CHAPTER L.—THE LETTER.
W hen things happen not to go smoothly in this mortal life (that is, about nine times out of every ten) people are apt to rail against destiny, deplore their evil fortune, or, if they happen to be very good indeed, reckon up the number of crosses vouchsafed them with self-complacent resignation; in fact, they each, after their own fashion, give currency to the sentiment expressed by our neighbours across the water, in the proverb, “L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” Now, although we acknowledge that this proverb embodies a great truth, yet, looking at the present state of things more closely, we conceive it to be by no means the whole truth—for this reason:—a large proportion of the evils of life are no results of blind chance, or, more correctly, no chastisements proceeding direct from the hand of Providence, but the natural, almost the necessary, consequences of our own actions. Action might be generally defined as the working—according to certain fixed rules—of cause and effect; if we would but bear this in mind, and reflect that every action produces some result good or evil, we might not indeed (so wrong-headed is human nature) act more wisely, but we should at all events feel less surprise when the inevitable results followed; and so, knowing that we had only ourselves to thank for our punishment, gain experience which might make some few fools of us wiser for the future.
These remarks were called forth by, and therefore might have occurred to, Alice Coverdale, had she been of what it is the fashion to term an “introspective habit”—i.e. had she been accustomed to turn her mind inside-out before its own eye. Not, however, being given to this uncomfortable practice, she failed to discern the troubles in store for her, and returned home fondly deeming that having at length perceived the error of her ways, she need only confess, and receive her husband’s absolution, to set every wrong right again. Harry did not come to fetch her, it being a day on which there was a magistrates’ meeting; but he was standing at the hall-door waiting to receive her, which he did warmly, and as if he was very glad to have her back again, though a gloom hung on his brow which, when the first confusion of her arrival was over, Alice could not fail to perceive; but conscious to a painful degree of her own faults and short-comings, she did not venture to remark upon it. When they reached the drawing-room, Harry threw back her veil, and regarded her with a long, earnest gaze, which brought the warm blood into her cheeks as in the days of her girlhood.
“You are looking better, brighter, and more like your former self than I have seen you for some time,” he said. He paused, then resumed sadly:—“Ah, Alice, I’m afraid you were happier in your old home than you will ever be in your new one!”
“Do not say so—do not think so, dear Harry!” was the eager reply. “I may have been silly, and—and wicked enough to have been unhappy, and to have vexed you and rendered you so, too; but I have been taking myself seriously to task since I have been away, and have come home full of good resolutions, and intending to strive hard to keep them; and if you would be so very good as to forgive me the past and help me in the future, I think perhaps I may succeed.”
Touched by her words and by the evident feeling with which they were spoken, Harry drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.
“We may both have been in some measure to blame,” he said, “but I by far the most so, for neglecting the sacred trust I took upon me when I possessed myself of your affection; but I was a heedless boy then—experience has made something rather more like a reasonable being of me by this time, I hope; at all events, I now know how to appreciate and guard the treasure I possess.” But even as he uttered these words his brow grew clouded, for he thought of Lord Alfred Courtland’s letter, lying at that moment in his pocket. Should he give it to her at once, as she stood by him blushing, and smiling, and looking up at him with all the light of her former love beaming in her soft blue eyes? What if she refused to show it him?—if its contents should destroy the harmony so happily re-established between them? Still it must be done sooner or later, and Harry was not one to put off the evil day. With that letter on his mind he could not meet Alice’s affection warmly and frankly as it deserved, and as she would expect him to do; besides, the contents might be of a nature to relieve, rather than to increase his anxiety, in which case he was needlessly prolonging his own uneasiness. So turning towards her, he said in a tone of voice which he vainly endeavoured to render easy and unconstrained, “Alice, love, here is a letter for you, which I chose to give you myself, and which, when you have read it, I hope and believe you will allow me to see also.” As he spoke he led her to the sofa, then handing her Lord Alfred’s unopened letter, waited in a state of anxiety which he vainly attempted to conceal, until she should have perused it. Alice coloured slightly when she perceived by the handwriting from whom the epistle proceeded; but, judging from her consciousness that nothing really wrong had passed between them that certainly she should be able to show it to Harry, and so eradicate any seeds of jealousy which might be lurking in his mind, she hastily broke the seal.
The letter was a long one, for Lord Alfred, being really very sorry for his misconduct on the night of the ball, and very anxious to retrieve Alice’s good opinion, waxed eloquent upon his theme, and expended as much fine writing upon his exculpation as would have formed a leader in the Times. After two sides of penitence, he continued:—
“In fact my excuse amounts to this: that I was, and I may say am, a fool in the hands of a knave; and a very, very bad excuse I feel it to be. But really D’Almayne is such a clever rogue, if rogue he be—knows so much of life is so brilliant and amusing—dresses so well—does everything with such perfect tact and good taste—is, in short, so consistent as a whole, that although one neither respects nor approves of him, yet it is impossible (at least for me) to resist his influence; time after time have I resolved to break with him, and time after time have I allowed him again to do what he pleased with me. I can truly and honestly declare, that everything that I have said or done which could cause you a moment’s annoyance, has been prompted by him; he flattered my vanity by urging me to get up a sentimental flirtation with la belle Coverdale, as he impertinently styled you; and, but for your good sense in showing me you had no taste for such folly, I know not what absurdities I might have committed. Again, he told me that ill-natured story of Mr. Coverdale, which I believe he embellished, and gave a much more serious colouring to than the truth would bear out; and finally and lastly, he it was who persuaded me to take you to the door of the boudoir to witness that scene between Miss Crofton and your husband, of which I feel certain we do not know the true explanation; for I am most confident my good friend Coverdale cares for you, and you only, as an affectionate husband should do. Why D’Almayne did all this, except that I fancy he has some spite against Coverdale, I do not know or care. Nor do I think I am wrong in thus showing the exquisite Horace up in his true colours to you, as every word I have stated is the simple truth; and were he to tax me with having done so, I should be perfectly ready to justify my conduct and abide the consequences, though he is such a dead shot, and fond of ‘parading his man’ at daybreak. Of course you will not show this letter to your husband, as, although I do not think, if he knew the whole truth, he would be very angry with me, such would not be the case in regard to D’Almayne, and might lead to something serious between them. But if, my dear Mrs. Coverdale, I can obtain your forgiveness, and (after my return from Italy, where I am shortly about to join my family) you will, in consideration of my penitence, still allow me the privilege of your friendship, I shall not so deeply regret the inexcusable folly of,
“Yours very sincerely,