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.
CHAPTER XLI.—ADVICE GRATIS.
It is a dreary thing when much of life seems still before us, and a dark, unfathomable future lies between us and the grave; it is a bitter thing to sit alone and ponder on the days to come, and discover no bright spot in the darkness—discern no kind hand to beckon us forward—hear no friendly voice to council and encourage us in the battle of life; it is an uphill task to struggle through existence without an object on this side the tomb—a hard and cruel lot to hope for nothing until death shall have changed hope into fruition! To live in order to fit oneself to die is the duty of every Christian, but to live for that alone requires a far higher degree of spirituality than to lay down one’s life for the faith: the stake and the axe of persecution are tender mercies compared with the chronic martyrdom of such a life-long sacrifice.
Some such gloomy thoughts as these passed through the overwrought brain of Arthur Hazlehurst as, late in the night after Kate’s visit to Mrs. Leonard, he folded up the last document of which he had made himself master relative to the disputed peerage case in which he was retained. The evidence of which he had that day become possessed would, he felt certain, ensure his client’s success, in which event his own career would in all probability be a prosperous one, and fame and fortune become his; but how worthless did these appear, now they could no longer be shared with her he loved! Until the incident of that morning had so powerfully affected him, he hoped that he had in great measure eradicated this affection, which his good sense enabled him to perceive could only be a source of grief to him: but the pain he had then experienced effectually dispelled the illusion, and he was fain to acknowledge that, strongly as he condemned her conduct in sacrificing his deep and true regard to (as he deemed it) a desire for wealth and the pomps and vanities of fashionable life, he yet, despite his reason, loved her as he felt he never could love any other woman; and the thought that through her husband’s neglect and incompetency she was exposed to the insidious advances of such a character as Horace D’Almayne weighed upon him, and grieved and irritated him until he could endure it no longer. “Come what may of it, I will see her and warn her; she shall not be led on by that scoundrel without knowing his true character!” he exclaimed, rising and hastily pacing the room. “For what purpose could she have accompanied him to such a neighbourhood as that?” he continued, musing; “he may possibly have got up some plausible lie to induce her to do so, merely to compromise her in the eyes of her husband—such a scheme is not unlikely to have occurred to his subtle brain. Yes, come what may, I will see her to-morrow; and, unless she is indeed lost to all better feeling, I will rouse her to a sense of duty, and thwart that scoundrel’s designs. If her husband should learn my interference, I care not; because, in his incapacity, he neglects the sacred trust he has undertaken, that is no reason why I should stand tamely by and see her sacrificed; no—I will save her in spite of herself! this shall be my revenge for the happiness which she has blighted. God grant my interference may not prove too late!”
His mind occupied with such thoughts as these, Arthur Hazlehurst passed a sleepless night, and the first moment he could tear himself away from business on the following day, he betook himself to Park Lane. Kate was from home when he arrived; but having notified to the servant his intention of awaiting her return, he was shown into the drawing-room, where he found a tall, fashionably-dressed young man standing in a disconsolate attitude by the fire-place, to whom he made a slight inclination of the head, heartily wishing him at Jericho, or any other locality equally remote from Park Lane; then, taking up a book, he left him to his own devices. Things remained in this thoroughly English and unsociable state for about ten minutes, towards the end of which period the fashionable young man, having stared hard at Hazlehurst, grew first interested, then excited, and finally the spirit moved him, and he spake:—