On the afternoon of the day after that on which she returned home,
Alice was to go to the Grange, and take her sister’s place as companion
to Mrs. Hazlehurst. During the morning, Harry was occupied with
his bailiff and the farming accounts, but he made his appearance at
luncheon. When that meal was concluded, and the servants had quitted
the room, he began gravely, but kindly--“Alice, dear, I do not wish to
distress or annoy you, but, before you leave home, I must once again
refer to the conversation of last night. I know not who has coupled
my name with that of your cousin Kate’s friend, Miss Crofton, nor what
falsehoods they may have coined to blacken my character in your eyes;
but, since I have known you, I have never attempted to deceive you on
any point; and I tell you now, on my honour as a gentleman, that nothing
ever has passed, or is in the smallest degree likely to pass, between
myself and that young lady, calculated to cause you the slightest pain
or even uneasiness. Does this satisfy you, or, if not, can I say or do
anything that will?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Alice, her face flushing with eagerness as the idea
struck her; “promise to tell me exactly all that passed between you and
her in Italy!--promise me this; show me that you are willing to confide
in me; trust to my affection to forgive you, should you tell me anything
you think may displease me, and I will, on my part, try to forget my own
convictions that--that--in fact, that you do not love me as I believe
you once did. Tell me all frankly, and there may yet be happiness in
store for us both.”
She paused, breathless with emotion, and fixing her large eyes on her
husband’s countenance, as though she fain would read his very thoughts,
awaited a reply; but for a minute none appeared likely to come.
Coverdale, pushing back his hair, rubbing his forehead, and evincing
unmistakable signs of annoyance and perplexity, at length roused
himself by an effort, and, in a constrained, embarrassed tone of voice,
replied--
“Ask me anything but that: I am under a solemn promise never to mention
the facts you desire to learn; I cannot break my word even to regain
your affection.”
“I will ask nothing more of you,” returned Alice, in a tone of
deeply-wounded feeling; “it was foolish to ask that--I might have known
you would refuse to answer me; and it was worse than folly to fancy you
cared to retain my affection! And now let me go home to mamma; thank
God, I may yet be of some use and comfort to her, and, at all events,
I know that _she_ loves me--oh! that I had never left her!” and,
disregarding Harry’s exclamation, “Alice, hear me! indeed you mistake--”
she hurried out of the room.
Her husband remained motionless until her retreating footsteps became
inaudible, then, springing from his chair, he began pacing up and down
with hasty strides, while his ideas arranged themselves somewhat after
the following fashion:--
“Well, I’ve made a pretty mess of it now, and no mistake! Of all things
in the world for her to have fixed upon--to want to know about Arabella;
and poor Arabella has behaved so nicely and kindly too in this affair!
I _can’t_ tell her! besides, there’s my promise--come what may I’ll keep
my promise; but I am an unlucky dog as ever lived! Ah! I never ought to
have married, that’s the whole truth. Women don’t seem to understand me,
and I’m sure I don’t understand them; whether I’m stern or whether I’m
kind it all turns out alike, and all wrong. Poor, dear, little Alice!
she is making herself just as miserable as she has made me; and, for the
life of me, I don’t know how to say or do anything to mend matters! I
must leave it to time, I suppose. Perhaps her mother may talk her into
a happier frame of mind. I am glad she is going back to the Grange; I
think I’ll leave her there for a short time--home influences may soften
her, and induce her to judge me more charitably. I’m certain it’s all my
own fault, somehow! She was as sweet-tempered as an angel when I married
her.” He continued to pace the room, and after some moments a new notion
seemed to strike him. “I wonder whose been putting these ideas about
Arabella into her head,” he resumed; “somebody has been telling her
about the Florence business, that’s clear--lies most likely, and in
order to set her against me. That man D’Almayne, I mistrust him--he’s
playing a deep game of some kind; and his manner to Kate Crane I
disapprove of strongly. If he has been meddling--if he has dared to say
or insinuate anything against me to Alice, by heaven, I’ll--I’ll--no, I
could not trust myself to horsewhip him, at least not just yet, I should
kill the scoundrel. I’ve a great mind to run up to London, when I’ve
taken Alice to the Grange, and try and find out something about it;
but I won’t be hasty--I _must_ not! the interests at stake are too
important--Alice’s happiness for life, to say nothing of my own,
which is bound up in hers, depends upon how I behave for the next few
months--no; I won’t act rashly or hastily, nothing shall induce me to do
so!”
