Surprised and annoyed at her continued refusal, Harry, despite his confidence in his wife’s fidelity, not unnaturally began to suppose there must be more in this letter than he had at first imagined; and his desire to see it increased, as he became more and more convinced that Alice meant to adhere to her determination not to show it to him. Again he rose, and again, more impatiently than before, began to stride up and down the room; he continued silent for two or three minutes, and when he did address his wife, it was without resuming his place by her side.
“Many men,” he said, “would consider themselves justified in forcing you to show that letter; but I do not feel so. I will, instead, put clearly before you the effect which your agitation and your determination to conceal its contents, must necessarily produce on my mind. Either the writer must address you in such language that you are afraid to show it, lest it should lead to a serious misunderstanding between him and me; or he refers to some previous passages between you, with which you are unwilling your husband should become acquainted. Now, as I have before said, I have every confidence in you, which nothing but proof positive that you are not deserving of it could shake. The matter then resolves itself into this:—that Courtland has addressed you in that letter in some unbecoming style; and if you persist in refusing to satisfy me on this point in the only effectual manner, viz., by showing me the letter, I shall be under the necessity of obtaining the information in some other way; and when once I have taken up the matter and begun to act for myself, depend upon it I shall go through with it, to whatever consequences it may lead. Should they be such as to cause you sorrow, remember it is now in your power to avert them—then it will be too late! Go to your own room, and reflect on all this quietly and calmly. If you decide to show me the letter, rely on my moderation and discretion; if you persist in your refusal, I must act as I may consider my position renders necessary; and may God help us both if evil should come of it! If you should think better of your unwise determination, bring or send me the letter at any moment; but if not, I had rather you remained in your boudoir during the evening, as I feel deeply on this matter, and cannot trust myself to speak of it without saying things which I should be sorry for afterwards. Now go, and think it over. Do not look so frightened,” he continued in a gentler tone; “believe me, I speak more in sorrow than in anger.”
“Oh, yes! I see you do,” returned Alice, in a tone of the deepest emotion; “and it is that which is breaking my heart! I had rather, ten thousand times, that you were angry with me: and yet I know I am doing what is best!” She paused; then, with a fresh burst of tears, she threw herself into her husband’s arms, exclaiming, “Harry! dearest Harry! have pity on me!” Her husband soothed and supported her tenderly till she grew somewhat calmer, then, kissing her forehead, he led her to the door, saying kindly but gravely, “Have pity on yourself, darling; act as I would have you, and all will go well.”
Greatly perplexed, considerably frightened, and altogether in that state of mind which can best be described by the term “upset,” poor Alice’s first performance was the thoroughly feminine one of “having her cry out." Having thus poured forth her grief, viâ her eyelids, she set to work seriously to face her difficulties, and come to some decision which might, if possible, reconcile her conflicting duties. The simplest and easiest way would, of course, be to do as Harry wished her; show him the letter, and leave him to decide on the matter, both for her and for himself. With this view she carefully re-read it; and when she had done so, felt more than ever convinced that to allow her husband to see it, would be to ensure a quarrel with Horace D’Almayne,—and from that to a hostile meeting, Harry shot, and herself sent for by telegraph to receive his dying benediction, was only a natural feminine transition. Supposing she were to adhere then—as adhere she must—to her resolution, what would Harry do? Set off for London, to seek an explanation from Lord Alfred; yes, and he would get it too! Lord Alfred would be forced to say much the same as he had written; for it was clear he felt no delicacy about showing up D’Almayne; and though, perhaps, he might not mention the business in regard to Miss Crofton, yet Harry would soon collect that D’Almayne had first suggested to Lord Alfred to flirt with her, and then encouraged him to try and change what would have been simply an agreeable acquaintanceship into a sentimental love-affair. Oh! if she had but known all this sooner, she would have effectually cured Lord Alfred of his penchant, instead of encouraging him in order to pique Harry out of his supposed indifference. How blind, how stupid she had been! how she had mistaken everybody and everything! even in regard to Harry—his conduct about this letter—trusting her when she was obliged to confess appearances were strongly against her—treating her with such tender forbearance when her behaviour must seem to him, to say the least, perverse and incomprehensible! How differently had she behaved in regard to Miss Crofton! how ready had she been to suspect Harry on the slightest grounds! Yes, she saw it clearly now, her mother’s interpretation of that speech was the true one—Harry loved her still; nay, had never ceased to do so. Ah! her first idea of him was right—there was nobody like him; and she was not worthy of such happiness as to be his wife—his chosen one—the object of his deep, tender, manly affection. Her eyes were open at last; she saw the truth; recognised his worth, perceived her own deficiencies and faults. If this wretched business could ever be got over, how careful she would be to guard against her former errors! what happiness was there not yet in store for her! Could nothing be devised? As she pondered, an idea struck her. Harry evidently would take no step till the next morning; the post had not yet gone out; there would be time for her to write to Lord Alfred, explain her dilemma, and appeal to his good feeling to leave town for a day or two. Harry, thus missing him, would naturally return home, when she would ask Lord Alfred to write him such a letter as would satisfy his doubts—a duplicate, in fact, of the one which had caused all this trouble, only without the attack on D’Almayne. The scheme was not perfectly satisfactory; still, the more she thought of it the more she became convinced that it was the only way of escape from the present emergency. Lord Alfred, she felt pretty sure, would act as she wished, if she made his compliance the condition on which her forgiveness of the past and friendship for the future must depend. Then she trusted a good deal to the chapter of accidents to help her; and at some indefinite epoch, when Horace D’Almayne should have gone abroad, and be out of Harry’s way, she would show him the letter, explain why she had not done so sooner, confess the words she had overheard at Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, the history she had been told in regard to Arabella Crofton, and in fact (to use an inelegant but graphic expression) make a clean breast of it, and trust to his affection to pity and forgive her. So she sat down and scribbled off a hurried but eloquent letter to Lord Alfred, which she flattered herself would produce the effect she desired. Having completed it, she indited a few lines to Harry, telling him she had thought the matter over calmly and seriously; and with the strongest desire to do as he wished her, she yet felt it her duty to adhere to her former decision.
