“I consider it a great compliment to be compared to the patient Grisel, more particularly as I was not of opinion that she and I had very many qualities in common. By the way,” she continued, seeking to change the subject, and taking the first idea that occurred to her, “what do you think of the lady whose chair you are occupying? I have never asked your opinion of Miss Arabella Crofton.”
The question was a most unfortunate one. Alice’s continued refusal to dance with him had annoyed Lord Alfred, and wounded his vanity; the reason of her refusal was her absurd devotion (as he considered it) to her husband; and now she, as it were, held the cup of revenge to his lips by the question she had asked him. Up to this point his better nature had struggled with the temptation successfully, but now it had acquired an additional strength, and overcame him.
“I wonder you should care to know my ideas on the subject,” he said; and as he proceeded to work out Horace D’Almayne’s suggestions, his tone and manner unconsciously assumed a resemblance to that excellent young man’s sarcastic and suggestive delivery: “Miss Crofton is merely a recent and very slight acquaintance of mine; you should apply to Mr. Coverdale—he could tell you many much more interesting particulars of her history than I am able to communicate, if he were willing to do so.”
All temptations to do things foolish or wrong are orthodoxly supposed to come from the Prince of Darkness; if it be so, the fact speaks very highly for the intellectual capacity of that sable potentate, as the said temptations invariably adapt themselves in a most wonderful manner to the various weaknesses and inconsistencies of our nature. Thus, as Alice’s speech had, unintentionally on her part, appealed to Lord Alfred’s leading foible—vanity, so, in turn, did his reply re-act upon Alice’s vulnerable points—jealousy of Arabella Crofton, and consequent curiosity as to her former relations with Harry Coverdale. Accordingly, forgetting time, place, proprieties, even her doubt in regard to the perfect sobriety of the person she was addressing, in the overpowering interest of the question, she asked, hurriedly—
“Why do you say that? to what do you refer? has Mr. Coverdale ever told you anything on the subject?”
Lord Alfred smiled at the effect which his hint had produced; though, when he marked his victim’s eager eye and trembling lip, his good feeling made one last appeal, and he half resolved to leave D’Almayne’s communication untold. Had he been completely himself, the good resolution would have been formed and adhered to; but he had “put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains,” and was no longer able to control his impulses; so, by an effort, he silenced the voice of conscience, and replied—“I shall break no confidence by telling you why I supposed Mr. Coverdale better ‘up’ in Miss Crofton’s previous history than I am, for he never mentioned her name in my presence; indeed, now I come to think of it, it is a subject he always studiously avoids; but my information relates to certain romantic passages said to have occurred in Italy.”
“In Italy!” exclaimed Alice, aghast at this apparent realisation of all her vague fears and suspicions. “Go on,” she continued, impatiently; “I can listen to no hints aspersing my husband’s character; if you have anything to say against him, do not insinuate it, but speak out plainly and honestly.”
“Really, you mistake me,” was the reply; “I have no accusation to bring against Mr. Coverdale: but your question recalled to my mind an anecdote which I heard lately, and I was amused at your requiring information from me which your own husband was so much better able to afford.”
“And what was this remarkable anecdote? Pray let me have the benefit of hearing it, my lord,” rejoined Alice, in vain trying to look and speak in an unconcerned manner.
“Really I think I had better not tell you; you ladies are apt to be a little jealous sometimes without reasonable cause. ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know——” He paused with a tantalising smile, then seeing from Alice’s manner that she was not in a humour to be trifled with, he continued—“Well, I see you mean to hear it, so I may as well tell you at once—not that there is anything very wonderful to tell. You must know that, some three or four years ago, Miss Crofton, being then younger and handsomer than she is now (she is not my style, but many people consider her vastly attractive still), was living as governess with a family of the name of Muir, and in that capacity accompanied them to Florence. John Muir, the eldest son, was an old college friend of Mr. Coverdale’s, and meeting by chance in Switzerland, they joined forces, and spent two or three months at Florence, making occasional excursions into the adjoining country. Everything progressed with cheerfulness and serenity in this Italian Arcadia, until one fine day the eldest Miss Muir eloped with an individual who represented himself as a Neapolitan count, and proved to be merely either valet or courier to the same. This broke up the party, and Mr. Coverdale took his leave; but scarcely had he been gone twelve hours, when, lo and behold, Miss Crofton, who had been much blamed for not having looked after the eloped-with young lady more closely (I suppose she was looking after somebody else), suddenly disappeared. After hunting about Florence in vain, Pater Familias Muir somehow obtained a clue to the lady’s whereabouts, following which he reached a village some thirty miles distant, where he discovered Miss Crofton, and, if my informant did not err, Mr. Coverdale also. Whether it had been his intention to place her in that position now so much more worthily filled, or whether he proposed an arrangement of a less permanent character, history telleth not; suffice it to add, as the books say, that the eloquent representations of Pater Muir induced the lady to return with him to Florence, whence he instantly dispatched her to England under some safe escort, while Mr. Coverdale pursued his onward course to Turkey and the East.” He paused, but as Alice made no reply, merely concealing her countenance behind a voluminous fan, somewhat smaller than a peacock’s expanded tail, he continued—“Such was the historiette related to me; but scandal-mongers are so given to exaggerate, that I dare say it is not half true, so do not worry yourself about it, my dear Mrs. Coverdale.”