Of all the high and solemn mysteries that enshroud the spirit-life
none are more inscrutable, yet invested with a deeper and more vital
interest, than those apparently irreconcilable paradoxes--predestination
and free will. Our possession of this latter attribute is a tenet held,
and carelessly acquiesced in, by Christians of every denomination; yet
how little do we realise or estimate its practical importance! It is
impossible to reflect, even for a moment, on so vast a field of thought
without eliciting ideas at once salutary and impressive. Nor can we
fully recognise our obligations as responsible beings until, in tracing
the fortunes of some follow-creature, of whose path through life our
limited powers enable us to perceive only the dim and shadowy outline,
we see how what appear trifles--made a right use of, as they should
be, or abused, as they too often are--influence a lifetime here, and,
fearful thought, determine an eternity hereafter! In things spiritual,
as well as in things material, cause governs effect; and the laws which
regulate consequences are equally stringent and immutable in both cases,
although in the former they are not so easily traceable. Still, to
the earnest, careful, and patient observer of the mysterious ways of
Providence, suggestive glimpses are afforded, aided by which he may
reason from things seen to things unseen. Thus, remarking how some
strange train of events result from a single act which we may long have
feebly proposed to perform, but the execution of which we have delayed
from day to day, until some unexpected excitement has quickened our
resolve into action, we may legitimately argue that these events have
been, as it were, waiting for the touch which was to set the train in
motion; that if that motive power had been applied sooner, the same
results would have been proportionably hastened; and that if it had
never been applied at all, the history of events would have borne a
different record. We are so fearfully and wonderfully constituted, and
the dealings of the Creator with his creatures are so complicated and
inscrutable, that we know not what great events may hinge upon our
slightest actions. The avalanche lies in all its dread sublimity,
apparently as immovable as the mountain-side it rests on; the careless
foot of some chamois hunter dislodges a stone--the spell which enchained
the destroyer is broken--with the velocity of the whirlwind the mass
descends, crushing and overwhelming all before it--and heart-rending
memories are all that remain to bear witness of some once prosperous
village and its inhabitants.
One, who saw all clearly where we but blindly and feebly catch a ray of
light, prayed for His executioners in these remarkable words--“Father,
forgive them, _they know not what they do!_” Ideas such as the foregoing
are calculated to inspire feelings of awe; but, if they are true,
they should not be put aside because they give a solemn view of our
responsibilities; when, moreover, rightly considered, they teach an
important practical lesson--namely, never to neglect what appear to be
little duties, or carelessly to fall into little sins. It seems but a
little duty to extinguish a fallen spark; yet that spark may kindle a
fire which may consume a city, which, save for that accident, might have
endured for centuries. It seems but a little sin to utter a playful jest
on some serious subject; but that jest may inspire a doubt which may
injure a wavering faith, and endanger a soul’s salvation. Some may deem
these remarks misplaced in a work of fiction; but if it be a novelist’s
endeavour to depict truly the various phases of human life, nought that
truly affects the springs of human action can be foreign to his subject.
The evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party was not the first
occasion on which Harry Coverdale had bestowed good and sound advice on
Arabella Crawford, but never before had it produced the desired effect.
