The moment Harry reseated himself at the dining-table, two of his old college friends placed themselves beside him, and plunging at once into recollections of “auld-lang-syne,” completely monopolised him. The sound of his own name eagerly pronounced, roused him at length from an interesting reminiscence of how gloriously drunk Jones of Magdalen had been at Tippleton’s wine-party (when he would sing a pathetic ballad, beginning, “There’s a wail on the mountain!” and was stopped by a roar of laughter, chorusing the inquiry, “how the deuce it—the whale—got there?”). The speaker was Mr. Hazlehurst. “Excuse my interrupting your conversation for a few minutes, Mr. Coverdale,” he began, “but we want your opinion. You’ve travelled and seen the working of different tariff regulations, and had opportunities of comparing the prosperity of other nations with that of our own, while at the same time you are a sufficiently large landed-proprietor to give you a stake in the country, and to induce you to feel a strong interest in the general prospects of the agricultural population. I am sure you must agree with me in considering protection a most essential and salutary measure.”
“If I might be allowed to make just one observation before Mr. Coverdale favours us with his views on this important question,” insinuated Mr. Crane, in the mildest and most affectionate tone of voice imaginable—wine always reducing this excellent man to a state of weak and inappropriate philanthropy—“if I might observe that, with the highest respect for, and admiration of, the agricultural population of this great country, I feel it incompatible with my feelings as a Protestant, and therefore, so to speak, in a general way as a brother, not to say as a man also, and more particularly as a mill-owner, to forget the thousands of operatives who crowd our large cities, and who, when satisfied with cheap bread, add to the dignity and prosperity of the nation; but, on the contrary, when deprived of this means of support, object to resign themselves to the dispensations of a beneficent Providence, and fly in the face of society as chartists, levellers, red-republicans, and all that is dangerous and subversive of morality and security of property. If I may so far presume as to call Mr. Coverdale’s attention to the desirableness of providing food at a rate which will enable the manufacturing classes to exist without constantly working themselves up into a state of illegal desperation, I shall feel that I have, if I may be allowed the expression, unburthened my conscience.” Thus saying, Mr. Crane cast a timid and appealing look from Harry to his host, and sipped a glass of Burgundy with the air of a man apologising for some misdeed.
“It is not a subject upon which I have ever expended any vast amount of consideration,” began Coverdale, wishing in his secret soul that he might have the feeding of Mr. Crane for the ensuing six months entrusted to him, in which case he would have afforded that gentleman an opportunity of practically testing the merits of very cheap bread indeed, and of nothing else—except, perhaps, cold spring water; “but the common sense of the matter appears to lie in a nutshell: the two great divisions of the poorer classes are the manufacturing poor and the agricultural poor, the manufacturers being the most numerous—to sacrifice one to the other is unfair, but to offer up the greater to the less is ridiculous. Free-trade has had a fair trial, and has been proved to benefit the masses, though it lies heavily on the land-owners. Well, then, relieve land of its burthens, and make the income-tax permanent to reimburse the Exchequer. That’s the line I should take if I were Premier, which, thank heaven, I’m not.”
As Harry concluded, two or three men began to speak at once, but Mr. Hazlehurst, by a solemn wave of the hand, immediately silenced them. That excellent magistrate had drunk more wine than was by any means good for him; his constitution was gouty, and he had not had a fit for some time; before such attacks he was usually as irritable as though his brain were a hedgehog, and society at large a pack of wire-haired terriers attempting to unroll it. Claret was the most unwholesome wine he could take, and on the evening in question he had imbibed nearly a bottle thereof; but of all this dessous des cartes, Harry was innocently unconscious.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” began Mr. Hazlehurst, solemnly, “but the right of reply at present rests with myself. Moreover, if my ears did not deceive me, Mr. Coverdale has made an observation which I must call upon him either to explain or retract; but in the first place, let me express my surprise and regret, sir,” here he addressed himself pointedly to Harry, “that a young man in your position, a large landed-proprietor, a lover of field-sports, possessing a practical knowledge of land, and a personal acquaintance with the habits and customs of the agricultural poor—the bone and sinews of our country, should thus turn against and betray the interests of the class to which he belongs, and league himself with those who would, in their shortsightedness, sap the vitals of that free and independent character which has made us the great nation that we are. With regard to the observation to which I alluded, I believe, that having stigmatised the opinions I hold as a sacrifice of the greater to the less, you deliberately pronounced those opinions ridiculous. Have I not repeated your words correctly?”
“I certainly said that to sacrifice the greater number to the less would be ridiculous,” returned Harry, completely taken aback at this sudden and unexpected accusation; “but I only meant—”
“You meant what you said, I presume?” interposed Mr. Hazlehurst, in the magisterial tone of voice in which he was accustomed to cross-examine and be down upon equivocating poachers.
“Of course I did,” returned Harry, his eyes flashing as he observed a sarcastic smile upon the face of Horace D’Almayne. “I always mean what I say; but my remark related solely to general principles, and had not the smallest reference to you personally, sir.”
“Which is equivalent to saying, that I do not understand the common meaning of words,” returned Mr. Hazlehurst, in the same irritating tone of voice. “Really, Mr. Coverdale, your explanations do not tend to do away with the unfavourable impression your observation forced upon me.”
