While Harry Coverdale, with the best possible intentions, had been
breaking his wife’s heart and his own bones, the world had not stood
still, nor had the ordinary course of events been in the slightest
degree retarded. On the contrary, the unsympathizing globe we inhabit
had revolved on its axis with its accustomed perseverance, and men had
been born into it in their first childhood, and died out of it in
their second; and the sons and daughters of men had married and given in
marriage, and the many had gone on sinning and the few repenting,
very much as it all happened in the days of Noah, while the ark
was a-building, and the long suffering of God waited to allow the
evil-doers to perceive the error of their way, and to turn from it ere
the day of mercy should be over, and the destroyer should be let loose
upon them. The world was then a profligate young world, sowing its wild
oats broadcast, with a frank and careless disregard of appearances,
which involved at least the one virtue of sincerity--the world is now
a crafty old world, in its dotage, one is sometimes tempted to imagine;
but even the Flood only whitewashed its outside, for it still clings
to its darling sins, though no longer openly--the world has grown too
cunning for that, it knows the value of a good name, and has set up a
gilded idol of clay, yclept Respectability, to resemble the refined gold
of which virtue’s image is composed; and because it worships this idol
zealously, short-sighted optimists mistake hypocrisy for true religion,
and deem the world has grown pious in its old age; but there are those
who fear that if, once again, the waters should overspread the earth,
sin would weigh so heavily on the inhabitants thereof, that not very
many of them would swim.
Be this as, it may, certain it is that while Harry was riding Don
Pasquale across the country at the risk of his neck, and Alice was
fretting herself into a brain fever on the chance of his being shot
by Horace D’Almayne, that talented young gentleman was labouring most
industriously, with the assistance of his cousin, the _avocat_, at
Brussels, to obtain the sum of money due to Mr. Crane, on the cargo
of the unfortunate _Bundelcundah_ East Indiaman. When men exert their
utmost energies to attain an object, success nine times out of ten
is the result; consequently, very few days had elapsed after Horace’s
departure before Mr. Crane had the pleasure of learning that the mere
threat of energetic law proceedings had brought his adversary to reason,
and that the money had been actually paid into D’Almayne’s hands.
But somehow this announcement did not appear to afford the worthy
ex-cotton-spinner such satisfaction as might have been expected; on the
contrary, when he closed the letter which conveyed the intelligence, he,
to his wife’s surprise, muttered something very like an oath; whereupon,
after the laudable fashion of her sex, that lady appeared deeply
scandalized, and exclaimed, “My dear Mr. Crane!” in a tone of voice
which metamorphosed that affectionate address into “You wicked old man,
where do _you_ expect to go to?” Replying rather to her tone than her
words, her husband, exalting his peevish treble, began:--
“Yes, it’s all very well for you, Mrs. Crane, who have nothing to do but
sit here and spend the money I pour into your lap, to keep your temper,
and look horrified if one utters a hasty expression; but if you had to
toil and moil all your days to scrape it together, and then be defrauded
out of your hard-earned gains by creeping serpents, whom you have warmed
and cherished in--if I may be allowed the expression--in your breeches
pocket, and who have availed themselves of their position to--yes! I may
say--to pick that pocket, I wonder what expressions you would indulge
in then, Mrs. Crane!” And having worked himself up almost into a fit of
crying, Mr. Crane once more turned to his letter.
“Ah! coming home, is he? I’ve a great mind to have him arrested as soon
as he places his foot on British soil; I wonder at his impudence, that I
do!”
“To whom do you refer?” inquired Kate, quietly, as soon as she could get
in a word; for Mr. Crane, when excited, was as voluble as a washerwoman.
“To whom do I refer!” repeated her husband, in the highest note of his
shrill falsetto; “why, madam, to whom should I refer, except to your
precious friend and admirer, Horace D’Almayne?”
“Mr. D’Almayne!” exclaimed Kate, in surprise; for only two days before,
Mr. Crane had detained her for a good half-hour to listen to the praises
of his factotum’s zeal and fidelity. “Mr. D’Almayne! why I thought you
were so much pleased with the tact and intelligence he had displayed in
your service! surely, you told me he had actually received the money of
which your foreign agent attempted to defraud you.”
“And if he has, how do I know that it’s any safer in his hands than it
was before? it’s a large sum to trust a needy man with: how can I tell
that he won’t bolt with it?”
“Surely, you do not suspect him of dishonesty?”
“I suspect him of everything that’s wicked, and deceitful, and
dreadful,” returned Mr. Crane, in a tone of voice so dismal, that Kate
could scarcely restrain a smile. “But of course _you_ defend him--yes,
Mrs. Crane, I say, of course _you_ defend him! I am not surprised at
that--in fact, I may add, I expected as much. I had reason, good reason,
madam, to imagine such would be _your_ line of conduct.”
