On the afternoon of the day after that on which she returned home, Alice was to go to the Grange, and take her sister’s place as companion to Mrs. Hazlehurst. During the morning, Harry was occupied with his bailiff and the farming accounts, but he made his appearance at luncheon. When that meal was concluded, and the servants had quitted the room, he began gravely, but kindly—“Alice, dear, I do not wish to distress or annoy you, but, before you leave home, I must once again refer to the conversation of last night. I know not who has coupled my name with that of your cousin Kate’s friend, Miss Crofton, nor what falsehoods they may have coined to blacken my character in your eyes; but, since I have known you, I have never attempted to deceive you on any point; and I tell you now, on my honour as a gentleman, that nothing ever has passed, or is in the smallest degree likely to pass, between myself and that young lady, calculated to cause you the slightest pain or even uneasiness. Does this satisfy you, or, if not, can I say or do anything that will?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Alice, her face flushing with eagerness as the idea struck her; “promise to tell me exactly all that passed between you and her in Italy!—promise me this; show me that you are willing to confide in me; trust to my affection to forgive you, should you tell me anything you think may displease me, and I will, on my part, try to forget my own convictions that—that—in fact, that you do not love me as I believe you once did. Tell me all frankly, and there may yet be happiness in store for us both.”
She paused, breathless with emotion, and fixing her large eyes on her husband’s countenance, as though she fain would read his very thoughts, awaited a reply; but for a minute none appeared likely to come. Coverdale, pushing back his hair, rubbing his forehead, and evincing unmistakable signs of annoyance and perplexity, at length roused himself by an effort, and, in a constrained, embarrassed tone of voice, replied—
“Ask me anything but that: I am under a solemn promise never to mention the facts you desire to learn; I cannot break my word even to regain your affection.”
“I will ask nothing more of you,” returned Alice, in a tone of deeply-wounded feeling; “it was foolish to ask that—I might have known you would refuse to answer me; and it was worse than folly to fancy you cared to retain my affection! And now let me go home to mamma; thank God, I may yet be of some use and comfort to her, and, at all events, I know that she loves me—oh! that I had never left her!” and, disregarding Harry’s exclamation, “Alice, hear me! indeed you mistake—” she hurried out of the room.
Her husband remained motionless until her retreating footsteps became inaudible, then, springing from his chair, he began pacing up and down with hasty strides, while his ideas arranged themselves somewhat after the following fashion:—
“Well, I’ve made a pretty mess of it now, and no mistake! Of all things in the world for her to have fixed upon—to want to know about Arabella; and poor Arabella has behaved so nicely and kindly too in this affair! I can’t tell her! besides, there’s my promise—come what may I’ll keep my promise; but I am an unlucky dog as ever lived! Ah! I never ought to have married, that’s the whole truth. Women don’t seem to understand me, and I’m sure I don’t understand them; whether I’m stern or whether I’m kind it all turns out alike, and all wrong. Poor, dear, little Alice! she is making herself just as miserable as she has made me; and, for the life of me, I don’t know how to say or do anything to mend matters! I must leave it to time, I suppose. Perhaps her mother may talk her into a happier frame of mind. I am glad she is going back to the Grange; I think I’ll leave her there for a short time—home influences may soften her, and induce her to judge me more charitably. I’m certain it’s all my own fault, somehow! She was as sweet-tempered as an angel when I married her.” He continued to pace the room, and after some moments a new notion seemed to strike him. “I wonder whose been putting these ideas about Arabella into her head,” he resumed; “somebody has been telling her about the Florence business, that’s clear—lies most likely, and in order to set her against me. That man D’Almayne, I mistrust him—he’s playing a deep game of some kind; and his manner to Kate Crane I disapprove of strongly. If he has been meddling—if he has dared to say or insinuate anything against me to Alice, by heaven, I’ll—I’ll—no, I could not trust myself to horsewhip him, at least not just yet, I should kill the scoundrel. I’ve a great mind to run up to London, when I’ve taken Alice to the Grange, and try and find out something about it; but I won’t be hasty—I must not! the interests at stake are too important—Alice’s happiness for life, to say nothing of my own, which is bound up in hers, depends upon how I behave for the next few months—no; I won’t act rashly or hastily, nothing shall induce me to do so!”
Of all the high and solemn mysteries that enshroud the spirit-life none are more inscrutable, yet invested with a deeper and more vital interest, than those apparently irreconcilable paradoxes—predestination and free will. Our possession of this latter attribute is a tenet held, and carelessly acquiesced in, by Christians of every denomination; yet how little do we realise or estimate its practical importance! It is impossible to reflect, even for a moment, on so vast a field of thought without eliciting ideas at once salutary and impressive. Nor can we fully recognise our obligations as responsible beings until, in tracing the fortunes of some follow-creature, of whose path through life our limited powers enable us to perceive only the dim and shadowy outline, we see how what appear trifles—made a right use of, as they should be, or abused, as they too often are—influence a lifetime here, and, fearful thought, determine an eternity hereafter! In things spiritual, as well as in things material, cause governs effect; and the laws which regulate consequences are equally stringent and immutable in both cases, although in the former they are not so easily traceable. Still, to the earnest, careful, and patient observer of the mysterious ways of Providence, suggestive glimpses are afforded, aided by which he may reason from things seen to things unseen. Thus, remarking how some strange train of events result from a single act which we may long have feebly proposed to perform, but the execution of which we have delayed from day to day, until some unexpected excitement has quickened our resolve into action, we may legitimately argue that these events have been, as it were, waiting for the touch which was to set the train in motion; that if that motive power had been applied sooner, the same results would have been proportionably hastened; and that if it had never been applied at all, the history of events would have borne a different record. We are so fearfully and wonderfully constituted, and the dealings of the Creator with his creatures are so complicated and inscrutable, that we know not what great events may hinge upon our slightest actions. The avalanche lies in all its dread sublimity, apparently as immovable as the mountain-side it rests on; the careless foot of some chamois hunter dislodges a stone—the spell which enchained the destroyer is broken—with the velocity of the whirlwind the mass descends, crushing and overwhelming all before it—and heart-rending memories are all that remain to bear witness of some once prosperous village and its inhabitants.
