“We have somehow contrived to lose sight of the barouche,” exclaimed
Coverdale, after looking up and down the line of carriages in vain; “I
expect they must have escaped us when that white-nosed horse shyed at
Punch; I fancied I knew which way they had turned, but I must have gone
down a wrong street--poor old Crane will be in fits--I wonder what we
had better do?”
“What I should suggest is to walk slowly backwards and forwards inside
the gate, and watch for their arrival,” returned Arabella, wishing in
her secret soul that one of the barouche-horses might have fallen dead
lame, or that any other catastrophe, not involving injury to life or
limb, might have befallen the rest of the party.
After parading up and down with most laudable perseverance for nearly
half an hour, during which time the crowd grew thicker and thicker,
and everybody arrived except the party they were in search of, Harry
suddenly exclaimed,--
“You’ll be tired to death with all this pushing and squeezing; they must
have come some shorter way, and got here before us; let us go on to the
conservatory, we shall meet them there, I dare say.”
When they reached the conservatory, however, they found the crowd so
dense that to attempt to discover their missing friends would have
involved a difficulty, beside which that popular definition of a forlorn
hope, “looking for a needle in a bottle of hay,” would have sunk into
comparative insignificance. There were a couple of chairs near the exit
from the conservatory, from which a lady and gentleman rose as they
approached.
“Suppose we take possession of those seats,” suggested Arabella, “and
watch the people as they come out; I must honestly confess I am both hot
and tired.”
“I sympathise in the first adjective,” returned Harry, taking off his
hat to allow the air to cool his heated brow; “I’ve walked up hill
through heather on the moors for six hours at a stretch, and not been
so warm as this; but then I must own I was in better condition; one eats
too many dinners in London, don’t you see, and can’t get exercise enough
to keep a fellow in working order.”
Having made a suitable reply to this and sundry other thoroughly Harry
Coverdale-ish remarks, Miss Crofton turned the conversation by asking--
“Pray, is that Mr. D’Almayne a particular favourite of yours?”
“Not a bit of it,” was the unhesitating reply; “rather the other thing,
in fact. I consider him a confounded puppy; and have what you ladies
call a presentiment that some of these days I shall be obliged to give
him a lesson which he will not forget in a hurry.”
“Then you also have observed--” began Arabella.
“I have observed nothing in particular,” interrupted Harry, quickly;
“but I know this, if I were old Crane I would not have an insufferable,
ridiculous, young fop dangling about my house every day, and all day
long.”
“I think it is silly and imprudent in Kate to allow it,” returned
Arabella, “and I ventured to tell her so, but she did not take the hint
kindly, and I have not attempted to recur to the subject. I am afraid
her marriage has not improved her; I really believe since I spoke to her
she has been kinder to Mr. D’Almayne than before; he and his insinuating
young friend, Lord Alfred Courtland, have almost lived in Park Lane this
last week.”
“_His_ friend!” exclaimed Harry, “little Alfred is my friend--he and I
were at school together--that is, he was at the bottom when I was at the
top; I introduced him to D’Almayne myself, and now I wish I had left it
alone; oh, there’s no harm in little Alfred--besides, I never heard him
speak a dozen words to Kate Crane.” A meaning smile passed across his
companion’s handsome features, but she only said,--
“I am sorry he is your friend; I am afraid Mr. D’Almayne is a dangerous
acquaintance for so vain and weak a young man.”
“Alfred is no fool, though perhaps firmness is not his strong point,”
returned Coverdale; “vain perhaps he is--all handsome boys are, I
suppose. But why do you say you are sorry he is my friend?”
Miss Crofton was silent for a minute, then in a timid and hesitating
voice replied,--
“You will be angry with me if I tell you my reason for disliking Lord
Alfred’s constant visits; you will doubt what I say, and impute to me
all kinds of false and evil motives for saying it.”
“Go on,” returned Harry, in a low, stern voice, “you have said too much
for me to rest satisfied not to hear more--tell me _all_ you know or
suspect; but take care--if, as you say, you value my good opinion--that
you speak only the simple truth.”
Thus urged, Miss Crofton proceeded cautiously to relate, that much as it
grieved her to say anything which might cause him pain or annoyance,
she would not disguise from him that she felt convinced Lord Alfred
Courtland was deeply smitten with Alice, and that his frequent visits
to Park Lane were the result of his admiration--that, moreover, Horace
D’Almayne was evidently doing his best to nurse what had been a mere
boyish fancy into a warmer and stronger feeling; of his motive she
was unable to judge, but of the fact she was certain; she believed,
moreover, that he possessed a strong and daily increasing influence over
the young man.
“And Alice?” inquired Coverdale, with flashing eyes, “what of Alice?
Beware how you tell me that she encourages this misguided, foolish boy!
for by heaven, if you do, and it should appear that you have misjudged
her, I should be tempted to inform her and all the world the reason
which has induced you to invent such malicious calumnies!”
“You wrong me by your unkind suspicions,” was Arabella’s calm reply, “as
much as you wrong yourself by an ungenerous threat which you would be
incapable of executing; it is not for me to judge Mrs. Coverdale one way
or the other. I have satisfied my conscience in warning you; I leave
you now to examine and observe for yourself, and test the truth of my
statement--but of one thing I am certain, Horace D’Almayne has some deep
scheme _in petto_, and that he is an unscrupulous adventurer, clever
enough to render him a most dangerous associate for any one--a person to
beware of, in short.”
