HARRY COVERDALE’S COURTSHIP,
AND ALL THAT CAME OF IT

This Tale of “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship” has been a kind of enfant terrible—a thankless child—to its Author. It was originally begun as a short story, but the characters grew and expanded upon his hands, until they forced him to allow them wider proportions than he had originally intended.

Then the Magazine in which the tale had been commenced changed owners, and the new proprietor, not being inclined to agree to the arrangements of his predecessor, saw fit to end the story himself, after a much more vivacious and dashing fashion than that of the present “lame and impotent conclusion.”

These and other mishaps, quæ nunc perscribere longam est, as dear Dr. Valpy’s Latin Grammar has it, have occasioned the story to be written—à plusieurs reprises, to use the “correct” phrase.

The conclusion of the tale has been perpetrated at a time when, on account of severe nervous headaches, the Author was under strict medical orders not to write a line upon any consideration; and it is with the fear of the doctor before his eyes that he is penning these “few last words.” They are not written in the “forlorn hope” of disarming hostile criticism, but simply to assure those friends who have hitherto looked with an indulgent eye upon his writings, that if “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship” does not come up to any expectations they may have formed from the perusal of his previous works, it is rather the misfortune than the fault, of their grateful and obedient servant,

THE AUTHOR.

HARRY COVERDALE’S COURTSHIP, AND ALL THAT CAME OF IT.

CHAPTER I.—TREATS OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE.

Harry Coverdale stood six feet one in or out of his stockings, rode something over eleven stone, was unusually good, or, as young ladies term it, interesting-looking, numbered six-and-twenty years last grass, and lived at Coverdale Park when he was at home, with five thousand a-year to pay for his housekeeping, of which he spent about two. At the happy moment in which we have the pleasure of introducing him to our readers, he was not at home, at least not literally, though figuratively he appeared to be making himself so very decidedly.

He had arrived in London that morning, and had dined at his club, and strolled down to the Temple afterwards, where, finding that his friend, Arthur Hazlehurst, was expected to return every minute, he had taken possession of his vacant chambers, lighted a cigar, laid hands on a number of The Sporting Magazine, and flinging himself at full-length on the sofa (sofas do occasionally appear in the chambers of the briefless) looked, and was, especially comfortable. He was not, however, allowed to enjoy his position long in peace; for scarcely had he established himself, when a man’s footstep was heard running hastily up the interminable staircase, while a quick eager voice, addressing the small boy who did duty for clerk, exclaimed—

“Eh! a gentleman whom you don’t know lying on my sofa and smoking my last cigar! that’s coming to the point and no mistake; cool though—I wonder who the deuce it can be—not a client, of course.—Ah! Harry, my dear old boy, this is an unexpected pleasure; why I’m as glad to see you as if you were a client almost. I thought you were in the Red Sea, man, dredging for defunct Egyptians, or chipping old blocks with Layard, or some such slow thing; when did you return?”

Arthur Hazlehurst, the originator of the foregoing speech, was an old college chum of Coverdale’s, who, when his friend had taken his degree (a highly respectable one) and started on an enlarged edition of the grand tour, had gone to read with a special pleader. Having by a special slice of luck contrived to acquire a knowledge of the law from that process, instead of the more usual result of learning how to spend five hundred per annum out of an allowance of two, and possessing, moreover, an acute intellect, and a fair portion of industry, Arthur Hazlehurst was looked upon as a rising young man. In appearance he was, for a fair man, rather handsome than otherwise, but if his talent for rising could have been exercised bodily, as well as professionally, it would have been as well for him, for his friend had the advantage of him in stature by some three inches; his manner and way of speaking were quick and eager, and he had altogether a wide-awake look about him, as though he regarded society at large as perpetually in a witness-box, and was always prepared to cross-examine and be down upon it.

“I returned to England some three weeks since,” replied Coverdale, abstracting the cigar from his mouth, and lazily flipping off the ashes from the lighted end with his finger; “but I went quietly down to the Park, and have been plodding over accounts with the agent ever since. Shocking bad tobacco they make you put up with here; you shall try the glorious stuff I’ve brought back from Constantinople—your Turk is the boy to smoke. So you’ve become learned in the law, I hear, since I went abroad.”

“Eh! Yes, I believe I’ve picked up a thing or two,” returned Hazlehurst modestly; “I’ve found out the great secret of life; the next move is to make the knowledge pay, and that’s not so easy.”

“I didn’t know there was a great secret to find out,” observed Coverdale, stroking his curly black whiskers, “the rule of life seems easy enough to me—make up your mind what you want to do, and then quietly do it—that’s my recipe.”

“A very good one for you, my dear fellow, you’ve only to put your hand in your pocket, and, as your money rattles, difficulties disappear; but we’re not all born to £5000 a-year, worse luck; fathers have flinty hearts, and even the amenities of the nineteenth century have failed to macadamise them—‘I’ve given you an expensive education, sir, and I expect to see you turn it to account.’ That’s about the style of blessing we inherit now-a-day; however, my secret of life is this: everything has a culminating point, and the dodge is to hit upon it yourself, and bring others to it, with the least delay possible; in these four words—come to the point, is embodied the whole philosophy of existence.”

“Well, yes, I dare say there is something in it,” returned Coverdale, meditatively, “it never exactly struck me before, but there’s a beautiful simplicity about it that I rather admire—a little too railroadish, perhaps, unless a man’s in an awful hurry; you lose the bright sunny peeps and the jolly old road-side alehouses of life, by rushing so straight to your object.”

“Sunny nonsenses,” was the uncourteous rejoinder—“none of your old slow-coaching days for me; life’s not long enough for dreaming—Parr’s life pills are a swindle, and Methusaleh died without leaving his recipe behind him;—so come to the point say I.”

“Though I won’t promise to adopt your philosophy for a permanency, I’ll act upon it for once, at all events,” replied Coverdale, smiling (and a nice, genial, pleasant smile it was too, showing a white, even row of teeth, and lighting up a pair of large, dark, intelligent eyes, and making the “smiler” look particularly handsome). “So to come to the point, I’m here to enlist you in my service for what the women call a ‘day’s shopping’ to-morrow: I’ve no clothes to my back, no horses to ride, no dog-cart to knock about in—in fact, none of the necessaries of life;—then, having benefited by your advice and experience, I mean to carry you off to Coverdale for a crack at the rabbits; thank goodness! they’ve got the game up and the poachers down, since I’ve been abroad: that was the only thing I made a row about when I came into the property. Why, there are no preserves like the Coverdale woods in the county, and yet my poor uncle never had a pheasant on his table. Things are rather different now, my boy, and my only real sorrow at the present moment is, that there are two whole months to be got rid of before the first of September: well! what do you say to my proposal?”

“Done, along with you,” replied Hazlehurst; “but on one condition only, viz., that when we’ve polished off the rabbits, you’ll come with me to the Grange, and make acquaintance with those members of the worthy family of Hazlehurst, whose virtues are as yet unknown to you.”

“You’re very kind; but you’ve a lot of sisters, or she-cousins, or some creatures of that dangerous nature, haven’t you? Of course I mean no disparagement to the ladies of your family in particular; but ’pon my word, my dear fellow, I cannot stand women: in Turkey they shut ’em up, you know, so that I’m not accustomed to them; I’ve given up flirting and dangling, and all the rest of it, long ago; it’s very well for green boys, but at my time of life a man has something better to think about,” and, as he spoke, Coverdale flung the end of his cigar into the empty fireplace, pitched The Sporting Magazine unceremoniously on the table, and, looking at his watch, continued, “It’s eight o’clock; I took a couple of stalls for the ‘Prophète’ this morning, on the chance of catching you; so jump into a pair of black trousers and let us be off.”

“Not a bad move,” replied his companion, “I’ll adorn and be with you in——”

“Einem augenblick,” suggested the grand tourist, philologically.

“If that’s German for the twinkling of a bed-post, yes!” was the rejoinder, and in less than ten minutes the friends descended the staircase arm-in-arm, Hazlehurst leaving strict directions with the small clerk to inform any one who might ask for him, that he was summoned to attend a very important consultation.

The next day was devoted to the purchase of Coverdale’s necessaries of life. Owing to Hazlehurst’s perseverance in bringing all the tradesmen to the point, a vast deal of business was transacted, and before nightfall Harry was the fortunate possessor of a spicy dog-cart, a blood mare to run in it, who could trot fourteen miles an hour, and really did perform ten miles in that space of time, equally to her own satisfaction and to that of her new master—two showy saddle-horses, the best being up to fifteen stone with any hounds—a double-barrelled gun, by a famous maker—a brace of thorough-bred pointers—and a whole host of the minor “necessaries” animate and inanimate, all of which, put together, made a considerable hole in a thousand pounds; but, as Harry sapiently observed, “a man could not live in the country without them, so where was the use of bothering.”

On the following morning, the two young men and all the purchases, horses included, started by the Midland Counties Railway, and dinner-time found them safely deposited at Coverdale Park, a fine old place, which, with its picturesque mansion, beautiful view, and goodly extent of wood and water, field and fell, was as desirable a property as any English gentleman need wish to possess. After dinner the gamekeeper was summoned: he was a sturdy, good-looking fellow, who had filled the post of under-keeper in the time of Admiral Coverdale (Harry’s deceased uncle, an old bachelor, to whose invincible hatred of matrimony his nephew was indebted for his present position). Harry, before he went abroad, had discovered the head-keeper to be in league with a gang of poachers, receiving a per centage on all the game they sold; he had accordingly dismissed him, and elected his subordinate to fill the vacant situation—an experiment which had proved eminently successful.

“Take a glass of wine, Markum; this is my friend, Mr. Hazlehurst. We mean to have a slap at the rabbits to-morrow; so be here at eight o’clock, and then we shall get a good long day: any more poachers since we caught those last fellows?” And, as Coverdale spoke, he filled a large claret-glass to the brim with splendid old port, and handed it to the keeper, who, received it bashfully, and then, scraping with his foot and ducking his head twice with an expression of countenance as of a sheep about to butt, replied, “Your ’ealth, Mr. Coverdale, sir—your ’ealth, gents both,” tossed it off at a draught—“there aint been no reglur poarchin a-goin on, sir,” he continued, setting down his glass as if it burned his fingers, and then jibbing away from the table as though he had shyed at it; “but that ’are young Styles has been a shooting rabids on Wild Acre farm, and seems to say as he considers he’s a right so to do.”

“Styles? who is he?” inquired Harry, quickly.

“Well, he’s the son of old Farmer Styles, and he used to shoot just when and where he liked in the Admiral’s time, and that’s how he fancies he’s got a sort of right, do ye see, Mr ’Enry—that is, Mr. Coverdale, sir.”

“Rabbits are not game, so you can’t touch him on the score of poaching, Harry; but, to come to the point, if he’s on your land without your permission, he’s trespassing, and that’s where you can be down upon him,” interrupted Hazlehurst, sententiously.

“Then I shall have the law o’ my side in pitching into him, I suppose, sir?” inquired Markum eagerly.

“Ho, no, my good fellow; I don’t wish to quarrel with any of my tenantry, about here,” exclaimed Coverdale hastily, “they’ll be breaking pheasants’ eggs, and playing up all sorts of mischief,—no: we must have nothing of that kind—I’ll speak to the young man myself; there’s a quiet way of doing these things, as I must teach you all. Good night; remember eight o’clock tomorrow:” and Markum, looking sheepish and rebuked, quitted the room, to tell the tale in the kitchen with the following reflection appended, “And if that ’are young Styles happens to be as cheeky to master as he is to other folks, it strikes me the quiet dodge won’t pay.”

CHAPTER II.—AFFORDS A SPECIMEN OF HARRY’S “QUIET MANNER” WITH HIS TENANTRY.

By two o’clock next day, Coverdale and Hazlehurst had walked for some six hours, and conjointly taken the lives of seven couple of rabbits, ten unfortunates having fallen victims to the new double-barrel, while Hazlehurst had disposed of the remaining four. A sumptuous luncheon, with unlimited pale ale and brown stout, awaited them at the gamekeeper’s cottage, to which repast they did ample justice.

“I tell you what it is, Harry,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, setting down an empty tumbler, “if I eat any more luncheon, you will have to send me home in a wheelbarrow, for to walk I shall not be able—as it is, I feel like an alderman after a city feast.”

“In that case, you’d require a very capacious wheelbarrow, and I should pity the individual who had to trundle it. Come! finish the bottle—you won’t? then I will—and now we’ll be off—it strikes me, fatigue has something to do with it, as well as the luncheon; you’ve been smoke-drying in London, young man, till you’re out of condition,” returned Coverdale, laughing, as he remarked the stiff manner in which his friend rose and walked across the cottage.

Another hour’s striding through high grass and fern proved the correctness of this assertion; for Hazlehurst, unaccustomed to such severe exercise, began to show unmistakable symptoms of knocking up. His friend observed him with attention—“You really are tired, Arthur,” he said, good naturedly, “you’ll be fit for nothing to-morrow, if you walk much farther. Go back, Markum, and send one of your boys for the shooting pony; let him bring it to us at the bridge foot—I am going over Wild Acre farm next: I shall try through the spinney and round the large meadow, so you can cut across and join us again in half-an-hour—and Markum—wait one moment:—What sort of person is this man Styles? How should I know him if I should happen to run against him?”

“Well, he be a tall, broad-shouldered, roughish-looking chap, rather an orkard customer for to tackle, Mr. Coverdale, sir, and he generally have a sort of cross-bred, lurcher-like dog along with him, if you please Mr. ’Enry, that is, Mr. Coverdale, sir”—and so saying, Markum started at a swinging trot to execute his master’s wishes.

“The fellow looks as if he could go on at that pace for a fortnight without turning a hair,” observed Hazlehurst, pausing to wipe his brow; “I never saw such a cast-iron animal.”

“He’s at it every day, and that keeps him in good order,” replied Coverdale; “but I’ve walked him down before now, and should not wonder if I were to do so to-day—I’m just getting what the jockeys call my ‘second wind,’ and am good for the next four hours at least—ha! there’s a rabbit sitting, pull at it when I clap my hands.”

“It’s too long a shot for me,” replied Hazlehurst, “bag him yourself.”

Thus urged, Coverdale brought his gun to his shoulder and drew the trigger, but the cap was a bad one, and would not go off, and his second barrel being loaded with small shot, in the hope of picking up a landrail (of which Markum had reported the probable whereabouts), the rabbit skipped away uninjured. It had not proceeded ten paces, however, when it sprang into the air, and rolled over dead—at the same moment the report of a gun rang out from behind some low bushes, and a lurcher dog dashed forward, and picked up the defunct rabbit. Coverdale’s face flushed with anger, and hastily exchanging the defective percussion cap for a sound one, he raised his gun with the intention of shooting the dog; but, though quick-tempered, Harry was a thoroughly kind-hearted fellow, and a moment’s reflection caused him to relinquish his purpose; recovering his gun, he muttered—

“Poor brute, why should I kill it?—it’s not his fault, but his master’s.”

As he spoke a tall figure rose from behind the bushes, whence the shot had proceeded, and whistling to the dog, took the rabbit from him, and put it in the pocket of a voluminous-skirted shooting-jacket.

“That’s the redoubtable Mr. Styles, in propriâ personâ, I imagine,” observed Hazlehurst.

“And a cool hand he seems too,” returned Coverdale, scowling at the delinquent, who stood quietly reloading his gun, as though he were “monarch of all he surveyed,”—“however, I’m not going to lose my temper about it; it’s a great object with me, just now, to conciliate all the neighbouring farmers.”

“Then are you going to give him carte blanche to spiflicate rabbits when and where he likes?” inquired his friend.

“Not a bit of it!” was the reply, “I mean to put a stop once for all to such practices; but there is a quiet way of managing these matters quite as effectual as putting oneself into a rage.”

“Don’t be a week about it, that’s all—come to the point at once, there’s a good fellow, for I want to knock over another rabbit or two before my Bucephalus arrives,” rejoined Hazlehurst.

Thus urged, Coverdale advanced towards the stranger, and slightly raising his wide-awake as he approached him, said with an air of Grandisonian politeness—“Mr. Styles I presume?”

“Yes, young man, my name’s Styles. What’s yourn?” was the unceremonious reply.

He does not know me, thought Harry: now for astonishing him—rather! “My name, sir, is—ahem!—Henry Coverdale, of Coverdale Park, at your service.” He paused to watch the effect of this announcement. Ha! I thought so, he trembles, he is—why, confound the scoundrel! I do believe he’s grinning—he can’t have understood me—“My name is Coverdale, I say, sir.”

“Well then, Mr. Coverdale, if that’s your name, the sooner you take yourself back to Coverdale Park the better I shall be pleased, for I’m a shooting rabbits, and your jabbering scares the creeturs,” was the astounding rejoinder.

Coverdale could scarcely believe his ears; however, he contrived by a strong effort to subdue his rising passion, as he answered; “If, as I imagine, you are the son of old Farmer Styles, of Wild Acre, you must be aware, sir, that the farm your father rents is my property, and that the rabbits you are shooting are my rabbits; I must, therefore, trouble you to hand over the one you have just killed, and to abstain from shooting entirely, except on any occasion when I may invite you to join me, or otherwise give you permission.”

“I knows this, that father and I have got a thirty years’ lease to run, and that when I wants a day’s rabbiting, I means to take it, whether you likes it, or whether you doesn’t. Why, the old Admiral never said a word agen it; but he was something like a gentleman, he was!” was the surly answer.

Harry’s eyes flashed fire. “Do you mean to insinuate that I am not one then, fellow?” he asked in a voice that trembled with passion.

“And suppose I does, what then? feller!” returned the other insolently.

“This!” was the reply, as springing hastily forward, Coverdale struck Styles so violent a blow on the cheek with the back of his open hand, that he staggered and nearly fell;—recovering himself with difficulty, and holding one hand to his injured jaw, he muttered with an oath, “If it wasn’t for the confounded guns, I’d give you the heartiest thrashing ever you had in your life.”

“Or get one yourself,” replied Harry, now thoroughly roused; “but, if you’re at all inclined that way, don’t disturb yourself about the guns; if you will discharge yours, I and my friend will do the same by ours, it’s only wasting a charge or two of powder”—and, as he spoke, he fired both barrels in the air. Styles paused a moment, to assure himself that no stratagem was contemplated, and then discharged his gun also, while Hazlehurst having glanced at his friend with an expression of the deepest astonishment, hastened to follow their example. At this moment the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and Markum, the keeper, cantered up on the shooting pony. “Ah! that’s right!” exclaimed Coverdale, who appeared suddenly to have regained his good temper—“tie the pony up to a tree and come here. Hazlehurst, you will pick me up if I require it, and Markum will do the same kind office by Mr. Styles, and I don’t intend him to have a sinecure either,” he added, sotto voce.

“You don’t mean seriously you’re going to fight the fellow:” inquired Hazlehurst.

“Indeed, I do, and, what’s more, nobody shall prevent me, unless he shows the white feather,” was the positive answer.

“But—but you’ll get knocked about so: besides, the brute’s a bigger, heavier man than you, and as strong as an elephant. Suppose he should injure you,” remonstrated Hazlehurst.

“He may if he can,” was the confident reply; “why Arthur, you’re as nervous as a girl; this is not the first time you’ve seen me use my fists, and I’ve taken lessons from Ben Caunt since the old Eton days.”

“Go in and win, then, if you will make a fool of yourself,” rejoined Hazlehurst moodily, as he helped his friend to divest himself of his shooting-jacket and waistcoat.

“Now, Mr. Styles, I’m at your service,” remarked Coverdale, addressing his antagonist politely.

“So you mean fighting do you?” inquired Styles, half incredulously.

“I mean to try and give you the thrashing with which you have threatened me,” was the reply.

“And if you do, I’ll promise never to shoot another rabbit without your permission; but if I’m best man, blest if I don’t smash ’em when and where I likes,” was the rejoinder.

“It’s a bargain,” returned Coverdale, “so come on.”—As his antagonist bared his brawny arms and muscular throat, Harry felt that, if his skill were at all commensurate with his strength, he had cut himself out a somewhat troublesome task, and he began to own, in his secret soul, that Hazlehurst was right, and that he was about to do a very foolish thing. However, he had great confidence in his own skill and activity, and to these qualities did he trust to relieve him from his difficulties. If those amiable philanthropists, whose ranks, once numbering a large majority of the aristocracy and gentry of the land, have, as civilisation has spread, grown “small by degrees and beautifully less” (we allude to the “Patrons of the Ring,”)—if these humane and enlightened individuals expect a detailed account, à la Bell’s Life, of the “stunning mill between the Coverdale Cove and the Stylish Farmer,” they must be doomed to the pangs of disappointment; for unfortunately neither our taste, nor our talent, lies in that direction. Suffice it then to relate, that Mr. Styles’ science proving an article of the very roughest country manufacture, while his antagonist went to work with the skill and composure of a finished artist, Coverdale soon perceived that he had only to stop or avoid his opponent’s blows, to keep cool and to abide his time, in order to insure him an easy victory—and the event justified his expectations. After six rounds—in the course of which the farmer acquired two beautiful black eyes, while Coverdale had not got a scratch—time was called, and the seventh round commenced. Styles, smarting from the punishment he had received, and irritated to the highest degree by his adversary’s coolness, rushed on so furiously, and hailed such a shower of blows upon his opponent, that Coverdale found it would be impossible entirely to ward them off, and, not wishing to be disfigured by a black eye or flattened nose, was forced to exert himself in real earnest to endeavour to bring the battle to a conclusion;—watching his opportunity, therefore, he drew back; stopped a terrific hit cleverly with his left hand, and then flinging out his right arm straight from the shoulder, and bounding forward at the same moment, he struck his antagonist a crashing blow, which, catching him full on the side of the head, sent him down like a shot.

“That has terminated the case for the defendant, I expect,” observed Hazlehurst, sententiously, as, breathless and with bleeding knuckles, his friend seated himself on his extended knee—“he had had nearly enough before, and he has got rather too much now. You hit him an awful crack!”

“It was his own fault,” returned Coverdale. “I did not want to hurt the man if he would have fought quietly, and like a civilised Christian, instead of a raging lunatic;—but he’s only stunned—see he’s reviving already. Confound the fellow, his head is as hard as a cannon-ball, to which fact my knuckles bear witness.” So saying, Coverdale rose, and resuming his coat and waistcoat, approached his fallen foe, who, with his head leaning against Markum’s shoulder, was staring vacantly at the sky.

“He’s as unconscionable as a hinfant, Mr. Coverdale, sir: you’ve been and knocked his hintellects slap out of him, which only sarves him right, and is what all poachers ’andsomely desarves,” remarked the gamekeeper cheerfully.

“I know what will be the medicine to cure him,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, producing a pocket-flask, and applying it to the lips of the vanquished Styles. At first the patient seemed inclined to resist; but as soon as he tasted the flavour of the contents of the pocket-pistol, he raised his hand, and pushing aside Hazlehurst’a fingers, drained it to the bottom.

“Gently, my friend,” remonstrated the young barrister, “that’s Kinahan’s best whisky—fortunately I supplied the vacuum created at luncheon with spring water. Ah, I thought as much, that’s the true elixir vitæ,” he continued, as Styles, relinquishing the flask, sat up and began to stare wildly about him.

“Styles, my good fellow; how do you feel now? You were stunned, you know; but I shall be very sorry if I’ve hurt you,” observed Coverdale, good-naturedly. As he spoke, Styles turned and regarded him attentively, measuring his tall, active figure with his glance from top to toe. At length he muttered, “Well, I didn’t think he had it in him, that I didn’t;” he then rubbed his head, with a look of thorough perplexity, once more fixing his eyes on his late opponent, as if he were some strange monster wonderful to behold: having, apparently, satisfied himself that he was a real flesh and blood man, and not some newfangled, cast-iron boxing-machine, he turned to the gamekeeper, observing, “Markum, lend us a fin, old man, for I feels precious staggery-like, I can tell you. Your guv’nor hits hard.” On obtaining the required assistance, he rose, not without difficulty, approached Coverdale, and holding out a hand somewhat smaller than a shoulder of mutton, said, “Shake hands, sir, you’re a gentleman, and what’s far more in my eyes, you’re a man every inch of you, and I humbly begs your pardon for insulting of you.”

“Say no more about it, my good friend,” returned Coverdale, heartily shaking his proffered hand, “we did not understand each other before, but we do now, and shall get on capitally for the future I don’t doubt.”

“I shan’t disturb your rabbits again, sir,” continued the penitent Styles, entirely subdued by Coverdale’s hearty manner, “and if the creeturs should do any damage to the crops, why I know a gentleman like you will bear it in mind on the rent-day.”

“Certainly,” was the eager reply; “my object now is to get up the game, and no tenant who assists me in this will find me a hard landlord.”

And so, after an amicable colloquy, they parted the best friends imaginable; Styles observing, as he turned to go, “I did not think there was a man living who could have sewn me up in ten minutes like that; but you are unaccountable quick with your fists, to be sure, Mustur Coverdale.”

“Pray Harry, is this to be considered a specimen of your ‘quiet manner’ with your tenantry?” inquired Hazlehurst dryly, as he bestrode the broad back of his shooting pony.

His friend coloured as he replied with a forced laugh, “Well, I must confess that for once in my life I a little lost temper;—but you see, old boy.” he continued, bringing his hand down upon Hazlehurst’s knee with a smack which caused that delicate youth to spring up in his saddle—“but you see I managed to conciliate him after all.”

CHAPTER III.—HAZLEHURST PLEADS HIS CAUSE AND WINS IT.

“A nd the worst of it is the fellow’s right—what a bore life is—confound everything!—” As he gave utterance to this sweeping anathema, Harry Coverdale lifted a shaggy Scotch terrier by the ears out of an easy chair wherein it was reposing, and flinging himself on the seat thus made vacant, waited disconsolately till Hazlehurst should have finished a letter, which, with unwontedly grave brow he was perusing.

Having continued his occupation till his friend’s small stock of patience was becoming well-nigh exhausted, Hazlehurst closed the epistle, muttering to himself—“Well! they know best, I suppose—but I don’t admire the scheme, all the same—” then, turning towards his companion, he continued aloud—“I beg your pardon, my dear fellow! but the governor’s letter contains a budget of family politics, which is, of course, more or less interesting to me, especially as, in the event of certain contingencies, he talks of increasing my allowance, but you’re looking sentimental—what’s the matter?”

“Oh! nothing,” was the reply, “only that fellow Markum has been boring about the rabbits; he says we’ve worked them quite enough, and that the foxes will be pitching into the pheasants if they can’t get plenty of rabbits to eat, and that so much shooting will make the birds wild before the 1st.—I know it all as well as he does—there ought not to be another gun fired on the property till the 1st of September, but then what is a fellow to do with himself? I might go to Paris—but I’ve been there and done it all—besides I hate their dissipation, it bores me to death; London is empty, and if it wasn’t, it’s worse than Paris—more smoke and less fun. I’d start to America, and do Niagara, and all the other picturesque dodges, only, if the wind were to turn restive, or anything go wrong in the boiler-bursting line, I might be delayed and miss the first day of partridge shooting, so it would not do to risk it.”

“By no means,” rejoined Hazlehurst, shaking his head with an air of mock solemnity—“but luckily I’ve a better plan to propose; I must make my way home at once—you shall come with me, and stay till we are all mutually tired of each other.”

“But your father and mother?” urged Coverdale.

“Are more anxious than I am on the subject. Read that, you unbelieving Jew!” So saying, Hazlehurst turned down a portion of his letter, and handed it to Coverdale; it ran thus—“Mind you bring your friend with you; independently of our desire to become acquainted with one who has shown you such unvarying kindness, Mr. Coverdale is just the person to make up the party.”

“Yes, they’re very kind,” began Coverdale, returning the letter, “very kind, but—”

“But what, man,” rejoined Hazlehurst quickly, “we want you to come to us; you have not only no other engagement, but actually don’t know what to do with yourself, and yet you hesitate. However, to come to the point at once, I ask you plainly, and expect a plain answer—where’s the hitch?”

“Well done, most learned counsel, that is the way to browbeat a witness, and no mistake,” replied Coverdale, laughing at his friend’s vehemence; “however, I won’t provoke any farther display of your forensic talents by attempting to prevaricate. The fact is, I know you’ve a bevy of sisters, she cousins, and what not, very charming girls, I dare say; but you see I’m not fit for women’s society, and that’s the truth of it—I’ve chosen my line—I know what suits me best—and I dare say I shall live and die a bachelor, as the old Admiral did before me. I know what women are, and what they expect of one; if a fellow happens to be a little bit rough and ready, they call him a bear, and vow he’s got no soul; ’gad, that’s what the Turks say of them, by-the-bye!—Poetical justice; eh?”

“My dear boy, you’ll excuse my saying so, but you really are talking great nonsense,” interrupted Hazlehurst; “You’re a thorough gentleman in mind, manners, and appearance, if I know the meaning of the term, and neither my sisters, nor my cousin (there is but one), have such bad taste as to prefer a finical fop to a fine manly fellow like yourself—no, they’re more likely to fall into the other extreme.”

“And that would be the worst of the two by long odds,” exclaimed Harry aghast; “only fancy me with a wife in the shooting-season—bothering me to stay at home with her, or to drive her out in a four-wheeled arm-chair with a pair of little hopping rats of ponies, that the best whip in the three kingdoms could not screw above six miles an hour out of, if he were to flog their hides off; or, worse still, to take me boxed up in a close carriage to call upon somebody’s grandmother, and I breaking my heart all the time to be blazing away at the partridges. I know what it is—I was staying down in Leicestershire, before I went abroad, with poor Phil Anderton, as stanch a sportsman, and as thoroughly good a fellow, as ever drew trigger, before he married Lady Mirvinia Bluebas. Well, they hadn’t been coupled six months before she’d got him so tight in hand that he daren’t smoke a cigar without a special licence. The first season, she let him shoot Wednesdays and Fridays, and hunt Thursdays and Saturdays. The next year she made him sell off his guns, dogs, and horses, and carried him over to the Continent. What was the result?—why, the poor fellow became so bored and miserable, that he took to gambling, lost every farthing he had in the world at roulette, and—didn’t blow his brains out; so my lady has the pleasure of keeping him, and living herself, upon five hundred a-year pin-money.”

“Verdict, served her right”—observed Hazlehurst judicially; “but you forget, my dear boy, that Anderton, though a good fellow enough in his way, was made of such yielding materials, that anybody could do what they liked with him—rather soft here,” he continued, tapping his forehead; “now you have got sterner stuff in you, and if a woman were to try it on with you in that style, it strikes me she’d find her master.”

“Ah! I don’t know,” sighed Coverdale reflectively; “its easier to talk about managing women than to do it—they’ve got a way with ’em, at least the pleasant ones have, of coming over a fellow somehow, and making him fancy for the moment (it doesn’t last, mind you—and there’s the nuisance of it), that he’d rather do what they wish him, than what he wants to do himself. Then again, if a man offends you, you can quietly knock him down, and if he feels aggrieved, he can have you out (not that I admire duelling); but if you quarrel with a woman, there’s no dernier ressort, you can’t knock her down, poor weak thing, and so you’re reduced to growl like a dog, and she to spit like a cat, and you leave off as you began, without having attained any definite result.”

“I have heard of such a thing as moral force,” suggested Hazlehurst ironically.

“That’s one’s only chance,” returned Coverdale, “though it is one that, to speak seriously and sensibly, I’ve tolerably strong faith in. A fellow must be wanting in manliness of character, if he cannot contrive to manage a woman by moral force, as you call it; there’s a quiet way of doing that as well as everything else, only it’s such a confoundedly slow process.”

“No making ’em to come to the point, eh?” rejoined Hazlehurst; “Well, I have my own ideas about it; how they would work, remains to be proved; but as you’ve such splendid theories on the subject, don’t pretend you’re unfitted for woman’s society. Why, man, you’re equal to a whole seminary of young ladies—your ‘quiet manner’ would prove as irresistible with them as it did with the redoubtable Mr. Styles.”