One, who saw all clearly where we but blindly and feebly catch a ray of light, prayed for His executioners in these remarkable words—“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!” Ideas such as the foregoing are calculated to inspire feelings of awe; but, if they are true, they should not be put aside because they give a solemn view of our responsibilities; when, moreover, rightly considered, they teach an important practical lesson—namely, never to neglect what appear to be little duties, or carelessly to fall into little sins. It seems but a little duty to extinguish a fallen spark; yet that spark may kindle a fire which may consume a city, which, save for that accident, might have endured for centuries. It seems but a little sin to utter a playful jest on some serious subject; but that jest may inspire a doubt which may injure a wavering faith, and endanger a soul’s salvation. Some may deem these remarks misplaced in a work of fiction; but if it be a novelist’s endeavour to depict truly the various phases of human life, nought that truly affects the springs of human action can be foreign to his subject.
The evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party was not the first occasion on which Harry Coverdale had bestowed good and sound advice on Arabella Crawford, but never before had it produced the desired effect. Now, however, a new impulse sprang up within her—she would conquer her hopeless, selfish, sinful love for him, and strive to render herself worthy of his friendship, and win at least his esteem; but how should she begin practically to work out his advice—how attempt to render herself independent—what duty lay most directly in her path? Her intention was honest and sincere, and that morning’s post brought an answer to her question. A female relation whom she had hitherto neglected, was taken seriously ill, and wrote wishing, but scarcely expecting, her to come to her immediately. This lady was old, uninteresting, and in straitened circumstances; to go to her was an act of unmitigated self-sacrifice, and in Arabella’s then frame of mind this was its great attraction. Kate Crane was sorry to part with her, although the short time they had passed together had sufficed to convince her of the disagreeable fact that her dear friend no longer suited her as she had done in her schoolgirl days. There was a very simple reason for this, although Kate did not at once perceive it: Arabella Crofton was at an age when the mind and body having reached maturity, if they do not remain stationary, yet alter so gradually, that the change is almost imperceptible; she was, therefore, much what she had been four years previously. Kate, on the contrary, had advanced from a girl into a woman; and her intellectual powers had not only developed until they were now in every respect superior to those of her ci-devant governess, but her taste had been formed on a better and purer model, and her natural instincts were of a higher and more refined character. Thus, Arabella was constantly jarring against and annoying Kate’s sensitiveness by thought, word, and deed; and she felt that a gulf had grown up between them, which would effectually prevent her friend’s society from affording her the comfort and support she had hoped and expected. Arabella was much too quick-sighted not to have perceived the effect this feeling had produced upon Kate’s manner, although she was ignorant of the cause. Thus, the parting between the friends—for, from old association, friends they still were—was by no means so painful as under other circumstances they might have considered it.
Left to her own devices, Kate bethought her of the expedition to visit Mrs. Leonard, which Horace D’Almayne had proposed to her on the occasion of the horticultural fête, but which she had never yet found an opportunity to accomplish. Mrs. Leonard’s history was a distressing one. Her husband had been partner in a north country bank, at which Mr. Crane usually kept a considerable account. On one occasion, when his balance there exceeded even its usual limits, a junior partner suddenly absconded to America, taking with him so considerable a sum that the bank was obliged to stop payment, and Mr. Leonard found himself a ruined man. In his adversity, his mind became engrossed by one fixed idea, which almost assumed the character of a monomania—viz., that it was his mission to trace out his late partner, and recover the money with which he had made away; this notion preyed upon him until one morning he, too, suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter to inform his wife that he had set out in search of the delinquent, and that she would hear nothing more of him until he had succeeded in his object. On inquiry it appeared that he had taken a berth in an American packet, which had just sailed, and, beyond that, all trace of him was lost. Consequently, his family had fallen into actual poverty, which, day by day, assumed a sterner and more hopeless character. A gentleman well versed in the details of Mr. Crane’s early acquaintance with Mr. Leonard (who, before Mr. Crane had amassed the fortune he now possessed, had several times advanced him money, and in a measure, therefore, contributed to his success in life), advised Mrs. Leonard to apply to him for assistance; and, being aware how much the millionaire was guided by the opinion of Horace D’Almayne, suggested that she should make her first application through him: in which appeal the fertile brain of that good young man perceived matter which might be made profitable to the furtherance of his designs, and re-arranged his hand, so as to take in the new cards thus placed within his reach.
