After making one violent effort to get his head and bolt,—an effort which it tasked Harry’s strength and skill to the utmost to counteract,—the Don gradually settled into his stride, crossed a grass-field, and flew across an easy fence at the end of it, with a bound which would have cleared one of three times its magnitude, in a style which convinced Harry of the superior powers of the animal he bestrode. Besides Black Eagle and Don Pasquale, six other horses started. Of these, one, a fiery chestnut colt, rushed at his first fence, fell, threw his jockey, then got away, and was not caught for the next two hours; a ploughed field pumped the wind out of two more so effectually, that for all chance of winning the race they might as well never have started; the jump into the lane settled a fourth, which was led off with two broken knees; while a furze common used up a fifth; so that as they approached the brook, the sporting cornet (who rode his own horse, Grey Robin), Tirrett, and Harry, were the only remaining competitors. About five hundred yards from the brook (which was a very picturesque but singularly uncomfortable looking stream to ride over, having steep rugged banks, being too deep to ford, and quite as wide as a horse could conveniently leap), Tirrett, who was leading, held in Black Eagle with a view, as Coverdale imagined, to save his wind, and get him well together for the leap. His own horse, which was going beautifully, was so fresh, that Harry considered him able to clear the brook without any such precautions, and believing, if he kept on at the same pace he should either gain ground which Tirrett would be unable to recover, or force him to press Black Eagle to a degree which might break him down at his leap, he did not draw rein until he came to within about fifty yards of the bank. Having mentally selected the spot at which he meant to charge the brook, he was about to put his horse at it, when a rushing sound caused him to turn his head. As he did so, Tirrett dashed by him like a flash of lightning, so closely that their elbows brushed, while as he passed he turned in his saddle, and brought his riding whip down with his full force between Don Pasquale’s ears. The effect of his villainous scheme fully answered his expectations; the horse, which had been going at an easy stretching gallop, and was just gathering itself up for the leap, stopped so abruptly, that it was with the greatest difficulty Harry was able to prevent himself from going over its head; the next moment the animal reared, and stood pawing the air wildly with its fore legs, so that Coverdale was forced to throw himself forward and cling to the creature’s neck to prevent it from falling over upon him. Then commenced a furious struggle for mastery between man and horse. Tirrett’s cowardly stroke had aroused the vicious temper of the brute, and failing in its first desperate attempts to unseat its rider, it laid back its ears, planted its feet firmly on the ground, and obstinately refused to move. Irritated beyond control at the rascally trick which had been played him, and at its complete success, Coverdale, with whip, spurs, and bit, gave Don Pasquale a thorough specimen of his quiet manner, but with no other result than one or two futile attempts to bite or kick its rider: at length he was compelled to desist from pure exhaustion, and, laying the bridle on the animal’s neck, he shifted the whip to his left hand, while he extended the cramped fingers of his right, preparatory to recommencing hostilities. Whether through mere caprice, or whether, as is more probable, the Don caught sight of the other horses, which had safely accomplished the transit of the brook, and were resuming their course on the other side, it is not easy to decide; certain it is, however, that the moment it found its head at liberty, it dashed off at full speed; and before Harry could gather up the reins, the creature had reached the bank, plunged madly forward, and in another moment Coverdale found himself up to the breast in water, with no part of his horse visible except the head. Although taken completely by surprise, his presence of mind did not forsake him; thanks to his experience in the hunting-field, the situation was not new to him, and scarcely had he glanced round ere his quick eye selected the point at which he should effect a landing; guiding his horse to a spot where the bank was least steep and abrupt, he waited until the animal obtained a precarious footing; then, encouraging it by hand and voice, he lifted it by the rein, and urged it forward; there was a scramble and a slip, then a more violent struggle than before, and the Don and his rider were once again high, though by no means dry, on terra firma. As soon as he could find time to look after his competitors in the race, he became aware that both had cleared the brook in safety, and were half across the field beyond, Tirrett some twenty yards ahead,—a distance which he kept so completely without effort, that Harry at once perceived Grey Robin was beaten. That Tirrett thought the same of both his antagonists was evident, from the easy pace at which he was going. In order to accomplish his rascally manœuvre before crossing the brook, he had pressed Black Eagle injudiciously; and, confident that both the other horses must be in an equally exhausted condition, he was saving him for the final struggle. He was, however, wrong in regard to Don Pasquale; true, its contention with its rider had taken for the time a good deal out of it, but the last act of that affair having consisted of a display of passive obstinacy, had in some degree refreshed it; and its plunge into the brook had also exercised a beneficial influence; so that Harry perceived, to his great delight, so soon as they resumed their course on the farther bank, that his horse had plenty of good running still left in it, and when it got again into its stride, that it was improving every minute. Thus, if Coverdale could manage to creep up to his opponent so gradually as not to alarm him until he had regained a portion of the ground he had lost, and Dick’s suggestion of the desperate leap over the wall should prove at all practicable, he did not despair of the race yet. In accordance with this view, Harry rather restrained than urged the Don, until Tirrett had cleared the next fence, and entered the field beyond; but the moment the overhanging branches of the hedge closed behind him, Coverdale gave his horse the rein, came up with Grey Robin, who disputed precedence with him for a few yards, and then fell back beaten; flew over the fence like a bird, took up the running on the other side in first-rate style; and before Tirrett had got Black Eagle fairly into his stride again, the Don was alongside of him. And now the race, properly so called, began in earnest: for nearly a mile the course lay along a slight descent of smooth springy turf, terminated