On perceiving her husband, Alice started, and, between surprise
and anger, her cheeks assumed a hue more resembling that violent and
unsentimental flower the peony, than the blush-rose, to the use of which
our minor poets are so strongly addicted. This blush which, with all
his trust in and affection for his wife, Harry could scarcely fail to
misinterpret, did not tend to impart any great degree of cordiality to
his manner, as he thus accosted her:--
“I scarcely expected to find you still here, so late as it is; but I
only reached Park Lane within the last half-hour. There had been an
accident on the line, and our train was delayed between two and three
hours. You look flushed and tired. You’ve been tempting her to dance too
much, I’m afraid, Courtland. I saw the carriage waiting as I came in. I
should think you must have had enough of this nonsense, Alice! What say
you to coming away? I’ve lots of news to tell you from home.”
“I’m afraid your budget must wait a little longer. I’m engaged to Lord
Alfred for the next dance, and intend to fulfil my engagement; so you
had better submit to your fate quietly, and provide yourself with a
partner,” was Alice’s cool reply.
“Courtland will excuse you, I am sure,” urged Harry; “come away, if for
no better reason than that I wish it.”
“An all-sufficient one in your autocratic eyes, I dare say,” was the
flippant rejoinder; “but the barrel-organs remind us too constantly
that ‘Britons never shall be slaves,’ for me to think of sacrificing my
freedom to all your imperious fancies. Come, my lord, they are going to
wind up with Sir Roger de Coverley; let us take our places.” So saying,
Alice accepted the proffered arm of her _cavalier servente_, and walked
off with him, leaving her husband to struggle against his rising anger
(which in her then frame of mind she saw and disregarded) as best he
might. A severe struggle it was, and one in which nothing but his deep
love for her, and fear of compromising her by word or deed, could have
rendered him successful. By a powerful exercise of self-control, he
contrived to avoid any outward manifestation of his feelings; and after
watching Alice and her partner for some minutes, with flashing eyes and
an aching heart, as they hurried through the boisterous evolutions
of that romping dance, he wandered listlessly through the rooms, now
partially deserted, seeking some spot where he might be alone with
his troubled thoughts, and avoid the necessity of replying to the
commonplaces of society, to which, at that moment, he felt himself
completely unfitted. Having passed through the music-room, he found
himself in an elegantly-furnished boudoir, which at first sight he
believed to be untenanted, and, flinging himself into an easy-chair,
leaned his head on his hands, and gave way to painful reflections. After
remaining in this attitude for several minutes, a sound resembling a
sigh caught his ear, and, hastily looking up, he perceived Arabella
Crofton.
“Were you here when I entered?” he inquired.
“Yes; I was standing in the recess of the window, and the curtain
concealed me. I should have spoken to you, but as I perceived you were
preoccupied, I was afraid to disturb you, and did not intend to move
until you had left the boudoir, but your ears are so quick that you
detected me. I wish,” she continued, in a timid, faltering voice, “your
brow did not wear so deep a shade, or that I were in any degree able to
remove it.” As she spoke; she drew nearer to him, and leaned her arm on
the back of the chair on which he was sitting.
Kindness and affection are never so much prized as when we have suffered
injustice at the hands of one we love. Words cannot console at such a
moment: but sympathy--the conviction that another heart feels for and
with us, is able in some degree to do so. Whatever faults Arabella
Crofton might possess,--and that they were neither few nor light no one
was better aware than Harry Coverdale,--the truth and strength of her
regard for him he did not doubt. Deeply, fondly, earnestly as he
loved his wife, he must have been more than mortal had he not perforce
contrasted the levity (to use the mildest term) and unkindness of her
on whom he thus lavished his whole treasure of affection, with the ready
sympathy, the watchful tenderness of one who, if she had been all evil,
nay, if she had not possessed in some degree unusual generosity of
character, might have hated him with a strength proportioned to the
regard she now appeared to feel towards him. Men are constitutionally
denied the relief which the gentler sex derive from tears; but if, when
a woman would weep, a man of deep, strong feeling can be sufficiently
softened to give vent to his sorrow in words, the effect is somewhat
analogous. Harry’s heart was full to overflowing, and Arabella’s
well-timed sympathy caused the torrent of his grief to burst forth.