The plan which D’Almayne had settled with Kate was this:—she was sitting for her portrait to an artist friend of Horace’s, to whose painting-room she went twice a-week; D’Almayne proposed to send away the carriage and servants, when he would have a hired brougham in readiness to convey her to the obscure suburb in which Mrs. Leonard’s poverty compelled her to reside; he would meet her on her arrival there, and introduce her to Mrs. Leonard; she could then return to the artist’s, whence her own carriage could again fetch her and convey her home. Kate disliked all this clandestine contrivance; but, considering the end of sufficient importance to justify the means, she was unable to devise any less objectionable scheme, and so reluctantly consented. She reached her destination without adventure. The dwelling occupied by Mrs. Leonard was situated in one of the labyrinths of small, unwholesome streets which lie between Islington and Pentonville, and contain a description of houses too good, or, more truly speaking, too expensive, for the very lowest orders to reside in, and yet so confined and comfortless that it appears incredible that any persons, accustomed to even the ordinary requirements of respectable life, can tolerate them. D’Almayne was waiting in readiness to receive her, and, offering her his arm, led her up the narrow steps and into a miserable parlour, some eight feet square, with the same elaborate and coxcombical politeness with which he would have conducted her across the receiving-room of a duchess. Mrs. Leonard was a singularly gentle, lady-like person, evidently worn down by her continued struggle to support herself and family, which consisted of two boys and three girls, the eldest son and daughter being respectively fourteen and fifteen, whence their ages decreased down to a little pale thing of four years old, whose juvenile roses could not bloom for want of purer air and more nutritious diet. To them, with the greatest tact and kindness, did Kate proceed to enact the character of guardian angel; and, ere she had been half-an-hour in the house, had completely won all their affections, from the poor mother, who began to see light breaking in upon her darkness, to the olive-branch of four—whose visions of unlimited sugar-plums bade fair to be realised. Ah! it is easy to buy golden opinions of the poor and needy in this world: generosity, i.e., judiciously disposing of superfluous cash, is a virtue strangely overrated. The widow’s mite is an offering for which one can feel respect, even with a well-filled stomach; but that shrine for an Englishman’s heart must be indeed empty, ere he can thank Dives for his crumbs. But, when Kate smiled brightly, and spoke kindly and tenderly as she opened her purse-strings, what wonder that the inmates of that house of mourning were ready almost to worship her beauty and munificence? nay, in the excess of her gratitude, poor Mrs. Leonard so lauded Horace D’Almayne for the sunshine he had caused to fall upon the “frost of her despair,” that this excellent young man really began to believe himself to have been actuated by pure philanthropy, and wished he had not, from disuse, entirely lost the power of blushing. So he talked, and she talked, and they talked, and were all very much pleased with themselves and with each other; and Kate Crane turned to depart, with her purse and her heart equally lightened by this most satisfactory visit. D’Almayne, enraptured alike with the success of his scheme, and with himself for having so cleverly devised and executed the same, led Kate to her brougham with nearly as conspicuous a display of gallantry to the lady, and admiration of himself, as that which distinguished Lord Bateman’s proud young porter on the memorable occasion of his playing gentleman usher to the fair Sophia. Having placed her in the brougham, handed her parasol (why do ladies take parasols about in carriages, where there is not the most remote chance of their being required?), and a shawl, and a carriage-bag full of elegant rubbish, and smirked to show his white teeth three times—once for each article—he received as a reward a kindly smile (for Kate really felt obliged to him for the opportunity of doing good which he had afforded her), which he received with a look of deferential ecstacy, and the brougham, with its fair occupant, drove off.
On a sordid pallet, in the garret of the house opposite to that in which Mrs. Leonard resided, lay a man who, having lived wickedly, was then dying miserably: stricken with remorseful terror at the near approach of death—inevitable, fearful, retributive death—gate to the stern, inexorable Future, when he would be weighed in the balance and found wanting—he had wished, poor wretch! to undo some of the evil he had committed, and so sent to a rising young barrister, then getting up evidence in a disputed peerage case, to confess to him the forgery of a name in a parish-register and other iniquities, the knowledge of which would materially strengthen the cause of the young lawyer’s client. The interview, a most painful one to any man of feeling, was concluded; and, having taken copious notes of the dying forger’s confession in the presence of a competent witness, soothed the miserable being with such comfort as human sympathy could suggest, and promised to send the clergyman who his patient and gentle persuasion had induced him to receive, the young barrister left the house at the moment D’Almayne handed Kate Crane to the brougham. Why does the stranger turn first red then pale? why does he clench his fist till the nails dig deep into the flesh? why does he make a hasty stride forward, then, with an exclamation, half curse half sob, as hastily draw back, and screen himself in the shadow of the doorway until the carriage had driven off? He starts because he has seen the woman he once loved better than his own life—the woman he has striven to forgive and forget, and has succeeded in accomplishing neither the one nor the other—leave a shabby house in a disreputable suburb, whither she has been in the society of a notorious libertine! He clenched his fist and strode forward from an impulse of rightful indignation, which made him burn to annihilate the scoundrel who stood triumphing in his villainy before him: but he checked himself as the bitter remembrance flashed across him that he had no claim on her which could give him a right to interfere, although—and this, even at that moment, was the most painful thought of all—another had!—who was evidently incompetent to fulfil the sacred trust which he had undertaken. So, with old wounds thus cruelly re-opened, Arthur Hazlehurst, heart-sick and weary, returned to his chambers, pondering many things, both of this life and of the life to come.
It is a dreary thing when much of life seems still before us, and a dark, unfathomable future lies between us and the grave; it is a bitter thing to sit alone and ponder on the days to come, and discover no bright spot in the darkness—discern no kind hand to beckon us forward—hear no friendly voice to council and encourage us in the battle of life; it is an uphill task to struggle through existence without an object on this side the tomb—a hard and cruel lot to hope for nothing until death shall have changed hope into fruition! To live in order to fit oneself to die is the duty of every Christian, but to live for that alone requires a far higher degree of spirituality than to lay down one’s life for the faith: the stake and the axe of persecution are tender mercies compared with the chronic martyrdom of such a life-long sacrifice.
Some such gloomy thoughts as these passed through the overwrought brain of Arthur Hazlehurst as, late in the night after Kate’s visit to Mrs. Leonard, he folded up the last document of which he had made himself master relative to the disputed peerage case in which he was retained. The evidence of which he had that day become possessed would, he felt certain, ensure his client’s success, in which event his own career would in all probability be a prosperous one, and fame and fortune become his; but how worthless did these appear, now they could no longer be shared with her he loved! Until the incident of that morning had so powerfully affected him, he hoped that he had in great measure eradicated this affection, which his good sense enabled him to perceive could only be a source of grief to him: but the pain he had then experienced effectually dispelled the illusion, and he was fain to acknowledge that, strongly as he condemned her conduct in sacrificing his deep and true regard to (as he deemed it) a desire for wealth and the pomps and vanities of fashionable life, he yet, despite his reason, loved her as he felt he never could love any other woman; and the thought that through her husband’s neglect and incompetency she was exposed to the insidious advances of such a character as Horace D’Almayne weighed upon him, and grieved and irritated him until he could endure it no longer. “Come what may of it, I will see her and warn her; she shall not be led on by that scoundrel without knowing his true character!” he exclaimed, rising and hastily pacing the room. “For what purpose could she have accompanied him to such a neighbourhood as that?” he continued, musing; “he may possibly have got up some plausible lie to induce her to do so, merely to compromise her in the eyes of her husband—such a scheme is not unlikely to have occurred to his subtle brain. Yes, come what may, I will see her to-morrow; and, unless she is indeed lost to all better feeling, I will rouse her to a sense of duty, and thwart that scoundrel’s designs. If her husband should learn my interference, I care not; because, in his incapacity, he neglects the sacred trust he has undertaken, that is no reason why I should stand tamely by and see her sacrificed; no—I will save her in spite of herself! this shall be my revenge for the happiness which she has blighted. God grant my interference may not prove too late!”
