“M y dear Alice, what has changed you so completely? You have lost your spirits, and appear to take a dark, morbid view of life. You find a thousand faults with things and people you used to be perfectly satisfied with; and you look thin and ill. Are you unwell?” inquired Mrs. Hazlehurst of her daughter, after Alice had been staying some days at the Grange. They were sitting together in Mrs. Hazlehurst’s morning room, which commanded an extensive view across the park. Alice’s eyes had been for some minutes fixed upon one particular spot, and as she gazed they filled with tears—it was the stile leading to the shady walk wherein Harry had first told his love, and the sight of it called up a host of tender recollections. How different was the bright, sunny, trusting affection which she then felt for him, from her present perturbed state of mind!—in which jealousy of Arabella Crofton and estrangement from her husband (springing originally from his neglect and injustice, and kept alive by the untoward events of their London season) contended with a love, the strength of which was proved by the wretchedness all these doubts and misunderstandings caused her. Scarcely hearing her mother’s question, she replied, mechanically, “No, that she was not ill,” and relapsed into her train of gloomy musing. Mrs. Hazlehurst regarded her in anxious silence for a few moments, then observed abruptly—
“Alice, you never speak of your husband now; yet, when you were first married, your letters were full of his praises, and you could neither talk nor write of anything but Harry’s perfections. How is this?”
“Oh! one cannot be always a baby,” was the reply. “While I was a new plaything, Mr. Coverdale spoiled me, and made much of me; and I was child enough to be delighted with his attentions—to fancy they would always continue the same, and that life would prove a path of roses, so I rhapsodised about it accordingly. I have now found out my mistake, and indulge in raptures no longer—that is all!” She strove to speak lightly and carelessly, but her tearful eyes and quivering lips belied the sense of her words. Her mother saw it, and could abstain no longer.
“Alice, my child, you are unhappy,” she said; “it is useless to attempt to conceal it. Come, tell me what it is. You know of old that I am to be trusted, and who so fit as your mother to confide in?—who so well able to sympathise with—and perhaps to counsel you?” As she spoke, she passed her arm caressingly round Alice’s slender waist, and drew her towards her. For a minute or so Alice submitted passively to her embrace, then, with an hysterical sob, she flung her arms round her and burst into a passion of tears. Mrs. Hazlehurst allowed her to weep in silence, until the violence of her grief had in some measure subsided, then, by degrees, drew from her an account, at first broken and disjointed, but becoming fuller and more coherent as she proceeded, of all her woes, real and imaginary, with which the reader is already acquainted.
“And now, mamma dearest, how can I ever again be happy, knowing as I do that Harry is still attached to that dreadful woman, and that he regrets his marriage with me more because it places a bar between them, than because I have disappointed him by not proving the spiritless, tender, and affectionate doll he fancied me when I first married? I—I almost wish I was, for then perhaps I could make him happy, and I’m sure I don’t now!” She paused, then resting her head against her mother’s shoulder, added, “Mamma—you will tell me honestly—do you think I have behaved very ill?”
“I certainly cannot exonerate you from blame, my poor child; there have been, as it seems to me, serious faults on both sides. Mr. Coverdale’s appear to me to have proceeded more from thoughtlessness than from intention; while yours, I am both sorry and surprised to find, seem chiefly to have arisen from warmth of temper.”
“Yes, I see it now; and yet you know, mamma, I am not really ill-tempered—at least, I never used to be; but you know I loved, or,” she added with a sigh, “I may say I love Harry so very dearly, that the slightest neglect or unkindness on his part appears such a cruel return for my affection that I cannot bear it quietly; if I were not to lose my temper and get angry about it, I should pine away and die—I know I should!”
“Did you ever tell him this?” inquired Mrs. Hazlehurst.
Alice shook her head. “One does not tell such things,” she said; “if Harry cared for my affection he would soon perceive how entirely I love him; if, as I fear, he is indifferent to it, all the telling in the world would make no difference; besides, I have heard from his own lips that he loves another.”
“I do not make out that affair at all,” observed Mrs. Hazlehurst, reflectively; “it is so completely unlike Mr. Coverdale’s straightforward, honest character, to marry one woman when he cared for another, that I cannot but think there must be some mistake about it.”
“How can there be any mistake, dear mamma?” was the rejoinder. “I have long felt certain that Miss Crofton was attached to Harry; and I myself heard him say to her that he was most unfortunate, because love which he could not return was lavished upon him (meaning mine), while he had alienated by his own act (his marriage of course) the only affection he cared to possess (that is Arabella Crofton’s): I do not know what could be clearer.”
“Did you not say that Mr. Coverdale appeared aware that he had neglected you for his sporting, and blamed himself for so doing?”
“Yes; I think he knows it, and is sorry for it—and—and he does not leave me nearly so much alone as he used; only I fancied—that is, I was afraid he did so from a sense of duty, and not because it was a pleasure to him to stay with me. Harry has a very strict sense of duty.”
“You say he seems to doubt your affection,” continued Mrs. Hazlehurst, “and you own you conceal it from him, treating him to bursts of pettishness and ill-humour, of which you refuse to explain the cause. You also tell me that this Miss Crofton appears to have been attached to Mr. Coverdale; now, from what you have told me of the way in which you behaved at Lady Trottemout’s party—which I confess I think was both foolish and wrong—I can easily conceive your husband to have been greatly annoyed with you; and it seems to me that nothing would be more natural than for him to have told, or in some way to have allowed Miss Crofton to perceive his annoyance; in which case, as I fear she must be a designing, unprincipled woman, she might avail herself of the opportunity to contrast her own affection with your disobedience and petulance. Thus your husband’s speech, on which you have built up all this alarming fabric of future unhappiness, may be interpreted much more satisfactorily: as, for instance, the affection lavished on him, which he could not return, might be Miss Crofton’s, and the love he coveted, yours, which he by his own neglect had alienated. Do you perceive?”
“Oh yes, mamma!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly, her face lighting up with the ray of hope thus given her; “I see it really might mean that! Oh, if I dare but believe it was so!”
