and Tom, and all of you. But it was of no use: he was so good and kind,
and brave, and handsome; and though he was a little rough at first, I
soon saw what a noble, gentle heart his rough manner concealed, and when
I found he loved me (for he did love me once, Arthur), how could I, how
could any girl, help loving him with her whole soul.”

Poor Harry, as she thus wildly talked, would lean over and kiss her
pale, worn cheeks, and tell her he was her own loving husband, and doted
on her, and her only,--that he never cared, and never would care, for
any other woman, and she would smile faintly, and reply--

“No, Arthur, Harry would not say that; he loved _her_ before he knew me,
over in Italy; Alfred Courtland told me all about it,--how they ran away
together, and all.”

As she uttered these words Coverdale started, and a shade passed across
his brow; not heeding it, Alice continued--

“Oh! she is a dreadful woman, and so clever! all the foolish things I
did to pique Harry, in order to regain his affection, she showed them up
to him in a false light, and made him believe me as wicked as herself,
and so she stole his love away from poor, poor Alice;” then she would
turn her face from him, and wail feebly like an unhappy child. At other
times she would burst into the most violent self-reproaches.

“Yes, I deserve it all,” she would exclaim; “I deserve to lose his
affection; what right had I to expect him to give up all his manly
sports, which had made him so brave and strong, to sit at home with a
poor foolish girl like me, who have not even wit enough to amuse him;
I who should have been too proud even of his slightest notice, and to
thwart him and try to make him do foolish and wrong things, and to lose
my temper, and grieve and wrong him,--oh! how wrong and wicked of me!
--I must have been mad to do it; and now he has left me, gone with
Arabella Crofton to Italy, and I shall never see him again, never,
never!” and then she would break off and resume her weeping.

And so the weary days passed on; Emily, who had come over as soon as she
had heard of her sister’s illness, was an indefatigable nurse, and she
and Harry sat up with the patient on alternate nights, Coverdale having
on one occasion discovered the hired nurse fast asleep when she ought to
have been wide awake and giving Alice her medicine. As soon as his arm
ceased to cause him such violent pain, Harry’s attendance by his wife’s
bedside became unremitting, and night after night he sent Emily to bed,
and remained watching Alice’s broken slumbers, or to the best of his
power soothing her, during her fits of delirious excitement. Could those
who had known Coverdale as the rough and eager sportsman, or the just,
but stern and inflexible, magistrate, have seen him then, as (heedless of
the pain of his injured arm) he tended with all a woman’s devotion, and
more than woman’s strength and judgment, the sick couch of his (as at
times he feared) dying wife, they would have been unable to recognize
the same individual whose nature they, in their hasty judgment, had so
wholly mistaken. His dying wife! ah! how the idea haunted him. Alice,
his loved one, would die; she would be taken from him while they were
both so young, and he would have to live on during long, dreary years
alone!--alone! yes, but how bitterly did he feel the hope-crushing
significance of that cruel word! true his married life had been a
somewhat stormy one, still it had taught him the charm of that spiritual
companionship with a beloved and loving woman, without which a man’s
best nature remains incompletely developed. To feel a deep, true, and
unselfish affection for an object worthy of so precious a boon, raises
a man’s whole moral nature, and (if he is good for anything) makes him
wiser and better; to be loved in return, renders him happy despite the
toils and trials of life.

Of these great truths, the events which we have in the course of this
history endeavoured to pourtray, had caused Harry to acquire a painful
consciousness; he had become aware also of the causes which had hitherto
militated against the full amount of the happiness to be enjoyed in such
a position. He had learned from poor Alice’s delirious confessions, both
the depth of her attachment to him, and the fact that experience had in
her case also produced its bitter but salutary fruits. Thus, should she
indeed be restored to him, what a bright, enviable future lay extended
before them! even as the thought occurred to him, his eye fell upon
her thin, pale features, her parched lips, sunken cheeks, and the dark,
ominous hollows beneath her closed eyes; nay, as she lay motionless,
wrapped in a heavy, oppressive slumber, the horrible idea flashed across
him that she might be dead already; and with a shudder he placed his
hand upon her wrist, to feel the beating of her feeble yet rapid pulse,
ere he could satisfy himself that his frightful suspicion was but the
offspring of a morbid fancy. Still, the idea had occurred to him, and he
could not divest himself of it--what if she should never wake again,
or if she should die without any return of reason--die, ignorant of the
depth of loving tenderness towards her which filled his breast! Oh! if
he could but purchase her life at any sacrifice; there was nothing
he would not gladly give up--wealth, position, even his cherished
field-sports, everything!--how powerless he was, and how utterly
wretched! Accustomed, as he had hitherto been, to rely entirely on
his own strength, both of mind and body, to accomplish his wishes,
the situation was equally new and painful to him. But Coverdale had a
powerful and singularly healthy mind, and even while he smarted under
this severe chastening, he recognized the Hand which inflicted it, and
the purpose for which it was sent; and, mindful of the lessons of his
childhood, the strong man sank upon his knees by the side of his wife’s
sick couch, and prayed to his Father in Heaven to spare, in His mercy,
the one little ewe-lamb, without which he must wear out the rest of his
earthly pilgrimage desolate and lonely-hearted.

The crisis of Alice’s complaint was now rapidly approaching, and Harry
sent for one of the leading London physicians, who, after a careful
examination of the patient, and a long and solemn consultation with Dr.
Gouger, was pleased to say the latter gentleman had pursued exactly the
orthodox method of treatment; that he feared Mrs. Coverdale’s state was
a very precarious one, but that she could not be in safer hands than
those of Scalpel Gouger, M.D.

After Sir J. C-------- had taken his departure and his fee of fifty
guineas, Coverdale, who had sent Emily from Alice’s bedside, with strict
orders to take a long stroll and refresh herself, was somewhat surprised
to see her return in less than half an hour considerably excited, and
with a heightened colour, which made her look remarkably pretty. She
beckoned Coverdale out of the sick room, and then began--

“Oh! Harry, dear, I want to speak to you, please; and you must be good
and kind, and not fierce, you know!”

In spite of his heavy heart, Coverdale could not help smiling at his
little sister-in-law’s address.

“What is it, my dear child,” he said, kindly; “I’ll promise to behave
prettily; my fierceness, as you call it, is tolerably well taken out of
me by this time.”

“Well, I was walking in the Park, you know,” resumed Emily, “and just
as I got to Markum’s cottage, I perceived a tall, aristocratic-looking
young man talking to Mrs. Markum; as soon as she caught sight of me,
she exclaimed, ‘Here is Miss Hazlehurst, sir; she has just come from the
house, and can tell you the last account of poor mistress.’ Whereupon,
the gentleman approached me, and taking off his hat, said, ‘I believe
I have the pleasure of addressing a sister of Mrs. Coverdale?’ I bowed
assent, and he continued, ‘My name is Alfred Courtland. I do not know
whether Coverdale has told you--(here he stammered and blushed, so like
a frightened girl, that I began to feel quite brave)--that is, whether
you are aware, that it was in my service he met with his accident, and
that--that, in fact, I cannot but feel that your sister’s illness has
been, in great measure, brought on by my folly; the consequence is, that
ever since I heard of her attack, I have been miserable. Coverdale said
he would write me word how she was going on, but I suppose in his sorrow
and anxiety his promise has escaped his memory. I bore the suspense as
long as I was able, until yesterday, hearing by accident that Sir J.
C-------- had been sent for, I could stand it no longer;’ so I put
myself into a train the first thing this morning, and came down to learn
the truth; may I venture to hope that, as you are able to leave your
sister, her danger has been exaggerated?’ Then I told him that dearest
Ally was still very ill, but that you were head nurse, and had forced me
to come out to get a little air; and I said I was sure you would like
to see him. He was dreadfully afraid of intruding, and for some time
refused to come, but at last he changed his mind, and walked home with
me; he’s in the library, and you _will_ go and see him, there’s a dear
boy, for he is very unhappy, and I’m sure he’s a nice fellow.”

At any other time Coverdale would have been amused at the extreme zeal
with which Emily had taken up and advocated Lord Alfred’s cause, and
have teased her about her undisguised admiration of the handsome young
peer, but his heart was too heavy for jesting, so he merely replied--

“In the library, did you say? it’s very good of the boy to take such
interest about poor Alice, but he always was kind-hearted. Go to her at
once, Emily, dear; she was asleep when you sent for me, but she might
wake at any minute, you know--go to her, I won’t be away long.”

On reaching the library, Coverdale found Lord Alfred awaiting his
arrival in an extreme state of nervous trepidation; grasping his hand,
Harry shook it warmly, saying--

“This is very kind of you, Alfred, my dear boy; you see you find us
still anxious; I hope there is no serious cause for alarm, but you know
it’s a case in which a man can’t help feeling very, _very_ anxious.”

As Coverdale thus spoke words of encouragement, which his looks and
manner, his quivering lip, brimming eye, and the forced cheerfulness of
his voice, alike belied, Lord Alfred, more deeply affected than he could
have been by the most vehement reproaches, lost all self-control, and,
bursting into tears, exclaimed:--

“Do not speak so kindly to me; it kills me. I’d rather by half you would
horsewhip me until I could not stand, for that is what I deserve. Oh!
what misery my wicked folly has brought about! But for me, you would
never have met with this accident, and Mrs. Coverdale would have escaped
the anxiety and the shock which has brought on this illness; if I could
but do anything to help you or her, I should hate myself less.”

