Harry listened with all the patience he could muster while Alice was thus comfortably arranging her own decease and his second marriage, then speaking gravely, though still in the most affectionate manner, he replied—
“I cannot even feel annoyed with you now you are so ill and weak, my poor child, but the matter to which you allude is most repugnant and distasteful to me; it is a subject, in fact, on which I would not allow any human being but yourself to address me. I will not pretend to misunderstand your allusion; but I do most solemnly assure you that you are mistaken, and that were it, indeed, God’s will that you should be taken from me, no new ties should come between my soul and the memory of the only woman, except my poor mother, whom I have ever really loved. I see that you do not believe me! it is unjust, almost unkind of you!”
Harry spoke with deep feeling; and Alice, with tears in her eyes, placed her poor, thin hand within that of her husband as she replied—
“I do most fully believe that you love me as you say, and that at this moment you do not imagine you could be happy with anybody else, but it is a comfort to me to think that when I am parted from you there will still be some one to care for you. I assure you I feel quite differently towards Miss Crofton now; I was jealous of her, dreadfully jealous—I confess it! but I now am grateful to her for loving you, and sorry I ever entertained such uncharitable feelings towards her. I mean to leave her all my jewels, except one or two little things I should like to give poor Emily.”
Alice paused, partly through weakness, partly because she wanted her husband to signify his approval of her sentiments, which she considered was the least he could do, in return for what was, in fact, to her, an act of almost superhuman charity and self-denial. But Coverdale was in no humour to comply with her desire; on the contrary, so distasteful was the whole matter, and poor Alice’s idea of the situation so far from the truth, that he was driven to his wits’ end with perplexity and annoyance, which nothing but a sense of his wife’s unfitness to sustain so energetic a mode of address prevented from breaking forth in a burst of his “quiet manner.” As he continued silent, Alice resumed:—
“You must not be angry with me for knowing about it, Harry dear, for the knowledge was forced upon me, nor was I aware what Lord Alfred Courtland was about to tell until I had heard so much that my womanly dignity would not allow me to stop him; I did not choose to let him think I could believe it possible you had done anything I should be afraid to hear, and so he told me all.”
“And pray what might all be?” inquired Harry, as calmly as he was able.
“Oh! about her being in love with you, and your running away together, and old Mr. Somebody (I can’t remember names) taking her away again, and preventing you from marrying her; yes, he told me all about it.”
“He told you a pack of lies, so mixed up with a little truth, that unless I were able to give you a detailed account of the affair I could not separate them, and I am under a solemn promise not to say anything about it; but I know what I will do. In the meantime believe this—I love you with my whole heart and soul, and you only, and if you have any regard for me you will strive to banish all these silly fancies, which only delay your recovery, and get well as fast as you can for my sake. And now you have talked more than is good for you, so I shall send Emily to you to read you to sleep.”
As soon as he had put this resolution into practice he betook himself to the library, and wrote as follows:—
“Dear Arabella,—The promise I made you at the inn, at Fiumalba, I have up to this time kept faithfully; I now ask you to release me from it. My wife’s happiness (in which my own is bound up), perhaps her life even, depends upon your doing so; she has just passed the crisis of a brain fever, her bodily weakness is lamentable to witness, and the mental depression naturally arising from it leads her to take a morbid and desponding view of her own chances of recovery: in such a position, anything that will conduce to raise her spirits and tranquillise her mind will effect more than twenty doctors. Some mischief-maker has caused her to obtain a garbled account of a certain occurrence, to which I will not farther refer; nothing but the whole truth will suffice to set her mind at rest. Arabella! I deeply regret this necessity, but it cannot be avoided, and I trust to you to act towards me as I would act by you if the situation were reversed.
“I remain always,
“Your true and sincere friend,
“Harry Coverdale.”
For two or three days after that on which the foregoing conversation between Coverdale and his wife took place, Alice continued much in the same condition, the idea that she should die, and that after her death Harry would espouse Arabella Crofton, and be much happier than she had been able to make him, appeared never absent from her mind; her appetite decreased, her sleep became broken and fitful, and Mr. Gouger’s face grew longer, and his head shook more and more like that of Lord Burleigh in the Critic, every time he visited her.
One morning, on Coverdale’s return from the neighbouring town, whither he had ridden to procure some delicacy wherewith to try and tempt Alice’s capricious appetite; he was equally surprised and pleased on entering her room to perceive a brightness in her eye and a colour in her cheek, such as he had feared never to see there again.
“Why, Alice darling, this fine morning has inspired you—you are looking more like yourself than I have seen you this many a long day!” he exclaimed, as he seated himself by the easy-chair which Alice had gained sufficient strength to use as a substitute for her couch.
Regarding him with a smile and blush, which tinged her late, cheeks with the most delicate rose-colour, she replied—
“You have grown very clever in reading people’s faces of late, Harry dear; but you are quite right in fancying something has inspired me—at least, if feeling very happy is what you mean by inspiration. But oh! how foolish I have been! how wrong, how unjust I was ever to doubt you! Harry dearest, can you forgive me for not feeling certain that you had always acted as nobly and generously before I knew you as you have done since? If you could tell how I hate and despise myself for my silly, illiberal suspicions! But you must wonder all this time what has set me raving in this strange way. What do you think of my having had a letter from—yes! actually from Miss Crofton, telling me—here, read it yourself, I am certain every word of it is true; and oh! how I pity her for being obliged to write it, and, indeed, for the whole affair, poor thing!”
