“My dear Kate, I think your cousin, Mrs. Coverdale, has just driven
up; and yet I don’t know. Is it likely, or, as I may say, probable, that
she should arrive in a brougham?”
“With a high-stepping horse, and a coronet on the panels?--scarcely, I
should imagine.”
The speakers were Mr. Crane, who had grown rather less like a
scaffold-pole since we last were favoured with his society, and Horace
D’Almayne, who appeared quite himself and quite at home. Attracted by
their remarks, Kate joined her husband at the window.
“It can’t be them,” she said, “there is no luggage;” but, as if to
contradict her remark, at the moment she ceased to speak a cab
dashed into Park Lane with a _fair_ amount of imperials, cap-cases,
portmanteaus, carpet-bags, and other female travelling _miscellania_,
and drew up behind the brougham. As it stopped, a tall, handsome young
man sprang out, and opening the door of the brougham, offered his arm to
Alice, and conducted her up the steps most carefully.
“Why, that surely cannot be Mr. Coverdale; or, at least, if I may
be permitted to say so, he has become singularly thin and--and
youthful-looking, if it is,” bleated Mr. Crane.
“No, that is not Harry Coverdale,” returned Kate, wonderingly, “nor do I
see anything of him either!”
“If Mrs. Coverdale has lost her husband, really she has found a most
attractive substitute--a--it almost seems one of the cases in which such
a loss might be considered a gain,” lisped D’Almayne, in so low a
tone that Mr. Crane, who was nearly as slow of hearing as he was of
understanding, did not catch the remark. “Really quite a touching
farewell,” he continued, as Alice, ere she entered the house, shook
hands most cordially with her young cavalier; “and the gallant, gay
Lothario jumps into the brougham (which, coronet, high-stepping horse,
and all, evidently calls him master) and is lost to our admiring gaze.”
At this juncture a fat and rosy butler (who looked as if he had been
brought up by hand upon Port wine, and had remained faithful to it ever
since) flung open the door, and announced Mrs. Coverdale.
Throwing off, for once in her life, all coldness and reserve, Kate
embraced her cousin warmly, and, holding her by both hands, led her to
the sofa.
“My dearest child,” she exclaimed, “how delightful it is to see you once
again!”
“But if I may be permitted,” began Mr. Crane, “if I may be allowed to
inquire, what have you done with--or perhaps I should rather say--what
has become of our good friend, Mr. Coverdale?”
“And how came you in a brougham with a coronet upon it? and who was
that handsome and distinguished-looking young exquisite whom you had
inveigled into playing courier--eh, Mistress Alice?” inquired Kate,
archly. “I expected to find you a pattern wife, and to have your example
held up for my imitation twenty times a day; but I have alarmed myself
very unnecessarily, it seems.”
“Don’t tease, dear,” was the reply; “it was all the fault of that silly
husband of mine: he got out at one of the stations, and seduced by the
attractions of a restive horse, contrived to be out of the way when the
train started, and so I was forced to do the best I could for myself.”
“Which theory you reduced to practice by selecting the handsomest young
man you could find as a _cavalier servente_,” returned Kate, laughing.
“But who is your friend? I hope he is coming to call upon you!”
“Oh, yes, he means to call--to-morrow I think he said. I’m glad you
consider him handsome: it’s always satisfactory to have one’s taste
approved of by one’s friends; and I honestly confess I admire him
particularly.”
Mr. Crane’s countenance, during this speech of Alice’s, was wonderful to
behold; the intense surprise with which he listened to the beginning of
it gradually changing to the deepest disgust as she continued, afforded
such a clear index to his thoughts that Horace D’Almayne turned away
to hide an irrepressible smile, which Kate perceiving, observed with a
slight shade of annoyance.--
“And now, having mystified us thoroughly, be kind enough to tell us who
the gentleman really is, and how he came to offer you his brougham and
his services.”
