge to his lips by the question she had asked him. Up to this point his better nature had struggled with the temptation successfully, but now it had acquired an additional strength, and overcame him.
“I wonder you should care to know my ideas on the subject,” he said; and as he proceeded to work out Horace D’Almayne’s suggestions, his tone and manner unconsciously assumed a resemblance to that excellent young man’s sarcastic and suggestive delivery: “Miss Crofton is merely a recent and very slight acquaintance of mine; you should apply to Mr. Coverdale—he could tell you many much more interesting particulars of her history than I am able to communicate, if he were willing to do so.”
All temptations to do things foolish or wrong are orthodoxly supposed to come from the Prince of Darkness; if it be so, the fact speaks very highly for the intellectual capacity of that sable potentate, as the said temptations invariably adapt themselves in a most wonderful manner to the various weaknesses and inconsistencies of our nature. Thus, as Alice’s speech had, unintentionally on her part, appealed to Lord Alfred’s leading foible—vanity, so, in turn, did his reply re-act upon Alice’s vulnerable points—jealousy of Arabella Crofton, and consequent curiosity as to her former relations with Harry Coverdale. Accordingly, forgetting time, place, proprieties, even her doubt in regard to the perfect sobriety of the person she was addressing, in the overpowering interest of the question, she asked, hurriedly—
“Why do you say that? to what do you refer? has Mr. Coverdale ever told you anything on the subject?”
Lord Alfred smiled at the effect which his hint had produced; though, when he marked his victim’s eager eye and trembling lip, his good feeling made one last appeal, and he half resolved to leave D’Almayne’s communication untold. Had he been completely himself, the good resolution would have been formed and adhered to; but he had “put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains,” and was no longer able to control his impulses; so, by an effort, he silenced the voice of conscience, and replied—“I shall break no confidence by telling you why I supposed Mr. Coverdale better ‘up’ in Miss Crofton’s previous history than I am, for he never mentioned her name in my presence; indeed, now I come to think of it, it is a subject he always studiously avoids; but my information relates to certain romantic passages said to have occurred in Italy.”
“In Italy!” exclaimed Alice, aghast at this apparent realisation of all her vague fears and suspicions. “Go on,” she continued, impatiently; “I can listen to no hints aspersing my husband’s character; if you have anything to say against him, do not insinuate it, but speak out plainly and honestly.”
“Really, you mistake me,” was the reply; “I have no accusation to bring against Mr. Coverdale: but your question recalled to my mind an anecdote which I heard lately, and I was amused at your requiring information from me which your own husband was so much better able to afford.”
“And what was this remarkable anecdote? Pray let me have the benefit of hearing it, my lord,” rejoined Alice, in vain trying to look and speak in an unconcerned manner.
“Really I think I had better not tell you; you ladies are apt to be a little jealous sometimes without reasonable cause. ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know——” He paused with a tantalising smile, then seeing from Alice’s manner that she was not in a humour to be trifled with, he continued—“Well, I see you mean to hear it, so I may as well tell you at once—not that there is anything very wonderful to tell. You must know that, some three or four years ago, Miss Crofton, being then younger and handsomer than she is now (she is not my style, but many people consider her vastly attractive still), was living as governess with a family of the name of Muir, and in that capacity accompanied them to Florence. John Muir, the eldest son, was an old college friend of Mr. Coverdale’s, and meeting by chance in Switzerland, they joined forces, and spent two or three months at Florence, making occasional excursions into the adjoining country. Everything progressed with cheerfulness and serenity in this Italian Arcadia, until one fine day the eldest Miss Muir eloped with an individual who represented himself as a Neapolitan count, and proved to be merely either valet or courier to the same. This broke up the party, and Mr. Coverdale took his leave; but scarcely had he been gone twelve hours, when, lo and behold, Miss Crofton, who had been much blamed for not having looked after the eloped-with young lady more closely (I suppose she was looking after somebody else), suddenly disappeared. After hunting about Florence in vain, Pater Familias Muir somehow obtained a clue to the lady’s whereabouts, following which he reached a village some thirty miles distant, where he discovered Miss Crofton, and, if my informant did not err, Mr. Coverdale also. Whether it had been his intention to place her in that position now so much more worthily filled, or whether he proposed an arrangement of a less permanent character, history telleth not; suffice it to add, as the books say, that the eloquent representations of Pater Muir induced the lady to return with him to Florence, whence he instantly dispatched her to England under some safe escort, while Mr. Coverdale pursued his onward course to Turkey and the East.” He paused, but as Alice made no reply, merely concealing her countenance behind a voluminous fan, somewhat smaller than a peacock’s expanded tail, he continued—“Such was the historiette related to me; but scandal-mongers are so given to exaggerate, that I dare say it is not half true, so do not worry yourself about it, my dear Mrs. Coverdale.”