“It is equivalent to nothing of the kind, sir,” rejoined Harry, losing his self-command as a second glance at D’Almayne revealed the fact that he was hiding a laugh behind an elaborately-worked cambric handkerchief; “but if you chose to put a wrong construction upon every word I utter, it is useless for me to discuss the matter further with a man so—a—so——”
At this critical moment, Tom Hazlehurst, who had been listening with a countenance of blank dismay to the altercation between his father and his friend, contrived, either by accident or design, to throw down and break a valuable china plate. This incident created a diversion by calling forth an outburst of parental wrath, under cover whereof Harry regained sufficient self-control to enable him to suppress the word “wrong-headed,” with which he had been on the point of concluding his sentence. At the same time, Mr. Crane, having a mortal antipathy to anything like quarrelling, which, as he said, produced “an insalubrious agitation of his nervous system,” or, in plain English, frightened him out of his wits, suggested that they should join the ladies—a proposal which led to a general move. Five minutes’ reflection, in an atmosphere less oppressive than that of the heated dining-room, caused Harry to perceive that, by having allowed himself to be provoked by the obstinacy of a pig-headed and slightly tipsy old gentleman into even a momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to Mr. Hazlehurst’s years and position, he had acted wrongly and foolishly. It moreover occurred to him, now that it was too late to be of the slightest use, that owing to this unfortunate disagreement he must have completely neutralised any influence he might have possessed with his host, and thus, in fact, frustrated the whole purpose of his visit: by which means Arthur would be vexed, and the possibility of Alice’s marriage with Mr. Crane rather increased than otherwise. Just as he was about to exchange the cool air of the garden (whither on leaving the dining-room he had betaken himself) for the less agreeable temperature of a crowded drawing-room, he was patted on the shoulder by one of his college acquaintance.
“Ah, Knighton! what is it man?” Observed Harry, wishing his dear friend at Jericho. “I took you for the stem of a tree, you stood so motionless.”
“Why the fact is, my dear fellow,” returned Knighton, a well-disposed goose, who, when Harry first commenced his college career, had formed an enthusiastic attachment for him, in return for which he expected his friend to advise him how to act and what to say upon every occasion, trifling as well as important—a tax which even Harry’s good-nature found somewhat oppressive, “the fact is, I consider it quite providential, if I may say so, finding you here to-night: you know I always like to have your opinion before I make up my mind; there is nobody with such good sense as you, at least, nobody that I’ve ever met with. My dear Coverdale, I’m going to take the most important step—that is, if you see no reason against it, which I can scarcely feel a doubt of; but I’ll tell you the whole affair, beginning properly at the beginning. When I was down in Hampshire three years ago——” but we will not inflict Mr. Knighton’s amiable prolixity on the reader, suffice it to say that, having linked his arm within that of Coverdale, he paraded his victim up and down a gravel walk for the space of at least three quarters of an hour, while he poured into his ears as dull a tale of true love as ever ran smooth: true love of the very mildest quality, which, from the beginning, was certain to end simply and naturally in a stupid marriage, about the whole of which affair there could not by possibility be two opinions. At length, when Harry had agreed, with everything and to everything at least twice over, and strongly advised his tormentor to act as he felt certain he would have done if his advice had been just the other way (for this young man, although he eagerly sought counsel, by no means considered himself bound to walk thereby), it suddenly occurred to Mr. Knighton that he was doing an unkind thing by his friend, and a rude one by his host, in not sooner joining the ladies; accordingly, at (literally) the eleventh hour, he exercised thus much self-denial, viz. having nothing more to say, he said it.
When Coverdale entered the drawing-room, he cast round his eyes to discover what might have become of Alice and Mr. Crane, and failing to perceive them, was about to find some excuse for making his way into the boudoir beyond, when Emily pounced upon him to entreat him to sing for the edification of some dear Mary Jane or other, who was dying to hear him; and the very identical Mary Jane herself seconding the request in a mild, insinuating, blatant tone of voice, as of some bashful but persuasive sheep, there remained nothing for him but to consent, which he did with a very ill grace indeed. Having dashed through a tender and sentimental Italian love-ditty in a ferocious, not to say sanguinary, style, he declared he was so hoarse that he could not sing another note, and again made an attempt to enter the boudoir, which he succeeded in reaching just in time to see Alice quit the room with a heightened colour, and in a manner which betokened hurry and agitation, while Mr. Crane remained gazing after her with a countenance indicative of the deepest and most helpless bewilderment. From these symptoms Harry rightly conjectured that while he had been off duty the cotton-spinner had popped; but whether his offer had been accepted or rejected he was utterly unable to divine. Mr. Crane looked stupid and puzzle-pated—but that he was sure to do in any case. For the rest of the evening Coverdale was in a fearful state of mind; people stayed late, and it seemed to him as if everybody had entered into a league to worry and torment him. First, the young lady who had sat next him at dinner got at him again, and flirted at him so violently, that (his thoughts running entirely on marrying and giving in marriage) he became possessed of a nervous dread lest she should be going to make him an offer—this idea gaining confirmation from its suddenly occurring to him that it was Leap-year, he grew desperate, and pretending that Emily had made him promise to sing again, astonished that damsel by crossing over to inform her that his hoarseness had entirely departed, and that he should have the greatest pleasure in favouring her friend with the song she had wished to hear; for which piece of inconsistency Emily bestowed upon him a glance so penetrating and satirical, that he longed to box her pretty pert little ears for it. When the song was over, Knighton emerged from behind a broad old lady, somebody’s mother-in-law, very far gone in Curaçoa, which she concealed behind a pious zeal for clothing the female natives of Barelyaragon (an unknown island, discovered by Juan de Chuzacruz in the sixteenth century, and forgotten ever since) in the cast-off garments of the Bluecoat-School boys. The moment Knighton got clear of this philanthropic elder he pounced upon Coverdale, and carrying him off to a recess, then and there related to him an additional episode in his amatory career, which was not of the slightest importance either to himself or to anybody else, but which took nearly as long to communicate as the original history. During this infliction, Harry’s attention was occupied by observing the behaviour of Mr. Crane. Almost as soon as Alice quitted the boudoir, Kate Marsden had entered it, and begun a long and apparently interesting conversation with Mr. Crane, during which that gentleman, who at the commencement appeared rather low and desponding, gradually brightened up, and, under the influence of his fair companion’s society, grew quite lively and animated; in fact (if by any stretch of imagination the reader can connect two such antagonistic and incongruous ideas as Mr. Crane and flirtation), an uninitiated spectator, beholding the pair, might legitimately have come to the conclusion that Kate Marsden and the cotton-spinner were very decidedly and unmistakably flirting.