Thus appealed to, Alice was obliged to confess that, in point of fact,
there was nothing wrong or romantic in the adventure from beginning
to end--that Lord Alfred Courtland was an old schoolfellow of her
husband’s, who had travelled in the same carriage with them, and who had
naturally done all he could to save her from being inconvenienced by the
effects of Harry’s stupidity, on which she dwelt rather more at length
than Kate approved of,--that young lady having a very keen perception of
right and wrong, although she by no means always acted up to the light
thus afforded her.
Some few hours later Harry arrived, very anxious about his wife, and
decidedly crest-fallen and penitent, and bore all the quizzing which
fell to his share with most exemplary patience; although any attempt
to excite his jealousy in regard to Lord Alfred Courtland proved a dead
failure, his reply being that “He was always a very good little boy, and
that he did not see much difference in him except in height.”
When the Coverdales went up to dress for dinner the following dialogue
ensued:--
“How well your cousin Kate is looking,” observed Harry; “the pomps and
vanities of this wicked world appear to agree with her; now she has
grown a little stouter, she really is a splendid woman.”
“Yes, she appears in better health,” returned Alice, slowly, “but--”
“But what?” inquired Harry. “A woman’s ‘but’ is like the postscript
to her letter; it unsays all she has said before. Come, out with this
_arrière pensée_, as that puppy D’Almayne would call it. By-the-way, he
seems regularly domesticated here. I wonder old Crane likes it; I should
not, in his position, I know.”
“I wonder Kate likes it,” returned Alice; “however, my ‘but’ had nothing
to do with the fascinating Horace. I was going to say that although Kate
looked well, yet she had a listless, weary expression of countenance,
which gave me the idea that, with all her riches and splendour, she was
far from happy.”
“The same being a result rather to be expected than otherwise, when
a lovely and talented young female sees fit to espouse an elderly and
feeble-minded old scarecrow,” rejoined Harry, making frantic dives
into his portmanteau, and fishing up patent bootjacks, miraculous
razor-strops--everything but the dress-neck-tie he was in search of.
“I don’t believe they see anything of Arthur,” continued Alice,
reflectively; “I asked Kate, and she seemed to know nothing about
him--such friends as they used to be at one time--it’s very odd!”
“I don’t see the oddness, myself,” returned Harry, speaking through
his dressing-room door, which stood ajar; “there is a great difference
between feeling spooney about a pretty cousin, when you’re living in the
house with her, and have nothing better to do, and dangling after her
to the neglect of your business, when she lives at one end of London and
you at the other--when, moreover, she’s married to a dreadful old muff,
antiquated enough to be her father, and slow enough to be the father of
every fool in the kingdom. I think it’s easily accounted for by
prose means, without adopting the poetical hypothesis of a romantic
attachment--two fond young hearts blighted, and all that ‘Keepsake’
style of business; besides, Arthur’s a great deal too good a lawyer
to fall in love; it’s only idle fellows like myself who commit such
follies.”
“You must go and call on Arthur to-morrow, and you will soon perceive
by his manner whether he is averse to coming here; but mind you are very
careful not to let him see that you suspect anything; I am quite sure he
would be most sensitive on such a point,” observed Alice, in a tone in
which you would caution a schoolboy against playing with gunpowder.
“Keep your advice for you own benefit, most sententious Alice, seeing
that you are the suspecting party, and that such an idea would never
have occurred to my unassisted reason,” was Harry’s rejoinder; and the
dinner-bell at that moment ringing, the conversation ceased.
The next day, however, Arthur put an end to the controversy by making
his appearance in Park Lane soon after luncheon. Although no one alluded
to the circumstance, it was the first time he had set his foot in Mr.