As Alice spoke she drew a letter from the pocket of her dress, and gave it to her husband; it ran as follows:—
“I have received a note from Mr. Coverdale, urging me to release him from a promise he most kindly made me, at a time when, bowed down by shame and contrition, his doing so saved me, as I verily believe, from madness or suicide. He tells me your health and his happiness depend upon my complying with his request; it becomes then a duty in me to do so; and, however painful it may be, I will not flinch from it. It appears to me that the most effectual way to remove any misapprehension from your mind, in regard to the nature and extent of my acquaintance with Mr. Coverdale before his marriage, will be to give you a concise account of the occurrences which took place during the summer I spent in Italy, whither I had accompanied a family of the name of Muir, in the capacity of governess. The Muirs were well-meaning, commonplace people, not possessing the slightest tact or refinement of feeling. I was at that time young, and morbidly sensitive; and the slights they put upon me, without, as I can now perceive, intending any unkindness, or, indeed, being aware of the effect their thoughtlessness was producing upon me, were a daily martyrdom to my proud spirit. We spent three months at Florence; and shortly after we had settled there, John Muir, the eldest son, who had been making a tour among the Swiss mountains, rejoined his family, accompanied by Mr. Coverdale, who had known him at the university. Slightly attracted, I fancy, by the good looks of my eldest pupil, who was an unusually pretty nonentity, Mr. Coverdale, always talking of the necessity of continuing his journey to the East, still lingered at Florence. The great kindness of heart and delicacy of feeling which lie hid under a roughness of manner that can only mislead a very superficial observer, soon led him to perceive and pity my isolated position; and from the moment in which he became aware how keenly the sense of dependence preyed upon me, he treated me with a degree of deference and attention which could not but contrast most favourably with the neglect I experienced from others. Under the cold manner which circumstances have forced me to assume, I have concealed a naturally ardent and impetuous disposition, and as deeply as I had been affected by the ungenerous conduct of the Muirs did I now appreciate Mr. Coverdale’s sympathy and kindness—in a word, for I have resolved to conceal nothing from you, I loved him with all the force of my passionate nature. But the very strength of my feelings led me studiously to conceal them; nor, until the elopement of my eldest pupil with a scheming Italian adventurer broke up the party, did I give Mr. Coverdale the slightest opportunity of suspecting the warm interest he had excited in me; but when about to bid him farewell as I imagined for ever, my self-control gave way, and I burst into a passionate flood of tears. Equally grieved and surprised, he soothed me with his accustomed kind and considerate delicacy, begged me always to look upon him as a friend, and apply to him in any emergency, as to a brother; and as soon as I became somewhat more composed, left me. The next tidings I heard of him were that he had quitted Florence. Scarcely had I retired to my room, to endeavour to calm my excitement, and to struggle to subdue my hopeless attachment in tears and solitude, when Mrs. Muir sent for me, and reproached me with equal virulence and unkindness for her daughter’s elopement, which she declared to have been the consequence of my neglect. ‘Had you,’ she continued, ‘been less engrossed by seeking to ensnare the affections of Mr. Coverdale, you would have been better able to perform the duties of your situation, and this misfortune might never have come upon us.’ Stung by the mixture of truth and falsehood in this cruel reproach, I replied—I know not what—proudly, and I can now well believe impertinently; and the next thing that I became aware of was, that a sum of money sufficient to defray my expenses to England was placed before me, and that I was dismissed. Thrown thus on my own resources in a foreign land, without a single friend near to help or advise me, what wonder that I instinctively turned to the only quarter from which I had for years (for mine had been a desolate youth) met with kindness, consideration, and sympathy; and that from the chaos of conflicting emotions one idea alone stood out clear and defined—to seek Harry Coverdale, throw myself on his generosity, tell my tale of sorrow and of love, and leave the result to him and destiny. That such a course was unwomanly, almost unpardonable in me, none can be more bitterly aware than I am; but I pray God that those of my own sex who are inclined to condemn me may never be tempted as I was tempted—may never fall as, but for the superhuman goodness of heart, and the tender, simple, yet chivalrous nature of your husband, I should have fallen. With me, to resolve and to act were simultaneous. I lost not a moment in ascertaining the route Mr. Coverdale had taken, and ere the Muir family were aware of my departure I had followed him to Fiumalba, a small town within a few hours’ journey of Florence. Without allowing myself an instant’s time for reflection, I sought the hotel at which Mr. Coverdale was stopping, and in my distraction flung myself at his feet, and told him everything—how I loved him better than any other created being—better even than my own womanly pride and good name—how I felt convinced that such love as mine must in time win return—how that if he would make me his wife, I would devote every thought; every action of my future existence, to secure his happiness—how, if he refused me, I would lie down at his feet and die, but never leave him. Then did he indeed redeem his promise of acting by me as a brother—then did he save me from my worst enemy—myself. Having soothed and quieted my agony of spirit, by his calm good sense and judicious kindness, he appealed to my reason—set before me how, by yielding to my request, and making me the partner of his future life, while unable to feel for me that degree of affection without which such a tie must become unbearable, he would be doing me an injury rather than conferring a benefit; nor did he leave me until he had obtained my consent to allow him to return to Florence, explain the whole matter to Mr. Muir, expostulate with him as to the cruelty and injustice of thus dismissing me with an undeserved slur on my character as a governess, and endeavour to arrange that I should remain with his wife and daughter, and accompany them on their return to England. In this negotiation he was successful. Mr. Muir,—an easy, self-indulgent character, yet one who could, on occasions such as that to which I refer, act kindly and honourably,—accompanied Mr. Coverdale back to Fiumalba, where he informed me that he had prevailed on Mrs. Muir to agree to the above proposal, adding that he and Mr. Coverdale were the only persons aware of the imprudent step I had taken, and that they were both willing to make me a solemn promise never (unless by my desire) to reveal the transaction to any one. Utterly broken-spirited and miserable, I consented, and, taking leave of my preserver, returned with Mr. Muir to Florence. From that day, until our accidental meeting in Park Lane, I saw Mr. Coverdale no more. What it has cost me to write this I will not attempt to describe, but that every word of it is the simple truth, I call Heaven to witness; that the knowledge of it may for ever reconcile all differences between you and your noble, generous hearted husband, and that you may be restored to make him as happy as I am certain it is in your power to do is the wish and prayer of one who, if she has erred deeply, has suffered equally, as she hopes not without some good result.
