In this “tight little island,”--of which as a whole we are all so
proud, although it affords ample occupation for its public in grumbling
at its institutions, _viâ_ its _Times_ newspaper--the only season of the
year when fogs are not, and every day does not resemble a “washing-day”
on a large scale, the only period in fact when the country is endurable,
is the early summer. Thus the educated classes, whose well-balanced and
carefully developed minds enable them to arrive at sound conclusions,
and whose well-stored pockets render them free to come and go
untrammelled by pecuniary considerations, have bound themselves by the
laws of the tyrant Fashion to spend June and July in London, where they
simmer in hot rooms, when they should be in bed and asleep, until all
the goodness is boiled out of them--which new “theory of evil” beg to
offer to the notice of Miss Martineau, and all other speculative
minds anxious to elevate humanity by substituting earthly nonsense for
heavenly revelation. But however you may brick her up and smoke-dry her,
nature will assert herself, and, turning with disgust from oats at 40s.
the quarter in a mahogany manger, pine for green meat and a canter over
the spring turf. So a compromise has been effected between town and
country amusements, and horticultural _fêtes_ have been devised to
afford parboiled fashionables breathing time between their rounds of
dissipation, together with a gentle reminder of the “pleasures of the
plains,” which they are sacrificing to their craving for unnatural
excitement. Horticultural _fêtes_ are brought about in this wise: Early
in the inclemency of a British spring, while London is shivering over
its fondly cherished fire, that noun of multitude perceives in the first
column of its _Times_ a notice that members of the Horticultural Society
may obtain tickets at privileged prices until some specified day;
thereupon All-London writes to its particular friend the M. H. S. for
an “order,” and the member vouching by implication for All-London’s
standing and respectability--into which he has probably gone no deeper
than its coat--All-London besieges the office of that floral autocrat,
Dr. Lindley, and clamours for tickets, crying “Give, give,” and
insatiable as the daughter of the horse-leech. Having at length obtained
its desire, All-London buttons up its great-coat and waits timidly but
eagerly for the first Horticultural. But the London season is an outrage
upon, and an insult to nature, and nature takes her change out of the
first Horticultural; it is a pouring wet day, Chiswick becomes Keswick,
and the Duke of Devonshire’s grounds, yielding to hydraulic pressure,
cease to be dry grounds any longer. Dr. Lindley... we have not the
pleasure of that gentleman’s personal acquaintance, but we can imagine
Dr. Lindley feels disappointed and... expresses it. Then All-London
exchanges its greatcoat for a paletot, and looks forward with a timid
anxiety to the second Horticultural, which being in June enjoys the
advantage of April weather, and is only showery, so the boldest
quarter of London goes, from the Herbert Fitz-tip-tops, careless of the
bronchial tubes of their serving-men and carriage-horses, down to the
Robinson Joneses, safe in the immunity of a hack brougham, driver, and
horse--a long-suffering trio, so accustomed to wait in the rain, that
use has become a second nature to these amphibious hirelings. Our
enterprising pleasure-seekers come back ere dewy eve, and say that,
considering the fact that flowers won’t blow out of doors in cold
weather, and that the gravel was a swamp, and the turf a morass, the
tents very hot, and the east wind very cold, and that there was
nobody there except a few dreadful people, who really ought not to be
anywhere--(Mrs. Robinson Jones was actually pushed up against Mr. Cutlet
and his rib, her own butcher, who makes a clear £2000 a-year, while
genteel Robinson Jones scarcely averages £1500 at the Bar; but what
does that signify?)--and that the female Quarter-of-London had got the
ridiculous soles of its little French shoes wet through in five minutes,
and had felt a tightness at its chest ever since; allowing for these
and several other slight drawbacks, it really was not such a complete
failure after all! But even English weather has its bright side;
and, content with taking the shine out of the first two, on the third
Horticultural _fête_ the sun seems resolved to come out strong, and,
setting parasols at defiance, imprint his burning kisses on the pale
features of all the pretty women in town, like an ardent old luminary as
he is. And All-London, finding that it really is a beautiful day,
puts on its best bib and tucker, and takes its wife and daughters to
Chiswick. Where the roads are watered they are very muddy, where they
are not watered they are dusty; and as the dust sticks to the carriages,
and the dust sticks to the mud, and the horses get first very hot
going there, then very cold waiting there, and the pole of every
other carriage invariably runs through the back panel of the vehicle
immediately preceding it, coachmen are not, as a general rule, fond of