This consolatory codicil was added because his lordship heard, or fancied he heard, a sound analogous to a repressed sob proceed from behind the fan, and this pseudo-profligate young nobleman carried a very tender heart under his embroidered waistcoat.
On receiving this confirmation of her worst, nay, more than her worst, fears, Alice’s first impulse was to give way to a flood of tears—an impulse so strong that, unable entirely to check it, the sob which Lord Alfred had partially overheard was the result. The story chimed in with her jealous suspicions so exactly, that it never for a moment occurred to her to question the truth of it; on the contrary, it would have required the clearest evidence of its falsehood to make her disbelieve it. Having by a great effort repressed her tears, her next impulse was to prevent any one, especially Lord Alfred, from perceiving how deeply his intelligence had affected her. Accordingly she turned to him, and replied in as careless a tone as she could summon—
“A very pretty bit of scandal, truly; and, as you say, worth as much, or as little rather, as scandal usually is; however, the tale has served to amuse me and put me in a good humour; so, as you seem to have set your heart upon another dance, I suppose I must exercise my woman’s privilege in your favour, and change my mind. They are going to waltz—shall we begin?”
Surprised and delighted at the success of his experiment, and almost inclined to attribute supernatural wisdom to Horace D’Almayne, Lord Alfred hastily offered his arm to his enslaver, and in another minute they were whirling round the room in all the giddy excitement of a rapid waltz. While the dance was still proceeding, a tall, striking-looking man entered the room, and shading his eyes from the unaccustomed brilliancy of the lights, carefully scrutinised the dancers, until his glance fell upon the figures of Alice and Lord Alfred, when a shade came over his handsome features, and leaning his shoulder against the side of a doorway, he remained with his eyes tracking the evolutions of two of the figures glancing before him. After he had remained motionless for some minutes, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were, apparently, of no over-pleasant nature, a gentle touch on the arm aroused him, and, looking round, he perceived Arabella Crofton. She was about to address him, but by a warning gesture he silenced her, and she remained standing silently beside him until, in a low, stem voice, he asked abruptly—
“How often has she been dancing with him?”
“Three times, I believe; but I assure you—”
“Hush!” continued Coverdale in the same stem, impressive voice, which was just above a whisper; “I want facts, not comments. Has she danced with any one else since he has been here?”
“Not that I am aware of,” was the reply. “She danced with a young guardsman before he came.”
“And since?”
“They have been either dancing or talking together, except for about ten minutes, during the last two hours.”
Coverdale made no reply, but his lips became more sternly compressed, and the shade on his brow grew deeper, until the dance concluded, then muttering—
“This must not go on: I shall make her come away”—he strode across the room to where (her late partner bending gracefully over her, and talking about nothing with the deepest empressement) his wife was seated.
On perceiving her husband, Alice started, and, between surprise and anger, her cheeks assumed a hue more resembling that violent and unsentimental flower the peony, than the blush-rose, to the use of which our minor poets are so strongly addicted. This blush which, with all his trust in and affection for his wife, Harry could scarcely fail to misinterpret, did not tend to impart any great degree of cordiality to his manner, as he thus accosted her:—
“I scarcely expected to find you still here, so late as it is; but I only reached Park Lane within the last half-hour. There had been an accident on the line, and our train was delayed between two and three hours. You look flushed and tired. You’ve been tempting her to dance too much, I’m afraid, Courtland. I saw the carriage waiting as I came in. I should think you must have had enough of this nonsense, Alice! What say you to coming away? I’ve lots of news to tell you from home.”
