CHAPTER LI.—OTHELLO VISITS CASSIO.
Contrary to Mr. Philip Tirrett’s expectation, Don Pasquale’s delicate fore leg improved under training, and became so nearly sound that he and Captain O’Brien were quite depressed when they reflected that but for its temper, which was vile, the horse was really worth two out of the £350 they had received from Lord Alfred Courtland for it; and regretted with sundry strong but unavailing expletives their folly in not having demanded £500, which they now considered to be its figure in proper (i. e. their own dirty) hands. A conclave had been held at the Pandemonium, and the handsome guardsman, and the fast cornet, and the heavy lieutenant, and sundry other noble and gallant cavaliers, had entered spicy screws, with impossible names; and a steeple-chase, with gentlemen riders, was to come off in a sporting locality, within easy distance of London, on a certain day. This day had nearly arrived, when, on the same afternoon which witnessed Alice Coverdale’s return home, and the uncomfortable scene produced by the delivery of Lord Alfred’s letter, that young nobleman was seated at a library-table in his fashionable lodgings, poring over his betting-book, which, since the Blackwall dinner, was, we suspect, the only book he had looked into, when “to him entered” Horace D’Almayne.
“What! at it still?” he exclaimed; “why, mon cher, you’ll be fit for some ‘bookkeeping-by-double-entry’ style of appointment before this business comes off. How do you stand by this time?”
“Safe to win £500 if the Don does but run true,” was the reply.
“And if he should make a fiasco by any unlucky chance?”
“Don’t talk about it; time enough to face evil when it comes, without going half-way to meet it. The Don is looking splendid, he improves every day under training, and even Tirrett seems surprised at his performance. Dick took him over the brook this morning, and, by Jove! he cleared it in his stride, and six feet beyond, at the least. Tirrett seems sure about the line of course; if so, that brook will win us the race. Captain O’Brien’s is the only horse I’m at all afraid of, and Tirrett’s got out of his groom that Broth-of-a-boy won’t face water.”
“Witnessing these trials necessitates a frightful amount of early rising, does it not, mon cher?” inquired D’Almayne, with a half-pitying, half-provoking smile; “breakfast comes off at six, I suppose, instead of eleven or twelve? You look sleepy now from your unusual exertions.”
“Well I may,” was the reply; “I dined with the Guards’ Mess yesterday, and went knocking about with Bellingham and Annesley afterwards; got home about three a.m., had a cigar and a bottle of soda-water, changed my dress clothes, and slept in the arm-chair until Tirrett came for me in a dog-cart at half-past four,—for they take the Don out as soon as its light.”
“You certainly improve, mon ami; you have learned how to live, instead of merely existing, as you used to do, and are better able to take care of yourself:—which is fortunate, by the way, for I’ve come to tell you (what on your account I’m very sorry for) that I shall be unable to be with you at this said steeple-chase.” A start, and an exclamation of surprise, we had almost said of consternation, which escaped Lord Alfred at this announcement, might have suggested that he did not feel quite such implicit confidence in his own resources as his associate’s compliment would seem to imply. He only said, however—
“Eh, really! what an awful bore! But why are you going to throw me over?”
“Simply because, not being a bird, my presence in Brussels and at the steeple-chase at one and the same time is, to speak mildly, impossible.”
“And, in the name of common sense, why go to Brussels at this particular juncture?” inquired his Lordship.
“Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère!” quoted Horace; “business takes me—not pleasure, I assure you. It seems this East Indiaman, over the loss of which old Crane has been whining and pining for the last three days, was heavily insured in a Belgian house; but owing to some supposed informality in the drawing up of the papers, they, on hearing of the shipwreck, deny their liability. Now a cousin of mine is an avocat—the same thing as a barrister—at Brussels, so I am going over to put the case in his hands. Old Crane pays my expenses, and gives me a very handsome commission, and—you know I never make any secret of the unfortunate anomaly, that my habits are expensive and my pocket shallow—I can’t afford to throw such a chance away. I tell you this in confidence, to prove to you that I really am unable to see you through this horse business, which from the first, you are aware, I never liked; but I find, as I suspect many mentors have found before me, that it’s a good deal easier to lead on a young fellow of spirit like you, mon cher, than to hold him back.”