“If I become convinced he is putting young Alfred up to any such
rascality as you imagine, I’ll break the scoundrel’s neck for him!”
growled Coverdale, in a tone like the rumbling of distant thunder.
As he spoke some one touched him on the shoulder, and looking round, he
was more surprised than pleased to see the object of his kind intentions
standing behind the chair on which he was seated. How long he might have
been there, or how much of their conversation he might have heard, it
was impossible to tell; but so convinced was Coverdale that D’Almayne
had been playing the eavesdropper, that he was on the point of inquiring
what amount of information he had thus acquired, and especially whether
he had clearly understood the fate that awaited him, if he were really
inciting “little Alfred” to make love to his wife, when D’Almayne, who
possessed a womanly predilection for always having the first and last
word, began--
“Pardon me if I interrupt what appears a most interesting conversation,
but I have been hunting all over the gardens for the last half-hour
to find you. Mr. Crane imagines you have eloped with his phaeton and
horses, and Mrs. Coverdale is so completely _au désespoir_ at the
loss of her husband, that even Lord Alfred Courtland’s attentions are
powerless to console her;--really, Miss Crofton, it is too cruel of you
to seduce Benedick from his allegiance to his Beatrice--you might be
content with enslaving us poor bachelors!”
This speech was not particularly palatable to Arabella, and she would
probably have passed it over in contemptuous silence had she not glanced
at Coverdale; but, perceiving by his flashing eye and quivering lip that
he was so angry that he literally dared not trust himself to reply,
she hastened to prevent anything unpleasant occurring between them, by
observing in her usual calm, slightly sarcastic manner--
“It is like Mr. D’Almayne’s policy to screen himself by throwing the
blame on the injured party. We have been roaming up and down like
restless ghosts, hunting for Mrs. Crane and Mrs. Coverdale for the last
half-hour--ever since we arrived, in fact, until I grew so tired, that
out of compassion Mr. Coverdale allowed me to sit down and rest.”
“One word, Mr. D’Almayne,” interrupted Harry, regardless of an imploring
look and gentle pressure of the arm from Arabella Crofton, “you made a
joke (for I suppose you do not wish me to consider you spoke seriously)
about my wife a minute ago; now I’m a quick-tempered fellow--touchy you
may call it, upon some points, and this happens to be one of them; so
to prevent anything disagreeable, I tell you frankly _I don’t like such
jokes_--you understand?”
Horace _did_ understand; he glanced at Harry’s face. The handsome mouth
was sternly compressed--the small, well-cut nostril quivered, and the
large dark eyes flashed with the anger he could scarcely restrain, his
tall form was drawn up to its full height--his broad chest dilated,
and the muscles stood out on his stalwart arms until their shape became
visible beneath the “Zephyr Paletot;” altogether, Coverdale did not look
just then the kind of man with whom it would be pleasant to quarrel: so
D’Almayne, deeming “discretion the better part of valour,” smiled, and
said something which might mean anything, and conveyed a clear idea of
nothing, in his most fascinating manner, and then piloted his companions
to the spot where he had agreed on a rendezvous at a certain time with
the Crane party. They had not yet made their appearance, however, and
D’Almayne (who, since Harry gave him the “caution” conveyed in his last
speech, had evinced a marked desire to keep on good terms with, and
out of arms reach of, so dangerous an acquaintance), guessing their
whereabouts, volunteered to go and fetch them.
“Pray do not quarrel with that man,” urged Arabella, as D’Almayne
quitted them; “you are as little his equal in scheming and manœuvring,
as he is yours in strength and courage, and for this reason he is more
to be dreaded than if he were a very Hercules; do not lose your temper
with him, for by so doing you will put yourself in the wrong and play
his game; come, be guided by me in this matter; believe me, my only
object is to secure your happiness.”
As she spoke, she looked up in his face with such an expression of
interest, not to say affection, that Coverdale, whose anger at the worst
was always a very evanescent affair, felt an impulse of pity for her,
which appeared in the softened tones of his voice, as he replied:--
“Don’t be afraid; I’m not going to give him his deserts at present, and
I’m very sorry I spoke harshly to you just now; but I know Alice to
be so good, and true, and pure--innocent and spotless as a child (by
heaven, the slightest blow to my faith in her would drive me mad!), and
the mere mention of that foolish boy supposing her to be a fit recipient
for his romantic sentimental nonsense, made me lose my temper: but you
need not fear my doing anything hasty. I shall, as you advise, observe
Alfred Courtland, and if, as I feel certain, his attentions annoy Alice,
I shall speak to him seriously and kindly (I know the boy has a good
heart, and that it is D’Almayne who has set him on this business, if he
_is_ set on it); then, finding I am aware of it, his fancy will die a
natural death; but I have little expectation that my preaching will be
required. Alice’s indifference will work the best cure.”
As he spoke, the Crane party came in sight, Kate and her husband leading
the van, closely attended by Horace D’Almayne; while, at some little
distance behind them, lingered Alice on the arm of Lord Alfred
Courtland. As they came up, he was addressing her in an earnest,
pleading manner. Alice appeared thoughtful and _distraite_, but the
moment her eye fell upon Harry and Miss Crofton she started, coloured
up, and turning to her companion, said in a hurried, eager tone--
“Such constancy and perseverance, my lord, deserve rewarding,” and as she
spoke she gave him a rosebud she carried in her hand, which he fastened
in his button-hole with an expression of eager delight.
Alice’s words and action were neither of them lost upon her husband or
his companion.