“No one could be more averse than I am to raise false hopes,” resumed Mrs. Hazlehurst; “but I really believe, from my previous knowledge of Mr. Coverdale’s character, as well as from all you have told me to-day, that my interpretation of the enigmatical speech is the true one.”
“If it is, dearest mamma, I shall owe the whole happiness of my life to you,” exclaimed Alice, enthusiastically; “already I feel as if a load which had been crushing me to the earth was taken off my shoulders: the thought that Harry preferred that woman to me haunted me continually, and embittered my existence. Even now,” she continued, sorrowfully, “as long as the fact of Harry’s refusal to tell me what has passed between them remains unaccounted for, I cannot feel quite satisfied.”
“Do you know, Alice, I think you are evincing extreme narrow-mindedness in these unworthy suspicions; if you do not take yourself seriously to task, and strive to overcome this very grave fault in your character, I am afraid the evil you so much dread—the loss of your husband’s affection, may come upon you after all; but it will be solely to your own ungenerous mistrust that you will owe it. I do not wish to distress you,” she continued, as Alice burst into tears at this the most severe rebuke she had ever received from her mother’s lips; “but if I did not tell you what I believe to be the truth, I should fail in my duty to you.”
Alice wept for some moments in silence, then drying her tears, she said in a submissive, child-like manner, “I have done very, very wrong; advise me, mamma, and I will try and act according to your wishes.”
Mrs. Hazlehurst drew Alice towards her, and kissing her pale cheek affectionately, replied:
“My advice is this, love; when you return home, do not enter upon any of these matters which have been subjects of dissension between you and Mr. Coverdale; and should he do so, take care to reply gently and without irritation, remembering that ‘a meek and quiet spirit is a woman’s chiefest ornament;’ for the rest, try and make yourself as pleasant and agreeable as you can to him. Let him perceive your affection in the thousand constantly-recurring trifles of which a loving woman can avail herself for such a purpose, but be careful not to bore him with it at unsuitable times; above all, do not be exigeante, and expect or desire him to give up his sporting tastes, or his love of farming, or even the society of his gentlemen friends for your sake: you could not do it if you would, and you would only deteriorate his frank, manly character if you were to succeed. At the same time you may, by your influence, lead him to cultivate some of his more refined pursuits, into which you can enter with him. He sings charmingly; get him to keep up his music, procure the cleverest and best-written books, and persuade him to read and discuss them with you. His clear intellect and strong good sense will be of the greatest use in expanding and forming your mind, and supplying the deficiencies which my ill-health has occasioned in your education. I see I need not go farther into detail—you understand me.”
“Oh yes, mamma! and if I were but able to realize the picture you have drawn of our domestic life, how happy we might yet be! but I will try my very best, only I feel so weak, and sometimes so wicked; if I were but as wise and good as you—but I will try. Ah! if I had done so at first, I should have had so much easier a task—however, they say it is never too late to mend.” She paused, sighed deeply, then continued: “Emily comes home to-morrow; I will write to Harry to send for me the next day, and then—and then—Mamma, do you think I shall succeed?”
At the very moment Alice was thus repenting the past, and forming good resolutions for the future, Harry, with gloomy brow and clenched teeth, was striding impatiently up and down his library, holding in his hand a sealed letter—it was addressed to his wife, and the writing was Lord Alfred Courtland’s. “So,” he muttered, “so, not content with amusing (that’s the phrase now-a-day) himself during his London season by dangling after my wife, he must try to keep up the thing now she is away—foolish young idiot!—but I feel sure that scoundrel D’Almayne is at the bottom of it, setting him on for some purpose of his own. Well, I’ve borne it patiently—more patiently than one man in fifty would have done—nobody can say I’ve been rash or hasty in this matter; but it’s time to act, and when I do begin, I’ll astonish them. I’ll take Alfred Courtland off to his father, and tell him the boy’s not fit to be trusted alone. If he won’t go, I’ll horsewhip him; and as to D’Almayne, by the Heaven above me, I’ll shoot him like a dog! such a scoundrel is not fit to live! it would be a benefit to society to rid it of such a fellow. But I may be wrong; I said I would do nothing hastily in this business, and I’ll be true to my word. I’ll wait till Alice comes home, give her the letter myself, and ask her to show it to me. If she refuses, or if it contains such matter as I expect, I shall then know how to act.”