by a ditch, and a low brick wall heightened by a rail, beyond which the ground rose more steeply for a short distance, up to the winning-post. Thus, as Dick had foreseen, the man and horse that first cleared the wall in safety must of necessity win. At one spot the fence was broken, and the wall partially knocked down; but this gap, although within the marked line, was somewhat out of the direct course. Thus, by taking the ditch, wall, and fence, at the nearest point (always supposing any jockey bold enough to attempt such a leap, and fortunate enough to accomplish it in safety), an amount of distance would be saved which would ensure success to the enterprising rider. Harry’s quick eye took in the situation at a glance, and he resolved to attempt it, unless he should gain such an advantage over his adversary, before reaching the boundary wall, as should render his success no longer a doubtful matter. That Tirrett equally perceived the critical nature of the situation might be gathered from the fact that, although aware of the task before him (for even across the gap the leap was one which a good horseman, on a fresh steed, might congratulate himself on having accomplished safely, and which, on a tired one, he would think twice ere he ventured to attempt), he pressed the pace to the utmost extent of his horse’s power, with the evident intention of rendering Don Pasquale so blown that it must break down at the leap. Unwilling to risk the desperate chance which Dick’s billet had suggested, Coverdale exerted all his skill to maintain the position he had gained, which at one moment was in advance of, and for some distance neck and neck with, his opponent; but, although Don Pasquale was the stronger animal of the two, and gifted with greater powers of endurance, on soft level turf Black Eagle had decidedly the advantage in point of swiftness; moreover, in a mere trial of speed, Tirrett’s acquaintance with all the resources of professional jockeyship stood him in good stead, so that before they had approached the wall Black Eagle had not only passed, but was several lengths ahead of his opponent. Thus, Coverdale perceived that, unless he chose to adopt Dick’s dangerous suggestion, he must relinquish all chance of winning the race. Had it been simply a trial of speed and skill, good sense and right principle would probably have prevented Harry from risking his life for so inadequate an object; but Tirrett’s dishonourable behaviour towards Lord Alfred, and his rascally attempt to excite the vicious temper of Don Pasquale (an attempt which all but gained its object), had irritated and excited Coverdale to such a degree that, reckless of consequences, he was eager to dare any peril rather than allow such infamous conduct to be triumphant. Accordingly, keeping the direct line, he shouted to Tirrett, who had turned off to the left and was making for the gap, “Why don’t you follow me, sir, like a man, instead of sneaking over gaps like a coward?” he got his horse well in hand, and rode boldly on.
When Tirrett became aware of his intention he half drew in his rein, irresolute what course to take; if he refused to follow, and Coverdale should by any chance succeed in getting safely over, he knew that the race, and all he had depending on it, would be lost, and he eagerly scanned the leap with his practised eye; but it was too formidable, and, as Dick had foreseen, his courage failed him; so, turning first red, then pale, he muttered an uncharitable wish concerning Harry’s neck, and rode on towards the gap, hoping for its fulfilment. As Coverdale approached the wall, the conviction that he was about to attempt a most hazardous, if not an impossible feat, forced itself upon him; still his resolution never wavered, and he was preparing himself for the leap, when a figure, which he recognised as that of the groom, suddenly rose from the ditch, and, pointing to a particular spot, shouted, “Come over here! give him his head, and let him take it his own way; he’s got his steam up, and wouldn’t refuse a haystack.”
Relying on the man’s acquaintance with the animal, Harry resolved to follow his advice implicitly, and, slackening his rein, pressed his hat firmly over his brows, clasped his saddle tightly with his knees, and awaited the result.
Dick was not mistaken in his estimate of the Don’s courage; for, as soon as the horse perceived the obstacle before it, it pricked up its ears, gathered its legs well under it, and dashed forward. Nor had he formed a wrong conception in regard to the animal’s general powers of endurance; but the episode occasioned by Tirrett’s foul blow, with the subsequent immersion in and struggle out of the brook, were incidents on which he had not calculated. Thus, although Don Pasquale rose to the leap gallantly, and by a prodigious bound cleared ditch, wall, and fence, the exertion so completely exhausted its remaining strength, that, on its descent on the further side, all Harry’s efforts were unable to keep it on its legs, and it pitched heavily forward, falling with and partially on its rider.
Stunned by the violence of the shock, Harry was aware vaguely, and as in a dream, that the horse had risen, and that some person was soothing and caressing it; from this state of semi-unconsciousness he was aroused by the voice of Dick, the groom, exclaiming, “If you b’aint too much hurt, Mr. Coverdale, you may do it yet, sir, if so be as you can sit your horse; for Black Eagle has refused the gap, and Tirrett’s a bullying him to get him over now.”
Thus appealed to, Harry rose with difficulty (uttering an exclamation of pain as he did so), and gazed confusedly round him. Uninjured by its fall, Don Pasquale was standing by him, held by Dick; while, considerably to the left, Tirrett, having ridden back a few paces, was forcing Black Eagle, by a severe application of both whip and spur, to attempt the leap over the gap, which he had just refused.
“Here, quick!” exclaimed Coverdale eagerly, “hold the stirrup—that will do—don’t touch my arm—I’ll disappoint that scoundrel yet!” and, gathering up the reins with his right hand, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped off. After a struggle, Tirrett succeeded in forcing Black Eagle across the gap, and, by dint of spurring and shaking, got him into a sort of shambling canter on the farther side of it; but it was of no avail, for, as Don Pasquale passed the winning-post, Black Eagle was still several lengths behind: Coverdale’s desperate leap had accomplished the purpose for which it had been attempted, and Lord Alfred Courtland’s horse remained winner of the steeple-chase.
As he rode in triumphant, an eager crowd of Don Pasquale’s backers surrounded him with loud congratulations. “Splendidly done! I never saw such riding in my life!” “That leap with a tired horse was the pluckiest thing ever attempted—there’s not another man on the course would have faced it!”