the third Horticultural; but nothing _can_ please everybody, and
these Flower-shows “please the ladies” (to quote Mr. Crane’s favourite
phrase), and that is the great point after all. It was probably with
a view to “pleasing the ladies” that Mr. Crane had thought proper to
invest capital in half a dozen Horticultural tickets--seeing that his
own horticultural tastes were confined to drinking Sherry-cobbler in
an arbour, whenever such a privilege was vouchsafed to him, and his
knowledge limited to the capability of discriminating between a cabbage
and a cauliflower. The weather having been such as we have described it
during the first and second _fêtes_--on both which occasions Mr. Crane
bewailed the useless expense into which his gallantry had seduced him,
with a truly touching degree of pathos--these tickets remained unused
until the third and last flower-show, when “the face of all nature
looking gay,” and “bright Phoebus” obligingly condescending to “adorn
the hills,” the ex-cotton-spinner and his spouse, Harry Coverdale and
Alice, together with Arabella Crofton, availed themselves of five of
them--Horace D’Almayne quietly pocketing the sixth in a fit of mental
(and physical) abstraction. They were to start at a quarter before two,
as Mr. Crane always preferred being early on all occasions; but at a
quarter before two, when the carriages drew up to the door, Alice was
not ready, and moreover it was Alice’s own fault that she was not ready;
and thus it fell out. Lord Alfred Courtland played the flute well for so
young a man, and an amateur; since he had been in town, a talented
professor instructed him in this art, who was an exiled patriot--that is
to say, he and several other ardent young men had attempted one fine
morning to take their “Fatherland” away from the gentleman in
possession, and give it to the Secret-blood-and-bones-united-brother
band--the same being a pet name by which they saw fit to call
themselves. What they would have done with their fatherland, if they had
got it, neither do they, nor does any one else appear to have the least
idea; but this difficulty of disposing of their country was fortunately
spared them, as their enterprise consisted simply of a stroll along the
principal street of their native city, in company with a drum and a
little red flag, bearing the cheerful device of a skull and cross-bones,
with the motto, “Death to Tyrants!” which stroll continued until they
accidentally encountered a company of soldiers, who conveyed them--drum,
flag, and all--to the state prison, where they were detained, until it
being discovered that they were eating their heads off, the authorities
exiled them, to save their keep. Herr Hildebrand Tootletoot-zakoffski,
one of this devoted band, had brought his Polish sorrows and his German
flute to England, and between them both managed to make a much more
comfortable income than tyranny had hitherto allowed him to enjoy under
the mildewed institutions of his own blighted country. For the rest he
was a mild little man, addicted to conversing on music and patriotism
with a sort of washy sentimentality, which enabled him to pass as an
individual of refined tastes and cultivated mind with those who did not
look beyond the surface; personally he rejoiced in a complexion as of
bad putty, and an amount of heroic beard and moustaches which would have
stuffed a chair-cushion very comfortably. And being such as we have
described him, Herr Hildebrand--an acquaintance of and introduced by
Horace D’Almayne, who, in his multifarious occupations, may have been a
banded-brother, for aught we know to the contrary--had suggested to Lord
Alfred Courtland the great advantage it would be to him in his, the
professor’s, talented absence, if he, Lord Alfred, could find any
amiable pianiste of his acquaintance, able and willing to play duets
with him, to “improve his time;” and as he said this in the presence of
and immediately after a _tête-à-tête_ with Horace D’Almayne, it really
was scarcely necessary for that judicious mentor to suggest to his
lordship pretty little Mrs. Coverdale, although to guard against
mistakes he did so. Thus Alfred Courtland and Alice had played a good
many duets in Park Lane; and on the morning in question, luncheon being
announced in the middle of one of these interesting performances half an
hour sooner than usual, to guard against the possibility of anybody’s
being too late, Alice, feeling by this time quite at home in her
cousin’s house, coolly told Lord Alfred to come down and partake of the
mid-day meal, as she was resolved to finish the duet after it was over,
before she went to dress, and if they made haste she was sure there was
plenty of time. But time unfortunately is one of those stubborn facts
with which it is impossible to take a liberty without suffering for
one’s rashness; and although the latter part of the duet was rattled
through with a Costa-like rapidity, which elicited from his breathless
lordship an acknowledgment that “it is the pace that kills,” yet when
all the rest of the party were assembled, Alice was only half dressed.
