Mrs. Hazlehurst was so confirmed an invalid as to be unable to walk, even so short a distance as from the drawing-room to her own bed-room, whither she was usually carried by either her husband or her son. She was in the habit of retiring at nine o’clock, but on the evening referred to in the last chapter the clock chimed the half-hour after nine, and Mr. Hazlehurst had not returned.
“Mamma, dear, you are looking tired—you ought not to sit up so late!” exclaimed Alice, who had been observing her mother attentively for some minutes. “Do allow Evans to carry you up: papa is sometimes kept till eleven o’clock at these magistrates’ meetings, you know.”
One great charm which Alice possessed in Harry’s eyes was her devotion to her mother, for whom she entertained an affection which was, perhaps, one of the strongest feelings of her nature.
“I had rather wait, dear,” was the patient reply:—“the worthy Evans is growing fat and old, and I am always afraid of his falling; and James is very willing, poor lad, but he is so awkward that he rubs me against all the corners we pass, and only escapes knocking my brains out by a succession of miracles.”
“If you would allow me to assist you, Mrs. Hazlehurst,” began Coverdale, in a hesitating voice, as though he were about to ask rather than to confer a favour—“I am sure I could carry you safely; I have observed exactly how Arthur holds you, and it would give me so much pleasure to be of use to you.”
“You are very kind,” returned Mrs. Hazlehurst, while a glow of grateful surprise coloured her pale cheeks; “but I cannot bear to give you the trouble—you do not know how heavy I am.”
“You do not know how strong I am, my dear madam,” was the good-natured rejoinder; “allow me—that I think is right,” and raising the light form of the invalid in his powerful arms he carried her, as easily and tenderly as a mother would her child, to her room, where, carefully depositing her in an easy-chair, he wished her good night, and left her without waiting to receive her thanks.
“Alice, love, Emily will stay and read to me—go down and tell Mr. Coverdale how much obliged I am; he carried me as comfortably as if he had been in the constant habit of doing so for years. The kindness of heart, and delicacy of feeling with which he made the offer, have gratified me exceedingly; depend upon it he is an unusually amiable, excellent young man.”
“He certainly appears in a new character to-night,” returned Emily, laughing; “hitherto he has performed the modern Timon most naturally and successfully. I wonder what made the creature take it into his head to act the man—or rather the woman—hater! You’d better ask him, Alice, perhaps he will tell you!—What gone already!” she continued, glancing round the room. “Well then, mamma dear, as there seems to be no more fun forthcoming, let me give you your dose of Jeremy Taylor; that is our present good book, I believe.”
A reproof for the levity with which Emily spoke rose to her mother’s lips; but Mrs. Hazlehurst was a sensible woman as well as a good one, and so, being able to distinguish between the exuberance of high spirits, and a scoffing turn of mind, she only murmured, “Silly child,” and shook her head, with a reproving smile.
When Alice returned to the drawing-room she at first imagined it to be tenantless; but on looking more attentively she perceived the tall figure of Harry Coverdale standing with folded arms in the recess of one of the windows. So noiselessly did she enter that Harry, whose face was turned away from the door, was not aware of her approach until she was within a few yards of him. As with a sudden start he looked round, she was surprised to observe the traces of deep emotion visible on his features, which were usually characterised by an expression of so completely opposite a nature. With a murmured apology for intruding on him, Alice was about to withdraw, when Coverdale hastened to prevent her.
“Do not run away,” he said quickly, then continued, “You are surprised to see me look sad; I think I should like, if you will permit me, to tell you the cause. It is so seldom I meet with anybody to whom I can talk about such things—people in general would not understand me, but I feel an instinctive certainty that you will. It is such a lovely night, would you object to come out? Your cousin, Miss Marsden, is already enjoying the moonlight.” As he spoke, he pointed to a white figure pacing, with bent head and measured steps, along a terrace-walk on the further side of the lawn. Throwing a shawl over her head to protect herself from the night dew, Alice signified her consent, and opening one of the French windows, they descended into the garden. For some minutes they strolled on side by side without speaking; the silence at length becoming embarrassing, Alice broke it by observing—
“I must not forget to deliver mamma’s thanks for your kindness. You carried her so easily and carefully, she says, she could almost imagine you must have been accustomed to such an occupation before.”
Harry smiled a melancholy smile. “That was what I was going to tell you about,” he said, “only when it came to the point, I felt as if it were impossible to begin. Carrying Mrs. Hazlehurst to-night brought back such a flood of recollections!” He paused, then in a low tone continued: “For many months before her death my own poor mother became perfectly helpless, and I used to carry her like a child from room to room. I was only seventeen when I lost her, and, except your brother, I have never had any one to love since; and though Arthur is as good a fellow as ever breathed, and all that one can wish a friend to be, yet somehow, whether it is the difference between a man’s mind and a woman’s, or what, I cannot tell, but there are things I’ve never talked about with anybody since my mother died, because I’ve felt that nobody else could understand me. Perhaps, if she had lived, I might have been more what I sometimes wish I were—less rough, and—but I do not know why I should bore you with what must be singularly uninteresting to you.”
