“Mr. Coverdale, is anything the matter?--why, you are quite out of
breath with running!” exclaimed Alice, starting as she beheld him.
“Uncomfortably warm, too, I should say,” drawled D’Almayne, glancing
significantly at Harry’s glowing cheeks, which were certainly too red
to be romantic; “really now, do you consider it judicious to overheat
yourself so?--of course, I merely ask as a matter of curiosity.”
Harry magnanimously repressed a strong inclination to knock him
down; but he felt that to answer him coolly was both literally and
metaphorically out of his power, so he confined his reply to Alice’s
question.
“There is nothing the matter, Miss Hazlehurst,” he said; “but seeing you
take this direction, and thinking that Mr. D’Almayne might not be aware
a bull was grazing in this meadow, I thought it advisable to follow and
put you on your guard, even at the risk of making myself unbecomingly
hot;” and as he pronounced the last two words, he looked at D’Almayne
as though he wished _he_ had been the bull, and would oblige him by
evincing an inclination to attack them.
“How very kind and thoughtful of you!” returned Alice, bestowing on
him one of her brightest smiles; “but is there any danger?--what had we
better do?”
“Eh, really, danger! not the slightest; am not _I_ with you?” interposed
D’Almayne, majestically bending over her. “A bull did you say, Mr.
Coverdale?--ar--really, I don’t perceive such a creature.--Are you quite
sure he exists anywhere but in your vivid and poetical imagination?”
Harry’s reply, if reply it can be called, to this impertinent
question, was made by grasping D’Almayne’s elbow so tightly as to cause
that delicate young gentleman to wince under the pressure. Having thus
attracted his attention at a moment when Alice’s head was turned in
an opposite direction, he pointed towards a group of trees, under the
shadow whereof might be discerned a large brindled individual of the
bovine species, who stood attentively regarding the trio with a
singularly unamiable, not to say vicious expression of countenance. Placing
his finger on his lips as a hint to D’Almayne to keep the knowledge thus
acquired to himself, Harry answered Alice’s inquiry by saying--
“It is always the safest policy to mistrust a bull; so I would advise
you to turn and make the best of your way towards the stile over which I
came; walk as quickly as you please, but do not run, as that would only
tempt the animal to follow you.”
“Yes, really, Miss Hazlehurst, we must not risk the chance of
frightening you merely because we men enjoy the excitement of a little
danger--take my arm,” hastily rejoined Horace D’Almayne, and suiting the
action to the word, he drew Alice’s arm within his own, and marched her
off at a pace with which she found considerable difficulty in keeping
up. Harry, ere he followed them, remained stationary for a minute or so,
to reconnoitre the movements of the bull. That animal, having apparently
satisfied his curiosity in regard to the intruders on his domain, was
now assiduously working himself up into a rage, preparatory, no doubt,
to instituting vigorous measures for their expulsion. The way in which
he signified this intention, was by tossing his head up and down,
tearing up the turf with his fore-feet, and uttering from time to time a
low angry roar, like the rumbling of distant thunder. When Harry turned
to leave the spot, the animal immediately followed him, though only at
a walk. As soon as he became aware of this disagreeable fact, Coverdale
paused, and faced his undesirable attendant; which manœuvre, as he
expected, caused the bull to stop also, though it was evident it had the
effect of increasing the creature’s rage. In spite of this discovery,
Harry waited till his companions had reached the stile, and D’Almayne
had assisted Alice to get over it--a piece of chivalry by which he very
materially lessened his own chances of safety, as the bull’s small stock
of patience being exhausted, it became evident he was preparing for
a rush. Trusting to his swiftness of foot, Harry was about to make an
attempt to reach the stile before the bull should overtake him, when
suddenly the yelping of a dog was heard, and a terrier belonging to
Arthur Hazlehurst, which had followed them unobserved, ran forward and
distracted the bull’s attention by barking round him, taking especial
care to keep out of the reach of the animal’s horns. This diversion in
his favour enabled Coverdale to rejoin his companions unmolested.
“Oh, Mr. Coverdale, what a savage-looking creature! I was so afraid it
was going to attack you. I do not know how to thank you properly for
having saved me from at least a terrible fright,” exclaimed Alice as
Harry ran up to them.
“Ar--from alarm possibly; but really I don’t conceive there was the
slightest danger; the animal was a very mild specimen of his class; even
a little dog, you see, was sufficient to turn him,” observed D’Almayne
slightingly.
“I’ll bet you fifty pounds to one you don’t walk across that field while
the bull remains there,” exclaimed Harry eagerly--“Miss Hazlehurst shall
be umpire, and I’ll promise to come and do my best to help you if you
get into any scrape--what do you say, is it a bet?”