The longest evenings come to an end at last, and Coverdale having seen Knighton safely deposited in a dog-cart, with nobody to bore but a sleepy groom, was making his way to the spot where the bedroom candlesticks were usually to be discovered, when he suddenly encountered Mr. Hazlehurst. Standing aside to let him pass, Harry, in his most polite and conciliatory manner, wished him good-night. The only reply vouchsafed was the slightest and stiffest possible nod of the head, and with a countenance as dark and lowering as the most viciously disposed thunder-cloud, the offended autocrat passed on.
When Coverdale reached his own room, his first act was to lock the door, his next to fling open the window; he then untied his neck-cloth, pulled off his coat and boots, and substituting for them a dressing-gown and slippers, cast a long, lingering glance at his cigar-case. Shaking his head negatively, he muttered, “I daren’t risk it; old Hazlehurst has a wonderful nose for tobacco—if it were but as good for partridges and pheasants he’d make an invaluable retriever!”—he paused, sighed deeply, partly for want of a cigar—partly because, though he was not at all aware of it, one of the great realities of life was for the first time dawning upon him; then drawing a chair to the open window he seated himself, and gave way to thought.
“I’ve made a pretty mess of it this evening, and no mistake!”—thus ran his ideas—“gone and offended the governor, and rendered him as cantankerous as an old rhinoceros, so that the more I want him to do anything, the less likely he’ll be to do it. Then in my confounded good-nature, I’ve allowed that ass Knighton to detain me with his stupid prosing, so that I lost sight of the cotton-spinner, and gave him a chance of making Alice an offer—a chance of which the old fellow was inspired with wit enough to avail himself, I’m almost certain. Arthur will be preciously savage! and enough to make him—the notion of sacrificing Alice to such an old anatomy as that—a yellow-skinned brute like a resuscitated mummy, without more than two ideas in his head, and two such ideas—cash and cotton! he thinks of nothing else, asleep or awake. I wonder what answer Alice gave him; but there isn’t much doubt of that, the poor girl daren’t disobey her father—besides, women don’t refuse £20,000 a-year. Well, I wish old Crane joy of his bargain. She’ll soon get sick of him, and be miserable of course; then she’ll take to flirting with every young fellow she meets, to get rid of her ennui; chose out one to establish a platonic friendship with, perhaps!—I’ve seen all that sort of thing in France and Italy often enough. D’Almayne very likely, he’s just the sort of puppy to lead a woman on—she laughs at him now, but it may be different when she’s only old Crane to contrast him with. By the way, I’ll give Arthur a hint on that score.” He rose, paced up and down the room several times, then continued—“I wonder what the deuce is the matter with me! I feel most absurdly and unpleasantly miserable.” He reseated himself by the window, tossed back his hair, and sat silently watching the moon, just then emerging from behind a bank of clouds. It was a time and scene to elevate and refine man’s nature; and Harry was not insensible to the influence. He thought of his boyhood, and his mother’s tender love; he recurred to the moonlight stroll in which he had confided these cherished memories to Alice, and the warm and ready sympathy with which she listened to the recital; then minute points in their subsequent intercourse forced themselves into his recollection—smiles, words, and glances, trifles in themselves, but when collected, suggestive of a definite idea; and lastly, her look when she quitted the dining-room that evening flashed across him, and with a sudden start he pressed his hand to his forehead as he resumed—“Fool that I am, I see it all now—now when it is too late I love her, and I might have won her love—it only required to tell her of my own feelings, to change the affectionate interest she has conceived for me into a warmer sentiment; and now, perhaps piqued by my apparent indifference, she has accepted this man, and sealed her own unhappiness—and mine too, for that matter; but I deserve it! Why did I let this chance of a bright future escape me! To fancy that the mere physical excitements of hunting and shooting (pastimes for a thoughtless boy) could content a being endowed with reason and feeling!—though really I doubt whether I deserve such a title. I must have been blind—stultified, not to see all this before!” Burying his face in his hands, he remained for some time in deep and self-upbraiding thought; rousing himself at length by an effort, he continued—“well! it’s no good sitting here tormenting myself all night long—I’ll go to bed (though, of course, I shall not sleep a wink), and in the morning I’ll walk over to the station, meet Arthur—tell him how I’ve mismanaged everything he expected me to do, and find some excuse for leaving this place to-morrow. I should go mad if I were to stay here longer! Heigho! I wonder what will become of me—it will be no pleasure to look forward to the shooting season now! I don’t believe I shall ever care to hit a bird or mount a horse again. I’ll go to India, and join the army as a volunteer, or start off to look for the north pole, or something. I shall hang myself if I stay at home, and do nothing but think about Alice and that detestable old Crane!” By the time his meditations had reached this point, Coverdale was unrobed, and, jumping disconsolately into bed, had not laid his head on his pillow for five minutes ere he fell sound asleep, and dreamed of a battue, in which he tried to shoot Mr. Crane (who, on that occasion only, appeared ornithologically and picturesquely attired in the tail and plumage of a cock-pheasant), and could by no means induce his gun to go off.