By way of reply to this impertinent allusion, Coverdale shook his clenched fist (which still bore traces of his late encounter) in his friend’s face with a pseudo-threatening gesture. Hazlehurst sprang back in pretended alarm, with to sudden a movement as to arouse the Scotch terrier from his nap, who, waking up in a fright, immediately recurred to his leading idea that there were thieves in the house, and rushed to the door barking furiously. When the laughter, which this little incident excited, had in some degree abated, Hazlehurst resumed—

“But seriously, Harry, I want you to come home with me, and I’ll tell you in confidence why. You and I have known each other from the time we were schoolboys together, and though, as in re Styles, you act a little hastily sometimes, there is no man on whose clear judgment and high principle I’ve greater reliance than on yours. I’ve received a letter from home this morning, which has annoyed me more than I can tell you. To come to the point at once, the case stands thus:—My father’s pet weakness (rather a creditable one) is family pride; now the Grange has belonged to the Hazlehursts for the last three hundred years, but in my great-grandfather’s time the estate became woefully diminished—the old scamp was a regular wild one, and not only made ducks and drakes of everything he could lay his hands on, but as soon as my grandfather came of age, induced him to cut on the entail, and sold the best half of the family property; some of this my grandfather contrived to redeem in his lifetime, and my Governor has been scheming and screwing all his days in order to buy back the rest. In an evil hour he was induced to invest his savings in a railroad, hoping to attain his object sooner; of course it paid beautifully at first; of course in due time a crash came, and the Pater not only lost all his savings, but was forced to sell a farm of five hundred acres, dear to him as the apple of his eye. The individual who purchased it, and who owns the property my great-grandfather sold, is a certain millionaire cotton spinner, as rich as Crœsus; the fellow is said to have £20,000 a-year. Well, since the railroad affair, a jolly old aunt has died, and left the Governor some tin, and he’s breaking his heart to buy back the farm, but cotton spinner refuses to sell. How at the last Hunt Ball, my eldest sister, came out—she is very pretty, and a nice, taking sort of girl in society—and said cotton spinner came, saw, and was conquered! so much so, that having offered serious intentions ever since, he has ended by offering himself. Thereupon arose a difference of opinion between Alice and the Governor—Alice pleading that she didn’t love cotton spinner one bit, and didn’t expect she ever should do so, and Governor declaring that it was all sentimental bosh, and that if she married the man, as much love as it was at all proper for a young lady to feel, would come afterwards. At last, they made a compromise—Alice was to consent to see more of Mr. Crane, and do her best to like him, in which case, said Crane would allow her to postpone her decision till a future period: to this Alice was fain to consent, and now the suitor is coming to the Grange, on approval, and the Governor’s asked a party of people to meet him.”

“And how do you stand affected towards the proposed alliance?” inquired Coverdale, lifting the Skye terrier into his lap by the nape of its neck, and then curling it up like a fried whiting.

“Not over favourably,” returned Hazlehurst, “which, by the way, is very disinterested of me; for if the affair comes off, and the Governor buys his farm back again—which of course is what he is looking to—he promises to settle the residue of the aunt’s legacy upon me, by which I should be some £200 a-year the better; but it would not be a match to please me. I’m very fond of Alice; she is a dear good girl as ever lived, and I don’t admire the cotton spinner: in the first place, he’s nearly, or quite forty, while she was nineteen last term; in the second place, he’s a slow coach, good-natured enough, and all that, but nothing in him.”

“No soul”—suggested Harry.

“Not enough to animate a kitten, I should imagine,” was the reply;—“not that the man’s a fool—indeed, in his own line he is said to be clever. He invented some dodge to simplify his machinery, by which he nearly doubled his fortune.”

“That was decidedly clever”—remarked Harry, busily engaged in dressing the “Skye” in a muslin “anti-macassar,” placed clean upon the sofa that morning.

“To come to the point, however,” continued Hazlehurst—“I want you to see the man, and try and find out what he’s made of.”

“Fool’s-flesh probably”—suggested Coverdale sotto voce.

“I wish you would try and be serious for five minutes,” returned Hazlehurst testily; “nothing is more provoking than small attempts at wit, when one wants a man to give his attention sensibly to that which one is saying.”

“I stand, or more properly sit, corrected: so continue, most sapient and surly brother!”—was the mocking answer.

Hazlehurst tried to look angry and dignified, but a glance at his friend’s handsome, merry, and, withal, slightly impudent face, disarmed his wrath, and muttering—“Confound you for a stupid, provoking, old humbug”—he burst into a fit of laughter. As soon as he had recovered his gravity, he resumed: “As I said before, I want you to come and make your observations on the cotton spinner, and if your opinion agrees with mine, you must back me up in making a serious remonstrance with the Governor. I know the old gentleman well, and am sure he’ll think twice as much of what I say when he finds that you, a man of the world and a large landed proprietor (that’ll tell with him immensely) look upon the matter in the same light. And now you know my reasons, what do you say?”

“Say! what can I say but that I—ahem!—respect the sacred call of friendship, and am prepared to sacrifice myself upon its altar: that’s the correct phraseology, isn’t it? I tell you what, though,” continued Harry gravely, “I make one condition, without which I don’t stir a peg: I’m at your service and that of the cotton spinner, as much as you please; but beyond the requirements of society, I’m not to be expected to concern myself about the women—I’m not to be forced into tête-a-tête drives in pony-chaises, or set to turn over music-books at the piano—I know what all that sort of thing leads to well: is it a bargain?”

“Of course it is,” returned Hazlehurst eagerly; “come to please me, and I leave you to please yourself when you get there.”

“Then, as Sam Weller says, ‘You may take down the bill, for I’m let to a single gentleman,’” was Coverdale’s reply—and so the affair was settled.

CHAPTER IV.—CONTAINS, AMONG OTHER “EXQUISITE” SKETCHES, A PORTRAIT OF A PUPPY (NOT BY LANDSEER).

HAZLEHURST Grange was a picturesque old mansion, modernised out of all resemblance to its moated namesake which Tennyson has immortalised, by the addition of gay flower-beds, closely-shaven lawns, judiciously-planted shrubberies, and other appliances of landscape gardening. It was situated about eighteen miles from Coverdale Park, a distance which Harry’s trotting mare, who had grown plump and saucy upon rest and good keep, accomplished, to her owner’s intense satisfaction, in less than five minutes over the hour and a-half.

“Pretty fair travelling that, eh, Master Arthur,” he observed, replacing his watch in his waistcoat pocket, “and what I particularly like about it is, that the mare did it all willingly and of her own accord, took well to collar at starting, and kept it up steadily, and in a business-like manner, till her work was done.”

“In fact, behaved as utterly unlike a female throughout the whole affair, as if she had belonged to the nobler sex,” returned Hazlehurst, sarcastically.

“Infandum renovare dolorem!—why will you remind me of my coming trials, and not suffer me to enjoy the pleasures of forgetfulness while I may?” was Coverdale’s desponding rejoinder.

“Simply because, unless I am greatly mistaken, they literally are coming trials,” was the reply. “Look through that belt of trees on the left; don’t you see the flutter of something white?”

“Muslin, by all that’s flimsy, frivolous, and feminine!” exclaimed Harry, aghast: “I say, Arthur, can’t we turn off somewhere?”

“By all means, if you wish it; there’s a gravel-pit on the right-hand, and a precipitous bank sloping down to the river on the left, which will you prefer?” was the obliging rejoinder. As he spoke, a turn in the road disclosed to their view a group of three figures, slowly advancing in the same direction as that in which they were themselves proceeding.

“My cousin, Kate Marsden, my sister Alice, and a gent, name unknown,” observed Hazlehurst, as his eyes fell upon the trio. “Why, surely it is—no, it can’t be—yes it is, Horace D’Almayne.”

“Allowing, merely for the sake of argument, that it is the individual you mention, who may he happen to be?” inquired Harry, taking up the whip which had hitherto reposed innocuously between them, and performing rash feats with it over the ears of “My old Aunt Sally”—(for so in honour of the Ethiopian Serenaders, then in the zenith of their popularity, had Harry named his new favourite).

“My dear fellow, you don’t mean to say that you never heard of him? Not to know Horace D’Almayne argues yourself unknown; why, man, he is a noted wit, a successful poet, the greatest dandy, and the most incorrigible male flirt about town: knows everybody, has been everywhere, and done everything.”

“What is he like across a stiff line of country, and how many brace can he bag to his own gun?” inquired Harry drily.

“Not knowing can’t say,” was the rejoinder, “but that’s not at all in his way; he affects, if it is affectation, the man of sentiment; however, just now he is believed in to the fullest extent, and considered a regular lion.”

“A regular tiger, I should have fancied rather,” was the cynical reply. “Why, the brute actually wears moustaches.”

“He has served in the Austrian army, and sports the mouse-tails on the strength of his military pretensions,” was the reply.

After a minute’s pause, Coverdale observed, inquiringly, “I suppose we must needs pull up and do the civil by these good people.”

“Why, considering that I have not seen my sister for the last five months, family affection (to say nothing of the duties of society) demands the sacrifice,” returned Hazlehurst.

“Cut it short then, there’s a good fellow, the mare’s too hot to be allowed to stand long, and I would not have anything go wrong with her after the splendid manner in which she has brought us to-day, for three times the money I gave for her.”

As he spoke, Harry again impatiently flirted the whip over the ears of “My old Aunt Sally,” an indignity which excited the fiery disposition of that highly-descended quadruped, who, throwing up her head and tail, flinging out her fore feet, as though she were sparring with the distance her speed must overcome, and altogether looking her very handsomest, dashed up to the group of pedestrians so suddenly as to cause the two ladies to draw back in alarm; while even the redoubtable Horace himself sprang out of the way with a degree of alacrity which evinced a stronger regard for his personal safety than might have been expected from so heroic a character. For this sacrifice of dignity to the first law of nature, self-preservation, he endeavoured to compensate himself by stroking his moustaches, and staring superciliously at the new comers.

While Hazlehurst, who sprang down the moment the dog-cart stopped, was exchanging greetings with his cousin and sister, Harry was left undisturbed to make his observations on the trio to whom he was about to be introduced. The elder of the two young ladies, who responded to the definition, “My cousin, Miss Kate Marsden,” was above the middle height, and of a singularly graceful figure; her features were delicately formed and regular, her complexion pale, but clear, her hair and eyes dark, the latter being large and expressive, her hands and feet small, and her whole bearing and appearance refined and aristocratic in the extreme; but her features bore a look of proud reserve, which interfered with the effect which her beauty would otherwise have produced—an inscrutable look, which seemed to say, “I have a peculiar and decided character, but I defy you to read it.”

It is of no use to attempt to describe Alice Hazlehurst, for the simple reason that no description could convey an adequate idea of her. Not that she was anything particularly wonderful; she was not even a miracle of beauty—she was only about the best thing this fallen world of ours contains—a bright, high-spirited, pure, simple, true-hearted, lovely, and loveable young girl, just emerging into graceful womanhood; very shy, slightly romantic, full of kindly sympathies and generous impulses, which she concealed as carefully as bad men hide unpopular vices, and with all the deep and noble qualities of her woman’s nature, as well as, alas! its faults and foibles, lying dormant within her, either to be developed in their full completeness, or dwarfed into comparative insignificance, as the hands into which she might fall should prove fitted or unfitted to the great, yet enviable, responsibility of forming her character. As Hazlehurst leapt down, she sprang forward to meet him; then drew back from his hearty embrace with a smile and a blush, which very unnecessarily made her appear prettier than before, to acknowledge, with a bow, her introduction to her brother’s friend.

The third member of the party, Horace D’Almayne, had been well fitted by nature to sustain the character of “exquisite”—tall, and with a graceful, slender figure, his well-formed and regular features, soft dark hair, and brilliant complexion, gave him an undoubted right to the epithet handsome, although it was in a style suited rather to a woman than to a man. The expression of his face, cynical and supercilious when in repose, or when he spoke to one of his own sex, relaxed into a smile of sentimental self-confidence when he addressed a woman. He appeared very young, probably not above two or three and twenty, and was dressed up to the ne plus ultra of refined dandyism.

“‘Why, D’Almayne,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, “how is it that we come to be honoured by your company? I was not even aware that my father possessed the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Nor did he a week ago; but the matter came about thus,” was the reply. “During the London season I was introduced at one of the Duke of D———’s parties, to an opulent individual of the name of Crane, learned his opinion prospective and retrospective in regard to the weather, bowed adieu, and straightway forgot him. About a month since, being in a café at Baden-Baden, my attention was attracted by an awful charivari; and on attempting to investigate the cause thereof, discovered Friend Crane lamenting himself pathetically in bad French and worse German, and surrounded by a mob of foreigners. Having in some degree appeased his polyglot passion, I soon contrived to make out, that his pocket having been picked by A., he had accused innocent B., and denounced unoffending C.—a vicarious system of reprisals which those victimised individuals appeared, not unnaturally, inclined to resent. Understanding somewhat better than our irascible friend the language and customs of the natives, I contrived to extricate him from the dilemma; for which act of good Samaritanism I have been, from that time forward, more or less the victim of his indefatigable gratitude. Your worthy father finding me a few days since located in the Château Crane, politely included me in his invitation. I arrived this morning, and under the able tuition of your cousin and sister, was rapidly becoming acquainted with the beauties of Hazlehurst, when you drove up.”

As he insinuated this skilfully-veiled compliment, the exquisite Horace pointed its application by favouring Alice with a languishing œillade, which was certainly not without effect; for it excited in the breast of Harry Coverdale a sudden, intense, and unreasonable desire then and there heartily to kick the talented originator of the compliment. This impulse he was only enabled to check by a powerful effort, which caused him to twitch the reins so suddenly, as painfully to compress the delicate mouth of “My Aunt Sally,” to an extent which justified that outraged quadruped in converting herself for the time being into a biped, by standing erect on her hind legs, and pawing the air with her fore feet.

“Soho, girl! gently, gently!” exclaimed Hazlehurst, who, not having perceived the exciting cause of the manœuvre, attributed the mare’s unmannerly behaviour to an outbreak of inherent viciousness. “Why, Harry, what on earth is the matter with the creature?”

“Probably nothing more than a reasonless caprice natural to her sex,” was Harry’s ungallant reply. “Possibly she may have the bad taste to prefer the creature comforts of a cool stable and a good feed of corn, to remaining in the broiling sunshine, even with the opportunity of becoming acquainted with the beauties of Hazlehurst;” and as he made this sarcastic remark, Harry glanced, carelessly round over wood and field, so that any one not well acquainted with the play of his features would have been puzzled to decide whether he was himself aware of the full meaning of his words.

“A pretty broad hint that I am not to keep the mare standing any longer,” returned Hazlehurst, turning to his cousin and sister. “That fellow cares for nothing in the world but his horses, except his dogs and his double-barrel. Well, I suppose you girls will be coming home soon.”

“Quite as soon as we are wanted, if your amiable and complimentary friend has any voice in the matter,” returned Alice, sotto voce.

“Nonsense,” was the reply in the same tone; “you know nothing about him, you silly child. Harry is the kindest-hearted, best-tempered fellow in the world, as you’ll find out before long.”

Alice’s only reply was an incredulous toss of her pretty head, and the parties separated.

“Of all the puppies I ever beheld, that creature D’Almayne is the most insufferable—the very sight of him irritates me. What business has he to pay his absurd compliments to your sister, when he has only known her for a few hours? If I were you, I should not stand it.”

“At all events, his compliments are of a more civil nature than yours,” returned Hazlehurst with a smile; “why, Harry, you are becoming as peppery a character as your namesake Hotspur himself.”

“I am like him in one particular, at all events,” was the reply, “for I cannot abide a coxcomb.”

“It strikes me, that is not the only point in which you resemble the ‘gunpowder Percy,’ as old Falstaff calls him. By the way,” he continued, “what in the world was the matter with ‘Aunt Sally,’ a minute ago she seems to go quietly enough now.”

“I rather fancy something must have hurt her mouth,” replied Harry, turning away his head to conceal a smile. As he spoke, they drove round the gravel sweep leading to the hall door of Hazlehurst Grange. Beneath the porch stood two gentlemen—in one of whom, corpulent and elderly, Coverdale had little trouble in recognising, from his likeness to his friend, Mr. Hazlehurst senior; while the other, tall, thin, and cadaverous-looking, he rightly conjectured to be the opulent and amorous cotton spinner, Jedediah Crane.

CHAPTER V.—PROVES THE ADVISABILITY OF LOOKING BEFORE YOU LEAP.

Nearly a week had elapsed since Harry Coverdale had first become an inmate of Hazlehurst Grange, during which period he had contrived to win the good opinion of the elders of the party, pique the young ladies by his brusquerie and neglect, annoy Hazlehurst by his insensibility and determination not to make himself agreeable, and finally to have provoked the enmity of the fascinating Horace D’Almayne, which last piece of delinquency was a source of unmitigated satisfaction to its perpetrator. The day on which we resume the thread of our narrative, was to be devoted to a picnic party, the object being to devour unlimited cold lamb and pigeon-pie amongst the ruins of an old abbey, some eight miles from the Grange. The morning was lovely, every one appeared in high spirits, and the expedition promised to be a prosperous one.

“Now, then, good people,” exclaimed Arthur Hazlehurst, “what are the arrangements—who rides, who drives, who goes with who?—come to the point and settle something, for the tempus is fugit-ing at a most alarming pace.”

“I am desirous,” observed Mr. Crane slowly and solemnly, “of soliciting the honour of driving Miss Hazlehurst in my phaeton, if I may venture to hope such an arrangement will not be disagreeable to that lady:” and as he spoke, the cotton spinner, whose tall, ungainly figure, clad in a dust-coloured wrapper, white trousers, and white hat, gave him the appearance of a superannuated baker’s boy run very decidedly to seed, bowed appealingly to Alice, who, perceiving her father’s eye upon her, was forced unwillingly to consent.

“Mr. Coverdale, will you drive a lady in the pony-chaise?” inquired Hazlehurst père. “My niece will be happy to accompany you, or my saucy little Emily here,” he continued, gazing with paternal fondness on his younger daughter, a pretty but slightly pert girl of sixteen.

“I should have much pleasure,” muttered Harry; “but—but—I contrived to hurt my right hand a few days ago, and—ar—not being used to the ponies, I should scarcely feel justified in undertaking the charge.”

“Indeed,” was the rejoinder; “I noticed you always wore a glove—how did the accident happen, pray?”

“I hit—that is—I struck my hand against something very hard,” stammered Harry, actually colouring like a girl, as he caught Hazlehurst’s suppressed chuckle, and observed Alice’s bright eyes fixed upon him inquisitively.

“Kate, if nobody else will drive you, I suppose I must take compassion on you myself,” remarked Arthur, sotto voce, to his cousin.

“Ah! but here comes somebody who intends to relieve you of the trouble,” was the reply, in the same low tone; “do not make any objection,” she continued, quickly, “you will only annoy my uncle to no purpose; he would not have even a feather of the Crane’s tail ruffled on any account.”

As she spoke, she glanced meaningly towards Horace D’Almayne, at that moment engaged in drawing on a pair of kid gloves too small even for his delicate hands. Coming forward, he languidly, and in an absent manner, volunteered to drive Miss Marsden—an offer which that young lady quietly accepted, either not perceiving, or disregarding, the look of annoyance with which her cousin turned and left the spot.

“Oh, you are going to ride, Mr. Coverdale; here comes Sir Lancelot, looking like a picture,” exclaimed Tom Hazlehurst, a fine, handsome lad, anno ætatis fourteen, an Etonian, and (need we add?) a pickle—“Oh! do let me go with you; Alice will lend me her pony—won’t you, Alice? I’ll take such care of it, and you don’t want it yourself, you know—ask her to lend it to me, Mr. Coverdale, do please.”

If Harry had a weakness, it was that he could never say no, when his good nature was appealed to in any matter in which another’s pleasure was involved. Tom, moreover, had conceived for him one of those violent friendships which boys feel towards men a few years older than themselves who realise their beau ideal of perfection; and Harry, pleased with his undisguised admiration, responded to it by indulging the young scapegrace in all his vagaries.

“I’m afraid my voice is not so potential as you imagine, Tom,” was his reply; “but if my assurance that I will use my best endeavours to keep you and the pony in good order, will have any weight with Miss Hazlehurst, I am perfectly willing to give it.”

“If papa has no objection, Tom, you have my consent,” replied Alice, blushing and smiling, while, at the bottom of her heart she wished both Mr. Crane and Harry safely located at Coventry, Jericho, or any other refuge for bores, that might be suitable for putting those who are in the way out of the way; in which case she would herself have enjoyed a canter with Master Tom.

“Oh, the Governor won’t say no—will you Daddy?” was Tom’s confident reply; and Mr. Hazlehurst, who, being a dreadful autocrat to his elder children, made up for it by weakly indulging his youngest born, having signified his consent, the cavalcade proceeded to start—a close carriage and a barouche conveying the remaining juveniles, and all the elders of the party, with the exception of Mrs. Hazlehurst, who, being a confirmed invalid, remained at home, in company with a weather-wise old maid, proprietress of a meteorological corn, which having given warning that a change was at hand, led her to mistrust the brilliant sunshine.

“Can’t we find our way across the fields somehow, Tom, without riding along the dusty road the whole distance inquired Harry.

“To be sure we can,” was the reply; “don’t I know a way, that’s all? Turn down the next lane to the right, and then there are lots of jolly grass fields and a wide common, so that we can gallop as much as we like, and get there before them—won’t they be surprised to see us just?”

“What a lark!”

Tom’s topographical knowledge proving correct, they cantered away merrily over field and common, till they had ridden some five or six miles.

“You really have an uncommonly good seat, Tom,” observed his friend; “only remember to turn your toes in, and keep your bridle hand low, and you’ll do—you’ve plenty of pluck, and when you’ve acquired a little more judgment and experience, you’ll be able to ‘hold your own’ across a country with some of the best of ’em.

“Ah, shouldn’t I like to go out hunting, that’s all?” exclaimed the boy eagerly.

“Have you never done so,” inquired his friend.

“No; I tried it on last winter, but the Governor cut up rough, and wouldn’t stand it.”

“Can you sit a leap?” asked Harry.

“I believe you, rayther, just a very few,” was the confident reply.

“Well, you must come to Coverdale, in the Christmas holidays, and I’ll mount you and take you out with me; I mean to get up a stud, and hunt regularly this season,” observed Harry.

“Won’t that be jolly, just?—I’ll come whether they’ll let me or not, depend upon it; but now this is the last grass field, let’s have a race for a wind up.” So saying, Master Tom laid his whip smartly across his pony’s shoulder, and dashed off, while Coverdale, gradually giving his spirited but perfectly broken horse the rein, soon overtook him. A brushing gallop of five minutes brought them to the border of the field, which was surrounded by a ditch and bank, with a sufficiently high rail at top to constitute an awkward leap.

“How are we going to find our way out?” inquired Harry.

“Get off, pull down a rail, and then jump it,” was the reply.

“Yes, that will be the best way for you and the pony to get over,” returned Coverdale, “but I’ll take it as it stands. I’ve never yet had a chance of trying Lancelot at a stiff fence, and I want to see how he’ll act: don’t you attempt to follow me; as soon as I am over, I’ll dismount and pull down the rail for you.”

As he spoke Harry put his horse in motion, cantered him up to the fence, and faced him at it. Sir Lancelot did not belie the character that had been given of him. As he approached the bank he quickened his pace of his own accord, gathered his legs well under him, and then rising to the leap, sprang over with a motion so easy and elastic that his rider appeared scarcely to move in his saddle. The descent on the farther side was steeper than Harry had expected, and the leap altogether might be considered a difficult one. Delighted with his horse’s performance, Harry pulled up, and turned, with the intention of alighting, in order to remove a rail of the fence, and thus facilitate the transit of Tom and the pony; when, to his alarm and vexation, he perceived that the boy, deceived by the apparent ease with which he had accomplished the task (a delusive appearance, produced as much by the coolness and address of the rider as by the power and excellent training of the horse), had determined to display his prowess by following him; nor could Harry interfere to prevent him, for at the moment he turned, Tom was in the act of galloping up to the fence: all that remained for him, therefore, was to shout, “Give the pony his head, and hold tight with your knees,” and to await the result. The pony, excited by seeing its companion on the other side, faced the leap boldly, and cleared the ditch and bunk, but catching its hoofs against the rail, fell, pitching its rider over its head into the field beyond, where he lay as if stunned. In an instant Harry had sprung from his saddle and lifted him in his arms. “Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed as the boy opened his eyes, and, perceiving Coverdale bending over him, smiled to evince his gratitude.

“You don’t feel as if you were seriously hurt anywhere, do you?”

“All right!” was the reply. “I feel a little bit shaky and confused; rather as if somebody had gone and kicked me into the middle of next week, that’s all.”

“Then you’ve escaped more easily than you had any right to expect, you heedless, impetuous young monkey,” returned Coverdale, sharply. “You must have been mad to suppose that a half-bred, thick-headed beast like that pony, would carry you over such a fence as that. Why, I know men, who call themselves good riders, who would refuse it, unless they were very well mounted.”

“If the pony did not carry me over, he shot me over, and that did just as well,” was the careless reply. “But I say, Mr. Coverdale, only look at his knees? Oh! shan’t we get into a jolly scrape just.”

Thus appealed to, Harry turned to examine the pony, which, in his anxiety for the safety of the boy, he had hitherto forgotten. The result of his scrutiny was by no means satisfactory.

“He has broken both knees!” he exclaimed; “the right one is cut severely, and however favourably it may go on, there will always remain a scar; you’ve knocked ten pounds off the pony’s price by that exploit of yours, Master Tom, besides rendering the animal unsafe for your sister to ride.”

“You’ve put your foot in it as well as I, Mr. Coverdale,” returned the young imp, grinning. “You promised Alice you would do your best to keep me, and the pony too, in proper order, you know!”

“Why, you ungrateful young scamp, I’m sure I told you not to attempt the leap,” replied Harry, restraining a strong inclination to lay his horsewhip across the young pickle’s shoulders.

“Yes; and then you and Lancelot went flying over it as lightly as if he had wings, like that fabulous humbug Pegasus, that old Buzwig is always bothering us about. The copy-book says, ‘Practice before precept,’ and so say I. Why, you did not expect I was going to be such a muff as to stay behind, did you?”

“I was a fool if I did, at all events,” muttered Harry, sotto voce; then turning good-naturedly to the boy, he continued, “The copy-book also says, ‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ does it not, Tom? So we must get out of the scrape as best we can. We’ll leave the pony at the nearest farm-house, and I’ll send my groom to doctor him—so lead him by the rein and come along.”

Of course, when they joined the rest of the party and told their misdeeds, Alice lamented over the pony’s troubles after the usual fashion of tender-hearted young ladies. Of course, Hazlehurst senior, discerning a long farrier’s bill in prospective, with the possibility of being coaxed out of a new pony as a not unlikely contingent result, was grumpy, as Governors usually are when they foresee a strain upon their purse strings; and of course, although these lamentations and threatenings were launched at the curly head of Master Tom, they yet glanced off that unimpressible substance, only to fall upon and overwhelm with shame and confusion Harry Coverdale, who began mentally to curse the day when, false to his own presentiments, he had yielded to his friend’s importunities, and suffered himself to become an inmate of Hazlehurst Grange.

Bent on avoiding young ladies, and having no taste for the society of old ones, Harry wandered about disconsolately, until, attracted by a dark archway and a worm-eaten winding staircase, which, as Master Tom expressed it, looked “jolly queer and ghostified;” he made his way up the mouldering steps until he found himself at the top of a battlemented tower, where he was repaid for the trouble of the ascent, by a beautiful and widely-extending view. Having contrived to get rid of the voluble and restless Etonian, Coverdale seated himself on a projecting fragment of masonry, and glancing round to see that he was not observed or observable, lit a cigar, and, his ruffled feelings being soothed by its mollifying influence, remained lazily watching the movements of the pleasure-seekers—his reflections running somewhat after the following fashion:—

“There’s old Crane maundering about after Alice as usual—don’t think he gets on with her though, rather t’other way—decided case of jibbing I should say. She looked awfully bored and frightened too, up in that phaeton with him; and no wonder either, for the old boy is nothing of a whip—I should be sorry to trust a cat of mine to his driving. Ah! she’s given him the slip, and that Miss Marsden has taken him in tow. I can’t make that woman out—she is so civil to him; perhaps she thinks the affair with Alice may miss fire, and she is looking out for the reversion of the cotton spinner herself. Arthur says she’s very poor, and that there are a large family of them; if so, it’s not a bad dodge, and, supposing she plays her cards well, one by no means unlikely to succeed. There’s that confounded puppy D’Almayne swaggering up to Alice, stroking his stupid moustaches—yes, and she smiles and takes his arm, of course—believes all his lies, and thinks him a hero, I dare say. Oh! the poor silly fools of women that can’t distinguish a man from a jackanapes—I should have fancied Alice had more sense; but they’re all alike. Look at the idiot simpering; that’s only to show his white teeth now: the brute has no idea of a real joke—hasn’t got it in him. Well, thank goodness, it’s no concern of mine: but if I were Crane, I’d interfere with his flirting rather. The fellow talks as if he were a dreadful fire-eater—I should like to try what he’s made of: but I expect it’s all talk and nothing else—I wish I could coax him into putting on the gloves with me some day—I’d astonish his moustaches for him. Well, he has walked her off at all events. I wonder where they’re going to. Are they? Yes—no—yes, by Jove, if he isn’t going to take her across that field which Tom and I rode through, where the bull was grazing—the brute is mischievous, too, or I am much mistaken—confound the fool, he’ll go and frighten the poor girl out of her senses, and, perhaps, get her hurt into the bargain; for, if the bull really is vicious, ten to one Moustaches loses pluck, and bolts, or something ridiculous. I’ve a great mind to follow them, it can do no harm, and may do some good—’gad I will too. Alice is far too pretty to be gored by a bull; besides, for Arthur’s sake, one is bound to take care of her—luckily, I’ve just finished the cigar, so off we go.”

Having arrived at this point in his meditations, Harry rose from his seat, ran lightly down the stairs till he reached a ruined window about six feet from the ground, through which he leaped, then settling into a long swinging trot, he ran, at a pace with which few could have kept up, in the direction taken by Alice and D’Almayne; they had, however, obtained so greatly the start of him, that they had already entered the field occupied by the dangerous bull, ere he had overtaken them.

It was a remarkably warm day—the field in which pastured the alarming bull was distant from the abbey ruins half-a-mile at the very least. Now, to jump through a window six feet or thereabouts from the ground, run at the top of one’s speed half-a-mile, leaping recklessly over two gates and a stile in the course of it; and to do all this in a state of anxious excitement on a day when the thermometer stands at 70° in the shade, naturally tends to make a man not only hot, but (if his temper be not semiangelic) cross also. At all events, Harry Coverdale was in the former, if not the latter, condition, when, panting and breathless, he overtook Alice Hazlehurst and Horace D’Almayne, half way across the dangerous field.

CHAPTER VI.—JEST AND EARNEST.

“M r. Coverdale, is anything the matter?—why, you are quite out of breath with running!” exclaimed Alice, starting as she beheld him.

“Uncomfortably warm, too, I should say,” drawled D’Almayne, glancing significantly at Harry’s glowing cheeks, which were certainly too red to be romantic; “really now, do you consider it judicious to overheat yourself so?—of course, I merely ask as a matter of curiosity.”

Harry magnanimously repressed a strong inclination to knock him down; but he felt that to answer him coolly was both literally and metaphorically out of his power, so he confined his reply to Alice’s question.

“There is nothing the matter, Miss Hazlehurst,” he said; “but seeing you take this direction, and thinking that Mr. D’Almayne might not be aware a bull was grazing in this meadow, I thought it advisable to follow and put you on your guard, even at the risk of making myself unbecomingly hot;” and as he pronounced the last two words, he looked at D’Almayne as though he wished he had been the bull, and would oblige him by evincing an inclination to attack them.

“How very kind and thoughtful of you!” returned Alice, bestowing on him one of her brightest smiles; “but is there any danger?—what had we better do?”

“Eh, really, danger! not the slightest; am not I with you?” interposed D’Almayne, majestically bending over her. “A bull did you say, Mr. Coverdale?—ar—really, I don’t perceive such a creature.—Are you quite sure he exists anywhere but in your vivid and poetical imagination?”

Harry’s reply, if reply it can be called, to this impertinent question, was made by grasping D’Almayne’s elbow so tightly as to cause that delicate young gentleman to wince under the pressure. Having thus attracted his attention at a moment when Alice’s head was turned in an opposite direction, he pointed towards a group of trees, under the shadow whereof might be discerned a large brindled individual of the bovine species, who stood attentively regarding the trio with a singularly unamiable, not to say vicious expression of countenance. Placing his finger on his lips as a hint to D’Almayne to keep the knowledge thus acquired to himself, Harry answered Alice’s inquiry by saying—

“It is always the safest policy to mistrust a bull; so I would advise you to turn and make the best of your way towards the stile over which I came; walk as quickly as you please, but do not run, as that would only tempt the animal to follow you.”

“Yes, really, Miss Hazlehurst, we must not risk the chance of frightening you merely because we men enjoy the excitement of a little danger—take my arm,” hastily rejoined Horace D’Almayne, and suiting the action to the word, he drew Alice’s arm within his own, and marched her off at a pace with which she found considerable difficulty in keeping up. Harry, ere he followed them, remained stationary for a minute or so, to reconnoitre the movements of the bull. That animal, having apparently satisfied his curiosity in regard to the intruders on his domain, was now assiduously working himself up into a rage, preparatory, no doubt, to instituting vigorous measures for their expulsion. The way in which he signified this intention, was by tossing his head up and down, tearing up the turf with his fore-feet, and uttering from time to time a low angry roar, like the rumbling of distant thunder. When Harry turned to leave the spot, the animal immediately followed him, though only at a walk. As soon as he became aware of this disagreeable fact, Coverdale paused, and faced his undesirable attendant; which manœuvre, as he expected, caused the bull to stop also, though it was evident it had the effect of increasing the creature’s rage. In spite of this discovery, Harry waited till his companions had reached the stile, and D’Almayne had assisted Alice to get over it—a piece of chivalry by which he very materially lessened his own chances of safety, as the bull’s small stock of patience being exhausted, it became evident he was preparing for a rush. Trusting to his swiftness of foot, Harry was about to make an attempt to reach the stile before the bull should overtake him, when suddenly the yelping of a dog was heard, and a terrier belonging to Arthur Hazlehurst, which had followed them unobserved, ran forward and distracted the bull’s attention by barking round him, taking especial care to keep out of the reach of the animal’s horns. This diversion in his favour enabled Coverdale to rejoin his companions unmolested.