“The business of the brook was the cleverest dodge of all—I saw it through a race-glass, and I never expected you could have kept on him.”
“Didn’t the horse fall on you? are you hurt, Mr. Coverdale?” Such were some of the numerous remarks and exclamations which rang in Harry’s ears, as, faint and giddy, it was as much as he could do to retain his seat without falling from the saddle.
“Harry; my dear, kind friend, how can I ever thank you sufficiently?” exclaimed Lord Alfred Courtland, forcing his way through the crowd.
“Find the groom,” was the hurried reply, “for I can’t keep on the horse much longer.”
As he spoke, Dick, with a face crimson with heat and triumph, made his appearance, and took charge of Don Pasquale, while Harry, with a painful effort, swung himself to the ground, where he staggered and appeared scarcely able to stand.
“You are faint!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, hastily; “here, lean upon me, and let us get out of this crowd.”
“Take care of my arm,” murmured Harry, compressing his lips as though to restrain an expression of suffering.
“Your arm! why, good heaven! what is the matter with it?”
“It is only broken,” returned Harry, quietly; “the horse fell upon it with his full weight at the last leap; but I was able to hold him with one hand, so it did not signify.”
“And you mounted again, and won the race, with your arm broken!” exclaimed Lord Alfred. “Why, it’s the most gallant, noble—but you are suffering dreadfully! Oh, what am I to do for you? why did I ever let you ride that vicious, dangerous brute!”
“There, don’t make a fuss,” returned Coverdale; “let us get out of this crowd; find me a glass of wine, for I’ve a sort of faintness comes over me every now and then, and when I’ve drank that I shall do well enough until we can get a surgeon to set my arm; don’t worry about it—when I put the horse at that wall I fully expected to break my neck.”
Five minutes’ rest, and a couple of glasses of old Sherry, restored Coverdale sufficiently to enable him to announce his readiness to proceed, though he refused to leave the ground until the Honourable Billy Whipcord had undertaken to see that the winner was defrauded of none of his rights; and then, and not till then, did Harry accept Lord Alfred’s offer to accompany him to town in a Hansom’s cab, which a gentleman who had engaged it for the day obligingly gave up the moment he learned for what purpose it was required.
The conversation of the two friends during the drive to London afforded a curious illustration of character. Lord Alfred grieved and shocked beyond measure at the accident which had occurred to his old schoolfellow in his service, was engaged the whole time in pouring forth unavailing lamentations and self-accusings; while Coverdale, although suffering the most excruciating anguish from every motion of the cab, was so touched by the evidence of feeling shown by his companion, that he not only repressed all outward signs of pain, but used his best endeavours to comfort and console Lord Alfred. On their way to Lord Alfred’s lodgings, where he insisted Coverdale should take up his abode until he should be well enough to travel, they called at the house of a surgeon celebrated for his skill in cases of fracture, and were fortunate enough to find him at home. On learning the nature of the accident, he provided himself with the necessary apparatus, reached the lodgings as soon as his patient, and, within an hour of the time at which the injury was inflicted, Coverdale’s arm was set, and the fracture pronounced to be not a very serious one.
“And now for my poor Alice,” was Harry’s first exclamation, when, with strict injunctions to go to bed and keep his arm quiet, Mr. B——— had departed; “how am I to act about her? If I write her word I’ve met with an accident, she’ll be frightened out of her wits; and yet if I don’t, she may hear of it some other way (those confounded newspapers are sure to get hold of the affair), and fancy I am killed, or some such notion; I’d better write—give me the tools, there’s a good fellow.”
“But, really you ought not to exert yourself to do it, remember——” began Lord Alfred, deprecatingly.
“I remember, sir, that my wife is alone, and anxious about me already, and that if I can spare her any shock or alarm, I will do so as long as I can hold a pen,” was Coverdale’s positive and somewhat snappish answer; for which he must be held excused, as severe bodily pain does not tend to improve the temper.
Lord Alfred, seeing it was useless to contend the point, gave him pen, ink, and paper; and, unfit as he was for such exertion, Coverdale wrote Alice a full account of his day’s adventures, only concealing the nature and extent of his accident. The letter was most kind and judicious, and well calculated to soothe and console her to whom it was addressed, and no doubt would have succeeded in so doing, but for the following untoward events.
Alice, left to herself, had grown desperately frightened as to the possible upshot of her husband’s rash expedition to London; and, as the reader is already aware, had dispatched after him Lord Alfred’s letter, and her own reasons for so doing, fairly written upon two sheets of scented note-paper. But, although she rightly considered this the best thing she could do, yet it by no means afforded her lasting comfort, and she remained restless and unhappy until, on the evening of the day on which the steeple-chase occurred, she worked herself up to such a pitch of nervous anxiety, that she was becoming quite ill, when the idea struck her that perhaps Harry, having received her letter, might set off at once, and arrive by a train which got in about seven, p.m. On the chance of this she dispatched, to meet the aforesaid train, a groom and a dog-cart. Now, as the reader knows, it was impossible Harry could arrive by that train, because at the time it started, he—having written to Alice—had just been undressed by Lord Alfred Courtland’s valet, and gone to bed, which, no one can doubt, was by far the best place for him. But though he did not come by that train, a young farmer did, who was one of Harry’s tenants, and who, as ill luck would have it, had been at the steeple-chase, witnessed Coverdale leap and fall, and heard afterwards an exaggerated account of the injuries he had received. Thus, when the groom inquired if he had seen his master get into the train, he favoured that equine servitor with a graphic history of the morning’s proceedings, illustrated and embellished by the narrator’s imaginative powers; which recital producing much grief and consternation in the mind of the faithful fellow, who was much attached to his master, induced him to drive home as fast as the trotting mare could step, to destroy his mistress’s peace of mind, by imparting to her these disastrous tidings. Having great and, as the sequel proved, unfounded reliance on his own tact and eloquence, he, on his arrival, would by no means allow Wilkins to be his mouthpiece; on the contrary, nothing would serve him but to be shown into his mistress’s presence, and, as he termed it, “break it to her easy-like” himself—which judicious intention he carried out thus:—“If you please, Mrs. Coverdale, ma’am, I’m sorry to say somethin’ dreadful’s been and happened, which I thought p’raps you might like to ’ear; so, not to frighten you, I made bold to come and break it to you myself!” Poor Alice! all the blood seemed to rush to her heart, while a choking sensation in her throat totally deprived her of the power of speech. After a moment, she contrived to gasp out interrogatively, “A railroad accident? your master——”
Answering her idea rather than her words, the man replied, “If you please, ma’am, it wasn’t on the railway as poor master met with his accident!”
