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