“Pray go on,” replied Alice; “I have heard so much of you from Arthur, that I always hoped I should some day know you myself, and that we might become friends; but—” here she stopped, apparently embarrassed how to proceed.
Harry came to her assistance—“But when I did appear, I made myself so disagreeable that you naturally repented ever having wasted a thought upon such an unamiable savage. Is not that what you would have said? Well, you are quite right, I deserve that it should be so.”
There was a degree of regretful earnestness in his voice and manner which touched Alice’s gentle heart, and she hastened to reply:—
“Nay, it was only that you did not know us; and—I think that silly Mr. D’Almayne annoyed you with his airs and affectation; but I am sure you will never be so—so—”
“Brutish!” suggested Harry.
“So unjust to yourself again,” resumed Alice.
“You are very kind—kinder than I deserve by far,” replied Coverdale. He paused, then continued, “I don’t think I was naturally such a bear; but from childhood I have had to battle with the world on my own behalf. Did Arthur ever tell you any of my earlier history?”
“No; he often alluded to it as curious, but said we ought to see you first, and then we should understand you better and care more to hear it,” was the simple reply.
Harry smiled. “The only romantic episode in my career occurred when I was a very young boy,” he said, “so young, that if I had not heard the story over and over again from the mouth of my late uncle, the old Admiral, I should scarcely have remembered it. To enable you to comprehend the situation properly, I must trouble you with a few family details. My grandfather had two sons—the Admiral the elder, and my father the younger. My father, when a lieutenant in a marching regiment, fell in love with a very pretty, amiable but portionless girl; my grandfather desired him to marry an heiress; my father refused, and urged his affection for another; my grandfather grew imperative, my father recusant; my grandfather stormed, my father persisted; and the affair ended by my father marrying his lady-love, and my grandfather disinheriting him for so doing. The natural consequences ensued: my grandfather devoted his fortune and influence to my uncle’s advancement, and at the age of fifty he became an admiral; at the same age my father found himself a captain, existing on half-pay, with a microscopic pension and an incurable wound in his side, as rewards for having served his country. ‘England expects every man to do his duty,’ and occasionally recompenses him for it with honourable starvation. As my father’s health decreased his expenses increased, unpaid doctors’ bills stared him in the face, and butchers and bakers grew uncivil and importunate.
“At my grandfather’s death he left every farthing he possessed to his eldest son. Angry at the injustice, my father refused his brother’s offer of an allowance, and unwisely determined to dispute the will. Accordingly, he not only lost his cause, but irritated my uncle to such a degree, that all communication ceased between them. When I was approaching the august age of ten years, and affairs seemed to be coming to a crisis, by some chance I, playing with and apparently absorbed by a regiment of tin soldiers, happened to be present at a family committee of ways and means. During this colloquy, the unfortunate disagreement between the brothers was talked over and lamented by my mother; who exerted all her eloquence to persuade my father to write to this Admiral and inform him of his failing health and ruined fortunes, and trust to his generosity to forgive and forget the past. But my father’s pride stood in the way. He would willingly have been reconciled to his brother, if he had not required pecuniary assistance at his hands; but the consciousness of this necessity rendered him inexorable. So finding his wife’s arguments unanswerable, he adopted the usual resource in such cases—viz., he talked himself into a rage, and flinging out of the room, slammed the door behind him, leaving my mother and me tête-à-tête.
“After a minute’s silence, I surprised her by asking, ‘Papa’s very poor, and my uncle’s very rich; and papa would ask uncle to give him some money, only they quarrelled when grandpapa stopped papa’s pocket-money: isn’t that it, mamma?’
“‘Yes, my dear,’ was the reply; ‘but you must not talk about it to anybody remember.’
“I nodded assent, then resumed, ‘Uncle’s a good, kind man, isn’t he?’
“‘Yes, my love; a good man I know him to be, and he was kind once,’ was the reply.
“‘Then why don’t you go and tell him that papa’s very sorry he was naughty, and wants to make friends again; and if uncle is good and kind, he will say yes; and when they are friends again, uncle will be sure to give him some of his pocket-money without being asked, because they are brothers. Won’t that do, mamma?’
“My mother rose with tears in her eyes, stroked the hair back from my forehead, imprinted a kiss on it, and murmuring, ‘Your papa would never allow me to do so, darling,’ quitted the room.
“Well, I sat and cogitated the matter: even as a child I was of a fearless nature, and confident in my own resources; and at last a plan occurred to me. At that time we lived in London, and I attended a public school as a day-scholar. At this school I had a friend—a boy some two or three years older than myself. To him, in strict confidence, I imparted my scheme, which he was pleased graciously to approve of, and in which he volunteered to aid me. Accordingly, on the following morning, when my parents imagined I was declining hic, hæc, hoc, I was, under the able guidance of my school-fellow, making my way to the office of a coach which passed within half a mile of Coverdale Park. Having seen me set off in high health and spirits, my friend after school-hours left the following note at our house:—
“‘Dear Mamma,—I have gone to see my uncle Coverdale, as you could not do it. Papa never told me not to—so he won’t be angry with me. Thompson saw me off, and will leave this, so no more at present,
“‘From your dutiful son,
“‘H. C.’
