CHAPTER XXXVI.—ARCADIA IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
It is popularly asserted and believed that everything has two sides to it. Even a plum-pudding has an inside and an out; and that romantic malady, yclept “love unrequited,” although at first sight it appears an entirely one-sided affair, often demonstrates its bilateral capabilities by proving a much less heart-rending business than was imagined, when the lapse of time enables one to discern the bright side of the picture. The Crane expedition to the Horticultural Fête formed no exception to this law of nature:—thus, at the moment when Harry, like Hamlet’s unfortunate papa, was having poison poured into his ear, and was gradually working himself up to the bolster-scene-in-Othello pitch, Alice, that pleasant little Desdemona, unconsciously amused herself with Cassio, Lord Courtland, emulating Dr. Watts’s “busy bee,” by flitting from flower to flower, laughing at very small jokes, and altogether conducting herself with great levity, and in a singularly undignified manner—at least, so Mr. Crane thought; and as he was said to be made of gold, his opinions ought to have partaken of the value of that precious metal. But Mr. Crane had never quite forgiven Alice for not appreciating his many excellences, and was disposed to judge her harshly. After a time, however, when the novelty of the scene began to wear off—when Alice had reviewed the contents of Howell and James’s, Swan and Edgar’s, Redmayne’s, and other ruination shops, on the fair forms of the ladies of the land—when she had “oh-how-beautiful-ed” and “isn’t-it-lovely-ed” the flowers to her heart’s content—when she had heard, and longed to dance to, the Guard’s band, suddenly a dark vision rose to her mind’s eye—her husband tête-à-tête with that evil mystery, Arabella Crofton, obscured the sunshine of her spirit; the rose-coloured spectacles through which she had beheld Vanity Fair fell off; the serpent had entered in; and, for Alice Coverdale, Chiswick was Paradise no longer. Thereupon she decided that Lord Alfred was a silly, tiresome boy, and worried her with his childish nonsense; that Mr. Crane was a fractious old idiot, who ought to be shut up in an appropriate asylum; that Kate looked bored and tired, which she did not wonder at; that Horace D’Almayne was fitter for the Zoological than the Horticultural Gardens, and deserved to be caged with the chimpanzees without loss of time; and, finally (forgetting their separation had resulted from a caprice of her own), that Harry was very unkind to stay away from her in that way, with that hateful creature, Arabella Crofton, whom she was sure he liked after all, though he did pretend to treat her so coldly.
Then people began to push and crowd, and dresses became tumbled; and D’Almayne having left the party to look for Harry and Miss Crofton, Mr. Crane misled them, and they fell into difficulties, and were very hot and uncomfortable; and Alice quite pined to meet her husband, whose sturdy arm would have supported her, and whose tall figure and broad shoulders would have forced a way for her through the crowd. Next, Lord Alfred began to tease her to give him a flower from her bouquet, and got snubbed for his pains; until Horace D’Almayne, returning, made his report, viz., that, after much toil and trouble, he had at length discovered Miss Crofton and Mr. Coverdale, seated together in a shady corner, apparently absorbed in some deeply interesting topic of conversation. This information, tallying so exactly with her worst fears, and finding poor little Mrs. Coverdale both vexed and tired, very nearly produced a burst of tears, to avoid which pathetic display she did that which the unfortunate first Mrs. Dombey failed to effect—viz., she “made an effort,” and became, not exactly herself again, but Alice Coverdale as she appeared when enacting the heartless coquette. And this she did, poor child! not from a want, but from a superfluity of heart. So, seeking to read her truant husband a practical moral lesson on the iniquity of charioteering dangerous damsels, in common with whom he possessed mysterious antecedents, she afforded Lord Alfred a “material guarantee” of her favour, in the shape of the flower he had coveted; and having thus firmly riveted his chains, ostensibly petted and made much of her captive. This conduct on his wife’s part was by no means calculated to soothe Harry Coverdale, pained, ruffled, and excited by his conversation with Arabella Crofton; and, without reflecting on the prudence or politeness of such a proceeding, he left his late companion to take care of herself, and stalking with stately steps, as of an offended lion, up to Lord Alfred Courtland, observed, in a tone of dignified irony—
“I am much obliged to your Lordship for taking such extreme care of Mrs. Coverdale, but will now relieve you from any further trouble on her account: take my arm, Alice.”
Lord Alfred, strong in the possession of his rosebud, felt inclined to resist, and murmured something about its being a pleasure rather than a trouble; while Alice was just determining to support her swain, when luckily she happened to read in Harry’s flashing eye symptoms of the approach of an attack of his “quiet manner,” so hastily disengaging her arm, she placed it within that of her husband, saying, as she did so—
“I am not going to let this truant escape, now that I have caught him. He deserves punishment—so I shall inflict my society upon him for the rest of the afternoon, unless,” she added, with a glance which bewitched Lord Alfred more completely than before, “I should find any stringent necessity to exercise my feminine prerogative of changing my mind.”