“Then he has met with—” began Alice, and the idea at that moment flashing across her mind that he had encountered D’Almayne, and been wounded, perhaps killed, in a duel, she shrieked out, “Oh! I see it all; he is dead or dying, and I have been his murderess!” and sank back in a fainting fit.
The groom, frightened at the effect of his tidings, summoned the female servants, and Alice was carried to her room, undressed, and placed in bed, before she had by any means recovered from her swoon; and even when, after one or two relapses, she did regain her consciousness, her burning hand, flushed cheeks, and unnaturally brilliant eyes, together with an incoherence of expression and an excitability of manner occasionally verging on delirium, so alarmed the stately housekeeper, that she, on her own responsibility, sent off for that eminent medical practitioner, Gouger; the result of his visit was, that Harry, bruised and sore from head to foot, having lain awake half the night from the pain of his broken arm, was aroused from an uneasy slumber, into which, towards morning, he had fallen, by the following telegraphic message:—“H. Coverdale, Esq., from Scalpel Gouger, M.D.—Was called in to Mrs. C. last night, at nine, P.M..—symptoms acute, febrile, threatening the brain! state critical—if Mr. C. can travel without danger, let him come at once!”
In less than half an hour, Harry Coverdale was up, dressed, and in the first railway train which left London. As he had lain sleepless through the weary hours of the night, he had thought the pain of his broken limb all but unbearable; during his journey home he never even felt it, so deep and absorbing was his mental agony.
While Harry Coverdale, with the best possible intentions, had been breaking his wife’s heart and his own bones, the world had not stood still, nor had the ordinary course of events been in the slightest degree retarded. On the contrary, the unsympathizing globe we inhabit had revolved on its axis with its accustomed perseverance, and men had been born into it in their first childhood, and died out of it in their second; and the sons and daughters of men had married and given in marriage, and the many had gone on sinning and the few repenting, very much as it all happened in the days of Noah, while the ark was a-building, and the long suffering of God waited to allow the evil-doers to perceive the error of their way, and to turn from it ere the day of mercy should be over, and the destroyer should be let loose upon them. The world was then a profligate young world, sowing its wild oats broadcast, with a frank and careless disregard of appearances, which involved at least the one virtue of sincerity—the world is now a crafty old world, in its dotage, one is sometimes tempted to imagine; but even the Flood only whitewashed its outside, for it still clings to its darling sins, though no longer openly—the world has grown too cunning for that, it knows the value of a good name, and has set up a gilded idol of clay, yclept Respectability, to resemble the refined gold of which virtue’s image is composed; and because it worships this idol zealously, short-sighted optimists mistake hypocrisy for true religion, and deem the world has grown pious in its old age; but there are those who fear that if, once again, the waters should overspread the earth, sin would weigh so heavily on the inhabitants thereof, that not very many of them would swim.
Be this as, it may, certain it is that while Harry was riding Don Pasquale across the country at the risk of his neck, and Alice was fretting herself into a brain fever on the chance of his being shot by Horace D’Almayne, that talented young gentleman was labouring most industriously, with the assistance of his cousin, the avocat, at Brussels, to obtain the sum of money due to Mr. Crane, on the cargo of the unfortunate Bundelcundah East Indiaman. When men exert their utmost energies to attain an object, success nine times out of ten is the result; consequently, very few days had elapsed after Horace’s departure before Mr. Crane had the pleasure of learning that the mere threat of energetic law proceedings had brought his adversary to reason, and that the money had been actually paid into D’Almayne’s hands. But somehow this announcement did not appear to afford the worthy ex-cotton-spinner such satisfaction as might have been expected; on the contrary, when he closed the letter which conveyed the intelligence, he, to his wife’s surprise, muttered something very like an oath; whereupon, after the laudable fashion of her sex, that lady appeared deeply scandalized, and exclaimed, “My dear Mr. Crane!” in a tone of voice which metamorphosed that affectionate address into “You wicked old man, where do you expect to go to?” Replying rather to her tone than her words, her husband, exalting his peevish treble, began:—
“Yes, it’s all very well for you, Mrs. Crane, who have nothing to do but sit here and spend the money I pour into your lap, to keep your temper, and look horrified if one utters a hasty expression; but if you had to toil and moil all your days to scrape it together, and then be defrauded out of your hard-earned gains by creeping serpents, whom you have warmed and cherished in—if I may be allowed the expression—in your breeches pocket, and who have availed themselves of their position to—yes! I may say—to pick that pocket, I wonder what expressions you would indulge in then, Mrs. Crane!” And having worked himself up almost into a fit of crying, Mr. Crane once more turned to his letter.