“Why does she try me thus!” he said; “it is, it _must_ be, mere want of
thought; she _is_ wilful, I see it, as clearly as I see and know that
it was my culpable neglect which first made her so; but this is a hard
punishment for even so gross a fault! If she knew how her cold looks and
hard words pain me--how it grieves, destroys me to be forced to deny
her anything--to feel it my duty, as I perceive it to be now, to oppose
her slightest wish! And then to see her doing things which may give
those who do not know her truth and purity as I do, occasion to slander
her--Arabella, it maddens me!” he pressed his hand to his forehead to
still its throbbing; but when his companion appeared about to attempt
to console him, he resumed, abruptly--“Don’t speak; you cannot defend
her--her conduct admits of no defence, and I will not hear her blamed!
Neither can you advise me; as far as action goes, my course is clear--I
shall take her out of town tomorrow; and as I cannot have it out with
that scoundrel D’Almayne, or the weak, ungrateful boy he is ruining,
without compromising her, I must postpone the day of reckoning with
them--it will come sooner or later, that is all clear enough; but that
is not the point”--here words failed him, and covering his eyes with his
hand, he relapsed into his former gloomy silence.
Arabella Crofton was a woman of strong passions, and naturally of strong
impulses also, but these she had learned in great measure to control;
thus her manner was usually quiet and collected, and she both spoke and
acted according to a rule laid down by herself for her own guidance, and
tending towards some definite end. But when, as in the present instance,
she was actuated by any overpowering feeling, she was for the moment
completely carried away by it, and would act for good or evil, as the
impulse which controlled her was a right or wrong one, even in direct
opposition to her own plans and intentions. She disliked Alice
most heartily, and she had many--we cannot say “good,” but
sufficient--reasons for doing so; yet she sympathised so strongly with
Harry’s grief at the idea that his wife was encouraging the attentions
of Lord Alfred Courtland, that--believing, as she did honestly, Alice
to be merely amusing herself, possibly for the sake of annoying her
husband, but evidently not from any deep feeling for her admirer--she
could not help trying to comfort him.
“Do not afflict yourself so deeply,” she said; “I cannot bear to see you
suffer thus! Believe me, you think too seriously of this matter; Mrs.
Coverdale is only amusing herself with this foolish, infatuated young
man. I am as certain as if I were in her confidence that she does
not really care for him; the very openness with which she accepts his
attentions proves that it is so; as soon as she has left the gaieties
and frivolities of town, she will forget his very existence.”
“She may forget _him_,” was the bitter reply; “but will she ever forget
the cause which has driven her to encourage him--which has forced her
to seek amusement in all these heartless gaieties and follies? will she
ever forget the time when, pursuing my own selfish pleasures, I left
her, day after day, alone--she who had always been accustomed to live
in a cheerful family, will she ever forget my neglect, and restore to
me that love without which life has no longer a charm for me--that love
which I once possessed, and which, God help me! I fear I have alienated
for ever!”
“Yes, she will,” was the eager reply; “if she ever loved you, she loves
you still; real, true love never dies: it would be better for some of us
if time could efface feeling!”
The evident emotion with which she uttered these last words touched
Harry’s kind heart, and, regarding her with a look of pitying interest,
he rejoined--
“Poor Arabella! you too have had much sorrow to contend with; and no one
can lament more deeply than I do the share I have had in increasing
it. Mine is a strange fate!--love that I cannot return is lavished and
wasted on me, and the only affection I pine for, I have alienated by my
own rash and inconsiderate conduct!”
She stood by him as he spoke, in the excitement of his feelings he had
taken her hand and clasped it in his own. At this moment two figures,
which had been pausing at the door of the boudoir, passed hastily on--by
the rustling of the dress, one of them was evidently a woman.
“But now hear me once more,” he continued, raising himself, and
regarding her kindly but steadily; “I am sorry, very sorry, to find that
you have not yet overcome--however, we will not allude to that--if at
any time you want a _friend’s_ advice or assistance, apply to me: my
purse, I need scarcely say, is always at your command; in fact, as I am
well-off, and you unfortunately are not, I think it is an over-refined
though generous scruple, which prevents you from allowing me to assist
you as I might and wish to do. Why do not you remember and strive to
follow my advice? You are still in a dependent situation quite unworthy
of you; while you have talents and powers which, if you would employ
them in some straightforward, honest avocation--instead of forming
plans and seeking objects of, to say the least, questionable
advisability--would secure you a respectable and comfortable position.