She paused to reflect, and as the recollection of Harry’s frank, earnest face, and simple, truthful manner came across her, when in their last discussion he had told her there was not, and never had been, anything between himself and Miss Crofton which need give her uneasiness, she, for the first time since Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s soirée, allowed herself to hope that she had mistaken the meaning of the words she had overheard; that her husband still loved her; that she had only to show him how these troubles and estrangements had served but to prove to her the depth and reality of their mutual affection; and that, warned by past experience to bear and forbear, a life of happiness still awaited them.
“No one could be more averse than I am to raise false hopes,” resumed Mrs. Hazlehurst; “but I really believe, from my previous knowledge of Mr. Coverdale’s character, as well as from all you have told me to-day, that my interpretation of the enigmatical speech is the true one.”
“If it is, dearest mamma, I shall owe the whole happiness of my life to you,” exclaimed Alice, enthusiastically; “already I feel as if a load which had been crushing me to the earth was taken off my shoulders: the thought that Harry preferred that woman to me haunted me continually, and embittered my existence. Even now,” she continued, sorrowfully, “as long as the fact of Harry’s refusal to tell me what has passed between them remains unaccounted for, I cannot feel quite satisfied.”
“Do you know, Alice, I think you are evincing extreme narrow-mindedness in these unworthy suspicions; if you do not take yourself seriously to task, and strive to overcome this very grave fault in your character, I am afraid the evil you so much dread—the loss of your husband’s affection, may come upon you after all; but it will be solely to your own ungenerous mistrust that you will owe it. I do not wish to distress you,” she continued, as Alice burst into tears at this the most severe rebuke she had ever received from her mother’s lips; “but if I did not tell you what I believe to be the truth, I should fail in my duty to you.”
Alice wept for some moments in silence, then drying her tears, she said in a submissive, child-like manner, “I have done very, very wrong; advise me, mamma, and I will try and act according to your wishes.”
Mrs. Hazlehurst drew Alice towards her, and kissing her pale cheek affectionately, replied:
“My advice is this, love; when you return home, do not enter upon any of these matters which have been subjects of dissension between you and Mr. Coverdale; and should he do so, take care to reply gently and without irritation, remembering that ‘a meek and quiet spirit is a woman’s chiefest ornament;’ for the rest, try and make yourself as pleasant and agreeable as you can to him. Let him perceive your affection in the thousand constantly-recurring trifles of which a loving woman can avail herself for such a purpose, but be careful not to bore him with it at unsuitable times; above all, do not be exigeante, and expect or desire him to give up his sporting tastes, or his love of farming, or even the society of his gentlemen friends for your sake: you could not do it if you would, and you would only deteriorate his frank, manly character if you were to succeed. At the same time you may, by your influence, lead him to cultivate some of his more refined pursuits, into which you can enter with him. He sings charmingly; get him to keep up his music, procure the cleverest and best-written books, and persuade him to read and discuss them with you. His clear intellect and strong good sense will be of the greatest use in expanding and forming your mind, and supplying the deficiencies which my ill-health has occasioned in your education. I see I need not go farther into detail—you understand me.”
“Oh yes, mamma! and if I were but able to realize the picture you have drawn of our domestic life, how happy we might yet be! but I will try my very best, only I feel so weak, and sometimes so wicked; if I were but as wise and good as you—but I will try. Ah! if I had done so at first, I should have had so much easier a task—however, they say it is never too late to mend.” She paused, sighed deeply, then continued: “Emily comes home to-morrow; I will write to Harry to send for me the next day, and then—and then—Mamma, do you think I shall succeed?”
At the very moment Alice was thus repenting the past, and forming good resolutions for the future, Harry, with gloomy brow and clenched teeth, was striding impatiently up and down his library, holding in his hand a sealed letter—it was addressed to his wife, and the writing was Lord Alfred Courtland’s. “So,” he muttered, “so, not content with amusing (that’s the phrase now-a-day) himself during his London season by dangling after my wife, he must try to keep up the thing now she is away—foolish young idiot!—but I feel sure that scoundrel D’Almayne is at the bottom of it, setting him on for some purpose of his own. Well, I’ve borne it patiently—more patiently than one man in fifty would have done—nobody can say I’ve been rash or hasty in this matter; but it’s time to act, and when I do begin, I’ll astonish them. I’ll take Alfred Courtland off to his father, and tell him the boy’s not fit to be trusted alone. If he won’t go, I’ll horsewhip him; and as to D’Almayne, by the Heaven above me, I’ll shoot him like a dog! such a scoundrel is not fit to live! it would be a benefit to society to rid it of such a fellow. But I may be wrong; I said I would do nothing hastily in this business, and I’ll be true to my word. I’ll wait till Alice comes home, give her the letter myself, and ask her to show it to me. If she refuses, or if it contains such matter as I expect, I shall then know how to act.”
W hen things happen not to go smoothly in this mortal life (that is, about nine times out of every ten) people are apt to rail against destiny, deplore their evil fortune, or, if they happen to be very good indeed, reckon up the number of crosses vouchsafed them with self-complacent resignation; in fact, they each, after their own fashion, give currency to the sentiment expressed by our neighbours across the water, in the proverb, “L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” Now, although we acknowledge that this proverb embodies a great truth, yet, looking at the present state of things more closely, we conceive it to be by no means the whole truth—for this reason:—a large proportion of the evils of life are no results of blind chance, or, more correctly, no chastisements proceeding direct from the hand of Providence, but the natural, almost the necessary, consequences of our own actions. Action might be generally defined as the working—according to certain fixed rules—of cause and effect; if we would but bear this in mind, and reflect that every action produces some result good or evil, we might not indeed (so wrong-headed is human nature) act more wisely, but we should at all events feel less surprise when the inevitable results followed; and so, knowing that we had only ourselves to thank for our punishment, gain experience which might make some few fools of us wiser for the future.
These remarks were called forth by, and therefore might have occurred to, Alice Coverdale, had she been of what it is the fashion to term an “introspective habit”—i.e. had she been accustomed to turn her mind inside-out before its own eye. Not, however, being given to this uncomfortable practice, she failed to discern the troubles in store for her, and returned home fondly deeming that having at length perceived the error of her ways, she need only confess, and receive her husband’s absolution, to set every wrong right again. Harry did not come to fetch her, it being a day on which there was a magistrates’ meeting; but he was standing at the hall-door waiting to receive her, which he did warmly, and as if he was very glad to have her back again, though a gloom hung on his brow which, when the first confusion of her arrival was over, Alice could not fail to perceive; but conscious to a painful degree of her own faults and short-comings, she did not venture to remark upon it. When they reached the drawing-room, Harry threw back her veil, and regarded her with a long, earnest gaze, which brought the warm blood into her cheeks as in the days of her girlhood.
