“I have received a note from Mr. Coverdale, urging me to release him from a promise he most kindly made me, at a time when, bowed down by shame and contrition, his doing so saved me, as I verily believe, from madness or suicide. He tells me your health and his happiness depend upon my complying with his request; it becomes then a duty in me to do so; and, however painful it may be, I will not flinch from it. It appears to me that the most effectual way to remove any misapprehension from your mind, in regard to the nature and extent of my acquaintance with Mr. Coverdale before his marriage, will be to give you a concise account of the occurrences which took place during the summer I spent in Italy, whither I had accompanied a family of the name of Muir, in the capacity of governess. The Muirs were well-meaning, commonplace people, not possessing the slightest tact or refinement of feeling. I was at that time young, and morbidly sensitive; and the slights they put upon me, without, as I can now perceive, intending any unkindness, or, indeed, being aware of the effect their thoughtlessness was producing upon me, were a daily martyrdom to my proud spirit. We spent three months at Florence; and shortly after we had settled there, John Muir, the eldest son, who had been making a tour among the Swiss mountains, rejoined his family, accompanied by Mr. Coverdale, who had known him at the university. Slightly attracted, I fancy, by the good looks of my eldest pupil, who was an unusually pretty nonentity, Mr. Coverdale, always talking of the necessity of continuing his journey to the East, still lingered at Florence. The great kindness of heart and delicacy of feeling which lie hid under a roughness of manner that can only mislead a very superficial observer, soon led him to perceive and pity my isolated position; and from the moment in which he became aware how keenly the sense of dependence preyed upon me, he treated me with a degree of deference and attention which could not but contrast most favourably with the neglect I experienced from others. Under the cold manner which circumstances have forced me to assume, I have concealed a naturally ardent and impetuous disposition, and as deeply as I had been affected by the ungenerous conduct of the Muirs did I now appreciate Mr. Coverdale’s sympathy and kindness—in a word, for I have resolved to conceal nothing from you, I loved him with all the force of my passionate nature. But the very strength of my feelings led me studiously to conceal them; nor, until the elopement of my eldest pupil with a scheming Italian adventurer broke up the party, did I give Mr. Coverdale the slightest opportunity of suspecting the warm interest he had excited in me; but when about to bid him farewell as I imagined for ever, my self-control gave way, and I burst into a passionate flood of tears. Equally grieved and surprised, he soothed me with his accustomed kind and considerate delicacy, begged me always to look upon him as a friend, and apply to him in any emergency, as to a brother; and as soon as I became somewhat more composed, left me. The next tidings I heard of him were that he had quitted Florence. Scarcely had I retired to my room, to endeavour to calm my excitement, and to struggle to subdue my hopeless attachment in tears and solitude, when Mrs. Muir sent for me, and reproached me with equal virulence and unkindness for her daughter’s elopement, which she declared to have been the consequence of my neglect. ‘Had you,’ she continued, ‘been less engrossed by seeking to ensnare the affections of Mr. Coverdale, you would have been better able to perform the duties of your situation, and this misfortune might never have come upon us.’ Stung by the mixture of truth and falsehood in this cruel reproach, I replied—I know not what—proudly, and I can now well believe impertinently; and the next thing that I became aware of was, that a sum of money sufficient to defray my expenses to England was placed before me, and that I was dismissed. Thrown thus on my own resources in a foreign land, without a single friend near to help or advise me, what wonder that I instinctively turned to the only quarter from which I had for years (for mine had been a desolate youth) met with kindness, consideration, and sympathy; and that from the chaos of conflicting emotions one idea alone stood out clear and defined—to seek Harry Coverdale, throw myself on his generosity, tell my tale of sorrow and of love, and leave the result to him and destiny. That such a course was unwomanly, almost unpardonable in me, none can be more bitterly aware than I am; but I pray God that those of my own sex who are inclined to condemn me may never be tempted as I was tempted—may never fall as, but for the superhuman goodness of heart, and the tender, simple, yet chivalrous nature of your husband, I should have fallen. With me, to resolve and to act were simultaneous. I lost not a moment in ascertaining the route Mr. Coverdale had taken, and ere the Muir family were aware of my departure I had followed him to Fiumalba, a small town within a few hours’ journey of Florence. Without allowing myself an instant’s time for reflection, I sought the hotel at which Mr. Coverdale was stopping, and in my distraction flung myself at his feet, and told him everything—how I loved him better than any other created being—better even than my own womanly pride and good name—how I felt convinced that such love as mine must in time win return—how that if he would make me his wife, I would devote every thought; every action of my future existence, to secure his happiness—how, if he refused me, I would lie down at