“Oh, Mr. Coverdale, what a savage-looking creature! I was so afraid it was going to attack you. I do not know how to thank you properly for having saved me from at least a terrible fright,” exclaimed Alice as Harry ran up to them.

“Ar—from alarm possibly; but really I don’t conceive there was the slightest danger; the animal was a very mild specimen of his class; even a little dog, you see, was sufficient to turn him,” observed D’Almayne slightingly.

“I’ll bet you fifty pounds to one you don’t walk across that field while the bull remains there,” exclaimed Harry eagerly—“Miss Hazlehurst shall be umpire, and I’ll promise to come and do my best to help you if you get into any scrape—what do you say, is it a bet?”

“I never bet, and—ar—never do useless and unreasonable things on a hot day, in order to establish a fast reputation. Such little excitements may be all very well for a sporting character like yourself, my dear Coverdale; but—ar—a man who has shot bison on the American prairies does not need them; so really you must hold me excused. Shall we rejoin the rest of the party, Miss Hazlehurst? they seem assembling for luncheon. Let me recollect, we were talking of that charming soul-creation of Tennyson, Locksley Hall, I think, before this absurd interruption occurred; what an unrivalled picture does it not present of the spirit-torture of a proud despair?”—and chattering on in the same pseudo-romantic and grandiloquent strain, the man of sentiment fairly walked Alice off, leaving Coverdale in the unenviable position popularly ascribed to virtue, viz., that of being its own reward. Having waited till the pair were out of sight, he flung himself down at the foot of an old beech-tree, and indulged in the following mental soliloquy:—

“Well, Master Harry! you’ve been and done something clever—you have, certainly; run like an insane creature more than half-a-mile, on by far the hottest day we’ve had this summer, and placed yourself in a situation where nothing but a lucky accident saved you from being run at, and possibly gored, by rather a mad bull than otherwise, only to be pooh-poohed by an insolent coxcomb, and have a cold-hearted ungrateful girl lisp out a missish inquiry, ‘whether there was any danger,’ forsooth! ’gad, I almost wish I’d left her and her swain to find out for themselves.”

He paused, removed his hat to allow a slight breeze which had sprung up to cool his heated forehead, and then stretching himself resumed:—

“I hope I’m not really becoming morose and ill-tempered, as Arthur hinted the other day. I must take care, or I shall be growing a savage old brute, and have everybody hate me. It’s all that puppy D’Almayne; he keeps me in a constant state of suppressed irritation with his affected airs of superiority;—but puppies will exist on the face of the earth, I suppose, whether I like it or not, and must be endured; so we’ll endeavour to look upon him as an appointed trial, and see if we can turn him to good account in that way. There’s always the possibility of horsewhipping him as a dernier ressort, that’s one consolation. Now I’ll go to luncheon, and try whether I can put some of my good intentions into practice. Heigho! life’s hard work, and no mistake; particularly in warm weather.” Thus cogitating, Harry slowly gathered himself up, and betook himself to join the luncheon party, actuated thereunto, amongst other reasons, by the discovery of a serious attack of appetite. In the meantime, a scene of a very different character was being enacted between two others of our dramatis personæ.

Arthur Hazlehurst, foiled in his attempt to secure a tête-à-tête drive with his cousin, Kate Marsden, having, after his usual habit, bustled about, settled everything for everybody, and made himself very generally useful and agreeable, had contrived on arriving at the ruins to withdraw himself from the rest of the party, and having watched the proceedings of his cousin and Mr. Crane, waited until she separated from that gentleman, when he joined her, and induced her to stroll with him along a shady, serpentine, romantic-looking pathway leading through a wood. Agreeable as were external circumstances, however, neither the lady nor the gentleman appeared to be in a sympathetic frame of mind; for a cloud hung on Arthur’s brow, while his cousin’s features wore a cold, uncompromising look of defiance. They proceeded for some little distance in silence; Hazlehurst was the first to speak.

“You found your companion amusing, I hope; pray what might he be talking about so earnestly?”

“Do you really care to know?” was the reply; “he was making me his confidante in regard to Alice. The poor man is at his wits’ end—if a quality which he does not possess can be said to have an end; at all events, he is au désespoir. Even his obtuseness cannot be blind to the fact that she dislikes him, and the worthy soul is now beginning to grow mildly jealous of D’Almayne.”

“And what advice did you give him?” inquired her cousin, sternly; “tell me the truth.”

As he spoke the girl’s eyes flashed, and a slight colour burned for a moment in her pale cheeks.

“How dare you say such a thing to me!” was her indignant rejoinder; “have I ever attempted to deceive you?—you know I have not; but let it pass. You ask me what advice I gave him: I told him to persevere, reminded him that a faint heart never won a fair lady, which I believe he took to be an entirely original remark on my part, and gently insinuated that no girl in her senses could refuse him.”

Arthur fixed his piercing glance upon her, as he replied—

“And why did you say this? Do you believe, indeed, that Alice will eventually be prevailed upon to marry him?—or did you say it to deceive him for a purpose of your own?”

“I gave him good sound advice,” was the answer; “I do not believe Alice will marry him; but that is no reason why he should not use his best endeavours to obtain what he wishes, or fancies he wishes. I shall advise him to prosecute his suit, and at the right moment to offer to her in person.”

“In order that she may irritate him, and offend my father, by a refusal. Kate, you are playing some deep game in all this, and one of which you know I should disapprove, or else you would not so studiously conceal it from me,” returned Hazlehurst gloomily.

There was a moment’s pause ere the young lady replied—

“Let events unravel themselves, my worthy cousin; the result will appear all in good time.”

They walked on in silence, till a turn in the path brought them before a smooth moss-grown bank, on which the gnarled roots of an old pollard-oak formed a natural rustic seat.

“Let us rest here, and enjoy the sunshine while we may; there is not too much of it in the world,” observed Kate, in a gentler tone than she had hitherto used. There was a touch of sadness in her voice which Arthur could not hear unmoved, and merely waiting till she had seated herself, he placed himself on a root of the tree at her feet. For some minutes neither of them spoke, till as it were unconsciously, Kate allowed her hand to rest on his head, while her fingers played with a lock of his rich chesnut hair. As he felt her soft touch upon his brow, he raised his eyes to her countenance—the stern, hard expression had vanished, and in its place appeared that look which, once seen, the recollection dies only with memory itself—the fond, wistful, tender gaze a loving woman turns on him she loves. For a minute he remained silent and motionless, subdued by the power of her rare beauty; then springing to his feet, he exclaimed—

“You shall trifle with me thus no longer; I am no petulant boy, to be repulsed one hour, and caressed into good humour the next. What is the meaning of this estrangement which you have chosen shall spring up between us? Why do you?—but such questions are useless—this shall decide the point—once and for ever:—Do you love me, or do you not?”

For a moment she was silent; then turning her head to avoid his eager scrutinizing glance, she murmured—

“Have we not known each other from childhood, and loved each other always?”

“That is no answer; you only seek to evade my question,” was the angry reply.

He stood for a moment, his lips quivering with emotion, and his hands clenched so tightly that the blood receded from the points of his fingers, leaving them cold and colourless as marble. His companion did not speak, but continued to regard him with a look half-pitying, half-imploring pity. As their eyes met, his mood appeared suddenly to change, and springing to her side, he exclaimed in a voice tremulous with emotion—

“Kate, dearest, why will you thus torture yourself and me? Hear me, dear one; you know I love you better than any created thing—better than my own soul. You say truly, that I have loved you always—with the tender unconscious love of the child, with the happy romantic love of the boy, and, lastly, with the deep, earnest, absorbing passion of mature manhood; and you, Kate, you must—nay, you do love me!”

As he spoke, he drew her gently towards him, and unrepulsed pressed a kiss upon her soft lips. She did not resist or respond to his caress, but suffered her head to rest passively against his shoulder, as he continued—

“I do not inquire—I heed not—what mad schemes you may have dreamed of; but I ask—nay, I implore you, by all you hold sacred to put them away from you, and to wait patiently for a few, a very few short years, until I can claim you for my beloved, my honoured wife. Kate, you will do as I desire?—speak to me, my own love!”

Unheeding his appeal, she remained for a minute silent, while a few tears stole unchecked down her pale cheeks, then rousing herself by an effort, she wiped away the traces of her late emotion, gently removed her cousin’s arm, which still encircled her waist, and drawing herself up, exclaimed—

“This is weakness—folly; I never intended it should have come to this; but I was taken by surprise—unprepared——”

She paused, struggling to regain self-possession, then in a calmer voice resumed:—

“My poor Arthur! I do, indeed, appreciate your noble, generous self-sacrifice, and were I alone concerned, would desire no happier fate than to share and aid you in your struggle with the world; but it may not be so; others have claims upon me—my father’s health is failing—the cares of that bitter curse, poverty, are wearing out my mother’s little remaining strength, and blighting the talents and crushing the youth and spirits of the children. Dear Arthur, forgive me the pain I cost you when I tell you—I can never be your wife!”

“But, Kate,” interrupted her cousin, eagerly, “listen to me, dear one; you do not suppose that I had forgotten all this; only agree to my proposal, and I will be a son to your mother, a father—if, as you fear, my uncle’s health is breaking—to her children. My practice is increasing every day; I shall soon be in the receipt of a good income; Coverdale is rich, and loves me as a brother; he will advance me money; I will work day and night to repay him.”

“My husband destroy his health to support my family!—is this the prospect of happiness you would offer me?—are these the arguments you would bring forward to induce me to agree?” was the reply. “No, Arthur, I can never be your wife; you must from this moment forget that such an idea has crossed your mind.”

“But, Kate, only hear me!——” he exclaimed passionately.

“I have already heard too much for your happiness, or for my own,” was the mournful reply; then, by a powerful effort resuming her usual manner, she exclaimed, “Come, no more of this folly, our paths in life lie separate; it is inevitable—therefore repining becomes worse than useless; we are not boy and girl, to stand rehearsing romantic love-scenes together; let us rejoin the others.”

For a moment Hazlehurst remained silently gazing on the cold, immovable expression of her features; then, coming close to her, he said in a low, hoarse whisper, “I read your heart, and perceive the wickedness, for such it is, you contemplate. I will give you till to-morrow morning to reflect on what has passed between us; if then you adhere to your determination, I leave you to the fate you have chosen!” and as he uttered the last words, he turned and quitted her.

Kate Marsden gazed after him with the same cold expression of defiance on her features till his retreating figure became no longer visible, then, sinking back upon the rustic bench, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

CHAPTER VII.—WHEREIN SYMPTOMS OF HARRY’S COURTSHIP BEGIN TO APPEAR ON A STORMY HORIZON.

The humours of a picnic have been too often described to need repetition; suffice it to say, that the picnic in question was decidedly a favourable specimen of its class. Of course everybody voted it to be the summit of human felicity, to sit in an uncomfortable position upon something never intended for a seat, beside a table-cloth spread upon the grass, which, being elastic and uneven, caused everything that should have remained perpendicular to assume a horizontal attitude. Of course, when the inevitable frog hopped across the table-cloth, and, losing its presence of mind on finding itself so unexpectedly launched into fashionable life, sought refuge in the pigeon-pie, the ladies screamed little picturesque screams, which were increased twentyfold when Tom Hazlehurst fished it out with a table-spoon, and surreptitiously immersed it in the jug of beer, which liquid he artfully incited Mr. Crane to pour out, thereby landing the frog, decidedly inebriated and most uncomfortably sticky, upon the elaborately embroidered shirt-front of Horace D’Almayne. Of course the salt and the sugar had fraternized, and the cayenne had elicited new and striking effects by mingling indiscriminately with things in general, and the sweets in particular; and of course all these shocking disasters irritated the few and delighted the many, and added immensely to the liveliness and hilarity of the party.

“Tom, you’re drinking too much champagne!” exclaimed an elderly maiden sister of Mr. Hazlehurst, decidedly like a hippopotamus in face and figure. “Mr. D’Almayne, may I trouble you to hand me his glass, the boy will make himself poorly.”

Thus appealed to, D’Almayne languidly extended his arm in the necessary direction, but the Etonian was not to be so easily despoiled of his beverage.

“Mille pardons, mounseer!” he exclaimed, mimicking the affected half-foreign accent with which the exquisite Horace usually spoke; “mais c’est tout à fait—out of the question; ne souhaitez-vous pas que vous pouvez l’obtenir?—don’t you wish you may get it? Equally obliged to you, but I’d rather do my own drinking myself. Why, my dear Aunt Betsy, how dreadfully ungrateful of you, just when I was going to propose your health, too! Silence, gentlemen, for a toast! Come, Governor (to his father, who, delighted with the young pickle’s ready wit, was vainly endeavouring to preserve an appearance of majestic disapproval), fill up; D’Almayne, my boy, no heeltaps; are you all charged? ‘My Aunt Betsy, and the rest of her lovely sex!—hip! hip! hip! hurrah!’” So saying, and with a knowing wink at Coverdale, who, if the truth must be told, encouraged him in his inclination to be impertinent to D’Almayne, Master Tom tossed down his glass of champagne amidst a general chorus of laughter. And thus the déjeûner passed off to all appearance merrily enough; though in two, if not more, of the company a smiling exterior hid an aching heart.

“Have you seen the rabbit warren yet, Mr. Coverdale? Do come, there are such a lot of the beggars jumping about! I found my way there before luncheon, and it won’t take long,” exclaimed Tom Hazlehurst, grasping Harry’s arm imploringly.

“It strikes me I shall be considered especially rude if I again absent myself,” was the reply.

“Who by?—the women?” inquired Tom, scornfully. “Never mind them—poor, weak-minded, fickle things; there is nothing I consider a greater nuisance than to have a pack of silly girls dangling about one, that won’t leave a fellow alone; there, you needn’t toss your head and turn up your nose about it, Emily, beneficent Nature’s done that for you sufficiently already. Now will you come, Mr. Coverdale? there are some black rabbits among them, such rum shavers!”

“Are there!” exclaimed Harry, eagerly. “I wonder whether I could contrive to buy a few couples of them; I want to get some black rabbits at the park excessively: come along, for our time is growing short, I expect.” And as he spoke, Coverdale strode off, entirely forgetful of the pretty Emily, with whom, on the strength of her juvenility, he had considered he might safely allow himself to laugh and talk, and to whom he had, therefore, been unconsciously rendering himself very agreeable.

The warren was further than he had expected it would be, and the black rabbits were so long before they chose to show themselves, that Harry began to grew sceptical as to their existence; even when they did appear, a gamekeeper had to be routed out, and terms for the transfer of ten couples to Coverdale Park agreed upon; so that by the time Tom and his companion rejoined the pleasure-seekers, there were but few left to rejoin. These few consisted of the old maiden aunt; a time-honoured female friend of the same—older, uglier, still more like a hippopotamus, and with a double portion of the vinegar of inhuman unkindness in her nature; and, lastly, a plain young lady, the daughter of nobody in particular, who lived with the time-honoured friend as companion, in a state of chronic martyrdom, for which perpetual sacrifice she received thirty pounds a-year, and permission to cry herself to sleep every night, in misty wonderment why so sad a creature as she was, should ever have been born into the world. Besides this uncomfortable trio, who composed the cargo of a brougham, and were rather a tight fit, there remained Mr. Crane and Alice, who, it seemed, were waiting for the phaeton, which had not yet made its appearance.

“Upon my word, Miss Hazlehurst,” began the sour friend, addressing the acidulated aunt, “this is very provoking, ma’am; it’s six o’clock, and it’s growing cold, and it will be quite dusk before we get home; and I really believe Miss Cornetoe was right this morning, and that we shall have a wet night after all.”

“Shall I run down to the inn and see what causes the delay? I must go there to get my horse,” inquired Coverdale, good naturedly.

“If you would be so kind, we really should be extremely obliged to you,” returned Miss Hazlehurst senior, with her most gracious and least hippopotamic smile; and thus urged, Coverdale hurried off.

In the meantime poor Alice, who by no means admired the position of affairs, and had moreover been considerably alarmed in the morning by Mr. Crane’s unskilful driving, whispered a pathetic appeal to her aunt to be allowed to accompany the brougham party,—“she could sit on the box, Wilson, the coachman, was so inconceivably respectable, and she was almost sure it would not rain;”—but her aunt was a strong-minded woman, and a warm advocate of the Crane alliance, and she would not hear of such a change of plan. As soon as Coverdale arrived within sight of the inn, he perceived the missing phaeton standing in front of the doorway, the horses ready harnessed, and the groom seated on the driving-seat; accordingly he made signs to him to come on, of which, for some unaccountable reason, the man took not the slightest notice. Surprised at this, Harry made the best of his way to the spot, and on reaching it discovered, from the swollen, heated look of the fellow’s features, and the stupid, obstinate expression which characterized them, that he had been drinking to excess.

“Why the man is intoxicated!” exclaimed Coverdale, turning to the ostler, who, with one or two hulking village lads, stood staring at the coachman with a grin of amusement on their vacant faces; “why did not you make him get down, and bring the carriage yourself?”

“A did troy, but a woldn’t budge a inch—a be properly drunk to be zure!”

“Oh, he would not, eh?” inquired Coverdale; then, turning to the groom, he continued, “Get down directly, my friend, I want particularly to speak to you.”

To this the groom contrived to stammer out on insolent refusal, accompanied by a recommendation to Coverdale to mind his own business, and give orders to his own servants.

“My business just at present is to make you get down from that phaeton,” returned Harry, his eyes flashing.

“Oh! it is, is it?—I should like to see you do it, that’s all!” rejoined the other, with a gesture of drunken defiance.

“You shall,” was the concise reply, as, directing the ostler to stand by the horses’ heads, Coverdale, ere the fellow was aware of his intention, or could take measures to prevent him, sprang lightly up, forced the reins from his uncertain grasp, twisted him suddenly round, then placing his hands under his arms lifted him by sheer strength, and dropped him to the ground. Having performed this feat with the neatness and celerity of some harlequinade trick, he glanced round to see that the fellow had fallen clear of the wheels, and taking the reins, drove off.

While this little affair had been proceeding, the sky had become overcast, and a few large drops of rain came pattering heavily to the ground; alarmed by these symptoms, the brougham party no sooner perceived the phaeton approaching, than they scrambled into their vehicle and started. As their road lay in a direction opposite to that by which Coverdale was advancing, they were nearly out of sight by the time he reached the spot where Alice and Mr. Crane awaited him. Jumping down with the reins in his hand, he was explaining to the owner of the phaeton the plight in which he had found his servant, when a faint flash of lightning glanced across the sky, followed after an interval by a clap of distant thunder, at which the horses, which were young and spirited, began to prick up their ears, and evince such unmistakable signs of alarm, that their master, fearing they were about to dash off, ran to lay hold of their heads. Misfortune often brings about strange associations. If any one had that morning told Alice Hazlehurst that before the day should be over she would have appealed for protection to, and confided in, “Arthur’s cross, disagreeable friend,” she would have utterly disbelieved the statement—and yet so it was to be. The moment Mr. Crane left her side, she turned to Harry exclaiming—

“Oh, Mr. Coverdale, I am so frightened! He will never be able to manage those horses: he could scarcely hold them in this morning, and the groom was forced to get down to them twice—he does not know how to drive one bit!”

Poor little Alice! she was trembling from head to foot, and looked so pretty and interesting in her alarm, that Harry felt peculiar, he didn’t exactly know how, about it.

“I’ll speak to Mr. Crane, and persuade him to let me drive you home,” he replied eagerly. (He would have knocked him down without the smallest hesitation, if Alice had in the slightest degree preferred it.) “I’ve been accustomed to horses all my life, and have not a doubt of being able to manage these, even if the thunder should startle them; so please don’t look so frightened.”

And as Harry said this with his very brightest, kindest smile,

Alice wondered she had never before noticed how handsome he was, and began to think he could not be so very cross after all.

When Harry urged his request, Mr. Crane was considerably embarrassed as to the nature of his reply. In his secret soul he was delighted to be relieved from the danger and responsibility of driving Alice and himself home through a thunder-storm; but, on the other hand, he could not disguise the fact, that by allowing himself to be so relieved, he should detract from the heroic style of character he wished Alice to impute to him. Had it been D’Almayne instead of Coverdale who sought to become his substitute, he would probably, at the hazard of breaking his own neck and that of his lady-love, have refused to permit him; but he had observed, as indeed he must have been blind if he had not done, Harry’s marked avoidance of the young lady, and trusting to these his mysogynistic principles he, with many excuses and much circumlocution, agreed to Harry’s proposal that he should ride his horse, and allow him to drive the phaeton.

“Ahem!—if the storm should come on violently,” observed the cotton-spinner, as a second growl of thunder became audible, “I shall wait till it has subsided; so don’t let them expect me till they see me: getting wet always gives me cold.”

“All right, sir,” returned Harry, as he wrapped Alice carefully up in his own Macintosh; “take care of yourself by all means—good people are scarce. We shall see nothing more of friend Crane to-night,” he continued, as he drove off; “the old gentleman is very decidedly alarmed—that is, I suppose I ought not to call him an old gentleman,” he stammered, suddenly recollecting with whom he was conversing.

“Why should you not when he is so?” returned Alice, innocently.

Harry turned his head away to conceal a smile which the naïveté of the reply had called forth, muttering to himself as he did so, “Poor Crane!”

After a few minutes’ silence, Alice began abruptly, and apologetically,—

“I’m sure I ought to feel very much obliged to you, Mr. Coverdale—and indeed I do; this is the second really good-natured thing you’ve done by me to-day.”

The tone in which she spoke so completely betrayed that surprise was the feeling uppermost in her mind, that Harry, slightly piqued, could not help replying—

“You did not, then, give me credit for possessing the least particle of good-nature?”

Alice smiled as she answered—

“If I had had a proper degree of faith in Arthur’s representations, I need not have felt surprise.”

The delicate irony of this reply was not lost upon Coverdale; but he knew that he had deserved it, and, with the ready frankness which was one of his best characteristics, he hastened to acknowledge it.

“I certainly have done little towards practically vindicating the character your brother’s partiality has bestowed upon me,” he said; “but I must be allowed to plead in justification, that I am quite aware of my own deficiencies, and told Arthur that I had been roughing it abroad so long, that I was totally unfitted for ladies’ society. He would not admit the excuse; but it was a full, true, and sufficient one, nevertheless.”

As he uttered the last words, a dazzling flash of lightning appeared almost to envelop them, followed instantaneously by a deafening peal of thunder. Half blinded by the blaze of light, the frightened horses stopped abruptly, then, terrified at the prolonged thunder, tried to turn short round; foiled in this attempt by the skill and promptitude of their driver, they began rearing and plunging in a way which threatened every moment to overturn the phaeton. Fortunately the road happened to be unusually wide at this point, and Harry, who never throughout the affair in the slightest degree lost his presence of mind, deciding that whatever might most effectually frighten the horses, would create the impulse they would eventually obey, determined to try the effect of a little judicious discipline. Accordingly, standing up, he began to administer the whip to their sleek sides with an amount of strength and determination which, from the contrast it afforded to the mild and timid driving to which they were accustomed, so astonished the animals, that bounding forward with a snatch which tried the soundness of their harness, they dashed off at a furious gallop; at the same moment, a second peal of thunder, even louder than the preceding one, increased their alarm to such a degree, that Coverdale, despite his utmost efforts, found it completely beyond his power to hold them in.

CHAPTER VIII.—HARRY CONDESCENDS TO PLAY THE AGREEABLE.

“M iss Hazlehurst!—Alice! are you mad? Only sit still, don’t go and scream or anything, and all will come right.”

Thus appealed to, or rather commanded—for the tone of the speaker’s voice was unmistakably imperative—Alice, who when the horses bolted had half risen from her seat, and in an agony of terror glanced round, as though she meditated an attempt to jump out, shrank down again, and covering her eyes with her hands, remained perfectly still and motionless, thus enabling Coverdale to devote his whole attention to the horses. The terrified animals, after galloping nearly a mile, their fears being kept alive by repeated flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, while a perfect deluge of rain converted the dusty road beneath their feet into a morass, at length began to relax their speed. As soon as Harry perceived this to be the case, he turned to his companion, saying, “There, Miss Hazlehurst, I have got them in hand again, they’re quite under command now, and the worst of the storm is over too, so you needn’t be frightened any longer; you have behaved like a”—(regular brick was the simile that rose to his lips, but he refrained, and substituted)—“complete heroine, since you overcame that slightly insane impulse to commit suicide by jumping out.”

Reassured by his manner, Alice ventured to open her eyes, and the first use she made of them was to fix them upon the countenance of her companion, striving to read therein whether the hopes with which he sought to inspire her were true or false. But Harry’s was a face about which there could be no mistake; truth and honesty were written in every feature so legibly, that the veriest tyro in physiognomy could not fail at once to perceive them.

“How fortunate it was that you were driving, and not Mr. Crane!” were the first words Alice uttered; “we should have been overturned to a certainty if the horses had behaved so this morning. I’ll take good care not to let him drive me again. How cleverly you managed the creatures when they were plunging and rearing! I should never have dared to whip them while they were in that furious state, but it answered capitally.”

“You observed that, did you?” inquired Harry in a tone of surprise.

Alice favoured him with a quick glance, as she replied, half archly, half petulantly, “Of course I did; what a stupid silly little thing you seem to consider me!”

Harry paused for a minute ere he rejoined, laughingly, “You know nothing about what I consider you, Miss Hazlehurst, and therefore I advise you not to form any theories whatsoever on the subject, as they are tolerably certain to be wrong ones.”

“I dare say you have never given yourself the trouble to reflect at all on so frivolous a topic,” returned Alice; “I know your heterodox notions in regard to our sex; you consider us all simpletons.”

“I’m sure I never told you so,” was all the denial Harry’s conscience permitted him to make.

“Not vivâ voce, perhaps,” replied Alice; “but I have heard it second-hand from Master Tom: the boy was uncomplimentary enough before you came, but he has been fifty times worse since you’ve been here to encourage him in his impertinence.”

“A young cub!” muttered Harry aside, “I’ll twist his neck if he tells tales out of school in this way;” turning to Alice, he continued, “it is never too late to mend, is it? If I confess my sins, promise never to do so any more, and throw myself on the mercy of the court, is there any chance of my obtaining forgiveness?”

“As far as I am concerned, yes,” was the reply; “in consideration of your services this afternoon, I graciously accord you a free pardon for all past offences, and for the future we will try and be friends.” As she spoke she half playfully, half in earnest, held out her hand. Harry took it in his own, and shook it—even in a glove it was a nice, warm, soft little hand, a kind of hand that it was impossible to relinquish without giving it a squeeze, at least such was Harry’s impression, and he acted upon it, although to do so was by no means in accordance with his principles; but he did not happen to be thinking about his principles just then. By this time the storm, which had pretty well exhausted itself by its violence, resigned in favour of a lovely sunset; and the horses having come to the conclusion that they had thoroughly disgraced themselves, and behaved with an equal disregard of principle and propriety, trotted steadily along under Coverdale’s skilful guidance, like a pair of four-legged penitents, anxious to retrieve their character. And Harry and Alice suddenly found a great deal to talk about, and were quite surprised when they perceived themselves to be in sight of the Grange; and the gentleman felt moved by a sudden impulse to declare that, despite its unpropitious commencement, he did not know when he had had such a delightful drive, to which the lady replied that it certainly had been very agreeable, an admission which she endeavoured to qualify by attributing her pleasurable sensations to the influence of the setting sun and the delicious coolness of the evening air—a transparent attempt at deception that only rendered the truth more obvious.

The next morning a groom brought back Sir Lancelot, together with a note from Mr. Crane, saying that he had contrived to get wet through on his way to the inn, that he feared he had taken cold, and therefore considered it most prudent to return home for a day or two; adding that he should hope to be sufficiently convalescent to rejoin the party at the Grange that day week, when a dinner was to be given by Mr. Hazlehurst to some of the county magnates. His note wound up with an elaborate inquiry as to whether Alice had experienced any ill-effects from the “atmospheric inclemency,” as he was pleased to style the thunder-storm, accompanied by an infallible specific against all sore-throats, colds, hoarsenesses, and rheumatic affections, which that young lady straightway committed to the waste-paper basket. There was also a note for Horace D’Almayne, from which dropped an inclosure that, as the exquisite stooped to pick it up, looked marvellously like a cheque.

“A—really I find I must go to town—a—business of importance—can I execute any little commissions for you, Miss Hazlehurst? I’ve excellent taste in ribands, I assure you.”

“There, do you hear that!” observed Tom sotto voce to Coverdale. “I always thought he’d been a counter-jumper!”

“Kate, must I accompany him?” inquired Arthur of his cousin, sotto voce; “remember, if you send me from you now, we meet again as strangers!” There was a moment’s struggle, and her colour went and came—then in a cold, hard voice she answered, “Yes, go!”

Arthur looked at her; her features might have been sculptured in marble, so fixed and immovable was their expression. That look decided him; and with set teeth and lowering brow he rose and quitted the room.

In less than half-an-hour he returned, prepared for a journey; and beckoning Coverdale aside, began, “Harry, I have a favour to ask of you. I am obliged to go to town suddenly, in consequence of an affair which has caused me some annoyance; but I shall come back for the dinner-party on the ——th. Crane will also return then; and from what I can make out, Alice’s affair will be definitely settled one way or other. The more I see of Crane, the more I perceive how thoroughly he and Alice are unsuited; but my father appears obstinately bent on the match: and if Alice is to refuse him, she will require all the support that can be given her. My poor mother’s health is, as you are aware, so delicate, that although she is as much averse to the match as any of us, we cannot expect her to exert herself; indeed, our chief anxiety is to prevent her attempting to do so. The whole thing will, therefore, fall upon me: and your support and assistance will be invaluable. My father has taken a great fancy to you; and your opinion weighs with him more than you will believe. I am sorry to perceive that you are bored to death here; but I trust to your friendship to remain till after my return. Am I taxing your kind feeling too far?”

“My dear boy, don’t make pretty speeches; for I can stand anything but that,” was the reply. “As to staying here, I had no thought of going away till you had done with me. In regard to being bored, I’m getting over that beautifully. Your family are charming people. I’m becoming used to women’s society, and, in fact, find it’s not by any means as bad as imagination painted it; and when D’Almayne is fairly out of the house, I really shall not care how long I remain in it; so will that satisfy you?”

“My dear fellow,” rejoined Hazlehurst, warmly, “there’s nobody like you in the world! I’ve always said so, from the day that I first set eyes on you at Eton, when you thrashed the bully of the form for striking me, and then boxed my ears because I took a blow from a boy less than myself, without returning it. I shall never quite turn misanthrope while I’ve you for a friend.”

“Misanthrope! no, why should you?” was the surprised rejoinder. “What ails you, man?—you look ill and unhappy. It’s nothing in the money way, is it? I’ve got a few odd thousands lying idle at my bankers, that I should really be obliged to you to make use of.”

Hazlehurst shook his friend’s hand heartily. “God bless you, old fellow! I know you would.” he said; “but money can’t help me: I must fight it out alone. I shall be myself again by the time I return—till then, good-by,” and wringing Coverdale’s hand once more, he turned and was gone.

“Alice, here’s a treat! everybody’s going away except that horrid Harry Coverdale!” exclaimed Emily, in a tone of despair; “we shall have him on our hands, talking stable, and wishing we were dogs and horses, for a whole week! What are we to do with the creature?”

Alice turned her head to hide her heightened colour, as she replied, in a tone of voice that was almost cross, “Really, Emily, you should be careful not to carry that absurd habit of yours of laughing at everybody too far. People will begin to call you flippant. Mr. Coverdale is so good-natured that he is the easiest person in the world to entertain. Surely, Arthur has a right to ask his friend to remain here without consulting you or me on the subject.”

“Phew!” whistled Emily, and a droll little parody of a whistle it was; “the wind has changed, has it? I suppose that was the thunder-storm yesterday; not to mention a certain tête-à-tête drive. Take care, Ally: recollect that sweet bird the Crane! what does the song say?” and popping herself down at the pianoforte, she ran her fingers lightly over the keys, as she sang with mischievous archness:

“’Tis good to be merry and wise,

’Tis good to be honest and true,

’Tis good to be off with the old love

Before you are on with the new.”