Think of all this, dear Arabella, and then apply to me, as to an old
friend, to advance you funds to carry out my ideas in any way which
seems to you most advisable.”
For a moment she remained silent; then bending over him, so that her
ringlets mingled with his dark curling hair, she murmured--
“You are good, and kind, and generous, as you ever were; and--yes, I
_will_ strive to make myself worthy of your friendship; if I fail, you
know my impulsive, passionate nature, and you will pardon, not condemn
me; for my _greatest sorrow_, you now know how to pity me! You say you
intend to leave London to-morrow, and I think it will be wise in you to
do so--perhaps we may never meet again, and so, my dear, dear friend,
farewell!”
He had retained her hand, and she returned his cordial, warm pressure;
then, by a sudden impulse, she stooped, pressed her pale lips upon his
high, smooth brow, and--was gone.
Harry followed her with his glance as she left the room.
“Poor thing!” he murmured, “she has many high qualities; and such a
life as she leads must be a complete purgatory to her proud, impetuous
disposition; I hope she will fall into good hands, and--and keep out of
my way. Alice evidently dislikes and suspects her, and nothing I can say
is likely to lessen the feeling. Now for taking my poor, dear, naughty,
foolish, little wife home, and lecturing her. She seemed angry with
me; because I did not arrive in time to accompany her to the ball, I
suppose--as if I could prevent railway-trains from breaking down!--ah,
it’s wretched, miserable work all of it!”
Having arrived at this cheerful conclusion, Harry rose and proceeded in
search of his wife.
In the meantime, the country-dance being ended, Lord Alfred had offered
his arm to his partner, and proposed a stroll through the rooms--a
proposition to which Alice, who, in her present state of feeling, was
anxious to do anything rather than hasten the inevitable _tête à tête_
with her husband, consented. As they passed a group who were gathered
round a clever copy from one of the great works of some old master,
D’Almayne approached Lord Alfred, and, making some light remark to
screen his real object, found an opportunity to whisper to his pupil--
“Take her to the door of the boudoir, and detain her there to look at
the pictures in the anteroom for a minute; there is a _tableau vivant_
inside the apartment which will interest her deeply!” Partially guessing
his meaning, Lord Alfred executed the task with so much tact and skill,
that all this by-play was completely unnoticed by Alice, and when
they reached the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, she stopped
to examine a picture, in perfect unconsciousness of any plot or
contrivance; as she did so, the following sentence, spoken in tones of
deep emotion, fell upon her ear:--
“_Love that I cannot return is lavished and wasted on me, and the only
affection I pine for, I have alienated by my own rash and inconsiderate
conduct!_”
The sound of the voice was all that Alice required to enable her to
decide that the speaker was her husband: and a hurried glance proved to
her that his speech had been addressed to Arabella Crofton, her rival,
as she had long suspected her to be--a fact in regard to which she now
received the assurance of her own senses.
Harry’s speech could bear but one interpretation: the “love wasted
on him which he could never return,” was her own--his wife’s! the
“affection he pined for, and had alienated by his rash and inconsiderate
conduct,” was that of Arabella Crofton, the “rash conduct” he was so
bitterly repenting--his marriage. Yes, she saw it all, and felt that for
her there was no longer such a thing as happiness in this life. Now that
she knew, that she had heard from his own lips, that he no longer loved
her,--nay, that he had transferred his affection to another,--she felt
how all important, how essential it had been to her--existence without
Harry’s love to brighten it, would be like the universe without
sunlight--cold, dark, desolate.
Poor little Alice! she had acted very wrongly; she had been self-willed,
petulant, unjust, and disobedient to her husband; but if suffering could
atone for sin, the bitterness of that moment might have expiated graver
offences than those of which she had been guilty. Her first idea was to
get away from the spot: lost as he was to her, Harry should never say
she was a spy upon his actions. She turned to communicate her wish
to her companion, and saw his eyes fixed on her face with a peculiar
intelligence which she had never observed before, and in an instant the
thought flashed across her that she had been brought there by design;
and, without allowing time for reflection as to the advisability of
making such an accusation, she exclaimed--
“You knew they were there, and brought me on purpose to see them, and so
to destroy the happiness of my future life! what have I ever done to you
to deserve this at your hands!”