The sun shining in through the open window awoke Harry, when he fancied he might have been asleep about a quarter of an hour; on referring to his watch, however, he found it was halfpast six, and as the train by which Arthur Hazlehurst was expected would arrive at twenty minutes past seven, and it was a good half-hour’s walk to the station, he rose and began dressing. As his thoughts recurred to the events of the previous evening, all his cares and anxieties came back upon him with redoubled force, and he felt more thoroughly out of sorts and unhappy than he ever remembered to have done since he had come to man’s estate. When the operation of shaving obliged him to look in the glass, he was surprised, and if the truth must be told, rather alarmed also, as he caught sight of the expression of his features. “What a hang-dog, miserable brute I look like!” he muttered to himself; “it strikes me I drank more wine than is good for one last night—that comes of old Hazlehurst bringing out Burgundy after everybody had had enough. The old boy must have been frightfully screwed himself, or he would never have got so cantankerous with me about nothing—I hate a man who grows quarrelsome over his liquor! Heigho! I feel shockingly seedy and down in the mouth, What the deuce am I to say to Arthur!—how on earth am I to set things right again with the old man! I wonder whether he will be stupid enough to expect me to make an apology? I wouldn’t mind doing it to an old codger like that, but ’pon my word I should not know what to say—I’ve nothing to apologise about that I can see. I hope Arthur won’t be angry, or worse still, unhappy about Alice—poor, dear Alice: if she comes down to breakfast looking miserable, I shall never be able to stand it! I’d better not look at her at all—that will be the only plan: I’ll be off before luncheon. When I get home, all by myself, and have nothing to do but sit and think, I shall have a pleasant life of it! Well, I certainly have gone and done it this time handsomely—rather!”
Thus fretting and worrying himself he finished dressing, and, making his way quietly down stairs, effected his exit unobserved. Fancying he was late he started at a brisk walk, and having crossed the open part of the park, reached a stile at the entrance of a grass-grown footpath overshadowed with trees. Before entering this he looked at his watch, and found that instead of too late he was too early, by nearly half an hour; accordingly, getting leisurely over the stile, he strolled onward in the direction of a rustic bench, which he remembered to have seen some short distance farther up the path, where, if the truth must be told, he proposed to console himself with a cigar. As he came in sight of this bench he perceived that it was occupied, and a second glance was scarcely needed to convince him that the occupant was Alice. For a moment he was perplexed as to what course to take, whether to join her, or to retrace his steps, and avoid a meeting which he felt, under the circumstances, must necessarily be most embarrassing. Perceiving that the young lady’s head was turned in the opposite direction, and that she had therefore not yet seen him, he drew back a pace or two, so as to place the trunk of a towering elm between them. “What shall I do?” thought Harry; “I have not an idea what to say to her that would be likely to be of any use; in fact, there’s nothing to be said. She has accepted old Crane, and now she’s come here to meet Arthur, tell him what she’s done, say she could not help it, and ask him to forgive her and make the best of it. I shall be de trop evidently, so the best thing I can do is to jog back again; and yet—and yet I should like to walk by her side, and look into her dear blue eyes once more—heigho! I almost wish my dream would come true, only reversed, and that I were the pheasant and Crane going to shoot me, though I should not be in much danger, for the old muff would be safe to miss me. Well, I suppose I’d better be off—is she there still? yes, but what is she doing—crying?—why by heaven she’s crying as if her heart would break! Oh, you know I can’t stand this, so it’s no use thinking any more about it; speak to her I must and will!” And, suiting the action to the word, he was about to spring forward and join her, when it occurred to him that it would only distress and annoy her if he were to obtrude his presence upon her when, imagining herself alone, she was unrestrainedly giving way to her grief; so, with that tact springing from innate delicacy of feeling which prevented Coverdale’s honest, straightforward character from ever becoming rough or overbearing, he waited till poor Alice had dried her tears, and with slow, listless footsteps (sadly different from her usual bounding and elastic gait) resumed her walk in the direction of the railway-station. As soon as she was fairly started Harry emerged from his hiding-place, and followed her with vigorous strides. When he had approached within hearing distance, he endeavoured by various means, such as stamping with his feet, brushing against the underwood as he passed, and the like, to render her aware of his presence, but for some minutes without success. At length, however, a violent onslaught he made against a blackthorn bush (by which means he acquired a practical knowledge of the penetrating properties of thorns) attracted her attention, and with a start sufficiently violent to show that her nervous system was unusually excited, she turned and beheld him. Re-assured by finding that the alarming sounds had been caused by the approach of a friend, rather than by that of a wild beast or an ogre (plagues so common in the midland counties of “England in ye nineteenth century,” that of course her imagination had instantly suggested them), Alice waited till he came up, and received him with her customary bright smile, although her heightened colour, and an unusual degree of consciousness in her manner, proved that for some reason the meeting rather embarrassed her also.