Harry approached him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Listen to me, my dear boy,” he said, kindly, but impressively, “these
things cannot happen to a man without obliging him to reflect seriously,
and, as I hope, to some good purpose; you should not judge of your own
conduct, or of any one’s else, simply by results; we are instruments in
God’s hands to work out His designs; and all that we can do is to make
ourselves acquainted with the rules He has laid down for our guidance,
and strive to act according to them, but the results are in His hands,
and there we must be content to leave them. You have acted foolishly,
but you are aware of it, and sorry for it; and in such a case, to look
back is worse than useless; the only good in ever recalling the past is,
that the recollection may guard you against falling again into a similar
temptation should such a outcome in your way. So much for sermonizing;
and now, you say you want to make yourself of use, and I can see you
mean it. My poor Alice’s mother is a great invalid, and the shock of
hearing of this affair has made her more ill than usual; she is most
anxious about her daughter. Emily--you met Emily?”

“Yes, a most interesting, charming young lady; I knew her directly from
her likeness to poor Mrs. Coverdale,” was the reply.

 “Well, Emily or
I write every day, but the letter takes twelve hours to get there by
post; now, Sir J. C-------- is coming down this afternoon to see poor
Alice again, and Gouger fancies some change is about to take place in
her; he supposes the crisis of the complaint is at hand--in fact--”
 Harry paused, for as he spoke of the approach of the moment in which
Alice’s sentence for life or death was to declare itself, a choking
sensation in his throat deprived him of the power of utterance; trying
to conceal his emotion under a feigned cough, he resumed, “Now, if you
wish to perform a really kind and good-natured action, will you remain
here until the physician has given his opinion, and then take my
dog-cart and mare, and drive over to the Grange, and detail his report
to Mrs. Hazlehurst? They will give you a kind welcome and a bed, and you
can either go to town from thence, or come back and dine and sleep here;
you’ll not be a bit in the way, and will help to amuse Emily, and tempt
her out of the sick room; for the good little girl is so zealous in her
attendance on her sister that I live in constant dread of her knocking
up, and then I should have two of them on my hands at once--what do you
say?”

“Say! if you think that by going to the world’s end I can be of the
smallest use or comfort to you, you have only to speak the word, and
I’m off,” was the eager reply; then in a plaintive tone, Lord Alfred
continued: “Coverdale, are you quite sure you don’t hate me for all this
misery I’ve brought upon you?”

“Go into the dining-room and eat some luncheon, you young muff,” was
the unsentimental reply; “why, you have not a better friend in the world
than I am, or at all events a more sincere one, you stupid boy; but,
come along, I’ll send Emily to play hostess, and mind you make her eat
well. I know that girl will knock up if she refuses her corn.”

The luncheon passed off pleasantly enough--Emily not being overburthened
with shyness, and possessing a flow of animal spirits, which even
her anxiety for her sister could not wholly overcome, chatted away so
pleasantly, that Lord Alfred caught the infection, and took his share
in the conversation with spirit, so that when the meal was over, they
parted mutually pleased.

Sir J. C-------- arrived true to his appointed time, examined his
patient, looked grave, consulted with Dr. Gouger, and then the two
medicos summoned Coverdale. As he entered, the physician, who was a tall
gaunt man, with a large, sharp nose, raised himself on tiptoe, as if he
were trying to fly, then giving it up as hopeless, subsided on his heels
again, cleared his throat, stroked his chin, looked at Coverdale as if
he wished to feel his pulse or give him a pill, and began in a bland and
insinuating tone of voice--

“You are anxious, my dear sir--naturally anxious as to the state in
which we (here by a little condescending but patronizing pantomimic
action he indicated Gouger) have found Mrs. Coverdale?”

Poor Harry, boiling with anxiety and impatience, shot a “Yes, of
course,” at him as if he had been a partridge. In no way disturbed,
however, the autocrat of all the pill-boxes continued--

“The duration of your justifiable anxiety, my dear sir, will not be much
further prolonged; in less than twelve hours the complaint will have
reached its crisis, and the result will not be long in revealing itself
to educated eyes.”

“And you think----you feel reason to believe that------the result will
be favourable,” stammered Harry, his stalwart frame trembling from head
to foot with the emotion he was unable to conceal--“You do not think
your patient worse than when you last saw her?”

The physician paused: then replied, gravely--

“It would be mistaken kindness to disguise from you the truth, sir. Mrs.
Coverdale is in a most precarious state--her life hangs on a thread; I
do not say that she must die, but it is my duty to tell you that it
is more than probable that she may do so; the next twelve hours will
probably decide the question. She is now apparently sinking into a heavy
slumber--from this she may never awake, or it may be succeeded by fits
of delirium, from which she would be unable to rally.”

Harry shuddered, then asked--

“And what would be a favourable symptom?”

“If Mrs. Coverdale should wake free from delirium, so as to be able to
recognize those about her, you may reckon that the fever has worn itself
out; and the only thing then to dread will be her extreme weakness; in
that case every effort must be made to keep her up; give her port wine,
or even brandy, a teaspoonful every five minutes if she appears faint;
but my friend, Mr. Gouger, is quite aware of the proper measures to be
taken--she cannot be in better hands.”

CHAPTER LXI.--ALICE APPOINTS HER SUCCESSOR.

That supposed great arbiter of life and death, the London physician,
had departed, leaving at least one aching heart behind him; for
Coverdale could not disguise from himself that, although Sir J.
C-------- had not actually pronounced Alice’s sentence in plain words,
his intention had been to prepare him for the worst. In pity to Emily’s
youth and warm affection for her sister, he did not acquaint her with
the immediate proximity of the crisis on which depended their loved
one’s fate and his happiness; nor, not placing any great reliance on
Lord Alfred Courtland’s power of keeping a secret, did he enlighten him
either; but he made some excuse for detaining him and offering him a
bed, so that he might be unable to start on his mission to Hazlehurst
Grange until the next morning.

As the evening advanced, Alice, who had been alternately dozing and
waking up to bewail herself in wild, incoherent sentences, fell into a
deep, heavy sleep.

Dr. Gouger, having yielded to Harry’s earnest request that he would
return and sleep at Coverdale Park that night, set out to pay two or
three indispensable visits, promising to be back in good time.

About eleven o’clock, Emily used every argument she could think of to
try and induce Harry, who had sat up during the last three nights,
to allow her to take his place, but in vain; and reading in his pale,
anxious countenance that his mind was made up, she contented herself
with obtaining his promise that if any change took place, she should
be summoned immediately, went to bed, and dreamed that Lord Alfred
Courtland was a Persian prince, disguised as a physician, who had
brought a talisman to cure Alice, for which he was to be liberally and
appropriately rewarded with her (the dreamer’s) own fair hand and the
Archbishopric of Canterbury.

Emily had scarcely retired when Dr. Gouger returned. Alice was still
rapt in a heavy sleep, from which he gave strict orders she should not
be aroused.

“Who sits up with her?” he inquired.

“The nurse, of course,” returned Harry: “that is, if snoring in an
arm-chair deserves to be called so; and, until she is out of danger, or,
if it should be so, until God may see fit to take her from me, I will
never leave her!”

“Well, then, if she wakes of herself before morning, be very careful
not to startle or alarm her. Watch her eyes closely, and see if she
recognizes you; if she does so, that will be a favourable symptom; if
she speaks to you, control your feelings, and answer her quietly and
calmly; then instantly send for me. I think you perfectly understand?
Well, then, as I’ve ridden a good many miles to-day, and have even
a longer round to take to-morrow, I’ll go and lie down. I shall not
undress, so I can be with our patient the moment you send for me.”

Thus saying, the doctor, who was a short, plump, florid little man, with
a plain face preserved from insignificance by a pair of bright, keen
eyes, and a magnificent forehead, yawned twice, and betook himself to
the spare room allotted to him.

Twelve o’clock! Alice still asleep! The nurse having arranged
a formidable line of medicine bottles ready for use, produces a
well-thumbed volume from her pocket, and adjusting her spectacles,
sits down to read by the night-lamp. One o’clock! The nurse, after many
fruitless attempts to keep up appearances, and delude Harry into the
belief that she is wide awake, begins to nod over her book, occasionally
varying the performance by trying to swallow a suppressed snore, and
choking in the attempt. Two o’clock! No change in the patient; but the
nurse, who during the last half-hour has settled down into a deep and
undisguisable sleep, begins to snore so loudly that Coverdale, afraid of
her disturbing Alice, takes her by the shoulder, and leads her quietly,
but unresistingly, into the dressing-room, and seats her on a sofa; to
which discipline, the nurse, who has once or twice before experienced
the force of Harry’s quiet manner, submits with a lamb-like meekness
and docility, of which those who had seen her tyrannizing in the sick
chambers of her poorer clients, would scarcely have deemed her
capable. Three o’clock! How long the hours seem, and how dreary! The
stillness--broken only by the measured breathing of the patient and the
distant snoring of the banished nurse--the deep, solemn stillness of a
country house at night, becomes painfully oppressive to the overwrought
senses of the watcher. Will the crisis never arrive? Alice moves
slightly, and moans in her sleep. Harry trembles from head to foot. Is
she about to wake? Will she recognize him? No!--she sinks again into
a deep, heavy slumber, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief and of
thankfulness that the fearful moment is again postponed. Four o’clock!
The dim grey light of dawn begins to peep in through the opening in the
shutters, causing the lamp to shed lurid, flickering rays around the
sick room, and thus adding to, rather than diminishing, the darkness.
How cold it has become! and how every nerve and fibre in Harry’s injured
arm aches and throbs! What an eternity of anguish appears capable of
being condensed into a few minutes of severe bodily pain!

