“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.