In the meantime Coverdale sat in gloomy meditation: why would not Alice let him see that letter? he could not, he did not imagine it contained anything to lessen his respect and affection for her; but if not, what could it contain to make her so resolute not to show it to him? He perceived with pleasure, though it added to his perplexity, that she was not swayed by any ebullition of temper, but was acting from a sense (however mistaken) of duty; he saw the pain it gave her to refuse him, and appreciated and rejoiced in the good resolutions she had formed at the Grange. It was strange, certainly, how events seemed to militate against the happiness of his married life! he had forfeited his domestic felicity by his own selfish addiction to his bachelor pursuits and habits, and it appeared impossible to regain it. Then he commenced a minute and painful review of all the occurrences of his matrimonial career, endeavouring to trace out the causes which had led to each several result, and carefully scrutinising his own conduct, to discover how far he had acted up to the rules he had laid down for himself. He was thus engaged when Alice’s note was brought to him; he read it, and his resolution was formed: he would go to London by the first train the next morning, see Lord Alfred Courtland, and learn the contents of his letter, either by fair means or foul; he would try fair means first, and be patient, and for Alice’s sake endeavour to avoid a quarrel—yes, that was decided on. So he sat down and wrote a couple of notes to put off engagements in the neighbourhood, then rang the bell. “Has the post-bag gone?” he asked, as the servant appeared. The reply was in the negative, and in another minute Wilkins returned with it. Harry and Alice had each a key, but when he was at home hers was seldom used; so was therefore rather surprised to find it already locked. Unlocking it, he attempted hastily to insert his two notes, but a letter which was in the bag had become fixed in a fold of the leather, and prevented his doing so. With an exclamation of impatience he took it out, and was about to replace it, when the address accidentally caught his eye; it was in his wife’s handwriting, and directed to Lord Alfred Courtland, with immediate written in one corner. “Leave the bag two or three minutes, Wilkins,” he said hurriedly, “I have thought of something else.” As soon as the servant quitted the room, Coverdale again took up the letter. What could it mean?—why had Alice written off in such hot haste to this young man? Had she divined his intention of seeking out Lord Alfred, and was this letter sent off thus hurriedly to tutor him what to say—or, worse still, what to conceal? Should he end all these wretched doubts and suspicions at once—should he send for Alice, and in her presence open and read the letter? The temptation was a strong one, but he overcame it. Even if the circumstances of the case were sufficient to warrant him, he felt it would be an act of domestic tyranny against which his generous nature revolted. What should he do then? Suffer the letter to go, and so throw away his only chance of arriving at the truth? No, that would be mere weakness: his resolution was formed. Putting Alice’s letter in his pocket, he relocked the post-bag, and ringing the bell, desired it might be taken immediately. Having seen his order executed, he sat down and wrote a note, and sealed up a packet. About four hours later on the same evening, i.e. between nine and ten o’clock, this packet was placed in Alice’s hands; it contained her letter to Lord Alfred Courtland, unopened, and the following note from her husband:—
“My dear Alice,—When you receive this I shall be on my road to London, whither I am going to have a little serious conversation with Alfred Courtland. As I wish and intend him to tell the truth uninfluenced, I have taken upon me to delay your letter a post. Trusting this affair may end so as to secure your happiness, in which I think you now see mine is involved,
“I am, ever yours affectionately,
“H. C.”
“P. S.—If you have occasion to write to me, direct to Arthur’s chambers.”