Crane’s house, or indeed seen Kate since her marriage. He looked pale
and over-worked, and there was a restless excitement in his manner,
which Alice’s quick eye at once discovered. Beyond this, however, there
was nothing which tended in the slightest degree to confirm her in her
suspicions. He apologised quietly and naturally to Kate for not having
called oftener, adducing business as a good and sufficient reason for
his remissness; then, turning to Alice, he informed her that she could
not have chosen a more unfortunate time for her visit to London, at
least, as far as he was concerned, as he was obliged to start the next
morning for Naples, being sent out by the Foreign-Office on an affair
of some importance, which, if he could bring the matter to a successful
issue, might tend to his ultimate advancement. Kate, on the contrary,
appeared nervous and ill at ease, and probably feeling that for once
she could not rely on her self-command, took an early opportunity of
quitting the room, leaving the brother and sister _tête-à-tête_.
“Alice, you are changed,” exclaimed Arthur, as the door closed on her
whom he had once so deeply loved, towards whom he now felt as we can
only feel towards those whom we have admitted into the inmost recesses
of the heart, and who have availed themselves of the privilege to
profane and make desolate the sanctuary, “you were a girl, you have
become a woman; has matrimony produced the alteration?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” was the rejoinder. “You know one can’t remain a
child always; the realities of life are sure to find one out sooner or
later, and I was a mere baby in the ways of the world when I married.”
There was a spice of regret in the tone of this remark, which did not
escape Arthur’s quick ear and keen intelligence, and he hastened to
reply--
“You mean more than you say; why, surely, Alice, with such a husband you
must be perfectly happy; it is impossible that it can be otherwise.”
As he spoke, he fixed his dark eyes questioningly upon her. Unable
fairly to meet his gaze, Alice turned away her head, as she replied,
with an effort at careless gaiety--
“Don’t alarm yourself, most romantic of barristers; there is no
Bluebeard’s closet at Coverdale, nor does Harry turn into a skeleton,
or anything else but his bed, at twelve o’clock at night. He is just the
thoroughly good fellow (that is the term you men delight in) he always
was, and devoted to----
“His wife!” interrupted Arthur.
“Well, I was going to say dogs, guns, and horses,” returned
Alice; “and I’m afraid I must adhere to my text, unless you prefer
fiction to fact.”
She spoke jestingly; but the lines which care, and thought, and
intellectual exertion had already traced on Arthur’s brow deepened, as,
after a pause, he murmured, half in reply to Alice, half in soliloquy--
“I am disappointed, deeply disappointed; it ought to be so different!
I--I wish I were not going abroad to-morrow; and yet I _could_ not be a
frequent visitor in this house!”
The last words were inaudible, though, by one of those intuitions which
often compensate for the inefficiency of our physical powers, Alice
divined his train of reasoning, and with subtle generalship diverted the
attack, by carrying the war into the enemy’s country, as she replied--
“Do not puzzle your brains about me and Harry; we jog on very serenely
together, now we have found out each other’s peculiarities.”
“But you never _had_ any peculiarities, either of you,” interrupted
Arthur, positively; “except that Harry was the finest, noblest, manliest
fellow going, and you were a good, simple-hearted, sweet-tempered little
girl. What do you mean by peculiarities?”
“Never mind us,” continued Alice, not heeding his interruption; “I want
to know something about you. You say I have changed from a child into
a woman, but you have turned from a young man into a middle-aged one
during these last six months; you are either ill or unhappy, or working
yourself to death--all three, perhaps.”
“Oh, you are fanciful, and not used to the pale faces of us Londoners,”
returned Arthur.
“You cannot put me off in that manner,” continued Alice, pertinaciously;
“people do not look ill and careworn without some cause for doing so.
How is it, pray, that you never come here? so fond as you used to be of
Kate, too! I expected to find you regularly installed as _l’enfant de
famille_. Do you know I begin to have my suspicions----”
“Hush!” interrupted Arthur, in a low, stem voice; “whatever you may
suspect, never refer to this subject again, there are some sorrows in
life for which there is _no_ remedy; these must be endured and struggled
with in silence, for so only _can_ they be borne. If you would not give
me pain, forget that this idea ever occurred to you.”
