“Dearest Harry,—Your hasty departure has overturned all my plans and arrangements, which, believe me, were made with a view only to try and avert the catastrophe which, I shudder to think, may be even now impending. Justice to Lord Alfred, who may have incurred your indignation, as well as my anxiety to clear myself in your eyes, by making you acquainted with the whole truth, induce me to send you the interesting letter which has given rise to all this sad misunderstanding; and, as I imagine you have ere this seen and come to some sort of explanation with Lord Alfred, my reason for withholding it exists no longer. When you read it, you will perceive why I was so unwilling to show it to you. I felt convinced that the passages referring to Mr. D’Almayne, which completely confirm the unfavourable opinion you have always entertained of him, would irritate you greatly against him; and, when Lord Alfred proceeds to write of him as a noted duellist, a dead shot, &c., you may smile at my womanly weakness, but can you wonder that I hesitated to show you the letter, that I chose rather to allow you to think untrue things of me, than to clear myself at the risk of imperilling your safety? And now, dearest Harry, if you love me as you say, and as I hope and believe you do, if you would ever have me know another moment’s peace, and not be weighed down by endless self-reproach, return home, I implore you, without taking any farther step in this matter. I am not afraid, when you have seen his penitent letter, that you will be angry with Lord Alfred, but entreat of you to avoid that hateful Mr. D’Almayne. Even supposing that he has been the cause of all this unhappiness; that is now passed, and he will be powerless to influence our future life.
“I am quite willing, if it will be any satisfaction to you, to agree never to spend another spring in London; I have seen enough of its heartless dissipation and frivolity, and for the future hope to find my happiness in our own dear home, which, if you do but return to it safe and sound, I would not exchange for a queen’s palace. Pray, pray, dearest Harry, come back without delay. I have worried and fretted myself quite ill already, and shall be wretched till I see you again. Ever your penitent, but loving,
“Alice.”
Having perused his wife’s letter with mingled feelings of satisfaction and regret,—satisfaction to find how completely she was able to clear herself, and regret at the pain and annoyance which he was sure this affair must have occasioned her,—Coverdale unfolded and read carefully Lord Alfred’s epistle, which had occasioned results the writer little contemplated. At his Lordship’s ingenuous confession of his follies and absurdities, Harry smiled, muttering, “Poor boy! I wish I had not been so sharp with him yesterday;” but as he went on his brow contracted, and when he came to the account of Horace D’Almayne, and the report he had circulated in regard to Coverdale and Miss Crofton, he could restrain his rage no longer, and springing up, he exclaimed, “Scoundrel! mean, pitiful, lying scoundrel! but he shall answer to me for this. A bold rogue, who would execute his own villainy, is a prince to a rascal like this, who lays a plot to deprive me of my wife’s affections, and then makes a cat’s-paw of that poor foolish boy to carry it out. I see it all now. The behaviour which appeared so strange and unaccountable in my darling Alice, proceeded from a very natural feeling of jealousy, excited by all these abominable reports; and, the worst of it is, that even now I can’t be entirely open with her, because of my promise to Arabella. I wish to heaven I had never been fool enough to bind myself!—and yet how could I avoid it? for she has a good heart, and a generous disposition—though, partly from a bad education, partly from natural temperament, her ideas are sadly warped. I am sure she really loved me; of course, in a conventional point of view, it was not right in her to do so; but—well, it’s no use humbugging—I don’t believe the mam ever breathed, who honestly, and from his heart, could blame a woman for loving him; principle and reason may accuse her, but feeling defends her so eloquently, that the cause is gained at the first hearing. I think I acted rightly by her. If I had it to do over again, I don’t see how else I could honourably behave; perhaps it was weak to make her a promise of concealment, but she was so unhappy, her proud spirit was so utterly crushed and broken down, that I would have done anything, not actually wrong, to console her.”
He paused, reseated himself, then resumed more quietly, “Perhaps it is as well that scoundrel D’Almayne is not within reach: if I were to horsewhip him, as I most assuredly should and would, I suppose I should be forced to meet him, blackguard as he is, if he were to challenge me; and he would do so, I dare say, though I know him to be a coward at heart, for his social position is his livelihood, and he must maintain that, or starve. I utterly abhor duelling—it’s so very like deliberate murder; it was different in the old days, when men wore swords habitually; then, a couple of fellows quarrelled and tilted at each other across the dining-table, while their blood was up, and a flesh-wound or two generally let off their superfluous energy, and cured their complaint—it was little more than knocking a man down who has insulted you. There was none of that waiting, and then coolly, calmly, taking the life of a fellow-creature in cold blood, which is the disgusting part of the modern duel. And now about little Alfred. Poor boy, he has been sadly led away by that scoundrel, but his heart is in the right place still; that is a very nice letter of his to my wife, and I’m glad he wrote it, though it has caused me some trouble and annoyance. Well, I’ll call on him, and tell him I did him injustice, and then go down to the Park by the next train, to comfort my darling Alice. By Jove, I feel quite a different man since I read that letter—Harry’s himself again.” And in proof of his assertion, he began, for the first time for many weeks, to whistle his favourite air—
“A southerly wind, and a cloudy sky,
Proclaim it a hunting morning.”
Another ten minutes, and a Hansom cab sufficed to take him to Lord Alfred’s lodgings.