“Alfred Courtland.”
“His lordship has treated you to a voluminous epistle,” observed Harry; “I am, I own, curious to learn what the boy can have found to say to you; he was by no means so prolific with his pen in the days of Greek exercises.”
As he spoke he held out his hand for the letter; but Alice drew back; the words “of course you will not show this letter to your husband”—“dead shot”—“fond of parading his man before daybreak”—“lead to something serious,” &c., swam before her eyes, her brain reeled, all the blood seemed to rush to her heart, and for a moment she felt on the verge of fainting. By an effort she recovered herself sufficiently to falter out—
“Dear Harry, do not ask to see it—I cannot show it to you—it is a private letter, meant for my eye only; and—and—you will not ask to see it!” She spoke in the humblest, most imploring tone; but the shadow on Harry’s brow grew deeper.
“It is most strange—incomprehensible, in fact—how and why you misunderstand me in this way!” he said. “I have a right to ask to see that letter; I should be neglecting a plain and positive duty if I failed to do so—putting aside all personal feeling in the matter—the duty I owe to you, the responsibility I took upon myself when I married you, requires it. I have suffered too much already from my careless neglect of these sacred obligations to fall into the same error again!” He paused; then taking Alice’s hand in his own, he continued with a mournful tenderness:—“You are but a young girl yet, my poor child; as ignorant of the ways of the world as if you were a child; I have deprived you of the safeguard of a father’s authority, of a mother’s watchful tenderness, and, with my best endeavours, it is but most imperfectly I can make up for these deficiencies. You may trust me in this matter; in trifles I know I am rash and headstrong, but in a case like this, where my deepest, strongest feelings are concerned, you need not fear me; your happiness is not a thing to trifle with. Understand me clearly; I do not in the slightest degree suspect you of anything in this affair but thoughtlessness; I do not believe anybody or anything could deprive me of your affection but my own acts; and if, by my heedless folly in neglecting you to follow my selfish amusements, I have not already alienated your love, I hope and believe that I shall give you no farther cause for repenting that you ever entrusted me with so priceless a treasure.” A warm pressure from the hand which he still retained, assured him better than words could have done that his wife’s heart was still in his keeping, and he continued:—“With every confidence in you, however, it is not right that I should allow this foolish boy to continue his intimacy with you, after the tone he and his libertine friend, that scoundrel D’Almayne, have chosen to give it. I have heard more than one conversation at clubs and elsewhere in regard to ‘D’Almayne’s promising pupil, and la belle Coverdale’ as the puppies had the insolence to call you” (Alice started as she remembered Lord Alfred’s allusion to the phrase being D’Almayne’s), “which would have caused your cheeks to burn with shame and anger, and which, if I were quite the rash, headstrong character people would make me out to be, might have led to unpleasant consequences;—men have been shot for such remarks before now. Thus, it is quite time this folly should be brought to an end. I hoped it would die a natural death when I took you out of town; but as Alfred Courtland has chosen to write to you, I think it my duty, as I before said, to see the letter, that I may be able to judge what steps it may be necessary to take to bring the affair to a close.”
“Indeed, Harry dearest, there will be no need to take any steps at all!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly. “Lord Alfred simply writes to apologise for something he did which annoyed me on the evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, owing, as he confesses, to his having drunk more Champagne than was wise. I can assure you the letter evinces nothing but good feeling on his part, and is rather to his credit than otherwise.”
“Then, in the name of common sense, why not show it to me—write him a good-humoured, friendly answer—and there will be an end to the matter without any more fuss?” exclaimed Harry.
Poor Alice, she could only repeat “I cannot show it you—do not ask me!” and as the words passed her lips, she felt how foolish, or obstinate, or wicked, they must make her appear. Her husband rose and took a turn up and down the room, as was his wont when anything annoyed him, yet he did not wish to lose his self-control—the first symptom, in fact, of the approach of his “quiet manner.” Alice recognised it, and her heart fluttered, and her colour went and came. Having regained his self-command, Harry reseated himself, and began:—
“You need not be afraid to trust me in this matter, Alice, love; I promise you I will do nothing inconsiderate or hasty, if you will but act straightforwardly by me, and treat me with proper confidence. Alfred Courtland is a mere boy; the utmost I suspect him of is foolish romance, which, joined with his inexperience in the ways of the world, enables such men as D’Almayne to guide him as they please. I have an old regard for him, having known him from his childhood; and the worst I am likely to do to him is to read him a lecture, give him a little good advice, and possibly write to his father, and suggest that he had better look after the young gentleman until he is a year or two older, and, it is to be hoped, wiser. Perhaps, even, when I see the letter I may not deem it necessary to interfere at all. Come, do not let any fanciful punctilio weigh with you, but give it me at once.”
“Harry, do not ask me! Indeed, indeed, dear Harry, I cannot—must not show it to you! Oh! how unlucky, how strangely unfortunate I am!—now, too, when I wanted so to do right!” and, overcome by the embarrassment of the situation, Alice burst into tears.