Hark! what is that low, wailing sound outside the window? He starts, and
turns pale! Why do those foolish, hateful legends of Banshees, throng
and crowd into his brain? Why does he remember with shivering dread that
old wife’s tale of a white lady who weeps and wrings her hands before
the death of any member of the Coverdale family? He laughed at it as a
boy, and dressed himself in white to frighten the maids. He cannot laugh
at it now! Again it comes, louder and more prolonged! but he knows
this time that it is the howling of a dog--the King Charles’s spaniel,
Alice’s pet, which he has been obliged to have tied up, lest it might
disturb her; but hitherto it had borne its confinement quietly. Why
should it howl so dismally to-night? Did any strange instinct warn it of
its mistress’s danger? Ah! that word--danger!--yes, a danger from which
all his deep fervent love, and his unequalled, manly strength, were
alike powerless to shield her. How crushed, and helpless, and miserable,
well-nigh despairing, he feels! And yet are they not both in the
hands of a merciful Father? God’s will be done! but as the words of
resignation pass his lips, the big tears roll down his cheeks as the
recollection of all that he might be resigning wrung his loving breast.
Covering his eyes with his hand, he strove to shut out all thought, all
feeling! How long he remained in this position he never knew; but as
soon as he removed his hand, it struck him that Alice had changed
her attitude. Shading his eyes from the glare of the lamp, he gazed
earnestly at her. Yes, she had moved, and surely she was awake. While
he yet looked, unable to trust the evidence of his senses, a soft, faint
voice, scarcely above a whisper, pronounced his name: so low was the
sound, that, fancying it might be a delusion of his own overwrought
senses, Harry bent down his head, as he asked, in a quiet, gentle tone
of voice--

“Alice, darling, are you awake? Did you call me?”

For a moment there was no reply, and then the same gentle voice
whispered--

“Harry, dear, you have been away a long, long time.”

As she spoke, she tried to raise her arm to draw his face nearer; but
the wasted muscles refused to do their duty, and the poor thin, almost
transparent hand, dropped powerless beside her.

“I am very weak, Harry, love,” she said; then, with an effort at
recollection, she added: “Where am I?--here, at home? Have I been ill
long?”

“You have been very ill, my own darling; but you will soon get well now.
Don’t try to talk, or think about it yet. I will fetch you a soothing
draught, and then you must endeavour to go to sleep again.”

Fearful of over-exciting her, he rose to call the nurse. As he turned to
leave her for this purpose, Alice again stretched out her hand to detain
him.

“Harry, love, do not go away, please. I will do everything you tell me,
but I shall die if I lose you again.”

Harry stooped, and kissed her pale, thin cheek.

“I am only going to call the nurse,” he said. “I will never leave you
any more, dearest!”

Alice faintly endeavoured to return his caress, and sank back exhausted
on her pillow.

Harry roused the still sleeping nurse, and dispatched her to summon Dr.
Gouger. Then returning to his wife’s bedside, he took her thin hand in
his; and as his affectionate pressure was feebly returned, the hope
that Alice might be restored to him a hope which that night of anxious
watching had nearly destroyed--began once more to reanimate him.

Dr. Gouger, accustomed to be called up at all hours of the night, made
his appearance in an incredibly short space of time. As he approached
the bed, Alice perceived him, and smiled faintly in token of
recognition--a favourable symptom, at which the doctor nodded approval.
Having made a careful examination of the patient, he prepared a draught,
which he gave her. Then saying, “Now try and go to sleep, my dear madam,
and I trust to find you much refreshed to-morrow morning,” he turned to
leave the room.

Harry followed him to the door.

“Well?” he said, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“The disease has worn itself out. Mrs. Coverdale is free from fever, and
the only thing we have now to fear is weakness,” was the doctor’s reply.
“She must be kept perfectly quiet both in mind and body for some days.
When she wakes in the morning, throw a cape or something over that arm
of yours; it might give her a shock if she were to perceive it suddenly.
It is a very favourable symptom her having recovered consciousness
so completely,--in fact, the case is going on as well as, under the
circumstances, I conceive to be possible.”

“Thank God!” was all the reply Harry could make; but as Alice, with
her hand in his, fell into a sound, refreshing slumber, his whole soul
poured itself out in silent but heartfelt thanksgiving to the Father of
all mercies, who had accepted his penitence, and again entrusted to his
care the tender flower which, in his inconsiderate carelessness, he had
once neglected.

When Emily came down to breakfast on the following morning, she quite
started with pleased surprise to perceive the bright, happy expression,
of her brother-in-law’s countenance.

“I need not ask whether Alice is better,” she began; “I can read it in
your face. But has any great change taken place since yesterday?”

In reply to her question, Harry told her all--told her even more than he
had ever confessed to himself--how, day by day, his hopes had diminished
and his fears increased, until, after the physician’s caution on
the previous morning, he had made up his mind that the medical men
considered Alice dying; how he had concealed from her that the crisis of
the complaint was at hand, and how he had passed the night in an agony
of trembling expectation, longing for and yet dreading the moment in
which she should awake; together with his delight when he heard her
pronounce his name.

Lord Alfred Courtland set off in high glee for Hazlehurst Grange,
certain of a hearty welcome, as bearer of such good tidings, and
happier, as he declared, than he had felt for the last six months.

A week passed away. For two or three days, Alice appeared to progress
favourably--as favourably as even her husband’s anxiety could desire.
She knew every one, and conversed reasonably upon all subjects; but with
the return of consciousness, a settled melancholy appeared to have
taken possession of her. This, together with her extreme weakness, gave
uneasiness alike to her indefatigable nurses, Harry and Emily, and to
Dr. Gouger. Taking Harry aside one morning, he began--

“There are symptoms about Mrs. Coverdale which I cannot understand,
and which appear to me more mental than bodily. They are retarding her
recovery; and if you could ascertain the cause, and were able to remove
it, I do not hesitate to tell you that you would prove a more effectual
physician than I, or any one else, can be to her; but you must bear
in mind her state of extreme debility; she is not fit to discuss any
exciting topic at present.”

“Then how would you recommend me to proceed?” inquired Harry, the
doctor’s warning having impressed him with two diametrically opposite
ideas:--first, that it behoved him to ascertain whether anything, and
(if anything) _what_, was preying upon his wife’s mind; and, secondly,
that by so doing, he should probably lead her to talk on some exciting
subject, which, in her present weak state, was the thing of all others
to be avoided. How were these difficulties to be reconciled?

Dr. Gouger’s answer did not tend greatly to elucidate matters.

“Really, my dear sir, _that_ is a point on which I can give you no
advice. In the treatment of all bodily ailments, I, with all due
deference to my professional brethren, consider myself as competent as
any man; but were I so far to overstep my proper province as to attempt
to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ as our great poet has it, I should be
guilty of unpardonable presumption. No, my dear sir, I have given you
the suggestion, and must leave it to your sound judgment how far, or in
what way, it may be desirable to act upon it.”

Poor Harry! just the very points upon which he felt most incompetent to
form an opinion, were those on which he was called upon to decide and
act; but Harry had one adviser which never failed him--his own simple,
straightforward common sense; and to that, and the so-called chapter of
accidents, he resolved to trust.

During the remainder of that day, however, the aforesaid chapter did
not afford him the opportunity he sought for. Alice appeared weak and
depressed, and more inclined to sleep than to converse. On the following
morning, she seemed a degree stronger and less disinclined to exertion.
She inquired into the particulars of the steeple-chase, and especially
interested herself in all the details relating to the leap at which he
met with his accident, and his “pluck” in remounting and winning the
race with a broken arm.

After Harry had given a full, true, and particular account of the affair
from beginning to end, and his wife had evinced all proper interest and
sympathy, a pause ensued in the conversation, which was broken by Alice.

“Emily has been telling me how you _would_ sit up with me, night after
night, when you ought to have been lying in bed yourself with your poor
arm,” she said; “how kind and good it was of you! I hope you do not
suffer very much pain now?”

“Oh, no! it is troublesome at times, but in general it is pretty easy,”
 was the reply.

After another pause, Alice asked, in a low, trembling voice--

“Did you think I should die, Harry?”

“I was naturally very anxious and unhappy about you,” returned
Coverdale, “and--well, since you are getting on so nicely, I will
confess that I was terribly frightened about you at one time,--that
night on which the crisis took place especially; I never wish to pass
such another six hours, I assure you!”