“Ah! coming home, is he? I’ve a great mind to have him arrested as soon as he places his foot on British soil; I wonder at his impudence, that I do!”
“To whom do you refer?” inquired Kate, quietly, as soon as she could get in a word; for Mr. Crane, when excited, was as voluble as a washerwoman.
“To whom do I refer!” repeated her husband, in the highest note of his shrill falsetto; “why, madam, to whom should I refer, except to your precious friend and admirer, Horace D’Almayne?”
“Mr. D’Almayne!” exclaimed Kate, in surprise; for only two days before, Mr. Crane had detained her for a good half-hour to listen to the praises of his factotum’s zeal and fidelity. “Mr. D’Almayne! why I thought you were so much pleased with the tact and intelligence he had displayed in your service! surely, you told me he had actually received the money of which your foreign agent attempted to defraud you.”
“And if he has, how do I know that it’s any safer in his hands than it was before? it’s a large sum to trust a needy man with: how can I tell that he won’t bolt with it?”
“Surely, you do not suspect him of dishonesty?”
“I suspect him of everything that’s wicked, and deceitful, and dreadful,” returned Mr. Crane, in a tone of voice so dismal, that Kate could scarcely restrain a smile. “But of course you defend him—yes, Mrs. Crane, I say, of course you defend him! I am not surprised at that—in fact, I may add, I expected as much. I had reason, good reason, madam, to imagine such would be your line of conduct.”
Kate paused until her husband had talked himself into the state of mean and abject peevishness, which was the nearest approach he could ever make towards being in a rage with one who was not utterly weak and powerless, and, when he stopped from sheer want of breath, observed quietly—
“I really am at a loss to comprehend to what you allude, or what reason you can possibly have to connect me with this sudden change of opinion in regard to Mr. D’Almayne: would you oblige me by explaining?”
“I sha’n’t do anything of the kind, madam; I don’t see that I’m obliged to give you any reason; it ought to be enough for you to know that I disapprove of your conduct—conduct which could give rise to such representations, madam; and—and comments, Mrs. Crane, impertinent remarks, derogatory to my position—must be reprehensible.”
“I do not desire to annoy you, but I must again ask to what remarks and representations you refer?” was Kate’s reply. Mr. Crane fidgeted, looked perplexed, tried to get angry, and carry it through with a high hand, met Kate’s calm eye and could not, and at last with a very ill grace drew from his pocket a letter, which he unfolded and prepared to read, saying—
“There, Mrs. Crane! since my word is not sufficient to gain your credence, or my desires, ahem! my wishes, if you prefer the expression, to secure your obedience, you force me to submit to you this singular—I may say, this offensive document, which, ahem! in conjunction with other information, has occasioned me much justifiable annoyance, and, I may add, mental anxiety and distress.”
The letter was written in a bold, dashing, though evidently disguised, hand, and ran as follows:—
“Sir,—I have no doubt you consider yourself a clever, cautious man of business, a prudent master of a family, and a kind and judicious husband—if you do, all that I can say is, that ‘I am unable to agree with you.’ A clever, cautious man of business would scarcely leave important money transactions to the management of Horace D’Almayne, a needy and unprincipled adventurer; a prudent master of a house would not encourage such an intimacy; nor would a kind and judicious husband allow a notorious libertine to be constantly in the society of his young and pretty wife. Your infatuation has already produced some of the unpleasant results naturally to be expected from it; you have advanced above £5000 on a bubble company, not one farthing of which you will ever see again, whilst you have incurred liabilities, to learn the extent of which you had better consult your man of business, and I wish you joy of the revelation I expect you will obtain from him. In regard to your young wife, I have no positive information to afford you; but that D’Almayne has designs upon her, I know,—and he is not a man to fail in an adventure of that description, even without taking into consideration the circumstance of a beautiful young woman being married to a man of your years. You may wonder why I trouble myself to write thus to you; so I will tell you: I owe D’Almayne a grudge, and it suits me to take this opportunity of discharging the debt. But though this is my object, all I have told you is only the plain truth; I suspect it comes too late to be of much use to you; but that is your look-out, not mine.”
The letter was without signature.
Kate listened attentively while Mr. Crane read aloud, with much hesitation and stammering, such portions of the alarming epistle as concerned his property and his wife, carefully suppressing every sentence which related to his own weakness and gullibility. When he had concluded, she remarked, “The letter is a singular one, and appears to me to bear a certain impress of truth; if I were you, I would attend to the hints in regard to your pecuniary investments.”
“And as to those which affect my wife, what would you advise in regard to them, madam?” inquired Mr. Crane, screwing up his face into an expression of feeble sarcasm, which gave him very much the appearance of an ancient monkey. Kate paused: here was an opportunity which might never occur again of enlightening her husband as to her experience of Horace D’Almayne’s true character. She had every reason to do so; his threat of revealing the clandestine visit she was prepared to forestall, if necessary, by an honest confession of the entire affair, preferring to bear with her husband’s fretful displeasure (of which, if the truth must be told, she did not stand very greatly in awe), rather than to excite his suspicions by a concealment which would lend countenance to the insinuations of this anonymous correspondent—yes! she had every reason to tell all she knew concerning him, even to his late avowal of affection, and yet she felt she could not do it. In the first place she shrank, as any pure-minded woman would shrink, from confessing that such an avowal had been made to her; but especially did she shrink from confessing it to such a nature as that of Mr. Crane: he would never see the matter in its true light—never believe that she had not, in some measure, encouraged such advances—never comprehend the disgust and loathing with which they had inspired her. But another and more stringent reason withheld her—her brother Frederick! she still believed that D’Almayne had befriended him, and saved him from, at all events, the immediate consequence of the dilemma into which his youth and inexperience had plunged him: true, she mistrusted his object in performing this act of benevolence—or, rather, she felt convinced that he had done it merely to establish a claim on her gratitude;—still the fact remained the same—in her difficulty, when all other human aid appeared to have forsaken her, he had come to her assistance, and by doing so had saved her brother: believing this, could she expose his baseness? The question was a difficult one.
