CHAPTER IX.—CONTAINS LITTLE ELSE SAVE MOONSHINE.
Mrs. Hazlehurst was so confirmed an invalid as to be unable to walk, even so short a distance as from the drawing-room to her own bed-room, whither she was usually carried by either her husband or her son. She was in the habit of retiring at nine o’clock, but on the evening referred to in the last chapter the clock chimed the half-hour after nine, and Mr. Hazlehurst had not returned.
“Mamma, dear, you are looking tired—you ought not to sit up so late!” exclaimed Alice, who had been observing her mother attentively for some minutes. “Do allow Evans to carry you up: papa is sometimes kept till eleven o’clock at these magistrates’ meetings, you know.”
One great charm which Alice possessed in Harry’s eyes was her devotion to her mother, for whom she entertained an affection which was, perhaps, one of the strongest feelings of her nature.
“I had rather wait, dear,” was the patient reply:—“the worthy Evans is growing fat and old, and I am always afraid of his falling; and James is very willing, poor lad, but he is so awkward that he rubs me against all the corners we pass, and only escapes knocking my brains out by a succession of miracles.”
“If you would allow me to assist you, Mrs. Hazlehurst,” began Coverdale, in a hesitating voice, as though he were about to ask rather than to confer a favour—“I am sure I could carry you safely; I have observed exactly how Arthur holds you, and it would give me so much pleasure to be of use to you.”
“You are very kind,” returned Mrs. Hazlehurst, while a glow of grateful surprise coloured her pale cheeks; “but I cannot bear to give you the trouble—you do not know how heavy I am.”
“You do not know how strong I am, my dear madam,” was the good-natured rejoinder; “allow me—that I think is right,” and raising the light form of the invalid in his powerful arms he carried her, as easily and tenderly as a mother would her child, to her room, where, carefully depositing her in an easy-chair, he wished her good night, and left her without waiting to receive her thanks.
“Alice, love, Emily will stay and read to me—go down and tell Mr. Coverdale how much obliged I am; he carried me as comfortably as if he had been in the constant habit of doing so for years. The kindness of heart, and delicacy of feeling with which he made the offer, have gratified me exceedingly; depend upon it he is an unusually amiable, excellent young man.”
“He certainly appears in a new character to-night,” returned Emily, laughing; “hitherto he has performed the modern Timon most naturally and successfully. I wonder what made the creature take it into his head to act the man—or rather the woman—hater! You’d better ask him, Alice, perhaps he will tell you!—What gone already!” she continued, glancing round the room. “Well then, mamma dear, as there seems to be no more fun forthcoming, let me give you your dose of Jeremy Taylor; that is our present good book, I believe.”
A reproof for the levity with which Emily spoke rose to her mother’s lips; but Mrs. Hazlehurst was a sensible woman as well as a good one, and so, being able to distinguish between the exuberance of high spirits, and a scoffing turn of mind, she only murmured, “Silly child,” and shook her head, with a reproving smile.
When Alice returned to the drawing-room she at first imagined it to be tenantless; but on looking more attentively she perceived the tall figure of Harry Coverdale standing with folded arms in the recess of one of the windows. So noiselessly did she enter that Harry, whose face was turned away from the door, was not aware of her approach until she was within a few yards of him. As with a sudden start he looked round, she was surprised to observe the traces of deep emotion visible on his features, which were usually characterised by an expression of so completely opposite a nature. With a murmured apology for intruding on him, Alice was about to withdraw, when Coverdale hastened to prevent her.
“Do not run away,” he said quickly, then continued, “You are surprised to see me look sad; I think I should like, if you will permit me, to tell you the cause. It is so seldom I meet with anybody to whom I can talk about such things—people in general would not understand me, but I feel an instinctive certainty that you will. It is such a lovely night, would you object to come out? Your cousin, Miss Marsden, is already enjoying the moonlight.” As he spoke, he pointed to a white figure pacing, with bent head and measured steps, along a terrace-walk on the further side of the lawn. Throwing a shawl over her head to protect herself from the night dew, Alice signified her consent, and opening one of the French windows, they descended into the garden. For some minutes they strolled on side by side without speaking; the silence at length becoming embarrassing, Alice broke it by observing—
“I must not forget to deliver mamma’s thanks for your kindness. You carried her so easily and carefully, she says, she could almost imagine you must have been accustomed to such an occupation before.”