“I never bet, and--ar--never do useless and unreasonable things on a hot
day, in order to establish a fast reputation. Such little excitements
may be all very well for a sporting character like yourself, my dear
Coverdale; but--ar--a man who has shot bison on the American prairies
does not need them; so really you must hold me excused. Shall we
rejoin the rest of the party, Miss Hazlehurst? they seem assembling
for luncheon. Let me recollect, we were talking of that charming
soul-creation of Tennyson, _Locksley Hall_, I think, before this absurd
interruption occurred; what an unrivalled picture does it not present of
the spirit-torture of a proud despair?”--and chattering on in the same
pseudo-romantic and grandiloquent strain, the man of sentiment fairly
walked Alice off, leaving Coverdale in the unenviable position popularly
ascribed to virtue, viz., that of being its own reward. Having waited
till the pair were out of sight, he flung himself down at the foot of an
old beech-tree, and indulged in the following mental soliloquy:--
“Well, Master Harry! you’ve been and done something clever--you have,
certainly; run like an insane creature more than half-a-mile, on by
far the hottest day we’ve had this summer, and placed yourself in a
situation where nothing but a lucky accident saved you from being run
at, and possibly gored, by rather a mad bull than otherwise, only to be
pooh-poohed by an insolent coxcomb, and have a cold-hearted ungrateful
girl lisp out a missish inquiry, ‘whether there was any danger,’
forsooth! ’gad, I almost wish I’d left her and her swain to find out
for themselves.”
He paused, removed his hat to allow a slight breeze which had sprung up
to cool his heated forehead, and then stretching himself resumed:--
“I hope I’m not really becoming morose and ill-tempered, as Arthur
hinted the other day. I must take care, or I shall be growing a savage
old brute, and have everybody hate me. It’s all that puppy D’Almayne; he
keeps me in a constant state of suppressed irritation with his affected
airs of superiority;--but puppies will exist on the face of the earth,
I suppose, whether I like it or not, and must be endured; so we’ll
endeavour to look upon him as an appointed trial, and see if we can
turn him to good account in that way. There’s always the possibility of
horsewhipping him as a _dernier ressort_, that’s one consolation.
Now I’ll go to luncheon, and try whether I can put some of my good
intentions into practice. Heigho! life’s hard work, and no mistake;
particularly in warm weather.” Thus cogitating, Harry slowly gathered
himself up, and betook himself to join the luncheon party, actuated
thereunto, amongst other reasons, by the discovery of a serious attack
of appetite. In the meantime, a scene of a very different character was
being enacted between two others of our _dramatis personæ_.
Arthur Hazlehurst, foiled in his attempt to secure a _tête-à-tête_ drive
with his cousin, Kate Marsden, having, after his usual habit, bustled
about, settled everything for everybody, and made himself very generally
useful and agreeable, had contrived on arriving at the ruins to withdraw
himself from the rest of the party, and having watched the proceedings
of his cousin and Mr. Crane, waited until she separated from that
gentleman, when he joined her, and induced her to stroll with him along
a shady, serpentine, romantic-looking pathway leading through a wood.
Agreeable as were external circumstances, however, neither the lady nor
the gentleman appeared to be in a sympathetic frame of mind; for a
cloud hung on Arthur’s brow, while his cousin’s features wore a cold,
uncompromising look of defiance. They proceeded for some little distance
in silence; Hazlehurst was the first to speak.
“You found your companion amusing, I hope; pray what might he be talking
about so earnestly?”
“Do you really care to know?” was the reply; “he was making me his
_confidante_ in regard to Alice. The poor man is at his wits’ end--if
a quality which he does not possess can be said to have an end; at all
events, he is _au désespoir_. Even his obtuseness cannot be blind to the
fact that she dislikes him, and the worthy soul is now beginning to grow
mildly jealous of D’Almayne.”
“And what advice did you give him?” inquired her cousin, sternly; “tell
me the truth.”
As he spoke the girl’s eyes flashed, and a slight colour burned for a
moment in her pale cheeks.
“How _dare_ you say such a thing to me!” was her indignant rejoinder;
“have I ever attempted to deceive _you?_--you know I have not; but let
it pass. You ask me what advice I gave him: I told him to persevere,
reminded him that a faint heart never won a fair lady, which I believe
he took to be an entirely original remark on my part, and gently
insinuated that no girl in her senses could refuse him.”
Arthur fixed his piercing glance upon her, as he replied--
“And why did you say this? Do you believe, indeed, that Alice will
eventually be prevailed upon to marry him?--or did you say it to deceive
him for a purpose of your own?”
“I gave him good sound advice,” was the answer; “I do _not_ believe
Alice will marry him; but that is no reason why he should not use his
best endeavours to obtain what he wishes, or fancies he wishes. I shall
advise him to prosecute his suit, and at the right moment to offer to
her in person.”
“In order that she may irritate him, and offend my father, by a refusal.
Kate, you are playing some deep game in all this, and one of which you
know I should disapprove, or else you would not so studiously conceal it
from me,” returned Hazlehurst gloomily.
There was a moment’s pause ere the young lady replied--
“Let events unravel themselves, my worthy cousin; the result will appear
all in good time.”
They walked on in silence, till a turn in the path brought them before a
smooth moss-grown bank, on which the gnarled roots of an old pollard-oak
formed a natural rustic seat.