Kate paused until her husband had talked himself into the state of mean
and abject peevishness, which was the nearest approach he could ever
make towards being in a rage with one who was not utterly weak and
powerless, and, when he stopped from sheer want of breath, observed
quietly--
“I really am at a loss to comprehend to what you allude, or what reason
you can possibly have to connect me with this sudden change of opinion
in regard to Mr. D’Almayne: would you oblige me by explaining?”
“I sha’n’t do anything of the kind, madam; I don’t see that I’m obliged
to give you _any_ reason; it ought to be enough for you to know that
I disapprove of your conduct--conduct which could give rise to such
representations, madam; and--and comments, Mrs. Crane, impertinent
remarks, derogatory to my position--_must_ be reprehensible.”
“I do not desire to annoy you, but I must again ask to what remarks and
representations you refer?” was Kate’s reply. Mr. Crane fidgeted, looked
perplexed, tried to get angry, and carry it through with a high hand,
met Kate’s calm eye and could not, and at last with a very ill grace
drew from his pocket a letter, which he unfolded and prepared to read,
saying--
“There, Mrs. Crane! since my word is not sufficient to gain your
credence, or my desires, ahem! my wishes, if you prefer the expression,
to secure your obedience, you force me to submit to you this singular--I
may say, this offensive document, which, ahem! in conjunction with other
information, has occasioned me much justifiable annoyance, and, I may
add, mental anxiety and distress.”
The letter was written in a bold, dashing, though evidently disguised,
hand, and ran as follows:--
“Sir,--I have no doubt you consider yourself a clever, cautious man
of business, a prudent master of a family, and a kind and judicious
husband--if you do, all that I can say is, that ‘I am unable to agree
with you.’ A clever, cautious man of business would scarcely leave
important money transactions to the management of Horace D’Almayne, a
needy and unprincipled adventurer; a prudent master of a house would not
encourage such an intimacy; nor would a kind and judicious husband allow
a notorious libertine to be constantly in the society of his young
and pretty wife. Your infatuation has already produced some of the
unpleasant results naturally to be expected from it; you have advanced
above £5000 on a bubble company, not one farthing of which you will ever
see again, whilst you have incurred liabilities, to learn the extent of
which you had better consult your man of business, and I wish you joy
of the revelation I expect you will obtain from him. In regard to your
young wife, I have no positive information to afford you; but that
D’Almayne has designs upon her, I know,--and he is not a man to fail in
an adventure of that description, even without taking into consideration
the circumstance of a beautiful young woman being married to a man of
your years. You may wonder why I trouble myself to write thus to you; so
I will tell you: I owe D’Almayne a grudge, and it suits me to take this
opportunity of discharging the debt. But though this is my object, all I
have told you is only the plain truth; I suspect it comes too late to be
of much use to you; but that is your look-out, not mine.”
The letter was without signature.
Kate listened attentively while Mr. Crane read aloud, with much
hesitation and stammering, such portions of the alarming epistle
as concerned his property and his wife, carefully suppressing every
sentence which related to his own weakness and gullibility. When he had
concluded, she remarked, “The letter is a singular one, and appears to
me to bear a certain impress of truth; if I were you, I would attend to
the hints in regard to your pecuniary investments.”
“And as to those which affect my wife, what would you advise in regard
to them, madam?” inquired Mr. Crane, screwing up his face into an
expression of feeble sarcasm, which gave him very much the appearance
of an ancient monkey. Kate paused: here was an opportunity which might
never occur again of enlightening her husband as to her experience of
Horace D’Almayne’s true character. She had every reason to do so; his
threat of revealing the clandestine visit she was prepared to forestall,
if necessary, by an honest confession of the entire affair, preferring
to bear with her husband’s fretful displeasure (of which, if the truth
must be told, she did not stand very greatly in awe), rather than to
excite his suspicions by a concealment which would lend countenance to
the insinuations of this anonymous correspondent--yes! she had every
reason to tell all she knew concerning him, even to his late avowal of
affection, and yet she felt she could not do it. In the first place she
shrank, as any pure-minded woman would shrink, from confessing that
such an avowal had been made to her; but especially did she shrink from
confessing it to such a nature as that of Mr. Crane: he would never see
the matter in its true light--never believe that she had not, in some
measure, encouraged such advances--never comprehend the disgust
and loathing with which they had inspired her. But another and more
stringent reason withheld her--her brother Frederick! she still believed
that D’Almayne had befriended him, and saved him from, at all events,
the immediate consequence of the dilemma into which his youth and
inexperience had plunged him: true, she mistrusted his object in
performing this act of benevolence--or, rather, she felt convinced that
he had done it merely to establish a claim on her gratitude;--still
the fact remained the same--in her difficulty, when all other human aid
appeared to have forsaken her, he had come to her assistance, and by
doing so had saved her brother: believing this, could she expose his
baseness? The question was a difficult one.