“You are looking better, brighter, and more like your former self than I have seen you for some time,” he said. He paused, then resumed sadly:—“Ah, Alice, I’m afraid you were happier in your old home than you will ever be in your new one!”
“Do not say so—do not think so, dear Harry!” was the eager reply. “I may have been silly, and—and wicked enough to have been unhappy, and to have vexed you and rendered you so, too; but I have been taking myself seriously to task since I have been away, and have come home full of good resolutions, and intending to strive hard to keep them; and if you would be so very good as to forgive me the past and help me in the future, I think perhaps I may succeed.”
Touched by her words and by the evident feeling with which they were spoken, Harry drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.
“We may both have been in some measure to blame,” he said, “but I by far the most so, for neglecting the sacred trust I took upon me when I possessed myself of your affection; but I was a heedless boy then—experience has made something rather more like a reasonable being of me by this time, I hope; at all events, I now know how to appreciate and guard the treasure I possess.” But even as he uttered these words his brow grew clouded, for he thought of Lord Alfred Courtland’s letter, lying at that moment in his pocket. Should he give it to her at once, as she stood by him blushing, and smiling, and looking up at him with all the light of her former love beaming in her soft blue eyes? What if she refused to show it him?—if its contents should destroy the harmony so happily re-established between them? Still it must be done sooner or later, and Harry was not one to put off the evil day. With that letter on his mind he could not meet Alice’s affection warmly and frankly as it deserved, and as she would expect him to do; besides, the contents might be of a nature to relieve, rather than to increase his anxiety, in which case he was needlessly prolonging his own uneasiness. So turning towards her, he said in a tone of voice which he vainly endeavoured to render easy and unconstrained, “Alice, love, here is a letter for you, which I chose to give you myself, and which, when you have read it, I hope and believe you will allow me to see also.” As he spoke he led her to the sofa, then handing her Lord Alfred’s unopened letter, waited in a state of anxiety which he vainly attempted to conceal, until she should have perused it. Alice coloured slightly when she perceived by the handwriting from whom the epistle proceeded; but, judging from her consciousness that nothing really wrong had passed between them that certainly she should be able to show it to Harry, and so eradicate any seeds of jealousy which might be lurking in his mind, she hastily broke the seal.
The letter was a long one, for Lord Alfred, being really very sorry for his misconduct on the night of the ball, and very anxious to retrieve Alice’s good opinion, waxed eloquent upon his theme, and expended as much fine writing upon his exculpation as would have formed a leader in the Times. After two sides of penitence, he continued:—
“In fact my excuse amounts to this: that I was, and I may say am, a fool in the hands of a knave; and a very, very bad excuse I feel it to be. But really D’Almayne is such a clever rogue, if rogue he be—knows so much of life is so brilliant and amusing—dresses so well—does everything with such perfect tact and good taste—is, in short, so consistent as a whole, that although one neither respects nor approves of him, yet it is impossible (at least for me) to resist his influence; time after time have I resolved to break with him, and time after time have I allowed him again to do what he pleased with me. I can truly and honestly declare, that everything that I have said or done which could cause you a moment’s annoyance, has been prompted by him; he flattered my vanity by urging me to get up a sentimental flirtation with la belle Coverdale, as he impertinently styled you; and, but for your good sense in showing me you had no taste for such folly, I know not what absurdities I might have committed. Again, he told me that ill-natured story of Mr. Coverdale, which I believe he embellished, and gave a much more serious colouring to than the truth would bear out; and finally and lastly, he it was who persuaded me to take you to the door of the boudoir to witness that scene between Miss Crofton and your husband, of which I feel certain we do not know the true explanation; for I am most confident my good friend Coverdale cares for you, and you only, as an affectionate husband should do. Why D’Almayne did all this, except that I fancy he has some spite against Coverdale, I do not know or care. Nor do I think I am wrong in thus showing the exquisite Horace up in his true colours to you, as every word I have stated is the simple truth; and were he to tax me with having done so, I should be perfectly ready to justify my conduct and abide the consequences, though he is such a dead shot, and fond of ‘parading his man’ at daybreak. Of course you will not show this letter to your husband, as, although I do not think, if he knew the whole truth, he would be very angry with me, such would not be the case in regard to D’Almayne, and might lead to something serious between them. But if, my dear Mrs. Coverdale, I can obtain your forgiveness, and (after my return from Italy, where I am shortly about to join my family) you will, in consideration of my penitence, still allow me the privilege of your friendship, I shall not so deeply regret the inexcusable folly of,
“Yours very sincerely,
“Alfred Courtland.”
“His lordship has treated you to a voluminous epistle,” observed Harry; “I am, I own, curious to learn what the boy can have found to say to you; he was by no means so prolific with his pen in the days of Greek exercises.”
As he spoke he held out his hand for the letter; but Alice drew back; the words “of course you will not show this letter to your husband”—“dead shot”—“fond of parading his man before daybreak”—“lead to something serious,” &c., swam before her eyes, her brain reeled, all the blood seemed to rush to her heart, and for a moment she felt on the verge of fainting. By an effort she recovered herself sufficiently to falter out—
“Dear Harry, do not ask to see it—I cannot show it to you—it is a private letter, meant for my eye only; and—and—you will not ask to see it!” She spoke in the humblest, most imploring tone; but the shadow on Harry’s brow grew deeper.