The party which sat down to dinner at Hazlehurst Grange on that day was a very select one. Mr. Hazlehurst had driven over to the neighbouring town on justice business, and having sentenced certain deer-stealers to undergo divers unpleasantnesses in the way of oakum-picking, solitary confinement, and other such amenities of prison discipline, had stayed to reward virtue by dining with his brother-magistrates upon orthodoxly-slaughtered venison. Accordingly, Mrs. Hazlehurst and the three young ladies, Harry Coverdale and Master Tom, sat down to what Mrs. Malaprop would have termed “quite a tête-à-tête dinner” together;—a tame and docile curate, invited on the spur of the moment to counterbalance Harry, having missed fire, owing to the untimely repentance of a perverse old female parishioner, who being taken poorly and penitent simultaneously, had sent her imperative compliments to the Rev. B. A. A. Lambkin, and she would feel obliged by his coming to convert her at his very earliest possible convenience; to which serious call he felt obliged to respond.

Coverdale had found himself in an unusual and peculiar frame of mind all day; for perhaps the first time in his life he had felt disinclined to active exertion; and had positively gone the length of abstracting from the library a volume of Byron, and spent the afternoon lying under a tree, reading the Bride of Abydos. Now his peculiarity took a new turn; and, freed from his incubus, D’Almayne, a sense of the domestic and sociable suddenly sprang up within him, and throwing off all reserve, he appeared for the first time during his visit in his true colours—that is, unaffected, courteous, kind-hearted, amusing, and well-informed. In consequence possibly of this change, the dinner went off most agreeably; and the absence of the Reverend Lambkin was mentally decreed to be a subject of thanksgiving, by more than one member of the party.

In the evening there were certain wasps’-nests to be destroyed, about which Harry had expressed much interest; but now he discovered that he had blistered his heel on the previous day, by running in a tight boot; and Tom, mightily discontented at his defection, was forced to invade the enemy’s country without the assistance of his ally. When Coverdale rejoined the ladies, Emily was reading Tennyson’s Princess aloud, and the moment he appeared, she declared she was tired, and handed the book to him, begging him to proceed; her mischievous intention being thereby to overwhelm him with confusion, and derive amusement from his consequent mistakes. But she met her match for once, as Harry, coolly replying that he should have much pleasure, took the book and began reading in a deep rich voice, with so much taste and feeling, that her surprise soon changed to admiration. After tea, music was proposed, and the moment Alice began to sing Coverdale, for the first time since he had been in the house, approached the piano, and actually turned over the leaves for her!

“That lovely Là ci darem! Ah, Alice! if we had but a gentleman’s voice to take the second! Why don’t you sing, Mr. Coverdale?” exclaimed Emily, turning over the pages of the duet.

“I’ll try what I can do if you wish it,” was Coverdale’s quiet answer.

Alice, to whom he spoke, glanced at him in speechless surprise; but Emily, at once making up her mind that he was attempting a hoax, and eager to turn the tables upon him, resumed—

“Bravo! give me your seat, Alice, I’ll play the accompaniment for you both.”

Now the truth was, that Harry had been gifted by nature with a rich powerful voice and excellent ear, qualities which the admiration of his “set” at Cambridge had induced him to cultivate. When he first started on his grand tour, he encountered at Florence the mother and sisters of an old college friend, and those being the days before he had foresworn young ladies’ society, he was let in for a mild flirtation with one of the daughters. The “emphatic she” happened to be fanatica per la musica. Accordingly for three months Harry took lessons of the best master in the place, and sang duets morning, noon, and night; at the end of which period the “loved one” bolted with a black-bearded native, who called himself a count, and was a courier. Since which episode, Harry, disgusted with the whole affair, and all connected with it, had chiefly confined his singing to lyrical declarations that he would “not go home till morning.” It will therefore be less a matter of surprise to the reader, than it was to his audience at the Grange, that Coverdale performed his part in the duet with equal taste and skill, and very much better than Alice did hers—that young lady pronouncing her Italian with rather a midland-county accent than otherwise, although her sweet, fresh, young voice, in great measure atoned for this little peculiarity.

“Why, Mr. Coverdale, what a charming voice you have, and how beautifully you sing!” exclaimed Emily, looking at him as if she could not even yet believe that it was possible he should have so distinguished himself. “I thought you were hoaxing us, and I sat down to play the duet for the amiable purpose of exposing your ignorance.”

“How did you acquire such a pure Italian accent?” asked Mrs. Hazlehurst; “it will be of the greatest advantage to my girls to sing with you.”

“I learned of an Italian fellow when I was at Florence, and I suppose he taught me to do the business all right,” was the careless reply.

“And you have been here more than a week,” continued Mrs. Hazlehurst, “and allowed Mr. D’Almayne to monopolise both the reading and singing department, though he cannot fill either one quarter as efficiently as you are able to do. You really are too diffident.”

“I don’t imagine diffidence to have had very much to do with it,” observed Kate Marsden, quietly raising her eyes from her work (a crochet purse with steel beads), and fixing them on Coverdale.

Harry laughed slightly as with heightened colour he replied, “You are too clever, Miss Marsden. I by no means approve of being subjected to such subtle clairvoyance; however, I may as well honestly confess that you are right, and that a feeling more akin to pride than to humility has prevented my seeking to rival Mr. D’Almayne.”

“We have found you out at last though,” returned Emily, “and I for one will do my best to punish you for your idleness, by making you sing every song I can think of. I don’t believe it was either pride or humility which kept you silent—it was nothing but sheer idleness.”

“Judging of her principles from her practice, I can readily believe Miss Emily Hazlehurst must consider silence to result from some reprehensible cause,” replied Coverdale, with a meaning smile.

Of course Emily made a pert rejoinder, and of course Coverdale was forced to sing half-a-dozen more songs, which, as he had by this time got up the steam considerably, he did in a style which won him fresh laurels but it was a remarkable fact, that from the moment in which Harry began to read aloud, Alice, although her attention had never flagged, had scarcely uttered a single word—perhaps it was because she thought the more.

CHAPTER IX.—CONTAINS LITTLE ELSE SAVE MOONSHINE.

Mrs. Hazlehurst was so confirmed an invalid as to be unable to walk, even so short a distance as from the drawing-room to her own bed-room, whither she was usually carried by either her husband or her son. She was in the habit of retiring at nine o’clock, but on the evening referred to in the last chapter the clock chimed the half-hour after nine, and Mr. Hazlehurst had not returned.

“Mamma, dear, you are looking tired—you ought not to sit up so late!” exclaimed Alice, who had been observing her mother attentively for some minutes. “Do allow Evans to carry you up: papa is sometimes kept till eleven o’clock at these magistrates’ meetings, you know.”

One great charm which Alice possessed in Harry’s eyes was her devotion to her mother, for whom she entertained an affection which was, perhaps, one of the strongest feelings of her nature.

“I had rather wait, dear,” was the patient reply:—“the worthy Evans is growing fat and old, and I am always afraid of his falling; and James is very willing, poor lad, but he is so awkward that he rubs me against all the corners we pass, and only escapes knocking my brains out by a succession of miracles.”

“If you would allow me to assist you, Mrs. Hazlehurst,” began Coverdale, in a hesitating voice, as though he were about to ask rather than to confer a favour—“I am sure I could carry you safely; I have observed exactly how Arthur holds you, and it would give me so much pleasure to be of use to you.”

“You are very kind,” returned Mrs. Hazlehurst, while a glow of grateful surprise coloured her pale cheeks; “but I cannot bear to give you the trouble—you do not know how heavy I am.”

“You do not know how strong I am, my dear madam,” was the good-natured rejoinder; “allow me—that I think is right,” and raising the light form of the invalid in his powerful arms he carried her, as easily and tenderly as a mother would her child, to her room, where, carefully depositing her in an easy-chair, he wished her good night, and left her without waiting to receive her thanks.

“Alice, love, Emily will stay and read to me—go down and tell Mr. Coverdale how much obliged I am; he carried me as comfortably as if he had been in the constant habit of doing so for years. The kindness of heart, and delicacy of feeling with which he made the offer, have gratified me exceedingly; depend upon it he is an unusually amiable, excellent young man.”

“He certainly appears in a new character to-night,” returned Emily, laughing; “hitherto he has performed the modern Timon most naturally and successfully. I wonder what made the creature take it into his head to act the man—or rather the woman—hater! You’d better ask him, Alice, perhaps he will tell you!—What gone already!” she continued, glancing round the room. “Well then, mamma dear, as there seems to be no more fun forthcoming, let me give you your dose of Jeremy Taylor; that is our present good book, I believe.”

A reproof for the levity with which Emily spoke rose to her mother’s lips; but Mrs. Hazlehurst was a sensible woman as well as a good one, and so, being able to distinguish between the exuberance of high spirits, and a scoffing turn of mind, she only murmured, “Silly child,” and shook her head, with a reproving smile.

When Alice returned to the drawing-room she at first imagined it to be tenantless; but on looking more attentively she perceived the tall figure of Harry Coverdale standing with folded arms in the recess of one of the windows. So noiselessly did she enter that Harry, whose face was turned away from the door, was not aware of her approach until she was within a few yards of him. As with a sudden start he looked round, she was surprised to observe the traces of deep emotion visible on his features, which were usually characterised by an expression of so completely opposite a nature. With a murmured apology for intruding on him, Alice was about to withdraw, when Coverdale hastened to prevent her.

“Do not run away,” he said quickly, then continued, “You are surprised to see me look sad; I think I should like, if you will permit me, to tell you the cause. It is so seldom I meet with anybody to whom I can talk about such things—people in general would not understand me, but I feel an instinctive certainty that you will. It is such a lovely night, would you object to come out? Your cousin, Miss Marsden, is already enjoying the moonlight.” As he spoke, he pointed to a white figure pacing, with bent head and measured steps, along a terrace-walk on the further side of the lawn. Throwing a shawl over her head to protect herself from the night dew, Alice signified her consent, and opening one of the French windows, they descended into the garden. For some minutes they strolled on side by side without speaking; the silence at length becoming embarrassing, Alice broke it by observing—

“I must not forget to deliver mamma’s thanks for your kindness. You carried her so easily and carefully, she says, she could almost imagine you must have been accustomed to such an occupation before.”

Harry smiled a melancholy smile. “That was what I was going to tell you about,” he said, “only when it came to the point, I felt as if it were impossible to begin. Carrying Mrs. Hazlehurst to-night brought back such a flood of recollections!” He paused, then in a low tone continued: “For many months before her death my own poor mother became perfectly helpless, and I used to carry her like a child from room to room. I was only seventeen when I lost her, and, except your brother, I have never had any one to love since; and though Arthur is as good a fellow as ever breathed, and all that one can wish a friend to be, yet somehow, whether it is the difference between a man’s mind and a woman’s, or what, I cannot tell, but there are things I’ve never talked about with anybody since my mother died, because I’ve felt that nobody else could understand me. Perhaps, if she had lived, I might have been more what I sometimes wish I were—less rough, and—but I do not know why I should bore you with what must be singularly uninteresting to you.”

“Pray go on,” replied Alice; “I have heard so much of you from Arthur, that I always hoped I should some day know you myself, and that we might become friends; but—” here she stopped, apparently embarrassed how to proceed.

Harry came to her assistance—“But when I did appear, I made myself so disagreeable that you naturally repented ever having wasted a thought upon such an unamiable savage. Is not that what you would have said? Well, you are quite right, I deserve that it should be so.”

There was a degree of regretful earnestness in his voice and manner which touched Alice’s gentle heart, and she hastened to reply:—

“Nay, it was only that you did not know us; and—I think that silly Mr. D’Almayne annoyed you with his airs and affectation; but I am sure you will never be so—so—”

“Brutish!” suggested Harry.

“So unjust to yourself again,” resumed Alice.

“You are very kind—kinder than I deserve by far,” replied Coverdale. He paused, then continued, “I don’t think I was naturally such a bear; but from childhood I have had to battle with the world on my own behalf. Did Arthur ever tell you any of my earlier history?”

“No; he often alluded to it as curious, but said we ought to see you first, and then we should understand you better and care more to hear it,” was the simple reply.

Harry smiled. “The only romantic episode in my career occurred when I was a very young boy,” he said, “so young, that if I had not heard the story over and over again from the mouth of my late uncle, the old Admiral, I should scarcely have remembered it. To enable you to comprehend the situation properly, I must trouble you with a few family details. My grandfather had two sons—the Admiral the elder, and my father the younger. My father, when a lieutenant in a marching regiment, fell in love with a very pretty, amiable but portionless girl; my grandfather desired him to marry an heiress; my father refused, and urged his affection for another; my grandfather grew imperative, my father recusant; my grandfather stormed, my father persisted; and the affair ended by my father marrying his lady-love, and my grandfather disinheriting him for so doing. The natural consequences ensued: my grandfather devoted his fortune and influence to my uncle’s advancement, and at the age of fifty he became an admiral; at the same age my father found himself a captain, existing on half-pay, with a microscopic pension and an incurable wound in his side, as rewards for having served his country. ‘England expects every man to do his duty,’ and occasionally recompenses him for it with honourable starvation. As my father’s health decreased his expenses increased, unpaid doctors’ bills stared him in the face, and butchers and bakers grew uncivil and importunate.

“At my grandfather’s death he left every farthing he possessed to his eldest son. Angry at the injustice, my father refused his brother’s offer of an allowance, and unwisely determined to dispute the will. Accordingly, he not only lost his cause, but irritated my uncle to such a degree, that all communication ceased between them. When I was approaching the august age of ten years, and affairs seemed to be coming to a crisis, by some chance I, playing with and apparently absorbed by a regiment of tin soldiers, happened to be present at a family committee of ways and means. During this colloquy, the unfortunate disagreement between the brothers was talked over and lamented by my mother; who exerted all her eloquence to persuade my father to write to this Admiral and inform him of his failing health and ruined fortunes, and trust to his generosity to forgive and forget the past. But my father’s pride stood in the way. He would willingly have been reconciled to his brother, if he had not required pecuniary assistance at his hands; but the consciousness of this necessity rendered him inexorable. So finding his wife’s arguments unanswerable, he adopted the usual resource in such cases—viz., he talked himself into a rage, and flinging out of the room, slammed the door behind him, leaving my mother and me tête-à-tête.

“After a minute’s silence, I surprised her by asking, ‘Papa’s very poor, and my uncle’s very rich; and papa would ask uncle to give him some money, only they quarrelled when grandpapa stopped papa’s pocket-money: isn’t that it, mamma?’

“‘Yes, my dear,’ was the reply; ‘but you must not talk about it to anybody remember.’

“I nodded assent, then resumed, ‘Uncle’s a good, kind man, isn’t he?’

“‘Yes, my love; a good man I know him to be, and he was kind once,’ was the reply.

“‘Then why don’t you go and tell him that papa’s very sorry he was naughty, and wants to make friends again; and if uncle is good and kind, he will say yes; and when they are friends again, uncle will be sure to give him some of his pocket-money without being asked, because they are brothers. Won’t that do, mamma?’

“My mother rose with tears in her eyes, stroked the hair back from my forehead, imprinted a kiss on it, and murmuring, ‘Your papa would never allow me to do so, darling,’ quitted the room.

“Well, I sat and cogitated the matter: even as a child I was of a fearless nature, and confident in my own resources; and at last a plan occurred to me. At that time we lived in London, and I attended a public school as a day-scholar. At this school I had a friend—a boy some two or three years older than myself. To him, in strict confidence, I imparted my scheme, which he was pleased graciously to approve of, and in which he volunteered to aid me. Accordingly, on the following morning, when my parents imagined I was declining hic, hæc, hoc, I was, under the able guidance of my school-fellow, making my way to the office of a coach which passed within half a mile of Coverdale Park. Having seen me set off in high health and spirits, my friend after school-hours left the following note at our house:—

“‘Dear Mamma,—I have gone to see my uncle Coverdale, as you could not do it. Papa never told me not to—so he won’t be angry with me. Thompson saw me off, and will leave this, so no more at present,

“‘From your dutiful son,

“‘H. C.’

“I reached Coverdale Park without adventure, and greatly astonishing a solemn butler by demanding to see my uncle forthwith, was ushered into a large oak-panelled apartment, wherein sat a fine, portly-looking gentleman, eating his dinner in solitary dignity. As soon as his eyes fell upon my features he started, exclaiming—

“‘Bless my soul, boy! who are you?’

“‘Your nephew Harry Coverdale, uncle,’ returned I, looking him full in the face. My gaze seemed rather to embarrass him, for his lips moved convulsively ere he was able to frame a reply. At length he exclaimed angrily—

“‘And pray, sir, what do you want here?’

“Feeling by no means inclined to enter abruptly upon family affairs in presence of the servants, I paused. But certain inward cravings, aroused by the sight of the good things before me, soon furnished me with an idea, and with a decidedly suggestive emphasis, I answered, ‘I have not had any dinner yet.’ My uncle again looked at me, to see whether my observation was the result of impudence or simplicity—deciding apparently in favour of the latter, he desired the servant to place me a chair, and give me a knife and fork. Fortified by a good dinner, and encouraged by a kind twinkle in the corner of my uncle’s eye, which belied all his attempts to look angry, I soon began to chatter away freely, and enlighten my newly-found relative as to my opinion of things in general. After the cloth was removed, and I had volunteered grace; at which my uncle appeared first surprised and then edified, he began—

“‘Now, boy, tell me the truth—but first, you shall have a glass of wine; which will you take?’

“‘I always tell the truth, uncle, even if it gets me a thrashing; and I’ll take port, for that’s the only wine fit for a gentleman,’ answered I, which reply so delighted my uncle, that he poured me out a bumper, and patting me on the back exclaimed—

“‘Bravo, my boy! stick to truth and port wine through life, and you’ll be a credit to your name!’

“That speech of mine won the day! I explained the object of my visit, and that it had originated wholly with myself; and succeeded so well, that on the following morning my uncle accompanied me home, was reconciled to my father, to whom, till the day of his death (which occurred within the next year), he showed every kindness, and after that event took my dear mother to reside with him at the Park, provided for my education, and eventually made me his heir.”

To this recital, followed by a detail of many of those pure thoughts and deep feelings which lie hidden in the breast of every generous-hearted man, till heaven blesses him with a female friend worthy to receive such sacred confidence, did Alice listen with growing interest and sympathy; and when, two hours afterwards, Mr. Hazlehurst returned home in a great state of universal vinous philanthropy, Harry and his companion could scarcely believe they had been walking together for more than half-an-hour.

The week passed away like a dream. Harry walked, and drove, and sang, and read poetry with the young ladies, and found himself especially happy and comfortable. Moreover, he contrived to institute a system of romantic rambles with Alice, during which they talked about all those peculiar subjects which can only be discussed comfortably in a tête-à-tête—thoughts and feelings too delicate to be submitted to the rough handling of a crowd. And Alice, after three days’ experience, told Kate Marsden, in strict confidence, that she had formed the highest opinion of Mr. Coverdale’s principles; that he was so good and sensible, and in every way superior to the young men one generally meets, that it was quite a privilege to possess his friendship—didn’t Kate think so? To which Kate replied in the affirmative; adding, that girls were usually so frivolous and empty-headed that they were not worth cultivating. “Where was the good of making friends of people, unless one could look up to them?” Alice responded, “Where, indeed!” and considered that Kate took a very proper and sensible view of the matter.

One small incident occurred, however, which somewhat ruffled the smooth surface of Alice’s tranquillity. Two or three days after the picnic, there arrived from Mr. Crane a note, together with a slim and genteel quadruped, possessing a greyhound-like outline, shadowy legs, and a long tail, and purporting to be a thoroughly-broken lady’s horse, with which the cotton-spinner begged—“Miss Alice would allow him to replace the pony injured by the furious riding of her brother and Mr. Coverdale,”—an association in iniquity which delighted Tom as much as it provoked Harry, and, secretly, Alice also. This horse Mr. Hazlehurst insisted upon it Alice should not refuse; and he became so angry when a faint remonstrance was attempted, that the poor girl quitted his study in tears—a melancholy fact, which Emily, in a truly feminine and injudicious burst of virtuous indignation, revealed to Coverdale, thereby laying in him the foundation of a deeply-rooted aversion to the animal, which led to results that would have been better avoided.

The morning following the arrival of this undesirable addition to the family, Mr. Hazlehurst announced his intention of riding over to call upon and inquire after Mr. Crane, and his wish (which meant command) that Alice should accompany him on her new horse. “Mr. Coverdale, will you ride with us?” continued the head of the family, graciously; “I do not think you have seen Crane Court yet. The scenery in and around the park is very rich, and the view from the terrace most extensive.”

Harry, in his secret soul disliking Mr. Crane and all that appertained to him, and fancying, moreover, that the presence of Mr. Hazlehurst would effectually neutralise the pleasure of Alice’s society, as their conversation would be thereby restricted to unmeaning commonplaces, was about to invent some polite reason for declining, when, happening to glance at the young lady in question, he read—or imagined he read, something in the expression of her countenance, which induced him to alter his determination. Accordingly, Tom was made happy by obtaining permission to go to the village-inn, where Coverdale’s horses were put up, order the groom to saddle Sir Lancelot, and ride that exemplary quadruped back, as a reward for his trouble.

“How do you like Mr. Crane’s present to my daughter? In my opinion it is one of the most perfect lady’s horses I have ever seen,” complacently remarked Mr. Hazlehurst to Coverdale, as they stood at the hall door, criticising the horses which a groom was leading up and down.

“I dare say the old gentleman”—(Mr. Hazlehurst’s brow darkened)—“paid a high figure for the animal,” was the reply; “it has its good points, and is very well fitted for a park hack; but it’s a weedy, straggling sort of beast—showy action, but badly put together;—and there’s something queer about its eyes—it has an uncomfortable way of leering round at you, and showing the whites, that I don’t like. You can see it’s been fed under the mark, and I shouldn’t wonder if, now it’s on full allowance, it were to turn out skittish.”

“I can’t say I at all agree with you, Mr. Coverdale,” was the hasty reply. “I flatter myself I know something of horses, and I consider this as perfect a lady’s hack as I ever beheld, and a most valuable animal into the bargain. As to temper, it’s as quiet as a lamb—a child might ride it. I must beg you will not say anything which might tend to alarm my daughter, or prejudice her against it.”

Harry turned away to hide a smile, as he replied, “Never fear, sir; Miss Hazlehurst shall form her own opinion of its merits, without my attempting to bias her judgment.”

When Mr. Hazlehurst assisted his daughter to mount, Harry, who really doubted the temper of the animal, watched it closely, and his previous opinion was confirmed by observing that it laid back its ears, glanced viciously round, and at the moment when Alice sprang up, made a faint demonstration with its mouth, as though it coveted a sample of Mr. Hazlehurst from the region of that gentleman’s coat-tails, and was only restrained from attempting to obtain one by a recollection of former punishment. The preliminary arrangements being safely accomplished, the trio started, followed by a mounted groom, Coverdale keeping close to Alice’s bridle-rein.

They had proceeded some distance, without anything occurring to justify his suspicions; and, in spite of all drawbacks, Alice was really beginning to enjoy her ride, when her father proposed a canter; and on quickening her pace, the odd manner in which her horse tossed and shook his head, in some degree alarmed her.

“Loosen the curb-rein a little,” suggested Harry, “and try to hold him entirely by the snaffle. I will keep close to you, so do not be afraid, lest he should bolt.” Alice complied, and the horse appearing to approve of the alteration, ceased to shake its head; but as it became warm to its work, it pulled so hard against the snaffle, that Alice’s delicate hands were unable to prevent the canter from increasing into something very like a gallop. Sir Lancelot kept pace with him, stride for stride; but Mr. Hazlehurst’s short-legged cob—the “dray-horse-in-miniature—warranted-equal-to-sixteen-stone” style of animal, which elderly gentlemen ride for the benefit of their digestions, not being calculated for such fast work, was very soon distanced.

“What has become of papa?” exclaimed Alice, glancing round; “we ought to wait for him, but I can’t make this creature go slower—it pulls dreadfully. May I use the curb?”

“I had rather you did not,” was the reply; “the brute seemed so uneasy when you tried it before—perhaps its mouth is tender; I will examine it when you dismount. Canter on to the next hill, and then we will stop for Mr. Hazlehurst.” And they did so accordingly, though Alice was unable to pull in her horse until Harry leaned over and gave her the assistance of his strong arm.

CHAPTER X.—“EQUO NE CREDITE TEUCRI.”—(Virgil)

“W hy didn’t you hold in your horse, Alice, and ride at a proper lady-like pace, instead of tearing along in that extraordinary manner?” inquired Mr. Hazlehurst, coming up very red in the face, hot, and discomposed; both himself and the cob being entirely out of that useful article, breath.

“I could not contrive to make him go slower, papa,” replied poor Alice, timidly; “even now you see he is very fidgetty, and keeps continually pulling.” This was perfectly true; for the horse, excited by its gallop, began to demonstrate its real character, and refusing to walk, sidled along, tossing its head impatiently, pricking up its ears at every sound, and looking as if it were prepared to shy upon the very slightest provocation.

“Pulling!—yes, of course it does,” rejoined Mr. Hazlehurst, angrily; “you can’t expect to hold a fine, high-couraged animal like that with the snaffle only—tighten the curb-rein directly. Take care what you are doing!—steady! horse, steady!—touch him with the whip on the shoulder. Bless me! she’ll be thrown!”

While Mr. Hazlehurst was speaking they had, in turning a corner, come suddenly upon a wheelbarrow, in which were deposited two jackets and a hat, belonging to some men who were mending the road. The moment Alice’s horse caught sight of this object it stopped short, and as, in obedience to her father’s directions, the frightened girl jerked the curb-rein, and struck the animal with her whip, it reared, and at the same time plunged round so suddenly as to unseat its rider. Fortunately, Coverdale had kept as near to her as possible, and by a quick motion of the bridle-hand and touch with the spur, he caused his horse to turn at the same moment as did that on which Alice was mounted; he was thus enabled to pass his arm round her waist and prevent her from falling.

“Is your foot clear of the stirrup?” he inquired, hastily. Perceiving that it was so, he continued, “Let go the rein, then, and trust yourself entirely to me.” As he spoke, the groom came up, and catching the bridle of the plunging horse, led it away; while Mr. Hazlehurst, descending from his saddle with a greater degree of celerity than might have been expected from a man of his age and stoutness, received his daughter in his arms, and lifted her to the ground;—for which feat of agility, Harry, who was by no means impatient to be relieved of his lovely burthen, mentally anathematised him. Then ensued a great confusion of tongues; Mr. Hazlehurst, being himself chiefly to blame, evinced his penitence by accusing everybody else, especially the groom—an old favourite retainer, who held and expressed a strong ungrammatical and illogical opinion, diametrically opposed to his master’s, on all subjects, divine, moral, and physical. At length, in utter despair of attaining any practical result, Harry, muttering to himself his surprise that people would not adopt his system, and strike out for themselves a quiet way of doing things, coolly took the matter into his own hands, by shifting Alice’s saddle to the back of the cob; when he had completed this arrangement, and assisted the young lady to mount, he politely held Sir Lancelot’s stirrup for the accommodation of Mr. Hazlehurst, observing—

“He will carry you just as quietly and easily as your own horse, sir; he is a hand or two higher, certainly; but if you should take a sudden fancy to leap the next stiff fence you come to, he’ll carry you over it like a bird; so you must set the good against the evil.”

“You’re very kind, sir. Ugh! what a height the brute is!”—(these words accompanied the effort of literally climbing to the saddle)—“But—but—I’ve dropped my pocket-handkerchief—thank-you. What are you going to ride yourself?”

“I am going, if you have no objection, to find out why Mr. Crane’s purchase dislikes to pass that wheelbarrow, and to convince him that there exists a strong necessity for his so doing,” returned Harry, with his head under the flap of a saddle—he being engaged in securing with his own hands the girt around Alice’s discarded steed, despite sundry futile attempts at kicking and biting instituted by that unamiable quadruped.

“Oh, Mr. Coverdale—please—pray do not attempt it!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly; “I’m sure the creature is vicious! you will be thrown and hurt, to a certainty!” Harry, thus apostrophised, emerged from beneath the saddle-flap, and tossing back his dishevelled hair, and replacing his hat, which for the greater convenience of strenuous buckling he had taken off, crossed over to Alice’s side.

“You are holding the reins twisted Miss Hazlehurst,” he said; “let me arrange them for you.” As he restored the reins properly placed to her grasp, somehow their fingers became interlaced, and Harry appeared unable to disentangle his for some seconds; during which space of time, Alice, blushing and turning away her head, murmured imploringly—

“You will not ride that creature!”

“Your father will never be convinced that the brute is unsafe for you unless he sees it in its true colours; besides, I dare say I shall have no trouble in getting it past the barrow—there is a quiet way of doing these things,” was the confident reply. Alice still sought to remonstrate, but in vain; for pressing her delicate fingers as though he were loath to relinquish them, Coverdale turned away with a gay smile, and placing his toe in the stirrup, vaulted lightly to his saddle.

Having waited till Mr. Hazlehurst and his daughter had ridden on a short distance, Harry put his horse in motion, and prepared to follow them; but the moment it caught sight of the alarming wheelbarrow, it again stopped short, and attempted to repeat its former manœuvre. Willing to try mild measures first, Coverdale, although he prevented the animal from dashing round as it had done when it unseated Alice, allowed it to turn, and riding it back a few paces, gave it time to compose its excited feelings, ere he again brought it up to the object of its fear. As it approached the spot he kept it tightly in hand, and, when it began to waver, stimulated its flagging resolution by the most delicate hint imaginable from his “armed heel.” The instant it felt the spur, it swerved aside, dashed round, and as soon as its head was turned in a homeward direction, evinced an unmistakable desire to bolt. Harry’s brow grew dark. “Lend me your whip,” he said, approaching the servant, who sat grinning with the satisfaction usually displayed by professional horsemen on witnessing the discomfiture of an amateur rider—more especially if the amateur happen to be a gentleman.

“You be too good-natured with him, Mr. Coverdale; you should give it him hot and strong, sir. But law! that hanimal ain’t fit for ladies and gentlemen; he wants a reglar sharp rough-rider on his back, that’ll take the nonsense out of him, he do.”

“Your whip is too light; get down and cut me a good, tough ash stick out of the hedge there. I will hold your horse,” was the only reply Harry vouchsafed.

The man glanced at his face in surprise, and seeing that he was in earnest, hastened to execute his wishes, returning in two or three minutes with a couple of plants of ground-ash, about the thickness of a finger. Having carefully examined these, Harry selected the one he considered the most serviceable.

The groom watched him narrowly. “So you really means business, eh, sir?” he said.

“I do,” was the concise reply, as, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, Harry turned and rode off.

Probably, from some instinctive consciousness that he was not to be allowed his own way without more serious opposition than he had yet encountered, the horse, as he drew near the dreaded spot, displayed stronger signs of fear and ill-temper than before, staring from side to side, with his ears in constant motion, arching his neck, and tossing the foam-flakes from his mouth, as he impatiently champed the bit. The moment he caught sight of the wheelbarrow, he swerved aside with a bound which would have unseated any but a firstrate horseman, and attempted his usual manœuvre of turning round. In this he was foiled by an unpleasantly sharp stroke on the side of the nose from the ash sapling, which, obliging him to turn in an opposite direction, brought him again in sight of the wheelbarrow, while a stronger application of the spurs caused him to bound forward; thereupon he reared, but a crack over the ears brought him down again; then he set to kicking, for which he was rewarded by finding his mouth violently sawed by the snaffle-bit, while a perfect tornado of blows from the ash stick was hailed upon his flanks and shoulders. Finding this the reverse of agreeable, he, as a last resource, reared till he stood perfectly erect, pawing the air wildly with his forefeet. But he had overshot the mark.

At the conclusion of the previous struggle, the ash stick had broken off short in Coverdale’s hand; consequently, he was prevented from applying the counter-irritation principle as before, and was only able, by great quickness, to extricate his feet from the stirrups, ere the horse overbalanced itself, and fell heavily backwards. Fortunately for his own safety, Harry was unusually prompt and active in all situations of danger; and, in the present emergency, these qualities stood him in good stead. Although, of course, unable entirely to free himself from the falling animal, he contrived to slip aside, so that it should not fall upon him; and almost as soon as the frightened creature had regained its legs, he also had sprung up, apparently unhurt, and leaped upon its back. But the fight was won. Completely cowed by its fall, and wearied out by the pertinacity of its rider, the conquered animal permitted Coverdale to ride it backwards and forwards past the dreaded wheelbarrow, approaching nearer at each turn, until at length he made it pause, with its nose within half-a-yard of the alarming jackets, and discover for itself that they were made of fustian, of the most innocent quality, and flavoured with the usual cottage smell of bacon and wood smoke.

Elated with his success, he rejoined Alice and her father, saying, as he did so, “Well, Miss Hazlehurst, I told you there was a quiet way of taming the dragon, and you see I was right.”

Alice, who was very pale and trembling, murmured something about her “rejoicing that he was not hurt.” But Mr. Hazlehurst, who appeared unusually cross and grumpy, replied, “If that’s what you call a quiet way of enforcing obedience, Mr. Coverdale, all I can say is, I pity any poor creature that happens to be under your control!”

