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.