CHAPTER XL.—DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL.
On the afternoon of the day after that on which she returned home, Alice was to go to the Grange, and take her sister’s place as companion to Mrs. Hazlehurst. During the morning, Harry was occupied with his bailiff and the farming accounts, but he made his appearance at luncheon. When that meal was concluded, and the servants had quitted the room, he began gravely, but kindly—“Alice, dear, I do not wish to distress or annoy you, but, before you leave home, I must once again refer to the conversation of last night. I know not who has coupled my name with that of your cousin Kate’s friend, Miss Crofton, nor what falsehoods they may have coined to blacken my character in your eyes; but, since I have known you, I have never attempted to deceive you on any point; and I tell you now, on my honour as a gentleman, that nothing ever has passed, or is in the smallest degree likely to pass, between myself and that young lady, calculated to cause you the slightest pain or even uneasiness. Does this satisfy you, or, if not, can I say or do anything that will?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Alice, her face flushing with eagerness as the idea struck her; “promise to tell me exactly all that passed between you and her in Italy!—promise me this; show me that you are willing to confide in me; trust to my affection to forgive you, should you tell me anything you think may displease me, and I will, on my part, try to forget my own convictions that—that—in fact, that you do not love me as I believe you once did. Tell me all frankly, and there may yet be happiness in store for us both.”
She paused, breathless with emotion, and fixing her large eyes on her husband’s countenance, as though she fain would read his very thoughts, awaited a reply; but for a minute none appeared likely to come. Coverdale, pushing back his hair, rubbing his forehead, and evincing unmistakable signs of annoyance and perplexity, at length roused himself by an effort, and, in a constrained, embarrassed tone of voice, replied—
“Ask me anything but that: I am under a solemn promise never to mention the facts you desire to learn; I cannot break my word even to regain your affection.”
“I will ask nothing more of you,” returned Alice, in a tone of deeply-wounded feeling; “it was foolish to ask that—I might have known you would refuse to answer me; and it was worse than folly to fancy you cared to retain my affection! And now let me go home to mamma; thank God, I may yet be of some use and comfort to her, and, at all events, I know that she loves me—oh! that I had never left her!” and, disregarding Harry’s exclamation, “Alice, hear me! indeed you mistake—” she hurried out of the room.
Her husband remained motionless until her retreating footsteps became inaudible, then, springing from his chair, he began pacing up and down with hasty strides, while his ideas arranged themselves somewhat after the following fashion:—
“Well, I’ve made a pretty mess of it now, and no mistake! Of all things in the world for her to have fixed upon—to want to know about Arabella; and poor Arabella has behaved so nicely and kindly too in this affair! I can’t tell her! besides, there’s my promise—come what may I’ll keep my promise; but I am an unlucky dog as ever lived! Ah! I never ought to have married, that’s the whole truth. Women don’t seem to understand me, and I’m sure I don’t understand them; whether I’m stern or whether I’m kind it all turns out alike, and all wrong. Poor, dear, little Alice! she is making herself just as miserable as she has made me; and, for the life of me, I don’t know how to say or do anything to mend matters! I must leave it to time, I suppose. Perhaps her mother may talk her into a happier frame of mind. I am glad she is going back to the Grange; I think I’ll leave her there for a short time—home influences may soften her, and induce her to judge me more charitably. I’m certain it’s all my own fault, somehow! She was as sweet-tempered as an angel when I married her.” He continued to pace the room, and after some moments a new notion seemed to strike him. “I wonder whose been putting these ideas about Arabella into her head,” he resumed; “somebody has been telling her about the Florence business, that’s clear—lies most likely, and in order to set her against me. That man D’Almayne, I mistrust him—he’s playing a deep game of some kind; and his manner to Kate Crane I disapprove of strongly. If he has been meddling—if he has dared to say or insinuate anything against me to Alice, by heaven, I’ll—I’ll—no, I could not trust myself to horsewhip him, at least not just yet, I should kill the scoundrel. I’ve a great mind to run up to London, when I’ve taken Alice to the Grange, and try and find out something about it; but I won’t be hasty—I must not! the interests at stake are too important—Alice’s happiness for life, to say nothing of my own, which is bound up in hers, depends upon how I behave for the next few months—no; I won’t act rashly or hastily, nothing shall induce me to do so!”