“Arabella Crofton.”
When Harry had finished reading the letter, he returned it to his wife, observing, “That is, as she says, a faithful account of all that ever occurred between us. You now see why I was unable to explain to you the apparent mystery. I hold a promise to be so sacred a thing, that nothing—not even the loss of your affection—could induce me to break one. And now, my poor child, I hope you are satisfied that I indeed love you with my whole heart, and that the affection of a thousand Arabella Croftons would never compensate me for the loss of one bright smile or fond look from my own darling wife.”
Alice attempted to reply, but her heart was too full for words: bursting into a flood of tears of mingled joy and contrition, she flung her arms around her husband’s neck, and in that prolonged embrace ended once and for ever all Harry Coverdale’s matrimonial disputes and discomforts.
Lord Alfred Courtland and Horace D’Almayne were both members of the Pandemonium, at which notable club the latter, when he had no rich victim on whom to quarter himself, chiefly spent his days. The visit which Lord Alfred had paid to Coverdale Park, and his subsequent mission to Hazlehurst Grange, had impressed him deeply, and brought out all his best qualities. On his return to town, he took himself to task more seriously than he had yet done, for the careless and extravagant life he had been leading; and, warned by experience how futile such repentance might prove, unless followed by some practical efforts at self-reform, he set to work with his accustomed impetuosity, to remedy the evils resulting from his injudicious attempt to become a fast “man-about-town.” The Honourable Billy Whipcord relieved him of one difficulty, by purchasing Don Pasquale for the same amount which Lord Alfred had given Tirrett for the animal, and with the money thus obtained, together with his winnings on the steeple-chase, he, like an honest fellow, paid all his creditors. Feeling much happier for this step in the right direction, he determined to follow it up by another, and accordingly wrote to his father, saying that, his health being now re-established, it was his wish to return to Cambridge, and endeavour to make up for lost time. Having dispatched this letter, and ridden for a couple of hours in the Park, the necessity of dining occurred to him, and he turned his horse’s head towards the Pandemonium. As he rode thither, it struck him that he might possibly encounter Horace D’Almayne, and he bethought him of his promise to Harry Coverdale, to give up the acquaintance of the man whom he had so incautiously trusted, and who had abused that trust by leading him into evil whenever an opportunity presented itself for so doing.
Yes! disagreeable as it was, perhaps even dangerous (for D’Almayne was not a man to insult with impunity), he would redeem his pledged word—he would show his gratitude to Coverdale. If D’Almayne was at the club, he would cut him in a marked and unmistakeable manner! As these thoughts were passing through his brain, he became aware of a young man, flashily dressed, and mounted on a magnificent horse, who, as he passed, took off his hat to him. Confused for the moment by the idea that it must be some acquaintance whom he ought to recognise, he bowed stiffly, whereupon the horseman wheeled his steed, and rode up to Lord Alfred’s side—
“I beg your Lordship’s pardon,” he began, “but I wish to say a few words to you. Does not your Lordship remember me?”
“Your behaviour towards me, Mr. Tirrett, was of a nature neither easily to be forgotten, nor calculated to make me desirous of cultivating your further acquaintance. I have the honour of wishing you good morning.”
Saying this with the hauteur and dignity of the whole House of Peers combined, Lord Alfred turned his head away from his unwished-for acquaintance and rode on; but Tirrett had an object in view, and was, therefore, not to be so easily shaken off.
“I won’t deny,” he said coolly, “that your Lordship has good reason to be angry with me, for I played you a trick that, if I’d been a gentleman, and your Lordship’s equal, I should consider a very dirty one; but, if your Lordship will consider a minute, you’ll perceive the difference between us.”