Harry smiled a melancholy smile. “That was what I was going to tell you about,” he said, “only when it came to the point, I felt as if it were impossible to begin. Carrying Mrs. Hazlehurst to-night brought back such a flood of recollections!” He paused, then in a low tone continued: “For many months before her death my own poor mother became perfectly helpless, and I used to carry her like a child from room to room. I was only seventeen when I lost her, and, except your brother, I have never had any one to love since; and though Arthur is as good a fellow as ever breathed, and all that one can wish a friend to be, yet somehow, whether it is the difference between a man’s mind and a woman’s, or what, I cannot tell, but there are things I’ve never talked about with anybody since my mother died, because I’ve felt that nobody else could understand me. Perhaps, if she had lived, I might have been more what I sometimes wish I were—less rough, and—but I do not know why I should bore you with what must be singularly uninteresting to you.”
“Pray go on,” replied Alice; “I have heard so much of you from Arthur, that I always hoped I should some day know you myself, and that we might become friends; but—” here she stopped, apparently embarrassed how to proceed.
Harry came to her assistance—“But when I did appear, I made myself so disagreeable that you naturally repented ever having wasted a thought upon such an unamiable savage. Is not that what you would have said? Well, you are quite right, I deserve that it should be so.”
There was a degree of regretful earnestness in his voice and manner which touched Alice’s gentle heart, and she hastened to reply:—
“Nay, it was only that you did not know us; and—I think that silly Mr. D’Almayne annoyed you with his airs and affectation; but I am sure you will never be so—so—”
“Brutish!” suggested Harry.
“So unjust to yourself again,” resumed Alice.
“You are very kind—kinder than I deserve by far,” replied Coverdale. He paused, then continued, “I don’t think I was naturally such a bear; but from childhood I have had to battle with the world on my own behalf. Did Arthur ever tell you any of my earlier history?”
“No; he often alluded to it as curious, but said we ought to see you first, and then we should understand you better and care more to hear it,” was the simple reply.
Harry smiled. “The only romantic episode in my career occurred when I was a very young boy,” he said, “so young, that if I had not heard the story over and over again from the mouth of my late uncle, the old Admiral, I should scarcely have remembered it. To enable you to comprehend the situation properly, I must trouble you with a few family details. My grandfather had two sons—the Admiral the elder, and my father the younger. My father, when a lieutenant in a marching regiment, fell in love with a very pretty, amiable but portionless girl; my grandfather desired him to marry an heiress; my father refused, and urged his affection for another; my grandfather grew imperative, my father recusant; my grandfather stormed, my father persisted; and the affair ended by my father marrying his lady-love, and my grandfather disinheriting him for so doing. The natural consequences ensued: my grandfather devoted his fortune and influence to my uncle’s advancement, and at the age of fifty he became an admiral; at the same age my father found himself a captain, existing on half-pay, with a microscopic pension and an incurable wound in his side, as rewards for having served his country. ‘England expects every man to do his duty,’ and occasionally recompenses him for it with honourable starvation. As my father’s health decreased his expenses increased, unpaid doctors’ bills stared him in the face, and butchers and bakers grew uncivil and importunate.
“At my grandfather’s death he left every farthing he possessed to his eldest son. Angry at the injustice, my father refused his brother’s offer of an allowance, and unwisely determined to dispute the will. Accordingly, he not only lost his cause, but irritated my uncle to such a degree, that all communication ceased between them. When I was approaching the august age of ten years, and affairs seemed to be coming to a crisis, by some chance I, playing with and apparently absorbed by a regiment of tin soldiers, happened to be present at a family committee of ways and means. During this colloquy, the unfortunate disagreement between the brothers was talked over and lamented by my mother; who exerted all her eloquence to persuade my father to write to this Admiral and inform him of his failing health and ruined fortunes, and trust to his generosity to forgive and forget the past. But my father’s pride stood in the way. He would willingly have been reconciled to his brother, if he had not required pecuniary assistance at his hands; but the consciousness of this necessity rendered him inexorable. So finding his wife’s arguments unanswerable, he adopted the usual resource in such cases—viz., he talked himself into a rage, and flinging out of the room, slammed the door behind him, leaving my mother and me tête-à-tête.
“After a minute’s silence, I surprised her by asking, ‘Papa’s very poor, and my uncle’s very rich; and papa would ask uncle to give him some money, only they quarrelled when grandpapa stopped papa’s pocket-money: isn’t that it, mamma?’
“‘Yes, my dear,’ was the reply; ‘but you must not talk about it to anybody remember.’
“I nodded assent, then resumed, ‘Uncle’s a good, kind man, isn’t he?’
“‘Yes, my love; a good man I know him to be, and he was kind once,’ was the reply.
“‘Then why don’t you go and tell him that papa’s very sorry he was naughty, and wants to make friends again; and if uncle is good and kind, he will say yes; and when they are friends again, uncle will be sure to give him some of his pocket-money without being asked, because they are brothers. Won’t that do, mamma?’
“My mother rose with tears in her eyes, stroked the hair back from my forehead, imprinted a kiss on it, and murmuring, ‘Your papa would never allow me to do so, darling,’ quitted the room.