As he spoke his pale face flushed, and his lip quivered with the emotion
he strove, but was unable entirely to conceal.
“Forgive me, dear Arthur!” exclaimed Alice, whilst tears of ready
sympathy glistened in her eyes; “I spoke carelessly--foolishly: indeed,
indeed, I did not mean to give you pain! But you are not angry with me?”
As she spoke she laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder and glanced
up in his face with a beseeching look, which would have melted the most
flinty-hearted stoic. Arthur drew her to him, and kissed her smooth
brow, in token of forgiveness, ere he replied--
“Before we quit this subject, never to resume it, let me say this much
to you: in this matter I have nothing to reproach myself with; as far as
I have been able to see what was right, I have acted up to it. This is
my only comfort. That I have suffered much, I will not attempt to deny;
but I am thankful to say the blow, though severe, has not paralysed me.
The sunshine of my life may be destroyed for years, perhaps for ever,
but my vigour and energy are left me, and I will yet make myself a name,
and win myself a position that the mere possession of wealth can never
bestow. Now, forget that this conversation ever took place.”
As he spoke the door flew open, and Harry and Lord Alfred Courtland,
having encountered each other at the club, made their appearance
arm-in-arm, like a pair of well-grown Siamese twins, and Alice was
dispatched all in a hurry to put on her “things,” to be taken to a
private view of the annual exhibition of the Society of Amalgamated
Amateurs in Water-colours, whom Harry irreverently paraphrased as the
“Amalgamated Muffs;” a definition the truth of which a closer inspection
of the efforts of those mild and amiable caricaturists did not tend to
disprove. As they strolled up and down the rooms, waiting for Kate and
Mr. Crane, who had promised to join them, Lord Alfred,--on whose arm
Alice was leaning, and who had been rattling on with great volubility,
and in the highest possible spirits,--suddenly observed--
“I do find myself such a complete country cousin in London, that really
it’s quite ridiculous! I meet all sorts of celebrities, and don’t know
one of them by sight. Now, for instance, do you see that pair of young
exquisites lounging elegantly along, like a couple of self-enamoured
sleep-walkers, and dressed like beatific visions of dandies, rather
than mere sublunary fops? I’m sure I’ve met the youngest of them
somewhere--he with the _petites moustaches noires_, which are so
irresistible that I should certainly cultivate a pair myself, if I did
not feel morally certain that my prejudiced progenitor would cut them,
and me, off with the same shilling.”
“In fact, cut off his _h_eir because you would not cut off yours,”
punned Coverdale. “But in regard to your beatific swells, I fancy Alice
can enlighten you as to the patronymic of one of them, if she chooses;
he is a very particular friend, to say nothing more, of hers. She only
married me because she failed in captivating him.”
Alice replied to Lord Alfred’s expressive look, which asked as plainly
as words could have done, “Is this _all_ jest, or is there a small
foundation of fact for it to rest upon?”--“If that had been my only
reason for accepting my romancing husband, I should have remained Miss
Hazlehurst still; however, I plead guilty to knowing Mr. D’Almayne,
as he happens to be an intimate friend of Mr. Crane, the gentleman who
married my cousin Kate, and in whose house we are now staying.”
While they thus chatted, the following conversation was being carried
on in French between the subject of their remarks and his companion, a
showily-dressed man, some half-dozen years older than Horace D’Almayne,
with handsome features, but a worn, dissipated look, which involuntarily
prejudiced one against him. He spoke with a thoroughly foreign accent,
and the animated gestures with which he sought to elucidate his meaning
also tended to prove he was not a native of this country.
“The plan has been worked out,” he continued, referring to some subject
with which D’Almayne appeared acquainted, “and with _his_ name as
director, and £1000 ready money to pay clerks, and establish the concern
on a respectable foundation, the affair will go charmingly; John Bull
shall buy our shares and hand us his money, and in six months’ time,
with that and”--here he sank his voice--“the club in J-------- Street,
we may set fortune at defiance.”