“I’m afraid your budget must wait a little longer. I’m engaged to Lord Alfred for the next dance, and intend to fulfil my engagement; so you had better submit to your fate quietly, and provide yourself with a partner,” was Alice’s cool reply.
“Courtland will excuse you, I am sure,” urged Harry; “come away, if for no better reason than that I wish it.”
“An all-sufficient one in your autocratic eyes, I dare say,” was the flippant rejoinder; “but the barrel-organs remind us too constantly that ‘Britons never shall be slaves,’ for me to think of sacrificing my freedom to all your imperious fancies. Come, my lord, they are going to wind up with Sir Roger de Coverley; let us take our places.” So saying, Alice accepted the proffered arm of her cavalier servente, and walked off with him, leaving her husband to struggle against his rising anger (which in her then frame of mind she saw and disregarded) as best he might. A severe struggle it was, and one in which nothing but his deep love for her, and fear of compromising her by word or deed, could have rendered him successful. By a powerful exercise of self-control, he contrived to avoid any outward manifestation of his feelings; and after watching Alice and her partner for some minutes, with flashing eyes and an aching heart, as they hurried through the boisterous evolutions of that romping dance, he wandered listlessly through the rooms, now partially deserted, seeking some spot where he might be alone with his troubled thoughts, and avoid the necessity of replying to the commonplaces of society, to which, at that moment, he felt himself completely unfitted. Having passed through the music-room, he found himself in an elegantly-furnished boudoir, which at first sight he believed to be untenanted, and, flinging himself into an easy-chair, leaned his head on his hands, and gave way to painful reflections. After remaining in this attitude for several minutes, a sound resembling a sigh caught his ear, and, hastily looking up, he perceived Arabella Crofton.
“Were you here when I entered?” he inquired.
“Yes; I was standing in the recess of the window, and the curtain concealed me. I should have spoken to you, but as I perceived you were preoccupied, I was afraid to disturb you, and did not intend to move until you had left the boudoir, but your ears are so quick that you detected me. I wish,” she continued, in a timid, faltering voice, “your brow did not wear so deep a shade, or that I were in any degree able to remove it.” As she spoke; she drew nearer to him, and leaned her arm on the back of the chair on which he was sitting.
Kindness and affection are never so much prized as when we have suffered injustice at the hands of one we love. Words cannot console at such a moment: but sympathy—the conviction that another heart feels for and with us, is able in some degree to do so. Whatever faults Arabella Crofton might possess,—and that they were neither few nor light no one was better aware than Harry Coverdale,—the truth and strength of her regard for him he did not doubt. Deeply, fondly, earnestly as he loved his wife, he must have been more than mortal had he not perforce contrasted the levity (to use the mildest term) and unkindness of her on whom he thus lavished his whole treasure of affection, with the ready sympathy, the watchful tenderness of one who, if she had been all evil, nay, if she had not possessed in some degree unusual generosity of character, might have hated him with a strength proportioned to the regard she now appeared to feel towards him. Men are constitutionally denied the relief which the gentler sex derive from tears; but if, when a woman would weep, a man of deep, strong feeling can be sufficiently softened to give vent to his sorrow in words, the effect is somewhat analogous. Harry’s heart was full to overflowing, and Arabella’s well-timed sympathy caused the torrent of his grief to burst forth.