“I reached Coverdale Park without adventure, and greatly astonishing a solemn butler by demanding to see my uncle forthwith, was ushered into a large oak-panelled apartment, wherein sat a fine, portly-looking gentleman, eating his dinner in solitary dignity. As soon as his eyes fell upon my features he started, exclaiming—
“‘Bless my soul, boy! who are you?’
“‘Your nephew Harry Coverdale, uncle,’ returned I, looking him full in the face. My gaze seemed rather to embarrass him, for his lips moved convulsively ere he was able to frame a reply. At length he exclaimed angrily—
“‘And pray, sir, what do you want here?’
“Feeling by no means inclined to enter abruptly upon family affairs in presence of the servants, I paused. But certain inward cravings, aroused by the sight of the good things before me, soon furnished me with an idea, and with a decidedly suggestive emphasis, I answered, ‘I have not had any dinner yet.’ My uncle again looked at me, to see whether my observation was the result of impudence or simplicity—deciding apparently in favour of the latter, he desired the servant to place me a chair, and give me a knife and fork. Fortified by a good dinner, and encouraged by a kind twinkle in the corner of my uncle’s eye, which belied all his attempts to look angry, I soon began to chatter away freely, and enlighten my newly-found relative as to my opinion of things in general. After the cloth was removed, and I had volunteered grace; at which my uncle appeared first surprised and then edified, he began—
“‘Now, boy, tell me the truth—but first, you shall have a glass of wine; which will you take?’
“‘I always tell the truth, uncle, even if it gets me a thrashing; and I’ll take port, for that’s the only wine fit for a gentleman,’ answered I, which reply so delighted my uncle, that he poured me out a bumper, and patting me on the back exclaimed—
“‘Bravo, my boy! stick to truth and port wine through life, and you’ll be a credit to your name!’
“That speech of mine won the day! I explained the object of my visit, and that it had originated wholly with myself; and succeeded so well, that on the following morning my uncle accompanied me home, was reconciled to my father, to whom, till the day of his death (which occurred within the next year), he showed every kindness, and after that event took my dear mother to reside with him at the Park, provided for my education, and eventually made me his heir.”
To this recital, followed by a detail of many of those pure thoughts and deep feelings which lie hidden in the breast of every generous-hearted man, till heaven blesses him with a female friend worthy to receive such sacred confidence, did Alice listen with growing interest and sympathy; and when, two hours afterwards, Mr. Hazlehurst returned home in a great state of universal vinous philanthropy, Harry and his companion could scarcely believe they had been walking together for more than half-an-hour.
The week passed away like a dream. Harry walked, and drove, and sang, and read poetry with the young ladies, and found himself especially happy and comfortable. Moreover, he contrived to institute a system of romantic rambles with Alice, during which they talked about all those peculiar subjects which can only be discussed comfortably in a tête-à-tête—thoughts and feelings too delicate to be submitted to the rough handling of a crowd. And Alice, after three days’ experience, told Kate Marsden, in strict confidence, that she had formed the highest opinion of Mr. Coverdale’s principles; that he was so good and sensible, and in every way superior to the young men one generally meets, that it was quite a privilege to possess his friendship—didn’t Kate think so? To which Kate replied in the affirmative; adding, that girls were usually so frivolous and empty-headed that they were not worth cultivating. “Where was the good of making friends of people, unless one could look up to them?” Alice responded, “Where, indeed!” and considered that Kate took a very proper and sensible view of the matter.
One small incident occurred, however, which somewhat ruffled the smooth surface of Alice’s tranquillity. Two or three days after the picnic, there arrived from Mr. Crane a note, together with a slim and genteel quadruped, possessing a greyhound-like outline, shadowy legs, and a long tail, and purporting to be a thoroughly-broken lady’s horse, with which the cotton-spinner begged—“Miss Alice would allow him to replace the pony injured by the furious riding of her brother and Mr. Coverdale,”—an association in iniquity which delighted Tom as much as it provoked Harry, and, secretly, Alice also. This horse Mr. Hazlehurst insisted upon it Alice should not refuse; and he became so angry when a faint remonstrance was attempted, that the poor girl quitted his study in tears—a melancholy fact, which Emily, in a truly feminine and injudicious burst of virtuous indignation, revealed to Coverdale, thereby laying in him the foundation of a deeply-rooted aversion to the animal, which led to results that would have been better avoided.
The morning following the arrival of this undesirable addition to the family, Mr. Hazlehurst announced his intention of riding over to call upon and inquire after Mr. Crane, and his wish (which meant command) that Alice should accompany him on her new horse. “Mr. Coverdale, will you ride with us?” continued the head of the family, graciously; “I do not think you have seen Crane Court yet. The scenery in and around the park is very rich, and the view from the terrace most extensive.”