Now, however, a new impulse sprang up within her--she would conquer her
hopeless, selfish, sinful love for him, and strive to render herself
worthy of his friendship, and win at least his esteem; but how should
she begin practically to work out his advice--how attempt to render
herself independent--what duty lay most directly in her path? Her
intention was honest and sincere, and that morning’s post brought
an answer to her question. A female relation whom she had hitherto
neglected, was taken seriously ill, and wrote wishing, but scarcely
expecting, her to come to her immediately. This lady was old,
uninteresting, and in straitened circumstances; to go to her was an act
of unmitigated self-sacrifice, and in Arabella’s then frame of mind
this was its great attraction. Kate Crane was sorry to part with
her, although the short time they had passed together had sufficed to
convince her of the disagreeable fact that her dear friend no longer
suited her as she had done in her schoolgirl days. There was a very
simple reason for this, although Kate did not at once perceive it:
Arabella Crofton was at an age when the mind and body having reached
maturity, if they do not remain stationary, yet alter so gradually, that
the change is almost imperceptible; she was, therefore, much what she
had been four years previously. Kate, on the contrary, had advanced from
a girl into a woman; and her intellectual powers had not only
developed until they were now in every respect superior to those of her
_ci-devant_ governess, but her taste had been formed on a better and
purer model, and her natural instincts were of a higher and more refined
character. Thus, Arabella was constantly jarring against and annoying
Kate’s sensitiveness by thought, word, and deed; and she felt that a
gulf had grown up between them, which would effectually prevent her
friend’s society from affording her the comfort and support she had
hoped and expected. Arabella was much too quick-sighted not to have
perceived the effect this feeling had produced upon Kate’s manner,
although she was ignorant of the cause. Thus, the parting between the
friends--for, from old association, friends they still were--was by no
means so painful as under other circumstances they might have considered
it.
Left to her own devices, Kate bethought her of the expedition to visit
Mrs. Leonard, which Horace D’Almayne had proposed to her on the occasion
of the horticultural _fête_, but which she had never yet found an
opportunity to accomplish. Mrs. Leonard’s history was a distressing one.
Her husband had been partner in a north country bank, at which Mr. Crane
usually kept a considerable account. On one occasion, when his balance
there exceeded even its usual limits, a junior partner suddenly
absconded to America, taking with him so considerable a sum that the
bank was obliged to stop payment, and Mr. Leonard found himself a ruined
man. In his adversity, his mind became engrossed by one fixed idea,
which almost assumed the character of a monomania--viz., that it was his
mission to trace out his late partner, and recover the money with which
he had made away; this notion preyed upon him until one morning he, too,
suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter to inform his wife that he had
set out in search of the delinquent, and that she would hear nothing
more of him until he had succeeded in his object. On inquiry it appeared
that he had taken a berth in an American packet, which had just sailed,
and, beyond that, all trace of him was lost. Consequently, his family
had fallen into actual poverty, which, day by day, assumed a sterner and
more hopeless character. A gentleman well versed in the details of Mr.
Crane’s early acquaintance with Mr. Leonard (who, before Mr. Crane had
amassed the fortune he now possessed, had several times advanced him
money, and in a measure, therefore, contributed to his success in life),
advised Mrs. Leonard to apply to him for assistance; and, being
aware how much the _millionaire_ was guided by the opinion of Horace
D’Almayne, suggested that she should make her first application through
him: in which appeal the fertile brain of that good young man perceived
matter which might be made profitable to the furtherance of his designs,
and re-arranged his hand, so as to take in the new cards thus placed
within his reach.
The plan which D’Almayne had settled with Kate was this:--she was
sitting for her portrait to an artist friend of Horace’s, to whose
painting-room she went twice a-week; D’Almayne proposed to send away the
carriage and servants, when he would have a hired brougham in readiness
to convey her to the obscure suburb in which Mrs. Leonard’s poverty
compelled her to reside; he would meet her on her arrival there, and
introduce her to Mrs. Leonard; she could then return to the artist’s,
whence her own carriage could again fetch her and convey her home. Kate
disliked all this clandestine contrivance; but, considering the end of
sufficient importance to justify the means, she was unable to devise any
less objectionable scheme, and so reluctantly consented. She reached her
destination without adventure. The dwelling occupied by Mrs. Leonard was
situated in one of the labyrinths of small, unwholesome streets which
lie between Islington and Pentonville, and contain a description of
houses too good, or, more truly speaking, too expensive, for the very
lowest orders to reside in, and yet so confined and comfortless that
it appears incredible that any persons, accustomed to even the ordinary
requirements of respectable life, can tolerate them. D’Almayne was
waiting in readiness to receive her, and, offering her his arm, led
her up the narrow steps and into a miserable parlour, some eight feet
square, with the same elaborate and coxcombical politeness with which
he would have conducted her across the receiving-room of a duchess. Mrs.
