Lady Tattersall Trottemout lived in the Brompton and Kensington region,
and knew everybody. Her deceased papa had walked into Manchester
some fifty years since, with a good head on his shoulders, and
fourpence-halfpenny in his breeches-pocket. Being tired with his walk,
he sat down in Manchester, and rested there for the space of forty
years, during which time, by a process peculiar to that city, his
fourpence-halfpenny grew into an hundred and forty thousand pounds. Unto
him was born, in lawful wedlock, one only daughter, the subject of the
present brief memoir, who, on his retirement to “t’ Oud Churchyard” (as,
in his Lancashire dialect, he was accustomed to denominate his final
resting-place in the burial-ground of the Collegiate Church), inherited
the fourpence-halfpenny and its compound interest; with which, when
her mourning for her father was ended, she purchased Sir Tattersall
Trottemout. This noble baronet, who was by no means worth the price
she gave for him, had been essentially a fast man, and had run through
everything he could lay his “blood-red hand” upon--his own fortune and
the fortunes of several of his relations included--and when they were
all gone and spent, he ran through his reputation; which last “rapid
act” did not take him long, as that “bubble” was not as “wide as a
church-door, nor deep as a draw-well,” when he began upon it. Thus,
finding himself under a cloud and in difficulties--the only things he
had yet encountered which he could not run through (the good old days
of “pinking” one’s tailor instead of paying him being unfortunately
past)--Sir T. T. felt that his time was come, and that he must prepare
his mind for another--that is, a married--life. So, _ætatis_ forty-five,
he went into dock, dyed his hair and whiskers, purchased a new set
of teeth, laid in a stock of patent leather boots, and ran down to
Manchester to captivate an heiress. The respectable owner of the
enlarged and embellished fourpence-halfpenny had, at that epoch, been
about one year _under_ the turf which his future son-in-law had been
_on_ for above twenty; and his orphan daughter, of sweet nineteen,
was immediately smitten and wounded by the aristocratic appearance and
distinguished manners of the broken-down titled blackleg who sought
her... fortune. She, being then a simple-minded, honest girl, absurd
as it may appear, loved the creature; and, despite the advice of several
kind-hearted, strong-headed, fearfully vulgar old men, who were her
trustees, guardians, legal advisers, &c. &c. (policemen, so to
speak, appointed by the lamented deceased to prevent his developed
fourpence-halfpenny being prematurely reduced to its pristine elements),
this young lady vowed she would marry Sir Tattersall Trottemout--and did
so. But, as the baronet’s talent for running through any amount of
cash was rumoured even at Manchester, the ancient policemen tied up the
fourpence-halfpenny so tightly that nobody could manufacture ducks
and drakes with it--not even Sir Tat. Trott.: so, after a few abortive
attempts, that ornament to his order gave up his evil courses, and
settled down quietly on cigars, brandy and water, and whist with
half-crown points--a notable example of the reformatory powers of
matrimony. His lady-wife went through the usual agreeable process of
awaking from “Love’s young dream,” and discovering that, after the
manner of Caliban, she had, in her simplicity,--
“Made a wonder of a poor drunkard,”
she, like a sensible woman, resolved to put up with her bad bargain,
keep her husband in respectable order, and create or discover some fresh
interest in life for herself. In accordance with this determination, she
restricted the marital cigars and brandy and water to certain definite
limits; tested several phases of London society; and then took her line,
and chose her associates accordingly. Being an intellectual woman, and
having literary taste up to a certain point, she affected the society
of artists of all classes, and in every department of art. Thus, at her
_soirees_, you might meet literary men of various species: historians,
novelists, journalists, critics, _et hoc genus omne_; painters,
sculptors, musicians; the leading actors of the day, male and
female,--in fact, all the celebrities whom the London season delighteth
to honour. But, knowing that talent requires an intelligent audience,
Lady Tattersall Trottemout associated a certain proportion of the
_profanum vulgus_ to worship her collected divinities. Her parties,
therefore, soon became noted as the most agreeable of their kind; and to
one of these meetings, in which dancing was to be the chief feature of
the evening, were our friends in Park Lane invited. Harry had promised
Alice that, if it were possible, he would return to escort her to
this notable gathering; however, on the appointed evening, ten o’clock
arrived, but no Coverdale. Alice was rather frightened and considerably
annoyed, but Kate persuaded her that there was no just cause for alarm;
and so, leaving a note for Harry, begging him to join them, if he should
arrive in time to make it worth while to do so, they proceeded to the
“spacious mansion” of Lady Tattersall Trottemout.