“Harry, love, I hope it would not make you very unhappy to lose me. Just
a little sorry I should wish you to feel; I should like you, when you
are recollecting me, to think, ‘she was a poor, foolish little thing,
very obstinate and perverse at times, but still she loved me as well as
such a silly little thing could.’”

“Alice, my own darling, why indulge in such gloomy fancies?” replied her
husband, tenderly; “you know, you must be sure, it would break my heart
to lose you. Ask Emily whether I am not a different creature since the
doctors have pronounced you out of danger?”

“Harry, my own dearest husband, I love to hear you say that, and I know
it is true; but, dear Harry, you must not be very unhappy if such a
thing were to occur, for--for--I think I shall die yet; I think I grow
weaker and weaker every day; I shall never have strength enough to get
well again.”

Coverdale was about to interrupt her, but she placed her finger on his
lips to imply her wish that he should remain silent as she continued--

“Yes, dearest, I believe I am gradually sinking into my grave; it made
me very, very unhappy at first; for life is pleasant, and I am young
to die! besides, I know, love, what a bad, tiresome wife I have been to
you, and I did so want to try if I could not do better; I know what a
proud rebellious, wilful temper I have shown towards you, but indeed I
don’t think I have altogether a bad heart, and I did hope if I tried,
very hard, perhaps I could make you happy; but lately I have begun to
think it may be better for you as it is.”

“My own darling, what strange, silly fancies are these? Gouger says you
are going on as well as possible; you make me wretched to hear you talk
so, and what _do_ you mean by it being better for me as it is? If I were
to lose you, I should never know another happy hour.”

“You think so now, dear,” was the reply, “and very kind it is of you to
be so fond of your naughty, tiresome little wife; and I know you will
be very unhappy at first when I die; but you must go abroad or take a
shooting tour somewhere, to keep you from thinking and fretting about
me; and--you must not be angry at what I am going to say, dear--in a
year or so you must come back, and then you can marry some one who will
make you a better wife than poor, silly little Alice--some one who has
been attached to you a long time, and whom there will be no reason why
you should not love in return when I am out of the way; she is more
clever and courageous than I am, and will be able to enter into your
pursuits, and help you with your magistrate’s business, and--and--oh! I
am sure you will be very happy with her, dear!”

CHAPTER LXII.--MRS. COVERDALE THINKS BETTER OF IT.

Harry listened with all the patience he could muster while Alice was
thus comfortably arranging her own decease and his second marriage,
then speaking gravely, though still in the most affectionate manner, he
replied--

“I cannot even _feel_ annoyed with you now you are so ill and weak, my
poor child, but the matter to which you allude is most repugnant and
distasteful to me; it is a subject, in fact, on which I would not
allow any human being but yourself to address me. I will not pretend to
misunderstand your allusion; but I do most solemnly assure you that you
are mistaken, and that were it, indeed, God’s will that you should be
taken from me, no new ties should come between my soul and the memory of
the only woman, except my poor mother, whom I have ever really loved. I
see that you do not believe me! it is unjust, almost unkind of you!”

Harry spoke with deep feeling; and Alice, with tears in her eyes, placed
her poor, thin hand within that of her husband as she replied--

“I do most fully believe that you love me as you say, and that at this
moment you do not imagine you could be happy with anybody else, but it
is a comfort to me to think that when I am parted from you there will
still be some one to care for you. I assure you I feel quite differently
towards Miss Crofton _now_; I was jealous of her, dreadfully jealous--I
confess it! but I now am grateful to her for loving you, and sorry I
ever entertained such uncharitable feelings towards her. I mean to leave
her all my jewels, except one or two little things I should like to give
poor Emily.”

Alice paused, partly through weakness, partly because she wanted her
husband to signify his approval of her sentiments, which she considered
was the least he could do, in return for what was, in fact, to her, an
act of almost superhuman charity and self-denial. But Coverdale was in
no humour to comply with her desire; on the contrary, so distasteful was
the whole matter, and poor Alice’s idea of the situation so far from
the truth, that he was driven to his wits’ end with perplexity and
annoyance, which nothing but a sense of his wife’s unfitness to sustain
so energetic a mode of address prevented from breaking forth in a burst
of his “quiet manner.” As he continued silent, Alice resumed:--

“You must not be angry with me for knowing about it, Harry dear, for the
knowledge was forced upon me, nor was I aware what Lord Alfred Courtland
was about to tell until I had heard so much that my womanly dignity
would not allow me to stop him; I did not choose to let him think I
could believe it possible you had done anything I should be afraid to
hear, and so he told me all.”

“And pray what might _all_ be?” inquired Harry, as calmly as he was
able.

“Oh! about her being in love with you, and your running away together,
and old Mr. Somebody (I can’t remember names) taking her away again, and
preventing you from marrying her; yes, he told me all about it.”

“He told you a pack of lies, so mixed up with a little truth, that
unless I were able to give you a detailed account of the affair I could
not separate them, and I am under a solemn promise not to say anything
about it; but I know what I will do. In the meantime believe this--I
love you with my whole heart and soul, and you only, and if you have any
regard for me you will strive to banish all these silly fancies, which
only delay your recovery, and get well as fast as you can for my sake.
And now you have talked more than is good for you, so I shall send Emily
to you to read you to sleep.”

As soon as he had put this resolution into practice he betook himself to
the library, and wrote as follows:--

“Dear Arabella,--The promise I made you at the inn, at Fiumalba, I have
up to this time kept faithfully; I now ask you to release me from it. My
wife’s happiness (in which my own is bound up), perhaps her life even,
depends upon your doing so; she has just passed the crisis of a brain
fever, her bodily weakness is lamentable to witness, and the mental
depression naturally arising from it leads her to take a morbid and
desponding view of her own chances of recovery: in such a position,
anything that will conduce to raise her spirits and tranquillise her
mind will effect more than twenty doctors. Some mischief-maker has
caused her to obtain a garbled account of a certain occurrence, to which
I will not farther refer; nothing but _the whole truth_ will suffice to
set her mind at rest. Arabella! I deeply regret this necessity, but it
cannot be avoided, and I trust to you to act towards me as I would act
by you if the situation were reversed.

“I remain always,

“Your true and sincere friend,

“Harry Coverdale.”

For two or three days after that on which the foregoing conversation
between Coverdale and his wife took place, Alice continued much in the
same condition, the idea that she should die, and that after her death
Harry would espouse Arabella Crofton, and be much happier than she had
been able to make him, appeared never absent from her mind; her appetite
decreased, her sleep became broken and fitful, and Mr. Gouger’s face
grew longer, and his head shook more and more like that of Lord Burleigh
in the _Critic_, every time he visited her.

One morning, on Coverdale’s return from the neighbouring town, whither
he had ridden to procure some delicacy wherewith to try and tempt
Alice’s capricious appetite; he was equally surprised and pleased on
entering her room to perceive a brightness in her eye and a colour in
her cheek, such as he had feared never to see there again.

“Why, Alice darling, this fine morning has inspired you--you are looking
more like yourself than I have seen you this many a long day!” he
exclaimed, as he seated himself by the easy-chair which Alice had gained
sufficient strength to use as a substitute for her couch.

Regarding him with a smile and blush, which tinged her late, cheeks with
the most delicate rose-colour, she replied--

“You have grown very clever in reading people’s faces of late, Harry
dear; but you are quite right in fancying something has inspired me--at
least, if feeling very happy is what you mean by inspiration. But oh!
how foolish I have been! how wrong, how unjust I was ever to doubt you!
Harry dearest, can you forgive me for not feeling certain that you had
always acted as nobly and generously before I knew you as you have done
since? If you could tell how I hate and despise myself for my silly,
illiberal suspicions! But you must wonder all this time what has set me
raving in this strange way. What do you think of my having had a
letter from--yes! actually from Miss Crofton, telling me--here, read it
yourself, I am certain every word of it is true; and oh! how I pity her
for being obliged to write it, and, indeed, for the whole affair, poor
thing!”