His mind occupied with such thoughts as these, Arthur Hazlehurst passed a sleepless night, and the first moment he could tear himself away from business on the following day, he betook himself to Park Lane. Kate was from home when he arrived; but having notified to the servant his intention of awaiting her return, he was shown into the drawing-room, where he found a tall, fashionably-dressed young man standing in a disconsolate attitude by the fire-place, to whom he made a slight inclination of the head, heartily wishing him at Jericho, or any other locality equally remote from Park Lane; then, taking up a book, he left him to his own devices. Things remained in this thoroughly English and unsociable state for about ten minutes, towards the end of which period the fashionable young man, having stared hard at Hazlehurst, grew first interested, then excited, and finally the spirit moved him, and he spake:—
“I beg pardon—a—really I don’t think I can be mistaken—a—very absurd, I’m sure, if I am—but I was at school with one Arthur Hazlehurst—and—”
“And I am he,” was the reply; “but you have the advantage of me; for I was at school with some four hundred boys, and, to tell you the honest truth, it does not at this moment occur to me which of them you may have been.”
“Yet Alfred Courtland has to thank you for such slight skill as he may possess in the noble arts of boot-cleaning, brushing clothes, and frying sausages; besides early lessons in the demolition of oysters and porter—enforced by example rather than precept,” was the rejoinder; and, the unsocial ice of Old England being thus broken, the ci-devant school-fellows talked on until they grew quite intimate. At length, Lord Alfred looked at his watch, was silent and distrait for a minute or two, then began in a timid, hesitating voice, “I was waiting here to see Mrs. Crane; but, I don’t know—that is, I feel as if I could tell you all about it quite as well; you can do what I wish better than she could; and I don’t think you’ll be angry with me when I’ve made you understand the affair.”
“Suppose you come to the point, and try to do so at once,” replied Arthur, anxious to get him away, if possible, before Kate’s return.
“Well, you see, my dear Hazlehurst, I wish you hadn’t been abroad, and then you would have understood it all so much better; but since you went away—though, by Jove, now I come to think of it, I saw you here one day when Coverdale and your sister first came to town—deuced odd I didn’t make you out then; but if I recollect, you went away just as I came in—” and thus rambling on, he gave a true, though by no means a full and particular account of his intimacy with the Coverdales, continuing: “Your sister was very kind to me, and took so much trouble about our duets. She pianos, and I do a little in a mild way on the flute, you know, and we were great friends, and got on very serenely until the other night, when I was fool enough to do, or rather to say, something which made her angry—a good right she had to be so; but the fact is, I’d had some men dining with me, and we drank a lot of wine, and then sat down to cards, and I lost my money and my temper, and in this frame of mind I met Mrs. Coverdale at Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s ‘let off,’ and she snubbed me—I dare say I deserved it, but I didn’t like it; and, as my evil genius would have it, a man I know related to me a tale in regard to her husband’s flirtations with a pretty governess in Italy, and to tease her I, like a fool, must needs go and repeat it to her; and she took it more seriously to heart than I had expected, and was angry with me, and—but I see you are getting impatient—”
“Not at all, not at all,” returned Arthur, who, preoccupied with his own cares and anxieties, and nervous in regard to the approaching interview with his cousin, scarcely heard or understood half Lord Alfred was saying, and was only desirous to get rid of him before Kate should arrive; “no; it’s merely a legal habit I’ve fallen into of trying to bring people to the point with as little delay as possible. Yes; I quite understand—Alice told her husband of your flirting with a pretty governess, and he said something which offended you.”
“No; it was I who told the story,” interrupted Lord Alfred, aghast at the state of confusion his auditor appeared to have fallen into, and from which he immediately endeavoured to extricate him by commencing a long explanation.
Obliged in self-defence to attend, Arthur soon found out that Lord Alfred’s object in his ill-timed confidence was to ask him to convey his apologies to his sister, whenever he might be writing to her; whereupon, considering the whole affair a mere silly, boyish punctilio, he replied—
“If you’ll take my advice, my Lord, I should say, get a sheet of rose-scented paper and a diamond-pointed pen”—(a sheet of foolscap and a goose-quill would be more appropriate, was his mental commentary),—“and sit down and write your penitence to the fair lady yourself. Alice must be greatly altered for the worse if she does not grant you a ready pardon.”
“But do you really think—” began Lord Alfred, in remonstrance.
Arthur cut him short—“I don’t think about it, my dear Courtland; I feel as certain of the result as if I had already seen her answer. Do you suppose I don’t know my own sister, man? But, to come to the point, here’s her address;” he drew a card from his pocket, hastily scribbled a few words, then handing it to Lord Alfred, continued, “and the sooner you go to your club and write the letter, the sooner will your mind be at ease.”
Puzzled, confused, half-alarmed and half-pleased with the new idea thus forced upon him, one thing alone seemed clear to the bewildered young nobleman, viz., that for some reason unexplained his old new acquaintance was desirous of getting rid of him; and, not having yet sufficiently acquired the habits and feelings of a man-about-town to be utterly regardless of the wishes of others, he shook Arthur’s hand, promised to act upon his advice, and departed.