“It is most strange—incomprehensible, in fact—how and why you misunderstand me in this way!” he said. “I have a right to ask to see that letter; I should be neglecting a plain and positive duty if I failed to do so—putting aside all personal feeling in the matter—the duty I owe to you, the responsibility I took upon myself when I married you, requires it. I have suffered too much already from my careless neglect of these sacred obligations to fall into the same error again!” He paused; then taking Alice’s hand in his own, he continued with a mournful tenderness:—“You are but a young girl yet, my poor child; as ignorant of the ways of the world as if you were a child; I have deprived you of the safeguard of a father’s authority, of a mother’s watchful tenderness, and, with my best endeavours, it is but most imperfectly I can make up for these deficiencies. You may trust me in this matter; in trifles I know I am rash and headstrong, but in a case like this, where my deepest, strongest feelings are concerned, you need not fear me; your happiness is not a thing to trifle with. Understand me clearly; I do not in the slightest degree suspect you of anything in this affair but thoughtlessness; I do not believe anybody or anything could deprive me of your affection but my own acts; and if, by my heedless folly in neglecting you to follow my selfish amusements, I have not already alienated your love, I hope and believe that I shall give you no farther cause for repenting that you ever entrusted me with so priceless a treasure.” A warm pressure from the hand which he still retained, assured him better than words could have done that his wife’s heart was still in his keeping, and he continued:—“With every confidence in you, however, it is not right that I should allow this foolish boy to continue his intimacy with you, after the tone he and his libertine friend, that scoundrel D’Almayne, have chosen to give it. I have heard more than one conversation at clubs and elsewhere in regard to ‘D’Almayne’s promising pupil, and la belle Coverdale’ as the puppies had the insolence to call you” (Alice started as she remembered Lord Alfred’s allusion to the phrase being D’Almayne’s), “which would have caused your cheeks to burn with shame and anger, and which, if I were quite the rash, headstrong character people would make me out to be, might have led to unpleasant consequences;—men have been shot for such remarks before now. Thus, it is quite time this folly should be brought to an end. I hoped it would die a natural death when I took you out of town; but as Alfred Courtland has chosen to write to you, I think it my duty, as I before said, to see the letter, that I may be able to judge what steps it may be necessary to take to bring the affair to a close.”
“Indeed, Harry dearest, there will be no need to take any steps at all!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly. “Lord Alfred simply writes to apologise for something he did which annoyed me on the evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, owing, as he confesses, to his having drunk more Champagne than was wise. I can assure you the letter evinces nothing but good feeling on his part, and is rather to his credit than otherwise.”
“Then, in the name of common sense, why not show it to me—write him a good-humoured, friendly answer—and there will be an end to the matter without any more fuss?” exclaimed Harry.
Poor Alice, she could only repeat “I cannot show it you—do not ask me!” and as the words passed her lips, she felt how foolish, or obstinate, or wicked, they must make her appear. Her husband rose and took a turn up and down the room, as was his wont when anything annoyed him, yet he did not wish to lose his self-control—the first symptom, in fact, of the approach of his “quiet manner.” Alice recognised it, and her heart fluttered, and her colour went and came. Having regained his self-command, Harry reseated himself, and began:—
“You need not be afraid to trust me in this matter, Alice, love; I promise you I will do nothing inconsiderate or hasty, if you will but act straightforwardly by me, and treat me with proper confidence. Alfred Courtland is a mere boy; the utmost I suspect him of is foolish romance, which, joined with his inexperience in the ways of the world, enables such men as D’Almayne to guide him as they please. I have an old regard for him, having known him from his childhood; and the worst I am likely to do to him is to read him a lecture, give him a little good advice, and possibly write to his father, and suggest that he had better look after the young gentleman until he is a year or two older, and, it is to be hoped, wiser. Perhaps, even, when I see the letter I may not deem it necessary to interfere at all. Come, do not let any fanciful punctilio weigh with you, but give it me at once.”
“Harry, do not ask me! Indeed, indeed, dear Harry, I cannot—must not show it to you! Oh! how unlucky, how strangely unfortunate I am!—now, too, when I wanted so to do right!” and, overcome by the embarrassment of the situation, Alice burst into tears.
Surprised and annoyed at her continued refusal, Harry, despite his confidence in his wife’s fidelity, not unnaturally began to suppose there must be more in this letter than he had at first imagined; and his desire to see it increased, as he became more and more convinced that Alice meant to adhere to her determination not to show it to him. Again he rose, and again, more impatiently than before, began to stride up and down the room; he continued silent for two or three minutes, and when he did address his wife, it was without resuming his place by her side.
“Many men,” he said, “would consider themselves justified in forcing you to show that letter; but I do not feel so. I will, instead, put clearly before you the effect which your agitation and your determination to conceal its contents, must necessarily produce on my mind. Either the writer must address you in such language that you are afraid to show it, lest it should lead to a serious misunderstanding between him and me; or he refers to some previous passages between you, with which you are unwilling your husband should become acquainted. Now, as I have before said, I have every confidence in you, which nothing but proof positive that you are not deserving of it could shake. The matter then resolves itself into this:—that Courtland has addressed you in that letter in some unbecoming style; and if you persist in refusing to satisfy me on this point in the only effectual manner, viz., by showing me the letter, I shall be under the necessity of obtaining the information in some other way; and when once I have taken up the matter and begun to act for myself, depend upon it I shall go through with it, to whatever consequences it may lead. Should they be such as to cause you sorrow, remember it is now in your power to avert them—then it will be too late! Go to your own room, and reflect on all this quietly and calmly. If you decide to show me the letter, rely on my moderation and discretion; if you persist in your refusal, I must act as I may consider my position renders necessary; and may God help us both if evil should come of it! If you should think better of your unwise determination, bring or send me the letter at any moment; but if not, I had rather you remained in your boudoir during the evening, as I feel deeply on this matter, and cannot trust myself to speak of it without saying things which I should be sorry for afterwards. Now go, and think it over. Do not look so frightened,” he continued in a gentler tone; “believe me, I speak more in sorrow than in anger.”
“Oh, yes! I see you do,” returned Alice, in a tone of the deepest emotion; “and it is that which is breaking my heart! I had rather, ten thousand times, that you were angry with me: and yet I know I am doing what is best!” She paused; then, with a fresh burst of tears, she threw herself into her husband’s arms, exclaiming, “Harry! dearest Harry! have pity on me!” Her husband soothed and supported her tenderly till she grew somewhat calmer, then, kissing her forehead, he led her to the door, saying kindly but gravely, “Have pity on yourself, darling; act as I would have you, and all will go well.”