Amused, in spite of his anger, at the fellow’s cool audacity, Lord Alfred replied, with a sarcastic laugh—
“I should scarcely imagine that would require any very deep thinking to discover!”
“Your Lordship is sharp upon me this afternoon,” observed Tirrett, in no way disconcerted, “but I was going to remark that horse-dealing, and horse-racing, which you gentlemen enter into for amusement, is the regular business by which such men as myself gain our livelihood; it’s a ticklish sort of trade at the best of times, for we’re liable to be deceived and cheated on all sides as well as other people; so a fellow’s obliged to look out, and never throw away a chance. Now your job was just this,—the Don was recovering from a bad sprain in the off-foreleg when I sold him to you.”
“Pleasant intelligence for the Honourable Billy!” murmured Lord Alfred.
“I thought he’d stand training, but expected he’d break down in the race, and as I never like to ride a losing horse if I can help it, I made my book to win on Black Eagle, but I was obliged to promise to ride Don Pasquale for you, or else you wouldn’t have bought him. I don’t say I acted right by you; but I mean to say that I didn’t act any worse than others that call themselves gentlemen, and your friends too!”
“Do you allude to any one in particular, may I ask?—it is as well to know one’s friends from one’s foes,” inquired Lord Alfred, his curiosity beginning to awaken.
“I allude to Horace D’Almayne. Your Lordship best knows whether you consider him your friend,” was the reply.
“I certainly did at one time, if I do not now; but what has he to do with the affair?” asked Lord Alfred, his attention now fully aroused.
In answer to this question, Tirrett entered into a full account of the plot connected with the white-bait dinner, his own acquaintance with Captain O’Brien, and other particulars, with which the reader is already acquainted, dwelling especially on D’Almayne’s advice to him, to throw over Lord Alfred and ride for Captain Annesley, for which D’Almayne bargained to receive a per-centage on his winnings.
“And now,” he continued, “if I can afford your Lordship proof of the truth of my statement, in D’Almayne’s own handwriting, and let you have that proof, so that you may, if you please, confront him with it; perhaps your Lordship will set that off against my refusal to ride the steeple-chase for you.”
“Let me see your proof, sir; I shall then be better able to judge of my amount of obligation to you,” was the curt reply.
Thus urged, Tirrett drew from his pocket the identical epistle which D’Almayne had written to him from Lord Alfred’s lodgings on the morning (as the date testified) before he started for the continent. Lord Alfred perfectly remembered his writing the note; but the authenticity of the document was established beyond a doubt by the paper, which was stamped with a coronet and the cypher A. C. As this proof of his Mentor’s treachery was brought before him, Lord Alfred coloured with anger, and drawing out his pocket-book, he said—
“You must permit me to keep this document, Mr. Tirrett but, as I consider it of value, I shall give you an equivalent for it.” Then handing him a ten-pound note, he continued, “Note for note is a fair exchange.”
Tirrett glanced at the money as if he had half a mind to return it; but a moment’s reflection served to dispel the romantic scruple, and adhering to his rule of never throwing a chance away, he pocketed the cash, and raising his hat, began—
“Really, your Lordship’s too liberal! I am off for Yorkshire to-morrow morning; but I shall be up again before the hunting season, with a lot of very first-rate horses; and as I hope I’ve now made all straight with your Lordship, I shall be highly honoured if your Lordship will look through the stable before I let the dealers see them.”
Then, with another low bow, he turned his horse’s head, and touching him with the spur, cantered off, leaving Lord Alfred to his own reflections, which ran somewhat after the following fashion—
“So much for there being honour amongst thieves! Tirrett coolly sacrifices his accomplice, in order to retain my custom! What an inconceivable scoundrel that Horace D’Almayne turns out! I’m about as easy-tempered a fellow as can be; too much so, I’m afraid; for I often say Yes, when I feel I ought to say No; but I’ll cut the swindler dead at the club, or wherever I meet him, and if he does not like it, I’ll show him his note to Tirrett, or better still, read it out at the club; such perfidy ought to be exposed, and I’ll not flinch from doing so. Coverdale shall see that his example of straightforward manliness is not quite thrown away upon me. I’ve followed a bad mode with tolerable success, and reaped the fruits of such folly, and now I’ll try whether I cannot imitate a good one. I’d do a great deal to reinstate myself in the good opinion of Harry and his wife; they’ve been very kind to me, too kind, for it overpowers me; but of course they must have lost all respect for me—Harry thinks me a soft, foolish boy, and Alice, a weak, sentimental puppy. Well, I’ll do my best to gain their esteem, and if I fail, I shall be none the worse for having tried. How pretty that little Emily is! prettier than her sister, I think! and she believes in me to a great extent, that’s some comfort!”
By the time his Lordship’s meditations had reached this point, his Lordship’s horse had reached the Pandemonium, which fact, forcing itself on his Lordship’s attention, he dismounted, and, consigning the animal to the care of his groom, entered the club-room, when, of course, the first person he encountered, was Horace D’Almayne! Owing to Lord Alfred’s absence from town, D’Almayne had not seen him since his return from the continent, he, therefore, advanced to meet him with the greatest empressement, greeting him with the usual “Ah! mon cher,” which he reserved for those of his associates whom he particularly delighted to honour. Great, therefore, was his astonishment and disgust, when Lord Alfred walked past him with his head in the air, and his eyes immovably fixed upon the cornice of the apartment.