He had scarcely been gone five minutes when a thundering knock at the house-door announced that its mistress had returned, and ere Arthur had time to do more than spring to his feet, Kate, attired in the richest and most becoming out-of-doors costume, entered. As she perceived who was her guest, she started, and her colour went and came rapidly; but recovering herself by a powerful effort, she advanced towards him, and, extending her hand, observed—
“You are such an unaccustomed visitor, that I could scarcely believe my eyes. When did you return from the continent? I am afraid you expected to find Alice here, but she and Mr. Coverdale left me some days since.”
“I returned the day before yesterday,” was the reply, “and found a note from Coverdale, informing me they had left town; my visit here to-day is to yourself.”
As he uttered the last words, his voice unconsciously assumed a sterner tone, and a shade came across his care-worn features. An idea suddenly flashed into Kate’s mind, and in a voice which sufficiently attested her alarm, she exclaimed—
“Something is the matter! I was sure of it the moment I saw you. You would not come here”—(she unconsciously emphasized the words in italics)—“unless such were the case. What is it? I am strong, I can bear it—is my father worse?—dying?”
As she spoke she sank into a chair, and, fixing her eyes upon his face, awaited his reply.
“You alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he said calmly, almost coldly; “I am the bearer of no ill tidings: that I have an object in visiting you I do not deny; whether you will consider it a justifiable one I know not; I regard it in the light of a duty, and therefore, even at the risk of paining and offending you, it must be performed.” He paused for a reply, but as Kate remained silent, he continued: “Your brothers are mere boys, your father a confirmed invalid; circumstances lead me to doubt whether your—whether Mr. Crane is aware of the character of a person who is, I am grieved to find, a constant visitor at this house; and I therefore conceive I have a duty to discharge to one whom I have known from childhood—one in whose welfare an irrevocable past, which cannot be forgotten while memory remains, forces me to interest myself. Kate, I am here to warn you against the insidious advances of that heartless profligate, Horace D’Almayne!”
As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon her with a searching glance. Kate coloured, drew herself up haughtily, and appeared about to make an angry reply; checking the impulse almost as it arose, she answered—
“I am bound, and indeed most willing to believe, you mean kindly by me; I will therefore explain to you that which I would not have condescended to explain to any other man living—that I merely admit Mr. D’Almayne’s intimacy to oblige my husband, who has become so accustomed to his society and services, as to consider them indispensable. Mr. D’Almayne may or may not deserve the harsh epithets you apply to him; but if you are aware of any circumstances seriously affecting his character, it is to Mr. Crane you should mention them, not to me.”
For a moment Arthur remained silent, then pressing his hand to his forehead, he murmured inaudibly, “She can actually stoop to deceit!—is such a change possible!”
Surprised and hurt at his silence, Kate resumed: “Why do you not speak? You look at me as if you doubted my assertion!” Unheeding her question, Arthur still continued to regard her with an expression in which grief, surprise, and disapproval, contended for the mastery. At length he said, in a low deep voice, which caused a shudder to pass through the frame of his auditor—
“I have suffered much on your account, but such pain as this I never thought to experience!—Kate, you once said you had never attempted to deceive me—can you say so now?”
“I am at a loss to understand you,” was the reply; and as she grew angry at what she deemed unmerited insult, her self-possession returned, and she spoke in her usual cold, hard tone of voice. “I can only repeat what I before stated, that I allow Mr. D’Almayne’s intimacy merely to oblige my husband. From your manner you still appear to doubt the fact—may I ask why?” Arthur paused for a moment, then, with an eager and excited voice, he exclaimed—
“Kate, hear me! I have not taken this step lightly, or without due consideration. I seek not to refer to the past, though that past is never absent from my memory; but you may imagine it cost me some resolution to come here to-day, when I tell you that I had rather have seen you lying dead before my eyes, feeling towards you as I felt one short year ago, than behold you surrounded by the luxuries of wealth—knowing as I do that you have obtained them by the sacrifice of all that is lovable in woman, by sinning against all your best and noblest impulses, by forfeiting all that renders life aught but one weary, endless round of cares and duties! To look on you as you are now—to read, as I can read, in every feature of your countenance, which, though a sealed book to others, I have studied too long not to decipher at a glance, traces of that desolation of heart which you have prepared for yourself—to see you thus, and to know that I am powerless to help you, and that you must sustain the burden of such an existence unaided, is to me bitter pain, and I have avoided this house as though it were plague-stricken. But as I sat through the long hours last night, striving to weigh dispassionately the past and the present, I arrived at the conclusion that even yet I owed you a duty, and I came here to-day actuated only by a desire to warn you, and to save you from a fate, to contemplate the mere possibility of which inspires me with horror. I came, regardless of my own feelings, forgetful of my wrongs, to do you a benefit; and now you close your soul against me, and receive me with hard words and cold looks! Kate, I have not deserved this at your hands!”
“But, indeed—believe me you are mistaken,” replied Kate, eagerly; “I appreciate and thank you for the interest you still take in one who, as you truly say, has forfeited every claim on your regard; but your fears and suspicions are groundless—the intimate footing Mr. D’Almayne has attained in this house is merely a natural consequence of the trust Mr. Crane reposes in him. Why will you not believe the truth of what I tell you?”
“Because it is impossible for me to do so without doubting the evidence of my own senses,” was the stern reply. “If you require any further reason for my scepticism it is this: I was in ———— Street, Pentonville, at two o’clock yesterday!”
“And if you were,” rejoined Kate, with flashing eyes, “you saw nothing to justify you in entertaining such a cruel and unjust suspicion of one whom you should have been the last to believe likely to sacrifice anything for love; and whom you might have known better than to deem an easy prey for the first self-confident libertine who should condescend to display his butterfly attractions in her presence. I consider that you have insulted me deeply—so deeply as to relieve me from part of the weight of self-reproach with which I have hitherto deplored the injury that by my choice of a career I have inflicted on you. You say it pains you to enter this house; I now therefore beg you to leave it, and will esteem it a favour—the only one I desire of you—not to enter it again until—yes! until I send for you!”