Utterly taken aback by this direct and unexpected attack, Lord Alfred
coloured up, stammered something unintelligible, and at last attempted
to screen himself behind the equivocation that he did not know Mr.
Coverdale was in the boudoir.
“If you did not know it, you suspected it,” was the reply; “your
features are more honest than your words, my lord, and betray you.”
Greatly confounded at this most unexpected result of his scheme, Lord
Alfred vowed, and protested, and attempted to clear and defend himself,
but in vain. The shock Alice had received had couched her mental vision,
and, turning a deaf ear to his excuses, she sternly desired him to
take her back to Mrs. Crane immediately; and then preserved an offended
silence, so that his lordship was glad to take her at her word, and lead
her back to the drawing-room, in which the Crane party had ensconced
themselves.
“Kate, let us get home--I am wearied to death; somebody said the
carriage was waiting.”
The words were commonplace enough, but something in the tone in which
they were uttered caused Mrs. Crane to regard her cousin attentively,
and her quick eye soon discerned that there was something amiss. “Alice,
is anything wrong, dear? you are not ill?”
“Yes! no! my head aches--only let us get away!” was the reply.
“But some one told me that Mr. Coverdale had arrived; where is he?--you
will wait for him?” returned Kate, alarmed and surprised at Alice’s
unwonted agitation.
“He will come when he likes; he--has found some friends of his, I
believe,” murmured Alice. “_Only_ let us get away!” she added, in so
imploring a tone that Kate, convinced some _contre-temps_ had occurred,
dispatched Mr. Crane in search of Miss Crofton, and, taking leave of
Lady Tattersall Trottemout (who thinking they had resolved to spend the
night there, naturally deplored their “running away so early”), repaired
to the cloakroom. Here the others, including Harry Coverdale, joined
them, and in another quarter of an hour they were safely housed in Park
Lane.
Thus ended Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s _soirée dansante_; but its
consequences continued to influence the lives of those whoso fortunes we
are tracing, for many a long year.
Nothing passed between Coverdale and Alice in reference to the scenes we
have just described until the next morning, when, before they went down
to breakfast, Harry observed abruptly, “Alice, it is my particular wish
that you should go down to the Park to-day: can you be ready to start by
the four o’clock train?”
“Yes,” was the unexpectedly acquiescent reply; then, after a moment’s
pause, “What reason am I to give Kate for leaving her so suddenly?”
Astonished at such a ready consent where he had expected strong
opposition, if not an actual refusal to comply with his desire, Harry
looked steadfastly at his wife, but her face was turned away, so that he
could not read its expression. “My true reason I will explain to you at
some time when we can talk the matter over coolly and quietly,” was
the reply; “the reason I wish you to give your cousin--which is a good,
true, and sufficient reason in itself, although not the only one
by which I am actuated--is, that your sister Emily has received an
invitation to stay with a friend of hers, which Mrs. Hazlehurst is
anxious she should accept, thinking she requires change; but Emily
very properly refused to leave her mother. I dined there the day before
yesterday, and hearing of the dilemma, proposed that you should take
Emily’s place for a fortnight or three weeks--I was not wrong in making
such an offer, was I?”
“No; I shall be very glad to see and be of use to dear mamma,” was the
reply.
“I should have told you all this last night,” continued Coverdale, “but
for reasons I will not enter upon at present.”
He waited for some comment on his speech, but he waited in vain; Alice
continued to add the finishing touches to her toilet, until, being
completely equipped, she quietly observed, “It is time to go down, I
think; the breakfast bell will ring directly;” and, suiting the action
to the word, she departed, leaving her husband to follow when he
pleased. Kate was surprised to hear of their sudden determination to
leave town, and sorry to part with them; but their reason for so doing
was such a plausible one, that she could urge nothing against it. She
saw that there was something more--that neither Harry nor his wife were
at their ease; but Alice kept her own counsel so closely that all Kate’s
endeavours to win her confidence were futile, and she was obliged to
content herself by supposing that it was a mere matrimonial breeze which
would blow over, as such affairs usually do, without any very serious
consequences resulting from it.