As Alice spoke she drew a letter from the pocket of her dress, and gave
it to her husband; it ran as follows:--

“I have received a note from Mr. Coverdale, urging me to release him
from a promise he most kindly made me, at a time when, bowed down by
shame and contrition, his doing so saved me, as I verily believe, from
madness or suicide. He tells me your health and his happiness depend
upon my complying with his request; it becomes then a duty in me to
do so; and, however painful it may be, I will not flinch from it. It
appears to me that the most effectual way to remove any misapprehension
from your mind, in regard to the nature and extent of my acquaintance
with Mr. Coverdale before his marriage, will be to give you a concise
account of the occurrences which took place during the summer I spent
in Italy, whither I had accompanied a family of the name of Muir, in the
capacity of governess. The Muirs were well-meaning, commonplace people,
not possessing the slightest tact or refinement of feeling. I was at
that time young, and morbidly sensitive; and the slights they put
upon me, without, as I can now perceive, intending any unkindness, or,
indeed, being aware of the effect their thoughtlessness was producing
upon me, were a daily martyrdom to my proud spirit. We spent three
months at Florence; and shortly after we had settled there, John Muir,
the eldest son, who had been making a tour among the Swiss mountains,
rejoined his family, accompanied by Mr. Coverdale, who had known him
at the university. Slightly attracted, I fancy, by the good looks of
my eldest pupil, who was an unusually pretty nonentity, Mr. Coverdale,
always talking of the necessity of continuing his journey to the East,
still lingered at Florence. The great kindness of heart and delicacy of
feeling which lie hid under a roughness of manner that can only mislead
a very superficial observer, soon led him to perceive and pity my
isolated position; and from the moment in which he became aware how
keenly the sense of dependence preyed upon me, he treated me with a
degree of deference and attention which could not but contrast most
favourably with the neglect I experienced from others. Under the cold
manner which circumstances have forced me to assume, I have concealed a
naturally ardent and impetuous disposition, and as deeply as I had been
affected by the ungenerous conduct of the Muirs did I now appreciate Mr.
Coverdale’s sympathy and kindness--in a word, for I have resolved to
conceal nothing from you, I loved him with all the force of my
passionate nature. But the very strength of my feelings led me
studiously to conceal them; nor, until the elopement of my eldest pupil
with a scheming Italian adventurer broke up the party, did I give Mr.
Coverdale the slightest opportunity of suspecting the warm interest he
had excited in me; but when about to bid him farewell as I imagined for
ever, my self-control gave way, and I burst into a passionate flood of
tears. Equally grieved and surprised, he soothed me with his accustomed
kind and considerate delicacy, begged me always to look upon him as a
friend, and apply to him in any emergency, as to a brother; and as soon
as I became somewhat more composed, left me. The next tidings I heard of
him were that he had quitted Florence. Scarcely had I retired to my
room, to endeavour to calm my excitement, and to struggle to subdue my
hopeless attachment in tears and solitude, when Mrs. Muir sent for me,
and reproached me with equal virulence and unkindness for her daughter’s
elopement, which she declared to have been the consequence of my
neglect. ‘Had you,’ she continued, ‘been less engrossed by seeking to
ensnare the affections of Mr. Coverdale, you would have been better able
to perform the duties of your situation, and this misfortune might never
have come upon us.’ Stung by the mixture of truth and falsehood in this
cruel reproach, I replied--I know not what--proudly, and I can now well
believe impertinently; and the next thing that I became aware of was,
that a sum of money sufficient to defray my expenses to England was
placed before me, and that I was dismissed. Thrown thus on my own
resources in a foreign land, without a single friend near to help or
advise me, what wonder that I instinctively turned to the only quarter
from which I had for years (for mine had been a desolate youth) met with
kindness, consideration, and sympathy; and that from the chaos of
conflicting emotions one idea alone stood out clear and defined--to seek
Harry Coverdale, throw myself on his generosity, tell my tale of sorrow
and of love, and leave the result to him and destiny. That such a course
was unwomanly, almost unpardonable in me, none can be more bitterly
aware than I am; but I pray God that those of my own sex who are
inclined to condemn me may never be tempted as I was tempted--may never
fall as, but for the superhuman goodness of heart, and the tender,
simple, yet chivalrous nature of your husband, I should have fallen.
With me, to resolve and to act were simultaneous. I lost not a moment in
ascertaining the route Mr. Coverdale had taken, and ere the Muir family
were aware of my departure I had followed him to Fiumalba, a small town
within a few hours’ journey of Florence. Without allowing myself an
instant’s time for reflection, I sought the hotel at which Mr. Coverdale
was stopping, and in my distraction flung myself at his feet, and told
him everything--how I loved him better than any other created
being--better even than my own womanly pride and good name--how I felt
convinced that such love as mine must in time win return--how that if he
would make me his wife, I would devote every thought; every action of my
future existence, to secure his happiness--how, if he refused me, I
would lie down at his feet and die, but never leave him. Then did he
indeed redeem his promise of acting by me as a brother--then did he save
me from my worst enemy--myself. Having soothed and quieted my agony of
spirit, by his calm good sense and judicious kindness, he appealed to my
reason--set before me how, by yielding to my request, and making me the
partner of his future life, while unable to feel for me that degree of
affection without which such a tie must become unbearable, he would be
doing me an injury rather than conferring a benefit; nor did he leave me
until he had obtained my consent to allow him to return to Florence,
explain the whole matter to Mr. Muir, expostulate with him as to the
cruelty and injustice of thus dismissing me with an undeserved slur on
my character as a governess, and endeavour to arrange that I should
remain with his wife and daughter, and accompany them on their return to
England. In this negotiation he was successful. Mr. Muir,--an easy,
self-indulgent character, yet one who could, on occasions such as that
to which I refer, act kindly and honourably,--accompanied Mr. Coverdale
back to Fiumalba, where he informed me that he had prevailed on Mrs.
Muir to agree to the above proposal, adding that he and Mr. Coverdale
were the only persons aware of the imprudent step I had taken, and that
they were both willing to make me a solemn promise never (unless by my
desire) to reveal the transaction to any one. Utterly broken-spirited
and miserable, I consented, and, taking leave of my preserver, returned
with Mr. Muir to Florence. From that day, until our accidental meeting
in Park Lane, I saw Mr. Coverdale no more. What it has cost me to write
this I will not attempt to describe, but that every word of it is the
simple truth, I call Heaven to witness; that the knowledge of it may for
ever reconcile all differences between you and your noble, generous
hearted husband, and that you may be restored to make him as happy as I
am certain it is in your power to do is the wish and prayer of one who,
if she has erred deeply, has suffered equally, as she hopes not without
some good result.

“Arabella Crofton.”

When Harry had finished reading the letter, he returned it to his wife,
observing, “That is, as she says, a faithful account of all that ever
occurred between us. You now see why I was unable to explain to you the
apparent mystery. I hold a promise to be so sacred a thing, that
nothing--not even the loss of your affection--could induce me to break
one. And now, my poor child, I hope you are satisfied that I indeed love
you with my whole heart, and that the affection of a thousand Arabella
Croftons would never compensate me for the loss of one bright smile or
fond look from my own darling wife.”

Alice attempted to reply, but her heart was too full for words: bursting
into a flood of tears of mingled joy and contrition, she flung her arms
around her husband’s neck, and in that prolonged embrace ended once and
for ever all Harry Coverdale’s matrimonial disputes and discomforts.

CHAPTER LXIII.--LORD ALFRED SEVERS HIS LEADING STRINGS.

Lord Alfred Courtland and Horace D’Almayne were both members of the
Pandemonium, at which notable club the latter, when he had no rich
victim on whom to quarter himself, chiefly spent his days. The visit
which Lord Alfred had paid to Coverdale Park, and his subsequent mission
to Hazlehurst Grange, had impressed him deeply, and brought out all
his best qualities. On his return to town, he took himself to task more
seriously than he had yet done, for the careless and extravagant life he
had been leading; and, warned by experience how futile such repentance
might prove, unless followed by some practical efforts at self-reform,
he set to work with his accustomed impetuosity, to remedy the
evils resulting from his injudicious attempt to become a fast
“man-about-town.” The Honourable Billy Whipcord relieved him of one
difficulty, by purchasing Don Pasquale for the same amount which
Lord Alfred had given Tirrett for the animal, and with the money thus
obtained, together with his winnings on the steeple-chase, he, like an
honest fellow, paid all his creditors. Feeling much happier for this
step in the right direction, he determined to follow it up by another,
and accordingly wrote to his father, saying that, his health being now
re-established, it was his wish to return to Cambridge, and endeavour to
make up for lost time. Having dispatched this letter, and ridden for a
couple of hours in the Park, the necessity of dining occurred to him,
and he turned his horse’s head towards the Pandemonium. As he rode
thither, it struck him that he might possibly encounter Horace
D’Almayne, and he bethought him of his promise to Harry Coverdale, to
give up the acquaintance of the man whom he had so incautiously trusted,
and who had abused that trust by leading him into evil whenever an
opportunity presented itself for so doing.

Yes! disagreeable as it was, perhaps even dangerous (for D’Almayne was
not a man to insult with impunity), he would redeem his pledged word--he
would show his gratitude to Coverdale. If D’Almayne was at the club,
he would cut him in a marked and unmistakeable manner! As these thoughts
were passing through his brain, he became aware of a young man, flashily
dressed, and mounted on a magnificent horse, who, as he passed, took off
his hat to him. Confused for the moment by the idea that it must be some
acquaintance whom he ought to recognise, he bowed stiffly, whereupon the
horseman wheeled his steed, and rode up to Lord Alfred’s side--

“I beg your Lordship’s pardon,” he began, “but I wish to say a few words
to you. Does not your Lordship remember me?”

“Your behaviour towards me, Mr. Tirrett, was of a nature neither easily
to be forgotten, nor calculated to make me desirous of cultivating your
further acquaintance. I have the honour of wishing you good morning.”

Saying this with the hauteur and dignity of the whole House of Peers
combined, Lord Alfred turned his head away from his unwished-for
acquaintance and rode on; but Tirrett had an object in view, and was,
therefore, not to be so easily shaken off.

“I won’t deny,” he said coolly, “that your Lordship has good reason to be
angry with me, for I played you a trick that, if I’d been a gentleman,
and your Lordship’s equal, I should consider a very dirty one; but, if
your Lordship will consider a minute, you’ll perceive the difference
between us.”