Harry, in his secret soul disliking Mr. Crane and all that appertained to him, and fancying, moreover, that the presence of Mr. Hazlehurst would effectually neutralise the pleasure of Alice’s society, as their conversation would be thereby restricted to unmeaning commonplaces, was about to invent some polite reason for declining, when, happening to glance at the young lady in question, he read—or imagined he read, something in the expression of her countenance, which induced him to alter his determination. Accordingly, Tom was made happy by obtaining permission to go to the village-inn, where Coverdale’s horses were put up, order the groom to saddle Sir Lancelot, and ride that exemplary quadruped back, as a reward for his trouble.
“How do you like Mr. Crane’s present to my daughter? In my opinion it is one of the most perfect lady’s horses I have ever seen,” complacently remarked Mr. Hazlehurst to Coverdale, as they stood at the hall door, criticising the horses which a groom was leading up and down.
“I dare say the old gentleman”—(Mr. Hazlehurst’s brow darkened)—“paid a high figure for the animal,” was the reply; “it has its good points, and is very well fitted for a park hack; but it’s a weedy, straggling sort of beast—showy action, but badly put together;—and there’s something queer about its eyes—it has an uncomfortable way of leering round at you, and showing the whites, that I don’t like. You can see it’s been fed under the mark, and I shouldn’t wonder if, now it’s on full allowance, it were to turn out skittish.”
“I can’t say I at all agree with you, Mr. Coverdale,” was the hasty reply. “I flatter myself I know something of horses, and I consider this as perfect a lady’s hack as I ever beheld, and a most valuable animal into the bargain. As to temper, it’s as quiet as a lamb—a child might ride it. I must beg you will not say anything which might tend to alarm my daughter, or prejudice her against it.”
Harry turned away to hide a smile, as he replied, “Never fear, sir; Miss Hazlehurst shall form her own opinion of its merits, without my attempting to bias her judgment.”
When Mr. Hazlehurst assisted his daughter to mount, Harry, who really doubted the temper of the animal, watched it closely, and his previous opinion was confirmed by observing that it laid back its ears, glanced viciously round, and at the moment when Alice sprang up, made a faint demonstration with its mouth, as though it coveted a sample of Mr. Hazlehurst from the region of that gentleman’s coat-tails, and was only restrained from attempting to obtain one by a recollection of former punishment. The preliminary arrangements being safely accomplished, the trio started, followed by a mounted groom, Coverdale keeping close to Alice’s bridle-rein.
They had proceeded some distance, without anything occurring to justify his suspicions; and, in spite of all drawbacks, Alice was really beginning to enjoy her ride, when her father proposed a canter; and on quickening her pace, the odd manner in which her horse tossed and shook his head, in some degree alarmed her.
“Loosen the curb-rein a little,” suggested Harry, “and try to hold him entirely by the snaffle. I will keep close to you, so do not be afraid, lest he should bolt.” Alice complied, and the horse appearing to approve of the alteration, ceased to shake its head; but as it became warm to its work, it pulled so hard against the snaffle, that Alice’s delicate hands were unable to prevent the canter from increasing into something very like a gallop. Sir Lancelot kept pace with him, stride for stride; but Mr. Hazlehurst’s short-legged cob—the “dray-horse-in-miniature—warranted-equal-to-sixteen-stone” style of animal, which elderly gentlemen ride for the benefit of their digestions, not being calculated for such fast work, was very soon distanced.
“What has become of papa?” exclaimed Alice, glancing round; “we ought to wait for him, but I can’t make this creature go slower—it pulls dreadfully. May I use the curb?”
“I had rather you did not,” was the reply; “the brute seemed so uneasy when you tried it before—perhaps its mouth is tender; I will examine it when you dismount. Canter on to the next hill, and then we will stop for Mr. Hazlehurst.” And they did so accordingly, though Alice was unable to pull in her horse until Harry leaned over and gave her the assistance of his strong arm.
“W hy didn’t you hold in your horse, Alice, and ride at a proper lady-like pace, instead of tearing along in that extraordinary manner?” inquired Mr. Hazlehurst, coming up very red in the face, hot, and discomposed; both himself and the cob being entirely out of that useful article, breath.
“I could not contrive to make him go slower, papa,” replied poor Alice, timidly; “even now you see he is very fidgetty, and keeps continually pulling.” This was perfectly true; for the horse, excited by its gallop, began to demonstrate its real character, and refusing to walk, sidled along, tossing its head impatiently, pricking up its ears at every sound, and looking as if it were prepared to shy upon the very slightest provocation.
“Pulling!—yes, of course it does,” rejoined Mr. Hazlehurst, angrily; “you can’t expect to hold a fine, high-couraged animal like that with the snaffle only—tighten the curb-rein directly. Take care what you are doing!—steady! horse, steady!—touch him with the whip on the shoulder. Bless me! she’ll be thrown!”
While Mr. Hazlehurst was speaking they had, in turning a corner, come suddenly upon a wheelbarrow, in which were deposited two jackets and a hat, belonging to some men who were mending the road. The moment Alice’s horse caught sight of this object it stopped short, and as, in obedience to her father’s directions, the frightened girl jerked the curb-rein, and struck the animal with her whip, it reared, and at the same time plunged round so suddenly as to unseat its rider. Fortunately, Coverdale had kept as near to her as possible, and by a quick motion of the bridle-hand and touch with the spur, he caused his horse to turn at the same moment as did that on which Alice was mounted; he was thus enabled to pass his arm round her waist and prevent her from falling.
