Five years had elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter
occurred--five years!--a twentieth portion of one of those centuries
which stand like milestones along the path of time, and index the slow
but steady march of human progress and development. To the different
characters of our story these years had brought many changes. Arthur
Hazlehurst, summoned by Kate Crane in her hour of need and difficulty,
fully justified the high opinion she entertained of him. Applying all
the powers of his acute intellect and legal experience to the involved
affairs of Mr. Crane, he contrived to secure a small competency from the
wreck of his once colossal fortune, on which, by Arthur’s advice, Kate,
as soon as her husband was sufficiently recovered to bear the journey,
retired to a small town in the south of France, where she continued to
reside until some arrangement could be effected with the shareholders of
the railway company started by Monsieur Guillemard and Horace D’Almayne.
After a severe illness, from which he was at one time not expected to
recover, Mr. Crane partially regained his health, but the paralytic
stroke which had reduced him to this extremity had affected his mind to
such a degree that he remained nearly childish. His wife’s attention
to him was most kind and devoted. When he was able to walk out for
the finest half hour in the day it was Kate’s arm which supported his
tottering footsteps. So strong was her sense of the duty she owed him,
that the tenderest affection could not have dictated a more exemplary
line of conduct. Arthur Hazlehurst, who was rapidly acquiring a very
high standing in his profession, paid them occasional visits, to report
as to the state of Mr. Crane’s affairs, which were left entirely to his
control. His manner to Kate on such occasions was that of a kind and
judicious friend, but nothing more. He never made the least allusion to
old times; indeed, his avoidance of any approach to topics which might
elicit the slightest display of feeling was most marked, yet a close
observer might have seen that he noticed Kate’s every word and action,
especially her behaviour to her husband, with a keenness of scrutiny
which allowed nothing to escape it. Of Horace D’Almayne nothing more was
known than that he had somehow eluded the search made after him, and got
clear away, as it was supposed, to America.
We will now trouble the imagination of our readers to travel with us as
far as H------shire, and join a group gathered one fine autumn morning
around the hall-door at Coverdale Park. The centre of it, and the
especial object of interest to the bystanders, was a rough little
Shetland pony, on which was mounted a singularly pretty boy, of some,
possibly, four years of age, in whose chubby features might be traced
a marked resemblance both to Harry and Alice, the former of whom was
settling the reins in the child’s hand, and giving him directions both
how to sit and to manage the pony, while the latter was regarding the
young equestrian with looks of mingled anxiety and affection. A sweet
little girl, the image of her mother, perhaps a year older than her
youthful playfellow, was endeavouring to attract the pony’s attention
towards a tuft of grass, which she held at a respectful distance from
his nose.
“Now, my boy, stick your knees well into the saddle, give him his head,
and let us see how you can canter round the sweep,” observed Coverdale,
who, save that his complexion had assumed a more manly brown than ever,
and that his broad shoulders looked broader still, was little altered
since we last had to do with him.
“Dear Harry, you will not let him go by himself--suppose he should
tumble off!”
Alice, the speaker, whose rounded figure and matronly air only added to
her beauty, smiled at her own fears, as, placing his arm round her still
taper waist, her husband replied--
“We are to be frightened about our dear boy now, are we? What a
miserable little woman it is, and how she does delight in tormenting
herself! Why, you silly child, little Harry has as good a seat as I
have. He would be no son of mine if he could not ride by instinct.
Hollo! what is the young dog at now? he never can mean to try and leap
that ditch, surely!”
And as he spoke Coverdale ran off at the top of his speed, to secure the
safety of his self-willed son and heir, who, having cantered round the
grass-plot, coolly turned his pony’s head towards a low haw-haw which
separated the garden from the park beyond. Before his father had half
crossed the lawn, he slackened the reins, and, giving his pony a cut
with the whip, cleared the sunken fence with greater ease than many of
his elders with whom we are acquainted could have done, then turning,
cantered back through a hand-gate which stood open, and rejoined his
mother and sister.
“How could you do such a dangerous thing, Harry? You might have broken
your neck, and I am very angry with you!” exclaimed Alice.
“And what do you say, papa?” inquired the young hopeful, in no way
abashed by his mother’s reprimand.
“What do I say?” returned his father, coming up out of breath with
running, and considerably perplexed between his parental responsibility
and his delight at his boy’s spirit; “why, I say that if you don’t mind
what your mother tells you, the thrashing I shall give you one of these
days will considerably astonish your juvenile intelligence; with which
qualification I confess, taking you altogether, I consider you a very
promising young four-year-old. And now, brats, be off with you! I have
got a letter which I want to talk to mamma about.”
As soon as the children had departed, in convoy of a groom and a
nursery-maid, Harry drew from his pocket a letter with a black border
and seal.
“It is for you, love,” he said, “from your cousin Kate; but I can tell
you the news it will contain; Arthur enclosed it to me, with a line,
telling me that poor old Crane is dead at last.”
“And Arthur writes to tell you--what does he say?” demanded Alice,
eagerly.
“He simply informs me of the fact; states that, for business reasons,
Kate, who is left sole executrix, must immediately return to England;
and suggests that till some permanent arrangement can be made for her,
it would be well that she should come to us; adding, that if we agree
with him in thinking so, he would be glad if I could make it convenient
to go down to Dover and meet her, as professional duties will detain him
in town,--which of course I shall be delighted to do, and she must come
and live with us, poor thing.”
Alice could not for a moment reply; but she pressed her husband’s
hand in silent acknowledgment of his kindness. Another week saw Kate
domesticated beneath their hospitable roof.
*****
Reader, our tale is well-nigh told.
Horace D’Almayne had absconded with a considerable sum of money in his
possession, and all attempts to trace him failed. His less fortunate
coswindler (if we may coin a word), Guillemard, became practically
acquainted with the interior of a British prison, and the amenities of
hard labour. All that transpired in regard to D’Almayne’s further career
was, that some years after he was connected with a kindred spirit in
conducting a notorious gambling house in New Orleans; a quarrel ensuing
between Sedgwick (for so was his partner named) and D’Almayne, the
latter gave his antagonist a practical lesson as to the advisability of
studying the habits and customs of the natives before you settle in
a country, by discharging the contents of his revolver into his ribs.
Unfortunately for society, the wound did not prove fatal but not
choosing to wait the result, D’Almayne again made himself invisible;
he was last heard of at the head of a band of very questionable
individuals, who were proceeding to the diggings to procure gold,
whether by fair means or foul, history sayeth not.
Lord Alfred Courtland, warned by the disastrous results of his attempt
to become a fast “man-about-town,” contented himself for the future
by fulfilling his duties as a high-born gentleman, and if he ever
did anything at all likely to disgrace his noble order, it was by
the obstinate determination he evinced to marry none other than Emily
Hazlehurst; but “a wilful man must have his way,” and eventually, after
much useless opposition from his patrician papa, Lord Alfred had his.
Of Harry and Alice we need say no more; perfectly happy in each other’s
affection (which, warned by the past, they never again suffered their
faults or foibles to endanger), theirs was a joy, to which only hearts,
true, pure, and simple as their own can ever attain.
And what of Arthur Hazlehurst? Kate, his first, his only love, was again
free!--true she had erred deeply, but had she not repented more
deeply, and worked out her penitence during long years of trial and of
suffering? She was free! would wounded pride prevent him from taking the
only step which could ensure his happiness and her own? or should “Love
be still the lord of all?” Those only who have suffered and loved as he
had done can be competent to decide,--and in their hands we leave the
matter!
THE END