Amused, in spite of his anger, at the fellow’s cool audacity, Lord
Alfred replied, with a sarcastic laugh--

“I should scarcely imagine that would require any very deep thinking to
discover!”

“Your Lordship is sharp upon me this afternoon,” observed Tirrett, in
no way disconcerted, “but I was going to remark that horse-dealing,
and horse-racing, which you gentlemen enter into for amusement, is the
regular business by which such men as myself gain our livelihood; it’s
a ticklish sort of trade at the best of times, for we’re liable to be
deceived and cheated on all sides as well as other people; so a fellow’s
obliged to look out, and never throw away a chance. Now your job was
just this,--the Don was recovering from a bad sprain in the off-foreleg
when I sold him to you.”

“Pleasant intelligence for the Honourable Billy!” murmured Lord Alfred.

“I thought he’d stand training, but expected he’d break down in the
race, and as I never like to ride a losing horse if I can help it, I
made my book to win on Black Eagle, but I was obliged to promise to ride
Don Pasquale for you, or else you wouldn’t have bought him. I don’t
say I acted right by you; but I mean to say that I didn’t act any worse
than others that call themselves gentlemen, and your friends too!”

“Do you allude to any one in particular, may I ask?--it is as well to
know one’s friends from one’s foes,” inquired Lord Alfred, his curiosity
beginning to awaken.

“I allude to Horace D’Almayne. Your Lordship best knows whether you
consider him your friend,” was the reply.

“I certainly did at one time, if I do not now; but what has he to do
with the affair?” asked Lord Alfred, his attention now fully aroused.

In answer to this question, Tirrett entered into a full account of the
plot connected with the white-bait dinner, his own acquaintance with
Captain O’Brien, and other particulars, with which the reader is already
acquainted, dwelling especially on D’Almayne’s advice to him, to throw
over Lord Alfred and ride for Captain Annesley, for which D’Almayne
bargained to receive a per-centage on his winnings.

“And now,” he continued, “if I can afford your Lordship proof of the
truth of my statement, in D’Almayne’s own handwriting, and let you
have that proof, so that you may, if you please, confront him with it;
perhaps your Lordship will set that off against my refusal to ride the
steeple-chase for you.”

“Let me see your proof, sir; I shall then be better able to judge of my
amount of obligation to you,” was the curt reply.

Thus urged, Tirrett drew from his pocket the identical epistle which
D’Almayne had written to him from Lord Alfred’s lodgings on the morning
(as the date testified) before he started for the continent. Lord Alfred
perfectly remembered his writing the note; but the authenticity of the
document was established beyond a doubt by the paper, which was stamped
with a coronet and the cypher A. C. As this proof of his Mentor’s
treachery was brought before him, Lord Alfred coloured with anger, and
drawing out his pocket-book, he said--

“You must permit me to keep this document, Mr. Tirrett but, as I
consider it of value, I shall give you an equivalent for it.” Then
handing him a ten-pound note, he continued, “Note for note is a fair
exchange.”

Tirrett glanced at the money as if he had half a mind to return it;
but a moment’s reflection served to dispel the romantic scruple, and
adhering to his rule of never throwing a chance away, he pocketed the
cash, and raising his hat, began--

“Really, your Lordship’s too liberal! I am off for Yorkshire to-morrow
morning; but I shall be up again before the hunting season, with a lot
of very first-rate horses; and as I hope I’ve now made all straight with
your Lordship, I shall be highly honoured if your Lordship will look
through the stable before I let the dealers see them.”

Then, with another low bow, he turned his horse’s head, and touching him
with the spur, cantered off, leaving Lord Alfred to his own reflections,
which ran somewhat after the following fashion--

“So much for there being honour amongst thieves! Tirrett coolly
sacrifices his accomplice, in order to retain my custom! What an
inconceivable scoundrel that Horace D’Almayne turns out! I’m about as
easy-tempered a fellow as can be; too much so, I’m afraid; for I often
say Yes, when I feel I ought to say No; but I’ll cut the swindler dead
at the club, or wherever I meet him, and if he does not like it, I’ll
show him his note to Tirrett, or better still, read it out at the club;
such perfidy ought to be exposed, and I’ll not flinch from doing so.
Coverdale shall see that his example of straightforward manliness is
not quite thrown away upon me. I’ve followed a bad mode with tolerable
success, and reaped the fruits of such folly, and now I’ll try whether
I cannot imitate a good one. I’d do a great deal to reinstate myself in
the good opinion of Harry and his wife; they’ve been very kind to me,
too kind, for it overpowers me; but of course they must have lost all
respect for me--Harry thinks me a soft, foolish boy, and Alice, a weak,
sentimental puppy. Well, I’ll do my best to gain their esteem, and if I
fail, I shall be none the worse for having tried. How pretty that little
Emily is! prettier than her sister, I think! and _she_ believes in me to
a great extent, that’s some comfort!”

By the time his Lordship’s meditations had reached this point, his
Lordship’s horse had reached the Pandemonium, which fact, forcing itself
on his Lordship’s attention, he dismounted, and, consigning the animal
to the care of his groom, entered the club-room, when, of course,
the first person he encountered, was Horace D’Almayne! Owing to Lord
Alfred’s absence from town, D’Almayne had not seen him since his
return from the continent, he, therefore, advanced to meet him with the
greatest _empressement_, greeting him with the usual “_Ah! mon cher,_”
 which he reserved for those of his associates whom he particularly
delighted to honour. Great, therefore, was his astonishment and disgust,
when Lord Alfred walked past him with his head in the air, and his eyes
immovably fixed upon the cornice of the apartment.

For a moment D’Almayne could scarcely believe the evidence of his
senses, so much at variance was his late pupil’s conduct with Horace’s
pre-conceived ideas of his gentle, yielding character; but a covert
smile on the faces of Barrington and several of the usual club-loungers,
was sufficient to convince him of the irritating fact, that in the
presence of the very men, before whom he had often boasted of and
paraded his intimacy with and influence over Lord Alfred Courtland, that
young nobleman had most decidedly and unequivocally cut him. For some
days past D’Almayne had perceived a change to have “come o’er the
spirit” in which he had been received by society at large. Intimates
had suddenly become slight acquaintances; slight acquaintances had grown
strangely short-sighted; and when he forced himself upon their notice,
appeared afflicted with a painful degree of stiffness in the “upper
spine.” Still, until that moment, no one had ventured actually to cut
him. Now the matter had come to a climax, Horace felt himself brought
fairly to bay, and in such a frame of mind he was dangerous. After
Lord Alfred had passed D’Almayne, he touched the Honourable William
Barrington, _alias_ Billy Whipcord, on the arm, and drawing him aside,
said--

“I have just been let into a pleasant little secret; it seems that the
reason my _dis_-honourable young acquaintance, Mr. Tirrett, set his
face so determinately against riding Don Pasquale was that the notable
quadruped had a screw loose in the back sinew of one of its inestimable
fore-legs, and Tirrett was afraid he would break down in the race. Now
as I have become aware of this only within the last half hour, I daresay
I have asked, and you have given, too much for the brute. _Caveat
emptor_ may be a very good general maxim, but I never can see why a
gentleman should act about selling a horse in a manner undeserving that
title--so, if you find the creature unsound I shall be happy to hand
you back a fifty-pound note, or more, if you require it. I’ve passed my
‘little go,’ as a patron of the turf, and wish to come out of it with
clean hands ere I take my leave of that noble pastime.”

“Really, my dear Courtland, you’re too chivalrous,” was the reply; “but
I’m quite content with my bargain; the Don is sound enough to answer my
purpose” (he had sold him that morning, and pocketed a cool hundred by
the transfer), “and if he were not, I have purchased him, and must abide
the loss;--but, excuse me, are you aware that you have just cut Horace
D’Almayne?”

“As he deserves to be cut by every honourable man,” interrupted Lord
Alfred, “and, for reasons which I will explain here before every member
of this club now present, if he has the audacity to--to venture to
force himself upon me,” he continued angrily, as he perceived D’Almayne
sauntering up to him, with his accustomed listless gait indeed, but with
a sparkle in his eye, and a red spot on each cheek, which, to those who
were well acquainted with him, showed that he was unusually excited.

“Has foreign travel, and the lapse of a fortnight, really altered me so
much that your Lordship is unable to recognize an old friend; or to what
other circumstance am I to attribute your singular failure of memory
when I accosted you on your entrance?” he inquired in his most
superciliously polite tone and accent.

“Attribute it to its right cause,” was the spirited reply; “that I
desire to associate only with men of honour, an idiosyncracy which
precludes my longer availing myself of the privilege of Mr. D’Almayne’s
society.”

“In fact, that, having made use of me to convert a raw school-boy into
a very tame specimen of a fast man, you fancy now you are able to run
alone, and that it will add to your reputation for fastness to kick down
the ladder by which you have mounted the social mole-hill you stand
on,” was the sneering answer; “but you have mistaken your man, my Lord.
Horace D’Almayne is not a puppet of which you hold the wires, to dance,
or to be thrown aside, at your Lordship’s pleasure. Had you simply
chosen to deny me your further acquaintance, I should have set the gain
of valuable minutes against the loss of one of the social incubi
my good-nature has entailed upon me, and overlooked the boyish
impertinence; but as you have seen fit to insult me publicly, nothing
short of an equally public apology will satisfy me. Should you be
infatuated enough to refuse me this, I will for once flatter your
Lordship’s vanity by supposing you man enough to be aware of the
alternative.”