Then, as was his wont on such occasions, Mr. Crane fell into a fretful
fuss, and trotted up and down the room, and made everybody fidgety and
uncomfortable, especially Harry, who was provoked with Mr. Crane for
being annoyed with Alice, and with Alice for having given him cause for
annoyance.
“There is a quiet way of arranging the matter, my dear sir,” he said;
“let those who are ready start in the barouche, and I will wait and
drive Alice in the mail-phaeton.”
“Yes, and then we shall never meet at the gardens, and never all come
away at the same time, and my arrangements will be completely subverted,
and everything will go wrong,” whined Mr. Crane. On this Harry ran up to
hasten Alice, and Alice, who was attiring herself at express speed, was
cross, and snubbed him out of the room, and he rejoined the company in
the drawing-room with compressed lips and an angry flush on each cheek;
and Arabella Crofton favoured him with a glance of intelligent pity,
which, if it were intended to soothe his wounded spirit, failed in its
effect most signally. After the lapse of an awful ten minutes, by the
expiration of which period Mr. Crane was on the verge of tears,
the culprit Alice made her appearance, looking very pretty, but not
altogether as penitent as might have been desired; but as she said in a
cheerful tone that she “really was quite distressed at having kept them
all waiting,” we will hope she felt more than she allowed to appear.
Then arose a debate and confusion of tongues and opinions as to how
the party was to divide. Harry offered to drive the phaeton, Mr. Crane
having privately hinted that such an arrangement would meet with his
approval,--who was to accompany him? Harry suggested his own wife,
meaning to treat her to a gentle reproof on the road for her want of
consideration in having kept a whole party waiting merely to finish a
silly duet with that boy Alfred Courtland. But Kate disapproved of this
arrangement--perhaps because she had begun to suspect that the Coverdale
couple did not always in “their little nest agree,” and had read in
Harry’s flashing eyes warning of a perturbed spirit. Whether Alice’s
conscience led her to the same result we do not pretend to decide, but
for some reason she seconded her cousin until she discovered that by
doing so Arabella Crofton would be her substitute, by which time the
affair was settled beyond her power of altering. Her annoyance would
have been sensibly diminished, however, if she could have known that
the arrangement was if possible more distasteful to her husband than to
herself, but unfortunately there was no _clairvoyant_ at hand to afford
her this desirable intelligence. Having handed up his companion, and
done all that his chivalrous nature taught him was due from a gentleman
to _any_ woman entrusted to his care, and nothing farther, Harry
gathered up his reins, placed himself by Miss Crofton’s side in the
phaeton, and sitting bolt upright, drove off with an unapproachable
expression of face, which indicated, as plainly as words could have
done, his resolve not to advance beyond monosyllables until they reached
Chiswick. But Harry was in such matters no match for the astute woman of
the world who sat beside him. Apparently falling in with his humour she
leaned back in the carriage, and the only sign she gave of her
presence was an occasional sigh, which escaped her, as it appeared,
involuntarily. Before they had proceeded far, however, they encountered
the peripatetic theatre of that inconvenient humourist, dear old
Punch, with his private band pop-going-the-weasel like an harmonious
steam-engine; whereof the horses (the identical pair which had run away
with Harry and Alice in the early spring-time of their courtship, and
which Mr. Crane still retained, although he carefully avoided
driving them himself)--preferring probably a more classical style of
music--began to express their disapprobation by plunging violently,
nearly dashing the phaeton against a coal waggon, a catastrophe which
nothing but the most consummate skill on the part of their driver could
have averted. As Coverdale succeeded in reducing the rebellious steeds
to order, he could not help involuntarily glancing at his companion to
ascertain how the incident had affected her. She was leaning forward,
her attitude and the expression of her features indicated excitement and
interest rather than terror, while her fine eyes, dilated and sparkling
with a more than ordinary lustre, were fixed upon his countenance with
looks of unmistakable admiration. Courage, or as he would have termed it
“pluck,” especially in a woman, where he considered it as an “additional
attraction,” while in a man it was simply a _sine quâ non_, always
delighted Harry Coverdale; and, being as innocent and natural as a
child, he could no more help expressing his sentiments, than he could
exist without inhaling vital air.