“Mind you are careful about keeping our connection with the club
secret,” returned D’Almayne, almost in a whisper; “we are not in Paris,
remember; and the slightest suspicion that we played, would be fatal to
your hopes of inducing men of capital to join the other affair.”
“Do not fear, _mon cher_; I know my game,” was the reply. As he spoke,
his eye fell upon the Coverdale party, and hastily indicating Lord
Alfred Courtland to his companion, he continued, “Do you see that
stripling? he was pointed out to me last night as a pigeon worth
plucking, and easily handled; he is a young _milor_, very soft, and what
you call ‘green.’ You must get introduced, and bring him to ‘the club.’”
“The boy is not of age yet,” returned D’Almayne, “and English fathers
never pay gambling debts; so you must not hope for large gains from
him.”
“He can sign bills and post-obits I presume,” rejoined his companion,
with a sneering laugh; “but the people he is with are regarding you as
if they were of your acquaintance--is it so?”
“Decidedly,” was the reply. “I will effect the introduction you desire
at once, but as soon as it is over you must find an opportunity of
withdrawing; I will join the party, feel my way cautiously, and you
shall see Milor Courtland’s childish face in J-------- Street before a
fortnight has passed. _Allons, mon cher._”
Having offered two fingers to Coverdale, and three to his wife,
D’Almayne glanced towards Lord Alfred with a supercilious look, which
seemed to express, “I perceive you, but on account of your extreme youth
and inexperience, am wholly indifferent to the fact of your existence;”
at least so his lordship interpreted it, and was immediately seized with
an eager desire to know the man who could thus afford to look down on
him.
“Introduce me to your friend, will you, Coverdale?” he said; “I must
get him to give me a few lessons in dress and deportment; he really is a
second Brummell.”
“He really is a conceited, empty-headed puppy,” returned Coverdale,
_sotto voce_, “and it’s little good you’ll learn of a jackanapes like
that; but I suppose if I didn’t introduce you, somebody else would--so
come along.” Then placing his hand on his shoulder, and urging him
forward, he continued--“D’Almayne, here’s my friend, Lord Alfred
Courtland, wishes to be introduced to you: he thinks it his duty to know
every well-dressed man in London, and you’re so _facile princeps_
in that line--so transcendently got up--that he’s dying to ask your
tailor’s address, and the length of tick he allows.”
“You’re so obliging as to laugh at me, Mr. Coverdale, because I cannot
reconcile myself to your English Schneiders, and still patronise Blin
_et Fils_, in that paradise of tailors, Paris; but--ar--really you are
uncivilised in this particular, and require reform in your coats more
than in your constitution, which, glorious as you consider it, you are
always altering. Does not Lord Alfred Courtland agree with me?” And as
he made this appeal, Horace D’Almayne simpered, to show his white teeth,
stroked his moustache, and awaited a reply.
Ere Lord Alfred had found words to imply his admiration of Horace’s
taste, without paying him an actual broad and un-mistakeable compliment,
Harry put his ideas to flight, by exclaiming--
“Listen to a word of common sense, Alfred, my boy. Men make coats--if
you can properly call a tailor a man--but coats can never make men. You
may dress an ass up in the grandest lion-skin going, but you can make
nothing of him but an ass, nevertheless. In fact, I never believe a
man’s a man till I’ve seen him with his coat off; then if he can use his
fists as a man should, I believe in him.”
“Aha! I comprehend; ce monsieur refers to your English science of the
box. Very clever science is the box; I am acquiring him of a professeur,
who keeps a restaurant, what you call a public-house, in Smissfiel.”