“Why does she try me thus!” he said; “it is, it must be, mere want of thought; she is wilful, I see it, as clearly as I see and know that it was my culpable neglect which first made her so; but this is a hard punishment for even so gross a fault! If she knew how her cold looks and hard words pain me—how it grieves, destroys me to be forced to deny her anything—to feel it my duty, as I perceive it to be now, to oppose her slightest wish! And then to see her doing things which may give those who do not know her truth and purity as I do, occasion to slander her—Arabella, it maddens me!” he pressed his hand to his forehead to still its throbbing; but when his companion appeared about to attempt to console him, he resumed, abruptly—“Don’t speak; you cannot defend her—her conduct admits of no defence, and I will not hear her blamed! Neither can you advise me; as far as action goes, my course is clear—I shall take her out of town tomorrow; and as I cannot have it out with that scoundrel D’Almayne, or the weak, ungrateful boy he is ruining, without compromising her, I must postpone the day of reckoning with them—it will come sooner or later, that is all clear enough; but that is not the point”—here words failed him, and covering his eyes with his hand, he relapsed into his former gloomy silence.
Arabella Crofton was a woman of strong passions, and naturally of strong impulses also, but these she had learned in great measure to control; thus her manner was usually quiet and collected, and she both spoke and acted according to a rule laid down by herself for her own guidance, and tending towards some definite end. But when, as in the present instance, she was actuated by any overpowering feeling, she was for the moment completely carried away by it, and would act for good or evil, as the impulse which controlled her was a right or wrong one, even in direct opposition to her own plans and intentions. She disliked Alice most heartily, and she had many—we cannot say “good,” but sufficient—reasons for doing so; yet she sympathised so strongly with Harry’s grief at the idea that his wife was encouraging the attentions of Lord Alfred Courtland, that—believing, as she did honestly, Alice to be merely amusing herself, possibly for the sake of annoying her husband, but evidently not from any deep feeling for her admirer—she could not help trying to comfort him.
“Do not afflict yourself so deeply,” she said; “I cannot bear to see you suffer thus! Believe me, you think too seriously of this matter; Mrs. Coverdale is only amusing herself with this foolish, infatuated young man. I am as certain as if I were in her confidence that she does not really care for him; the very openness with which she accepts his attentions proves that it is so; as soon as she has left the gaieties and frivolities of town, she will forget his very existence.”
“She may forget him,” was the bitter reply; “but will she ever forget the cause which has driven her to encourage him—which has forced her to seek amusement in all these heartless gaieties and follies? will she ever forget the time when, pursuing my own selfish pleasures, I left her, day after day, alone—she who had always been accustomed to live in a cheerful family, will she ever forget my neglect, and restore to me that love without which life has no longer a charm for me—that love which I once possessed, and which, God help me! I fear I have alienated for ever!”
“Yes, she will,” was the eager reply; “if she ever loved you, she loves you still; real, true love never dies: it would be better for some of us if time could efface feeling!”
The evident emotion with which she uttered these last words touched Harry’s kind heart, and, regarding her with a look of pitying interest, he rejoined—
“Poor Arabella! you too have had much sorrow to contend with; and no one can lament more deeply than I do the share I have had in increasing it. Mine is a strange fate!—love that I cannot return is lavished and wasted on me, and the only affection I pine for, I have alienated by my own rash and inconsiderate conduct!”
She stood by him as he spoke, in the excitement of his feelings he had taken her hand and clasped it in his own. At this moment two figures, which had been pausing at the door of the boudoir, passed hastily on—by the rustling of the dress, one of them was evidently a woman.
“But now hear me once more,” he continued, raising himself, and regarding her kindly but steadily; “I am sorry, very sorry, to find that you have not yet overcome—however, we will not allude to that—if at any time you want a friend’s advice or assistance, apply to me: my purse, I need scarcely say, is always at your command; in fact, as I am well-off, and you unfortunately are not, I think it is an over-refined though generous scruple, which prevents you from allowing me to assist you as I might and wish to do. Why do not you remember and strive to follow my advice? You are still in a dependent situation quite unworthy of you; while you have talents and powers which, if you would employ them in some straightforward, honest avocation—instead of forming plans and seeking objects of, to say the least, questionable advisability—would secure you a respectable and comfortable position. Think of all this, dear Arabella, and then apply to me, as to an old friend, to advance you funds to carry out my ideas in any way which seems to you most advisable.”