For a moment D’Almayne could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, so much at variance was his late pupil’s conduct with Horace’s pre-conceived ideas of his gentle, yielding character; but a covert smile on the faces of Barrington and several of the usual club-loungers, was sufficient to convince him of the irritating fact, that in the presence of the very men, before whom he had often boasted of and paraded his intimacy with and influence over Lord Alfred Courtland, that young nobleman had most decidedly and unequivocally cut him. For some days past D’Almayne had perceived a change to have “come o’er the spirit” in which he had been received by society at large. Intimates had suddenly become slight acquaintances; slight acquaintances had grown strangely short-sighted; and when he forced himself upon their notice, appeared afflicted with a painful degree of stiffness in the “upper spine.” Still, until that moment, no one had ventured actually to cut him. Now the matter had come to a climax, Horace felt himself brought fairly to bay, and in such a frame of mind he was dangerous. After Lord Alfred had passed D’Almayne, he touched the Honourable William Barrington, alias Billy Whipcord, on the arm, and drawing him aside, said—
“I have just been let into a pleasant little secret; it seems that the reason my dis-honourable young acquaintance, Mr. Tirrett, set his face so determinately against riding Don Pasquale was that the notable quadruped had a screw loose in the back sinew of one of its inestimable fore-legs, and Tirrett was afraid he would break down in the race. Now as I have become aware of this only within the last half hour, I daresay I have asked, and you have given, too much for the brute. Caveat emptor may be a very good general maxim, but I never can see why a gentleman should act about selling a horse in a manner undeserving that title—so, if you find the creature unsound I shall be happy to hand you back a fifty-pound note, or more, if you require it. I’ve passed my ‘little go,’ as a patron of the turf, and wish to come out of it with clean hands ere I take my leave of that noble pastime.”
“Really, my dear Courtland, you’re too chivalrous,” was the reply; “but I’m quite content with my bargain; the Don is sound enough to answer my purpose” (he had sold him that morning, and pocketed a cool hundred by the transfer), “and if he were not, I have purchased him, and must abide the loss;—but, excuse me, are you aware that you have just cut Horace D’Almayne?”
“As he deserves to be cut by every honourable man,” interrupted Lord Alfred, “and, for reasons which I will explain here before every member of this club now present, if he has the audacity to—to venture to force himself upon me,” he continued angrily, as he perceived D’Almayne sauntering up to him, with his accustomed listless gait indeed, but with a sparkle in his eye, and a red spot on each cheek, which, to those who were well acquainted with him, showed that he was unusually excited.
“Has foreign travel, and the lapse of a fortnight, really altered me so much that your Lordship is unable to recognize an old friend; or to what other circumstance am I to attribute your singular failure of memory when I accosted you on your entrance?” he inquired in his most superciliously polite tone and accent.
“Attribute it to its right cause,” was the spirited reply; “that I desire to associate only with men of honour, an idiosyncracy which precludes my longer availing myself of the privilege of Mr. D’Almayne’s society.”
“In fact, that, having made use of me to convert a raw school-boy into a very tame specimen of a fast man, you fancy now you are able to run alone, and that it will add to your reputation for fastness to kick down the ladder by which you have mounted the social mole-hill you stand on,” was the sneering answer; “but you have mistaken your man, my Lord. Horace D’Almayne is not a puppet of which you hold the wires, to dance, or to be thrown aside, at your Lordship’s pleasure. Had you simply chosen to deny me your further acquaintance, I should have set the gain of valuable minutes against the loss of one of the social incubi my good-nature has entailed upon me, and overlooked the boyish impertinence; but as you have seen fit to insult me publicly, nothing short of an equally public apology will satisfy me. Should you be infatuated enough to refuse me this, I will for once flatter your Lordship’s vanity by supposing you man enough to be aware of the alternative.”
As D’Almayne spoke, he drew himself up with an expression of contemptuous superiority, half-pitying, half-defiant, which he imagined highly effective.
It certainly had one effect, that of rousing Lord Alfred’s temper to the utmost extent; and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, he replied—
“If I could believe that you had one thought or feeling of a gentleman in your composition which my conduct could wound, I would accept one of the alternatives you propose; but to a man who can abuse the confidence of friendship by availing himself of it to swindle and betray the friend who trusted him,—to such a low, sordid black-leg, I will neither apologize, nor will I afford, him the satisfaction due to wounded honour.”
For a moment, as D’Almayne’s glance met that of the man he had wronged, his self-possession failed him; and, ignorant to what extent Lord Alfred might have become cognizant of his nefarious practices, he hesitated how far he dared provoke any disclosure. But it was too late to retract: his social position, on which depended his very means of existence, was at stake; and as the thought crossed his mind, the gambler spirit awoke within him. He would carry the matter with a high hand; a bold course was always the wisest; Fortune would favour those who trusted her. It was his only article of faith, and he clung to it with the pertinacity of a zealot.