As D’Almayne’s companion thus spoke, Horace seized the opportunity of
introducing him, which he did as follows:--
“Allow me to make you acquainted with my friend, Monsieur Adolphe
Guillemard, a gentleman connected with the financial interest in
Paris, and with that of Europe generally.” Then, in a stage whisper, he
added--“He was educated in Rothschild’s house.”
So Harry bowed, and Lord Alfred bowed, and Alice inclined her head
in rather a stately manner, because she did not approve of Monsieur
Guillemard’s roving eyes; and Monsieur Guillemard bowed and scraped, and
laid his hand on his waistcoat, where his heart ought to have been, and
abased his unappreciated optics, and appeared profoundly touched, and
anxious to weep on the bosom of society at large; and Mr. Crane, who
at that moment came up in his wife’s custody, not making allowance for
foreign manners, thought he was in a fit. Then Monsieur Guillemard drew
out his watch, and found he had an engagement at the Bourse, as he
was pleased to call the Stock Exchange; and so took leave of his new
acquaintance, squeezed both the yellow kid hands of his _cher_ Horace,
and with short, jaunty footsteps, as of a male ballet-dancer, quitted
the spacious gallery, sacred to the noble efforts of the Amalgamated
Amateurs. And when he had departed, of course his friends began to talk
him over. D’Almayne drew Mr. Crane aside, and related to him wonderful
anecdotes of his (Guillemard’s) skill in foreseeing political events
and their consequences, and the splendid hits he had thus made in
stock-jobbing for himself, and others who had wisely availed themselves
of his talent, and what Baron Rothschild had said and thought of him;
until Mr. Crane began to imagine him an incarnation of Mammon, and
yearned to fall down and adore him on the spot. For, be it observed,
parenthetically, that Mr. Crane, albeit nominally a member of the
Established Church, was verily and indeed a worshipper of a certain
golden calf, to whose likeness he had for years striven earnestly,
and not unsuccessfully, to assimilate himself. And Harry remarked
confidentially to Alice, Kate, and Lord Alfred, that he was prepared to
bet a pony that Guillemard was neither more nor less than a “leg,” and
that whoever had many dealings with him would be safe to put his or her
foot in it--which sentence sounded like nonsense, but was only slang.
And Lord Alfred laughed, and replied that Harry said so because he was
jealous of the superior cut of Monsieur Guillemard’s garments. Alice
agreed perfectly with her husband, which, Kate remarked, was the most
original feature of the whole affair--an observation intended for a mild
and playful jest, but at which Alice blushed, and Harry suddenly became
engrossed by a spirited sketch, in very water-colours, of Ophelia as she
appeared when drowning, which, according to the talented representation
of Miss Appela Brown, H.S.A.A., was remarkably jolly, and slightly
inebriated--next to which hung a portrait of Miss Brown herself, seated
at her easel, her pre-Raphaelite countenance beaming with mingled talent
and astonishment on the picture growing beneath her gifted brush--a
compound expression, at which, as the subject was some demi-god, or
other mythical celebrity, in heroic muscular proportions strongly
developed, and nothing else, we can scarcely feel surprise. Then the
whole party devoted their serious attention to the performances of
the amalgamated ones, and were rewarded by beholding many fearful and
wonderful things. There were “young gentlemen taken from life,” and
transported by amalgamated magic into the regions of romance--an
_un_likeness of Snook’s ruddy face being affixed to Hamlet’s velvet
body, or Mary Ann Jones’s very _retroussé_ profile heading Joan of Arc’s
steel bodice, and a select squadron of twelve French soldiers in green
hunting-coats and fancy hats and feathers, prepared to “_mourir pour la
patrie_” to any extent which the said Mary Ann might require of them.