“Well, I never did see such nerve in a woman!” he exclaimed; “why you
look pleased rather than frightened! not that there was any danger,
except of damaging Mr. Crane’s near hind wheel. They don’t bit these
horses properly, and that white-nosed animal hasn’t the tenderest mouth
at the best of times.” And as he spoke he administered a smartish
cut across the ears as a practical comment on the delinquent’s oral
insensibility.
“You are such a good whip,” was the reply, “and it always interests me
to see brute force controlled by skill, energy, and strength of will.
You guide these fiery horses with such a calm sense of power, that I
could never feel afraid when you were driving me.”
Miss Crofton was decidedly a clever woman; if there was one thing on
which in his secret soul Harry prided himself, it was on his driving;
and this practical compliment, standing as it unfortunately did in
somewhat marked contrast to his wife’s feminine dislike of certain
contentions with “queer tempered” horses, which had at odd times come
in for a specimen of Coverdale’s “quiet manner,” appealed to his
weak point--he was mortal, and it touched him, and at the touch his
taciturnity vanished, and straightway he began to confide to his
dangerous companion all his most secret thoughts and feelings in regard
to----bitting hard-mouthed horses. It seemed an unlikely topic for
Arabella to make much of, and yet she allowed him to run on, listening
with a smile of pleased attention; for though his talk was solely
equestrian, yet it served as well as any other subject to melt away the
icy barrier behind which Harry had hitherto entrenched himself, and thus
effectually defended himself against all attempts at a renewal of the
former intimacy which appeared to have existed between them. Having
explained completely to his own satisfaction the advantage which in the
instance under consideration would be gained by driving “brown muzzle”
up at the “cheek,” and the white-nosed horse in the “lower-bar,”
together with copious notes, descriptive and explanatory, and
voluminous annotations and reflections on this momentous question, Harry
metaphorically resumed his seat amid continued cheering, and Arabella
Crofton rose in reply. Of course she started on horses, to which she
soon attached carriages, by means of which she in an incredibly short
time contrived to ride back to Italy, and finding Harry stood it better
than she expected, she continued in a voice indicative of deep but
repressed feeling--
“Ah! that was a strange, strange summer we passed there! And yet, now I
can calmly look back upon it, there were many happy hours, bright, sunny
little bits, to set against the deep shadows of such a life as mine,
times when I enjoyed the privilege of your friendship, before”--and here
her voice faltered--“before I forfeited that and everything, even my
self-respect, by my own mad folly!”
She paused in emotion, and her companion replied in a kind, frank
manner,--
“Why distress yourself by reviving a disagreeable reminiscence?” (as
he used the word a slight shudder seemed to convulse her, and a look
of pain, but not the pain of contrition, flitted across her handsome
features)--“an affair which I have, as I promised you, practically
forgotten, which I should never again have entered upon with you, and in
regard to which my lips are sealed to every other living creature.”