CHAPTER XI.—“POST EQUITEM SEDET ATRA CURA.”—(Horace)

Mr. Hazlehurst, in his position of father of a family, had been so long accustomed to consider his will law, that the possibility of his being in the wrong was one which he never contemplated; the fact, therefore, of any one having proved him to be so, constituted in his eyes a high and unpardonable misdemeanour. Of this capital crime had Harry Coverdale, on the occasion just described, been guilty; and Mr. Hazlehurst, albeit outwardly he resumed his usual manner towards his guest, could not in his secret soul either forget or forgive his offence—more especially as the circumstance of Mr. Crane’s present being demonstrated to be unsafe for a lady to ride (and that it was so, even Mr. Hazlehurst’s powers of self-deception could not conceal from him), was at that particular juncture of affairs singularly embarrassing. Of this change of sentiment straightforward, unsuspicious Harry never dreamed; accordingly, he continued to behave towards the old gentleman as freely as he had hitherto done, maintaining his own opinions, even when they entirely differed from those of his host, courteously, indeed, but with the sturdy independence natural to his character—a sturdiness which, until it was exerted in opposition to his sovereign will and pleasure, Mr. Hazlehurst had particularly admired. So for the rest of the week affairs (with this single exception) went on most agreeably and satisfactorily to all parties.

Harry, having once broken the ice, contrived speedily to win the good opinions (to use no stronger term) of all the female portion of the community. From the kind attention he paid Mrs. Hazlehurst, he soon acquired so much influence over that amiable lady that, to please him, she consented to various schemes devised for her benefit and amusement, which her daughters had previously urged upon her in vain;—for instance, when Harry, instructed by Alice in regard to times and seasons and the like minor particulars, came at the very moment when she was going to decide that she did not feel equal to going out at all that day, to tell her that the pony-phaeton was waiting at the door, and that he should really think her unkind, and imagine he must have done something to offend her, if she refused to allow him the pleasure of carrying her to the chaise, and driving her just far enough to do her good, and not to tire her,—what could she do but consent? Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte. This point gained, if was easy to persuade the invalid to take a short excursion daily; and as her complaint was in some degree on the nerves, the beneficial effects of the fresh air and exercise soon became apparent. Moreover, as Alice knew how to drive a little, and wished to improve in that useful accomplishment, Harry could do no less, when he had brought Mrs. Hazlehurst safely home from her daily drive, than take out the young lady, and give her a lesson; and as these lessons usually lasted some two hours at a stretch, the fat ponies began to get into excellent working condition, and considering themselves put upon, wondered why the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals neglected to interfere in their behalf. Emily, too, had quite altered her opinion of their guest, and entirely sympathised with Tom’s declaration that he was “a stunning good fellow, and no mistake!” Kate Marsden said little, but observed the progress of events with calm approval; for she perceived that to be going on, which would greatly facilitate the execution of certain schemes which she had devised.

At length arrived the important day of the dinner-party. Were we called upon to define the meaning of the term dinner-party, we should denominate it an awful immolation of mind to matter, a wanton sacrifice of the head to the stomach. Why, on a hot summer’s day, eighteen individuals, supposed to be in their proper senses, who might dine at home if they chose, should agree of their own free-will to victimise themselves and each other by congregating together in one room, for the space of two mortal hours, to eat—and, in the case of the lords of the creation, probably to drink also—a great deal more than is good for them, is one of those social problems of which we expect to arrive at the solution about the time when mankind is thoroughly regenerated by Miss Martineau’s atheological views (to coin a word), but not before.

If there were no other argument against this insane system of monster dinner-parties, the frightful state of discomfort into which the family of the giver of the feast is thrown by the coming event, would alone be sufficient to prove our case. Unless the establishment be on a scale proportionable to that of the individual who, on finding the number of his guests exceeded the means of conveyance provided for them, coolly ordered round “more phaetons!” anarchy and confusion reign predominant throughout the devoted mansion for at least four-and-twenty hours before the affair comes off. In the first place the servants, male and female, all go mad; if you give an order, the recipient stares you vacantly in the face, and does something else immediately; if you lay down a book, or any similar article, in its proper place, somebody instantly removes it and hides it in an improper one, where you are fortunate if you stumble upon it by accident in the course of the following six months. The lunacy of the servants reacts upon their betters—everybody is a little out of temper, everybody is over-officious, and has a way of his or her own for doing everything diametrically opposed to the variously diverging ways of everybody else. From the earliest dawn the very garrets are redolent of “making soup,” which odour remains in possession of the house till about the time at which luncheon should be, but of course is not, forthcoming, when it is superseded, and retires vice the venison put down to roast, which we would rather decree should be “put down” as a nuisance—at least, as far as regards our olfactory nerves. But it were an endless task to attempt to sum up all the miseries incidental to the preparations for celebrating one of those “feasts of un-reason,” nor do we expect very many of the gentle public to sympathise in our views; for in every society which we have as yet frequented, “L’Amphitryon où l’on dine,” though he be heavy as his own dinners, is certain to be a popular man.

However this may be, one thing is certain, that Harry Coverdale, on the morning preceding the dinner-party at the Grange, experiencing in his proper person many of the inconveniences alluded to, and having made several attempts to improve his position, by seeking to induce somebody to do something sensible or agreeable, all of which proved abortive, by reason of the impossibility of extracting even Alice from the vortex of preparation—Harry Coverdale, thus victimised, faute de mieux, mounted his good steed, and set off to ride away from the blue devils; but the remedy did not succeed—the devils followed him, and grew bluer and bluer with every mile he passed over, and, at last, the bluest of them all assumed the likeness of Mr. Crane!

“Confound Mr. Crane!”—thus ran Harry’s thoughts—“confound the old fellow! he’s coming to marry Alice—my nice, warm-hearted little friend, Alice! I don’t by any means approve of it. He’s old enough to be her father, or anybody else’s, for that matter: the thing is ridiculous—quite absurd!—Besides, the dear little girl dislikes him—naturally she does: there’s nothing to like in him. Why, she cares more about me than she does about him!” He paused in thought, removed his hat, pushed back his thick, clustering hair, put his hat on again, and continued: “I declare, if I’d not entirely made up my mind against marrying, I’d enter for the stakes myself, and see if one could not jockey the old fellow and governor Hazlehurst too. Alice is a prize well worth winning; but it’s too late to change one’s mind! I ought to have behaved differently to her at first, if I’d wanted her to fall in love with me—though I think I’ve got over all that pretty thoroughly, too. Ah! well, I’ve chosen my line, and must stick to it; and as the shooting season isn’t so very far off now, thank goodness, I shall contrive to make it out somehow, I dare say. And, by Jove, there’s a whole pack of birds sunning themselves in that great field—five or six coveys all got together—and stunning good coveys they must be, too. There’s a gap in the hedge; I’ll leap over and see if I can get near enough to count them. Now, Lancelot—steady, sir!—you must do it—over we go! Famously cleared! I wouldn’t take five hundred guineas for you, you beauty! that I wouldn’t. We’ll show some of ’em the way across country when the hunting begins; won’t we astonish their weak minds for them, rather!” and so, patting and caressing his horse, Harry made a wide circuit, and availing himself of the shelter of a belt of trees, contrived to get near enough to the partridges to count them; by which process he arrived at the interesting discovery that there were exactly thirty brace, with one bird over; which ornithological irregularity rather distressed and provoked him, though why it should have done so neither he nor, as we imagine, any one else, could possibly conceive.

But the partridges being counted, back came the blue devils in greater force than ever: and his thoughts grew so troublesome, not to say unbearable, that Harry began to imagine he must be bewitched—a supposition in which, perhaps, he was not so very far wrong after all. As a last refuge against his persecutors, he resolved on a good gallop; and so made his way across country, a distance of some eight miles, as straight as the crow flies, leaping gates and crashing through hedges in a very reckless and steeple-chasing kind of manner, which obtained for him a more than sufficient amount of hard British swearing from sundry irate members of the Agricultural Association, who, for once in their lives, had a real grievance to complain of. As he cleared the last fence leading into the park in which the Grange was situated, the village clock struck six, and he could perceive a carriage, with the Crane liveries (green turned up with yellow), winding slowly through the trees. Three minutes more found him in the stable-yard, and flinging the bridle of his reeking steed to his groom, while he uttered the hasty caution, “You see the state he’s in; take proper care of him,” he made his way to his bedroom by a back staircase, overturning a water-can, and running into the arms of a pretty housemaid (to whom he apologised by mentioning that he was sorry he was in too great a hurry to give her a kiss), in the course of his rapid career. And so, very hot, very dusty, considerably tired, and with a most unromantic appetite, he set vigorously to work to (as servants inelegantly, but graphically term it) clean himself.

When, some twenty minutes afterwards, Coverdale reached the drawing-room, he found all the guests assembled. Many of them, to whom he was personally known, immediately claimed acquaintance, recognising him in spite of the improvements which his residence abroad had wrought in his manners and appearance. Some two or three of the younger men were old college chums, who were really overjoyed to see him again, and who immediately gathered round him and besieged him with questions. Glancing round the circle, he perceived D’Almayne bending tenderly over Alice; but the sight no longer annoyed him—he had got over that. Alice saw the exquisite in his true colours; Alice had laughed at him—poor D’Almayne! But on her other hand sat the cotton-spinner, and he was more formidable; for he did not (fortunately for himself) depend on his personal attractions alone—there were twenty thousand solid good reasons per annum why he should not be refused; reasons which rendered his alliance with Mr. Hazlehurst’s family so desirable, that all that gentleman’s paternal authority was certain to be stretched to its uttermost limit to enable Mr. Crane to carry his point. Moreover, as Harry entered the drawing-room, Tom had given him the following note:—

“Dear Hal,—I have written to tell the governor that I shall be detained in court so late that it will be impossible for me to get away to-night (the truth, you heretic!). I shall start by the first train to-morrow, and be with you to breakfast. Keep a sharp look-out upon the cotton-spinner; and if at any moment he appears as if he were preparing to pop, throw a book at his head without hesitation! So will you continue to deserve the good opinion of,

“Arthur H.”

At dinner, Coverdale was seated next a fast young lady, who rather made love to him than otherwise; but she did not take much by her motion, for Harry had a good deal of business on his hands. First, there was his appetite to satisfy, and the monster was very insatiate after his gallop across country; next, he felt it incumbent upon him to keep a strict watch over Mr. Crane and Alice, who were seated nearly opposite to him; and he seriously debated in his own mind whether a finger-glass might not be considered a legitimate substitute for a book, on one or two occasions, when the cotton-spinner appeared to be attempting the excessively tender. Good eating requires good drinking; thirst demands Pale Ale, etiquette obliges Champagne, and the mixed duties of society necessitate Port and Sherry; Hock is very refreshing in hot weather; it is no use to hand round Curaçoa, if people won’t drink it; Hermitage and Lunel are so nice, that everybody takes them; Claret is a necessity in all properly ordered establishments; and if your host produces a bottle of good old Burgundy, he must be a fool who refuses to taste it. But for a man to do all this, and at the same time to think, feel, and express himself as coolly and prudently as he would after a mutton-chop and a glass of table-beer, would require him to possess a brain made of cast-iron, and no heart at all, and such was by no means the physical conformation of our hero. Harry, however, possessed a good strong head of his own; and although, as dessert proceeded, his eyes grew brighter, and he involuntarily emulated D’Almayne by smiling frequently, and unconsciously displaying an even row of white teeth, these peculiarities only served to make him look especially handsome. But the wine did something else; for, as the ladies rose to leave the room, it inspired him with a determination to jockey D’Almayne, who usually usurped the privilege of opening the door on such occasions—a “cutting out” expedition which Harry conducted with equal skill and success. As Alice, who came last, passed him, some spirit (whether of wine, or another equally favourite theme for minstrel’s lay, we cannot tell) urged him to bend his head, and whisper the inquiry, “Have you been happy with your delightful companion?”

A contemptuous smile, and a slight negative motion of the lips answered the question; and, for a moment, their eyes met. Alice’s must have been a singularly expressive glance, for Harry read therein that she was anxious and dispirited, but felt a vague and general reliance on his willingness and ability to afford her comfort and protection.

Had Mr. Crane known the exact feelings with which Coverdale grasped a finger-glass, and mentally calculated the amount of force it would require to launch the missile against the chinchilla-crowned head of his opposite neighbour, that worthy man would scarcely have ventured to continue his mild and meaningless prosing so contentedly.

CHAPTER XII.—HARRY PUTS HIS FOOT IN IT.

The moment Harry reseated himself at the dining-table, two of his old college friends placed themselves beside him, and plunging at once into recollections of “auld-lang-syne,” completely monopolised him. The sound of his own name eagerly pronounced, roused him at length from an interesting reminiscence of how gloriously drunk Jones of Magdalen had been at Tippleton’s wine-party (when he would sing a pathetic ballad, beginning, “There’s a wail on the mountain!” and was stopped by a roar of laughter, chorusing the inquiry, “how the deuce it—the whale—got there?”). The speaker was Mr. Hazlehurst. “Excuse my interrupting your conversation for a few minutes, Mr. Coverdale,” he began, “but we want your opinion. You’ve travelled and seen the working of different tariff regulations, and had opportunities of comparing the prosperity of other nations with that of our own, while at the same time you are a sufficiently large landed-proprietor to give you a stake in the country, and to induce you to feel a strong interest in the general prospects of the agricultural population. I am sure you must agree with me in considering protection a most essential and salutary measure.”

“If I might be allowed to make just one observation before Mr. Coverdale favours us with his views on this important question,” insinuated Mr. Crane, in the mildest and most affectionate tone of voice imaginable—wine always reducing this excellent man to a state of weak and inappropriate philanthropy—“if I might observe that, with the highest respect for, and admiration of, the agricultural population of this great country, I feel it incompatible with my feelings as a Protestant, and therefore, so to speak, in a general way as a brother, not to say as a man also, and more particularly as a mill-owner, to forget the thousands of operatives who crowd our large cities, and who, when satisfied with cheap bread, add to the dignity and prosperity of the nation; but, on the contrary, when deprived of this means of support, object to resign themselves to the dispensations of a beneficent Providence, and fly in the face of society as chartists, levellers, red-republicans, and all that is dangerous and subversive of morality and security of property. If I may so far presume as to call Mr. Coverdale’s attention to the desirableness of providing food at a rate which will enable the manufacturing classes to exist without constantly working themselves up into a state of illegal desperation, I shall feel that I have, if I may be allowed the expression, unburthened my conscience.” Thus saying, Mr. Crane cast a timid and appealing look from Harry to his host, and sipped a glass of Burgundy with the air of a man apologising for some misdeed.

“It is not a subject upon which I have ever expended any vast amount of consideration,” began Coverdale, wishing in his secret soul that he might have the feeding of Mr. Crane for the ensuing six months entrusted to him, in which case he would have afforded that gentleman an opportunity of practically testing the merits of very cheap bread indeed, and of nothing else—except, perhaps, cold spring water; “but the common sense of the matter appears to lie in a nutshell: the two great divisions of the poorer classes are the manufacturing poor and the agricultural poor, the manufacturers being the most numerous—to sacrifice one to the other is unfair, but to offer up the greater to the less is ridiculous. Free-trade has had a fair trial, and has been proved to benefit the masses, though it lies heavily on the land-owners. Well, then, relieve land of its burthens, and make the income-tax permanent to reimburse the Exchequer. That’s the line I should take if I were Premier, which, thank heaven, I’m not.”

As Harry concluded, two or three men began to speak at once, but Mr. Hazlehurst, by a solemn wave of the hand, immediately silenced them. That excellent magistrate had drunk more wine than was by any means good for him; his constitution was gouty, and he had not had a fit for some time; before such attacks he was usually as irritable as though his brain were a hedgehog, and society at large a pack of wire-haired terriers attempting to unroll it. Claret was the most unwholesome wine he could take, and on the evening in question he had imbibed nearly a bottle thereof; but of all this dessous des cartes, Harry was innocently unconscious.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” began Mr. Hazlehurst, solemnly, “but the right of reply at present rests with myself. Moreover, if my ears did not deceive me, Mr. Coverdale has made an observation which I must call upon him either to explain or retract; but in the first place, let me express my surprise and regret, sir,” here he addressed himself pointedly to Harry, “that a young man in your position, a large landed-proprietor, a lover of field-sports, possessing a practical knowledge of land, and a personal acquaintance with the habits and customs of the agricultural poor—the bone and sinews of our country, should thus turn against and betray the interests of the class to which he belongs, and league himself with those who would, in their shortsightedness, sap the vitals of that free and independent character which has made us the great nation that we are. With regard to the observation to which I alluded, I believe, that having stigmatised the opinions I hold as a sacrifice of the greater to the less, you deliberately pronounced those opinions ridiculous. Have I not repeated your words correctly?”

“I certainly said that to sacrifice the greater number to the less would be ridiculous,” returned Harry, completely taken aback at this sudden and unexpected accusation; “but I only meant—”

“You meant what you said, I presume?” interposed Mr. Hazlehurst, in the magisterial tone of voice in which he was accustomed to cross-examine and be down upon equivocating poachers.

“Of course I did,” returned Harry, his eyes flashing as he observed a sarcastic smile upon the face of Horace D’Almayne. “I always mean what I say; but my remark related solely to general principles, and had not the smallest reference to you personally, sir.”

“Which is equivalent to saying, that I do not understand the common meaning of words,” returned Mr. Hazlehurst, in the same irritating tone of voice. “Really, Mr. Coverdale, your explanations do not tend to do away with the unfavourable impression your observation forced upon me.”

“It is equivalent to nothing of the kind, sir,” rejoined Harry, losing his self-command as a second glance at D’Almayne revealed the fact that he was hiding a laugh behind an elaborately-worked cambric handkerchief; “but if you chose to put a wrong construction upon every word I utter, it is useless for me to discuss the matter further with a man so—a—so——”

At this critical moment, Tom Hazlehurst, who had been listening with a countenance of blank dismay to the altercation between his father and his friend, contrived, either by accident or design, to throw down and break a valuable china plate. This incident created a diversion by calling forth an outburst of parental wrath, under cover whereof Harry regained sufficient self-control to enable him to suppress the word “wrong-headed,” with which he had been on the point of concluding his sentence. At the same time, Mr. Crane, having a mortal antipathy to anything like quarrelling, which, as he said, produced “an insalubrious agitation of his nervous system,” or, in plain English, frightened him out of his wits, suggested that they should join the ladies—a proposal which led to a general move. Five minutes’ reflection, in an atmosphere less oppressive than that of the heated dining-room, caused Harry to perceive that, by having allowed himself to be provoked by the obstinacy of a pig-headed and slightly tipsy old gentleman into even a momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to Mr. Hazlehurst’s years and position, he had acted wrongly and foolishly. It moreover occurred to him, now that it was too late to be of the slightest use, that owing to this unfortunate disagreement he must have completely neutralised any influence he might have possessed with his host, and thus, in fact, frustrated the whole purpose of his visit: by which means Arthur would be vexed, and the possibility of Alice’s marriage with Mr. Crane rather increased than otherwise. Just as he was about to exchange the cool air of the garden (whither on leaving the dining-room he had betaken himself) for the less agreeable temperature of a crowded drawing-room, he was patted on the shoulder by one of his college acquaintance.

“Ah, Knighton! what is it man?” Observed Harry, wishing his dear friend at Jericho. “I took you for the stem of a tree, you stood so motionless.”

“Why the fact is, my dear fellow,” returned Knighton, a well-disposed goose, who, when Harry first commenced his college career, had formed an enthusiastic attachment for him, in return for which he expected his friend to advise him how to act and what to say upon every occasion, trifling as well as important—a tax which even Harry’s good-nature found somewhat oppressive, “the fact is, I consider it quite providential, if I may say so, finding you here to-night: you know I always like to have your opinion before I make up my mind; there is nobody with such good sense as you, at least, nobody that I’ve ever met with. My dear Coverdale, I’m going to take the most important step—that is, if you see no reason against it, which I can scarcely feel a doubt of; but I’ll tell you the whole affair, beginning properly at the beginning. When I was down in Hampshire three years ago——” but we will not inflict Mr. Knighton’s amiable prolixity on the reader, suffice it to say that, having linked his arm within that of Coverdale, he paraded his victim up and down a gravel walk for the space of at least three quarters of an hour, while he poured into his ears as dull a tale of true love as ever ran smooth: true love of the very mildest quality, which, from the beginning, was certain to end simply and naturally in a stupid marriage, about the whole of which affair there could not by possibility be two opinions. At length, when Harry had agreed, with everything and to everything at least twice over, and strongly advised his tormentor to act as he felt certain he would have done if his advice had been just the other way (for this young man, although he eagerly sought counsel, by no means considered himself bound to walk thereby), it suddenly occurred to Mr. Knighton that he was doing an unkind thing by his friend, and a rude one by his host, in not sooner joining the ladies; accordingly, at (literally) the eleventh hour, he exercised thus much self-denial, viz. having nothing more to say, he said it.

When Coverdale entered the drawing-room, he cast round his eyes to discover what might have become of Alice and Mr. Crane, and failing to perceive them, was about to find some excuse for making his way into the boudoir beyond, when Emily pounced upon him to entreat him to sing for the edification of some dear Mary Jane or other, who was dying to hear him; and the very identical Mary Jane herself seconding the request in a mild, insinuating, blatant tone of voice, as of some bashful but persuasive sheep, there remained nothing for him but to consent, which he did with a very ill grace indeed. Having dashed through a tender and sentimental Italian love-ditty in a ferocious, not to say sanguinary, style, he declared he was so hoarse that he could not sing another note, and again made an attempt to enter the boudoir, which he succeeded in reaching just in time to see Alice quit the room with a heightened colour, and in a manner which betokened hurry and agitation, while Mr. Crane remained gazing after her with a countenance indicative of the deepest and most helpless bewilderment. From these symptoms Harry rightly conjectured that while he had been off duty the cotton-spinner had popped; but whether his offer had been accepted or rejected he was utterly unable to divine. Mr. Crane looked stupid and puzzle-pated—but that he was sure to do in any case. For the rest of the evening Coverdale was in a fearful state of mind; people stayed late, and it seemed to him as if everybody had entered into a league to worry and torment him. First, the young lady who had sat next him at dinner got at him again, and flirted at him so violently, that (his thoughts running entirely on marrying and giving in marriage) he became possessed of a nervous dread lest she should be going to make him an offer—this idea gaining confirmation from its suddenly occurring to him that it was Leap-year, he grew desperate, and pretending that Emily had made him promise to sing again, astonished that damsel by crossing over to inform her that his hoarseness had entirely departed, and that he should have the greatest pleasure in favouring her friend with the song she had wished to hear; for which piece of inconsistency Emily bestowed upon him a glance so penetrating and satirical, that he longed to box her pretty pert little ears for it. When the song was over, Knighton emerged from behind a broad old lady, somebody’s mother-in-law, very far gone in Curaçoa, which she concealed behind a pious zeal for clothing the female natives of Barelyaragon (an unknown island, discovered by Juan de Chuzacruz in the sixteenth century, and forgotten ever since) in the cast-off garments of the Bluecoat-School boys. The moment Knighton got clear of this philanthropic elder he pounced upon Coverdale, and carrying him off to a recess, then and there related to him an additional episode in his amatory career, which was not of the slightest importance either to himself or to anybody else, but which took nearly as long to communicate as the original history. During this infliction, Harry’s attention was occupied by observing the behaviour of Mr. Crane. Almost as soon as Alice quitted the boudoir, Kate Marsden had entered it, and begun a long and apparently interesting conversation with Mr. Crane, during which that gentleman, who at the commencement appeared rather low and desponding, gradually brightened up, and, under the influence of his fair companion’s society, grew quite lively and animated; in fact (if by any stretch of imagination the reader can connect two such antagonistic and incongruous ideas as Mr. Crane and flirtation), an uninitiated spectator, beholding the pair, might legitimately have come to the conclusion that Kate Marsden and the cotton-spinner were very decidedly and unmistakably flirting.

The longest evenings come to an end at last, and Coverdale having seen Knighton safely deposited in a dog-cart, with nobody to bore but a sleepy groom, was making his way to the spot where the bedroom candlesticks were usually to be discovered, when he suddenly encountered Mr. Hazlehurst. Standing aside to let him pass, Harry, in his most polite and conciliatory manner, wished him good-night. The only reply vouchsafed was the slightest and stiffest possible nod of the head, and with a countenance as dark and lowering as the most viciously disposed thunder-cloud, the offended autocrat passed on.

CHAPTER XIII.—“DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL.”

When Coverdale reached his own room, his first act was to lock the door, his next to fling open the window; he then untied his neck-cloth, pulled off his coat and boots, and substituting for them a dressing-gown and slippers, cast a long, lingering glance at his cigar-case. Shaking his head negatively, he muttered, “I daren’t risk it; old Hazlehurst has a wonderful nose for tobacco—if it were but as good for partridges and pheasants he’d make an invaluable retriever!”—he paused, sighed deeply, partly for want of a cigar—partly because, though he was not at all aware of it, one of the great realities of life was for the first time dawning upon him; then drawing a chair to the open window he seated himself, and gave way to thought.

“I’ve made a pretty mess of it this evening, and no mistake!”—thus ran his ideas—“gone and offended the governor, and rendered him as cantankerous as an old rhinoceros, so that the more I want him to do anything, the less likely he’ll be to do it. Then in my confounded good-nature, I’ve allowed that ass Knighton to detain me with his stupid prosing, so that I lost sight of the cotton-spinner, and gave him a chance of making Alice an offer—a chance of which the old fellow was inspired with wit enough to avail himself, I’m almost certain. Arthur will be preciously savage! and enough to make him—the notion of sacrificing Alice to such an old anatomy as that—a yellow-skinned brute like a resuscitated mummy, without more than two ideas in his head, and two such ideas—cash and cotton! he thinks of nothing else, asleep or awake. I wonder what answer Alice gave him; but there isn’t much doubt of that, the poor girl daren’t disobey her father—besides, women don’t refuse £20,000 a-year. Well, I wish old Crane joy of his bargain. She’ll soon get sick of him, and be miserable of course; then she’ll take to flirting with every young fellow she meets, to get rid of her ennui; chose out one to establish a platonic friendship with, perhaps!—I’ve seen all that sort of thing in France and Italy often enough. D’Almayne very likely, he’s just the sort of puppy to lead a woman on—she laughs at him now, but it may be different when she’s only old Crane to contrast him with. By the way, I’ll give Arthur a hint on that score.” He rose, paced up and down the room several times, then continued—“I wonder what the deuce is the matter with me! I feel most absurdly and unpleasantly miserable.” He reseated himself by the window, tossed back his hair, and sat silently watching the moon, just then emerging from behind a bank of clouds. It was a time and scene to elevate and refine man’s nature; and Harry was not insensible to the influence. He thought of his boyhood, and his mother’s tender love; he recurred to the moonlight stroll in which he had confided these cherished memories to Alice, and the warm and ready sympathy with which she listened to the recital; then minute points in their subsequent intercourse forced themselves into his recollection—smiles, words, and glances, trifles in themselves, but when collected, suggestive of a definite idea; and lastly, her look when she quitted the dining-room that evening flashed across him, and with a sudden start he pressed his hand to his forehead as he resumed—“Fool that I am, I see it all now—now when it is too late I love her, and I might have won her love—it only required to tell her of my own feelings, to change the affectionate interest she has conceived for me into a warmer sentiment; and now, perhaps piqued by my apparent indifference, she has accepted this man, and sealed her own unhappiness—and mine too, for that matter; but I deserve it! Why did I let this chance of a bright future escape me! To fancy that the mere physical excitements of hunting and shooting (pastimes for a thoughtless boy) could content a being endowed with reason and feeling!—though really I doubt whether I deserve such a title. I must have been blind—stultified, not to see all this before!” Burying his face in his hands, he remained for some time in deep and self-upbraiding thought; rousing himself at length by an effort, he continued—“well! it’s no good sitting here tormenting myself all night long—I’ll go to bed (though, of course, I shall not sleep a wink), and in the morning I’ll walk over to the station, meet Arthur—tell him how I’ve mismanaged everything he expected me to do, and find some excuse for leaving this place to-morrow. I should go mad if I were to stay here longer! Heigho! I wonder what will become of me—it will be no pleasure to look forward to the shooting season now! I don’t believe I shall ever care to hit a bird or mount a horse again. I’ll go to India, and join the army as a volunteer, or start off to look for the north pole, or something. I shall hang myself if I stay at home, and do nothing but think about Alice and that detestable old Crane!” By the time his meditations had reached this point, Coverdale was unrobed, and, jumping disconsolately into bed, had not laid his head on his pillow for five minutes ere he fell sound asleep, and dreamed of a battue, in which he tried to shoot Mr. Crane (who, on that occasion only, appeared ornithologically and picturesquely attired in the tail and plumage of a cock-pheasant), and could by no means induce his gun to go off.

The sun shining in through the open window awoke Harry, when he fancied he might have been asleep about a quarter of an hour; on referring to his watch, however, he found it was halfpast six, and as the train by which Arthur Hazlehurst was expected would arrive at twenty minutes past seven, and it was a good half-hour’s walk to the station, he rose and began dressing. As his thoughts recurred to the events of the previous evening, all his cares and anxieties came back upon him with redoubled force, and he felt more thoroughly out of sorts and unhappy than he ever remembered to have done since he had come to man’s estate. When the operation of shaving obliged him to look in the glass, he was surprised, and if the truth must be told, rather alarmed also, as he caught sight of the expression of his features. “What a hang-dog, miserable brute I look like!” he muttered to himself; “it strikes me I drank more wine than is good for one last night—that comes of old Hazlehurst bringing out Burgundy after everybody had had enough. The old boy must have been frightfully screwed himself, or he would never have got so cantankerous with me about nothing—I hate a man who grows quarrelsome over his liquor! Heigho! I feel shockingly seedy and down in the mouth, What the deuce am I to say to Arthur!—how on earth am I to set things right again with the old man! I wonder whether he will be stupid enough to expect me to make an apology? I wouldn’t mind doing it to an old codger like that, but ’pon my word I should not know what to say—I’ve nothing to apologise about that I can see. I hope Arthur won’t be angry, or worse still, unhappy about Alice—poor, dear Alice: if she comes down to breakfast looking miserable, I shall never be able to stand it! I’d better not look at her at all—that will be the only plan: I’ll be off before luncheon. When I get home, all by myself, and have nothing to do but sit and think, I shall have a pleasant life of it! Well, I certainly have gone and done it this time handsomely—rather!”

Thus fretting and worrying himself he finished dressing, and, making his way quietly down stairs, effected his exit unobserved. Fancying he was late he started at a brisk walk, and having crossed the open part of the park, reached a stile at the entrance of a grass-grown footpath overshadowed with trees. Before entering this he looked at his watch, and found that instead of too late he was too early, by nearly half an hour; accordingly, getting leisurely over the stile, he strolled onward in the direction of a rustic bench, which he remembered to have seen some short distance farther up the path, where, if the truth must be told, he proposed to console himself with a cigar. As he came in sight of this bench he perceived that it was occupied, and a second glance was scarcely needed to convince him that the occupant was Alice. For a moment he was perplexed as to what course to take, whether to join her, or to retrace his steps, and avoid a meeting which he felt, under the circumstances, must necessarily be most embarrassing. Perceiving that the young lady’s head was turned in the opposite direction, and that she had therefore not yet seen him, he drew back a pace or two, so as to place the trunk of a towering elm between them. “What shall I do?” thought Harry; “I have not an idea what to say to her that would be likely to be of any use; in fact, there’s nothing to be said. She has accepted old Crane, and now she’s come here to meet Arthur, tell him what she’s done, say she could not help it, and ask him to forgive her and make the best of it. I shall be de trop evidently, so the best thing I can do is to jog back again; and yet—and yet I should like to walk by her side, and look into her dear blue eyes once more—heigho! I almost wish my dream would come true, only reversed, and that I were the pheasant and Crane going to shoot me, though I should not be in much danger, for the old muff would be safe to miss me. Well, I suppose I’d better be off—is she there still? yes, but what is she doing—crying?—why by heaven she’s crying as if her heart would break! Oh, you know I can’t stand this, so it’s no use thinking any more about it; speak to her I must and will!” And, suiting the action to the word, he was about to spring forward and join her, when it occurred to him that it would only distress and annoy her if he were to obtrude his presence upon her when, imagining herself alone, she was unrestrainedly giving way to her grief; so, with that tact springing from innate delicacy of feeling which prevented Coverdale’s honest, straightforward character from ever becoming rough or overbearing, he waited till poor Alice had dried her tears, and with slow, listless footsteps (sadly different from her usual bounding and elastic gait) resumed her walk in the direction of the railway-station. As soon as she was fairly started Harry emerged from his hiding-place, and followed her with vigorous strides. When he had approached within hearing distance, he endeavoured by various means, such as stamping with his feet, brushing against the underwood as he passed, and the like, to render her aware of his presence, but for some minutes without success. At length, however, a violent onslaught he made against a blackthorn bush (by which means he acquired a practical knowledge of the penetrating properties of thorns) attracted her attention, and with a start sufficiently violent to show that her nervous system was unusually excited, she turned and beheld him. Re-assured by finding that the alarming sounds had been caused by the approach of a friend, rather than by that of a wild beast or an ogre (plagues so common in the midland counties of “England in ye nineteenth century,” that of course her imagination had instantly suggested them), Alice waited till he came up, and received him with her customary bright smile, although her heightened colour, and an unusual degree of consciousness in her manner, proved that for some reason the meeting rather embarrassed her also.