For some time, little Mrs. Coverdale was sufficiently amused by
observing the appearance, manners, and customs of the various
notabilities, as they were pointed out to her by no less a personage
than her hostess, who, attracted by the simple beauty of her new
acquaintance, and the evident pleasure and interest she took in all
that was going on around her, actually devoted to her ten minutes of
the valuable time in which, on such occasions, a clever mistress of the
house is expected, and actually contrives, to say and do something
civil to an hundred and fifty human beings, all prepared to magnify
any accidental neglect into an intended slight, and to resent it
accordingly. But, ere ten minutes had well elapsed, an illustrious
stranger arrived, who was so intensely foreign that he could not be
prevailed upon to speak or understand any language of which the deepest
philologists present were able to make head or tail, and who, in his
consequent bewilderment, had seated himself on the music-stool, with
his back towards the key-board of the pianoforte--thereby establishing a
complete blockade of that harmonious and indispensable instrument, which
no representations in French, German, or Italian, could induce him to
relinquish: so a breathless female aide-de-camp, in flaxen ringlets
and white muslin, hurried up to report this frightful dilemma to
the commandress-in-chief, who, with the greatest presence of mind,
dispatched her to summon Count Cacklewitz, the young Hungarian patriot,
who, it was generally believed, could speak everything, even his
own language, and then hastened in person to raise the siege of the
piano-forte. Alice, thus deserted, fell into the hands of a tall, gaunt,
blue woman, rejoicing in a red nose and a long fluent tongue, who began
to talk high art to her, and confused her about transcendentalism and
Carlyle,--_the_ Oxford Graduate (viz., Turner’s single and singular
disciple, wonderful Mr. Buskin), and pre-Raphaelism,--the meaning of
Tennyson, when he condescends to be obscure (for he _can_ write real
poetry, which “he who runs may read” and feel),--and of the dark
Brownings, and Macaulay and the romance of history, and many other
hackneyed pseudo-literary topics of the day, until our unlucky little
heroine lapsed into that state of mental incapacity usually described as
not knowing whether one is standing on one’s head or one’s heels. Then
began vocal music, which mercifully silenced Alice’s strong-minded
persecutor; and a rather raffish baritone gentleman, who wanted shearing
dreadfully, and was all voice, eyes, and feathers, like a lean bird,
accosted a singularly hard-featured, middle-aged German lady, as “Oh!
thou beloved one!” to which she made an appropriately tender _soprano_
reply; and the company listened with much forbearance, for quite ten
minutes, to the united affections of this interesting couple, detailed
to an accompaniment now rapturous, now pathetic, at the end of which
period they both suddenly exalted their voices, bellowed their love at
each other in one final outburst of sympathetic insanity, and subsided
into a refreshing silence. Then a young lady in a pink sash informed
the company that her brain was on fire, her heart consuming, and her
digestive organs generally in a state of spontaneous combustion, because
her fatherland writhed in the grasp of tyrants--“tra la, tra lira
la!”--which unpleasant state of affairs was much applauded by hairy
exiles, with microscopic washing bills, which they never paid, and a
monomania in regard to freedom, which they never obtained, but which had
kept them in hot water (the only water they patronized) from their youth
upwards. Lastly, a very mild young gentleman of England excited himself
about some “Rivar! rivar! shining rivar!” into which pellucid stream he
kept putting his foot “deeper and deeper still,” until every one was so
sorry for him, that the whole party appeared on the verge of hysterics,
and were forced to conceal their emotion behind fans, flounced
pocket-handkerchiefs, and white-gloved hands. Then the votaries of
Terpsichore stood at ease upon their light fantastic toes (except in
the cases of tightly-shod martyrs), and polking was the order of the
night--at which period Alice looked about and wondered what had become
of Lord Alfred Courtland, who had said a great deal on the subject of
the delight he expected in dancing with her, and had engaged her hand
for the first polka.
Now, whether any strictly moral reader, with that bad opinion of poor
human nature which very strict morality usually induces, has decided
that “every woman is at heart a rake,” and believed our little
heroine about to prove herself a “dreadful creature,” and transfer her
affections from her lawful husband to her unlawful admirer, we do
not know; but if any reader has set his (or her) heart on such a
consummation, we are sorry to be obliged to inform him that he is
mistaken. Alice considered Lord Alfred a good-natured agreeable boy,
whose conversation served to amuse her, and to whose society she had
become accustomed; she would a thousand times rather have talked to
Harry at any time, but Harry was not always attainable--indeed, the
chances were generally against her seeing anything of him from breakfast
till dinner-time, and then Lord Alfred became a very good and safe
substitute.