As she spoke she rose hastily, and rang the bell. Astonished at the effect of his speech, and for the moment overpowered by her vehemence, Arthur stood speechlessly regarding her. Then rousing himself by an effort, he said in a low, deep voice, that, trembled with suppressed emotion—
“Remember the words you have spoken! I shall need no second bidding; I will not enter this house, nor will I see your face again, until you send for me! And since you thus drive your best friend from you, and encourage your bitterest enemy, may God protect you! and when you see and repent of your error, may He bless you also!”
As he uttered the last words, he seized his hat, hurried from the room, and ere Kate could sufficiently recover herself to attempt to stop him, she heard the house-door close behind him: and then the proud woman’s haughty spirit failed her, and murmuring—“I shall never see him again—never, never!” she buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.
The reader, if that noble myth who rules the destiny of us poor writers be possessed of an average amount of memory, will recollect that on the evening when Lord Alfred Courtland entertained Jack Beaupeep and friends at his comfortable bachelor lodgings, a gentleman then first mentioned, bearing the euphonious patronymic of Le Roux, conveyed to Monsieur Guillemard the startling intelligence that the Russian Count Ratrapski had broken the bank in J———— Street. How, although immediately after receiving this news, Horace D’Almayne had proceeded to Lady Trottemout’s soirée, and, according to his wont, made himself universally agreeable, and transacted a more than usual amount of mischief, by bringing about the most serious disagreement which had yet occurred between Harry Coverdale and Alice his wife, it must not be supposed that the intelligence did not interest him. On the contrary, it appealed to him in his weakest point—the pocket; for in that gambling establishment (of which D’Almayne was part proprietor) had he invested his little all, and the losses incurred by the good fortune of Count Ratrapski swallowed up every farthing he had in the world, leaving him nothing but his debts and his talents to live upon. This position, however, by no means possessed the charm of novelty for our excellent young friend; on the contrary, as it was a favourite theory of his—which he never lost any opportunity of reducing to practice—that it was the duty of those who had money to support those who had not, he rather preferred being insolvent; and, paradoxical as it may appear, considered himself best off when he was worst off—for then he was obliged to exert all his energies to ensure that some purse better filled than his own should relax its strings to provide for his necessities.
Thus, on the very day on which Arthur Hazlehurst had his unsatisfactory interview with Kate Crane, the husband of that proud beauty met by appointment, at an office not far from the Royal Exchange, Monsieur Guillemard,—Mr. Vondenthaler, a Belgian capitalist,—Mr. Bonus Nugget, a man well known upon ’Change,—the Hon. Captain O’Brien,—and last, though not least, Horace D’Almayne. Mr. Crane having seated himself, after undergoing the ceremony of introduction to Mr. Vondenthaler, who was the only member of the party unknown to him, D’Almayne opened the proceedings by observing—
“Well, gentlemen, I am glad to tell you that everything is progressing as we could wish, and that my previous calculations, which I had the honour of laying before you at our last meeting, appear likely not only to be verified, but exceeded. Mr. Vondenthaler informs me that the applications for shares from the principal foreign merchants are incessant; and Mr. Nugget and Captain O’Brien will tell you the same in regard to their own connection. Is it not so, Captain?”
“Indeed, and it is, thin,” replied the gentleman thus accosted, who possibly, from his having mixed so much with the aristocracy of Europe generally, spoke with a strong Irish accent. “Bedad, sir, the way they come tumbling in is perfectly astonishing; ’tis, upon me conscience!”
“The only thing that remains then, before we proceed to issue the shares and receive deposits, is to decide how many we shall allot to each director ex officio, and how many you gentlemen may desire to retain for—your friends,” observed D’Almayne, glancing expressively towards Mr. Crane as he spoke.
“In regard to the shares to be held by directors, I would suggest five hundred,” began Mr. Crane.
“Das ist gut; dat shall be him,” muttered Mr. Vondenthaler.
“I’ll not object to that same,” exclaimed the Captain, “if you leave a thundering wide margin for the shares we may retain for our friends; for, to be plain with ye, gentlemen, my best friend in the world, and that’s Terence O’Brien, means to go in for this business in real earnest; and if I can’t invest capital that will take five figures to write, bedad I’d rather be out of it altogether.”
“Ten thousand, which I presume is the sum you hint at, Captain O’Brien, could not I think be objected to,” observed Mr. Bonus Nugget, as if £10,000 were a mere cab-fare.
“Mais oui, we will all demand so much as him, he is so small; n’est-ce pas, mon cher?” interposed Monsieur Guillemard, favouring Horace D’Almayne with a grimace indicative of the tenderest affection.
“If I might be allowed—if I might venture to suggest,” began Mr. Crane, timidly, “I would propose that, at so early a stage in the affair, no limit should be placed to the number of shares the directors may hold. I am, ahem! a—myself I am a man who has been tolerably fortunate in my commercial speculations, and might be disposed—in fact, I may say I am disposed—to embark an amount of capital considerably above the sum lately mentioned by Captain O’Brien.”
“Sir! your sentiments do you honour! Sir, I’m proud of your acquaintance; you’re not one to do things by halves, I see. I like plain speaking—the speculation’s a davlish good speculation, or you would not find such men as Mr. Vondenthaler and my friend Bonus Nugget in it. We’re going to give our valuable time and trouble to work the thing ship-shape; and bedad, sir, if we’re not to profit by it, I’d jist like to know who should!”
“Yes; that is all very well for you, O’Brien,” observed Mr. Nugget, speaking with an air of authority; “but I happen to know a thing or two. Mr. Crane, gentlemen, is—I say it to his face—able to go down to his bankers, and draw a cheque, which they will honour, for more money than any two of us could raise between us. Very well; now it’s no news to any of us to be told that ‘money is power.’ But if Mr. Crane thinks, because he can embark his £50,000,—or I believe I might raise the figure as high again without overstating the matter,—that he is going to ride rough-shod over the practical men who have started this scheme, and to take the lion’s share of the enormous profits that he is sharp enough to foresee must accrue, I for one beg to tell him I won’t stand it.”