Greatly perplexed, considerably frightened, and altogether in that state of mind which can best be described by the term “upset,” poor Alice’s first performance was the thoroughly feminine one of “having her cry out." Having thus poured forth her grief, viâ her eyelids, she set to work seriously to face her difficulties, and come to some decision which might, if possible, reconcile her conflicting duties. The simplest and easiest way would, of course, be to do as Harry wished her; show him the letter, and leave him to decide on the matter, both for her and for himself. With this view she carefully re-read it; and when she had done so, felt more than ever convinced that to allow her husband to see it, would be to ensure a quarrel with Horace D’Almayne,—and from that to a hostile meeting, Harry shot, and herself sent for by telegraph to receive his dying benediction, was only a natural feminine transition. Supposing she were to adhere then—as adhere she must—to her resolution, what would Harry do? Set off for London, to seek an explanation from Lord Alfred; yes, and he would get it too! Lord Alfred would be forced to say much the same as he had written; for it was clear he felt no delicacy about showing up D’Almayne; and though, perhaps, he might not mention the business in regard to Miss Crofton, yet Harry would soon collect that D’Almayne had first suggested to Lord Alfred to flirt with her, and then encouraged him to try and change what would have been simply an agreeable acquaintanceship into a sentimental love-affair. Oh! if she had but known all this sooner, she would have effectually cured Lord Alfred of his penchant, instead of encouraging him in order to pique Harry out of his supposed indifference. How blind, how stupid she had been! how she had mistaken everybody and everything! even in regard to Harry—his conduct about this letter—trusting her when she was obliged to confess appearances were strongly against her—treating her with such tender forbearance when her behaviour must seem to him, to say the least, perverse and incomprehensible! How differently had she behaved in regard to Miss Crofton! how ready had she been to suspect Harry on the slightest grounds! Yes, she saw it clearly now, her mother’s interpretation of that speech was the true one—Harry loved her still; nay, had never ceased to do so. Ah! her first idea of him was right—there was nobody like him; and she was not worthy of such happiness as to be his wife—his chosen one—the object of his deep, tender, manly affection. Her eyes were open at last; she saw the truth; recognised his worth, perceived her own deficiencies and faults. If this wretched business could ever be got over, how careful she would be to guard against her former errors! what happiness was there not yet in store for her! Could nothing be devised? As she pondered, an idea struck her. Harry evidently would take no step till the next morning; the post had not yet gone out; there would be time for her to write to Lord Alfred, explain her dilemma, and appeal to his good feeling to leave town for a day or two. Harry, thus missing him, would naturally return home, when she would ask Lord Alfred to write him such a letter as would satisfy his doubts—a duplicate, in fact, of the one which had caused all this trouble, only without the attack on D’Almayne. The scheme was not perfectly satisfactory; still, the more she thought of it the more she became convinced that it was the only way of escape from the present emergency. Lord Alfred, she felt pretty sure, would act as she wished, if she made his compliance the condition on which her forgiveness of the past and friendship for the future must depend. Then she trusted a good deal to the chapter of accidents to help her; and at some indefinite epoch, when Horace D’Almayne should have gone abroad, and be out of Harry’s way, she would show him the letter, explain why she had not done so sooner, confess the words she had overheard at Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, the history she had been told in regard to Arabella Crofton, and in fact (to use an inelegant but graphic expression) make a clean breast of it, and trust to his affection to pity and forgive her. So she sat down and scribbled off a hurried but eloquent letter to Lord Alfred, which she flattered herself would produce the effect she desired. Having completed it, she indited a few lines to Harry, telling him she had thought the matter over calmly and seriously; and with the strongest desire to do as he wished her, she yet felt it her duty to adhere to her former decision.
In the meantime Coverdale sat in gloomy meditation: why would not Alice let him see that letter? he could not, he did not imagine it contained anything to lessen his respect and affection for her; but if not, what could it contain to make her so resolute not to show it to him? He perceived with pleasure, though it added to his perplexity, that she was not swayed by any ebullition of temper, but was acting from a sense (however mistaken) of duty; he saw the pain it gave her to refuse him, and appreciated and rejoiced in the good resolutions she had formed at the Grange. It was strange, certainly, how events seemed to militate against the happiness of his married life! he had forfeited his domestic felicity by his own selfish addiction to his bachelor pursuits and habits, and it appeared impossible to regain it. Then he commenced a minute and painful review of all the occurrences of his matrimonial career, endeavouring to trace out the causes which had led to each several result, and carefully scrutinising his own conduct, to discover how far he had acted up to the rules he had laid down for himself. He was thus engaged when Alice’s note was brought to him; he read it, and his resolution was formed: he would go to London by the first train the next morning, see Lord Alfred Courtland, and learn the contents of his letter, either by fair means or foul; he would try fair means first, and be patient, and for Alice’s sake endeavour to avoid a quarrel—yes, that was decided on. So he sat down and wrote a couple of notes to put off engagements in the neighbourhood, then rang the bell. “Has the post-bag gone?” he asked, as the servant appeared. The reply was in the negative, and in another minute Wilkins returned with it. Harry and Alice had each a key, but when he was at home hers was seldom used; so was therefore rather surprised to find it already locked. Unlocking it, he attempted hastily to insert his two notes, but a letter which was in the bag had become fixed in a fold of the leather, and prevented his doing so. With an exclamation of impatience he took it out, and was about to replace it, when the address accidentally caught his eye; it was in his wife’s handwriting, and directed to Lord Alfred Courtland, with immediate written in one corner. “Leave the bag two or three minutes, Wilkins,” he said hurriedly, “I have thought of something else.” As soon as the servant quitted the room, Coverdale again took up the letter. What could it mean?—why had Alice written off in such hot haste to this young man? Had she divined his intention of seeking out Lord Alfred, and was this letter sent off thus hurriedly to tutor him what to say—or, worse still, what to conceal? Should he end all these wretched doubts and suspicions at once—should he send for Alice, and in her presence open and read the letter? The temptation was a strong one, but he overcame it. Even if the circumstances of the case were sufficient to warrant him, he felt it would be an act of domestic tyranny against which his generous nature revolted. What should he do then? Suffer the letter to go, and so throw away his only chance of arriving at the truth? No, that would be mere weakness: his resolution was formed. Putting Alice’s letter in his pocket, he relocked the post-bag, and ringing the bell, desired it might be taken immediately. Having seen his order executed, he sat down and wrote a note, and sealed up a packet. About four hours later on the same evening, i.e. between nine and ten o’clock, this packet was placed in Alice’s hands; it contained her letter to Lord Alfred Courtland, unopened, and the following note from her husband:—
“My dear Alice,—When you receive this I shall be on my road to London, whither I am going to have a little serious conversation with Alfred Courtland. As I wish and intend him to tell the truth uninfluenced, I have taken upon me to delay your letter a post. Trusting this affair may end so as to secure your happiness, in which I think you now see mine is involved,
“I am, ever yours affectionately,
“H. C.”