Then there were landscapes with gamboge foregrounds, pasturing comical
cows of shapes and colours unknown to zoology; and middle distances,
gloomy with indigo trees, and cast-iron rivulets purling rigidly over
wild rocks, suggested by bald places, showing the naked paper through
a severe application of sepia and neutral tint. Ferocious battles were
there also, designed by gentle girls, who had never witnessed so much
as a street row, wherein gallant Henri Quatre-like parties, with slim
waists, feminine complexions, and white waving plumes, slaughtered
strong men in funny dresses, and pranced over their dead bodies with the
most heroic magnanimity and indifference. Then there was Mount Vesuvius
during an eruption, which, to judge by the colouring, must have been the
eruption attendant on scarlet fever; and Mont Blanc well iced, showing
the _mer de glace_ (the most difficult mare to mount on record, as “we
know who” would say), and the last batch of proselytes from the Egyptian
Hall sliding serenely down on their haunches, as wolves are _reported_
to do, only the proselytes appear to have got the “advantage” of the
wolves, by reason of their coat-tails. Scripture pieces, too, had some
of these rash amateurs perpetrated, wherein “daughters of Babylon”
appeared like the _corps de ballet_, and kings, prophets, and
patriarchs had evidently found their prototypes in Mario, Lablache,
and Tamburini--a fact which afforded Horace D’Almayne an opportunity of
observing that it was charming to perceive in England the amiability of
the Muses; as Apollo, the divinity of painting, instead of being driven
to rugged nature for materials, or, worse still, compelled to fall back
upon his own powers of invention, was obligingly supplied with them by
Melpomene and Thalia; which same he and Mr. Crane thought a very smart
saying--the former because he had made it himself, the latter because he
did not understand it.
As they strolled on through the gallery, Kate took an opportunity, when
Mr. Crane had relinquished her arm, in order to adjust his great-coat
more to his satisfaction, to lag behind a few paces, glancing at
D’Almayne as she did so, who immediately joined her.
“I have made the inquiry you wished,” he said in a low tone, “and I
am truly glad to be able to assure you your sympathy has fallen on a
deserving object; the poor woman is as she represented herself--a widow,
with a family of young children depending upon her for support, and her
poverty is extreme.”
“Many thanks for taking so much trouble,” returned Kate, in a tone of
voice more cordial than she generally used towards her companion; “and
now tell me how best I can assist them.”
“I have a plan, but can scarcely give you the details here; when would
it be agreeable to you to”--(here his eye rested for a moment on Mr.
Crane, contending with a button-hole)--“to resume the subject, and give
me your opinion on my scheme?”
Kate reflected a moment, during which she struggled with an instinctive
feeling, and deeming it reasonless, conquered it, then replied--
“If you should be disengaged at eleven o’clock to-morrow, and would look
in, I should be very much obliged to you.”
While this conversation passed between Kate and D’Almayne, they had
been themselves the subjects of observation to a party of strangers,
who, coming probably from the country, had not yet attuned their voices
to the requirements of London sightseeing. Accordingly, the following
remarks were distinctly audible to those for whom, of all others, they
were not intended.
“What a lovely young woman!” observed Mater Familias; “I suppose the
mustachioed gentleman is her _futur_.”
“She don’t look over loving at him, if he is,” grumbled Pater F.
“Perhaps that is because her father (regarding Mr. Crane) is so close,
and does not approve of the match,” suggested Sarah Jane, the eldest
daughter, to Louisa Anne, her sub----
“_Au contraire_,” remarked the intelligent London cousin, a clerk in
the Ignorance and Delay Office, who was popularly supposed to
know everything and everybody; “the old boy is a rich Manchester
cotton-spinner, and the young lady his wife; she married him for his
tin, and half London is raving about her beauty.”
“Poor thing!” muttered Mater Familias, who, for fifty-two, was
unusually romantic--“poor thing, how I pity her!”