his feet and die, but never leave him. Then did he indeed redeem his promise of acting by me as a brother—then did he save me from my worst enemy—myself. Having soothed and quieted my agony of spirit, by his calm good sense and judicious kindness, he appealed to my reason—set before me how, by yielding to my request, and making me the partner of his future life, while unable to feel for me that degree of affection without which such a tie must become unbearable, he would be doing me an injury rather than conferring a benefit; nor did he leave me until he had obtained my consent to allow him to return to Florence, explain the whole matter to Mr. Muir, expostulate with him as to the cruelty and injustice of thus dismissing me with an undeserved slur on my character as a governess, and endeavour to arrange that I should remain with his wife and daughter, and accompany them on their return to England. In this negotiation he was successful. Mr. Muir,—an easy, self-indulgent character, yet one who could, on occasions such as that to which I refer, act kindly and honourably,—accompanied Mr. Coverdale back to Fiumalba, where he informed me that he had prevailed on Mrs. Muir to agree to the above proposal, adding that he and Mr. Coverdale were the only persons aware of the imprudent step I had taken, and that they were both willing to make me a solemn promise never (unless by my desire) to reveal the transaction to any one. Utterly broken-spirited and miserable, I consented, and, taking leave of my preserver, returned with Mr. Muir to Florence. From that day, until our accidental meeting in Park Lane, I saw Mr. Coverdale no more. What it has cost me to write this I will not attempt to describe, but that every word of it is the simple truth, I call Heaven to witness; that the knowledge of it may for ever reconcile all differences between you and your noble, generous hearted husband, and that you may be restored to make him as happy as I am certain it is in your power to do is the wish and prayer of one who, if she has erred deeply, has suffered equally, as she hopes not without some good result.
“Arabella Crofton.”
When Harry had finished reading the letter, he returned it to his wife, observing, “That is, as she says, a faithful account of all that ever occurred between us. You now see why I was unable to explain to you the apparent mystery. I hold a promise to be so sacred a thing, that nothing—not even the loss of your affection—could induce me to break one. And now, my poor child, I hope you are satisfied that I indeed love you with my whole heart, and that the affection of a thousand Arabella Croftons would never compensate me for the loss of one bright smile or fond look from my own darling wife.”
Alice attempted to reply, but her heart was too full for words: bursting into a flood of tears of mingled joy and contrition, she flung her arms around her husband’s neck, and in that prolonged embrace ended once and for ever all Harry Coverdale’s matrimonial disputes and discomforts.
CHAPTER LXIII.—LORD ALFRED SEVERS HIS LEADING STRINGS.
Lord Alfred Courtland and Horace D’Almayne were both members of the Pandemonium, at which notable club the latter, when he had no rich victim on whom to quarter himself, chiefly spent his days. The visit which Lord Alfred had paid to Coverdale Park, and his subsequent mission to Hazlehurst Grange, had impressed him deeply, and brought out all his best qualities. On his return to town, he took himself to task more seriously than he had yet done, for the careless and extravagant life he had been leading; and, warned by experience how futile such repentance might prove, unless followed by some practical efforts at self-reform, he set to work with his accustomed impetuosity, to remedy the evils resulting from his injudicious attempt to become a fast “man-about-town.” The Honourable Billy Whipcord relieved him of one difficulty, by purchasing Don Pasquale for the same amount which Lord Alfred had given Tirrett for the animal, and with the money thus obtained, together with his winnings on the steeple-chase, he, like an honest fellow, paid all his creditors. Feeling much happier for this step in the right direction, he determined to follow it up by another, and accordingly wrote to his father, saying that, his health being now re-established, it was his wish to return to Cambridge, and endeavour to make up for lost time. Having dispatched this letter, and ridden for a couple of hours in the Park, the necessity of dining occurred to him, and he turned his horse’s head towards the Pandemonium. As he rode thither, it struck him that he might possibly encounter Horace D’Almayne, and he bethought him of his promise to Harry Coverdale, to give up the acquaintance of the man whom he had so incautiously trusted, and who had abused that trust by leading him into evil whenever an opportunity presented itself for so doing.
Yes! disagreeable as it was, perhaps even dangerous (for D’Almayne was not a man to insult with impunity), he would redeem his pledged word—he would show his gratitude to Coverdale. If D’Almayne was at the club, he would cut him in a marked and unmistakeable manner! As these thoughts were passing through his brain, he became aware of a young man, flashily dressed, and mounted on a magnificent horse, who, as he passed, took off his hat to him. Confused for the moment by the idea that it must be some acquaintance whom he ought to recognise, he bowed stiffly, whereupon the horseman wheeled his steed, and rode up to Lord Alfred’s side—
“I beg your Lordship’s pardon,” he began, “but I wish to say a few words to you. Does not your Lordship remember me?”