But the first polka was over, and a _valse à deux temps_ followed
it, neither of which Alice danced, and still no Harry, no Lord Alfred
appeared; and in despair she was obliged to say Yes to a heavy cornet in
the Life-Guards, who was big enough to eat her, and polked like a
polite young elephant. Glad to escape without being squeezed to death
or trampled under foot by this ponderous young warrior, Alice had just
found a seat, when D’Almayne and Lord Alfred lounged in; the latter
immediately joined her, and claimed her promise to dance with him; but
Alice was tired and bored, and feeling that it was in some degree owing
to him that she had become so, and that he ought to have been there
sooner, she replied coldly--
“I promised to reserve the first dance for you, my lord, but the first
dance has been over some time, and several others have followed; I do
not feel disposed to dance at present.”
Of course, Lord Alfred endeavoured to excuse himself, and when Alice
declined dancing, said, “Very well, then he should sit still too--all
the night, if she pleased, for he certainly should not dance with any
one else.” So, after she had teased him until he very nearly lost the
little good temper which the events of the earlier part of the evening
had left him, she took compassion on him, and danced with him twice
consecutively; but when he urged her to do so a third time, she refused;
and on his pressing her, told him plainly, that as her husband was away
she felt bound to be more than usually particular, and that it was not
_étiquette_ to dance the whole evening with one gentleman; at which
rebuff his lordship was pleased to take offence, and leading her to a
seat, he bowed and left her. Deserted by his lady-love, and swindled
out of his money by his pseudo-friends, this victimised young nobleman
looked about for his protector and adviser--at once patron and
parasite--Horace D’Almayne, but for some time without success; when at
length he did discover him, he was engaged in such an earnest private
conversation with some gentleman unknown, that Lord Alfred felt it
would be ill-bred to interrupt them; accordingly, he lounged through
the rooms, resisting several introductions to “great heiresses” and
“loveliest girls in London,” all declared to be dying to dance with
him, wandered listlessly into the refreshment-room, drank a tumbler of
Champagne and sodawater, and was thinking seriously of turning sulky and
going home to bed, when D’Almayne seized him by the arm, exclaiming--
“Alfred, _mon cher_, where have you hidden yourself? I’ve been hunting
for you for the last half hour. Why have you left _la belle_ Coverdale?”
“Oh, yes! that is good! looking for me, indeed, when I passed you twice
close enough almost to brush against your elbow, and you never even saw
me, so engrossed were you plotting treason with some party unknown,” was
the captious reply.
“Ungrateful! when it was for your interest I was exerting myself,”
returned D’Almayne, reproachfully; “but you do not explain why you have
quitted _la belle_ Alice; you really are not sufficiently attentive; no
pretty woman likes to be neglected.”
“She’s a little fickle, heartless coquette, and I’ll let her see that
I’m not so completely her slave as she appears to imagine,” answered
Lord Alfred, snappishly, at the same time filling his glass with
Champagne; “she refused to dance with me more than twice because it
was not _étiquette_, and she wished to be extra particular because
her husband was not here. I don’t think he’d overwhelm her with his
attentions if he were, unless he means to alter very much. No: the fact
is, she is out of humour, and chooses to vent it on me; it would just
serve her right if I were to go home, and leave her to her own devices.”
“Do nothing of the kind, _mon cher_; but listen to me, and--excuse me,
but don’t drink any more Champagne, or you’ll do something absurd; your
comic friend brewed that Sherry-cobbler too strong. Go quietly back to
the Coverdale; try and persuade her to dance, but if she refuses,
show no annoyance, and get her to allude again to her husband: then
carelessly and incidentally, as if you had no design in what you were
saying, suggest that she would scarcely be so particular, if she
knew what a naughty boy he had been in Italy, and having excited her
curiosity, tell her the following little anecdote.”
As a bevy of men entered the refreshment-room at that moment, D’Almayne,
linking his arm with that of Lord Alfred, led him aside, and made to him
a communication, the nature of which will appear in the due course of
this history. Lord Alfred seemed surprised, and, to his credit be it
spoken, even pained, by the information thus afforded him; and when
D’Almayne had concluded, his auditor remained a minute or so buried in
thought, then he asked abruptly--
“You are _sure_ there is still some clandestine understanding between
them--you are quite certain?”