“Your friend Mr. Coverdale’s method of relieving you of your fair charge was more vigorous than polite, mon cher,” remarked D’Almayne to Lord Alfred, who, feeling he was de trop, had left the wedded pair to their own devices. “However, I think I have obtained a clue, which I have only to follow up, to arrive at a discovery which will help you on with your pretty little lady-patroness, by rendering her more the femme incomprise, and neglected wife than ever.”
“Indeed!” was the reply; “what a clever fellow you are! I certainly owe Coverdale one, for his manner to me just now was anything but nice. Tell me, what have you discovered?”
“Well, it seems nothing very remarkable at first; but many a large and goodly oak has grown from as small an acorn. Listen—the immaculate Harry Coverdale has a private understanding with that dark-eyed gipsy, Arabella Crofton; they are a great deal more intimate and confidential in a tête-à-tête, than they allow themselves to appear in general society. I must try and learn what passed between them in Italy, and I think I can do so with very little trouble. I saw a man in town yesterday, Archie Campbell, who married one of the Muir girls, with whom the fair—or rather the dark—Arabella lived as governess, when they tried to exchange their Scotch brogue for the lingua Toscana. She went to Italy with them, and there met Harry Coverdale—that I know as a fact; for additional particulars, I shall apply to the said Archie.”
“Then do you think—do you conceive—do you mean to imply, in fact, that Mr. Coverdale is attached to this Miss Crofton?” stammered Lord Alfred, colouring, as though he, and not Alice’s husband, were the supposed delinquent.
“You always put things into such plain words, mon cher; it is a foolish habit, and the sooner you can divest yourself of it the better,” was D’Almayne’s reply; “probably the mighty Nimrod, in flirting with Miss Crofton, means no more harm than you do by your Platonic attachment for his pretty wife. Nevertheless, if such should prove the fact, and you gently insinuate the same to la belle Alice, the chances are that she will be kinder than ever, to evince her gratitude for your having rendered her jealous of her husband—not that you seem to require any help—I saw where that rosebud came from, coquin; but now you may, if you will, render me a service; find your way to the entrance-gate, and wait till my friend, Monsieur Guillemard, makes his appearance—probably you will find him waiting there already—and having discovered him, bring him here.”
As the obedient lordling strolled away on his mission, the indefatigable Horace gathered a rose; then approaching Kate Crane, he lisped in his most dreamy and affected style—
“I’ve been searching everywhere to find a rose of that peculiar tint which might harmonise and yet contrast well with your dress; at length, I am charmed to say my efforts have been successful. Mr. Crane, will you favour me by presenting this rose to Madame? Coming through your hands, I feel sure it will be accepted.”
“No, positively; that is, really it will be much more fitting—if I may be allowed to say so—that, as you have been so obliging as to find it, you should yourself present it. Mrs. Crane will, I feel convinced, be happy to acknowledge your politeness, by accepting a flower offered—if I may be permitted to say so—with such propriety and respect.”
D’Almayne appeared about to avail himself of the permission which Mr. Crane thus graciously accorded him; when suddenly drawing back, he exclaimed, “Excuse me one minute; the thorns are so very sharp, I am afraid to hand it to you without some protection against them;”—then, taking a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, he wound it round the stem of the flower, and fixing his eyes with a meaning look on those of Kate, he gave her the rose. Having done so, he began talking to Mr. Crane; and soon contrived, by a judicious selection of topics, chiefly connected with the Stock Exchange, to engross that zealous Mammonite’s attention. As soon as his wife perceived this to be the case, she unrolled the paper from the stem of the rose, and, glancing at it hastily, perceived the following words written in Horace D’Almayne’s neat hand: “Give me five minutes’ conversation—I will make the opportunity, if you will avail yourself of it.” Instantly crushing it in her hand, she rushed into conversation with Arabella Crofton, on the merits and demerits of certain new annuals; which subject, skilfully managed, lasted her until Lord Alfred Courtland returned, arm in arm with Monsieur Guillemard, better got up, more jaunty, and in yellower kid gloves than ever. This vivacious foreigner was instantly captured by Horace, and desired to explain, “as he alone could do,” the peculiar advantages of that famous investment in Terra Cotta preference bonds, as Mr. Crane had an odd £10,000 lying comparatively fallow—only at three-and-a-half per cent—which he would be glad to put out well. So, foolish avarice and clever roguery ambled off together. Then D’Almayne contrived to dispatch Coverdale and his wife to look at a wonderful specimen of the Hypothetica Screamans, and to saddle Lord Alfred with Arabella Crofton, although that smitten young aristocrat would have preferred to have trotted mildly about after Alice, like a pet lamb. Having disposed of these supernumeraries, he as a matter of course offered his arm to Kate, who had quietly acquiesced in his arrangements, and followed at such a judicious distance that, although they still belonged to the party, in effect they enjoyed all the advantages of a tête-à-tête.