For a moment she remained silent; then bending over him, so that her ringlets mingled with his dark curling hair, she murmured—
“You are good, and kind, and generous, as you ever were; and—yes, I will strive to make myself worthy of your friendship; if I fail, you know my impulsive, passionate nature, and you will pardon, not condemn me; for my greatest sorrow, you now know how to pity me! You say you intend to leave London to-morrow, and I think it will be wise in you to do so—perhaps we may never meet again, and so, my dear, dear friend, farewell!”
He had retained her hand, and she returned his cordial, warm pressure; then, by a sudden impulse, she stooped, pressed her pale lips upon his high, smooth brow, and—was gone.
Harry followed her with his glance as she left the room.
“Poor thing!” he murmured, “she has many high qualities; and such a life as she leads must be a complete purgatory to her proud, impetuous disposition; I hope she will fall into good hands, and—and keep out of my way. Alice evidently dislikes and suspects her, and nothing I can say is likely to lessen the feeling. Now for taking my poor, dear, naughty, foolish, little wife home, and lecturing her. She seemed angry with me; because I did not arrive in time to accompany her to the ball, I suppose—as if I could prevent railway-trains from breaking down!—ah, it’s wretched, miserable work all of it!”
Having arrived at this cheerful conclusion, Harry rose and proceeded in search of his wife.
In the meantime, the country-dance being ended, Lord Alfred had offered his arm to his partner, and proposed a stroll through the rooms—a proposition to which Alice, who, in her present state of feeling, was anxious to do anything rather than hasten the inevitable tête-à-tête with her husband, consented. As they passed a group who were gathered round a clever copy from one of the great works of some old master, D’Almayne approached Lord Alfred, and, making some light remark to screen his real object, found an opportunity to whisper to his pupil—
“Take her to the door of the boudoir, and detain her there to look at the pictures in the anteroom for a minute; there is a tableau vivant inside the apartment which will interest her deeply!” Partially guessing his meaning, Lord Alfred executed the task with so much tact and skill, that all this by-play was completely unnoticed by Alice, and when they reached the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, she stopped to examine a picture, in perfect unconsciousness of any plot or contrivance; as she did so, the following sentence, spoken in tones of deep emotion, fell upon her ear:—
“Love that I cannot return is lavished and wasted on me, and the only affection I pine for, I have alienated by my own rash and inconsiderate conduct!”
The sound of the voice was all that Alice required to enable her to decide that the speaker was her husband: and a hurried glance proved to her that his speech had been addressed to Arabella Crofton, her rival, as she had long suspected her to be—a fact in regard to which she now received the assurance of her own senses.
Harry’s speech could bear but one interpretation: the “love wasted on him which he could never return,” was her own—his wife’s! the “affection he pined for, and had alienated by his rash and inconsiderate conduct,” was that of Arabella Crofton, the “rash conduct” he was so bitterly repenting—his marriage. Yes, she saw it all, and felt that for her there was no longer such a thing as happiness in this life. Now that she knew, that she had heard from his own lips, that he no longer loved her,—nay, that he had transferred his affection to another,—she felt how all important, how essential it had been to her—existence without Harry’s love to brighten it, would be like the universe without sunlight—cold, dark, desolate.
Poor little Alice! she had acted very wrongly; she had been self-willed, petulant, unjust, and disobedient to her husband; but if suffering could atone for sin, the bitterness of that moment might have expiated graver offences than those of which she had been guilty. Her first idea was to get away from the spot: lost as he was to her, Harry should never say she was a spy upon his actions. She turned to communicate her wish to her companion, and saw his eyes fixed on her face with a peculiar intelligence which she had never observed before, and in an instant the thought flashed across her that she had been brought there by design; and, without allowing time for reflection as to the advisability of making such an accusation, she exclaimed—
“You knew they were there, and brought me on purpose to see them, and so to destroy the happiness of my future life! what have I ever done to you to deserve this at your hands!”
Utterly taken aback by this direct and unexpected attack, Lord Alfred coloured up, stammered something unintelligible, and at last attempted to screen himself behind the equivocation that he did not know Mr. Coverdale was in the boudoir.