“Is your foot clear of the stirrup?” he inquired, hastily. Perceiving that it was so, he continued, “Let go the rein, then, and trust yourself entirely to me.” As he spoke, the groom came up, and catching the bridle of the plunging horse, led it away; while Mr. Hazlehurst, descending from his saddle with a greater degree of celerity than might have been expected from a man of his age and stoutness, received his daughter in his arms, and lifted her to the ground;—for which feat of agility, Harry, who was by no means impatient to be relieved of his lovely burthen, mentally anathematised him. Then ensued a great confusion of tongues; Mr. Hazlehurst, being himself chiefly to blame, evinced his penitence by accusing everybody else, especially the groom—an old favourite retainer, who held and expressed a strong ungrammatical and illogical opinion, diametrically opposed to his master’s, on all subjects, divine, moral, and physical. At length, in utter despair of attaining any practical result, Harry, muttering to himself his surprise that people would not adopt his system, and strike out for themselves a quiet way of doing things, coolly took the matter into his own hands, by shifting Alice’s saddle to the back of the cob; when he had completed this arrangement, and assisted the young lady to mount, he politely held Sir Lancelot’s stirrup for the accommodation of Mr. Hazlehurst, observing—
“He will carry you just as quietly and easily as your own horse, sir; he is a hand or two higher, certainly; but if you should take a sudden fancy to leap the next stiff fence you come to, he’ll carry you over it like a bird; so you must set the good against the evil.”
“You’re very kind, sir. Ugh! what a height the brute is!”—(these words accompanied the effort of literally climbing to the saddle)—“But—but—I’ve dropped my pocket-handkerchief—thank-you. What are you going to ride yourself?”
“I am going, if you have no objection, to find out why Mr. Crane’s purchase dislikes to pass that wheelbarrow, and to convince him that there exists a strong necessity for his so doing,” returned Harry, with his head under the flap of a saddle—he being engaged in securing with his own hands the girt around Alice’s discarded steed, despite sundry futile attempts at kicking and biting instituted by that unamiable quadruped.
“Oh, Mr. Coverdale—please—pray do not attempt it!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly; “I’m sure the creature is vicious! you will be thrown and hurt, to a certainty!” Harry, thus apostrophised, emerged from beneath the saddle-flap, and tossing back his dishevelled hair, and replacing his hat, which for the greater convenience of strenuous buckling he had taken off, crossed over to Alice’s side.
“You are holding the reins twisted Miss Hazlehurst,” he said; “let me arrange them for you.” As he restored the reins properly placed to her grasp, somehow their fingers became interlaced, and Harry appeared unable to disentangle his for some seconds; during which space of time, Alice, blushing and turning away her head, murmured imploringly—
“You will not ride that creature!”
“Your father will never be convinced that the brute is unsafe for you unless he sees it in its true colours; besides, I dare say I shall have no trouble in getting it past the barrow—there is a quiet way of doing these things,” was the confident reply. Alice still sought to remonstrate, but in vain; for pressing her delicate fingers as though he were loath to relinquish them, Coverdale turned away with a gay smile, and placing his toe in the stirrup, vaulted lightly to his saddle.
Having waited till Mr. Hazlehurst and his daughter had ridden on a short distance, Harry put his horse in motion, and prepared to follow them; but the moment it caught sight of the alarming wheelbarrow, it again stopped short, and attempted to repeat its former manœuvre. Willing to try mild measures first, Coverdale, although he prevented the animal from dashing round as it had done when it unseated Alice, allowed it to turn, and riding it back a few paces, gave it time to compose its excited feelings, ere he again brought it up to the object of its fear. As it approached the spot he kept it tightly in hand, and, when it began to waver, stimulated its flagging resolution by the most delicate hint imaginable from his “armed heel.” The instant it felt the spur, it swerved aside, dashed round, and as soon as its head was turned in a homeward direction, evinced an unmistakable desire to bolt. Harry’s brow grew dark. “Lend me your whip,” he said, approaching the servant, who sat grinning with the satisfaction usually displayed by professional horsemen on witnessing the discomfiture of an amateur rider—more especially if the amateur happen to be a gentleman.
“You be too good-natured with him, Mr. Coverdale; you should give it him hot and strong, sir. But law! that hanimal ain’t fit for ladies and gentlemen; he wants a reglar sharp rough-rider on his back, that’ll take the nonsense out of him, he do.”
“Your whip is too light; get down and cut me a good, tough ash stick out of the hedge there. I will hold your horse,” was the only reply Harry vouchsafed.
The man glanced at his face in surprise, and seeing that he was in earnest, hastened to execute his wishes, returning in two or three minutes with a couple of plants of ground-ash, about the thickness of a finger. Having carefully examined these, Harry selected the one he considered the most serviceable.
The groom watched him narrowly. “So you really means business, eh, sir?” he said.