“P. S.—If you have occasion to write to me, direct to Arthur’s chambers.”
Contrary to Mr. Philip Tirrett’s expectation, Don Pasquale’s delicate fore leg improved under training, and became so nearly sound that he and Captain O’Brien were quite depressed when they reflected that but for its temper, which was vile, the horse was really worth two out of the £350 they had received from Lord Alfred Courtland for it; and regretted with sundry strong but unavailing expletives their folly in not having demanded £500, which they now considered to be its figure in proper (i. e. their own dirty) hands. A conclave had been held at the Pandemonium, and the handsome guardsman, and the fast cornet, and the heavy lieutenant, and sundry other noble and gallant cavaliers, had entered spicy screws, with impossible names; and a steeple-chase, with gentlemen riders, was to come off in a sporting locality, within easy distance of London, on a certain day. This day had nearly arrived, when, on the same afternoon which witnessed Alice Coverdale’s return home, and the uncomfortable scene produced by the delivery of Lord Alfred’s letter, that young nobleman was seated at a library-table in his fashionable lodgings, poring over his betting-book, which, since the Blackwall dinner, was, we suspect, the only book he had looked into, when “to him entered” Horace D’Almayne.
“What! at it still?” he exclaimed; “why, mon cher, you’ll be fit for some ‘bookkeeping-by-double-entry’ style of appointment before this business comes off. How do you stand by this time?”
“Safe to win £500 if the Don does but run true,” was the reply.
“And if he should make a fiasco by any unlucky chance?”
“Don’t talk about it; time enough to face evil when it comes, without going half-way to meet it. The Don is looking splendid, he improves every day under training, and even Tirrett seems surprised at his performance. Dick took him over the brook this morning, and, by Jove! he cleared it in his stride, and six feet beyond, at the least. Tirrett seems sure about the line of course; if so, that brook will win us the race. Captain O’Brien’s is the only horse I’m at all afraid of, and Tirrett’s got out of his groom that Broth-of-a-boy won’t face water.”
“Witnessing these trials necessitates a frightful amount of early rising, does it not, mon cher?” inquired D’Almayne, with a half-pitying, half-provoking smile; “breakfast comes off at six, I suppose, instead of eleven or twelve? You look sleepy now from your unusual exertions.”
“Well I may,” was the reply; “I dined with the Guards’ Mess yesterday, and went knocking about with Bellingham and Annesley afterwards; got home about three a.m., had a cigar and a bottle of soda-water, changed my dress clothes, and slept in the arm-chair until Tirrett came for me in a dog-cart at half-past four,—for they take the Don out as soon as its light.”
“You certainly improve, mon ami; you have learned how to live, instead of merely existing, as you used to do, and are better able to take care of yourself:—which is fortunate, by the way, for I’ve come to tell you (what on your account I’m very sorry for) that I shall be unable to be with you at this said steeple-chase.” A start, and an exclamation of surprise, we had almost said of consternation, which escaped Lord Alfred at this announcement, might have suggested that he did not feel quite such implicit confidence in his own resources as his associate’s compliment would seem to imply. He only said, however—
“Eh, really! what an awful bore! But why are you going to throw me over?”
“Simply because, not being a bird, my presence in Brussels and at the steeple-chase at one and the same time is, to speak mildly, impossible.”
“And, in the name of common sense, why go to Brussels at this particular juncture?” inquired his Lordship.
“Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère!” quoted Horace; “business takes me—not pleasure, I assure you. It seems this East Indiaman, over the loss of which old Crane has been whining and pining for the last three days, was heavily insured in a Belgian house; but owing to some supposed informality in the drawing up of the papers, they, on hearing of the shipwreck, deny their liability. Now a cousin of mine is an avocat—the same thing as a barrister—at Brussels, so I am going over to put the case in his hands. Old Crane pays my expenses, and gives me a very handsome commission, and—you know I never make any secret of the unfortunate anomaly, that my habits are expensive and my pocket shallow—I can’t afford to throw such a chance away. I tell you this in confidence, to prove to you that I really am unable to see you through this horse business, which from the first, you are aware, I never liked; but I find, as I suspect many mentors have found before me, that it’s a good deal easier to lead on a young fellow of spirit like you, mon cher, than to hold him back.”
Lord Alfred smiled faintly—a pre-occupied smile—at the implied compliment, for his mind was engrossed by the prospect of the loss of D’Almayne’s presence and support at the steeplechase—a loss at which he felt vastly more uneasy than he would have been at all willing to confess. Anxious as much to be reassured himself as to inspire his companion with confidence, he said in a tone which, despite his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed his self-distrust—
“Yes, but really, D’Almayne, even taking your view of the matter, I don’t see reasonably what there is to croak about: that young fellow Tirrett, who has been born and bred among horses, and knows practically what those prigs of guardsmen—the frightfully heavy dragoon, the romancing Irish captain, and last and least, my innocent self—pretend to know, assures me there’s no horse entered that can come near the Don. As they are to be all ridden by gentlemen, and he is a gentleman rider (so called, like the theatrical walking gentleman, from his being utterly unlike the genuine article—on the lucus a non lucendo principle, I imagine), he rides for me, and I depend a great deal on his perfect acquaintance with all the peculiarities of the horse (for, entre nous, I fancy his temper is his weak point); and as his pay is to be more than doubled in the event of his winning, I think I have every reason to believe he will do me justice, and to feel sanguine as to the result.”
“Well, mon cher, I wish you most heartily success,” was the reply; “and I still more wish I could remain and see you through it; for without meaning to throw discredit on young Tirrett, or any of them in particular, I, as a general rule, mistrust these horse people. However, I think you have your eyes open, and may be trusted to take care of yourself. And now I must be off; I embark at eight to-night. By the way, I dare say you’ll allow me to write a note here; it will save my going round by the club.”