Of all the high and solemn mysteries that enshroud the spirit-life none are more inscrutable, yet invested with a deeper and more vital interest, than those apparently irreconcilable paradoxes—predestination and free will. Our possession of this latter attribute is a tenet held, and carelessly acquiesced in, by Christians of every denomination; yet how little do we realise or estimate its practical importance! It is impossible to reflect, even for a moment, on so vast a field of thought without eliciting ideas at once salutary and impressive. Nor can we fully recognise our obligations as responsible beings until, in tracing the fortunes of some follow-creature, of whose path through life our limited powers enable us to perceive only the dim and shadowy outline, we see how what appear trifles—made a right use of, as they should be, or abused, as they too often are—influence a lifetime here, and, fearful thought, determine an eternity hereafter! In things spiritual, as well as in things material, cause governs effect; and the laws which regulate consequences are equally stringent and immutable in both cases, although in the former they are not so easily traceable. Still, to the earnest, careful, and patient observer of the mysterious ways of Providence, suggestive glimpses are afforded, aided by which he may reason from things seen to things unseen. Thus, remarking how some strange train of events result from a single act which we may long have feebly proposed to perform, but the execution of which we have delayed from day to day, until some unexpected excitement has quickened our resolve into action, we may legitimately argue that these events have been, as it were, waiting for the touch which was to set the train in motion; that if that motive power had been applied sooner, the same results would have been proportionably hastened; and that if it had never been applied at all, the history of events would have borne a different record. We are so fearfully and wonderfully constituted, and the dealings of the Creator with his creatures are so complicated and inscrutable, that we know not what great events may hinge upon our slightest actions. The avalanche lies in all its dread sublimity, apparently as immovable as the mountain-side it rests on; the careless foot of some chamois hunter dislodges a stone—the spell which enchained the destroyer is broken—with the velocity of the whirlwind the mass descends, crushing and overwhelming all before it—and heart-rending memories are all that remain to bear witness of some once prosperous village and its inhabitants.
One, who saw all clearly where we but blindly and feebly catch a ray of light, prayed for His executioners in these remarkable words—“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!” Ideas such as the foregoing are calculated to inspire feelings of awe; but, if they are true, they should not be put aside because they give a solemn view of our responsibilities; when, moreover, rightly considered, they teach an important practical lesson—namely, never to neglect what appear to be little duties, or carelessly to fall into little sins. It seems but a little duty to extinguish a fallen spark; yet that spark may kindle a fire which may consume a city, which, save for that accident, might have endured for centuries. It seems but a little sin to utter a playful jest on some serious subject; but that jest may inspire a doubt which may injure a wavering faith, and endanger a soul’s salvation. Some may deem these remarks misplaced in a work of fiction; but if it be a novelist’s endeavour to depict truly the various phases of human life, nought that truly affects the springs of human action can be foreign to his subject.
The evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party was not the first occasion on which Harry Coverdale had bestowed good and sound advice on Arabella Crawford, but never before had it produced the desired effect. Now, however, a new impulse sprang up within her—she would conquer her hopeless, selfish, sinful love for him, and strive to render herself worthy of his friendship, and win at least his esteem; but how should she begin practically to work out his advice—how attempt to render herself independent—what duty lay most directly in her path? Her intention was honest and sincere, and that morning’s post brought an answer to her question. A female relation whom she had hitherto neglected, was taken seriously ill, and wrote wishing, but scarcely expecting, her to come to her immediately. This lady was old, uninteresting, and in straitened circumstances; to go to her was an act of unmitigated self-sacrifice, and in Arabella’s then frame of mind this was its great attraction. Kate Crane was sorry to part with her, although the short time they had passed together had sufficed to convince her of the disagreeable fact that her dear friend no longer suited her as she had done in her schoolgirl days. There was a very simple reason for this, although Kate did not at once perceive it: Arabella Crofton was at an age when the mind and body having reached maturity, if they do not remain stationary, yet alter so gradually, that the change is almost imperceptible; she was, therefore, much what she had been four years previously. Kate, on the contrary, had advanced from a girl into a woman; and her intellectual powers had not only developed until they were now in every respect superior to those of her ci-devant governess, but her taste had been formed on a better and purer model, and her natural instincts were of a higher and more refined character. Thus, Arabella was constantly jarring against and annoying Kate’s sensitiveness by thought, word, and deed; and she felt that a gulf had grown up between them, which would effectually prevent her friend’s society from affording her the comfort and support she had hoped and expected. Arabella was much too quick-sighted not to have perceived the effect this feeling had produced upon Kate’s manner, although she was ignorant of the cause. Thus, the parting between the friends—for, from old association, friends they still were—was by no means so painful as under other circumstances they might have considered it.