“I am as certain as a man can be of any clandestine proceeding to which
he is not a party,” was the reply; “you are aware of what I observed
on the occasion of the Horticultural Fête. I now relate to you the
antecedents; you are no longer a child, but sufficiently a man of the
world to draw your own deductions.” The adroit flattery on the weak
point told: faith in truth and honour would argue a want of knowledge of
life; so with a slight laugh, assumptive of an omniscience in evil, he
replied, “I was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt, if it were
possible; but, as you say, the thing is clear enough; and now, how is
this to advantage me?”
“Do you ask?” was the surprised rejoinder; “I thought you told me just
now that the cruel fair one had snubbed you, by throwing her duty to
her husband at your head; so it occurred to my simplicity that this
information, properly applied, would prevent a recurrence of such
rebuff.”
“But surely you would never have me tell _her_, and her own husband the
hero of the adventure!” expostulated Lord Alfred.
“Listen, _mon cher_, one moment,” was D’Almayne’s reply, spoken in a
low, impressive voice; “I do not wish you to follow _any_ particular
line of conduct; I have no interest to serve, no desire to gratify, by
your doing or abstaining from anything; but when you tell me you desire
to gain such and such a social position, and ask my advice as to the
best way of attaining your wishes, I, as your friend, point out the
means to you--it is for you to judge whether they are such as you choose
to employ. You must now excuse me: I see some old acquaintances of mine,
to whose memory I am anxious to recall myself.”
“Then you really advise me to tell her!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, seizing
D’Almayne’s arm in his eagerness and indecision.
“I really advise nothing of the kind, _mon cher_,” was the reply; “I
have already cautioned you against that abrupt plain-speaking of yours;
you _should_ divest yourself of that rustic habit. You could scarcely
sin more deeply against good taste and good breeding than to go to _la
belle_ Coverdale, and bring a railing accusation against her husband,
nor could you divine a plan more certain to frustrate your hopes
and wishes; but if, grieving over her misplaced confidence, you
philanthropically incline to hint to her that he is scarcely the
immaculate ascetic her imagination depicts, _c’est tout autre chose!_
and now you must excuse me;” and as he spoke, he gently freed his
coat-sleeve from Lord Alfred’s grasp, and regarding him with a
half-sarcastic, half-compassionate, but wholly irritating smile, he
turned and quitted the spot.
Thus left to his own reflections, which were none of the most agreeable,
Lord Alfred paused for a few moments in indecision; then, with a hand
tremulous from excitement, again replenished his glass, tossed down the
Champagne, and returned to the dancing-room.
During her admirer’s absence, Alice had, for want of some more
interesting occupation, been conversing with Arabella Crofton, using
all her skill to try to elicit some particulars of her acquaintance with
Harry in Italy, in which endeavour she had been most adroitly foiled
by the quiet self-possession of the _ci-devant_ governess, who told her
most readily all she did _not_ care to learn, and nothing that she did.
As Lord Alfred approached, an individual was introduced to Miss Crofton,
who desired the honour of her hand for the next polka, which desire
that young lady obligingly gratified, thus affording his lordship an
opportunity of seating himself by Alice, of which he instantly availed
himself.
“It is never right to believe in a fair lady’s nay,” he began, “so I
have returned to afford you an opportunity of confessing your change of
mind with a good grace; come, they are just going to begin a new polka,
let us take our places.”
“If ladies do always change their minds, I am going to be the
interesting exception which proves the rule,” was Alice’s reply.
“How provokingly and unnaturally obstinate you are to-night, Mrs.
Coverdale! You pretend to be fond of dancing, and yet, because I ask
you, you resolve to sit still!”
“I have already told you my reason,” rejoined Alice; “in Mr. Coverdale’s
absence I do not choose to dance the whole evening with any one
gentleman.”
“What a pattern wife you are!” was the reply; “you give up your own
amusement, and destroy all my pleasure, out of regard for the ghost of
a scruple, which I dare say has never entered Mr. Coverdale’s brain;
really, the patient Griselda was nothing compared to you.”