Suiting the action to the word, he seated himself at a library-table, and wrote as follows:—
“Dear Tirrett,—Your game is clear; let A. C. and O’B———n each believe that you will ride for him, and at the last minute throw both over. In this case Captain Annesley’s Black Eagle is safe to win, as I dare say you know better than I do; thus you will perceive how to make a paying book. If I prove a true prophet, I shall expect a £50 note from you, as O’B———n will (before you quarrel with him) tell you I got up the whole affair myself, introducing him to A. C., &c.
“I remain, yours faithfully,
“You’ll know who when I claim the tin.”
“P.S.—If you make a heavy purse out of the business, I shall expect ten per cent, on all beyond £500.”
Having sealed this precious missive, and put a penny stamp of Lord Alfred’s upon it, he consigned it to his pocket, took an affectionate farewell of his victim, and departed.
When Harry Coverdale reached London that evening, Horace D’Almayne was “off the Nore,” and feeling none the better for sea-air, wished most heartily that he was “off” the ocean also. In order to make up for his want of sleep on the previous night, Lord Alfred Courtland desired his valet not to let him be disturbed until he rang his bell, the result of which order was, that at one p.m. on the following morning his Lordship was eating his breakfast in that state of dreamy imbecility usually induced by an over-dose of “nature’s sweet restorer.” From this mental torpor he was in some degree aroused by a quick, sharp, and decided knock at the door, followed by a heavy but active footstep on the stairs, and ere he had time properly to regain his sleep-scattered senses, the valet announced Mr. Coverdale.
“You’re just about the last person I expected to see in town?” exclaimed Lord Alfred, languidly rising and holding out two fingers—a mild civility of which Harry did not avail himself. “I thought you were revelling in all the sweets of rural felicity, and that nothing would have tempted you to leave them. I’m uncommonly glad to see you though,” he continued, as it suddenly occurred to him that Coverdale would be a very good substitute for Horace D’Almayne, to advise and see him through this alarming steeple-chase, in regard to which two fixed ideas constantly haunted him, viz.: that he had risked a sum of money upon it much larger than he had any right to have done; and that he was as entirely ignorant of the whole affair, and as completely in Tirrett’s hands, as a baby could have been under the circumstances. “I’ll tell you why,” he continued; “the truth is, I’ve got in for an affair, the magnitude of which I by no means bargained for; in fact, I should not be surprised or offended if (as I know you’re both a kind friend and a plain-spoken fellow) you were to tell me I’d made a considerable ass of myself.”
“One moment, Courtland,” interrupted Coverdale; “I have come to town expressly to see you, in regard to a matter which nearly concerns me; and until we have discussed that, I really cannot give my attention to anything else. Now listen to me, Alfred,” he continued gravely, but not angrily: “I’ve been acquainted with you since you were a child, and I know your good points as well as your weak ones. I know, although you’re easily led away by bad precept and worse example, that you’ve a kind heart and a generous nature; and so, for the sake of this old regard, I have allowed you to—to amuse yourself and occupy your idle time by devoting yourself to my wife; and I am now about to talk to you, and reason with you on the subject, in a far milder tone than I should use to any other man under the circumstances.” Lord Alfred was about eagerly to interrupt him, but by a gesture Harry restrained him:—
“Hear me out,” he continued, “and then, when you understand the tenour and amount of my accusation, you can say what you like in your defence. You considered my wife pretty and good-natured, and you fancied, or were told, it would give you éclat with the set you have unfortunately mixed up with—and a very shady set I’m afraid they are—to have a sentimental love-affair with some pretty young married woman. I was not quite the blind careless creature you imagined me all the time we were in London; on the contrary, I saw what was going on plainly enough, and was annoyed at it—but nothing more. I had the most thorough confidence in my wife; and she is so real in all her feelings, so completely fresh and genuine, that I was not afraid your sentimentality would infect her; moreover, I trusted to your own good heart to keep you from going very far wrong; but, towards the conclusion of our stay in Park Lane, I heard remarks dropped at clubs, and observed other things, which made me resolve to put an end to the folly: and as the quietest and best way of doing so, I took Alice out of town. As far as she was concerned, the experiment appears to have succeeded; for I can’t flatter your vanity by saying that I believe she ever gave you a second thought. But with you it does not seem to have had the desired effect; for, a few days since, I was not best pleased to perceive a letter for my wife in your handwriting. Wait!” he continued, seeing Lord Alfred was again about to speak; “Hear me out: I shall not try your patience much longer. This letter I chose to give her myself, for the purpose of asking her, as soon as she had read it, to show it to me—”
“And she refused?” observed Lord Alfred, coolly.
“Yes, sir, she did!” returned Harry, with flashing eyes; “she refused to show me that letter; and at the same time was unable or unwilling to give me any good reason for objecting to satisfy my just demand: and now, perhaps, you can guess at the nature of my business with you. I have come up to town to obtain from you the information I have been unable to gain from her; and I now ask you to repeat to me, as nearly as you can, word for word, the contents of that letter.”
“Under what penalty if I should decline to comply with your—somewhat unusual request?” was the reply.
Harry’s brow grew dark. “I have not wasted a thought on so unlikely a contingency,” he said abruptly.
There was a pause, then Lord Alfred rose, and drawing up his tall but slender figure to its full height, replied—
“Now listen to me, Coverdale; you have spoken unpleasant truths to me in an unpleasant manner—a manner which, boy as you deem me, I should in any other man resent; but you are, as you have said, one of my oldest friends, and as such privileged. Moreover, in the transactions you allude to, I freely confess that I have been to blame; and I have no objection to tell you that my chief object in writing to Mrs. Coverdale was to make her aware of this, and ask her to forgive me any annoyance I might have caused her. Having explained thus much to you, you must excuse my declining to say more.”
“Indeed I shall do no such thing,” was Coverdale’s angry reply; “you have told me no more than Alice told me herself. Sir, I came to town expressly to learn from you the contents of that letter, and by fair means or foul I intend to do so! I may not know how to deal with women, but, by heaven! I do know how to deal with men, or with green boys, who give themselves the airs of men, before they have acquired a man’s strength, either of mind or body!” He took a turn up and down the room, then continued in a milder tone—“Come, Alfred, do not let us quarrel about this foolish affair; you see I am in earnest, so satisfy me on this one point, and let there be an end of these absurd misunderstandings between us.”