Those who are skilled to read that strange, yet easily to be penetrated mystery, a woman’s heart, will have at once decided how Kate Crane determined to act in regard to D’Almayne—he had saved her brother, and though he had offered her an unpardonable insult, she would not betray him, so she replied calmly—“I should on that point advise you as I did on the former one: reflect whether the accusation is likely to be true; whether you have observed any encouragement given by me to Mr. D’Almayne; whether, from what you know of my character, you imagine it likely that I should be so devoid of principle, so wanting in self-respect, as to accept Mr. D’Almayne’s or any other man’s attentions. Recollect a speech I once made you, which really appears as if I had had a presentiment of this accusation—a speech in which I begged you to bear in mind that, if at any time comments should be made on the intimate footing on which Mr. D’Almayne visited at this house, it was according to your expressed wish and desire that he did so, and on that account only did I tolerate it. If, when you have thus considered the matter, you still feel dissatisfied, I advise you to use every endeavour to arrive at the truth. My own opinion is, that the letter being written by (as the writer honestly enough confesses) an enemy of Mr. D’Almayne’s, he has raked up every accusation which scandal may have invented to blacken that gentleman’s character; still, as, if there is any truth in the charges, the knowledge of it would prove of great importance to you, it behoves you quietly and carefully to inquire into them, and I would recommend you to do so without delay.”
Kate’s perfect self-possession and coolness always produced great effect on Mr. Crane, and in the present instance they so thoroughly convinced him that his anonymous correspondent had accused his wife falsely, that without more ado he started for the city to investigate the truth of the other charges, leaving his better-half to strive against the uncomfortable conviction that unintentionally she had played the part of a hypocrite.
One of the elements of Horace D’Almayne’s success in life was his punctuality in all matters of business: if he said he would do a thing, he did it; if he promised to be at any place by a fixed time, at the appointed day and hour there was Horace to be found: this consistency even in apparent trifles caused others to place great reliance on him, and contributed to establish a certain degree of prestige and weight of character which often stood him in good stead. No one was better aware of this fact than Horace himself; who, perceiving the value of the practice, had adopted it as one of his guiding principles, to which he invariably acted up with a consistency worthy of a better code. Accordingly, having transacted Mr. Crane’s business to his own satisfaction, he appointed a day on which to return to England, and when the time arrived, embarked; but, unable finally to conclude the transaction without proceeding to Liverpool, he selected a vessel bound for that port. On his arrival, after a favourable passage, he took up his abode at a small, quiet hotel, much frequented by foreigners. Having engaged a private room, he was looking over the papers which he had brought with him, when his quick ear caught the sound of a voice with the tones of which he fancied himself familiar—listening attentively, he overheard the following colloquy:—
“Can I have a private sitting-room here?”
“Well, sir, we’re very full; should you require a bedroom also?”
“No; I am going by the New York packet, which leaves at eight o’clock this evening.”
“If you’ll wait one moment, sir, I’ll see; but I’m a’most afraid we’re full.”
Anxious to obtain a view of the speakers, D’Almayne crossed the room with noiseless tread, and looked out through the half-opened door; the figure nearest to him was that of the waiter at the hotel; the person with whom he had been conversing was, or appeared to be, a seafaring man of the more respectable class, and at the first glance D’Almayne believed him to be an entire stranger—still, the voice, so peculiar and so well known, he surely could not be mistaken in that! and again he scrutinised the stranger’s appearance. He was a tall thin man, well advanced in life, with sharp acute features, and keen grey eyes; his hair was cut short, and of an unnaturally raven blackness; and his face was closely shaven, without the slightest trace of whisker or moustache. For a moment, Horace D’Almayne paused in doubt, during which interval the stranger’s evil genius obliged him to cough, a dry husky cough which, once heard, was not easily mistaken—it was enough. In going to seek the master of the hotel, the waiter had to pass the door of D’Almayne’s room; a sign from that individual’s finger caused him to enter it.
“Show that gentleman into this room, as if it was the untenanted apartment he has inquired for—leave the key in the lock inside, and if I ring the bell twice fetch a policeman instantly; but as I hope such an extreme measure may not be necessary, do not say a word about the affair to any one.” As he spoke, he slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand, adding, “Manage this cleverly and quietly, and a second awaits you.”
The waiter bowed, and with a nod of intelligence quitted the room. The door of the apartment was so placed that when opened it shut in an angle of the wall, in which stood a screen quite large enough to conceal the figure of a man; in this corner did D’Almayne ensconce himself; scarcely had he done so ere the waiter returned, ushering in the stranger for whose benefit these arrangements had been made. Perfectly unsuspicious of any stratagem, the new comer signified his approval of the accommodation provided for him, placed a leathern valise which he carried in his hand on the table, and then seated himself by the window with his back towards the door, which the waiter immediately closed, at the same time leaving the room, when with noiseless steps D’Almayne glided from his place of concealment, and double-locking the door placed the key in his pocket. The slight sound made by the bolt shooting into its socket attracted the stranger’s attention, and turning round quickly, he gave a most perceptible start as his eye fell upon his companion; recovering himself instantly, he rose, and bowing to D’Almayne, said—
“The waiter must have made some mistake! I asked for an unoccupied room. I must apologise for thus intruding on you, sir; but the mistake is not on my part.” As he spoke, he took up his valise preparatory to leaving the room, but D’Almayne motioned him to a chair, as he replied—
“There is no mistake in the case, my friend, unless it be your fancying that, because you have shaved off your whiskers and dyed your hair, I should not recognise you—that is a complete mistake.”