“I do,” was the concise reply, as, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, Harry turned and rode off.
Probably, from some instinctive consciousness that he was not to be allowed his own way without more serious opposition than he had yet encountered, the horse, as he drew near the dreaded spot, displayed stronger signs of fear and ill-temper than before, staring from side to side, with his ears in constant motion, arching his neck, and tossing the foam-flakes from his mouth, as he impatiently champed the bit. The moment he caught sight of the wheelbarrow, he swerved aside with a bound which would have unseated any but a firstrate horseman, and attempted his usual manœuvre of turning round. In this he was foiled by an unpleasantly sharp stroke on the side of the nose from the ash sapling, which, obliging him to turn in an opposite direction, brought him again in sight of the wheelbarrow, while a stronger application of the spurs caused him to bound forward; thereupon he reared, but a crack over the ears brought him down again; then he set to kicking, for which he was rewarded by finding his mouth violently sawed by the snaffle-bit, while a perfect tornado of blows from the ash stick was hailed upon his flanks and shoulders. Finding this the reverse of agreeable, he, as a last resource, reared till he stood perfectly erect, pawing the air wildly with his forefeet. But he had overshot the mark.
At the conclusion of the previous struggle, the ash stick had broken off short in Coverdale’s hand; consequently, he was prevented from applying the counter-irritation principle as before, and was only able, by great quickness, to extricate his feet from the stirrups, ere the horse overbalanced itself, and fell heavily backwards. Fortunately for his own safety, Harry was unusually prompt and active in all situations of danger; and, in the present emergency, these qualities stood him in good stead. Although, of course, unable entirely to free himself from the falling animal, he contrived to slip aside, so that it should not fall upon him; and almost as soon as the frightened creature had regained its legs, he also had sprung up, apparently unhurt, and leaped upon its back. But the fight was won. Completely cowed by its fall, and wearied out by the pertinacity of its rider, the conquered animal permitted Coverdale to ride it backwards and forwards past the dreaded wheelbarrow, approaching nearer at each turn, until at length he made it pause, with its nose within half-a-yard of the alarming jackets, and discover for itself that they were made of fustian, of the most innocent quality, and flavoured with the usual cottage smell of bacon and wood smoke.
Elated with his success, he rejoined Alice and her father, saying, as he did so, “Well, Miss Hazlehurst, I told you there was a quiet way of taming the dragon, and you see I was right.”
Alice, who was very pale and trembling, murmured something about her “rejoicing that he was not hurt.” But Mr. Hazlehurst, who appeared unusually cross and grumpy, replied, “If that’s what you call a quiet way of enforcing obedience, Mr. Coverdale, all I can say is, I pity any poor creature that happens to be under your control!”
Mr. Hazlehurst, in his position of father of a family, had been so long accustomed to consider his will law, that the possibility of his being in the wrong was one which he never contemplated; the fact, therefore, of any one having proved him to be so, constituted in his eyes a high and unpardonable misdemeanour. Of this capital crime had Harry Coverdale, on the occasion just described, been guilty; and Mr. Hazlehurst, albeit outwardly he resumed his usual manner towards his guest, could not in his secret soul either forget or forgive his offence—more especially as the circumstance of Mr. Crane’s present being demonstrated to be unsafe for a lady to ride (and that it was so, even Mr. Hazlehurst’s powers of self-deception could not conceal from him), was at that particular juncture of affairs singularly embarrassing. Of this change of sentiment straightforward, unsuspicious Harry never dreamed; accordingly, he continued to behave towards the old gentleman as freely as he had hitherto done, maintaining his own opinions, even when they entirely differed from those of his host, courteously, indeed, but with the sturdy independence natural to his character—a sturdiness which, until it was exerted in opposition to his sovereign will and pleasure, Mr. Hazlehurst had particularly admired. So for the rest of the week affairs (with this single exception) went on most agreeably and satisfactorily to all parties.
Harry, having once broken the ice, contrived speedily to win the good opinions (to use no stronger term) of all the female portion of the community. From the kind attention he paid Mrs. Hazlehurst, he soon acquired so much influence over that amiable lady that, to please him, she consented to various schemes devised for her benefit and amusement, which her daughters had previously urged upon her in vain;—for instance, when Harry, instructed by Alice in regard to times and seasons and the like minor particulars, came at the very moment when she was going to decide that she did not feel equal to going out at all that day, to tell her that the pony-phaeton was waiting at the door, and that he should really think her unkind, and imagine he must have done something to offend her, if she refused to allow him the pleasure of carrying her to the chaise, and driving her just far enough to do her good, and not to tire her,—what could she do but consent? Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte. This point gained, if was easy to persuade the invalid to take a short excursion daily; and as her complaint was in some degree on the nerves, the beneficial effects of the fresh air and exercise soon became apparent. Moreover, as Alice knew how to drive a little, and wished to improve in that useful accomplishment, Harry could do no less, when he had brought Mrs. Hazlehurst safely home from her daily drive, than take out the young lady, and give her a lesson; and as these lessons usually lasted some two hours at a stretch, the fat ponies began to get into excellent working condition, and considering themselves put upon, wondered why the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals neglected to interfere in their behalf. Emily, too, had quite altered her opinion of their guest, and entirely sympathised with Tom’s declaration that he was “a stunning good fellow, and no mistake!” Kate Marsden said little, but observed the progress of events with calm approval; for she perceived that to be going on, which would greatly facilitate the execution of certain schemes which she had devised.