“If you did not know it, you suspected it,” was the reply; “your features are more honest than your words, my lord, and betray you.”
Greatly confounded at this most unexpected result of his scheme, Lord Alfred vowed, and protested, and attempted to clear and defend himself, but in vain. The shock Alice had received had couched her mental vision, and, turning a deaf ear to his excuses, she sternly desired him to take her back to Mrs. Crane immediately; and then preserved an offended silence, so that his lordship was glad to take her at her word, and lead her back to the drawing-room, in which the Crane party had ensconced themselves.
“Kate, let us get home—I am wearied to death; somebody said the carriage was waiting.”
The words were commonplace enough, but something in the tone in which they were uttered caused Mrs. Crane to regard her cousin attentively, and her quick eye soon discerned that there was something amiss. “Alice, is anything wrong, dear? you are not ill?”
“Yes! no! my head aches—only let us get away!” was the reply.
“But some one told me that Mr. Coverdale had arrived; where is he?—you will wait for him?” returned Kate, alarmed and surprised at Alice’s unwonted agitation.
“He will come when he likes; he—has found some friends of his, I believe,” murmured Alice. “Only let us get away!” she added, in so imploring a tone that Kate, convinced some contre-temps had occurred, dispatched Mr. Crane in search of Miss Crofton, and, taking leave of Lady Tattersall Trottemout (who thinking they had resolved to spend the night there, naturally deplored their “running away so early”), repaired to the cloakroom. Here the others, including Harry Coverdale, joined them, and in another quarter of an hour they were safely housed in Park Lane.
Thus ended Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s soirée dansante; but its consequences continued to influence the lives of those whoso fortunes we are tracing, for many a long year.
Nothing passed between Coverdale and Alice in reference to the scenes we have just described until the next morning, when, before they went down to breakfast, Harry observed abruptly, “Alice, it is my particular wish that you should go down to the Park to-day: can you be ready to start by the four o’clock train?”
“Yes,” was the unexpectedly acquiescent reply; then, after a moment’s pause, “What reason am I to give Kate for leaving her so suddenly?”
Astonished at such a ready consent where he had expected strong opposition, if not an actual refusal to comply with his desire, Harry looked steadfastly at his wife, but her face was turned away, so that he could not read its expression. “My true reason I will explain to you at some time when we can talk the matter over coolly and quietly,” was the reply; “the reason I wish you to give your cousin—which is a good, true, and sufficient reason in itself, although not the only one by which I am actuated—is, that your sister Emily has received an invitation to stay with a friend of hers, which Mrs. Hazlehurst is anxious she should accept, thinking she requires change; but Emily very properly refused to leave her mother. I dined there the day before yesterday, and hearing of the dilemma, proposed that you should take Emily’s place for a fortnight or three weeks—I was not wrong in making such an offer, was I?”
“No; I shall be very glad to see and be of use to dear mamma,” was the reply.
“I should have told you all this last night,” continued Coverdale, “but for reasons I will not enter upon at present.”
He waited for some comment on his speech, but he waited in vain; Alice continued to add the finishing touches to her toilet, until, being completely equipped, she quietly observed, “It is time to go down, I think; the breakfast bell will ring directly;” and, suiting the action to the word, she departed, leaving her husband to follow when he pleased. Kate was surprised to hear of their sudden determination to leave town, and sorry to part with them; but their reason for so doing was such a plausible one, that she could urge nothing against it. She saw that there was something more—that neither Harry nor his wife were at their ease; but Alice kept her own counsel so closely that all Kate’s endeavours to win her confidence were futile, and she was obliged to content herself by supposing that it was a mere matrimonial breeze which would blow over, as such affairs usually do, without any very serious consequences resulting from it.