“Well, I sat and cogitated the matter: even as a child I was of a fearless nature, and confident in my own resources; and at last a plan occurred to me. At that time we lived in London, and I attended a public school as a day-scholar. At this school I had a friend—a boy some two or three years older than myself. To him, in strict confidence, I imparted my scheme, which he was pleased graciously to approve of, and in which he volunteered to aid me. Accordingly, on the following morning, when my parents imagined I was declining hic, hæc, hoc, I was, under the able guidance of my school-fellow, making my way to the office of a coach which passed within half a mile of Coverdale Park. Having seen me set off in high health and spirits, my friend after school-hours left the following note at our house:—
“‘Dear Mamma,—I have gone to see my uncle Coverdale, as you could not do it. Papa never told me not to—so he won’t be angry with me. Thompson saw me off, and will leave this, so no more at present,
“‘From your dutiful son,
“‘H. C.’
“I reached Coverdale Park without adventure, and greatly astonishing a solemn butler by demanding to see my uncle forthwith, was ushered into a large oak-panelled apartment, wherein sat a fine, portly-looking gentleman, eating his dinner in solitary dignity. As soon as his eyes fell upon my features he started, exclaiming—
“‘Bless my soul, boy! who are you?’
“‘Your nephew Harry Coverdale, uncle,’ returned I, looking him full in the face. My gaze seemed rather to embarrass him, for his lips moved convulsively ere he was able to frame a reply. At length he exclaimed angrily—
“‘And pray, sir, what do you want here?’
“Feeling by no means inclined to enter abruptly upon family affairs in presence of the servants, I paused. But certain inward cravings, aroused by the sight of the good things before me, soon furnished me with an idea, and with a decidedly suggestive emphasis, I answered, ‘I have not had any dinner yet.’ My uncle again looked at me, to see whether my observation was the result of impudence or simplicity—deciding apparently in favour of the latter, he desired the servant to place me a chair, and give me a knife and fork. Fortified by a good dinner, and encouraged by a kind twinkle in the corner of my uncle’s eye, which belied all his attempts to look angry, I soon began to chatter away freely, and enlighten my newly-found relative as to my opinion of things in general. After the cloth was removed, and I had volunteered grace; at which my uncle appeared first surprised and then edified, he began—
“‘Now, boy, tell me the truth—but first, you shall have a glass of wine; which will you take?’
“‘I always tell the truth, uncle, even if it gets me a thrashing; and I’ll take port, for that’s the only wine fit for a gentleman,’ answered I, which reply so delighted my uncle, that he poured me out a bumper, and patting me on the back exclaimed—
“‘Bravo, my boy! stick to truth and port wine through life, and you’ll be a credit to your name!’
“That speech of mine won the day! I explained the object of my visit, and that it had originated wholly with myself; and succeeded so well, that on the following morning my uncle accompanied me home, was reconciled to my father, to whom, till the day of his death (which occurred within the next year), he showed every kindness, and after that event took my dear mother to reside with him at the Park, provided for my education, and eventually made me his heir.”
To this recital, followed by a detail of many of those pure thoughts and deep feelings which lie hidden in the breast of every generous-hearted man, till heaven blesses him with a female friend worthy to receive such sacred confidence, did Alice listen with growing interest and sympathy; and when, two hours afterwards, Mr. Hazlehurst returned home in a great state of universal vinous philanthropy, Harry and his companion could scarcely believe they had been walking together for more than half-an-hour.
The week passed away like a dream. Harry walked, and drove, and sang, and read poetry with the young ladies, and found himself especially happy and comfortable. Moreover, he contrived to institute a system of romantic rambles with Alice, during which they talked about all those peculiar subjects which can only be discussed comfortably in a tête-à-tête—thoughts and feelings too delicate to be submitted to the rough handling of a crowd. And Alice, after three days’ experience, told Kate Marsden, in strict confidence, that she had formed the highest opinion of Mr. Coverdale’s principles; that he was so good and sensible, and in every way superior to the young men one generally meets, that it was quite a privilege to possess his friendship—didn’t Kate think so? To which Kate replied in the affirmative; adding, that girls were usually so frivolous and empty-headed that they were not worth cultivating. “Where was the good of making friends of people, unless one could look up to them?” Alice responded, “Where, indeed!” and considered that Kate took a very proper and sensible view of the matter.