“You walk betimes, Miss Hazlehurst,” began Harry, anxious to break the ice, but not knowing in the slightest degree how, when it should be broken, he was going to proceed; “You are really a pattern of early rising; but I have a notion we are both bound on the same errand, namely, to meet Arthur—am I wrong?”
“Quite right,” was the reply; “I got up at a wonderfully early hour; I suppose I was too much excited by such an unaccustomed event as a dinner-party, to be able to sleep at all soundly.”
“You look fagged and weary even now,” returned Coverdale, regarding her anxiously, “and you will fatigue yourself still more by walking to the station and back. Are you prudent to undertake so long an expedition before breakfast?”
“Oh yes,” was the reply; “it will refresh me and do me good; besides, I want particularly to see and talk to Arthur.”
“I will accompany you as far as the station, if you will allow me,” returned Harry, “and, as soon as your brother arrives, leave you to talk with him in peace; the few words I have to say to him will do equally well after breakfast.”
Alice signified her consent, and the conversation continued for several minutes to turn on indifferent subjects, though the burden of sustaining it fell chiefly upon Alice, Harry’s observations becoming shorter and less coherent at each reply. At length, however, Alice’s stock of small-talk failed her, and Harry, in despair, was about to hazard some such original observation as, that the grass was looking remarkably green, when his companion suddenly addressed him.
“I am afraid that you will think that I am interfering very unnecessarily and impertinently, Mr. Coverdale, but I must trust to your kindness to make allowance for me.”
“She is actually going to confess the cotton-spinner to me, and tell me I’m in the way, I do believe! Cool hands women are, and no mistake!” thought Coverdale; he only said, however, “Pray go on.”
“The fact is,” resumed Alice, with a faltering voice, “my brother Tom informed me (you must not be angry with the poor boy, for he did it out of regard for you) that you—that is that my father and you differed about some political question after dinner yesterday, and that my father was so carried away by the subject as to become injudiciously warm, and, from Tom’s account, personal, and that his observations annoyed you. Now, I am so very sorry this should have occurred, for he had formed such a high opinion of you, and Arthur was so much pleased to see how well you got on with him—a point on which he appeared particularly anxious.” (Coverdale bit his lip, and cut off a thistle’s head viciously with his cane.) “But, if you could be so very good as to overlook anything my father may have said, it would make me—I mean it would make Arthur, and—and—all of us so much happier.”
“My dear Miss Hazlehurst,” began Harry, vehemently, “how very kind of you to trouble yourself about me! I can assure you I am most anxious to say or do anything to regain Mr. Hazlehurst’s good opinion. I know I made him rather an impertinent answer; but really I was so unprepared for such an attack; and then, to make matters worse, that old idiot, Mr. Crane—that is,” he continued, suddenly recollecting to whom he was speaking, and turning crimson as he did so, “I beg your pardon for speaking so disrespectfully of him to you; I really forgot—I am certainly losing my senses!” With a blush as bright, though not quite so deep coloured as that of Coverdale, Alice, turning away her head, replied:
“Mr. Crane’s only claim on my respect is, that he is my father’s friend; if I must own the truth, I do not myself consider him very wise.”
“His only claim did you say!” exclaimed Harry, earnestly. “Oh, Miss Hazlehurst—Alice—pardon me if I ask you to deal openly with me; am I indeed wrong in supposing that you are engaged, or about to become so, to Mr. Crane?”
“Oh yes!” was the hurried reply; “such a fate would render me most miserable.”
Upon this hint Harry spake; the reality and strength of his feelings imparted an earnest dignity to his manner, and an unwonted eloquence to his speech, which would have deeply affected his fair auditor, even had her own heart not pleaded warmly in his favour. As it was, before they arrived in sight of the railroad station, Harry had somehow come to the conclusion, that the communication he should have to make to his friend Arthur would be very much more satisfactory, though perhaps little less embarrassing, than the one he had originally designed. It certainly was a considerable change in the tenour of his report to be forced to explain, that instead of considering himself the most miserable being in the world, he felt convinced he was by far the happiest; for that Alice—resolved not to marry the cotton-spinner—had given her heart, and promised her hand, to him.
And thus, short, sharp, and decisive, began and ended “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship:” all the results, good and evil, “that came of it,” may be learned by any reader sufficiently persevering to peruse that which remains to be told of this veracious history.