While listening to these agreeable remarks, D’Almayne had kept his eyes
steadily fixed upon an amalgamated catalogue, desirous not to add
to Kate’s embarrassment; but at length, surprised at her silence and
immobility, he ventured to glance towards her, and was alarmed to
perceive that she had turned pale to her very lips, while she grasped
the brass rail, which was placed to protect the pictures, convulsively,
in order to save herself from falling. Any one with less tact than
D’Almayne would, in officious eagerness to assist her, have made a fuss,
and caused her to become the subject of general attention; but Horace
knew better how to turn the situation to account; handing her a chair,
he said quietly--
“The heat has made you feel faint; sit down for a moment, and perhaps
the feeling may pass off.”
As Kate hastened to follow his suggestion, she glanced towards him,
to read in his features whether he also had overheard the conversation
which had affected her. Whether his subtle intellect had led him to
divine her intention, and he was enacting the character he considered
most likely to tell with Kate, or whether he was merely obeying a
natural impulse, we do not attempt to decide; suffice it to state that,
when she looked at him, he was scowling after the amiable family, whose
conversation had caused the embarrassment, with so angry an expression
of countenance, that a fear seized his companion lest he should be about
to do something indignant and foolish, which might attract attention
to her, and produce the scene she dreaded. A moment’s reflection on
his cautious, prudent character, would have proved to her the
unreasonableness of such a fear; but she spoke without allowing herself
this--
“What are you going to do?” she said, in a hurried whisper: “you _can_
take no notice of--of----;” and unable to find words to express her
meaning, she paused in confusion. D’Almayne finished her sentence for
her:--
“----Of those people’s ignorance of the usages of society? No, I am
not so inconsiderate; pardon me that I allowed you to see my just
indignation, but for the moment I was completely carried away by
feeling. Now,” he continued, “if you can make the effort, let us join
the others; no one has, as yet, observed your indisposition.”
By way of reply, Kate rose and took his proffered arm.
“Get them away from this place,” she said, hurriedly; “I shall suffocate
if I remain here longer.”
Horace bowed assent, and after exchanging a few indifferent remarks with
Alice and Lord Alfred Courtland, turned to Mr. Crane, observing--
“Will you forgive me for pleading the cause of one of your new
carriage-horses? The coachman tells me it has a slight cough; and it
will scarcely tend to get rid of the ailment to wait too long in this
piercing east wind.”
“No, indeed,” cherupped Mr. Crane; “and a horse that cost a hundred and
thirty puns (he meant pounds!) must not be injured, even, if I may be
allowed to say so, to please the ladies.” And having spoken, straightway
he fell into a fidget; so that, in less than two minutes, the noble
productions of the Amalgamated Amateurs became as a dream of the past to
our _dramatis personæ_.
On reaching the street, with his wife hanging on his arm, Mr. Crane, ere
he placed her in the carriage, thus addressed his domestic--
“Why, coachman, you never told me one of the horses had a cough.”
As he spoke, Kate, perfectly understanding that the horse’s cough was an
invention of D’Almayne’s, to enable them to get away from the gallery in
accordance with her wishes, involuntarily glanced towards him. But
where manœuvring and _finesse_ were required, Horace was quite in his
element. Catching the attention of the servant (whom he had himself
recommended) by a fictitious attack of the malady under which the
quadruped was supposed to labour, he, by an almost imperceptible
contraction of the eyelid, telegraphed his wishes, ensuring their
fulfilment by suggestively tapping the silver head of his cane, to
express that in that metal should his compliance be rewarded; so Mr.
Crane was glibly informed that his horse had suffered under a bronchial
affection for about the space of four days, more or less; but that
he, the coachman, having applied an invaluable specific, known only to
himself, had not considered the matter sufficiently serious to trouble
his master withal;--for which reticence he bore meekly Mr. Crane’s
peevish rebuke, consoled by the expectation of five shillings the next
morning from Horace D’Almayne.
The polished boots of that good young man trod upon roses rather than
granite, as he ambled down Pall Mall; for, by means of those trifles
which make the sum of human things, he had achieved a great and
almost unhoped-for success--he had succeeded in establishing a private
understanding with the young and beautiful wife of the millionaire!