“Highly melodramatic!” he said, with a sarcastic sneer. “Your Lordship has a real spécialité for juvenile tragedy. But may I be allowed to inquire what particular perfidy of mine has elicited the burst of virtuous indignation which you have selected for your histrionic début?”
“I was willing to have spared you the disgrace of a public exposure,” was Lord Alfred’s reply; “but since you choose thus to provoke your fate, I can have no reason for longer concealing the cause which has led me to consider you unfit for the society of honourable men.” Turning to Barrington, who happened to be standing next him, he continued, “You, sir, and other gentlemen present, may remember how, not many weeks since, a certain steeple-chase rider, named Tirrett, suddenly left me in the lurch, by refusing at the last minute to ride for me, by which rascality I was on the point of losing the race, upon which I had made an imprudently heavy book. Mr. D’Almayne was at that time abroad, and, I presume, imagined, owing to that circumstance, he might transact a little profitable black-leg business with impunity. He accordingly wrote a note to Tirrett, suggesting to him the scheme which he afterwards attempted to carry out; stipulating, in case of its success, to be paid fifty pounds and a percentage on Tirrett’s winnings.”
As Lord Alfred concluded, a murmur of disapprobation ran round the room, and all eyes were turned upon Horace D’Almayne.
“A cleverly devised tale!” he said, scornfully; “a mole-hill ingeniously inflated until it appears a mountain. I certainly betted on the race; I may have given the jockey Tirrett the benefit of my suggestions on the subject, as any other man who has ever been on the turf would have done; but that all this demonstrates anything, except Lord Alfred Courtland’s deplorable ignorance of that said art ‘of life about town,’ in which he appears to have striven in vain to become a proficient, I am at a loss to conceive.”
“Perhaps the simplest answer to Mr. D’Almayne’s statement will be to place the note, on which the foundations of my ‘molehill inflated into a mountain’ rest, in Mr. Barrington’s hands, asking him, for his own satisfaction, and for that of the other gentlemen present, to read it aloud.”
As he spoke, Lord Alfred drew from his pocket the note given him by Tirrett, and handed it to Barrington, who, after a moment’s hesitation, read aloud the following notable epistle, which the reader may remember was written by D’Almayne, with his usual cool audacity, in Lord Alfred Courtland’s lodgings:—
“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 daresay 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 fifty pound 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 five hundred pounds.”
As Barrington ceased reading, D’Almayne observed, coolly—
“Exactly as I expected—an anonymous letter, supposed to be mine on the word of a blackguard horsedealer (who probably wrote it himself to conceal his own rascality), and eagerly caught at by this fiery young gentleman, who, anxious to prove that he is out of leading-strings, gladly seeks any pretext for quarrelling with one to whom his Lordship has a painful consciousness that he appears no more a hero than to his valet-de-chambre. Tirrett declares that I wrote this letter, I say I did no such thing; there is no proof about the matter, it is simply a question of assertion—Tirrett’s word against mine. I leave it to the gentlemen present to say which is most worthy of credit.”
“Allow me to mention one small circumstance which may assist them to arrive at a just decision,” interposed Lord Alfred, quietly; “I have a perfect recollection of Mr. D’Almayne’s writing a note, much resembling the one in question, at my lodgings, on the morning before he left England. If I am right in my conjecture, the date would be the 5th of last month, and the postmark Pall Mall; may I trouble you to ascertain the point, Mr. Barrington?”
“Right in both respects,” was the unhesitating reply. “Moreover, here is a coronet and the initials A. C. stamped on the paper, a corroboration which quite satisfies my mind on the subject.”
L’Almayne glanced round, and read his sentence on the faces which surrounded him—faces of men, who, in the insolence of his false position, he had made to feel the lash of his covert sarcasm. Amongst the many there he could not discern one friend. But his self-possession did not forsake him.
“Of course, all against me,” he said; then turning to Lord Alfred, he continued—“Your Lordship once expressed a doubt as to the social value of a title, you now, I should imagine, perceive your error: for the rest, the letter is an impudent forgery, and the accusation false; but until I can prove the whole story the clumsy fabrication I know it to be, I shall leave the matter where it stands, unless”—and he glanced round the circle with a savage light in his cold, grey eyes, which no one cared to meet—“unless any gentleman feels inclined to make a personal affair of it, in which case I shall have much pleasure in affording him the satisfaction he requires.”
No one appearing desirous of improving the occasion as D’Almayne had suggested, the baffled intriguer stalked out of the room, with a look of scornful indifference on his features, and rage and hatred burning in his breast.
“L eave me, sir! I consider your very presence an insult!”