Alice and Harry were so deeply engrossed with each other and so absorbed in the interchange of those mysterious but delightful nothings, which form the staple of lovers’ communications, and which, deeply interesting to the happy pair, appear to the unsusceptible public the veriest nonsense imaginable, that they were still some distance from the station when the train rushed up, sneezed out a few passengers, and, snorting and coughing, dashed off like a well-disposed fiery dragon, warranted quiet to ride and drive. Walking on rapidly they soon discovered Arthur, embarrassed by a carpet-bag and a mackintosh, making the best of his way to meet them; the moment he came within speaking distance, he exclaimed—
“What do I behold! Harry Coverdale with a young lady on his arm! Surely the age of miracles is returning! well I never did! did you ever? And Alice looking so deliciously self-satisfied and unconscious, too! Why you stupid little owl (you’re very like one, with your hooked nose and great eyes), don’t you know you’re boring him to death? he cares for nothing but horses, dogs, and guns; and above all perfectly abominates women.” Alice smiled, and attempted to make a playful rejoinder, but in vain,—her heart was too full; had she spoken at that moment she must have burst into tears. The speech affected Harry differently.
“I do nothing of the kind,” he said, angrily; “Arthur how can you be so absurd!” Pausing for a moment, the ludicrous nature of the situation occurred to him, and, with difficulty restraining a laugh, he turned the conversation by seizing his friend’s carpet-bag, exclaiming as he did so, “Come, give it up, of course I’m not going to let you carry it; you’re looking horridly thin and pale, as Londoners always do: is he not, Al—a—, Miss Hazlehurst? What! you refuse; give it up this instant, or I declare I’ll carry you and it too.”
During the playful struggle which ensued for the possession of the carpet-bag, in which contention Harry was soon victorious, Alice, glad to obtain a few minutes in which to compose herself, walked on. As the young men hastened to rejoin her, Hazlehurst, laying his hand on Coverdale’s arm, inquired “How has it all gone off? Crane hasn’t ventured to offer yet, of course?”
“Yes, by Jove, he has though!” was the reply; “the old muff contrived to pop last night—confound him!—when I was out of the room, and hadn’t a chance of throwing anything at his head.”
“And Alice?” inquired the brother, eagerly; but his eagerness frustrated its own purpose (no uncommon case by the way), for, pronouncing the name in a louder key than he was aware of, the fair owner thereof stopped short, and thus prevented the possibility of further explanation. As they continued their homeward walk, Arthur, who was a quick observer, soon detected a change in Harry’s manner towards his sister; for which, at first, he felt excessively puzzled to account. A respectful tenderness was apparent in his tone when he addressed her, and he exhibited a degree of eager, almost affectionate, solicitude for her ease and comfort, in all the minor incidents of a country walk, such as Hazlehurst, during the whole of their intimacy, had never before seen him evince towards a young lady.
“What has come to Harry now, I wonder?” thus ran his reflections; “if it were any one in the world but him, I should say he was flirting with Alice; but Harry never flirted in his life, so that is impossible.” He pondered for a moment, then an idea struck him. “I see it now; my father has forced the poor child to accept old Crane; Harry knows it, and the pity his kind, warm-hearted nature leads him to feel towards her, influences his manner. They were each coming to tell me all that has occurred, and have met by accident; yes, that must be it.” In order, however, more fully to satisfy himself of the correctness of his theory, he observed, in his usual light, jesting manner, “I think Mr. Coverdale, it behoves me, as ‘a man and a brother,’ to inquire how you happen to be marching about the country, tête-à-tête with my sister, at this unconscionably early hour?”
Harry, who, between his desire to enlighten Arthur as to the new and transcendently delightful, but especially embarrassing turn affairs had taken, and the impossibility of doing so before Alice—the overpowering nature of his feelings towards that young lady, and his extreme happiness at finding them reciprocated—the great and imminent danger in re Crane, and the humiliating confession regarding his lost influence with Mr. Hazlehurst, together with the awkward position in which he stood towards that outraged and obdurate elder—was in a tremendous frame of mind, merely started and stared vacantly at his interrogator.
But Alice, having by this time regained in some degree her self-possession, replied quietly, “Mr. Coverdale and I were both coming to meet you, and encountering each other accidentally, walked on together.”
As she spoke, Arthur, striving to read her countenance, fixed his eyes upon her. Unable to meet his glance she turned away with an April look, half tears half smiles. “It must be as I thought,” reflected Arthur; “but if anything is to be done to save her, no time should be lost. I’ll not waste the present opportunity. My dear Coverdale,” he continued aloud, “I wish to have a few minutes’ private conversation with my sister; you and I are too old friends to stand upon ceremony, so you will not be offended if I ask you to walk on, and wait for us at the stile at the end of the path.”