“Ya! ya! das ist gut! Ve have not started to be shod rough by Cranes! Herr Bonus he knows a thing! das ist recht und gut! Ve vill not be roughed by Cranes!” muttered Mr. Vondenthaler through the thick hay-coloured moustachios invariably worn by Belgian capitalists.
“Mais oui, you have reasons, Monsieur Vondenthaler, mon ami: but if you yourself have mistaken, n’est-ce pas?” interposed Monsieur Guillemard, eagerly. “I am assured Monsieur Crane is not un homme comme ça; he shall not se promener a cheval—vot you call ride on a horseback ovaire us du tout; au contraire, zies grate skim whom we are zie undairetakers for, shall advance herself on his capital for zie goods of us all. Voyez vous, cher Monsieur Bonous!”
“’Pon me conscience, now ye’re the first set of men I ever yet clapped eyes on that made a fuss about taking money when it was offered to ’em!” exclaimed the Hon. Captain O’Brien, surprised into a stronger brogue than he had yet allowed to appear. “Sure, now, by the time we’ve tunnelled under the whole of Arabia Pethreea, and flung our Britannia-metal tubular bridge across the Persian Gulf, we’ll find money growing pretty tight with us.”
“As there seems some difference of opinion on the point,” returned Mr. Bonus Nugget, “I would suggest that we summon a general meeting of all the directors, and appoint a managing committee to decide such matters for the future.”
This proposition was agreed to nem. con., and a day having been fixed for their next meeting, D’Almayne began:—
“In my capacity as secretary, I have to call your attention to one point before this meeting breaks up. I have, in accordance with a resolution passed at the last board, gone into the current outlay, and find that to pay the engineers now surveying the portion of the line already decided on, and other expenses which I will not detain you by enumerating, the account at our bankers is overdrawn. I would propose, therefore, that two of the directors should sign a cheque for £3000, to be placed to the company’s credit.”
“Better say five,” interposed Nugget; “it don’t do to be overdrawing our account; I’ve known a trifle like that ruin a speculation as promising even as the present one. Don’t let this occur again, D’Almayne; I can let you have money at any moment, as you are well aware.”
“Ya! ya! or I, vin you please; you must not starve him for no accounts,” chimed in the Belgian capitalist.
“Certainly, £5000 should be paid in at once,” observed Mr. Crane, producing a cheque-book. “I shall have much pleasure in advancing the sum, if you gentlemen will sanction my so doing.”
This both Nugget and the Belgian protested against, each urging their claims as originators of the scheme; but O’Brien silenced their opposition, and settled the matter by exclaiming in his off-hand manner—
“Let Mr. Crane have his way, sir!—he’s a fine fellow entirely—a liberal and enlightened man he is—one of the merchant princes of this great counthry; and though I’d the misfortune to be born an aristocrat myself, I’ve no class bigotry about me. I admire a true Briton when I meet with one; and whoever wishes to bully and browbeat that Briton in my presence, must do it some time when Terence O’Brien isn’t there to stand up for him. Shake hands, Mr. Crane—I’m proud to know you. Take this pen and write, sir! Browbeat a man like that, indeed!—’pon my conscience, what next I wonder!”
And so, under cover of the Captain’s blustering, Mr. Crane signed a cheque for £5000, for which D’Almayne gave him a receipt in the name of the company; then bowing to his co-directors, and exchanging a word or two aside with D’Almayne, he departed. As the sound of his retreating footsteps died away in the distance, D’Almayne, quietly pocketing the cheque, observed—
“If we can but get the shares to sell for—say twenty thousand, the speculation will not pay badly. You see, Guillemard, these crafty islanders—these denizens of ‘perfide Albion’—their pockets are not impregnable when you assault them judiciously. Five thousand pounds from one man is not such a bad morning’s work!”
“Thrue for you, me boy!” exclaimed the Irishman; “by the powers, a few more such mornings’ work will make men of us, if it please providence to keep us out of jail so long; but it’s a dangerous game your playing. Sure now there’s jist five of us here present—why wouldn’t we take a thousand a-piece, and make ourselves scarce without any more ado? I’m content for one, bedad.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Terence,” was the reply: “for two very good reasons: one being, that if you remain quiet and follow my lead, I will enable you to bolt—if it come to bolting—with £10,000 instead of one; and the other, that Mr. Crane’s cheque is very safely buttoned up in my pocket, to be applied as I think best; and any man who attempts to take it from me will become practically acquainted with the merits of this ingenious little instrument,” and as he spoke he drew from his breastpocket a small, beautifully-finished revolving pistol, whereupon the individual termed Nugget interposed by observing—
“Nonsense, D’Almayne, put that thing away: we’re not in New Orleans, man; and the report of that would blow our schemes to the devil long before the bullet had penetrated O’Brien’s thick skull. But really there is nothing to disagree about that I can see: it’s quite clear, gentlemen, that D’Almayne knows perfectly well what he’s doing, and that our interests could not be in better hands. We meet again on Friday. D’Almayne, you’ll see me to-night in J———— Street; and now that we’re in funds again, Ratrapski will be as good as a fortune to us: a man does not break the bank twice.” Then, nodding familiarly to the others, Mr. Bonus Nugget resumed his usual “City” look (worth five hundred a-year to him at the most moderate computation), and departed.
“Terence, never look sulky, man; I meant no harm; what I said was as much for your good as my own,” began D’Almayne, in a conciliatory tone. “Come, I want you and Guillemard to dine at Blackwall, to meet an unfledged lordling, to whom I’ll allow you to sell a horse, if you like; and you may do a little bit of ‘turf’ business too, if he’ll bite; only it must be done in a quiet, gentlemanly way mind, because I’ve ulterior views in regard to my young friend: he has a taste for the club in J———— Street—you understand?”
“I believe ye, me boy! an it’s a fine child ye are intirely; and the way ye’ve cut yer wisdom teeth is a credit to yer blessed mother—always supposing ye ever possessed such a respectible relative,” was the Hibernian’s reply.