As D’Almayne spoke, he drew himself up with an expression of
contemptuous superiority, half-pitying, half-defiant, which he imagined
highly effective.

It certainly had one effect, that of rousing Lord Alfred’s temper to the
utmost extent; and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, he replied--

“If I could believe that you had one thought or feeling of a gentleman
in your composition which my conduct could wound, I would accept one of
the alternatives you propose; but to a man who can abuse the confidence
of friendship by availing himself of it to swindle and betray the
friend who trusted him,--to such a low, sordid black-leg, I will neither
apologize, nor will I afford, him the satisfaction due to wounded
honour.”

For a moment, as D’Almayne’s glance met that of the man he had wronged,
his self-possession failed him; and, ignorant to what extent Lord Alfred
might have become cognizant of his nefarious practices, he hesitated how
far he dared provoke any disclosure. But it was too late to retract: his
social position, on which depended his very means of existence, was at
stake; and as the thought crossed his mind, the gambler spirit awoke
within him. He would carry the matter with a high hand; a bold course
was always the wisest; Fortune would favour those who trusted her. It
was his only article of faith, and he clung to it with the pertinacity
of a zealot.

“Highly melodramatic!” he said, with a sarcastic sneer. “Your Lordship
has a real _spécialité_ for juvenile tragedy. But may I be allowed
to inquire what particular perfidy of mine has elicited the burst
of virtuous indignation which you have selected for your histrionic
_début?_”

“I was willing to have spared you the disgrace of a public exposure,”
 was Lord Alfred’s reply; “but since you choose thus to provoke your
fate, I can have no reason for longer concealing the cause which has led
me to consider you unfit for the society of honourable men.” Turning
to Barrington, who happened to be standing next him, he continued,
“You, sir, and other gentlemen present, may remember how, not many weeks
since, a certain steeple-chase rider, named Tirrett, suddenly left me
in the lurch, by refusing at the last minute to ride for me, by which
rascality I was on the point of losing the race, upon which I had made
an imprudently heavy book. Mr. D’Almayne was at that time abroad, and,
I presume, imagined, owing to that circumstance, he might transact a
little profitable black-leg business with impunity. He accordingly
wrote a note to Tirrett, suggesting to him the scheme which he
afterwards attempted to carry out; stipulating, in case of its success,
to be paid fifty pounds and a percentage on Tirrett’s winnings.”

As Lord Alfred concluded, a murmur of disapprobation ran round the room,
and all eyes were turned upon Horace D’Almayne.

“A cleverly devised tale!” he said, scornfully; “a mole-hill ingeniously
inflated until it appears a mountain. I certainly betted on the race;
I may have given the jockey Tirrett the benefit of my suggestions on the
subject, as any other man who has ever been on the turf would have done;
but that all this demonstrates anything, except Lord Alfred Courtland’s
deplorable ignorance of that said art ‘of life about town,’ in which he
appears to have striven in vain to become a proficient, I am at a loss
to conceive.”

“Perhaps the simplest answer to Mr. D’Almayne’s statement will be to
place the note, on which the foundations of my ‘molehill inflated into
a mountain’ rest, in Mr. Barrington’s hands, asking him, for his own
satisfaction, and for that of the other gentlemen present, to read it
aloud.”

As he spoke, Lord Alfred drew from his pocket the note given him by
Tirrett, and handed it to Barrington, who, after a moment’s hesitation,
read aloud the following notable epistle, which the reader may remember
was written by D’Almayne, with his usual cool audacity, in Lord Alfred
Courtland’s lodgings:--

_“Dear Tirrett,--Your game is clear: let A. C-------- and O’B------n
each believe that you will ride for him, and at the last minute throw
both over. In this case, Captain Annesley’s Black Eagle is safe to win,
as I daresay you know better than I do; thus you will perceive how to
make a paying book. If I prove a true prophet, I shall expect a fifty
pound note from you, as O’B------n will (before you quarrel with
him) tell you I got up the whole affair myself, introducing him to A.
C------, &c.

“I remain, yours faithfully,

“YOU’LL KNOW WHO WHEN I CLAIM THE TIN.”

“P.S.--If you make a heavy purse out of the business, I shall expect ten
per cent, on all beyond five hundred pounds.”_

As Barrington ceased reading, D’Almayne observed, coolly--

“Exactly as I expected--an anonymous letter, supposed to be mine on
the word of a blackguard horsedealer (who probably wrote it himself to
conceal his own rascality), and eagerly caught at by this fiery young
gentleman, who, anxious to prove that he is out of leading-strings,
gladly seeks any pretext for quarrelling with one to whom his Lordship
has a painful consciousness that he appears no more a hero than to his
_valet-de-chambre_. Tirrett declares that I wrote this letter, I say I
did no such thing; there is no proof about the matter, it is simply a
question of assertion--Tirrett’s word against mine. I leave it to the
gentlemen present to say which is most worthy of credit.”

“Allow me to mention one small circumstance which may assist them to
arrive at a just decision,” interposed Lord Alfred, quietly; “I have a
perfect recollection of Mr. D’Almayne’s writing a note, much resembling
the one in question, at my lodgings, on the morning before he left
England. If I am right in my conjecture, the date would be the 5th of
last month, and the postmark Pall Mall; may I trouble you to ascertain
the point, Mr. Barrington?”

“Right in both respects,” was the unhesitating reply. “Moreover, here is
a coronet and the initials A. C. stamped on the paper, a corroboration
which quite satisfies my mind on the subject.”

L’Almayne glanced round, and read his sentence on the faces which
surrounded him--faces of men, who, in the insolence of his false
position, he had made to feel the lash of his covert sarcasm. Amongst
the many there he could not discern one friend. But his self-possession
did not forsake him.

“Of course, all against me,” he said; then turning to Lord Alfred, he
continued--“Your Lordship once expressed a doubt as to the social value
of a title, you now, I should imagine, perceive your error: for the
rest, the letter is an impudent forgery, and the accusation false; but
until I can prove the whole story the clumsy fabrication I know it to
be, I shall leave the matter where it stands, unless”--and he glanced
round the circle with a savage light in his cold, grey eyes, which
no one cared to meet--“unless any gentleman feels inclined to make
a personal affair of it, in which case I shall have much pleasure in
affording him the satisfaction he requires.”

No one appearing desirous of improving the occasion as D’Almayne had
suggested, the baffled intriguer stalked out of the room, with a look
of scornful indifference on his features, and rage and hatred burning in
his breast.

CHAPTER LXIV.--D’ALMAYNE PLAYS HIS LAST CARD.

“Leave me, sir! I consider your very presence an insult!”

“Before you drive me from you for ever, I am determined to set plainly
before you the results which must inevitably follow your decision, and
show you unmistakeably the difference between the future which awaits
you, and the lot which might even yet be yours if you have only
sufficient strength of character to cast aside the meaningless
conventionalities of a false and hollow state of society.”
 D’Almayne--for as the reader has no doubt already conjectured, the
foregoing speech proceeded from his lips--paused for a moment to control
the excitement under which, despite his endeavours to conceal it, he was
evidently labouring. Kate Crane appeared again about to interrupt him;
but by a glance and a gesture of the hand he restrained her, while he
continued:--“You talk of marriage as a holy tie, and where such a bond
is indeed one of the heart, I, sceptic and libertine as you consider
me, entirely agree with you; but such a term cannot apply to the
cruel mockery which has bound youth, beauty, and intellect to age,
decrepitude, and imbecility. But putting aside all idea of affection,
the temptation which led you to commit this outrage against every better
feeling of your nature exists no longer. Mr. Crane is a ruined man; if,
therefore, you adhere to the conventional prejudice which you vainly
endeavour to dignify by the name of duty, you have nothing to hope but
to sacrifice to it the best years of your life, years in which you will
still be young, when your queenly beauty and bright clear intellect will
fit you to shine in and lead society of a class in which your elegant
tastes, and refined sympathies, would meet with a gratification
sufficient in itself to render life one scene of pleasurable excitement.
But, more than this, you are ambitious; I can read it in your flashing
eye, in the curl of your haughty lip. I would open to you such a field
for that ambition as in your wildest moments you have never dreamed of.
You do not believe me! you consider me a base, unscrupulous adventurer.
If it were so, what have I ever had to call out the higher, nobler
qualities of my nature? Nothing! But with such a soul as yours to urge
and inspire me, and with your love as my reward, to what height
might not my genius soar! What was the great Napoleon but a Corsican
adventurer? and yet his was a career an Emperor’s daughter was proud to
share. You think I am romancing--talking bombastic nonsense; but it is
not so. In America, at the present time, there is an immense field
for talent. I know the character of the nation well, know how both its
strong and weak points could be turned to account, and form the
ladder by which I might climb even to the President’s seat, and once
there!--Presidents have ere now become Emperors--from democracy to
despotism is the natural transition--history proves it. Since I have
known you, a change has come over my every thought and feeling;
hitherto I have exerted my talents merely to supply my own fastidious
requirements, but now my ideas are enlarged, my aspirations heightened.
Brought up from my earliest childhood among men, clever indeed, but
without one pure thought, one disinterested feeling, I became--what I
am. You have excited in me higher, nobler feelings. I will not deny that
your beauty first attracted me; but since I have known you, and each day
discovered new qualities with which I could sympathise, I have learned
to love you with the only deep, real sentiment I have ever yet felt for
one of your sex. Hitherto I have looked on women as mere toys wherewith
to solace one’s leisure hours; but in you I recognise a loftier nature;
I feel not only in the presence of an intelligence equal to my own, but
I have an instinctive perception that you might become my leading star,
my tutelary deity! Kate, hear me! my destiny is in your hands. Fly with
me to America--everything is prepared; and when we arrive on the soil
of a new world, you shall become the bride of a man already possessed of
riches sufficient to obtain for you luxuries greater than you have yet
enjoyed, and with a gift riches are powerless to procure--talent which
has never yet failed me, however critical the position--talent which,
henceforward, you shall direct into any course that best may win your
approval; knowing that whatever career you may select, the sole reward I
shall seek will be your approbation--my only happiness, your affection.
You have not heard me unmoved--you cannot, will not refuse me!”