“You walk betimes, Miss Hazlehurst,” began Harry, anxious to break the ice, but not knowing in the slightest degree how, when it should be broken, he was going to proceed; “You are really a pattern of early rising; but I have a notion we are both bound on the same errand, namely, to meet Arthur—am I wrong?”

“Quite right,” was the reply; “I got up at a wonderfully early hour; I suppose I was too much excited by such an unaccustomed event as a dinner-party, to be able to sleep at all soundly.”

“You look fagged and weary even now,” returned Coverdale, regarding her anxiously, “and you will fatigue yourself still more by walking to the station and back. Are you prudent to undertake so long an expedition before breakfast?”

“Oh yes,” was the reply; “it will refresh me and do me good; besides, I want particularly to see and talk to Arthur.”

“I will accompany you as far as the station, if you will allow me,” returned Harry, “and, as soon as your brother arrives, leave you to talk with him in peace; the few words I have to say to him will do equally well after breakfast.”

Alice signified her consent, and the conversation continued for several minutes to turn on indifferent subjects, though the burden of sustaining it fell chiefly upon Alice, Harry’s observations becoming shorter and less coherent at each reply. At length, however, Alice’s stock of small-talk failed her, and Harry, in despair, was about to hazard some such original observation as, that the grass was looking remarkably green, when his companion suddenly addressed him.

“I am afraid that you will think that I am interfering very unnecessarily and impertinently, Mr. Coverdale, but I must trust to your kindness to make allowance for me.”

“She is actually going to confess the cotton-spinner to me, and tell me I’m in the way, I do believe! Cool hands women are, and no mistake!” thought Coverdale; he only said, however, “Pray go on.”

“The fact is,” resumed Alice, with a faltering voice, “my brother Tom informed me (you must not be angry with the poor boy, for he did it out of regard for you) that you—that is that my father and you differed about some political question after dinner yesterday, and that my father was so carried away by the subject as to become injudiciously warm, and, from Tom’s account, personal, and that his observations annoyed you. Now, I am so very sorry this should have occurred, for he had formed such a high opinion of you, and Arthur was so much pleased to see how well you got on with him—a point on which he appeared particularly anxious.” (Coverdale bit his lip, and cut off a thistle’s head viciously with his cane.) “But, if you could be so very good as to overlook anything my father may have said, it would make me—I mean it would make Arthur, and—and—all of us so much happier.”

“My dear Miss Hazlehurst,” began Harry, vehemently, “how very kind of you to trouble yourself about me! I can assure you I am most anxious to say or do anything to regain Mr. Hazlehurst’s good opinion. I know I made him rather an impertinent answer; but really I was so unprepared for such an attack; and then, to make matters worse, that old idiot, Mr. Crane—that is,” he continued, suddenly recollecting to whom he was speaking, and turning crimson as he did so, “I beg your pardon for speaking so disrespectfully of him to you; I really forgot—I am certainly losing my senses!” With a blush as bright, though not quite so deep coloured as that of Coverdale, Alice, turning away her head, replied:

“Mr. Crane’s only claim on my respect is, that he is my father’s friend; if I must own the truth, I do not myself consider him very wise.”

“His only claim did you say!” exclaimed Harry, earnestly. “Oh, Miss Hazlehurst—Alice—pardon me if I ask you to deal openly with me; am I indeed wrong in supposing that you are engaged, or about to become so, to Mr. Crane?”

“Oh yes!” was the hurried reply; “such a fate would render me most miserable.”

Upon this hint Harry spake; the reality and strength of his feelings imparted an earnest dignity to his manner, and an unwonted eloquence to his speech, which would have deeply affected his fair auditor, even had her own heart not pleaded warmly in his favour. As it was, before they arrived in sight of the railroad station, Harry had somehow come to the conclusion, that the communication he should have to make to his friend Arthur would be very much more satisfactory, though perhaps little less embarrassing, than the one he had originally designed. It certainly was a considerable change in the tenour of his report to be forced to explain, that instead of considering himself the most miserable being in the world, he felt convinced he was by far the happiest; for that Alice—resolved not to marry the cotton-spinner—had given her heart, and promised her hand, to him.

And thus, short, sharp, and decisive, began and ended “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship:” all the results, good and evil, “that came of it,” may be learned by any reader sufficiently persevering to peruse that which remains to be told of this veracious history.

CHAPTER XIV.—DECIDEDLY EMBARRASSING.

Alice and Harry were so deeply engrossed with each other and so absorbed in the interchange of those mysterious but delightful nothings, which form the staple of lovers’ communications, and which, deeply interesting to the happy pair, appear to the unsusceptible public the veriest nonsense imaginable, that they were still some distance from the station when the train rushed up, sneezed out a few passengers, and, snorting and coughing, dashed off like a well-disposed fiery dragon, warranted quiet to ride and drive. Walking on rapidly they soon discovered Arthur, embarrassed by a carpet-bag and a mackintosh, making the best of his way to meet them; the moment he came within speaking distance, he exclaimed—

“What do I behold! Harry Coverdale with a young lady on his arm! Surely the age of miracles is returning! well I never did! did you ever? And Alice looking so deliciously self-satisfied and unconscious, too! Why you stupid little owl (you’re very like one, with your hooked nose and great eyes), don’t you know you’re boring him to death? he cares for nothing but horses, dogs, and guns; and above all perfectly abominates women.” Alice smiled, and attempted to make a playful rejoinder, but in vain,—her heart was too full; had she spoken at that moment she must have burst into tears. The speech affected Harry differently.

“I do nothing of the kind,” he said, angrily; “Arthur how can you be so absurd!” Pausing for a moment, the ludicrous nature of the situation occurred to him, and, with difficulty restraining a laugh, he turned the conversation by seizing his friend’s carpet-bag, exclaiming as he did so, “Come, give it up, of course I’m not going to let you carry it; you’re looking horridly thin and pale, as Londoners always do: is he not, Al—a—, Miss Hazlehurst? What! you refuse; give it up this instant, or I declare I’ll carry you and it too.”

During the playful struggle which ensued for the possession of the carpet-bag, in which contention Harry was soon victorious, Alice, glad to obtain a few minutes in which to compose herself, walked on. As the young men hastened to rejoin her, Hazlehurst, laying his hand on Coverdale’s arm, inquired “How has it all gone off? Crane hasn’t ventured to offer yet, of course?”

“Yes, by Jove, he has though!” was the reply; “the old muff contrived to pop last night—confound him!—when I was out of the room, and hadn’t a chance of throwing anything at his head.”

“And Alice?” inquired the brother, eagerly; but his eagerness frustrated its own purpose (no uncommon case by the way), for, pronouncing the name in a louder key than he was aware of, the fair owner thereof stopped short, and thus prevented the possibility of further explanation. As they continued their homeward walk, Arthur, who was a quick observer, soon detected a change in Harry’s manner towards his sister; for which, at first, he felt excessively puzzled to account. A respectful tenderness was apparent in his tone when he addressed her, and he exhibited a degree of eager, almost affectionate, solicitude for her ease and comfort, in all the minor incidents of a country walk, such as Hazlehurst, during the whole of their intimacy, had never before seen him evince towards a young lady.

“What has come to Harry now, I wonder?” thus ran his reflections; “if it were any one in the world but him, I should say he was flirting with Alice; but Harry never flirted in his life, so that is impossible.” He pondered for a moment, then an idea struck him. “I see it now; my father has forced the poor child to accept old Crane; Harry knows it, and the pity his kind, warm-hearted nature leads him to feel towards her, influences his manner. They were each coming to tell me all that has occurred, and have met by accident; yes, that must be it.” In order, however, more fully to satisfy himself of the correctness of his theory, he observed, in his usual light, jesting manner, “I think Mr. Coverdale, it behoves me, as ‘a man and a brother,’ to inquire how you happen to be marching about the country, tête-à-tête with my sister, at this unconscionably early hour?”

Harry, who, between his desire to enlighten Arthur as to the new and transcendently delightful, but especially embarrassing turn affairs had taken, and the impossibility of doing so before Alice—the overpowering nature of his feelings towards that young lady, and his extreme happiness at finding them reciprocated—the great and imminent danger in re Crane, and the humiliating confession regarding his lost influence with Mr. Hazlehurst, together with the awkward position in which he stood towards that outraged and obdurate elder—was in a tremendous frame of mind, merely started and stared vacantly at his interrogator.

But Alice, having by this time regained in some degree her self-possession, replied quietly, “Mr. Coverdale and I were both coming to meet you, and encountering each other accidentally, walked on together.”

As she spoke, Arthur, striving to read her countenance, fixed his eyes upon her. Unable to meet his glance she turned away with an April look, half tears half smiles. “It must be as I thought,” reflected Arthur; “but if anything is to be done to save her, no time should be lost. I’ll not waste the present opportunity. My dear Coverdale,” he continued aloud, “I wish to have a few minutes’ private conversation with my sister; you and I are too old friends to stand upon ceremony, so you will not be offended if I ask you to walk on, and wait for us at the stile at the end of the path.”

This direct appeal brought Harry to his senses, but not feeling sure whether Alice would approve of having the whole burden of explanation thrown upon her, he glanced inquiringly towards her ere he ventured to reply. Now, Alice, fond as she was of her brother, was also (from their difference in point of age, as well as from the fact that Arthur’s nature was more firm and resolute than her own, and his manner quick and abrupt) a little afraid of him. Thus, being aware how very highly he esteemed Coverdale—an estimation which she was inclined to transcend rather than to depreciate—a sudden fear seized her lest Arthur, deeming her a mere silly child, should consider his friend had done a foolish thing in choosing her for a wife, when he might have selected, at the very least, some strong-minded peeress, and that he might be angry with her for her presumption in having accepted him. This feeling, overpowering for the moment every other, induced her to respond to Harry’s look of inquiry by a slight shake of the head, and a glance which would have kept him by her side if a whole regiment of brothers, armed with Minie rifles and Colt’s revolvers, had attempted to separate them. But Arthur, being totally unarmed, and having simply asked a civil question, the answer which Harry, appropriately quoting Walter Scott, might have made to the hypothetical regiment, “Come one come all, this rock (not that there was a rock, but that is a trifle) will fly, from its firm base as soon as I,” was unfitted for the present emergency, and no other equally good suggested itself. What he did say was this, “A—really—of course I’d do it in a minute, my dear fellow—but—a—I’m not quite sure,”—here he glanced at Alice—“that is, I’m positively certain that—a—in fact, the thing’s impossible.”

“You’re certain that it’s impossible that you can walk on to the stile before Alice and me! My dear Harry, what are you talking—or rather (for the truth is you’re pre-occupied), what are you thinking about?” inquired Arthur, in amazement, seeing from the expression of his friend’s countenance that he was really anxious and excited. Coverdale was again hesitating how to reply, when Alice relieved him from his difficulty by saying hurriedly, “I will walk on, and leave you to talk to Mr. Coverdale.”

As she spoke, they reached the rustic bench before alluded to, and Arthur, completely mystified, seated himself, and made a sign to Coverdale to follow his example.

“One moment, and I’ll be with you,” replied Coverdale, springing to Alice’s side; “then I may tell him everything?” he continued.

“Oh yes,” was the unhesitating answer.

“And you will wait for us at the stile? I won’t detain him five minutes.”

“If you wish it.”

“Can you doubt it?” were the necessary lover-like rejoinders; and Coverdale returned to his friend, who looked especially puzzled and slightly provoked.

“Now be silent!” exclaimed Hazlehurst, as Harry was about, with the greatest volubility, to plunge at once in medias res. “You have lived amongst women till you’ve learned to chatter like them, I think. I shall never bring you to the point, unless you will let me cross-examine you.”

“Fire away, then; only look sharp, for your sister must not be kept waiting,” was the reply.

“You’ve grown wonderfully polite and attentive all of a sudden,” returned Arthur, sarcastically. “But now listen to me. Has Crane made Alice an offer?”

Harry replied in the affirmative.

“Did she refuse him?”

“Of course she did,” was the disdainful rejoinder.

“I don’t see any of course in it,” returned Hazlehurst, moodily. “My father is resolved on the match: Alice has been brought up to obey him implicitly, and the habit of obedience is very strong in such a gentle, yielding nature as hers.”

“If she is gentle and yielding I’m not!” exclaimed Harry, vehemently; “and with your support, and the knowledge that his daughter’s happiness is at stake, Mr. Hazlehurst must listen to reason.”

“My dear boy,” returned Arthur, earnestly, “what a warmhearted, thorough-going friend you are! you really take as much interest in the affair as if it were your own. I see you naturally reckon on the extent of your influence with my father, and I have reason to believe you do not overrate it. Why, what is the matter now? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

This inquiry referred to a sudden and alarming outbreak on the part of Coverdale, who, when his influence with Mr. Hazlehurst was mentioned, sprang to his feet, uttering what mild mammas, engaged in the moral instruction of their tender offspring, term a “naughty word.”

“You are enough to drive one mad!” he exclaimed, angrily; “saying, and making me say, all sorts of absurd things at cross-purposes, because you won’t listen to the explanation I’m remaining here on purpose to give you; keeping Alice waiting, too!”

“Well, let her wait,” returned Arthur, testily, worried by Harry’s constant reference to this point; “anybody would think you were Alice’s lover instead of old Crane!”

“And so I am,” was the unexpected rejoinder; “and what is more, old fellow, her accepted lover also! Oh, Arthur,” he continued, seating himself by his friend’s side, and laying his arm on his shoulder, “I’m the happiest, luckiest dog in existence! To think that she should be able to love such a rough, uncultivated—but you are not displeased, are you—surprised, of course, you must be.”

“Surprised, indeed,” was the reply; “so much so, that even yet I can scarcely believe it; it has almost taken my breath away! But displeased!—why my dear Harry, I’d rather she married you than any man breathing, be he prince, duke, or what not. It is the most charming, glorious, wonderful thing that ever happened! But even now I can’t conceive how it has come about; and yet, when I begin to reflect, I fancied that Alice was growing shy and conscious in regard to something or somebody, before I went away. It’s natural enough that she should fall in love with you; but that you should take a fancy to her, or indeed to any girl, does, I own, surprise me. I had so thoroughly made up my mind that you meant to be an old bachelor.”

“You could not have done so more completely than I had,” rejoined Harry; “but the fact is, that from the first moment in which I saw your sister I fell in love with her, though I had not the most remote idea of it at the time. I can trace it all now; hence my dislike of D’Almayne, and the poor old cotton-spinner. I was afraid the fascinations of the one might win her heart, or the fortune of the other obtain her hand—in fact, I was unconsciously jealous of them both. But now come on, we are really keeping Alice an unreasonable time. Aye, you may laugh; I don’t care a sous now that you know all about it. Why Arthur, old boy, you will be my real bonâ fide brother one of these days!—that is a contingent advantage which has only just occurred to me.”

Seizing his friend’s hand as he spoke, he pressed it with such good-will, that Hazlehurst was enabled to give a shrewd guess at the sensation produced by that interesting mediæval amenity, the thumb-screw. And thus mutually pleased and excited, the young men proceeded, both talking volubly, and generally at the same moment, till they reached the stile, where they found Alice awaiting them, looking very timid, very conscious, but exceedingly pretty. She need not have been uneasy, however, for Arthur had too much good taste and kind feeling to laugh at her at that moment; on the contrary, he hastened to set her mind at rest by whispering, as he imprinted a kiss on her glowing cheek—

“My darling child, you have made me almost as happy as you have rendered him.”

The walk home was a very delightful one. Alice leaned on Harry’s stalwart arm, and felt the most perfect and irrational confidence in his power to shield her from the effects of her father’s anger, Mr. Crane’s despair, and all other uncomfortable consequences of the act of filial disobedience which she meditated. Harry, already experiencing a sensation of delicious proprietorship in regard to the sweet girl beside him, felt himself exalted in the scale of humanity, and held his head a good inch higher on the strength of it; from which moral and physical elevation he looked down upon all field-sports as soulless and ignoble pastimes, and despised them accordingly. Arthur, hoping that his sister’s attachment to a man in every way so worthy of her, would inspire her with the firmness requisite to withstand successfully his father’s possible opposition to the match, and that the matter would eventually end by securing her happiness and that of his friend, “forgot his own griefs,” to rejoice in their bright prospects. And so they reached the pleasure-grounds, where Alice, separating from the two gentlemen, ran in to compose her excited feelings before appearing at breakfast.

“Arthur, wait one moment,” exclaimed Coverdale, laying his hand on his friend’s arm to detain him; “I have something important to say to you;—isn’t she an angel, my dear boy?”

“Why really, my good fellow, between friends, and seeing that you appear to attach so much importance to the fact, I should say, taking into consideration the evidence in the case, and coming to the point without any unnecessary prolixity, that she was by no means an angel, but simply a very pleasant little female mortal, and—ahem! my poor sister, sir.”

“Psha! you stupid old humbug!” returned Harry, giving him a playful push, which caused him involuntarily to leap over a flower-bed; “do just listen to me for a minute, and give me a sensible answer if you can. It’s all very pretty for my darling Alice, and you and I, to settle this matter so sweetly and easily; but remember, there’s the governor to bring round, and Crane and his confounded £20,000 a-year to beat out of the field; it strikes me we’re in an awful fix, and about to become an interesting young couple. What is to be the next move, eh?”

“Oh, the affair lies in a nutshell,” returned Hazlehurst. “Fortunately, my father has always appreciated you properly, and now the unusual degree of influence you have acquired over him will stand you in good stead. He may be a little annoyed at first, when he finds he must relinquish his favourite design of purchasing old Crane’s farm; but he is very fond of Alice, and very proud of her.”

“He’d be a most unnatural old heathen if he wasn’t,” muttered Harry, sotto voce.

“Consequently,” continued Hazlehurst, not heeding the interruption, “when he perceives the immeasurable advantages to be obtained by allowing her to marry a man she loves, and who is in every way deserving of her affection, instead of an old scarecrow, who will be in his dotage (I believe he is so already, more or less!) while Ally is still quite a young woman, he cannot hesitate for a moment in giving his consent. You had better speak to him the instant breakfast is over; depend upon it you’ll find him all amiability.”

“Depend upon it I shall find him nothing of the kind,” returned Coverdale, snappishly; then, seeing the look of surprise that spread over his friend’s countenance, he continued, dejectedly:—“Ah, my dear boy, you little know the extent to which I’ve been putting my foot in it since you went away. Tom tells me I annoyed your governor three or four days ago, by taking the nonsense out of that beast of a horse old Crane had the stupidity to give Alice; a brute which would have broken her sweet neck, if I hadn’t luckily been at hand to catch her as she was falling. Then, to improve the matter, last night we all drank wine enough, and the Head of the Family got a little too much into it to be good for its proprietor; accordingly, he forced me to give my opinion about Free-trade, and then pitched into me for so doing, and declared I’d insulted him: upon which I lost my temper, and said something rude; and, to come to the point, as you call it, he is now as savage as a bear with me, and all the blessed influence you’ve been paying me such pretty compliments about, if it ever existed, is scattered to the winds. I dare not speak to him, it would be worse than useless; he’d be only too glad to refuse me at once, lest he should lose such a good opportunity of paying me off for last night. Ah!” he continued, “you may well look puzzled,—you would not like to have many clients with such a talent as I possess for unconsciously cutting their own throats! What’s to be done?—divide the wires of the electric telegraph at King’s Cross Station, and then take Alice along the Great Northern to Gretna Green—though Gretna Green has been done brown by some recent act, has it not, and the harmonious and hymeneal blacksmith retired into private life? Come, advise, for I can hit upon nothing; only remember one thing,—since Alice is good enough to say she will have me, married I must and will be, if all the fathers in England were to set themselves against it!”

CHAPTER XV.—RELATES THE UNEXPECTED BENEVOLENCE OF HORACE D’ALMAYNE.

Arthur Hazlehurst, with an aspect graver than his wont, replied to Harry’s appeal—“It certainly is very unfortunate that you should have selected last night, of all others, to displease my father; because, owing to the Crane offer, time is of the greatest importance; but for that I should not have cared; you would only have had to wait for a week or two, taking pains to be especially polite and deferential in the interval, and he would have totally forgotten his anger. As it is, perhaps I had better speak to him,—he is sure to tell me about the cotton-spinner, and I can avail myself of that opportunity to come to the point; and now, if you have nothing better to propose, we’ll go in to breakfast. Love may possibly destroy the appetite, but a railroad journey has a directly contrary effect.”

Harry had nothing better to propose—(for a vague suggestion in regard to punching old Crane’s head, if he (Crane) did not mind what he was about, could scarcely be considered in the light of a serious, practical amendment)—so they went in to breakfast accordingly.

This meal appeared to be a most unsatisfactory one to “all who assembled within those walls;” for, despite the presence of every delicacy of the season, and a few over, each individual seemed labouring under some secret sorrow, and a general wet blanket damped, and hung heavy on, the spirits of the whole party; with the exception, perhaps, of Horace D’Almayne, who was unusually animated, and watched the proceedings with a look of quiet penetration.

When the ladies quitted the room, Mr. Crane called Mr. Hazlehurst aside, and informed him that he wished for the honour of an interview; to which request that gentleman acceded in his most gracious manner, and they adjourned together to the library.

Harry, with a significant glance to Arthur to remain on the look out and watch proceedings, strolled off with Tom on some horse-or-dog-inspecting pretext, but really to keep himself out of harm’s way till he was wanted,—so low an estimate had he now acquired of his own diplomatic abilities.

D’Almayne and Arthur being thus left tête-à-tête, the former accosted the latter after the following fashion:—

“Hazlehurst, mon cher, I shall die of ennui if we have many such tristes affaires as this meal of which we have just partaken, Now, without being more inquisitive than my neighbours, you cannot suppose I have remained entirely in the dark in regard to the little amusements your friends and relations have devised to vary the monotony of life withal.”

“And the result of these your observations?” inquired Arthur, coldly.

“Is, that the various interests clash, and that delicate dilemmas innumerable must, ere long, present their horns;—now I, being an easy-tempered fellow, like to be happy myself, and to see every brother man, and sister woman, happy also. I shall, therefore, have much pleasure in doing mon petit possible to smooth away these difficulties—an endeavour in which my influence with our good friend Crane will greatly assist me; but to enable me to do this, you must of course take me so far into your confidence, as to tell me whether I am right in my preconceived ideas—che dice, Signor?”

Arthur reflected for a moment—he knew D’Almayne to be quick-sighted, clear-headed, and fertile in expedient, at the same time he believed he was designing and self-interested; in the present emergency, however, he might, from his influence with Mr. Crane, be possibly of some use, while he could scarcely, with the worst intentions, render the aspect of affairs more complicated and unsatisfactory than it now appeared.

Accordingly, he replied,—“It cannot involve any alarming stretch of confidence on my part, merely to tell you whether your ‘guesses at truth’ have hit the mark, or flown wide of it. So you have only to propound your queries, and I will answer them as clearly and concisely as in me lies.”

“C’est bon!” was the reply. “A—to begin with—I am correct, am I not, in supposing that last night my worthy friend Crane offered his hand and £20,000 per annum (in which latter item his heart is of course wrapped up and included) to your amiable and accomplished sister?” Hazlehurst nodded assent, and D’Almayne continued,—“The young lady, however, or I am much mistaken, greatly prefers your excellent and energetic friend, Mr. Coverdale (who, you must pardon me for saying, reminds me of a well-intentioned, enthusiastic bull in a chinashop), which preference the gentleman returns to such a degree, that I am inclined to believe he has told, or in some other manner rendered the fair Alice aware of, his love. Her manner at breakfast this morning, was compounded of such an elaborate endeavour to conceal the conscious and confiding, behind the most transparent eidolon of indifference, that no one at all acquainted with woman’s nature could doubt about the matter.”

“You are indeed a close observer!” exclaimed Arthur, surprised out of his caution. “Coverdale’s attachment was a thing I never even suspected till—a—till this morning.”

“Mr. Crane tells me, your father is intensely anxious to purchase one of his farms adjoining your estate, which he (Crane) is unwilling to part with,” resumed D’Almayne; “thence, I imagine, proceeds your respected progenitor’s anxiety to bring about the match. To finish the catalogue of my observations up to the present time, I conceive Mr. Crane to be now in the act of urging his suit to Mr. Hazlehurst, and complaining that ‘Miss Alice’ as he calls her (he always talks on such subjects like an underbred greengrocer, or second footman), rather kicked, than jumped, at him when he offered her—ahem—his income and his affections.”

“Your surmises are so wonderfully correct,” rejoined Arthur (determining to make a merit of necessity, and appear open with one who seemed thus well acquainted with all the family secrets), “that in telling you that as soon as Mr. Crane leaves the study, I mean to appeal to my father in my friend’s behalf, I shall, probably, only forestall you in expressing another of your judicious anticipations.”

“I rather imagined that would be the next move,” was the easy, self-satisfied reply.—“Mr. Coverdale, with all his surprising freshness and naïveté of character, could scarcely propose to urge his suit in person, after having quarrelled with your father over his wine last night; for which reason, by the way, it requires no very great tact to divine that Mr. Crane’s proposal will find favour in Mr. Hazlehurst’s eyes, and Mr. Coverdale’s be rejected.”

“And the remedy?” inquired Arthur, eagerly.

D’Almayne paused, then a meaning but disagreeable smile passed across his handsome features, as he replied,—“If I can induce Mr. Crane to withdraw his suit of his own accord, yet continue his amicable relations towards this family, and be willing to sell the farm to your father at his own price, and by these means lead Mr. Hazlehurst to regard your friend’s offer favourably, shall I be acting in accordance with your wishes.”

“Nay, my dear D’Almayne, if you can indeed persuade Mr. Crane to perform so magnanimous a part, I shall consider you the best and cleverest fellow in the world. As to my wishing you to do so, I should as soon have thought of wishing you to appoint me First Lord of the Treasury—one only wishes for such things as one, in some degree, expects to obtain. But surely you over-calculate your powers of persuasion,” returned Hazlehurst, scarcely knowing whether D’Almayne might not be amusing himself at his expense.

“I will remain here and await the result of your interview with your father, and if it terminate as I predict, I will attempt my little bit of diplomacy;—the result will prove to you whether or not I overrate my Machiavelian talents,” was the confident reply—and so they parted.

Mr. Hazlehurst, senior, was by no means in an amiable frame of mind when his son entered the library—the gout, considerably increased by the wine-bibbing of the previous evening, pervaded his entire system, mental and bodily; and through the atrabilious medium of a disordered stomach, he looked back upon his disagreement with Coverdale, till it became magnified into a serious quarrel. Mr. Crane had just informed him that, on renewing his offer to Alice on the previous evening, the young lady muttered a few words, incoherent indeed, but, as he conceived, of a negative tendency, and instantly conveyed herself away without affording him an opportunity of obtaining an explanation. Whereupon Mr. Hazlehurst, waxing wroth, declared she should accept him that very morning; begged him to retire until he should have seen his daughter, and, as he was pleased to term it, brought her to her senses; and having just dispatched a summons to the poor girl, was waiting her arrival to perpetrate an act of parental tyranny, when his son entered. The consequences may readily be imagined:—Coverdale was angrily and unceremoniously refused; Alice anathematized, excommunicated, and ordered magisterially to be imprisoned in her own room till farther notice, and Arthur severely reprimanded for having introduced Coverdale to the family (which, be it remembered, he had done at his father’s particular request), and cautioned against venturing to countenance Alice in her disobedience, or ever again to refer to the subject in his (Mr. Hazlehurst’s) sovereign presence, on pain of being cut off with the trilling patrimony of one shilling sterling. Arthur attempted a mild remonstrance, whereby he obtained a particular request instantly to leave the room, and a general order in regard to the entire alteration of his conduct, and abnegation of his present opinions on all subjects, human and divine. Returning to the breakfast-room in the frame of mind naturally consequent upon such a reception, he discovered D’Almayne comfortably lounging in an easy-chair, and perusing a handsomely bound copy of the Pleasures of Memory.

Glancing up as Hazlehurst entered, he observed coolly—“I need not ask you how it has gone, mon ami, your face tells me.”

Hazlehurst strode impatiently up and down the apartment; then stopping short in front of his companion, he exclaimed abruptly—“Try your plan, whatever it may be; for common sense is thrown away upon a man so prejudiced and positive as my father has shown himself to be; and common patience cannot bear the irritating speeches he makes, when all the time one feels that one is striving for the right, and that he is totally and entirely wrong.”

“You are warm, mon cher,” was the calm reply. “Papas have been wrong-headed time out of mind, and will probably continue so till time shall have passed away, together with all other sublunary weights and measures; so why afflict yourself at the inevitable? But I will now proceed without delay to try my eloquence upon the dear, rejected Mr. Crane—a—by the way, you must give me one promise. ‘On their own merits modest men are dumb;’ now my modesty is so outrageously sensitive, that I am not only dumb myself, but require my friends to be so likewise; in plain English, if I do this thing to oblige you, you must promise me to keep my share in the transaction a secret; the change must appear to emanate from the united kind regards and amiable self-sacrifice of your father and Mr. Crane.” Seeing Arthur hesitate, he continued—“Without this assurance, you must excuse my declining to interfere.”

“Be it as you will then,” began Arthur.

As he spoke the door flew open, and Alice, eager and tearful, hurried in, exclaiming,—“You have seen my father! Can it be true that he is so cruel as to refuse his consent. He has just written me such a dreadful note, ordering me not to quit my room!”

Here, catching sight of D’Almayne, she stopped short in confusion and alarm. That individual hastened to relieve her by walking to the door; but as he passed Arthur he whispered, “You may make an exception in your sister’s favour. I absolve you from your vow of secrecy as far as she is concerned. I am a tender-hearted fellow, and beauty in tears is always too many for me.” As he spoke, he left the apartment, and closed the door behind him.

Alice heard Arthur’s account of D’Almayne’s unexpected access of benevolence with surprise; but not having witnessed the quiet confidence with which he asserted his power of influencing Mr. Crane, she put but little trust in his assurances, merely setting them down as the vain boasting of a conceited youth, who was actuated by a good-natured desire to help them out of their difficulties. That she did him injustice may be gathered from the fact, that later in the day Mr. Crane sought a second interview with Mr. Hazlehurst., after which the latter gentleman summoned Harry Coverdale to his august presence; and when that happy but much confused young man entered the sanctum sanctorum of the library, sent for his daughter Alice likewise, and having pronounced a strongly acidulated, not to say, crabbed, benediction upon their youthful heads, dismissed them in time to write by that day’s post to his man of business, to prepare the purchase-money for the Hazlecroft farm, then the property of Jedediah Crane, Esq. The dinner-party that evening passed off much more agreeably than the breakfast had done. Coverdale sat by his lady-love, looking the picture, or better still, the reality of happiness; but Arthur Hazlehurst wore a gloomy brow when he perceived that his cousin, Kate Marsden, had paired off with the cotton-spinner, and that they appeared mutually satisfied with the arrangement.

CHAPTER XVI.—TREATS OF THINGS IN GENERAL.

It must be confessed that Harry Coverdale was of a somewhat impetuous disposition. No sooner had he obtained Mr. Hazlehurst’s consent to the match, than he commenced a system of alternate petting and persecution, whereby he contrived to render the lives of Alice and her mother scarcely endurable, until he had induced them to fix an early day for his “execution,” as Tom irreverently paraphrased the solemnisation of the marriage ceremony. This object happily accomplished, a journey to London was proposed, whereat Mr. Hazlehurst looked very black; but when Alice seated herself on his knee, and, stroking his bald head, called him a dear, good, kind, papa (on speculation, probably, for at that moment he did not in the slightest degree look the character), his heart softened, and he consented to the plan. Then somebody told Arthur of a wonderful doctor, who had found out a new system of curing everything, and especially complaints analogous to that under which Mrs. Hazlehurst laboured; accordingly, he determined his mother should form one of the London party, and consult this fashionable fee-taker; and when Arthur had determined on a thing, it generally came to pass. Therefore, after considerable pro-ing-and con-ing, and macadamizing of difficulties, the matter was finally arranged by Mrs. Hazlehurst, her son, and her two daughters, taking up their abode at Cherry’s Hotel, in Jermyn Street, while Coverdale established himself in his old quarters at the Tavistock, in Covent-garden.