D’Almayne was the first to break silence. “This is most kind,” he said, “and leads me to hope that you are at length beginning to understand me—to perceive that my only wish is to act the part of a true friend towards you. I have a conviction that I owe a duty to you, for I often reflect with pain how large a share I had in bringing about your marriage.”
At these words Kate gave a slight start, and her colour deepened: not appearing to observe these signs of agitation, her companion resumed:
“You may not be aware that it was by my advice that Mr. Crane transferred his attentions from your cousin (whose affection for Mr. Coverdale I perceived would oppose an effectual barrier to his wishes) to yourself:—my object in doing so was twofold. Mr. Crane had shown me much kindness and attention; he was anxious to marry some one whose presence would invest his home with an air of distinction and attractiveness which his wealth could never bestow. The moment I beheld Miss Marsden, I felt that no one could do so more efficiently. Thus, from an impulse of gratitude towards Mr. Crane, I persuaded him that it would be in every way a most suitable and desirable match, and induced him to make such an offer to Mr. Hazlehurst as should neutralize any objection that gentleman might have had to your occupying the position he had destined for his daughter. Again mistaking, in great measure, both your character and that of Mr. Crane, I believed you would have suited each other far better than I fear is the case: I fancied you ambitious, and that the power which wealth would bestow would render you not only contented, but happy; while I trusted marriage would develop in Mr. Crane traits of generosity and tenderness of which I now am forced to confess his nature is incapable. Had I guessed this sooner, I need scarcely add, the respect and admiration I have always experienced for one so gifted as you are, would have prevented my advocating the match. All that now remains for me is to compensate, as far as it is in my power to do so, for any little failures in tact (believe me they are nothing more) of which my excellent friend, Mr. Crane, may be guilty; and I speak thus honestly and openly, in order that, appreciating my motives, you may place full confidence in me, and thus enable me,”—and here he sank his voice almost to a whisper—“to assist you in bearing the burden which I have unconsciously helped to place upon you.”
“I must believe you mean kindly by me,” was Kate’s reply; “but you are aware that, with me, deeds tell better than words. Has the application been made?”
“Yes.”
“And with what result? But I fear I need scarcely ask.”
“Not a favourable one, I regret to say. Mr. Crane saw Mrs. Leonard, hoping, I fancy, that she might have learned some tidings of her husband; but when he became aware of the object of her visit, he not only refused to assist her, or to do anything for her children, but grew irritated, reproached her with what he termed her husband’s infamous conduct, declared he had lost thousands of pounds by his negligence, and wound up by threatening that, if she ever set foot in his house again, he would give her in charge to the police. When I visited her, I found her in tears, and utterly heart-broken by this failure of her last hope.”
“You must go to her again,” exclaimed Kate, eagerly; “tell her you have mentioned her necessities to a lady of your acquaintance, who is willing, and, thank God, able to assist her; give her money; find out what she most requires; devise some plan by which she may be enabled to support herself and educate her children. Oh! if I can save this poor family from ruin, it will be some little——” She checked herself abruptly, then continued: “Mr. Crane is most liberal to me, and allows me more than I have the least occasion or desire to spend on myself—so do not let them want for anything. And oh! be most careful—you say she is a lady, poor thing!—be most careful not to wound her feelings. You do not know how shrinkingly sensitive poverty makes natures that are at all refined.”
“I fear Mr. Crane’s words, spoken, I dare say, under a very just feeling of annoyance, both pained and irritated her,” returned D’Almayne. “She naturally draws a strong line between the fact that her husband has been imprudent and unfortunate, and the insinuation that he had been criminal. Mr. Crane, I grieve to say, appeared to doubt the truth of her statement, that Mr. Leonard was ignorant of his partner’s intended flight and defalcation.”
“Ungenerous! cruel!” murmured Kate, carried away by her excitement, and forgetting, or perhaps at the moment scarcely heeding, the fact that D’Almayne’s quick ears were eagerly drinking in these acknowledgments of the estimation in which she held her husband.
“I am most anxious to save you all trouble in this matter,” resumed D’Almayne; “but it would be a great satisfaction to me, and relieve me of a responsibility for which I am scarcely fitted, if you would not object to visit Mrs. Leonard yourself: She is already most anxious to see and thank the kind benefactress to whom I have informed her she is indebted. Were you once to talk to her, you would perceive the gentle yet strong nature we have to deal with; you would learn her hopes, fears, and prospects, from her own lips, rather than through such an unworthy interpreter as myself; you would see the interesting children;—may I hope that you will consent?”
Kate paused—considered; but her answer demands a fresh chapter.