Alice was annoyed by his pertinacity, and, considering this speech
impertinent, was about to repeat her refusal in terms which would have
enlightened his lordship very considerably on these points, when it
flashed across her that he might have taken rather too much Champagne;
and the idea having occurred to her, his flushed face and excited manner
confirmed it. Having sufficient liking for him to wish to prevent him
from making himself ridiculous, she good-naturedly resolved to engross
his conversation herself, and, aware of what she conceived to be the
true state of the case, not to take offence at anything he might say,
intending to read him a lecture on the following day. In accordance with
this resolution, she replied--
“I consider it a great compliment to be compared to the patient Grisel,
more particularly as I was not of opinion that she and I had very many
qualities in common. By the way,” she continued, seeking to change the
subject, and taking the first idea that occurred to her, “what do you
think of the lady whose chair you are occupying? I have never asked your
opinion of Miss Arabella Crofton.”
The question was a most unfortunate one. Alice’s continued refusal to
dance with him had annoyed Lord Alfred, and wounded his vanity; the
reason of her refusal was her absurd devotion (as he considered it) to
her husband; and now she, as it were, held the cup of revenge to his
lips by the question she had asked him. Up to this point his better
nature had struggled with the temptation successfully, but now it had
acquired an additional strength, and overcame him.
“I wonder you should care to know _my_ ideas on the subject,” he said;
and as he proceeded to work out Horace D’Almayne’s suggestions, his
tone and manner unconsciously assumed a resemblance to that excellent
young man’s sarcastic and suggestive delivery: “Miss Crofton is merely
a recent and very slight acquaintance of mine; you should apply to Mr.
Coverdale--_he_ could tell you many much more interesting particulars of
her history than I am able to communicate, if he were willing to do so.”
All temptations to do things foolish or wrong are orthodoxly supposed
to come from the Prince of Darkness; if it be so, the fact speaks very
highly for the intellectual capacity of that sable potentate, as the
said temptations invariably adapt themselves in a most wonderful manner
to the various weaknesses and inconsistencies of our nature. Thus,
as Alice’s speech had, unintentionally on her part, appealed to Lord
Alfred’s leading foible--vanity, so, in turn, did his reply re-act upon
Alice’s vulnerable points--jealousy of Arabella Crofton, and consequent
curiosity as to her former relations with Harry Coverdale. Accordingly,
forgetting time, place, proprieties, even her doubt in regard to the
perfect sobriety of the person she was addressing, in the overpowering
interest of the question, she asked, hurriedly--
“Why do you say that? to what do you refer? has Mr. Coverdale ever told
you anything on the subject?”
Lord Alfred smiled at the effect which his hint had produced; though,
when he marked his victim’s eager eye and trembling lip, his good
feeling made one last appeal, and he half resolved to leave D’Almayne’s
communication untold. Had he been completely himself, the good
resolution would have been formed and adhered to; but he had “put an
enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains,” and was no longer able
to control his impulses; so, by an effort, he silenced the voice of
conscience, and replied--“I shall break no confidence by telling you why
I supposed Mr. Coverdale better ‘up’ in Miss Crofton’s previous history
than I am, for he never mentioned her name in my presence; indeed, now I
come to think of it, it is a subject he always studiously avoids; but my
information relates to certain romantic passages said to have occurred
in Italy.”
“In Italy!” exclaimed Alice, aghast at this apparent realisation of all
her vague fears and suspicions. “Go on,” she continued, impatiently;
“I can listen to no hints aspersing my husband’s character; if you have
anything to say against him, do not insinuate it, but speak out plainly
and honestly.”
“Really, you mistake me,” was the reply; “I have no accusation to bring
against Mr. Coverdale: but your question recalled to my mind an anecdote
which I heard lately, and I was amused at your requiring information
from me which your own husband was so much better able to afford.”
“And what was this remarkable anecdote? Pray let me have the benefit of
hearing it, my lord,” rejoined Alice, in vain trying to look and speak
in an unconcerned manner.
“Really I think I had better not tell you; you ladies are apt to be a
little jealous sometimes without reasonable cause. ‘Where ignorance is
bliss,’ you know----” He paused with a tantalising smile, then seeing
from Alice’s manner that she was not in a humour to be trifled with, he
continued--“Well, I see you mean to hear it, so I may as well tell you
at once--not that there is anything very wonderful to tell. You must
know that, some three or four years ago, Miss Crofton, being then
younger and handsomer than she is now (she is not _my_ style, but many
people consider her vastly attractive still), was living as governess
with a family of the name of Muir, and in that capacity accompanied them
to Florence. John Muir, the eldest son, was an old college friend of Mr.