Then they began to be overwhelmed with business. First, the infallible doctor was to be consulted; so poor Mrs. Hazlehurst was dragged out of bed some three hours sooner than usual, breakfasted in a nervous tremor, which rendered the ceremony a most unreal mockery, was transported from her carriage to a stately dining-room, where some twenty fellow-victims were already incarcerated, whence (having waited two hours, because, in her ignorance of London rascalities, she had omitted to fee the noble creature in plush and powder who had admitted her) she was at length (his nobleness not being able longer to exclude her) ushered into the presence of the potentate of pills himself. This erudite individual was a short, stiff man, with a short, stiff appearance,—the result of the most severe application of starch and hair-brushes,—and a short, stiff manner, assumed, as are the stare and swagger of Van Amburg and other tiger-tamers, for the purpose of browbeating and mentally subduing refractory or sceptical patients. Seeing at a glance, however, that poor Mrs. Hazlehurst was already subdued, he obligingly let off a little superfluous starch, slightly disarranged his hair, smiled, to show a fine set of false teeth, put in at trade-price by a friendly dentist, and having thus brought himself somewhat nearer the limpness of average humanity, added (as he would have probably expressed it) a couple of drachms syrupi saccarinis to his manner, ere he proceeded to catechise his patient as to her symptoms, and the remedies that had been applied to remove them. To each fact thus elicited, he replied by frowning portentously, screwing round his mouth, and muttering, “I knew it,” in a gloomy and mysterious manner, as though he had acquired the knowledge by some awful and supernatural course of study; and, indeed, as Mrs. Hazlehurst’s confessions involved her having had a dangerous fall from her horse at a period when he, the doctor, must have been about five years old, and that she had been laid up with a bilious fever exactly two calendar months and four days before he was born, he can scarcely be supposed to have come by his information honestly and lawfully. In fact, to a logical mind, the question resolved itself into the following hypothesis—that he must either be a true prophet, or a lying doctor.

Having elicited all the facts he cared to learn (which, if he knew them before, he might as well have saved himself the trouble of doing), he drew himself up to his extreme altitude,—which was nothing very tremendous after all,—got his starch up to high-pressure pitch, judiciously tempering its stiffness with soothing syrup, and delivered himself of the following opinion:—“Madam, you have told me nothing that, the moment I beheld you, I was not prepared to hear. I do not in the slightest degree impugn the judgment and skill of Mr. Smithers” (the Hazlehurst general practitioner), “but the instant I glanced at his first prescription I saw he had taken a wrong view of our case. Superacetate of Euroclydon and bi-carbonate of Hydrocephalus would never remove the pain and palpitation on our right side—”

“The left is the side on which I usually feel the pain,” began Mrs. Hazlehurst, mildly.

“Eh! left—yes, of course; I said left, didn’t I? I believe I observed to you before, madam, that the moment I set eyes on you I became aware of—in fact, I felt (if I may so express myself) that pain and palpitation on our left side; and I said to myself, if that very talented practitioner, Mr. Smithers, has administered Superacetate of Euroclydon, and bi-carbonate of Hydrocephalus to that pain of ours—with the highest respect for Smithers (he was walking St. Bartholomew’s when I was dresser to the late celebrated and lamented Flayflesh), I must say he has mistaken our case. Now, I shall just—I make no secret of my practice—I shall just throw in three grains of extr. Borealis Aurorae, with equal proportions of Astri caninis, Geminorum siamesiæ, and sesqui-carbonate (mind that) sesqui-carbonate of Pantapolion, and our pain will lapse (as Byron so beautifully expresses it) into ‘a happy memory of the past.’ You will take the mixture six times in the twenty-four hours, and the pills immediately before dinner. With regard to diet, everything you have been accustomed to eat is wrong; your appetite is weak, and you like delicacies, as they are called, better than substantial joints, I dare say?”

Mrs. Hazlehurst acknowledged that his penetration had not failed him; and he resumed sharply—

“Madam, we musn’t touch them! they are poison in such a case as ours. No; we must restrict ourselves to plain beef and mutton, very much underdone; stale bread, no vegetables, no fruit, no nice things, very bitter beer, with plenty of the camomile in it (that’s the brewer’s secret, strychnine’s all a delusion), and stick to the sesqui-carbonate of Pantapolion, and we shall be a different woman in a short time. Let me see you again on Friday. Good morning.” And so, pocketing his guinea with less respect than many men pay to a fourpenny-piece, the fashionable quack allowed his victim to escape.

Then there was shopping. There are a good many shops in Regent Street, and those that are not there are in Bond Street, at least a fair sprinkling of them; but Harry solemnly declared (after his marriage) that during the fortnight the party were in London, they went into them all, and every man knows what that involves. Give a woman her head, so far as to allow her to put it into a shop, and he must indeed be a clever fellow who can coax or coerce her out of it under half-an-hour. But Harry was in love, and love is blind (though it has an awkward trick of recovering its eyesight after marriage and making up for lost time, by spying out all kinds of things to which it had far better had remained blind); besides, Alice was not more exigeante than a lover generally desires his mistress should be: too much independence of character in a young girl being by no means an attractive quality.

Then there was a good deal of sight-seeing to be got through. Emily had never been in London before, and Alice only once for a week. So they “did” Westminster Abbey, which they really enjoyed; and St. Paul’s, which they pretended to admire, and didn’t; and the Tower, where Emily called the figures in the horse-armoury a set of quizzical old things; and the Polytechnic, where they saw a man go down in a diving-bell, to pick up nothing at the bottom of a large wash-hand-basin, and come up again half suffocated, which they considered curious and highly satisfactory, as no doubt it was to everybody but that unfortunate martyr to popular science himself, who (taking the most cheerful view of his amphibious occupation) can scarcely be regarded in the light of a jolly young waterman. Then they went to the National Gallery to see the pictures, which, as it was not an unusually bright and clear day, of course they were unable to do; but they had the pleasure of seeing the building itself, and the fountains in Trafalgar Square, which they all agreed they had never beheld anything like before; and Harry added, that in his travels he had not met with anything to equal the whole affair in its peculiar style, and that he thought foreigners must be very strongly impressed by it, and that it must at once give them a clear idea of English taste; which remarks it was a pity the architect was not there to hear, as they might possibly have been of use to him. Emily had never beheld a play, so they went to the I-see-um Theatre, where they witnessed the performance of a very long melodrama, adapted from the French (that is, all that was national and peculiar—without which the plot became a mere silly tissue of improbable events and impossible situations—omitted, and the place supplied by worn-out and conventional clap-traps). This pièce de résistance, which was to last the play-going public for some four or six months, according to the degree in which it suited their appetites, was so well put on the stage, and so well acted, that the false sentiment and worse morality which pervaded it were for the time forgotten, and it was not till Arthur called his attention to the fact, that Harry recollected this un-English jumble of crimes and follies, was played night after night to crowded houses, while the masterpieces of Shakspere, the greatest dramatist who ever lived, were banished to an obscure theatre in the outskirts of London, or were forced to be translated into a foreign language, and acted by a foreign company, ere the “ears polite” of London fashionables could be persuaded to listen to them. The two young men argued the question in all its bearings, and arrived at this conclusion, viz. either that if Shakspere were better acted it would be better attended, or that if Shakspere were better attended, better actors would soon be found to perform the characters; though which of these statements might be regarded as the cause, and which as the effect, they could by no means agree. And by that time, the play being concluded, Emily declared that it was quite perfect, really charming; and that, as to Shakspere, he was an obsolete old slow-coach, and very wicked too—or else, why did they want a family edition of him? Whereas, if there had ever been any harm in this play, which she did not believe could have been the case, dear Mr. Kingsby Florence had translated it so beautifully that it might have been acted anywhere—in a church almost. Then she turned and appealed to her sister, to support her in her girlish and unorthodox enthusiasm.

Alice replied gravely, and with a pseudo-matronly air which was highly amusing, that although she must confess she had been interested and entertained by the play she had just witnessed, yet that she had listened to Arthur’s argument with Mr. Coverdale, and quite agreed in the view taken by the latter gentleman; for which sympathy of opinion Harry possessed himself of the lovely sympathiser’s hand, and pressed it gratefully; while he inwardly thanked heaven for having bestowed upon his future wife such a correct taste and sound understanding.—And so, between doctoring, and shopping, and sight-seeing, and hurrying dressmakers, and tailors, and coach-builders, and a host of minor tradesmen, all the wedding paraphernalia were purchased, a vast amount of business transacted, settlements prepared, and money spent; and a fortnight passed away so quickly, that it appeared like two or three days to the actors in the genteel comedy thus performed.

Then they all returned to the country, Harry going to the Park to make arrangements for the incoming of house-decorators and furnishers innumerable, who were to put to the rout all the old admiral’s bachelor abominations, and prepare the mansion for the reception of its fair mistress. That amiable young lady was beginning to find, by experience, that to be “going to be married” is very hard work indeed, the wear and tear of the feelings being a marked and alarming feature in the case. Thus, whenever Harry was away for a day, she found herself anxious, low-spirited, and a prey to innumerable misgivings lest evil should befall him. On one evening in particular, when he returned full twenty minutes later than he should have done, she felt so convinced that “dreadful trotting-mare” had by some means compassed his destruction, that she received him with a gentle shower of tears, which of course he kissed away, as he whispered that very soon she would be his dear little wife, and then nothing should part them even for an hour; and Alice smiled through her tears as she thought how, with every taste and feeling in common, they should trip gaily along the pathway of life, hand in hand, like a conjugal couple of Siamese twins. Dreams! pretty Alice, dreams! which many a young girl’s loving heart has framed ere this, only to awaken to a far different reality, and weep over the departure of such bright illusions.

But there was not much time for dreaming or romance at the Grange, for the “fatal day” came nearer and nearer with alarming velocity, until at last it actually arrived; and everybody was in such a state of excitement, that an uninitiated spectator might have imagined the whole household, instead of merely one member of it, was going to be married. As every one expected a most fatiguing day, of course no one slept a wink during the previous night; and as the match was in every way most desirable, and Alice enjoyed as fair a prospect of happiness as those who loved her best could wish her, of course all the women, the moment it was light, indulged in the feminine luxury of “a hearty cry;” after which libation to sensibility, they set to work in real earnest to dress themselves and each other as becomingly as they possibly could. On the bride’s dressing-table was found a set of pearl ornaments, supposed by the learned in such matters to have cost at least £500, together with a slip of paper, representing Mr. Crane’s best wishes for her happiness; which piece of generosity Alice thought very amiable and pretty of him, as indeed it was. Kate (wearing a splendid bracelet, giver unknown) and Emily were to be bridesmaids, and four of the prettiest bosom friends the bride possessed made up the team. These six susceptible young creatures turned out in light blue, and very nice they looked, only (as Master Tom, reprieved for a week from Eton in order to be present at the ceremony, observed), they did not step well together—a deficiency for which he accounted by remarking that his cousin Kate carried her head so high, without a bearing rein, and had such grand action, that it naturally made the other girls look rather screwy; and indeed Master Tom’s descriptive powers so far exceed our own, that we shall violate confidence by availing ourselves of a letter he dispatched the next morning to one of his friends at Eton, in which he gave his own impressions of the eventful day. It ran as follows:—

“Dear Tipsby,—If this blessed hot weather does not make dripping of a fellow prematurely, you will have an opportunity of weeping on the affectionate bussing of ‘Yours, truly,’ by the 5 p.m. train on Monday next. The cause of my shirking a week is not, as you impertinently insinuate, my having ‘over-goose-berried myself,’ but the no less alarming fact that my eldest sister has been and gone and committed matrimony, and I have waited to see her turned off. The ‘shocking event’ arrived at a climax (that’s grammar, ain’t it?) yesterday. I rose with the lark (i.e. Arthur, my big brother, came and dragged me out of bed at seven o’clock), and dressed myself. Yes, I should think I did—rather! Kerseymere sit-upons, made precious loose in the leg, and with a large pink check on a lavender ground—stunnin! satin vest, colours to sympathize; silk necktie, pink ground, lavender pattern, once round—ends at least a quarter of a yard long, and such a bow!—there’s high art for you, my boy!—and last, not least, real Oxford bang-tail coatee (none of your blackguard boys’ jackets), bright blue, with only two buttons and button-holes about it, and all sorts of jolly pockets in original places; but, don’t fret, you shall see it. Well, to return to our mutton, as the French say: very few showed at early breakfast, sensibilities superseding appetites in a general way, though I can’t say I perceived much difference as regarded number one: yet, when I come to think of it, I recollect I only eat three eggs; but then the ham was a real brick. Nothing particular occurred till we were to go to church; but when the traps came round, you may fancy there was something to look at. My brother-in-law, Coverdale—oh, Tips, he really is a fine fellow, as handsome as fun—can ride anything you like to put him across—a dead shot—A1 with his fists (’gad, I should be sorry to get even a left-hander from him), and as good-tempered and jolly as a cock; but you shall see him some day: well, he came up with his own horses, a pair of blood bays, he gave £350 for ’em, and they’re dirt cheap at the money; he is a first-rate judge of a horse; but I’ll tell you all about the traps when we meet. Then down came the girls; Ally (that’s my eldest sister), was smothered with veils, and flounces, and pearls, and that sort of nonsense; and looked precious pale and interesting, and like to blub; so we bundled her into the family-coach, and Coverdale jumped into his own trap, and away we all scuttled to church. We’ve got a good, sharp parson, that can go the pace slap up when he likes; and, knowing that the Champagne was waiting for him, he put the harness on ’em in no time; and the women did the water-cart business in style—where all their tears come from I can’t think—but they laid the dust beautifully. Then there was signing names in the vestry, and a lot of chaff about kissing the bride, which so upset that muff, Lambkin, the parson’s apprentice (curate, I suppose, is what they call the chap), that he fairly turned tail and bolted. Next, we all bundled home again; Ally in Coverdale’s trap this time (and precious handsome he looked, as he handed her in, I can tell you); and then came the ‘crowning mercy’ (as Lambkin said in his sermon last Sunday), the wedding breakfast. The governor had done the thing well for once in his life, I will say that for the old boy. There were all the delicacies of all the four seasons (one only wished one had four stomachs, like a camel, to pay them proper attention; though I didn’t do badly, in spite of my mono-stomachic conformation). Then the Champagne;—my dear Tips, I am not using a mere figure of rhetoric when I say the supply was unlimited;—how much I drank I literally cannot tell, but, in mentioning the affair to inquiring friends, you had better restrict your statement to half-a-dozen bottles—as a general rule, a gentleman should not take more on such occasions—it is not every man who possesses my strength of head and self-control. I sat next to one of the bridesmaids—

“‘A little, laughing fairy thing,

Just like an angel on the wing;’

A rosebud ’neath the moon’s pale ring;

A playful zephyr, whispering

Some secret to the early Spring.

As Tennyson has it—stunning poet, Tennyson! At first my modesty prevented my getting on with her quite as fast as I could have wished; in fact, till after my fourth glass of Champagne, I had not gone beyond asking if she liked roast chicken, and saying ‘Bless you,’ when she sneezed; which I have since thought might not be quite etiquette, for she certainly looked surprised. However, ‘in vino jollitas,’ as Cicero says; after imbibing the ‘rosy,’ I went ahead like beans, and I flatter myself—ahem!—made a very considerable impression; but then recollect the expense with which I was got up! the woman who could look on that bang-tail coatee with indifference must be a heartless tigress. At all events, Juliana Georgina (sweet, poetical name! aint it, Tips?) didn’t; and if my mother invites her here during the Christmas holydays—which, betwixt you and me and the post, is not impossible—I should not be surprised if the affair were to assume quite a serious complexion. It is some time since I have experienced what the mounseers call a ‘grande passion.’ When the party generally had pitched into the grub, till the powers of nature wore forced to cry ‘Hold, enough!’ (though, for my part, I don’t think one’s bread-basket does by any means hold enough on such occasions) everybody drank everybody’s health, and everybody returned thanks. My brother-in-law, Coverdale, made a stunning speech, the best that was made, by long odds; though Master Arthur didn’t disgrace his profession in the jawing line either. The governor did the pathetic and paternal; but it was precious slow, and all his jokes old ones. Mr. Crane (he’s a rich old buffer that was nibbling after Ally, but it wasn’t likely she’d have anything to say to him when she’d a chance of taking such a trump-card as my brother-in-law, Coverdale, into her hand) followed in the benevolent and philanthropic line; but he made a regular mull of it, worse than the daddy; and when they’d done making fools of themselves, the sitting broke up, and my brother-in-law and Alice started for the Continent. And the last thing before they were off, Coverdale, while he was waiting in the hall for his wife (women are always too late for everything), tipped me a flimsy to the tune of ten pounds, and told me not to forget I was to come to the Park in the hunting season, and he’d take care to find me a good mount; but if ever there was a real brick, my brother-in-law Coverdale is the identical article, and no mistake. And that this is a full, true, and particular account of this wonderful wedding, sayeth and attesteth,

“Yours, in the bonds of jollity,

“Tom Hazlehurst.”

“P.S.—Advice to cricketers! Mind your batting, old fellow; for I’ve been put up to some first-rate bowling dodges by my brother-in-law, Coverdale (he’s one of the top-sawyers at Lord’s), that will send your stumps flying about your ears, if you don’t mind your eye. “Verbum sat. slow-coachici!”

CHAPTER XVII.—PLOTTING AND COUNTER-PLOTTING.

The same post-bag in which Tom Hazlehurst dispatched his letter to his schoolfellow, conveyed also two other epistles written by inmates of the Grange. For the reader’s benefit we will take the same liberty with them, which we have already taken with the Etonian’s literary effusion. The first was from Kate Marsden to Miss Arabella Crofton, a lady some three or four years older than herself, who had been one of the teachers at the school at which Kate had been brought up, and was now governess in a German family. Miss Crofton was a woman of unusual mental ability, and having in a great degree moulded Kate’s character, was now her sole confidante and mentor. It ran thus:—

“Dear Arabella,—Since I finally determined on following your advice, fate seems to have played my game for me, and I now consider it as secure as anything which has not actually come to pass can be. I told you, when I wrote to you at Baden-Baden, that his friend, Mr. Coverdale, and my cousin Alice, were evidently becoming attached; you will therefore be the less surprised to hear that they were married yesterday; the matter came about thus:—Soon after I wrote to you, Mr. Crane, by my advice, offered; Alice of course refused him, but so equivocally (she is quite a child in such things) that the poor, dear, dull creature scarcely caught her meaning. I immediately took him in hand, and, availing myself of the situation, flattered his vanity to such a degree, that ere the evening finished he believed not only that Alice would accept him, but that I, Kate Marsden, was hopelessly in love with him. Accordingly, when he learned unmistakably next morning that Alice meant to refuse him, my good taste stood out in very favourable contrast. In the meantime, Mr. Crane’s offer brought Mr. Coverdale to the point, and Alice gladly accepted him, in doing which she acted wisely, for he is a good, amiable, sterling man! and when the romance has worn off, and they have got over the bore of awakening from ‘Love’s young dream,’ I believe they will settle down into a very happy couple. My uncle at first refused his consent, for Coverdale has only five, instead of twenty thousands a-year; and Mr. Crane sulked in a corner; but that strange Mr. D’Almayne, about whom I told you before, and who possesses a degree of influence over Mr. Crane of which I by no means approve, went to him, and persuaded him not only to give up Alice good-humouredly, but actually to play a generous part, and talk my uncle over to give his consent to my cousin’s union with Mr. Coverdale. Thus, you see, as I began by saying, my game was played for me, and I had only to sit still and avail myself of the moves as the others made them.

“I am much puzzled by this Mr. D’Almayne. He is, unless I am much deceived, a complete adventurer, scheming for his own advantage (I ought to be able to recognise such a character); but what his object can have been in this affair I cannot possibly conjecture. Pure philanthropy had nothing to do with it, of that I am certain. Again, how he contrived to influence Mr. Crane to behave so amiably I cannot conceive. Sometimes I fancy he has divined my intention of marrying the millionaire; but, if so, why should he aid me in my project?—for I know by his manner (although he is very cautious) that he admires me himself. Certain it is, that since the conversation I have alluded to, Mr. Crane has been at my feet, and is only waiting to offer till he imagines time enough shall have elapsed to prevent the transfer of his affections (?) from Alice to me appearing too ridiculous. However, the affair will unravel itself some day. And now that my plans are likely to be crowned with success, you will ask me how I feel on the subject. Determined as ever! that which I have begun I will carry through; but, Arabella, I am most miserable. For myself alone I should not care; to rescue my family from poverty, I should be happy to sacrifice my personal hopes and wishes; but to see Arthur suffer is indeed bitterness, and that he does suffer frightfully, I, who can read his every look and gesture, cannot for a moment doubt. Oh, that I had known the depth and reality of his affection sooner, or that the necessity were less cogent! Then he bears it with such manly endurance his manner to his family is exactly the same as usual; not one of them suspects that anything has occurred to pain him. Again, it is such an aggravation of my sorrow that he blames me so deeply! Sometimes, when I am talking to Mr. Crane, I catch his stern, penetrating glance fixed upon me with a calm earnestness of rebuke, which affects me more deeply than could the most vehement reproaches; and when I have acted my part for the day, and, in the solitude of my chamber, I recall all that has passed between us, and reflect that it is I who have brought this sorrow upon him—I who even now feel that I love him better than my own soul—I who would gladly have died for him, I sit, night by night, like a cold statue of despair, or lie sleepless, shedding such tears as I trust God’s mercy permits not to flow quite in vain! Yet it is my duty—you know, you cannot doubt for a moment, it is my duty—you could never have dared to counsel such a sacrifice of the only thing which can make the burden of life endurable, a real, deep, true affection, if you had not felt certain it was my duty.

“You have set me a cruel task, Arabella, but I do not flinch from it; you shall find your pupil worthy the trouble you have bestowed upon her. I shall write again when anything conclusive is settled. If all goes well, I shall be in a position to fulfil my old promise, and offer you a home on your return to England. Would to God it were likely to be a happier, though a humbler one! But that is past now. Farewell.

“Yours, in many senses of the word,

“Kate Marsden.”

The third epistle was from Horace D’Almayne to a friend and ally in Paris. “We transcribe it verbatim:—

“Alphonse, mon cher,—I enclose you a draft for 3000 francs, wherewith I beg you to satisfy Carreau, the tailor, et tous les autres brigands, who render Paris an unsafe residence for me. You will naturally ask how I have obtained the money; not at the gaming-table, nor on the highway, like Claude Duval. Railroads and police have freed England from highwaymen. No; I have for the present filled my purse by studying the great game of life; in which, like all other games, you must either pillage, or be pillaged. You and I, men of wit and of action, naturally belong to the former class, and have meritoriously laboured to fulfil our destiny. Since I have been in England this time I have sedulously cultivated the millionaire I introduced to you last season, whose pocket you so obligingly relieved of £500 at piquet. I made a bad bargain there in only claiming one-third of the spoil; I should have demanded half, for without my assistance you could have done nothing with him; but I understand them, these cautious islanders, some of their blood runs in my veins—my mother, as you know, having been an Englishwoman. However, the time spent on my millionaire has turned out a more profitable investment than I at all calculated upon. He is a weak, vacillating character, one of those feeble-minded mortals who always require some intelligence stronger than their own to lean upon. This support he has found in your humble servant; and so convinced has he become of my diplomatic powers, that just at present he can do nothing without my approval and sanction. His great object in life is to marry, and it is to assist him in obtaining a wife that my counsel is required. When I first arrived here, I found he was dangling after a charming little country girl, the daughter of a landed proprietor in these parts. I soon discovered that the said proprietor, for mercenary reasons, desired the match; but with the young lady I could do nothing. I gave her the full benefit of my eyes, which, as you know, are not wont to look in vain; but it was no use—even ‘les petites moustaches noires,’ usually so irresistible, were thrown away upon her; nor had friend Crane’s £20,000 per annum (mon Dieu, Alphonse, quelle somme merveilleuse!) any more effect upon her. But I soon found a clue to her obduracy—the silly child was enamoured of her brother’s friend, a fox-hunting squire, a true specimen of young John Bull. I saw how the game would go, John Bull returned her affection; he is a real type of his class. Rich, obstinate, and impetuous, he was resolved to marry the pretty rustic; she was equally determined; her brother befriended him; the thing was to be, so I arranged my hand accordingly. There is in the family a belle cousine—such a splendid creature, Alphonse! beautiful as an angel, the contour of a Juno, the port of an empress. She has tact and talent; a soul of fire beneath an exterior of ice; she is poor and ambitious. I could not have hoped to find one better suited to my purpose. She shall marry Crane; his purse will be in her hands; he will become her slave; and, Alphonse, she shall be mine! Do you doubt my success, mon ami? Bah! the game is as simple as child’s play. She is young, ardent; she will marry an old man to satisfy her ambition—she will despise him. Her heart will pine for an object on which to lavish its tenderness; I shall present myself, become her friend, her counsellor—and the result? Oh, you cannot doubt it. So I have pulled the strings, and my marionnettes have danced, and are dancing. My millionaire offered—the little rustic refused him. While he was smarting from this insult, I suggested to him that la belle cousine pined for love of him; praised her wit and beauty; and advised him to revenge himself by transferring his attentions to her. The bait took; I worked out all the minor incidents admirably; the young fox-hunter has married the pretty rustic, and taken her out of my way yesterday. The lovely Kate, playing her own game, labours indefatigably for my interest also. My friend Crane is delighted, and shows his gratitude by urging me to borrow money of him—(I have mortgaged my farm in Brittany to him for six times its value; when the three prior claims upon it are satisfied, and he brings forward his, this fact will surprise him, and teach him prudence for the future)—I avail myself of his liberality with caution, for I must not cut up my golden goose too quickly. But it is well to have more than one resource to rely upon; so if your rich young German countess should resolve on visiting England, send me timely notice. I feel that my star is in the ascendant. Cher Alphonse, wish your friend the success which should reward talent, in the use of which you have so well instructed your devoted,

“Horace.”

CHAPTER XVIII.—ALICE’S FIRST INTRODUCTION TO HER HUSBAND’S “QUIET MANNER.”

If our readers, gentle or simple, will obligingly stretch their imaginations sufficiently to depict for themselves the happiness of Alice and Harry during the first month of their married life, popularly denominated the honeymoon, and be content to permit us to resume our office of chronicler at the termination of that mellifluous (though, to all but the parties concerned, especially insipid) season, the readers aforesaid will merit our eternal gratitude, which we hereby beg to present them with.

Alice and Harry, then, having been married one calendar mouth, during which period they had been “up” the Rhine, and one or two of the Swiss mountains—having seen a great many strange things and strange people—having talked a vast amount of bad French and worse German, and narrowly escaped an attack of cholera from listening to the dissonance of that arch-delusion the Ranz-des-Vaches—having eaten such wonderful articles, cooked in such wonderful fashion, that if the genus Bimana were not providentially omnivorous, they would infallibly have been poisoned—having travelled over land and water by every species of conveyance known to the annals of locomotion, except perhaps a balloon, or the back of an elephant—had at length made their way to Paris; and as the inhabitants of that skittish and inconstant capital were then figuratively patting each other on the back, by way of congratulation on the fortunate accident which had preserved those that remained alive after the latest revolution from having shot each other through the head, our bride and bridegroom, established in a comfortable hotel, had determined to remain there till such time as they should mutually agree upon for their return to England. For, be it observed, that enough of the halo of the honeymoon yet lingered around this young couple, to keep them in the misty delusion that they possessed but one “will of their own” between them. They had yet to learn that there is a higher, truer, nobler state of association to be arrived at, even here on earth—a state in which we recognise the deep happiness of being privileged to sacrifice our own desires to those of the being we love better than ourselves. A logician may stigmatise this as merely a refined phase of selfishness; but it is such selfishness as might cling to us in heaven, and we yet remain sinless. Be this as it may, Alice, who had never been abroad before, found every pleasure enhanced by the charm of novelty, and was in a perfect Elysium of happy excitement. Harry had seen and done it all, and a great deal more besides; and would have found it a bore, only it was sufficient amusement to him to watch his young wife’s delight at all she saw and heard. Whether this amusement of watching, petting, and spoiling Alice, was at all beginning to lose its charm, may be gathered from the following conversation:—

“Harry, you sleepy old thing, this is the third time I’ve asked you whether Madame de Beauville is certain of getting us an invitation to Lord N————’s picnic at Versailles; do rouse yourself and answer me!”

Thus apostrophised, Coverdale—who was stretched at full length on (and beyond) a brocaded sofa, and had been lazily watching his wife, as with a vast deal of unnecessary energy she stitched away at a button, which, according to button-nature, had “come off” her husband’s glove the very first moment he attempted to draw it on—half-raised himself on his elbow as he replied—

“There is nothing certain under the sun; except that my little wife has the prettiest hand and arm of any woman (I don’t care who she may be—Jew, Turk, infidel, heretic, or Christian) in the known world. But that old humbug, Madame de Beauville, promised me faithfully to do her best for us—not that I’d believe her on her oath; she tried to book me for one of her scraggy daughters, the last time I was here; but it wouldn’t act—the trap was too visible, and the bait not sufficiently tempting. What very high action you have with that needle-hand of yours! you’ll overreach yourself, or get sprained in the back sinews, some of these days, if you don’t look out.”

“I will not allow you to ‘talk stable’ in that way, sir,” returned Alice, playfully shaking her finger at her recumbent spouse; “you shall not go to the picnic at all, you naughty boy, unless you behave better. Come, get up,” she continued, “if you lie down again you’ll be asleep in a minute; you’re so idle, you’re actually growing fat!”

“Nonsense, you don’t really mean it!” exclaimed Harry, springing up with a bound which shook the room, and startled Alice so much that she dropt the glove, needle, thread, button, and all, pricking her finger into the bargain. “By Jove,” he continued, regarding himself anxiously in a large pier-glass, “so I am! I tell you what, Mrs. Coverdale, this is getting serious, and must be put a stop to!”

“My dearest Harry, how dreadfully impetuous you are!—you’ve made me jump so, that I’ve dropt my work, and been and gone and pricked my favourite finger, as you say in your horrid slang—look!” So saying, the pretty Alice pouted like a spoilt child, as she then most assuredly was, and held up the injured finger to excite her husband’s commiseration. When a proper degree of pity had been shown, and the necessary amount of matrimonial felicity transacted, Alice resumed: “What a dreadfully conceited fellow you are, to be so alarmed at growing fat! Are you afraid of losing your beauty?”

“My how much?” was the astonished reply. “What funny ideas do come into a woman’s head to be sure! Why, you silly child, do you think I ever set up for a ‘beauty’ man? or care two straws what I look like? Such follies are very well for got up puppies, like Horace D’Almayne; but they’re not in my line.”

“I’m sure you’re fifty times as handsome as Mr. D’Almayne,” was Alice’s eager rejoinder; “but” she continued reflectively “if you are not afraid of your good looks, why are you so horrified at the idea of growing fat?”

Harry coloured slightly, and tried to evade the question; but his wife’s curiosity, being by this time excited, was not so easily baffled, and Coverdale had nothing for it but to confess the truth, which he did thus:—

“Well, if you must know, little wife, I’ve a bay colt by Fencer out of a Harkaway mare, and a chesnut filly by Hercules out of Bulfinch, both rising five (I refused 600 guineas for the pair of ’em a year ago), which I expect to do most of my work next hunting season; but as they’re both young unmade horses, I would not ride over twelve stone for anything; nothing cows a young horse more than overweighting him at starting.”

“Oh, Harry!” exclaimed Alice reproachfully, “I thought you meant to give up hunting now—I’m sure you said so when you were——, that is, before we were married. Why, you would be away from me more than half the day every time you went out! besides, it’s so dangerous! Oh, no; you may go shooting sometimes, and I can ride a pony and mark for you, as I used to do with papa and Arthur, but you must not hunt.”

“And can’t you ride and see the hounds throw off, darling? It’s one of the prettiest sights in the world. The first thing I mean to do when we get back, is to buy you a perfect lady’s horse; something rather different from that brute poor old Crane gave you.”

“Then you won’t promise to give up hunting, you naughty boy—not even when I ask you to do so to please me?”

And, confident in her own power, the young wife cast a look, half-imploring, half-commanding, on her lord and master, which he would have found it no easy matter to resist to a degree which should vindicate his right to such a title, when the opportune entrance of the valet, with a packet of letters, extricated him from his dilemma.