Lord Alfred smiled faintly—a pre-occupied smile—at the implied compliment, for his mind was engrossed by the prospect of the loss of D’Almayne’s presence and support at the steeplechase—a loss at which he felt vastly more uneasy than he would have been at all willing to confess. Anxious as much to be reassured himself as to inspire his companion with confidence, he said in a tone which, despite his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed his self-distrust—
“Yes, but really, D’Almayne, even taking your view of the matter, I don’t see reasonably what there is to croak about: that young fellow Tirrett, who has been born and bred among horses, and knows practically what those prigs of guardsmen—the frightfully heavy dragoon, the romancing Irish captain, and last and least, my innocent self—pretend to know, assures me there’s no horse entered that can come near the Don. As they are to be all ridden by gentlemen, and he is a gentleman rider (so called, like the theatrical walking gentleman, from his being utterly unlike the genuine article—on the lucus a non lucendo principle, I imagine), he rides for me, and I depend a great deal on his perfect acquaintance with all the peculiarities of the horse (for, entre nous, I fancy his temper is his weak point); and as his pay is to be more than doubled in the event of his winning, I think I have every reason to believe he will do me justice, and to feel sanguine as to the result.”
“Well, mon cher, I wish you most heartily success,” was the reply; “and I still more wish I could remain and see you through it; for without meaning to throw discredit on young Tirrett, or any of them in particular, I, as a general rule, mistrust these horse people. However, I think you have your eyes open, and may be trusted to take care of yourself. And now I must be off; I embark at eight to-night. By the way, I dare say you’ll allow me to write a note here; it will save my going round by the club.”
Suiting the action to the word, he seated himself at a library-table, and wrote as follows:—
“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 dare say 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 £50 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 £500.”
Having sealed this precious missive, and put a penny stamp of Lord Alfred’s upon it, he consigned it to his pocket, took an affectionate farewell of his victim, and departed.
When Harry Coverdale reached London that evening, Horace D’Almayne was “off the Nore,” and feeling none the better for sea-air, wished most heartily that he was “off” the ocean also. In order to make up for his want of sleep on the previous night, Lord Alfred Courtland desired his valet not to let him be disturbed until he rang his bell, the result of which order was, that at one p.m. on the following morning his Lordship was eating his breakfast in that state of dreamy imbecility usually induced by an over-dose of “nature’s sweet restorer.” From this mental torpor he was in some degree aroused by a quick, sharp, and decided knock at the door, followed by a heavy but active footstep on the stairs, and ere he had time properly to regain his sleep-scattered senses, the valet announced Mr. Coverdale.
“You’re just about the last person I expected to see in town?” exclaimed Lord Alfred, languidly rising and holding out two fingers—a mild civility of which Harry did not avail himself. “I thought you were revelling in all the sweets of rural felicity, and that nothing would have tempted you to leave them. I’m uncommonly glad to see you though,” he continued, as it suddenly occurred to him that Coverdale would be a very good substitute for Horace D’Almayne, to advise and see him through this alarming steeple-chase, in regard to which two fixed ideas constantly haunted him, viz.: that he had risked a sum of money upon it much larger than he had any right to have done; and that he was as entirely ignorant of the whole affair, and as completely in Tirrett’s hands, as a baby could have been under the circumstances. “I’ll tell you why,” he continued; “the truth is, I’ve got in for an affair, the magnitude of which I by no means bargained for; in fact, I should not be surprised or offended if (as I know you’re both a kind friend and a plain-spoken fellow) you were to tell me I’d made a considerable ass of myself.”
“One moment, Courtland,” interrupted Coverdale; “I have come to town expressly to see you, in regard to a matter which nearly concerns me; and until we have discussed that, I really cannot give my attention to anything else. Now listen to me, Alfred,” he continued gravely, but not angrily: “I’ve been acquainted with you since you were a child, and I know your good points as well as your weak ones. I know, although you’re easily led away by bad precept and worse example, that you’ve a kind heart and a generous nature; and so, for the sake of this old regard, I have allowed you to—to amuse yourself and occupy your idle time by devoting yourself to my wife; and I am now about to talk to you, and reason with you on the subject, in a far milder tone than I should use to any other man under the circumstances.” Lord Alfred was about eagerly to interrupt him, but by a gesture Harry restrained him:—
“Hear me out,” he continued, “and then, when you understand the tenour and amount of my accusation, you can say what you like in your defence. You considered my wife pretty and good-natured, and you fancied, or were told, it would give you éclat with the set you have unfortunately mixed up with—and a very shady set I’m afraid they are—to have a sentimental love-affair with some pretty young married woman. I was not quite the blind careless creature you imagined me all the time we were in London; on the contrary, I saw what was going on plainly enough, and was annoyed at it—but nothing more. I had the most thorough confidence in my wife; and she is so real in all her feelings, so completely fresh and genuine, that I was not afraid your sentimentality would infect her; moreover, I trusted to your own good heart to keep you from going very far wrong; but, towards the conclusion of our stay in Park Lane, I heard remarks dropped at clubs, and observed other things, which made me resolve to put an end to the folly: and as the quietest and best way of doing so, I took Alice out of town. As far as she was concerned, the experiment appears to have succeeded; for I can’t flatter your vanity by saying that I believe she ever gave you a second thought. But with you it does not seem to have had the desired effect; for, a few days since, I was not best pleased to perceive a letter for my wife in your handwriting. Wait!” he continued, seeing Lord Alfred was again about to speak; “Hear me out: I shall not try your patience much longer. This letter I chose to give her myself, for the purpose of asking her, as soon as she had read it, to show it to me—”
“And she refused?” observed Lord Alfred, coolly.
