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.