Leonard was a singularly gentle, lady-like person, evidently worn down
by her continued struggle to support herself and family, which
consisted of two boys and three girls, the eldest son and daughter being
respectively fourteen and fifteen, whence their ages decreased down to
a little pale thing of four years old, whose juvenile roses could not
bloom for want of purer air and more nutritious diet. To them, with the
greatest tact and kindness, did Kate proceed to enact the character of
guardian angel; and, ere she had been half-an-hour in the house, had
completely won all their affections, from the poor mother, who began
to see light breaking in upon her darkness, to the olive-branch of
four--whose visions of unlimited sugar-plums bade fair to be realised.
Ah! it is easy to buy golden opinions of the poor and needy in this
world: generosity, _i.e._, judiciously disposing of superfluous cash, is
a virtue strangely overrated. The widow’s mite is an offering for which
one can feel respect, even with a well-filled stomach; but that shrine
for an Englishman’s heart must be indeed empty, ere he can thank Dives
for his crumbs. But, when Kate smiled brightly, and spoke kindly and
tenderly as she opened her purse-strings, what wonder that the inmates
of that house of mourning were ready almost to worship her beauty and
munificence? nay, in the excess of her gratitude, poor Mrs. Leonard so
lauded Horace D’Almayne for the sunshine he had caused to fall upon the
“frost of her despair,” that this excellent young man really began to
believe himself to have been actuated by pure philanthropy, and wished
he had not, from disuse, entirely lost the power of blushing. So _he_
talked, and _she_ talked, and _they_ talked, and were all very much
pleased with themselves and with each other; and Kate Crane turned to
depart, with her purse and her heart equally lightened by this most
satisfactory visit. D’Almayne, enraptured alike with the success of his
scheme, and with himself for having so cleverly devised and executed the
same, led Kate to her brougham with nearly as conspicuous a display
of gallantry to the lady, and admiration of himself, as that which
distinguished Lord Bateman’s proud young porter on the memorable
occasion of his playing gentleman usher to the fair Sophia. Having
placed her in the brougham, handed her parasol (why do ladies take
parasols about in carriages, where there is not the most remote chance
of their being required?), and a shawl, and a carriage-bag full of
elegant rubbish, and smirked to show his white teeth three times--once
for each article--he received as a reward a kindly smile (for Kate
really felt obliged to him for the opportunity of doing good which he
had afforded her), which he received with a look of deferential ecstacy,
and the brougham, with its fair occupant, drove off.
On a sordid pallet, in the garret of the house opposite to that in which
Mrs. Leonard resided, lay a man who, having lived wickedly, was then
dying miserably: stricken with remorseful terror at the near approach
of death--inevitable, fearful, retributive death--gate to the stern,
inexorable Future, when he would be weighed in the balance and found
wanting--he had wished, poor wretch! to undo some of the evil he had
committed, and so sent to a rising young barrister, then getting up
evidence in a disputed peerage case, to confess to him the forgery of a
name in a parish-register and other iniquities, the knowledge of which
would materially strengthen the cause of the young lawyer’s client. The
interview, a most painful one to any man of feeling, was concluded;
and, having taken copious notes of the dying forger’s confession in the
presence of a competent witness, soothed the miserable being with
such comfort as human sympathy could suggest, and promised to send
the clergyman who his patient and gentle persuasion had induced him
to receive, the young barrister left the house at the moment D’Almayne
handed Kate Crane to the brougham. Why does the stranger turn first red
then pale? why does he clench his fist till the nails dig deep into
the flesh? why does he make a hasty stride forward, then, with an
exclamation, half curse half sob, as hastily draw back, and screen
himself in the shadow of the doorway until the carriage had driven off?
He starts because he has seen the woman he once loved better than
his own life--the woman he has striven to forgive and forget, and has
succeeded in accomplishing neither the one nor the other--leave a shabby
house in a disreputable suburb, whither she has been in the society of
a notorious libertine! He clenched his fist and strode forward from an
impulse of rightful indignation, which made him burn to annihilate
the scoundrel who stood triumphing in his villainy before him: but he
checked himself as the bitter remembrance flashed across him that
_he_ had no claim on her which could give him a right to interfere,
although--and this, even at that moment, was the most painful thought
of all--another had!--who was evidently incompetent to fulfil the
sacred trust which he had undertaken. So, with old wounds thus cruelly
re-opened, Arthur Hazlehurst, heart-sick and weary, returned to his
chambers, pondering many things, both of this life and of the life to
come.