“Yes, sir, she did!” returned Harry, with flashing eyes; “she refused to show me that letter; and at the same time was unable or unwilling to give me any good reason for objecting to satisfy my just demand: and now, perhaps, you can guess at the nature of my business with you. I have come up to town to obtain from you the information I have been unable to gain from her; and I now ask you to repeat to me, as nearly as you can, word for word, the contents of that letter.”
“Under what penalty if I should decline to comply with your—somewhat unusual request?” was the reply.
Harry’s brow grew dark. “I have not wasted a thought on so unlikely a contingency,” he said abruptly.
There was a pause, then Lord Alfred rose, and drawing up his tall but slender figure to its full height, replied—
“Now listen to me, Coverdale; you have spoken unpleasant truths to me in an unpleasant manner—a manner which, boy as you deem me, I should in any other man resent; but you are, as you have said, one of my oldest friends, and as such privileged. Moreover, in the transactions you allude to, I freely confess that I have been to blame; and I have no objection to tell you that my chief object in writing to Mrs. Coverdale was to make her aware of this, and ask her to forgive me any annoyance I might have caused her. Having explained thus much to you, you must excuse my declining to say more.”
“Indeed I shall do no such thing,” was Coverdale’s angry reply; “you have told me no more than Alice told me herself. Sir, I came to town expressly to learn from you the contents of that letter, and by fair means or foul I intend to do so! I may not know how to deal with women, but, by heaven! I do know how to deal with men, or with green boys, who give themselves the airs of men, before they have acquired a man’s strength, either of mind or body!” He took a turn up and down the room, then continued in a milder tone—“Come, Alfred, do not let us quarrel about this foolish affair; you see I am in earnest, so satisfy me on this one point, and let there be an end of these absurd misunderstandings between us.”
“You pay Mrs. Coverdale a very bad compliment,” rejoined Lord Alfred, “when you make out that she refused to comply with her husband’s wish without some very good reason; at all events, I so entirely differ with you on this point that I feel called upon to follow her example.”
“Am I then to understand—” began Harry.
“You are to understand clearly and distinctly that I refuse to tell you one single line in that letter,” was the unexpected answer; “and so now do your worst, for to this decision I intend to adhere, and no representations or threats shall induce me to alter it.”
As he spoke, Lord Alfred again drew up his slight graceful figure with a degree of dignity of which those who had seen him only in his languid affected moods would not have deemed him capable, and, folding his arms calmly, awaited Coverdale’s reply. But that reply was for some little time not forthcoming; the truth being that, in spite of his assertion to the contrary, Harry for once in his life did not know how to deal with a man. He was very angry with Lord Alfred, and felt strongly tempted to knock him down; but even at that moment his old feeling that it was his duty to protect the high-spirited but delicate boy, though it were from himself, came across him, and paralysed his energy.
Lord Alfred, however, who like all very good-tempered easy people, when once roused, felt a necessity to give immediate vent to his anger, possibly from a secret consciousness of its evanescent character, did not wait the termination of this mental struggle, but continued—
“Well, Coverdale, do you perceive the reasonableness of my position, or am I to incur the penalty of my disobedience, and become acquainted with your terrific method of dealing with refractory men?”
As he spoke sarcastically, and with a slight resumption of his fashionable lisp, Coverdale made one step towards him, and clutching his shoulder with his left hand in a vice-like grasp, while the fingers of his right clenched themselves involuntarily, he said in a low deep voice—
“For your own sake—nay, for both our sakes—Alfred, I advise you not to provoke me farther!”