Coverdale Park was reached without adventure, and appeared as cool, and calm, and happy as the country usually does to the eyes of fashion-wearied Londoners; and Harry, unaffectedly delighted to escape from the uncongenial atmosphere of a crowded city to his home,—which he loved with his whole heart,—forgot, in the pleasure he experienced, the amount of Alice’s misdemeanours, and was only anxious to be reconciled with her, and to assure her of his perfect and entire forgiveness. But since the previous evening a change—for which he could not account, and which began to render him very uneasy—had come over Alice, she was no longer irritable and petulant at one moment, yet amused and light-hearted at the next, but a settled gloom hung o’er her brow, which indicated sorrow rather than anger; and although she had never allowed him to surprise her in tears, her eyes bore unmistakeable traces of weeping. Their tête-à-tête dinner passed off heavily enough: as they sat moodily over their dessert, Harry observed, “The evening is most lovely—come out and take a stroll.” He spoke kindly, almost tenderly, and as Alice looked up to reply to him, her eyes filled with tears; hastily checking them before they could be observed, she agreed. Her husband carefully placed a shawl over her shoulders, brought from the hall her garden bonnet, and, drawing her arm within his own, they walked on for some distance in silence. At length Harry observed, “Alice, dear, you seem downcast and unhappy—why is this? surely you cannot regret that hot, miserable, artificial London? you must be glad to get back to our own dear, quiet home again?”
“I do not in the least regret London,” was the reply; “on the contrary, I am glad to be once more in the country again.”
“Then why this gloomy manner?” urged Coverdale; “I may have been a little annoyed with you at times lately, but I am quite prepared to believe it was mere thoughtlessness on your part; in fact, I never considered it anything else. I feel sure when you come to reflect seriously on the matter, you will yourself see that your conduct was a little injudicious; and, in that case, believe me the affair is from this moment forgotten and forgiven.” Harry paused for a reply, but for several moments none was forthcoming; at last, his patience being exhausted, he inquired in a tone of surprise, “Alice, did you hear what I was saying?”
“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Alice, starting, “I was not attending properly at that moment; you were blaming me for something, were you not? I am very sorry—what was it?”
As she spoke, Harry glanced towards her to discover whether she had been really too much pre-engrossed to attend to him, or whether she merely affected to have been so for the amiable purpose of provoking him; deciding in favour of the first hypothesis, he resumed: “I was saying, my dear Alice, that although your flirtation with that foolish boy, Alfred Courtland, had caused me some uneasiness—because people dared to remark on it, unluckily not in a way that I could take up—yet that I was convinced it was merely thoughtlessness on your part, and was anxious to forgive and forget it.”
If he had expressly tried to rouse Alice from the state of gloomy depression into which she had fallen, Harry could not have devised means more effectual than the speech he had just addressed to her. With flashing eyes she heard him to the end, then inquired: “And pray who has dared—(you may well use the word!)—who has dared to accuse me of flirting? But I need not ask,” she continued, bitterly; “no one but Miss Crofton would have ventured to asperse your wife’s character before you—from no one else would you have listened to such a falsehood—no one else could have induced you to believe it!”
Astonished, and, if the truth must be told, somewhat confounded at having the tables thus turned upon him, Harry exclaimed, “Alice, what do you mean? what are you talking about? have you taken leave of your senses all of a sudden?”
“If I had I should scarcely be surprised,” was the rejoinder; “but I know only too well what I am saying, and the cause I have to say and believe it; however, I do not want to reproach you, that would do no good; but—but—knowing what I know—” an hysterical sob choked her voice—“it is too hard that you should accuse me of flirting”—and here, utterly overcome by her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of weeping. Wholly confounded at this unexpected result of his very mild remonstrance, which had been intended more as a judicious way of forgiving Alice’s misdemeanours than as a reprimand, Harry led her to a seat, and then used his best endeavours to console and bring her to reason; but in vain, nor was it until she was fain to stop through sheer physical exhaustion that her tears ceased; by which time, what between bodily fatigue (she had not been in bed until between three and four on the previous night, or rather morning, could not sleep then, and had accomplished a railroad journey since) and mental agitation, she was so completely worn out that even Harry, who was not usually too clear-sighted on such points, perceived this was not a fitting opportunity to continue the discussion.