As D’Almayne concluded, he fixed his eyes on Kate’s face, as though he
sought to read there his sentence before her lips should pronounce it,
while his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glistened with unfeigned emotion.
For an instant, unable to bear the intensity of his glance, Kate turned
away with a heightened colour, then, recovering her self-possession by a
powerful effort, she replied calmly--

“I have heard you thus far, Mr. D’Almayne, without interruption, partly
because I believe that, for once, you are speaking under the influence
of real feeling; partly because I owe you, as I imagine, a debt of
gratitude for your kindness to my brother; these reasons have induced
me to listen to addresses, every word of which I consider as the deepest
insult which can be offered to a pure-minded woman. You tell me
I married Mr. Crane for money; I neither admit nor repel the
accusation--like most taunts, it contains a half-truth, so disguised
by sarcasm as to appear a whole one. But how doubly sordid should I be,
were I to act on your suggestion, and quit my husband,--who, if your
supposition be correct, I have sufficiently wronged already,--because
he has, as you inform me, been swindled out of his wealth--_how_ I leave
your own conscience to inform you! The fact that he is poor, and that
you profess yourself rich, is enough to carry conviction to my mind.
But I will not enter further into the question: suffice it that your
sophistries have failed to blind me, and that I am still able to discern
the path of duty--let it lead whither it may, I am resolved to follow
it. I have given you, as you requested, a fair hearing and a deliberate
reply. For your kindness to my brother, I again thank you. As I gather
that you are about to leave this country, and can well imagine it may be
necessary for you to do so, farewell for ever! I set your one good deed
against your evil ones, and bear you no ill-will. We part neither as
friends nor foes.”

As Kate spoke, she rose to quit the room, but D’Almayne interposed
between her and the door--

“One moment,” he said in his usual tone of sarcasm; “my modesty cannot
permit me to depart, taking credit for a good deed which I have never
performed. It was not I who rescued your brother from his difficulty;
though, as a stepping-stone to your favour, I would willingly have done
so: for that act of kindness you are indebted to----”

“Whom?” inquired Kate, eagerly.

“One to whom, if he had this morning pleaded as I have done, I fancy
even your rigid virtue might have afforded a kinder answer--your cousin,
Arthur Hazlehurst!”

D’Almayne spoke at random, but the arrow wounded as deeply as even
his disappointed malevolence could have desired. With every vestige of
colour banished from her pale cheek, Kate sank back upon her chair, and
drawing her breath with difficulty, placed her hand upon her side, as
if in pain. Heedless of her suffering--nay, rather rejoicing in it--the
evil expression came across D’Almayne’s face as, in a tone of sarcastic
triumph, he exclaimed--

“You love him! I was certain of it, and am fully avenged. Chained by
your marriage vow to a decrepid imbecile, while you love another with
all the depth and fire of your passionate nature, you will experience
the torments of the damned. To the remorse and despair these reflections
will engender,--a despair so desolating that you will live to regret
even your decision of this morning,--I leave you. When your husband
returns to-night, a ruined man, remember my words--the curse that you
have brought upon yourself will have begun to work!”

Unable to reply, Kate remained leaning back, her eyes fixed upon him
with a kind of horrible fascination. Leisurely drawing on his gloves, he
appeared to be feasting his gaze with the misery he had created; then,
casting on her a look of sardonic malevolence that a fiend might have
emulated, but could scarcely have surpassed, he turned and quitted the
apartment, and immediately afterwards the house.

Kate’s reflections after D’Almayne had left her may easily be imagined;
all feelings of resentment against the man who had insulted her were
merged in the one thought that her cousin, Arthur Hazlehurst, had been
her brother’s unknown benefactor When she had imagined him implacably
offended at the unjustifiable manner in which, during their last
interview, she had treated him, he was still watching over her
interests, and with a chivalrous devotion to the remembrance of their
former attachment (for such could be the only kindly sentiment he could
now cherish towards her), he had come forward and saved her brother from
the ruin which had appeared inevitable. She had received a note that
morning from Frederick, informing her of his return from the Continent,
and stating his intention of paying her a visit immediately, adding that
he had obtained his benefactor’s sanction to tell her to whom he was
indebted for his present good fortune, and all other particulars she
might wish to learn. While thus engaged, a knock at the door announced
a visitor, and in another moment her brother’s arms were thrown around
her. Six months’ foreign travel, and daily association with persons
mixing in good society, had produced a great change in Fred Marsden’s
appearance: the handsome boy had become a fine manly young fellow, whose
frank address and courteous manners were certain to ensure him a kindly
welcome, and greatly increase his chances of success in life. Fred had
much to tell, and found an eager listener in Kate. Arthur was the best,
kindest, wisest, most generous of men; Arthur had sent him abroad more
to finish his education than for any use he could be of in a business
point of view; Arthur was most liberal to him in money-matters; and yet
superior as he was in everything--talent, age, position--Arthur treated
him like an equal, nay, like a brother.

While he thus ran on, a cab drove up to the door, and shortly after
Mr. Crane entered the apartment; he appeared to walk feebly, and once
staggered, and nearly fell in crossing the room. Glancing angrily
towards Fred, he muttered, “Send that boy away, Mrs. Crane--I--I wish to
speak with you on matters of importance.”

Hastily dismissing her brother--promising to write him word when to come
again--Kate returned to her husband. “You look ill and worried,” she
said; “let me fetch you a glass of wine and a biscuit.”

“Ill and worried indeed! I tell you, Mrs. Crane, I have this day
received my death-blow. Don’t reply, madam; don’t mock me with any
pretence of affection--I know its worth. You married me for my money--I
am not so blind as you may imagine--yes! you married me for my money;
and now you are rightly served, for I am a ruined man. You may well
stare and look surprised, for I can scarcely believe it myself. Oh, it
is too cruel--horrible, to think that I, Jedediah Crane, whose name
has been good for five hundred thousand pounds any day, should die a
beggar!” Here he paused, and broke into a fit of childish weeping; after
a time he again resumed angrily, “And for this, madam, I have chiefly to
thank your precious admirer, Horace D’Almayne; my money was safe enough
till he led me on to speculate; and I believe your arts and allurements
were the chief cause that attracted him here. But your wickedness has
brought its own punishment, for you must work for your living now--you,
and all your pauper family, whom you have supported out of my
pocket: and as for D’Almayne, may the bitterest curses light upon
him--may------” Here, suddenly breaking off, he stared round him wildly,
raised his hand to his forehead, murmured, “Oh, my head!” and sank back
in his chair. Greatly alarmed, Kate rang the bell violently, and whilst
the butler and another servant conveyed Mr. Crane to his room, she
dispatched a third in search of medical assistance. That evening Arthur
Hazlehurst received the following note:

“In the unpardonable pride which has been my besetting sin through life,
but to which, if suffering can eradicate faults, I ought never again
to yield, I requested you not to enter my house until I sent for you;
deeming, when I said it, that I was pronouncing a sentence of banishment
which would continue in effect as long as we should both survive. Having
placed this bar between myself and the generous friendship you have
always evinced for me, I dare not now ask your assistance--but if in the
great strait in which I am placed you would advise me to whom I ought
to apply, you will be rendering me a kindness I have little deserved at
your hands. Mr. Crane returned home this evening greatly excited,
and declared that he was a ruined man; while still raving almost
incoherently on the subject, he was attacked with paralysis, and now
lies in a state which the two physicians I have called in inform me is
in the highest degree critical. He has recovered his consciousness, but
his speech is so much affected that I can only collect that his mind is
still troubled by business details. I am not aware of the name of his
legal adviser, nor, indeed, certain whether he was in the habit of
consulting one. I await your reply with much anxiety.

“Kate Crane.”

Within a quarter of an hour after he received this note Arthur
Hazlehurst was in Park Lane.

CHAPTER LXV.--SETTLES EVERYBODY AND EVERYTHING.

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