“And why not?” inquired Lord Alfred, firmly, though he grew a little pale at the expression he saw stealing over Coverdale’s features.
“I will tell you why not,” was the reply; “look at this!” and he raised his clenched fist to a level with his companion’s features; “with one blow of this I believe I could fell an ox. I have felled a man of double your weight and power, and I did not use my full strength then; if I had, I believe I should have killed him. I have a quick temper, and you have roused it. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t trust myself; so if you are not utterly reckless, leave me alone!”
As he spoke, he unconsciously tightened his grasp on the young nobleman’s shoulder, till it became so exquisitely painful that it required all the fortitude Lord Alfred could muster to endure it without flinching. Whether owing to this practical proof of his adversary’s strength, or whether he read in Harry’s flashing eye and quivering lip the volcano of passion that smouldered within, certain it is that as soon as the grasp was removed from his aching shoulder, Lord Alfred turned away, and seated himself with a discontented air in an attitude of passive expectation.
After pacing the room in moody cogitation for several minutes, Coverdale suddenly paused, and said—
“I was unprepared for this refusal, so pertinaciously adhered to, and I confess it embarrasses even more than it provokes me. I fancied—that is, I forgot you were not really a boy still, and imagined that when you found I was serious about the matter, your will would yield to mine; it seems I was mistaken. Any other man who had withstood me as you have done, on such a subject, would now be lying at my feet; but I can no more bring myself to use my strength against you than I could bear to strike a woman; and as to the alternative which equalises strength, I shudder at the idea as a temptation direct from Satan. If I were to shoot you, I should never know another happy moment. How should I face that kind old man, your father, who, when I was a boy, has given me many a sovereign in the holidays? I should feel like a second Cain, as if I had slain my brother!”
This speech, which Harry delivered eagerly and with evidences of deep feeling, appealed to Lord Alfred’s better nature; he grew more and more excited as it proceeded, and at its conclusion he sprang up, exclaiming:—
“’Pon my word—’pon my honour as a gentleman, Coverdale, I assure you you are worrying yourself about nothing! I own I have behaved wrongly—foolishly in this matter, and I am very sorry for it. But your wife is an angel, and cares for you and you only: she treated me with friendly kindness, but nothing more: I am to blame entirely.”
“Why then does she so obstinately refuse to show me your letter, and why do you object to enlighten me as to the contents, and so satisfy me and set the matter at rest for ever?” inquired Harry.
Lord Alfred paused for a moment in thought ere he replied.
“I think I can divine Mrs. Coverdale’s reason for not showing my letter to you, and if so, it is one that does her credit; but it is enough for me to know that she does not wish its contents revealed, to make me feel that, as a man of honour, I am bound to be silent. Believe me, Coverdale, I do not say this to annoy you, or to set you at defiance. I would gladly tell you, if I did not think it would be dishonourable and wrong to do so. I wish to heaven I had never written the letter now, since it has produced all this annoyance; but I really did it for the best—I did, upon my honour!”
He spoke with such an air of truthfulness, and his manner was so simple and ingenuous, that Coverdale felt it impossible to doubt his veracity; and for a moment he was on the point of flinging his suspicions to the winds, and, shaking hands with Lord Alfred, to tell him everything was forgotten and forgiven. But Harry’s mind was of that order which is slow to receive a feeling so foreign to its general tone as suspicion, and which, when the idea has once become fixed, finds equal difficulty in relinquishing it. Thus, in the present case, having convinced himself that the only satisfactory way of clearing up his doubts would be by gaining oral or ocular acquaintance with the contents of the mysterious letter, he could in no way divest himself of the conviction, but was continually looking out for reasons in its favour. Instead, therefore, of yielding to his first impulse, he reflected that having refused to put faith in Alice’s unsupported assertion, he should equally be unjust to her, and untrue to his own convictions, if he gave credence to that of Lord Alfred Courtland. So, taking up his hat, he said—
“Since you persist in your refusal, I must go and think this matter over coolly and quietly; you shall see or hear from me before this time to-morrow.” He turned to depart, but Lord Alfred held out his hand:—
“We part as friends?” he said, inquiringly.
“Neither as friends nor foes,” was the reply. “You shall learn my decision to-morrow.” And rejecting his proffered hand, Coverdale quitted the apartment.