“Before you drive me from you for ever, I am determined to set plainly before you the results which must inevitably follow your decision, and show you unmistakeably the difference between the future which awaits you, and the lot which might even yet be yours if you have only sufficient strength of character to cast aside the meaningless conventionalities of a false and hollow state of society.” D’Almayne—for as the reader has no doubt already conjectured, the foregoing speech proceeded from his lips—paused for a moment to control the excitement under which, despite his endeavours to conceal it, he was evidently labouring. Kate Crane appeared again about to interrupt him; but by a glance and a gesture of the hand he restrained her, while he continued:—“You talk of marriage as a holy tie, and where such a bond is indeed one of the heart, I, sceptic and libertine as you consider me, entirely agree with you; but such a term cannot apply to the cruel mockery which has bound youth, beauty, and intellect to age, decrepitude, and imbecility. But putting aside all idea of affection, the temptation which led you to commit this outrage against every better feeling of your nature exists no longer. Mr. Crane is a ruined man; if, therefore, you adhere to the conventional prejudice which you vainly endeavour to dignify by the name of duty, you have nothing to hope but to sacrifice to it the best years of your life, years in which you will still be young, when your queenly beauty and bright clear intellect will fit you to shine in and lead society of a class in which your elegant tastes, and refined sympathies, would meet with a gratification sufficient in itself to render life one scene of pleasurable excitement. But, more than this, you are ambitious; I can read it in your flashing eye, in the curl of your haughty lip. I would open to you such a field for that ambition as in your wildest moments you have never dreamed of. You do not believe me! you consider me a base, unscrupulous adventurer. If it were so, what have I ever had to call out the higher, nobler qualities of my nature? Nothing! But with such a soul as yours to urge and inspire me, and with your love as my reward, to what height might not my genius soar! What was the great Napoleon but a Corsican adventurer? and yet his was a career an Emperor’s daughter was proud to share. You think I am romancing—talking bombastic nonsense; but it is not so. In America, at the present time, there is an immense field for talent. I know the character of the nation well, know how both its strong and weak points could be turned to account, and form the ladder by which I might climb even to the President’s seat, and once there!—Presidents have ere now become Emperors—from democracy to despotism is the natural transition—history proves it. Since I have known you, a change has come over my every thought and feeling; hitherto I have exerted my talents merely to supply my own fastidious requirements, but now my ideas are enlarged, my aspirations heightened. Brought up from my earliest childhood among men, clever indeed, but without one pure thought, one disinterested feeling, I became—what I am. You have excited in me higher, nobler feelings. I will not deny that your beauty first attracted me; but since I have known you, and each day discovered new qualities with which I could sympathise, I have learned to love you with the only deep, real sentiment I have ever yet felt for one of your sex. Hitherto I have looked on women as mere toys wherewith to solace one’s leisure hours; but in you I recognise a loftier nature; I feel not only in the presence of an intelligence equal to my own, but I have an instinctive perception that you might become my leading star, my tutelary deity! Kate, hear me! my destiny is in your hands. Fly with me to America—everything is prepared; and when we arrive on the soil of a new world, you shall become the bride of a man already possessed of riches sufficient to obtain for you luxuries greater than you have yet enjoyed, and with a gift riches are powerless to procure—talent which has never yet failed me, however critical the position—talent which, henceforward, you shall direct into any course that best may win your approval; knowing that whatever career you may select, the sole reward I shall seek will be your approbation—my only happiness, your affection. You have not heard me unmoved—you cannot, will not refuse me!”
As D’Almayne concluded, he fixed his eyes on Kate’s face, as though he sought to read there his sentence before her lips should pronounce it, while his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glistened with unfeigned emotion. For an instant, unable to bear the intensity of his glance, Kate turned away with a heightened colour, then, recovering her self-possession by a powerful effort, she replied calmly—
“I have heard you thus far, Mr. D’Almayne, without interruption, partly because I believe that, for once, you are speaking under the influence of real feeling; partly because I owe you, as I imagine, a debt of gratitude for your kindness to my brother; these reasons have induced me to listen to addresses, every word of which I consider as the deepest insult which can be offered to a pure-minded woman. You tell me I married Mr. Crane for money; I neither admit nor repel the accusation—like most taunts, it contains a half-truth, so disguised by sarcasm as to appear a whole one. But how doubly sordid should I be, were I to act on your suggestion, and quit my husband,—who, if your supposition be correct, I have sufficiently wronged already,—because he has, as you inform me, been swindled out of his wealth—how I leave your own conscience to inform you! The fact that he is poor, and that you profess yourself rich, is enough to carry conviction to my mind. But I will not enter further into the question: suffice it that your sophistries have failed to blind me, and that I am still able to discern the path of duty—let it lead whither it may, I am resolved to follow it. I have given you, as you requested, a fair hearing and a deliberate reply. For your kindness to my brother, I again thank you. As I gather that you are about to leave this country, and can well imagine it may be necessary for you to do so, farewell for ever! I set your one good deed against your evil ones, and bear you no ill-will. We part neither as friends nor foes.”
As Kate spoke, she rose to quit the room, but D’Almayne interposed between her and the door—
“One moment,” he said in his usual tone of sarcasm; “my modesty cannot permit me to depart, taking credit for a good deed which I have never performed. It was not I who rescued your brother from his difficulty; though, as a stepping-stone to your favour, I would willingly have done so: for that act of kindness you are indebted to——”
“Whom?” inquired Kate, eagerly.
“One to whom, if he had this morning pleaded as I have done, I fancy even your rigid virtue might have afforded a kinder answer—your cousin, Arthur Hazlehurst!”