Left to her own devices, Kate bethought her of the expedition to visit Mrs. Leonard, which Horace D’Almayne had proposed to her on the occasion of the horticultural fête, but which she had never yet found an opportunity to accomplish. Mrs. Leonard’s history was a distressing one. Her husband had been partner in a north country bank, at which Mr. Crane usually kept a considerable account. On one occasion, when his balance there exceeded even its usual limits, a junior partner suddenly absconded to America, taking with him so considerable a sum that the bank was obliged to stop payment, and Mr. Leonard found himself a ruined man. In his adversity, his mind became engrossed by one fixed idea, which almost assumed the character of a monomania—viz., that it was his mission to trace out his late partner, and recover the money with which he had made away; this notion preyed upon him until one morning he, too, suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter to inform his wife that he had set out in search of the delinquent, and that she would hear nothing more of him until he had succeeded in his object. On inquiry it appeared that he had taken a berth in an American packet, which had just sailed, and, beyond that, all trace of him was lost. Consequently, his family had fallen into actual poverty, which, day by day, assumed a sterner and more hopeless character. A gentleman well versed in the details of Mr. Crane’s early acquaintance with Mr. Leonard (who, before Mr. Crane had amassed the fortune he now possessed, had several times advanced him money, and in a measure, therefore, contributed to his success in life), advised Mrs. Leonard to apply to him for assistance; and, being aware how much the millionaire was guided by the opinion of Horace D’Almayne, suggested that she should make her first application through him: in which appeal the fertile brain of that good young man perceived matter which might be made profitable to the furtherance of his designs, and re-arranged his hand, so as to take in the new cards thus placed within his reach.
The plan which D’Almayne had settled with Kate was this:—she was sitting for her portrait to an artist friend of Horace’s, to whose painting-room she went twice a-week; D’Almayne proposed to send away the carriage and servants, when he would have a hired brougham in readiness to convey her to the obscure suburb in which Mrs. Leonard’s poverty compelled her to reside; he would meet her on her arrival there, and introduce her to Mrs. Leonard; she could then return to the artist’s, whence her own carriage could again fetch her and convey her home. Kate disliked all this clandestine contrivance; but, considering the end of sufficient importance to justify the means, she was unable to devise any less objectionable scheme, and so reluctantly consented. She reached her destination without adventure. The dwelling occupied by Mrs. Leonard was situated in one of the labyrinths of small, unwholesome streets which lie between Islington and Pentonville, and contain a description of houses too good, or, more truly speaking, too expensive, for the very lowest orders to reside in, and yet so confined and comfortless that it appears incredible that any persons, accustomed to even the ordinary requirements of respectable life, can tolerate them. D’Almayne was waiting in readiness to receive her, and, offering her his arm, led her up the narrow steps and into a miserable parlour, some eight feet square, with the same elaborate and coxcombical politeness with which he would have conducted her across the receiving-room of a duchess. Mrs. Leonard was a singularly gentle, lady-like person, evidently worn down by her continued struggle to support herself and family, which consisted of two boys and three girls, the eldest son and daughter being respectively fourteen and fifteen, whence their ages decreased down to a little pale thing of four years old, whose juvenile roses could not bloom for want of purer air and more nutritious diet. To them, with the greatest tact and kindness, did Kate proceed to enact the character of guardian angel; and, ere she had been half-an-hour in the house, had completely won all their affections, from the poor mother, who began to see light breaking in upon her darkness, to the olive-branch of four—whose visions of unlimited sugar-plums bade fair to be realised. Ah! it is easy to buy golden opinions of the poor