The person thus addressed turned pale and bit his lip; but, making an effort to recover himself, replied—
“I do not understand you, sir; you are labouring under some delusion; allow me to pass directly, or I shall ring and summon the waiter.”
“You’d better not,” returned D’Almayne, drily, “for that is the signal agreed on—for him instantly to fetch a policeman.”
The stranger glanced towards the door, on which D’Almayne quietly produced the key, and, when it had caught his eye replaced it in his pocket; he then stretched his hand, with a hesitating and uncertain action, towards a stout stick on which he carried his valise; but D’Almayne drew from the breast pocket of his surtout the beautifully finished little revolving pistol which he always carried, and, having somewhat ostentatiously displayed it before the eyes of the individual he was thus brow-beating, returned it to its place of concealment, as the other with a sullen dogged look replaced his stick, and murmured—
“Well, Mr. D’Almayne, supposing you do happen to recognize me indulging in a little freak—supposing I have disguised myself the better to carry out a little intrigue of my own, why should that so greatly surprise you? I do not think you have ever found me absent from my post when business required me; you must be aware I have the interest of the establishment as much at heart as any of the parties connected with it; when they begin to play to-night in J———— Street, my frolic will be over, and I shall be in my proper place.”
“I think it’s highly probable you will, always supposing that place to be a cell in Pentonville prison, or, as you lodge in Westminster, the Penitentiary, perhaps; but it strikes me, that if I had not fortunately met you, you would at that hour have been tossing about in St. George’s Channel—as I happen to know you have taken your passage in a New York packet, which is to sail at eight this evening.” As D’Almayne spoke, he fixed his piercing eyes on the individual he addressed, who, unable to bear his scrutinizing glance, turned away muttering with an oath, “———— him, I thought he was safe in Holland.” After a moment’s reflection, he appeared to decide on the course best for him to follow—under what was evidently a contingency equally unforeseen and unsatisfactory.
“Assuredly there never was any one like you, Mr. D’Almayne, for shrewdness and penetration,” he said, in a tone of apparent frankness; “here am I (supposed by all who take an interest in my whereabouts to be in London), in a disguise in which my own mother (the poor soul has been dead these twenty years) would not have recognized me; at the first glance you penetrate it, and by intuition appear to have discovered my intention! How you have tracked me, or whether you have met me by accident, I am unable to divine; but, as you have discovered me, I think it is best to be frank with you, and to throw myself on your generosity—confident that you will deal leniently with your old associate, if I may venture to use the term, though, perhaps, your faithful follower would be more true; for I am well aware how such talent as yours raises you above us plodding poor fellows. But I will make a clean breast to you, sir. The fact is, I am no longer young; scarcely still middle-aged; and the life I have been for so many years engaged in is a hazardous and exhausting one. I have been a frugal and careful man, and I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that I have contrived to save a few hundred pounds. Well, sir, I have for some time wished to leave England, and settle in America, where I am unknown, and might begin the world afresh—in some quieter and more respectable line of life; so I thought I would avoid all the difficulties and all the troubles which, none are better aware than you, sir, would attend my quitting London just at this time, by taking French leave, and setting off in disguise and under a feigned name, hoping that in Mr. Maxwell, the traveller for a Manchester cotton firm, no one would recognize Le Roux, the croupier; and now, sir, having told you all, I throw myself on your generosity not to attempt (though I see no pretext on which you could legally do it) to detain me.”
While Le Roux had been making this statement, which he did with the air of a man convinced against his will that the only course left open to him is to declare the whole truth, come what may of it, D’Almayne had taken a pencil from his pocket, with which he had been writing certain calculations on the back of a card. As soon as the other had concluded, he observed quietly—“I have been making a rough estimate of all the available cash on which you could lay your hand, and it appears to me, that, owing to my folly in resting contented with the belief that it was your interest to be honest, you have at least £15,000 in that leathern case of yours—a sum quite sufficient to tempt you to bolt, especially at a time when you fancied I was safely out of your way. I make it out thus the establishment in J———— Street has never less than £5000 ready to pay all demands; to that, of course, you have unlimited access, and have availed yourself of it. Then comes the Overland Route Railroad speculation; Guillemard writes me word that the shares are going off tolerably fast, and that something like £10,000 in hard cash has been paid into our bankers; a cheque signed by two of the directors would enable you to draw out the whole amount at any moment—your own signature as Herr Vondenthaler, the Belgian capitalist, provides for one, and the other would offer little difficulty to a man of your talent and experience. I have so strong a conviction that, in consequence of my absence, you will have done me the honour to select my name, that it is upon a charge of forgery I intend to have you apprehended, and to take you up to London in my company and that of a policeman.”