D’Almayne spoke at random, but the arrow wounded as deeply as even his disappointed malevolence could have desired. With every vestige of colour banished from her pale cheek, Kate sank back upon her chair, and drawing her breath with difficulty, placed her hand upon her side, as if in pain. Heedless of her suffering—nay, rather rejoicing in it—the evil expression came across D’Almayne’s face as, in a tone of sarcastic triumph, he exclaimed—
“You love him! I was certain of it, and am fully avenged. Chained by your marriage vow to a decrepid imbecile, while you love another with all the depth and fire of your passionate nature, you will experience the torments of the damned. To the remorse and despair these reflections will engender,—a despair so desolating that you will live to regret even your decision of this morning,—I leave you. When your husband returns to-night, a ruined man, remember my words—the curse that you have brought upon yourself will have begun to work!”
Unable to reply, Kate remained leaning back, her eyes fixed upon him with a kind of horrible fascination. Leisurely drawing on his gloves, he appeared to be feasting his gaze with the misery he had created; then, casting on her a look of sardonic malevolence that a fiend might have emulated, but could scarcely have surpassed, he turned and quitted the apartment, and immediately afterwards the house.
Kate’s reflections after D’Almayne had left her may easily be imagined; all feelings of resentment against the man who had insulted her were merged in the one thought that her cousin, Arthur Hazlehurst, had been her brother’s unknown benefactor When she had imagined him implacably offended at the unjustifiable manner in which, during their last interview, she had treated him, he was still watching over her interests, and with a chivalrous devotion to the remembrance of their former attachment (for such could be the only kindly sentiment he could now cherish towards her), he had come forward and saved her brother from the ruin which had appeared inevitable. She had received a note that morning from Frederick, informing her of his return from the Continent, and stating his intention of paying her a visit immediately, adding that he had obtained his benefactor’s sanction to tell her to whom he was indebted for his present good fortune, and all other particulars she might wish to learn. While thus engaged, a knock at the door announced a visitor, and in another moment her brother’s arms were thrown around her. Six months’ foreign travel, and daily association with persons mixing in good society, had produced a great change in Fred Marsden’s appearance: the handsome boy had become a fine manly young fellow, whose frank address and courteous manners were certain to ensure him a kindly welcome, and greatly increase his chances of success in life. Fred had much to tell, and found an eager listener in Kate. Arthur was the best, kindest, wisest, most generous of men; Arthur had sent him abroad more to finish his education than for any use he could be of in a business point of view; Arthur was most liberal to him in money-matters; and yet superior as he was in everything—talent, age, position—Arthur treated him like an equal, nay, like a brother.
While he thus ran on, a cab drove up to the door, and shortly after Mr. Crane entered the apartment; he appeared to walk feebly, and once staggered, and nearly fell in crossing the room. Glancing angrily towards Fred, he muttered, “Send that boy away, Mrs. Crane—I—I wish to speak with you on matters of importance.”
Hastily dismissing her brother—promising to write him word when to come again—Kate returned to her husband. “You look ill and worried,” she said; “let me fetch you a glass of wine and a biscuit.”
“Ill and worried indeed! I tell you, Mrs. Crane, I have this day received my death-blow. Don’t reply, madam; don’t mock me with any pretence of affection—I know its worth. You married me for my money—I am not so blind as you may imagine—yes! you married me for my money; and now you are rightly served, for I am a ruined man. You may well stare and look surprised, for I can scarcely believe it myself. Oh, it is too cruel—horrible, to think that I, Jedediah Crane, whose name has been good for five hundred thousand pounds any day, should die a beggar!” Here he paused, and broke into a fit of childish weeping; after a time he again resumed angrily, “And for this, madam, I have chiefly to thank your precious admirer, Horace D’Almayne; my money was safe enough till he led me on to speculate; and I believe your arts and allurements were the chief cause that attracted him here. But your wickedness has brought its own punishment, for you must work for your living now—you, and all your pauper family, whom you have supported out of my pocket: and as for D’Almayne, may the bitterest curses light upon him—may———” Here, suddenly breaking off, he stared round him wildly, raised his hand to his forehead, murmured, “Oh, my head!” and sank back in his chair. Greatly alarmed, Kate rang the bell violently, and whilst the butler and another servant conveyed Mr. Crane to his room, she dispatched a third in search of medical assistance. That evening Arthur Hazlehurst received the following note:
“In the unpardonable pride which has been my besetting sin through life, but to which, if suffering can eradicate faults, I ought never again to yield, I requested you not to enter my house until I sent for you; deeming, when I said it, that I was pronouncing a sentence of banishment which would continue in effect as long as we should both survive. Having placed this bar between myself and the generous friendship you have always evinced for me, I dare not now ask your assistance—but if in the great strait in which I am placed you would advise me to whom I ought to apply, you will be rendering me a kindness I have little deserved at your hands. Mr. Crane returned home this evening greatly excited, and declared that he was a ruined man; while still raving almost incoherently on the subject, he was attacked with paralysis, and now lies in a state which the two physicians I have called in inform me is in the highest degree critical. He has recovered his consciousness, but his speech is so much affected that I can only collect that his mind is still troubled by business details. I am not aware of the name of his legal adviser, nor, indeed, certain whether he was in the habit of consulting one. I await your reply with much anxiety.
“Kate Crane.”
Within a quarter of an hour after he received this note Arthur Hazlehurst was in Park Lane.