CHAPTER LIII.—AFTER THE MANNER OF “BELL’S LIFE.”
“I DARE say the lazy young dog isn’t up yet,” was Coverdale’s mental comment, as he knocked at the door of Lord Alfred Courtland’s lodgings. Although, as a general rule, the idea might not be a mistaken one, yet this particular occasion was evidently an exception, for, on entering Lord Alfred’s sitting-room, Coverdale found that young gentleman most elaborately got up in an unimpeachable sporting costume, but sitting with an open letter and his betting-book before him, looking the picture of despair. As Coverdale entered, he glanced upward with a slight start; then, without waiting to be spoken to, he exclaimed, in a strange reckless tone, as different from his usual manner as a tempest from a zephyr, “Well! which is it to be? peace or war? either will suit me, though I should rather prefer the latter; about the best thing that can happen to me would be for you to put a bullet through my head; at all events, it would save me the trouble of blowing my own brains out, for I expect that is what it will come to before long.”
“Nonsense!” was the reply. “What do you mean by talking such childish rubbish? what is the matter with you, man?”
“First answer my question, and let me know whether I am speaking to a friend or a foe,” rejoined Lord Alfred.
“A friend, as I always have been, and always will be, to you, as long as you deserve an honest man’s friendship,” returned Coverdale, heartily. “Alice has sent me your letter, and it does you great credit; but I always knew you had a good heart; so, for any trouble or annoyance you have caused me, I freely forgive you, and I’ll answer for it Alice does the same; and I don’t know that you may not have taught her a lesson which may be very useful to her in after life. She was young and giddy, and pleased with admiration and gaiety; and this has shown her the danger and folly of such frivolous pursuits as these tastes lead to.”
As he spoke, he held out his hand; Lord Alfred seized and shook it warmly.
“My dear Coverdale,” he said, “you have made me happier, or I might more truly say, less miserable, than five minutes ago I would have believed it possible for anything to do; it was not your anger, or its consequences, I dreaded; but the truth is, I always had the greatest regard and respect for you—I was proud of your friendship—and the idea that, by my faults, I had forfeited it, lowered me in my own estimation, and was a source of continued uneasiness and regret to me. You thought I was talking exaggerated nonsense just now, but I assure you when you came into this room five minutes ago, I was thoroughly reckless; just in the frame of mind in which men commit suicide, or any other act of wicked folly.”
Coverdale, though he by no means comprehended the “situation” (as it is now the fashion to term all possible combinations of events), yet perceived that his companion was thoroughly in earnest, and required sympathy and assistance; so he evinced the first by getting up and laying his hand encouragingly on Lord Alfred’s shoulder, while he offered the latter in the following words: “What is it, my boy? anything that I can help you in?”
“If anybody can, you are the very man,” replied Lord Alfred, as he eagerly grasped his friend’s hand; “but really,” he continued, while the tears that sparkled in his clear blue eyes proved his sincerity, “really, I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness, when I have deserved so differently at your hands too; but you always were the most generous, best-hearted——”
“There! that will do, you foolish boy,” interrupted Coverdale, who, like all simple truthful characters, felt uncomfortable at hearing his own praises; “we’ll take it for granted that I’m no end of a fine fellow, and proceed to learn what particular scrape your wisdom has failed to keep you out of.”