During this speech the varying expression on Le Roux’s face would have formed an interesting study to the physiognomist or the artist—at first, assumed indifference, changing to surprise, anxiety, and ill-concealed alarm—then astonishment and fear, merging in a state of bewildered terror which again gave place to an astute subtle look, as an idea occurred to him which might yet interpose to save him from the utter ruin to which the supernatural discovery, as it appeared to him, of his intended and partially executed villainy exposed him. As soon as D’Almayne had ended, Le Roux turned to him, and said in a low calm tone—
“You are, without any exception, Mr. D’Almayne, the cleverest man, for your years, that I have ever met with in our profession. I don’t say it to flatter you, sir; but I say it because it is my deliberate conviction. One of your strong points is your clear good sense, and it is to that I am now about to appeal. You have, how I cannot divine, got me completely in your power, and, knowing or suspecting all you say you do, it is useless for me to attempt to deceive you; it is clear you can ruin me if you choose; but how will it advantage you to do so? or, rather, how can you expose me without exciting a host of unpleasant inquiries about yourself? I presume you scarcely wish your connection with the gaming-house in J———— Street published to the world at large, nor would you like too much revealed concerning the private history of the directors and general management of the railway company, and yet I don’t see how you could place me in the hands of justice without my enlightening the public on some of these points. As I am sure you are aware of the force of these remarks, I need say no more; but I put it to you, as a sensible man of the world, will it not be better for me to pay you that £1000, which, I dare say, you can remember, I am indebted to you, for ‘value received,’ we’ll say, and for you to forget that you happened to meet me here to-day?” As he spoke, he fixed his sharp cunning glance upon D’Almayne, as though he would fain read his inmost thoughts; but even to such an old hand as Le Roux the gambler, Horace’s expression was a sealed book. But he was not long in doubt as to the effect of his appeal; for in his usual tone of calm sarcasm, Horace replied—
“Cleverly put, Monsieur Le Roux; but there are two important flaws in your argument. In the first place, your offer proves the truth of my suspicions, only that, as you are not usually famous for the liberality of your disposition, its amount satisfies me that I have rather under than overrated the sum of which you have contrived to gain possession. As to any accusations you can bring against me, I care little or nothing for them; they may be true, but you have damaged your own character so deeply that no one will believe you. You may assert that I am part proprietor of the gambling-house, and you may call Guillemard to prove it; I shall deny the fact, and he will back my denial. You will assert, also, that I have got up this nefarious railroad speculation in order to levant with the capital as soon as I could obtain a sufficient amount to gratify my cupidity; I shall reply that you have done what you accuse me of intending to do, and that I have been the means of bringing you to justice. You will adduce, in proof of your assertion, the fact that I introduced you as a director under the feigned name of Vondenthaler; I shall rebut this accusation by declaring that I had always known you as Vondenthaler, which I believe to be your true name; and that your identity with Le Roux, the croupier, was never even suspected by me. Of course, in these instances, I shall be swearing falsely; you, truly; nevertheless, I shall come off with flying colours, and you will be transported. Telle est la vie! Would you oblige me by ringing that bell twice, for the policeman?”
The transition, from the assurance of successful cunning, to self-distrust, anxiety, rage, despair, which flitted across the sharp but expressive face of Le Roux, showed how strongly D’Almayne’s words had agitated him. For a moment, he stood trembling in every limb, clenching his hands until the nails dug into the flesh; then, carried away, by the impulse of his overpowering terror, he flung himself at Horace D’Almayne’s feet, exclaiming—
“For God’s sake, Mr. D’Almayne, have pity on me! I am an old man, sir; older than I seem. I am sixty-five next month; I am, indeed; and I have led such a wretched, miserable life! I have always been somebody’s tool, somebody’s slave. Sir, I have been for years the victim of a monomania: as a very young man, I lost every halfpenny I possessed (and that was enough to have secured me a competence in some respectable line of life) at the gaming-table; and since that time I have been haunted by the idea that, by intensely studying, and constantly calculating the chances, I should discover some infallible system by which I could not only retrieve my losses, but realize a large fortune. Over and over again have I tried, and over again have I failed; until, at last, experience has brought some little wisdom, even to such a miserable fool as I have proved myself, and I have given up all attempts at discovering a system; but, sir, when this last hope failed me, the little honesty I had left deserted me, and you have divined the result. Mr. D’Almayne, I have a wife and three little innocent children at Brussels; they were to join me in America if this attempt (which they only know of as a mercantile speculation) had proved successful. If I am sent out of this country as a convicted felon, it will break my wife’s heart; and my little children will be left to starve. Mr. D’Almayne, for the love of Heaven, have pity, if not on me, on them!”
During this appeal, Horace remained in an easy and fashionable attitude, with his back against the closed door which detained his captive, and the points of his white and taper fingers inserted in his trousers pockets; at its conclusion, he said, in his usual cool and indifferent manner, “I think, my good friend, you began this harangue with a complimentary appeal to my common sense; not wishing to discredit your flattering opinion, let me ask you, is it likely, that, having toiled and schemed for the last twelve months to bring these two projects of the gambling-house and the railroad company into working (and paying) order, I should allow you to go quietly to America, carrying with you the fruits of my labour, forethought, and sagacity, merely because, when your last subterfuge has failed you, you whine out a beggar’s petition about the love of Heaven, and a wife and three children? Bah! it is childish, it is really too absurd! Still, for old acquaintance sake, I do not want to be hard on you; and if you will do exactly as I shall propose, perhaps there may still remain some middle course, by which such an uncomfortable result as transportation for life may be spared you. What say you?” Poor wretch! his crime discovered, its fearful penalty awaiting him, and the “tender mercies of the wicked” his only hope and refuge—with remorse for the past, and despair for the future, rending his very heart asunder—what remained for him but to give himself up, soul and body, as the dupe, tool, and agent of Horace D’Almayne?
Long and earnest was their conference: the valise was opened; money and papers produced and examined; accounts gone into; arrangements for the present, and schemes for the future, discussed and agreed upon. The result may be summed up in a few words: when the New York packet sailed, at eight o’clock that evening, Le Roux had taken possession of his berth, with his valise considerably lightened; and Horace D’Almayne, having seen his associate safely out of the country, departed by the last train which left for London, some ten thousand pounds richer than he had been on his arrival that morning in the good city of Liverpool!