At length arrived the important day of the dinner-party. Were we called upon to define the meaning of the term dinner-party, we should denominate it an awful immolation of mind to matter, a wanton sacrifice of the head to the stomach. Why, on a hot summer’s day, eighteen individuals, supposed to be in their proper senses, who might dine at home if they chose, should agree of their own free-will to victimise themselves and each other by congregating together in one room, for the space of two mortal hours, to eat—and, in the case of the lords of the creation, probably to drink also—a great deal more than is good for them, is one of those social problems of which we expect to arrive at the solution about the time when mankind is thoroughly regenerated by Miss Martineau’s atheological views (to coin a word), but not before.
If there were no other argument against this insane system of monster dinner-parties, the frightful state of discomfort into which the family of the giver of the feast is thrown by the coming event, would alone be sufficient to prove our case. Unless the establishment be on a scale proportionable to that of the individual who, on finding the number of his guests exceeded the means of conveyance provided for them, coolly ordered round “more phaetons!” anarchy and confusion reign predominant throughout the devoted mansion for at least four-and-twenty hours before the affair comes off. In the first place the servants, male and female, all go mad; if you give an order, the recipient stares you vacantly in the face, and does something else immediately; if you lay down a book, or any similar article, in its proper place, somebody instantly removes it and hides it in an improper one, where you are fortunate if you stumble upon it by accident in the course of the following six months. The lunacy of the servants reacts upon their betters—everybody is a little out of temper, everybody is over-officious, and has a way of his or her own for doing everything diametrically opposed to the variously diverging ways of everybody else. From the earliest dawn the very garrets are redolent of “making soup,” which odour remains in possession of the house till about the time at which luncheon should be, but of course is not, forthcoming, when it is superseded, and retires vice the venison put down to roast, which we would rather decree should be “put down” as a nuisance—at least, as far as regards our olfactory nerves. But it were an endless task to attempt to sum up all the miseries incidental to the preparations for celebrating one of those “feasts of un-reason,” nor do we expect very many of the gentle public to sympathise in our views; for in every society which we have as yet frequented, “L’Amphitryon où l’on dine,” though he be heavy as his own dinners, is certain to be a popular man.
However this may be, one thing is certain, that Harry Coverdale, on the morning preceding the dinner-party at the Grange, experiencing in his proper person many of the inconveniences alluded to, and having made several attempts to improve his position, by seeking to induce somebody to do something sensible or agreeable, all of which proved abortive, by reason of the impossibility of extracting even Alice from the vortex of preparation—Harry Coverdale, thus victimised, faute de mieux, mounted his good steed, and set off to ride away from the blue devils; but the remedy did not succeed—the devils followed him, and grew bluer and bluer with every mile he passed over, and, at last, the bluest of them all assumed the likeness of Mr. Crane!
“Confound Mr. Crane!”—thus ran Harry’s thoughts—“confound the old fellow! he’s coming to marry Alice—my nice, warm-hearted little friend, Alice! I don’t by any means approve of it. He’s old enough to be her father, or anybody else’s, for that matter: the thing is ridiculous—quite absurd!—Besides, the dear little girl dislikes him—naturally she does: there’s nothing to like in him. Why, she cares more about me than she does about him!” He paused in thought, removed his hat, pushed back his thick, clustering hair, put his hat on again, and continued: “I declare, if I’d not entirely made up my mind against marrying, I’d enter for the stakes myself, and see if one could not jockey the old fellow and governor Hazlehurst too. Alice is a prize well worth winning; but it’s too late to change one’s mind! I ought to have behaved differently to her at first, if I’d wanted her to fall in love with me—though I think I’ve got over all that pretty thoroughly, too. Ah! well, I’ve chosen my line, and must stick to it; and as the shooting season isn’t so very far off now, thank goodness, I shall contrive to make it out somehow, I dare say. And, by Jove, there’s a whole pack of birds sunning themselves in that great field—five or six coveys all got together—and stunning good coveys they must be, too. There’s a gap in the hedge; I’ll leap over and see if I can get near enough to count them. Now, Lancelot—steady, sir!—you must do it—over we go! Famously cleared! I wouldn’t take five hundred guineas for you, you beauty! that I wouldn’t. We’ll show some of ’em the way across country when the hunting begins; won’t we astonish their weak minds for them, rather!” and so, patting and caressing his horse, Harry made a wide circuit, and availing himself of the shelter of a belt of trees, contrived to get near enough to the partridges to count them; by which process he arrived at the interesting discovery that there were exactly thirty brace, with one bird over; which ornithological irregularity rather distressed and provoked him, though why it should have done so neither he nor, as we imagine, any one else, could possibly conceive.