and needy in this world: generosity, i.e., judiciously disposing of superfluous cash, is a virtue strangely overrated. The widow’s mite is an offering for which one can feel respect, even with a well-filled stomach; but that shrine for an Englishman’s heart must be indeed empty, ere he can thank Dives for his crumbs. But, when Kate smiled brightly, and spoke kindly and tenderly as she opened her purse-strings, what wonder that the inmates of that house of mourning were ready almost to worship her beauty and munificence? nay, in the excess of her gratitude, poor Mrs. Leonard so lauded Horace D’Almayne for the sunshine he had caused to fall upon the “frost of her despair,” that this excellent young man really began to believe himself to have been actuated by pure philanthropy, and wished he had not, from disuse, entirely lost the power of blushing. So he talked, and she talked, and they talked, and were all very much pleased with themselves and with each other; and Kate Crane turned to depart, with her purse and her heart equally lightened by this most satisfactory visit. D’Almayne, enraptured alike with the success of his scheme, and with himself for having so cleverly devised and executed the same, led Kate to her brougham with nearly as conspicuous a display of gallantry to the lady, and admiration of himself, as that which distinguished Lord Bateman’s proud young porter on the memorable occasion of his playing gentleman usher to the fair Sophia. Having placed her in the brougham, handed her parasol (why do ladies take parasols about in carriages, where there is not the most remote chance of their being required?), and a shawl, and a carriage-bag full of elegant rubbish, and smirked to show his white teeth three times—once for each article—he received as a reward a kindly smile (for Kate really felt obliged to him for the opportunity of doing good which he had afforded her), which he received with a look of deferential ecstacy, and the brougham, with its fair occupant, drove off.
On a sordid pallet, in the garret of the house opposite to that in which Mrs. Leonard resided, lay a man who, having lived wickedly, was then dying miserably: stricken with remorseful terror at the near approach of death—inevitable, fearful, retributive death—gate to the stern, inexorable Future, when he would be weighed in the balance and found wanting—he had wished, poor wretch! to undo some of the evil he had committed, and so sent to a rising young barrister, then getting up evidence in a disputed peerage case, to confess to him the forgery of a name in a parish-register and other iniquities, the knowledge of which would materially strengthen the cause of the young lawyer’s client. The interview, a most painful one to any man of feeling, was concluded; and, having taken copious notes of the dying forger’s confession in the presence of a competent witness, soothed the miserable being with such comfort as human sympathy could suggest, and promised to send the clergyman who his patient and gentle persuasion had induced him to receive, the young barrister left the house at the moment D’Almayne handed Kate Crane to the brougham. Why does the stranger turn first red then pale? why does he clench his fist till the nails dig deep into the flesh? why does he make a hasty stride forward, then, with an exclamation, half curse half sob, as hastily draw back, and screen himself in the shadow of the doorway until the carriage had driven off? He starts because he has seen the woman he once loved better than his own life—the woman he has striven to forgive and forget, and has succeeded in accomplishing neither the one nor the other—leave a shabby house in a disreputable suburb, whither she has been in the society of a notorious libertine! He clenched his fist and strode forward from an impulse of rightful indignation, which made him burn to annihilate the scoundrel who stood triumphing in his villainy before him: but he checked himself as the bitter remembrance flashed across him that he had no claim on her which could give him a right to interfere, although—and this, even at that moment, was the most painful thought of all—another had!—who was evidently incompetent to fulfil the sacred trust which he had undertaken. So, with old wounds thus cruelly re-opened, Arthur Hazlehurst, heart-sick and weary, returned to his chambers, pondering many things, both of this life and of the life to come.