One small incident occurred, however, which somewhat ruffled the smooth surface of Alice’s tranquillity. Two or three days after the picnic, there arrived from Mr. Crane a note, together with a slim and genteel quadruped, possessing a greyhound-like outline, shadowy legs, and a long tail, and purporting to be a thoroughly-broken lady’s horse, with which the cotton-spinner begged—“Miss Alice would allow him to replace the pony injured by the furious riding of her brother and Mr. Coverdale,”—an association in iniquity which delighted Tom as much as it provoked Harry, and, secretly, Alice also. This horse Mr. Hazlehurst insisted upon it Alice should not refuse; and he became so angry when a faint remonstrance was attempted, that the poor girl quitted his study in tears—a melancholy fact, which Emily, in a truly feminine and injudicious burst of virtuous indignation, revealed to Coverdale, thereby laying in him the foundation of a deeply-rooted aversion to the animal, which led to results that would have been better avoided.
The morning following the arrival of this undesirable addition to the family, Mr. Hazlehurst announced his intention of riding over to call upon and inquire after Mr. Crane, and his wish (which meant command) that Alice should accompany him on her new horse. “Mr. Coverdale, will you ride with us?” continued the head of the family, graciously; “I do not think you have seen Crane Court yet. The scenery in and around the park is very rich, and the view from the terrace most extensive.”
Harry, in his secret soul disliking Mr. Crane and all that appertained to him, and fancying, moreover, that the presence of Mr. Hazlehurst would effectually neutralise the pleasure of Alice’s society, as their conversation would be thereby restricted to unmeaning commonplaces, was about to invent some polite reason for declining, when, happening to glance at the young lady in question, he read—or imagined he read, something in the expression of her countenance, which induced him to alter his determination. Accordingly, Tom was made happy by obtaining permission to go to the village-inn, where Coverdale’s horses were put up, order the groom to saddle Sir Lancelot, and ride that exemplary quadruped back, as a reward for his trouble.
“How do you like Mr. Crane’s present to my daughter? In my opinion it is one of the most perfect lady’s horses I have ever seen,” complacently remarked Mr. Hazlehurst to Coverdale, as they stood at the hall door, criticising the horses which a groom was leading up and down.
“I dare say the old gentleman”—(Mr. Hazlehurst’s brow darkened)—“paid a high figure for the animal,” was the reply; “it has its good points, and is very well fitted for a park hack; but it’s a weedy, straggling sort of beast—showy action, but badly put together;—and there’s something queer about its eyes—it has an uncomfortable way of leering round at you, and showing the whites, that I don’t like. You can see it’s been fed under the mark, and I shouldn’t wonder if, now it’s on full allowance, it were to turn out skittish.”
“I can’t say I at all agree with you, Mr. Coverdale,” was the hasty reply. “I flatter myself I know something of horses, and I consider this as perfect a lady’s hack as I ever beheld, and a most valuable animal into the bargain. As to temper, it’s as quiet as a lamb—a child might ride it. I must beg you will not say anything which might tend to alarm my daughter, or prejudice her against it.”
Harry turned away to hide a smile, as he replied, “Never fear, sir; Miss Hazlehurst shall form her own opinion of its merits, without my attempting to bias her judgment.”
When Mr. Hazlehurst assisted his daughter to mount, Harry, who really doubted the temper of the animal, watched it closely, and his previous opinion was confirmed by observing that it laid back its ears, glanced viciously round, and at the moment when Alice sprang up, made a faint demonstration with its mouth, as though it coveted a sample of Mr. Hazlehurst from the region of that gentleman’s coat-tails, and was only restrained from attempting to obtain one by a recollection of former punishment. The preliminary arrangements being safely accomplished, the trio started, followed by a mounted groom, Coverdale keeping close to Alice’s bridle-rein.
They had proceeded some distance, without anything occurring to justify his suspicions; and, in spite of all drawbacks, Alice was really beginning to enjoy her ride, when her father proposed a canter; and on quickening her pace, the odd manner in which her horse tossed and shook his head, in some degree alarmed her.
“Loosen the curb-rein a little,” suggested Harry, “and try to hold him entirely by the snaffle. I will keep close to you, so do not be afraid, lest he should bolt.” Alice complied, and the horse appearing to approve of the alteration, ceased to shake its head; but as it became warm to its work, it pulled so hard against the snaffle, that Alice’s delicate hands were unable to prevent the canter from increasing into something very like a gallop. Sir Lancelot kept pace with him, stride for stride; but Mr. Hazlehurst’s short-legged cob—the “dray-horse-in-miniature—warranted-equal-to-sixteen-stone” style of animal, which elderly gentlemen ride for the benefit of their digestions, not being calculated for such fast work, was very soon distanced.
“What has become of papa?” exclaimed Alice, glancing round; “we ought to wait for him, but I can’t make this creature go slower—it pulls dreadfully. May I use the curb?”
“I had rather you did not,” was the reply; “the brute seemed so uneasy when you tried it before—perhaps its mouth is tender; I will examine it when you dismount. Canter on to the next hill, and then we will stop for Mr. Hazlehurst.” And they did so accordingly, though Alice was unable to pull in her horse until Harry leaned over and gave her the assistance of his strong arm.