This direct appeal brought Harry to his senses, but not feeling sure whether Alice would approve of having the whole burden of explanation thrown upon her, he glanced inquiringly towards her ere he ventured to reply. Now, Alice, fond as she was of her brother, was also (from their difference in point of age, as well as from the fact that Arthur’s nature was more firm and resolute than her own, and his manner quick and abrupt) a little afraid of him. Thus, being aware how very highly he esteemed Coverdale—an estimation which she was inclined to transcend rather than to depreciate—a sudden fear seized her lest Arthur, deeming her a mere silly child, should consider his friend had done a foolish thing in choosing her for a wife, when he might have selected, at the very least, some strong-minded peeress, and that he might be angry with her for her presumption in having accepted him. This feeling, overpowering for the moment every other, induced her to respond to Harry’s look of inquiry by a slight shake of the head, and a glance which would have kept him by her side if a whole regiment of brothers, armed with Minie rifles and Colt’s revolvers, had attempted to separate them. But Arthur, being totally unarmed, and having simply asked a civil question, the answer which Harry, appropriately quoting Walter Scott, might have made to the hypothetical regiment, “Come one come all, this rock (not that there was a rock, but that is a trifle) will fly, from its firm base as soon as I,” was unfitted for the present emergency, and no other equally good suggested itself. What he did say was this, “A—really—of course I’d do it in a minute, my dear fellow—but—a—I’m not quite sure,”—here he glanced at Alice—“that is, I’m positively certain that—a—in fact, the thing’s impossible.”
“You’re certain that it’s impossible that you can walk on to the stile before Alice and me! My dear Harry, what are you talking—or rather (for the truth is you’re pre-occupied), what are you thinking about?” inquired Arthur, in amazement, seeing from the expression of his friend’s countenance that he was really anxious and excited. Coverdale was again hesitating how to reply, when Alice relieved him from his difficulty by saying hurriedly, “I will walk on, and leave you to talk to Mr. Coverdale.”
As she spoke, they reached the rustic bench before alluded to, and Arthur, completely mystified, seated himself, and made a sign to Coverdale to follow his example.
“One moment, and I’ll be with you,” replied Coverdale, springing to Alice’s side; “then I may tell him everything?” he continued.
“Oh yes,” was the unhesitating answer.
“And you will wait for us at the stile? I won’t detain him five minutes.”
“If you wish it.”
“Can you doubt it?” were the necessary lover-like rejoinders; and Coverdale returned to his friend, who looked especially puzzled and slightly provoked.
“Now be silent!” exclaimed Hazlehurst, as Harry was about, with the greatest volubility, to plunge at once in medias res. “You have lived amongst women till you’ve learned to chatter like them, I think. I shall never bring you to the point, unless you will let me cross-examine you.”
“Fire away, then; only look sharp, for your sister must not be kept waiting,” was the reply.
“You’ve grown wonderfully polite and attentive all of a sudden,” returned Arthur, sarcastically. “But now listen to me. Has Crane made Alice an offer?”
Harry replied in the affirmative.
“Did she refuse him?”
“Of course she did,” was the disdainful rejoinder.
“I don’t see any of course in it,” returned Hazlehurst, moodily. “My father is resolved on the match: Alice has been brought up to obey him implicitly, and the habit of obedience is very strong in such a gentle, yielding nature as hers.”
“If she is gentle and yielding I’m not!” exclaimed Harry, vehemently; “and with your support, and the knowledge that his daughter’s happiness is at stake, Mr. Hazlehurst must listen to reason.”
“My dear boy,” returned Arthur, earnestly, “what a warmhearted, thorough-going friend you are! you really take as much interest in the affair as if it were your own. I see you naturally reckon on the extent of your influence with my father, and I have reason to believe you do not overrate it. Why, what is the matter now? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
This inquiry referred to a sudden and alarming outbreak on the part of Coverdale, who, when his influence with Mr. Hazlehurst was mentioned, sprang to his feet, uttering what mild mammas, engaged in the moral instruction of their tender offspring, term a “naughty word.”
“You are enough to drive one mad!” he exclaimed, angrily; “saying, and making me say, all sorts of absurd things at cross-purposes, because you won’t listen to the explanation I’m remaining here on purpose to give you; keeping Alice waiting, too!”
“Well, let her wait,” returned Arthur, testily, worried by Harry’s constant reference to this point; “anybody would think you were Alice’s lover instead of old Crane!”
“And so I am,” was the unexpected rejoinder; “and what is more, old fellow, her accepted lover also! Oh, Arthur,” he continued, seating himself by his friend’s side, and laying his arm on his shoulder, “I’m the happiest, luckiest dog in existence! To think that she should be able to love such a rough, uncultivated—but you are not displeased, are you—surprised, of course, you must be.”
“Surprised, indeed,” was the reply; “so much so, that even yet I can scarcely believe it; it has almost taken my breath away! But displeased!—why my dear Harry, I’d rather she married you than any man breathing, be he prince, duke, or what not. It is the most charming, glorious, wonderful thing that ever happened! But even now I can’t conceive how it has come about; and yet, when I begin to reflect, I fancied that Alice was growing shy and conscious in regard to something or somebody, before I went away. It’s natural enough that she should fall in love with you; but that you should take a fancy to her, or indeed to any girl, does, I own, surprise me. I had so thoroughly made up my mind that you meant to be an old bachelor.”
“You could not have done so more completely than I had,” rejoined Harry; “but the fact is, that from the first moment in which I saw your sister I fell in love with her, though I had not the most remote idea of it at the time. I can trace it all now; hence my dislike of D’Almayne, and the poor old cotton-spinner. I was afraid the fascinations of the one might win her heart, or the fortune of the other obtain her hand—in fact, I was unconsciously jealous of them both. But now come on, we are really keeping Alice an unreasonable time. Aye, you may laugh; I don’t care a sous now that you know all about it. Why Arthur, old boy, you will be my real bonâ fide brother one of these days!—that is a contingent advantage which has only just occurred to me.”