Coverdale Park was reached without adventure, and appeared as cool,
and calm, and happy as the country usually does to the eyes of
fashion-wearied Londoners; and Harry, unaffectedly delighted to escape
from the uncongenial atmosphere of a crowded city to his home,--which he
loved with his whole heart,--forgot, in the pleasure he experienced, the
amount of Alice’s misdemeanours, and was only anxious to be reconciled
with her, and to assure her of his perfect and entire forgiveness. But
since the previous evening a change--for which he could not account, and
which began to render him very uneasy--had come over Alice, she was
no longer irritable and petulant at one moment, yet amused and
light-hearted at the next, but a settled gloom hung o’er her brow, which
indicated sorrow rather than anger; and although she had never allowed
him to surprise her in tears, her eyes bore unmistakeable traces of
weeping. Their _tête-à-tête_ dinner passed off heavily enough: as they
sat moodily over their dessert, Harry observed, “The evening is most
lovely--come out and take a stroll.” He spoke kindly, almost tenderly,
and as Alice looked up to reply to him, her eyes filled with tears;
hastily checking them before they could be observed, she agreed. Her
husband carefully placed a shawl over her shoulders, brought from the
hall her garden bonnet, and, drawing her arm within his own, they walked
on for some distance in silence. At length Harry observed, “Alice, dear,
you seem downcast and unhappy--why is this? surely you cannot regret
that hot, miserable, artificial London? you must be glad to get back to
our own dear, quiet home again?”
“I do not in the least regret London,” was the reply; “on the contrary,
I am glad to be once more in the country again.”
“Then why this gloomy manner?” urged Coverdale; “I may have been a
little annoyed with you at times lately, but I am quite prepared to
believe it was mere thoughtlessness on your part; in fact, I never
considered it anything else. I feel sure when you come to reflect
seriously on the matter, you will yourself see that your conduct was
a little injudicious; and, in that case, believe me the affair is from
this moment forgotten and forgiven.” Harry paused for a reply, but
for several moments none was forthcoming; at last, his patience being
exhausted, he inquired in a tone of surprise, “Alice, did you hear what
I was saying?”
“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Alice, starting, “I was _not_ attending
properly at that moment; you were blaming me for something, were you
not? I am very sorry--what was it?”
As she spoke, Harry glanced towards her to discover whether she had been
really too much pre-engrossed to attend to him, or whether she merely
affected to have been so for the amiable purpose of provoking him;
deciding in favour of the first hypothesis, he resumed: “I was saying,
my dear Alice, that although your flirtation with that foolish boy,
Alfred Courtland, had caused me some uneasiness--because people dared
to remark on it, unluckily not in a way that I could take up--yet that
I was convinced it was merely thoughtlessness on your part, and was
anxious to forgive and forget it.”
If he had expressly tried to rouse Alice from the state of gloomy
depression into which she had fallen, Harry could not have devised
means more effectual than the speech he had just addressed to her. With
flashing eyes she heard him to the end, then inquired: “And pray who
has dared--(you may well use the word!)--who has dared to accuse me of
flirting? But I need not ask,” she continued, bitterly; “no one but
Miss Crofton would have ventured to asperse your wife’s character before
you--from no one else would you have listened to such a falsehood--no
one else could have induced you to believe it!”
Astonished, and, if the truth must be told, somewhat confounded at
having the tables thus turned upon him, Harry exclaimed, “Alice, what
do you mean? what are you talking about? have you taken leave of your
senses all of a sudden?”
“If I had I should scarcely be surprised,” was the rejoinder; “but I
know only too well what I am saying, and the cause I have to say and
believe it; however, I do not want to reproach you, that would do no
good; but--but--knowing what I know--” an hysterical sob choked her
voice--“it is too hard that _you_ should accuse _me_ of flirting”--and
here, utterly overcome by her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of
weeping. Wholly confounded at this unexpected result of his very
mild remonstrance, which had been intended more as a judicious way of
forgiving Alice’s misdemeanours than as a reprimand, Harry led her to
a seat, and then used his best endeavours to console and bring her to
reason; but in vain, nor was it until she was fain to stop through sheer
physical exhaustion that her tears ceased; by which time, what between
bodily fatigue (she had not been in bed until between three and four
on the previous night, or rather morning, could not sleep then, and had
accomplished a railroad journey since) and mental agitation, she was
so completely worn out that even Harry, who was not usually too
clear-sighted on such points, perceived this was not a fitting
opportunity to continue the discussion.