But the partridges being counted, back came the blue devils in greater force than ever: and his thoughts grew so troublesome, not to say unbearable, that Harry began to imagine he must be bewitched—a supposition in which, perhaps, he was not so very far wrong after all. As a last refuge against his persecutors, he resolved on a good gallop; and so made his way across country, a distance of some eight miles, as straight as the crow flies, leaping gates and crashing through hedges in a very reckless and steeple-chasing kind of manner, which obtained for him a more than sufficient amount of hard British swearing from sundry irate members of the Agricultural Association, who, for once in their lives, had a real grievance to complain of. As he cleared the last fence leading into the park in which the Grange was situated, the village clock struck six, and he could perceive a carriage, with the Crane liveries (green turned up with yellow), winding slowly through the trees. Three minutes more found him in the stable-yard, and flinging the bridle of his reeking steed to his groom, while he uttered the hasty caution, “You see the state he’s in; take proper care of him,” he made his way to his bedroom by a back staircase, overturning a water-can, and running into the arms of a pretty housemaid (to whom he apologised by mentioning that he was sorry he was in too great a hurry to give her a kiss), in the course of his rapid career. And so, very hot, very dusty, considerably tired, and with a most unromantic appetite, he set vigorously to work to (as servants inelegantly, but graphically term it) clean himself.
When, some twenty minutes afterwards, Coverdale reached the drawing-room, he found all the guests assembled. Many of them, to whom he was personally known, immediately claimed acquaintance, recognising him in spite of the improvements which his residence abroad had wrought in his manners and appearance. Some two or three of the younger men were old college chums, who were really overjoyed to see him again, and who immediately gathered round him and besieged him with questions. Glancing round the circle, he perceived D’Almayne bending tenderly over Alice; but the sight no longer annoyed him—he had got over that. Alice saw the exquisite in his true colours; Alice had laughed at him—poor D’Almayne! But on her other hand sat the cotton-spinner, and he was more formidable; for he did not (fortunately for himself) depend on his personal attractions alone—there were twenty thousand solid good reasons per annum why he should not be refused; reasons which rendered his alliance with Mr. Hazlehurst’s family so desirable, that all that gentleman’s paternal authority was certain to be stretched to its uttermost limit to enable Mr. Crane to carry his point. Moreover, as Harry entered the drawing-room, Tom had given him the following note:—
“Dear Hal,—I have written to tell the governor that I shall be detained in court so late that it will be impossible for me to get away to-night (the truth, you heretic!). I shall start by the first train to-morrow, and be with you to breakfast. Keep a sharp look-out upon the cotton-spinner; and if at any moment he appears as if he were preparing to pop, throw a book at his head without hesitation! So will you continue to deserve the good opinion of,
“Arthur H.”
At dinner, Coverdale was seated next a fast young lady, who rather made love to him than otherwise; but she did not take much by her motion, for Harry had a good deal of business on his hands. First, there was his appetite to satisfy, and the monster was very insatiate after his gallop across country; next, he felt it incumbent upon him to keep a strict watch over Mr. Crane and Alice, who were seated nearly opposite to him; and he seriously debated in his own mind whether a finger-glass might not be considered a legitimate substitute for a book, on one or two occasions, when the cotton-spinner appeared to be attempting the excessively tender. Good eating requires good drinking; thirst demands Pale Ale, etiquette obliges Champagne, and the mixed duties of society necessitate Port and Sherry; Hock is very refreshing in hot weather; it is no use to hand round Curaçoa, if people won’t drink it; Hermitage and Lunel are so nice, that everybody takes them; Claret is a necessity in all properly ordered establishments; and if your host produces a bottle of good old Burgundy, he must be a fool who refuses to taste it. But for a man to do all this, and at the same time to think, feel, and express himself as coolly and prudently as he would after a mutton-chop and a glass of table-beer, would require him to possess a brain made of cast-iron, and no heart at all, and such was by no means the physical conformation of our hero. Harry, however, possessed a good strong head of his own; and although, as dessert proceeded, his eyes grew brighter, and he involuntarily emulated D’Almayne by smiling frequently, and unconsciously displaying an even row of white teeth, these peculiarities only served to make him look especially handsome. But the wine did something else; for, as the ladies rose to leave the room, it inspired him with a determination to jockey D’Almayne, who usually usurped the privilege of opening the door on such occasions—a “cutting out” expedition which Harry conducted with equal skill and success. As Alice, who came last, passed him, some spirit (whether of wine, or another equally favourite theme for minstrel’s lay, we cannot tell) urged him to bend his head, and whisper the inquiry, “Have you been happy with your delightful companion?”
A contemptuous smile, and a slight negative motion of the lips answered the question; and, for a moment, their eyes met. Alice’s must have been a singularly expressive glance, for Harry read therein that she was anxious and dispirited, but felt a vague and general reliance on his willingness and ability to afford her comfort and protection.
Had Mr. Crane known the exact feelings with which Coverdale grasped a finger-glass, and mentally calculated the amount of force it would require to launch the missile against the chinchilla-crowned head of his opposite neighbour, that worthy man would scarcely have ventured to continue his mild and meaningless prosing so contentedly.