Coverdale’s, and meeting by chance in Switzerland, they joined forces,
and spent two or three months at Florence, making occasional excursions
into the adjoining country. Everything progressed with cheerfulness and
serenity in this Italian Arcadia, until one fine day the eldest Miss
Muir eloped with an individual who represented himself as a Neapolitan
count, and proved to be merely either valet or courier to the same. This
broke up the party, and Mr. Coverdale took his leave; but scarcely had
he been gone twelve hours, when, lo and behold, Miss Crofton, who had
been much blamed for not having looked after the eloped-with young lady
more closely (I suppose she was looking after somebody else), suddenly
disappeared. After hunting about Florence in vain, Pater Familias Muir
somehow obtained a clue to the lady’s whereabouts, following which he
reached a village some thirty miles distant, where he discovered Miss
Crofton, and, if my informant did not err, Mr. Coverdale also. Whether
it had been his intention to place her in that position now so much
more worthily filled, or whether he proposed an arrangement of a less
permanent character, history telleth not; suffice it to add, as the
books say, that the eloquent representations of Pater Muir induced the
lady to return with him to Florence, whence he instantly dispatched
her to England under some safe escort, while Mr. Coverdale pursued his
onward course to Turkey and the East.” He paused, but as Alice made
no reply, merely concealing her countenance behind a voluminous fan,
somewhat smaller than a peacock’s expanded tail, he continued--“Such
was the _historiette_ related to me; but scandal-mongers are so given
to exaggerate, that I dare say it is not half true, so do not _worry_
yourself about it, my dear Mrs. Coverdale.”
This consolatory codicil was added because his lordship heard, or
fancied he heard, a sound analogous to a repressed sob proceed from
behind the fan, and this pseudo-profligate young nobleman carried a very
tender heart under his embroidered waistcoat.
On receiving this confirmation of her worst, nay, more than her worst,
fears, Alice’s first impulse was to give way to a flood of tears--an
impulse so strong that, unable entirely to check it, the sob which Lord
Alfred had partially overheard was the result. The story chimed in with
her jealous suspicions so exactly, that it never for a moment occurred
to her to question the truth of it; on the contrary, it would have
required the clearest evidence of its falsehood to make her disbelieve
it. Having by a great effort repressed her tears, her next impulse was
to prevent any one, especially Lord Alfred, from perceiving how deeply
his intelligence had affected her. Accordingly she turned to him, and
replied in as careless a tone as she could summon--
“A very pretty bit of scandal, truly; and, as you say, worth as much, or
as little rather, as scandal usually is; however, the tale has served to
amuse me and put me in a good humour; so, as you seem to have set your
heart upon another dance, I suppose I must exercise my woman’s privilege
in your favour, and change my mind. They are going to waltz--shall we
begin?”
Surprised and delighted at the success of his experiment, and almost
inclined to attribute supernatural wisdom to Horace D’Almayne, Lord
Alfred hastily offered his arm to his enslaver, and in another minute
they were whirling round the room in all the giddy excitement of a rapid
waltz. While the dance was still proceeding, a tall, striking-looking
man entered the room, and shading his eyes from the unaccustomed
brilliancy of the lights, carefully scrutinised the dancers, until his
glance fell upon the figures of Alice and Lord Alfred, when a shade came
over his handsome features, and leaning his shoulder against the side of
a doorway, he remained with his eyes tracking the evolutions of two of
the figures glancing before him. After he had remained motionless for
some minutes, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were, apparently, of
no over-pleasant nature, a gentle touch on the arm aroused him, and,
looking round, he perceived Arabella Crofton. She was about to address
him, but by a warning gesture he silenced her, and she remained standing
silently beside him until, in a low, stem voice, he asked abruptly--
“How often has she been dancing with him?”
“Three times, I believe; but I assure you--”
“Hush!” continued Coverdale in the same stem, impressive voice, which
was just above a whisper; “I want facts, not comments. Has she danced
with any one else since he has been here?”
“Not that I am aware of,” was the reply. “She danced with a young
guardsman before he came.”
“And since?”
“They have been either dancing or talking together, except for about ten
minutes, during the last two hours.”
Coverdale made no reply, but his lips became more sternly compressed,
and the shade on his brow grew deeper, until the dance concluded, then
muttering--
“This must not go on: I shall make her come away”--he strode across the
room to where (her late partner bending gracefully over her, and talking
about nothing with the deepest _empressement_) his wife was seated.