“Let us rest here, and enjoy the sunshine while we may; there is not too
much of it in the world,” observed Kate, in a gentler tone than she had
hitherto used. There was a touch of sadness in her voice which Arthur
could not hear unmoved, and merely waiting till she had seated herself,
he placed himself on a root of the tree at her feet. For some minutes
neither of them spoke, till as it were unconsciously, Kate allowed her
hand to rest on his head, while her fingers played with a lock of his
rich chesnut hair. As he felt her soft touch upon his brow, he raised
his eyes to her countenance--the stern, hard expression had vanished, and
in its place appeared that look which, once seen, the recollection dies
only with memory itself--the fond, wistful, tender gaze a loving woman
turns on him she loves. For a minute he remained silent and motionless,
subdued by the power of her rare beauty; then springing to his feet, he
exclaimed--
“You shall trifle with me thus no longer; I am no petulant boy, to be
repulsed one hour, and caressed into good humour the next. What is
the meaning of this estrangement which you have chosen shall spring
up between us? Why do you?--but such questions are useless--this shall
decide the point--once and for ever:--Do you love me, or do you not?”
For a moment she was silent; then turning her head to avoid his eager
scrutinizing glance, she murmured--
“Have we not known each other from childhood, and loved each other
always?”
“That is no answer; you only seek to evade my question,” was the angry
reply.
He stood for a moment, his lips quivering with emotion, and his hands
clenched so tightly that the blood receded from the points of his
fingers, leaving them cold and colourless as marble. His companion
did not speak, but continued to regard him with a look half-pitying,
half-imploring pity. As their eyes met, his mood appeared suddenly to
change, and springing to her side, he exclaimed in a voice tremulous
with emotion--
“Kate, dearest, why will you thus torture yourself and me? Hear me, dear
one; you know I love you better than any created thing--better than my
own soul. You say truly, that I have loved you always--with the tender
unconscious love of the child, with the happy romantic love of the
boy, and, lastly, with the deep, earnest, absorbing passion of mature
manhood; and you, Kate, you must--nay, you _do_ love me!”
As he spoke, he drew her gently towards him, and unrepulsed pressed a
kiss upon her soft lips. She did not resist or respond to his caress,
but suffered her head to rest passively against his shoulder, as he
continued--
“I do not inquire--I heed not--what mad schemes you may have dreamed of;
but I ask--nay, I implore you, by all you hold sacred to put them away
from you, and to wait patiently for a few, a very few short years, until
I can claim you for my beloved, my honoured wife. Kate, you will do as I
desire?--speak to me, my own love!”
Unheeding his appeal, she remained for a minute silent, while a few
tears stole unchecked down her pale cheeks, then rousing herself by an
effort, she wiped away the traces of her late emotion, gently removed
her cousin’s arm, which still encircled her waist, and drawing herself
up, exclaimed--
“This is weakness--folly; I never intended it should have come to this;
but I was taken by surprise--unprepared----”
She paused, struggling to regain self-possession, then in a calmer voice
resumed:--
“My poor Arthur! I do, indeed, appreciate your noble, generous
self-sacrifice, and were I alone concerned, would desire no happier fate
than to share and aid you in your struggle with the world; but it
may not be so; others have claims upon me--my father’s health is
failing--the cares of that bitter curse, poverty, are wearing out
my mother’s little remaining strength, and blighting the talents and
crushing the youth and spirits of the children. Dear Arthur, forgive me
the pain I cost you when I tell you--I can never be your wife!”
“But, Kate,” interrupted her cousin, eagerly, “listen to me, dear one;
you do not suppose that I had forgotten all this; only agree to my
proposal, and I will be a son to your mother, a father--if, as you
fear, my uncle’s health is breaking--to her children. My practice is
increasing every day; I shall soon be in the receipt of a good income;
Coverdale is rich, and loves me as a brother; he will advance me money;
I will work day and night to repay him.”
“My husband destroy his health to support my family!--is this the
prospect of happiness you would offer me?--are these the arguments you
would bring forward to induce me to agree?” was the reply. “No, Arthur,
I can never be your wife; you must from this moment forget that such an
idea has crossed your mind.”
“But, Kate, only hear me!----” he exclaimed passionately.
“I have already heard too much for your happiness, or for my own,”
was the mournful reply; then, by a powerful effort resuming her usual
manner, she exclaimed, “Come, no more of this folly, our paths in life
lie separate; it is inevitable--therefore repining becomes worse
than useless; we are not boy and girl, to stand rehearsing romantic
love-scenes together; let us rejoin the others.”
For a moment Hazlehurst remained silently gazing on the cold, immovable
expression of her features; then, coming close to her, he said in a low,
hoarse whisper, “I read your heart, and perceive the wickedness, for
such it is, you contemplate. I will give you till to-morrow morning
to reflect on what has passed between us; if then you adhere to your
determination, I leave you to the fate you have chosen!” and as he
uttered the last words, he turned and quitted her.
Kate Marsden gazed after him with the same cold expression of defiance
on her features till his retreating figure became no longer visible,
then, sinking back upon the rustic bench, she covered her face with her
hands and wept bitterly.