“You are kind and generous-hearted, as you ever were,” was the
rejoinder, “but I cannot forget so readily”--here she paused, sighed
deeply, then continued--“I am so glad to have had this--this
conversation with you; your manner has been so cold and stern, I was
afraid you had repented of your promise that if we ever met again it
should be as friends.”
“Well, you see,” returned Harry, in an embarrassed tone, “you see
circumstances have changed with me since the time to which you refer;
and I thought--in fact, you yourself said in that note it would be
better--I assure you I meant nothing unkind, why should I? as long as
you----” and here, having been on the point of “putting his foot in it,”
as he mentally paraphrased his colloquial _étourderie_, Harry paused
in confusion, actually blushing in his generous fear of wounding his
companion’s feelings. Having relieved his embarrassment by giving that
unfortunate scapegoat, the white-nosed horse, one more for himself, he
resumed--“And now let me ask you whether you approve of the wife I have
chosen?”
Harry made this inquiry, not because he felt particularly anxious
to learn Arabella’s opinion of Alice, but because he wanted to say
something, and this was the first idea which occurred to him, thus the
moment he had spoken he wished the speech unsaid. Miss Crofton hesitated
for a moment ere she replied, in a slightly constrained tone of voice--
“Your choice does your taste credit; for, in her style, Mrs. Coverdale
is singularly pretty, and I can imagine her very attractive--when she
pleases.”
“You speak as if she had not pleased, in your case,” rejoined Harry,
smiling at the unmistakable emphasis with which the concluding words had
been spoken. Miss Crofton smiled also; then with a melancholy expression
she replied--
“In my anomalous position in life, I am too well accustomed to slights
to feel a moment’s annoyance at such trifles.”
“But it annoys me though,” returned Coverdale, firing up with the
indignation all generous natures feel at the idea of indignity being
offered to any one in a dependent situation. “I am surprised at such
want of right feeling, or even common courtesy, in Alice! She cannot be
aware of the impression her manner has made on you. I shall speak to her
about it.”
“Do not think of such a thing!” exclaimed Arabella, hastily; “it was
folly in me to mention it:”--she fixed her eyes on his face, and reading
there that his resolution was unchanged, she laid her hand gently on his
arm, and continued. “Listen, and I will tell you the whole truth: womanly
instinct, I suppose, made your wife dislike me from the first moment she
was introduced to me. I have tried in vain to conquer her dislike,
and we now, by a sort of tacit consent, avoid each other; were you to
interfere in my behalf, it would be of no avail; on the contrary,
it would increase the evil, and, pardon my saying, might lead to a
disagreement between you; for, I may be mistaken, but I have fancied
Mrs. Coverdale appears a little impatient of control sometimes--I hope I
am mistaken.”
She waited for a reply; but Harry, not being able to deny the charge,
and not choosing to assent to it, remained silent, and she, rightly
interpreting his reserve, continued:--
“In that case, I implore you, do not dream of advocating my cause. Were
I to be the occasion of any difference between you, it would render me
most unhappy.”
After a moment’s silence, she added--
“I was so much interested when I heard you were going to be married, and
hoped, nay prayed, that you might be as happy as I would--would always
have you. I am grieved to think that Mrs. Coverdale should not fully
appreciate the prize she has drawn in that most uncertain of all
lotteries, marriage; but I feel sure she will learn to understand you
better, and all will come right: you are evidently much attached to her,
and that being the case, she _must_ love you.” Then in a lower tone she
added--“_You_ are not one likely to love in vain.”
What reply, if any, Harry would have made to this speech, will never be
known, as at that minute they entered the line of carriages setting down
at the gate of the Chiswick Gardens, and Coverdale had enough to occupy
him in preventing his excitable horses from committing a breach of the
peace. Whether or no the phaeton groom was an observant man we cannot
say, but if he felt the degree of amiable interest usually displayed by
domestic servants in the affairs of their superiors, he must have been
struck when mentally contrasting Mr. Coverdale’s manner of handing Miss
Crofton into and out of that open carriage by an immense accession of
cordiality, for which he was probably more puzzled to account than we
trust the reader finds himself.