“You pay Mrs. Coverdale a very bad compliment,” rejoined Lord Alfred, “when you make out that she refused to comply with her husband’s wish without some very good reason; at all events, I so entirely differ with you on this point that I feel called upon to follow her example.”
“Am I then to understand—” began Harry.
“You are to understand clearly and distinctly that I refuse to tell you one single line in that letter,” was the unexpected answer; “and so now do your worst, for to this decision I intend to adhere, and no representations or threats shall induce me to alter it.”
As he spoke, Lord Alfred again drew up his slight graceful figure with a degree of dignity of which those who had seen him only in his languid affected moods would not have deemed him capable, and, folding his arms calmly, awaited Coverdale’s reply. But that reply was for some little time not forthcoming; the truth being that, in spite of his assertion to the contrary, Harry for once in his life did not know how to deal with a man. He was very angry with Lord Alfred, and felt strongly tempted to knock him down; but even at that moment his old feeling that it was his duty to protect the high-spirited but delicate boy, though it were from himself, came across him, and paralysed his energy.
Lord Alfred, however, who like all very good-tempered easy people, when once roused, felt a necessity to give immediate vent to his anger, possibly from a secret consciousness of its evanescent character, did not wait the termination of this mental struggle, but continued—
“Well, Coverdale, do you perceive the reasonableness of my position, or am I to incur the penalty of my disobedience, and become acquainted with your terrific method of dealing with refractory men?”
As he spoke sarcastically, and with a slight resumption of his fashionable lisp, Coverdale made one step towards him, and clutching his shoulder with his left hand in a vice-like grasp, while the fingers of his right clenched themselves involuntarily, he said in a low deep voice—
“For your own sake—nay, for both our sakes—Alfred, I advise you not to provoke me farther!”
“And why not?” inquired Lord Alfred, firmly, though he grew a little pale at the expression he saw stealing over Coverdale’s features.
“I will tell you why not,” was the reply; “look at this!” and he raised his clenched fist to a level with his companion’s features; “with one blow of this I believe I could fell an ox. I have felled a man of double your weight and power, and I did not use my full strength then; if I had, I believe I should have killed him. I have a quick temper, and you have roused it. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t trust myself; so if you are not utterly reckless, leave me alone!”
As he spoke, he unconsciously tightened his grasp on the young nobleman’s shoulder, till it became so exquisitely painful that it required all the fortitude Lord Alfred could muster to endure it without flinching. Whether owing to this practical proof of his adversary’s strength, or whether he read in Harry’s flashing eye and quivering lip the volcano of passion that smouldered within, certain it is that as soon as the grasp was removed from his aching shoulder, Lord Alfred turned away, and seated himself with a discontented air in an attitude of passive expectation.
After pacing the room in moody cogitation for several minutes, Coverdale suddenly paused, and said—
“I was unprepared for this refusal, so pertinaciously adhered to, and I confess it embarrasses even more than it provokes me. I fancied—that is, I forgot you were not really a boy still, and imagined that when you found I was serious about the matter, your will would yield to mine; it seems I was mistaken. Any other man who had withstood me as you have done, on such a subject, would now be lying at my feet; but I can no more bring myself to use my strength against you than I could bear to strike a woman; and as to the alternative which equalises strength, I shudder at the idea as a temptation direct from Satan. If I were to shoot you, I should never know another happy moment. How should I face that kind old man, your father, who, when I was a boy, has given me many a sovereign in the holidays? I should feel like a second Cain, as if I had slain my brother!”
This speech, which Harry delivered eagerly and with evidences of deep feeling, appealed to Lord Alfred’s better nature; he grew more and more excited as it proceeded, and at its conclusion he sprang up, exclaiming:—
“’Pon my word—’pon my honour as a gentleman, Coverdale, I assure you you are worrying yourself about nothing! I own I have behaved wrongly—foolishly in this matter, and I am very sorry for it. But your wife is an angel, and cares for you and you only: she treated me with friendly kindness, but nothing more: I am to blame entirely.”
“Why then does she so obstinately refuse to show me your letter, and why do you object to enlighten me as to the contents, and so satisfy me and set the matter at rest for ever?” inquired Harry.
Lord Alfred paused for a moment in thought ere he replied.
“I think I can divine Mrs. Coverdale’s reason for not showing my letter to you, and if so, it is one that does her credit; but it is enough for me to know that she does not wish its contents revealed, to make me feel that, as a man of honour, I am bound to be silent. Believe me, Coverdale, I do not say this to annoy you, or to set you at defiance. I would gladly tell you, if I did not think it would be dishonourable and wrong to do so. I wish to heaven I had never written the letter now, since it has produced all this annoyance; but I really did it for the best—I did, upon my honour!”
He spoke with such an air of truthfulness, and his manner was so simple and ingenuous, that Coverdale felt it impossible to doubt his veracity; and for a moment he was on the point of flinging his suspicions to the winds, and, shaking hands with Lord Alfred, to tell him everything was forgotten and forgiven. But Harry’s mind was of that order which is slow to receive a feeling so foreign to its general tone as suspicion, and which, when the idea has once become fixed, finds equal difficulty in relinquishing it. Thus, in the present case, having convinced himself that the only satisfactory way of clearing up his doubts would be by gaining oral or ocular acquaintance with the contents of the mysterious letter, he could in no way divest himself of the conviction, but was continually looking out for reasons in its favour. Instead, therefore, of yielding to his first impulse, he reflected that having refused to put faith in Alice’s unsupported assertion, he should equally be unjust to her, and untrue to his own convictions, if he gave credence to that of Lord Alfred Courtland. So, taking up his hat, he said—
“Since you persist in your refusal, I must go and think this matter over coolly and quietly; you shall see or hear from me before this time to-morrow.” He turned to depart, but Lord Alfred held out his hand:—
“We part as friends?” he said, inquiringly.
“Neither as friends nor foes,” was the reply. “You shall learn my decision to-morrow.” And rejecting his proffered hand, Coverdale quitted the apartment.