“By the way, if you’re really going in for the horse business,” resumed D’Almayne, meditatively, “you may as well do the thing properly. Get a flash trap, you know, and drive us down; and—who’s that sporting-looking young fellow you had packing you at Epsom—dark curly hair, and grey hawk’s eyes?”
“Oh, Phil Tirrett, the great Yorkshire breeder’s son; he is his father’s London agent, and a very promising young—”
“Scoundrel,” interposed D’Almayne, “I read it in his face. However, you’ll want somebody to back up your lies, and he’ll pass with such green boys as we shall have to-day; so bring him. Let me see—it’s now two o’clock—call for me at the Pandemonium at five; and, excuse me, but drop the Irish blackguard, and assume the foreign militaire as much as you conveniently can. Remember, you’re captain in the Austrian service, and I was in your regiment, your sub., for a year.”
“Bedad! it’s as well you reminded me of that same, for it had slipped my memory some way,” was the affable reply, as, arranging his auburn, not to say red, hair under his hat, the gallant Captain prepared to take himself off. Ere he did so, however, he chanced to cast his eyes on the Belgian capitalist, who was amusing his leisure moments by performing some intricate manœuvres with a pack of cards, an occupation which he interrupted by slapping Vondenthaler on the back with such force that a covey of cards flew out of the pack about the room.
“What devil’s dodge are you planning there, you old sinner!” he exclaimed; “let’s look at ye!” he continued, seizing him by the chin, and turning his head so that the light fell upon his countenance; “bedad! them moustachios alter you surprising! Nobody that had not known ye as I’ve done, since I could handle a dice-box, and that was before I was into me teens, would recognise in Mr. Vondenthaler, the Belgian merchant, Le Roux the old croupier!”
“Leave him alone,” observed D’Almayne; “Le Roux’s a steady, sensible man, and one I have a great respect for; he knows his work, and does it well and quietly; and I’d back his long head against your noisy talent (for the ‘gift of the gab,’ as you term it, is a noisy talent and a dangerous one) any day, Captain.” Then, turning to Le Roux, he said—“The bank will re-open to-night, and we shall be there in force. Mind the Champagne’s better than the last batch. Let everything be in first-rate style, and spare no expense. Guillemard, you heard the rendezvous? Five o’clock, messieurs, au revoir.”
So saying, D’Almayne bowed with as much scrupulous politeness to the worshipful fraternity of ——— men of science he was quitting, as if he had been leaving the council-chamber of a prince. Calling a Hansom cab, this industrious and zealous young man drove to his west-end lodgings, and exchanging his suit of quiet black, in which he had dressed the man-of-business character he had been pleased to enact, for more butterfly garments, went down to a certain fashionable club, where he felt sure of meeting Lord Alfred Courtland, and found him accordingly, but by no means in the amiable, docile frame of mind in which he usually rejoiced. The hour preceding that at which D’Almayne entered the club had been spent by Lord Alfred in concocting, pursuant to Arthur Hazlehurst’s advice, a penitent letter to Alice Coverdale—a composition which had cost him much trouble and anxiety, and wherein he had endeavoured in some measure to justify himself, by shifting as much of the blame as he truthfully could on to the shoulders of Horace D’Almayne; and he had just closed and dispatched this accusatory epistle when, as though to overwhelm him with shame at such a betrayal of one who professed himself, and whom in great measure he still believed to be, his friend, his aspersed mentor seated himself opposite to him, and addressing him by his usual endearing epithet of “mon cher,” invited him to dine with him that day, and meet a few choice spirits at Blackwall.
“You’re very kind, but you really must excuse me,” was Lord Alfred’s reply. “I’ve been knocking about a good deal lately, and begin to want a little quiet.”
“Yes, I know,” was D’Almayne’s rejoinder; “such is always one’s morning theory—but one never puts it in practice; when eight o’clock comes, il faut diner! Seriously, however, I can’t let you off. I have asked two or three men to meet you, who are most anxious to make your acquaintance”—(this was strictly true),—“and who will be awfully savage if you don’t come.”
“Come—of course he’ll come, and so will I too, if anybody will ask me, and there’s a lark in hand—what does Milton say?—
‘A bird in hand is better far,
Than two that in the bushes are.’
Fine poem, Paradise Lost. By the way, did you ever hear my riddle on that head? ‘Why is the fact of the contents of a backgammon-board having been thrown out of the window like Milton’s chef-d’œuvre?’ Do you give it up? Because it’s a pair o’ dice lost.’ None so dusty that—eh? for a commoner like me? We poor devils that have to grind all day to procure our modest chop and our unassuming pint of London porter, can’t be expected to say such brilliant things as you noble swells, who have had nothing to do but cultivate your understandings ever since you came into the world with gold spoons in your mouths. But you have not told me what’s up yet.”
Here the speaker, who was none other than the facetious Jack Beaupeep, paused for want of breath, and D’Almayne interposed with a reply to his question—
“The particular event exalted at the moment you joined us is a bachelor dinner at Blackwall to-day, for which I am trying to beat up a few recruits; let me hope you will enlist under my banner, and, with such a reinforcement, I am sure Lord Alfred will surrender at discretion.”
“All serene!” rejoined the voluble Jack; “I was ‘to let unfurnished’ (with a dinner)—and let me tell you a Blackwall feed is a special mercy that’s not to be sneezed at. Come, Alfred, my boy, merge the haughty noble in the jolly-good-fellow till further notice, and say ‘I will.’”
“Have it your own way. Since you’re both determined on my capture, it’s hopeless to resist,” said Lord Alfred, his feeble attempt at reformation completely defeated; “but I certainly had made up my mind to spend a quiet evening.”
“So had I,” returned Jack; “but then I did not expect such luck as to come in for a noisy one. What time, and where do we meet?”
“At the Pandemonium, at five o’clock,” was D’Almayne’s reply; “and mind you are both punctual.”