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!