Seizing his friend’s hand as he spoke, he pressed it with such good-will, that Hazlehurst was enabled to give a shrewd guess at the sensation produced by that interesting mediæval amenity, the thumb-screw. And thus mutually pleased and excited, the young men proceeded, both talking volubly, and generally at the same moment, till they reached the stile, where they found Alice awaiting them, looking very timid, very conscious, but exceedingly pretty. She need not have been uneasy, however, for Arthur had too much good taste and kind feeling to laugh at her at that moment; on the contrary, he hastened to set her mind at rest by whispering, as he imprinted a kiss on her glowing cheek—
“My darling child, you have made me almost as happy as you have rendered him.”
The walk home was a very delightful one. Alice leaned on Harry’s stalwart arm, and felt the most perfect and irrational confidence in his power to shield her from the effects of her father’s anger, Mr. Crane’s despair, and all other uncomfortable consequences of the act of filial disobedience which she meditated. Harry, already experiencing a sensation of delicious proprietorship in regard to the sweet girl beside him, felt himself exalted in the scale of humanity, and held his head a good inch higher on the strength of it; from which moral and physical elevation he looked down upon all field-sports as soulless and ignoble pastimes, and despised them accordingly. Arthur, hoping that his sister’s attachment to a man in every way so worthy of her, would inspire her with the firmness requisite to withstand successfully his father’s possible opposition to the match, and that the matter would eventually end by securing her happiness and that of his friend, “forgot his own griefs,” to rejoice in their bright prospects. And so they reached the pleasure-grounds, where Alice, separating from the two gentlemen, ran in to compose her excited feelings before appearing at breakfast.
“Arthur, wait one moment,” exclaimed Coverdale, laying his hand on his friend’s arm to detain him; “I have something important to say to you;—isn’t she an angel, my dear boy?”
“Why really, my good fellow, between friends, and seeing that you appear to attach so much importance to the fact, I should say, taking into consideration the evidence in the case, and coming to the point without any unnecessary prolixity, that she was by no means an angel, but simply a very pleasant little female mortal, and—ahem! my poor sister, sir.”
“Psha! you stupid old humbug!” returned Harry, giving him a playful push, which caused him involuntarily to leap over a flower-bed; “do just listen to me for a minute, and give me a sensible answer if you can. It’s all very pretty for my darling Alice, and you and I, to settle this matter so sweetly and easily; but remember, there’s the governor to bring round, and Crane and his confounded £20,000 a-year to beat out of the field; it strikes me we’re in an awful fix, and about to become an interesting young couple. What is to be the next move, eh?”
“Oh, the affair lies in a nutshell,” returned Hazlehurst. “Fortunately, my father has always appreciated you properly, and now the unusual degree of influence you have acquired over him will stand you in good stead. He may be a little annoyed at first, when he finds he must relinquish his favourite design of purchasing old Crane’s farm; but he is very fond of Alice, and very proud of her.”
“He’d be a most unnatural old heathen if he wasn’t,” muttered Harry, sotto voce.
“Consequently,” continued Hazlehurst, not heeding the interruption, “when he perceives the immeasurable advantages to be obtained by allowing her to marry a man she loves, and who is in every way deserving of her affection, instead of an old scarecrow, who will be in his dotage (I believe he is so already, more or less!) while Ally is still quite a young woman, he cannot hesitate for a moment in giving his consent. You had better speak to him the instant breakfast is over; depend upon it you’ll find him all amiability.”
“Depend upon it I shall find him nothing of the kind,” returned Coverdale, snappishly; then, seeing the look of surprise that spread over his friend’s countenance, he continued, dejectedly:—“Ah, my dear boy, you little know the extent to which I’ve been putting my foot in it since you went away. Tom tells me I annoyed your governor three or four days ago, by taking the nonsense out of that beast of a horse old Crane had the stupidity to give Alice; a brute which would have broken her sweet neck, if I hadn’t luckily been at hand to catch her as she was falling. Then, to improve the matter, last night we all drank wine enough, and the Head of the Family got a little too much into it to be good for its proprietor; accordingly, he forced me to give my opinion about Free-trade, and then pitched into me for so doing, and declared I’d insulted him: upon which I lost my temper, and said something rude; and, to come to the point, as you call it, he is now as savage as a bear with me, and all the blessed influence you’ve been paying me such pretty compliments about, if it ever existed, is scattered to the winds. I dare not speak to him, it would be worse than useless; he’d be only too glad to refuse me at once, lest he should lose such a good opportunity of paying me off for last night. Ah!” he continued, “you may well look puzzled,—you would not like to have many clients with such a talent as I possess for unconsciously cutting their own throats! What’s to be done?—divide the wires of the electric telegraph at King’s Cross Station, and then take Alice along the Great Northern to Gretna Green—though Gretna Green has been done brown by some recent act, has it not, and the harmonious and hymeneal blacksmith retired into private life? Come, advise, for I can hit upon nothing; only remember one thing,—since Alice is good enough to say she will have me, married I must and will be, if all the fathers in England were to set themselves against it!”