“A note from Madame de Beauville, containing an invitation to the picnic!—how delightful!” exclaimed Alice, appealing for sympathy to her better half; but he was engaged in perusing the following epistle, which, owing to the peculiarities both of diction, writing, and spelling, it was not too easy to decypher:—

“Honoured Sur,—I remain your humbel survunt and gaim-keepur as wos, John Markum, whech I would not ’ave intruded on you injoying of yourself in furring parts as is most fit, having married a beutiful yung English lady, as they do tell me, and the darter of Squire Hazlehurst likewise; which having caused a many things to go rong at home, I thort you would be glad to hear on it, and so rite, which I ’ope is no offence, the same being unintenshonal on my part; but the new stewart is agoin on oudacious, a ordering of me to kill gaim for him to sell, which, refusing to do, agin your ordurs, Honoured Sur, and he putting the money in his durty pocket, savin your presents, am discharged with four small childring, and a little stranger expected, which would have been welcome, but now must be a birding on the parish with his poor mother; which, knowin Honoured Sur, as injustice to unborn innocents is not in your line, nor in that of any gents but dishonest stewarts spoken agen in Scriptur, I umbly takes the liburty of trustin in Providence, which supports his poor mother agen the thorts of workous baby-linen, that hangs heavy on a woman accustomed to wash for the family and keep herself respectabul; so do not give up all hope of seeing you home, Honoured Sur, before every hed of gaim is destroyed, in which case Mr. stewart may larn that honesty is the best politics arter all; and so remain,

“Your humbel survunt to commarnd,

“John Markujm.”

“P.S.—The rabbids is agoin to town in the carriur’s cart, frightful, likewise the peasants.”

“My dearest Harry, there is to be a bal costumé after the picnic, and that kind Madame de Beauville sends us tickets for both! How charming!” exclaimed Alice, so engrossed in her pleasant anticipations that she had not observed the gloom gathering upon her husband’s brow, and was, therefore, quite unprepared when he broke out suddenly—

“’Pon my word, it’s enough to drive a man distracted! the moment one turns one’s back everything goes to———Ahem!—

“Here’s a scoundrel, who lived eight years with Lord Flashipan, and who came to me with a character fit for a bishop, and now he’s not only selling my game by cart-loads, but has actually dared to discharge Markum!—as honest, trustworthy a fellow, and as good a keeper as man need to require. Oh, if I was but near him with a horse-whip, I wouldn’t mind paying for the assault! I’d give him something to remember Harry Coverdale by—he might thank his stars if I didn’t break every bone in his skin. And that poor fellow Markum turned out, and all his little curly-headed brats, too—that makes me as mad as any of it!” He strode up and down the room angrily, his wife watching him in terrified amazement. At length he exclaimed abruptly—“Alice, my dear, we must start for England to-morrow morn——”

“But the picnic and the bal costumé, Harry, dearest, do not come off till the day after that; and Madame de Beauville has just sent me tickets for them both!” urged his wife, timidly.

“I’m sorry, my love, that it should have happened so, but go we must,” was the unyielding reply.

“But Madame de Beauville has taken so much trouble, and been so kind,” murmured Alice.

“The devil fly away with the old hag and her kindness too!” was the angry rejoinder. “I wish to heaven she’d attend to her own affairs, and not try to inspire you with a taste for dissipation. However, there is a quiet way of settling this question: if you choose to stay and go to this party, stay; and when I’ve been to Coverdale, and settled scores with that rascal Cribbins, I’ll come back and fetch you; so please yourself.”

Poor Alice! this was her first experience of Harry’s “quiet way;” the implied indifference was more than she could bear, and murmuring, in a broken voice, “Do you wish to leave me already!” she burst into a flood of tears.

Of course, that settled the question. Harry called himself a brute, and thought he was one, and felt as if he could have cried too, when he saw the bright drops glistening in Alice’s soft, loving eyes, and so set himself to work in earnest to console her; and succeeded to such an extent that ere a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Alice pronounced herself to be a silly child, and wondered how she could have been so foolish as to cry because Harry, the kindest and most affectionate of husbands, had evinced his just indignation on learning how the miscreant Cribbins had tyrannized over the faithful and unfortunate Markum, and his dear little interesting, curly-pated family. Then, as a personal favour to herself, she begged Harry would let her give up the picnic, and start for England next morning; she would be quite ready to go at five A.M., or earlier, if he wished it. To which Harry replied that nothing should induce him to deprive her of a pleasure he knew she had set her heart on; that a French picnic and bal costumé were things she could never see in England, and that as they were there it would be really a pity not to avail themselves of so good an opportunity; and he begged she would instantly sit town and write his thanks, as well as her own, to that thoroughly friendly, kind-hearted woman, Madame de Beauville.

While Alice was thus engaged, Harry took pen in hand, and dashed off a hurried epistle to Arthur, begging him to run down to Coverdale Park by the next train, and in his name cashier Cribbins, and re-instate the ill-used Markum and his much-enduring wife, if possible, before the arrival of the expected little stranger should add another small item to his embarrassments.

The picnic was a very gay one, and the bal costumé all that Alice’s “fancy had painted it,”—and a few over, as her slang husband was pleased to express it. The young couple went dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Harry, if left to himself, would have chosen a clown’s suit of motley; but Alice considered the romantic preferable to the ridiculous, and so he yielded; though it must be confessed that he afforded the most stalwart, robust, and cheerful representation of the forlorn Veronese lover that can well be imagined. Alice (although she also would have looked the part better if her damask cheek had not glowed quite so brightly with health and happiness) made an extremely fascinating little Juliet, and produced a sensation which delighted her husband, and bid fair to turn her own pretty head.

The bal and picnic being safely accomplished, and Alice perceiving that, although he did not again openly broach the subject, Harry’s thoughts were continually wandering to Coverdale Park, pretended (like a loving little hypocrite as she was) that she also began to feel home-sick; and that, although Paris was all very charming and agreeable for a little while, she should be very sorry to stay there long. Thus, the day of their departure was fixed, so that Harry should be enabled to reach home before the first of September,—as Alice (choosing the lesser of two evils) meant to encourage his shooting (occasionally for a few hours), as a bribe to induce him to give up that senseless and dangerous pastime, hunting; and she actually believed that her influence could accomplish all this—dear, innocent little Alice!

On the morning before they were to start, a letter arrived from the Grange. Alice read it eagerly.

“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, “what do you think Emily tells me? What a strange, extraordinary, wretched thing!—it seems quite impossible!”

“What is it, little wife?” returned Harry. “Has your father turned free-trader, and invited Messrs. Cobden and Bright to stay with him; or has Arthur been made Lord Chancellor?”

“Something almost as wonderful,” was the rejoinder. “Mr. Crane has proposed for my cousin Kate’s hand, and she has positively accepted him!”

“And a very sensible thing, too,” replied Harry, who, leaning over the back of his wife’s chair, was wickedly and surreptitiously attaching an ornamental pen-wiper to the end of one of her long, silky ringlets; “I dare say, now, you’re bitterly repenting your own folly in having allowed her the chance.”

Alice, turning her head quickly to administer condign punishment for this speech, by a tug at her lord and master’s ample whiskers, became aware of the scheme laid against her unconscious ringlet by reason of a twitch, which Harry, unprepared for her sudden movement, was unable to avoid giving it.

“You silly boy! what are you doing to me? oh! you’ve tied a horrid thing to my pet curl; take it off directly, sir! But seriously, now, about Kate;—dearest Harry—do be sensible, please, and let me talk to you.” This exhortation was called forth by the fact of the incorrigible Coverdale having placed the pen-wiper—which was a sort of cross between a three-barrelled cocked hat and an improbable pyramid—on the top of his wife’s head, just where the cross-roads in the parting of her hair occurred.

“Talk away, darling; I’m about as sensible as it’s at all likely you’ll ever find me,” was the reply.

“‘Well, don’t you really and truly think it very shocking that such a girl as Kate—so clever and handsome, so unusually superior in every point—should throw herself away upon that silly old man, whom she cannot even respect?” rejoined Alice.

“If I must speak the plain truth,” replied Harry, “I should say that a girl who could make such a sacrifice of her own free will isn’t worth pitying for it; she must be both mercenary and ambitious—serious faults in a man, but positive vices in a woman, because in yielding to them she is sinning against all the better instincts of her nature: for such a character I can feel no sympathy.”

“But indeed, Harry, she is not such a dreadful heartless creature as you imagine her; at least, she never used to be. On the contrary, when we were all children together, she was rather high-flown and romantic. It was during the time that she was at school, and under the care of a horrid woman, a Miss Crofton—”

“A Miss how much?” inquired Harry.

“Miss Crofton.”

“What was her Christian name?” continued Harry.

“Arabella,” was the reply.

“By Jove! did you ever see her? Was she a tall, dark-looking creature, with great flashing eyes like a gipsy’s?”

“Yes, that is an exact description of her,” returned Alice, in surprise; “but why do you ask? What do you know of her?”

“No good,” returned Harry, mysteriously, shaking his head; “but never mind, go on.”

“I was only going to say that I feel sure Kate must have some better reason than a mere wish to become a great lady, to induce her to marry Mr. Crane. You know her father and mother are very poor, and she has several younger brothers and sisters; perhaps she wishes to help them.”

“I dare say she does,” replied Harry, turning away to conceal a yawn; “nobody is all bad, any more than they are all the other thing. Characters are like zebras—alternate stripes of black and white; the only difference is, that in some one colour predominates, in some the other.”

There was a pause, then in a lower voice Alice resumed—

“Harry, did it ever occur to you (of course, I do not want you to betray confidence even to me), but did you ever suspect that Arthur was attached to Kate?”

“Never in my life,” was the unhesitating reply. “Arthur always laughed the tender passion, as he used to call it, to scorn.”

“I felt almost certain it was so,” continued Alice; “but I most earnestly hope, for his sake, that I was mistaken; if not, only conceive how wretched this engagement will make him!”

“Judging by my own feelings, when I fancied you had accepted the irresistible cotton-spinner,” returned Coverdale, “I should say that Prometheus, who had a perennial vulture making ‘no end’ of a meal on his liver (which I take to be simply a metaphorical method of stating that the unfortunate Titan was afflicted with hepatic disease), was, by comparison, ‘a gentleman who lived at home at ease.’”

“I used to fancy sometimes,” pursued Alice, “that Kate returned his affection; but she was so reserved, and her manner was always so calm and self-possessed, that it was impossible to judge, with any degree of certainty, what her feelings might be. However, this settles the point so far as she is concerned; if she had really cared about him, she could never have consented to marry Mr. Crane.”

“Hum! well I don’t know that,” returned Harry, meditatively; “it is not all women who have such simple, true, loving hearts as you, my own darling; and a pupil of Arabella Crofton’s may very well be capable of loving one man and marrying another.”

“Why, how came you to know anything about Miss Crofton, Harry?” exclaimed Alice, her curiosity being thoroughly roused by her husband’s second allusion to some previous acquaintance with her cousin’s ci-devant governess.

“I met her in Italy, if you must know,” returned Coverdale “She lived as governess in a family where I visited, and I saw a good deal of her at one time.”

There was something so odd and conscious in his manner of speaking, that Alice exclaimed, “She fell in love with you, I am certain of it. Come, confess now that I am right.”

“Do you think that every woman must needs be as foolish as yourself, you silly child?” was the uncomplimentary reply. “I can assure you, Miss Crofton is as utterly unlike you in tastes, habits, and opinions, as she is in person; and that is a pretty considerable assertion, I take it. And now it is time for you to get ready for our last drive in the Bois de Boulogne, and I must go out and buy a clean pair of gloves; so for ten minutes I shall wish you an affectionate farewell.”

Thus saying, Harry quitted the apartment; and Alice, going to prepare for her drive, forgot, for the time, her husband’s mysterious intimacy with Miss Crofton—it occurred to her afterwards, indeed, when——, but we must not anticipate. The next morning saw them en route. As they were about to embark at Boulogne, a sensation was created, at the hotel at which they waited till the tide served for the packet to start, by the arrival of a travelling carriage drawn by four horses, with a lady inside, and her soubrette, and an outlandish, courier-like creature in the rumble.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Harry, who, ensconced behind a window-curtain, had been examining the turn out with all the interest with which a position of enforced idleness invests every trifle. “By the powers there’s a foreign coronet on the carriage, and ditto on Don Whiskerando’s buttons! I wonder what she is like! Young and pretty, by all that is interesting and romantic! I dare say she is going to cross in the same boat as we are. Yes! Whiskerandos is gesticulating and explaining, and the landlord waves his hand in the direction of the pier. Now comes the bore of being a married man: what a splendid adventure I am shut out from! If I were but single, an opportunity now offers of captivating a lovely and accomplished foreign Countess, with a dowry of diamonds in her dressing-box, and a gold mine in her precious pocket: there’s a good opening for a nice young man!”

“Pray avail yourself of it,” returned Alice. “Don’t let me be any obstacle; carry off the Countess, and I will remain behind with that noble creature whom you style Don Whiskerandos. I prefer him infinitely to you, he is so like a very well-trained baboon.”

Harry’s conjecture that the mysterious Countess meant to cross in the same vessel with, himself and his wife proved correct; for, scarcely had he seen Alice comfortably established on a snug bench, where, if the sea-fiend should be so uncourteous as to attack her, she could on an emergency lie down, when daintily tripped along the human chicken-ladder which connected the vessel with the shore, the graceful, bien chaussé, little feet of the Countess. Then ensued a grand scene. Whiskerandos either did not comprehend, or refused to comply with some demand of the hotel commissionaire, who had taken upon himself the charge of the baggage, and who accordingly resisted his conveying his mistress’s luggage on board. Whiskerandos grimaced and chattered in a polyglot jargon, apparently compounded of every language under heaven, and utterly incomprehensible to the deepest philologist extant: the commissionaire was immovable. Whiskerandos implored—the commissionaire was deaf to his entreaties. Whiskerandos stormed—the commissionaire was inexorable. Whiskerandos, unable to endure his fate with calmness, went raving mad—he swore oaths so replete with improbable consonants that it is only a wonder they did not smash every tooth in his head; he stumped, shrieked, clenched his fists, and shook them in the face of his adversary—in vain; the commissionaire remained adamant, and prepared actually to carry off the offending luggage.

“Look at that ape,” observed Harry to his wife, who was watching the scene, half in amusement, half in terror; “he’s going into sky-blue fits apparently: of all absurd sights an angry foreigner is the most ridiculous. Do you see his moustaches?—they actually stand on end with fury, like the hairs on the tail of an excited cat. But see, the Don appeals to his mistress; the Countess will have to settle the affair in propriâ personâ.” This affair, however, was not to be arranged so easily; for the inflexible commissionaire proved as deaf to the entreaties of the mistress as he had shown himself to the threatenings of the man; and the Countess, if countess she was, having remonstrated to no purpose in a gentle, timid voice, looked helplessly round, as though she would appeal to society at large to aid her in her difficulty.

“Poor thing! those men have frightened her; she looks ready to cry!” exclaimed Alice. “Harry, dear, do go and see if you cannot assist her—you understand how to manage those people so well; besides, they always attend to a gentleman.”

Thus urged, Harry crossed the deck, and Alice saw him take off his hat and address the interesting foreigner; she bowed her head, and was evidently making a grateful answer; then Harry turned to the disputants, who both assailed him with a volley of words, upon which he first silenced Whiskerandos, then he exchanged a few cabalistic sentences with the commissionaire, and slipped a talisman into his hand, whereupon, with the celerity of some harlequinade trick, he changed into an amiable, obliging creature, only too anxious to please everybody, and went off, patting Whiskerandos on the back, and calling him a brave garçon, to assist with his own silver-absorbing fingers in conveying the Countess’s luggage on board. Then the Countess overwhelmed Harry with thanks, and Harry smiled benignantly upon the Countess, and they “talked conversation” for a few minutes; after which they both looked at Alice, and Harry with his best company manner on (which was merely his own natural manner brushed smooth), crossed over to her.

“She is really a Countess,” he began, “and a very charming, refined style of young woman too. She wants to be introduced to you, so come along.”

“But, Harry, dear, I shall break my neck, or tumble into the sea, if I attempt to walk; just look how its rolling about!” remonstrated Alice, whose essentially terrestrial education had given her rather a horror of all nautical matters.

“We’ll fall in together then,” returned Harry, laughing; “at all events don’t let us fall out about it. Come along, little wife, and trust yourself to me; I’ve paced a vessel’s deck when the sea’s shown rather a different sort of surface from that which it wears to-day.”

As he spoke, he placed his arm round his wife’s slender waist, and half supported, half led her across the deck in safety.

“What is her name, Harry?” inquired Alice, as they were effecting the transit.

“Bertha seems to be her Christian name—of course her surname is something unpronounceable and appalling; but if you call her Countess Bertha that will do; at all events, as long as our acquaintance with her is likely to last,” was the reply.

Alice having never before encountered a real, live Countess, felt a little shy at first; but the young foreigner’s manner, which was perfectly easy without being too familiar, soon re-assured her, and the two girls (for the Countess appeared little older than Alice) chatted away, at first in French, but when it came out that the stranger likewise understood English, in that language, to their mutual satisfaction. But in about half-an-hour a breeze (not metaphorical, but literal) sprung up, and the Countess signified her wish to retire to the cabin, upon which Coverdale summoned her maid, and then assisted her to effect the desired change of locality.

CHAPTER XIX.—A COMEDY OF ERRORS.

“T There now, I consider I’ve done the polite in the first style of fashion and elegance,” observed Harry, self-complacently, as he rejoined his wife; “Horace D’Almayne himself could not have polished off the young woman more handsomely, for all his moustaches.”

“How you do hate that poor Mr. D’Almayne!” returned Alice, laughing. “Do you know, I think you are jealous of him.”

“I was once, and that’s the truth—very savage it made me too; for if you could have been fascinated by such a puppy as that, I felt I had mistaken your character in toto, and that the Alice I loved was a creature of my own imagination, not a reality—but I soon saw my error.”

Alice glanced at him archly. “Are you quite sure you did not fall into a greater mistake when you fancied yourself so certain of my indifference?” she inquired.

Harry fixed his eyes upon her with a look of inquiry, which, when he saw that she was joking, changed to an expression of tenderness;—“I could not look in that dear face, where every thought can be read as in a book, and remain jealous for five minutes,” he answered.

Alice made no reply, unless placing her little hand in that of her husband, with a confiding gesture, can be called so.

The wind continuing fresh, the unfortunate Countess did not re-appear; but Coverdale and his wife, being so happily constituted that the tossing produced no ill effects upon them, remained upon deck till the vessel reached Dover. Amid the scene of confusion attending the arrival of a steamer, Harry, having secured his luggage, was standing sentinel over a moderately-sized pyramid, which he had caused to be erected of the same, when Alice, then seated upon a large black trunk, which she had seduced her husband into buying in the Rue St. Honoré, and which would very easily have held her, bonnet, cloak, and all, suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, Harry! do look at that young exquisite who has just come on board; why he’s the very moral, as the old women say, of the person we’ve been discussing—Mr. D’Almayne!”

“By Jove, he’s more than the moral!” returned Coverdale, as the individual thus alluded to advanced towards them bowing and smiling, “it’s the veritable Horace himself, I vow—talk of the devil——. My dear fellow, how are you? who’d have thought of seeing you here! You’ve not turned Custom-house officer, have you? I’ve nothing contraband about me, except this morning’s Galignani; if you are inclined to make a seizure of that, you’re very welcome.”

“You’re nearer the mark than you imagine, my dear sir,” was the reply; “though not exactly a professional attaché to the Customs, I must own that I am here as an amateur in that capacity—my object being to facilitate the transmission of a lady’s luggage.”

“Yes?—how interesting! I hope she’s young and pretty,” observed Alice. “Come Mr. D’Almayne, having let us so far into the secret, it’s no use to affect the mysterious, so tell us who and where she is.”

“Where she is, perhaps you may be able to inform me, my dear Mrs. Coverdale,” replied D’Almayne, smoothing his moustaches. “The object of my search is a young German lady, the Countess Bertha von Rosenthal, to whom I have promised my friend, the Honourable Mrs. Botherby, to act as preux chevalier. Accordingly I came down by train this morning, provided with an order from the Board of Customs to the people here to pass the Countess’s luggage unexamined, and show her every attention which may facilitate her transit; thence I am to escort her and her property to Park Lane; by all which ‘double, double, toil and trouble,’ I secure an early introduction to, and confer a favour upon, a young and lovely heiress.”

“That’s my Countess, as sure as fate!” exclaimed Harry. “She said her name was Bertha”—and he then related to D’Almayne the circumstances with which the reader has already been made acquainted. “And,” he continued in conclusion, as a female figure, leaning on the arms of the soubrette and Don Whiskerandos, emerged from the ladies’ cabin—“and here she comes, looking rather poorly still—nothing of the water-witch about her, at all events. Have you met before, or shall I introduce you?”

“Do, by all means, mon cher; we are total strangers to each other,” was the reply. And with an injunction to Alice to remain where she was till he should return, Harry seized D’Almayne’s arm, and hurried him away. Before two minutes had elapsed, Coverdale returned alone.

“It’s all right,” he said: “but come along; D’Almayne’s order will clear our luggage also, and we can all get away together.”

Then ensued a grand scena of bustle and confusion, during which, supported by her husband’s stalwart arm, Alice caught glimpses of D’Almayne smiling to show his white teeth, and striving vigorously to enact the part of guardian angel to the rich young heiress.

“That puppy is in his glory now,” observed Coverdale, snappishly; “I dare say that silly woman will take him at his own price, and believe in him to any extent to which he may like to lead her—perhaps marry him after all, and make him Count von Rosenthal: that would suit his complaint exactly, the fortune-hunting young humbug!”

“My dear Harry, what words!” exclaimed Alice. “You are really quite savage to-day; I shall be obliged to take Mr. D’Almayne under my protection, if you go on so.”

“No need to do that, my dear,” returned Harry, his face resuming its usual bright, kind expression, as his glance fell upon his wife; “your protégé is quite certain to take the best possible care of himself—now come along;” and in another five minutes they had left the vessel and entered a railroad-carriage, in which the Countess and D’Almayne had already established themselves.

The journey to London was a very agreeable one;—the Countess, having recovered with marvellous celerity the moment she placed her pretty little foot on terra firma, exerted herself to make up for lost time, and succeeded so well that D’Almayne, who became more and more empressé and devoted every moment, determined, if he should be able to ascertain beyond a doubt that her fortune was as large as it had been represented, to give up every other speculation, and devote all his energies to secure the hand and purse of this fascinating foreigner. As they approached the London Bridge terminus the Countess, turning to her new guardian, inquired whether it was very far to Park Lane:

“About half an hour’s drive. The carriage will, I trust, be there to meet this train; though, owing to our having avoided all delay at the Custom-house, we shall be in town some two hours sooner than the other steam-boat passengers. However, if we arrive earlier than is expected, it will only be an agreeable surprise to our kind friend, Mrs. Botherby.”

“Mais oui!” returned the Countess with a look of innocent perplexity; “and who may be cette chere Madame Bodairebie?”

“Mrs. Botherby, my dear Countess,” returned D’Almayne, who began to think his charming friend must be slightly insane, “Mrs. Botherby—the Honourable Mrs. Botherby—is the lady who obtained for me the pleasure of rendering you this slight service.”

“Quelle drôle de chose. I shall not know some Mrs. Bodairebie no veres,” was the astounding reply.

“But—but—” stammered D’Almayne, as an idea occurred to him sufficiently alarming to surprise him out of his usual sang froid, “excuse me—but surely you are the Countess Bertha von Rosenthal?”

A peal of silvery laughter was the only reply the unhappy exquisite was at first able to obtain; but, as soon as she could recover herself, the mysterious lady began: “Milles pardons! I am so rude to make a laugh at you, but I am so gay I alvays must laugh ven I see a ridiculous thing in front of—bah—vot you call before me. Mon cher Monsieur, you have, I know not how, tumbled into a delusion. I am not at all zie Countess Bertha von Rosenthal, but zie Countess Bertha Hasimoff, en route to stay viz my friend, Lady St. Clare, in Park Lane, London, till my hosband shall capture zie permission of die Czar to leave Petersburg and transport himselfs after me.”

Coverdale, Alice, and the Countess Hasimoff, glanced first at D’Almayne, then at one another, and then—but if they were heartless enough to laugh consumedly, we will draw a veil over such unfeeling conduct.

CHAPTER XX.—THE MORNING OF THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

THE first of September! No wonder if we were a covey of partridges what we should think about the first of September, and how, generalizing from that idea, we should feel towards the race of men,—sons of guns, as in partridge parlance we should, doubtless, metaphorically term them! We wonder from what point we should regard pointers (disappointers, as a witty friend of ours called a couple of “wild young dogs” who ran in upon their game, and cheated him of a promising shot), or how we should look upon a setter making a “dead set” at us! Reasoning by analogy, and not supposing partridges to be better Christians than Christians themselves, we fear we should consider sportsmen (the very name is an addition of insult to injury) greater brutes than their four-footed allies; and that the idea of standing fire (either kitchen or gun), the notion of the roasting we must undergo after we have been plucked,—of the way in which we should be cut up by a set of blades, who are, after all, ready enough to pick our brains, and avail themselves of our merry-thoughts, would put us in such a flutter that it would be a mercy if we were not to show the white feather, and refuse to die game after all.

Such, however, were by no means the sentiments with which Harry Coverdale looked forward to the first of September. On the contrary, although he endeavoured to disguise the fact from his wife, and indeed from himself, as far as in him lay, the truth was that he was as much delighted at the prospect of a good day’s partridge shooting, as the veriest school-boy released from the drudgery of dictionary and grammar. Markum, that trustworthy custodian of game, and original specimen of a polite letter-writer, who had been safely re-instated in his office, and received such handsome presents of baby-linen and other infantry accoutrements that the illustrious “little stranger,” who had wisely postponed his arrival till the evil day had departed, bid fair to be clothed in a style befitting the heir-apparent to a dukedom rather than to a double-barrelled gun—Markum reported that although the hares and pheasants (which he persisted in calling peasants) had suffered some diminution from the practice of the dishonest steward, yet that he’d never “in all his born days seen such a blessed sight o’ partridges.” Stimulated by this information, and by the recollection that on the preceding first of September he had been kicking his heels and cursing his evil fortune, as he performed quarantine in a red-hot port of the Mediterranean, Harry—having greatly amused Alice by the earnest zeal with which, on the 31st of August, he examined and re-examined his “Joe Manton,” and the exact and stringent orders he gave in regard to the feeding of his dogs, than which the most fastidious invalid could not have been more delicately and precisely dieted—awoke at four o’clock on the eventful morning, and, without disturbing Alice, who was sleeping as calmly as a child, rose and dressed himself in a thoroughly workmanlike shooting costume. Having accomplished this feat without waking Alice, he wrote on a bit of paper, “Good morning and good-bye, dearest. As I intend to have a glorious day of it, do not expect me till near dinner-time, when I hope to return with a full bag and an awful appetite. Yours, ever, H. C.,” and placing it on his wife’s dressing-table, stole on tiptoe to the door, closed it noiselessly after him; and when, three hours afterwards, Alice opened her eyes, he was striding through stubble on the farther side of the estate, having bagged four brace of birds and a well-conditioned and respectable Jack hare.

Mrs. Coverdale was some few minutes before she was, literally, awake to a sense of her situation; and the lady’s-maid entering while she was still between sleeping and waking, she half unconsciously asked the not unnatural question—“What has become of your master?”

“If you please, Mem, Master’s been out shooting partringers ever since five o’clock, Wilkins says. If you please, Mem, there’s a note for you, Mem, lying on your dressing-table, in Master’s handwriting.”

Rousing herself, Alice read it eagerly. The contents did not seem particularly to please her, for, as she refolded the paper, she looked grave, and gave vent to a mild sigh. “Do not undraw the curtain,” she said: “come again in an hour, Ellis; I feel sleepy, and there is nothing to get up for,” she added, in a slightly pettish tone. Falling asleep the moment she laid her head upon the pillow, Alice dreamed that when she came down to breakfast she found Harry had returned, saying that he could not bear to leave her alone all day, and so had come back and wished to drive her to call upon that agreeable woman, Mrs. Felicia Tabinette (a name with which she was inspired for the occasion, as no such neighbour existed), to which proposition she gladly assenting, they had gone out in a pony-chaise made of coral and mother-of-pearl, and drawn by two lovely little sea-green ponies with lilac manes and tails, and harness made of the best point lace. And she was just advancing the unanswerable proposition that, as lace was the fittest material of which to make a lady’s collar, it must also be the most proper fabric for that of a horse, when the inexorable Ellis appeared for the second time, and dispelled all her bright visions by awakening her to the dull reality. Alice, however, took her revenge upon that “dis-illusioning”—as a Frenchman would have called it—lady’s-maid, for she was more fastidious and difficult to please, and almost snappish, than Ellis had ever known her before, insomuch that the excellent Abigail afterwards propounded her opinion in the servants’ hall, that “Missus was tuter fay outer sorts,” which disheartening fact she accounted for by the hypothesis that she—Mrs. Coverdale—must have got out of bed with the wrong foot foremost.

While the tea for her solitary breakfast was drawing, Alice, having no one else to look at, amused herself by regarding her own natural—no term could be more appropriate—face in a large pier-glass, and was quite startled to behold the unmistakeably cross expression which characterized it. Taking herself to task for this, she, sipping her tea, which did not taste nearly so good as when Harry was at home, mentally decided that she was very unreasonable, and childish, and ridiculous—that when Harry had been devoting himself for the last month to her pleasure and amusement, going to balls and all sorts of places which he did not care a pin about, solely to please her, it was horribly selfish in her to grudge him a few hours to devote to a favourite pursuit—though how men could find delight in killing those poor birds, she could not tell. She did not so much wonder about other people; she believed men were generally cruel; but Harry was so unusually kind-hearted. She supposed it must be the excitement, and the beautiful scenery, and the interest in watching those dear, clever dogs stick out their long tails to point at the partridges with—which, looking at it in a Chesterfieldian point of view, was decidedly impolite, if not positively rude, of them; and yet she had heard gentlemen talk about their sporting dogs being so well-bred.

Having thus reasoned herself into a wiser frame of mind, she resolved to make the best of it; and suddenly recollecting she had at least a thousand things to do, which she was continually putting aside till some time or other when Harry should be out, she decided that this was the time, and that now or never must they all be done. Accordingly, she set vigorously to work, and wrote three letters one after another, to three former schoolfellows, wherein she described her husband as a species of modern demi-god, compounded of equal parts of Solomon and Adonis, with a dash of Achilles thrown in to do justice to his heroic qualities; and depicted matrimonial felicity in such glowing colours, that the richest and prettiest of her correspondents eloped the next week with her music-master; and one of the others, who was neither rich nor pretty, turned pious out of spite, and went into a sort of High Church Protestant nunnery-and-water, to punish the men, who, it must be confessed, appeared to submit to the trial with the most cheerful resignation. Then Alice brought out a large roll of bills, and a thick house-keeping book, ruled with blue lines, and having a business-like smell of new leather about the binding, which Alice flattered herself would impress even the stately housekeeper (who was old enough to be her mother, and stiff enough for anything; and of whom Alice, in her secret soul, stood very much in dread) with a deep sense of her being a very dragon of housewifery, prepared to be down upon the slightest attempt at peculation like an avenging fury. But the bills were so complicated, and never would add up twice alike, and the butcher was so inconsistent and slippery about his prices, sometimes charging 7d. and sometimes 7½d. as “if once a pound of mutton, always a pound of mutton,” were not an incontrovertible axiom; and the baker was as bad, besides choosing to spell dough, d.o.e., which at first made her think that he was the butcher and sold venison; and the hams seemed always to come from the tallow-chandler’s with the candles, which wasn’t by any means an agreeable association of ideas; and the footman was evidently of Esquimaux descent, and lived sumptuously upon lamp-oil at 8s. the gallon; and the coachman appeared to feed the carriage-horses with sponges, wash-leather, and rotten-stone, which she was sure could not be good for them; and she thought the under-housemaid had ordered herself a “Turk’s-head” dessert-cake, for her own private eating, but it turned out to be a particular species of broom; while the amount of hearth-stones and house-flannels that girl consumed would have served to build an “Albert pattern” model cottage once a quarter, and furnish the pauper inhabitants thereof with winter clothing: so that by the time luncheon arrived poor Alice, tired and confused, with inky fingers and an aching head, had come to the conclusion that she had nothing in common with Joseph Hume, M.P., and that for the future she should resign the glory of managing the housekeeper’s book to Mrs. Gripples, and restrict her department to the equally dignified, but less onerous, duty of making Harry sign the cheques, and handing them over to that august domestic to pay the bills with.

CHAPTER XXI.—THE EVENING OF THE SAME DAY.

Luncheon—a dreadful hot luncheon—luncheon enough for four hungry men, at least; and Alice had a headache. Of course she could not touch a bit, so she listlessly nibbled a biscuit, and sipped half a glass of wine, and felt very lonely and uncomfortable, and sat down to think—which was just the very worst thing she could have done under the circumstances, for it brought on a second attack of the “neglected wife” state of feeling; and she had actually proceeded so far, that she was about mentally to convict Harry (that matrimonial phoenix) of positive selfishness, when the enormity of the idea horrified her, and produced an instantaneous re-action, and she told herself, roundly and sharply, that she was ungrateful in the extreme, and weak, and childish and vacillating, and altogether unworthy of such a blessing of a husband as Harry Coverdale. And thus, having taken herself severely to task, and repented and confessed, and promising amendment for the future, yet refused herself absolution, she recovered sufficiently to determine that she would do something energetic to dissipate reflection, though of what nature the deed was to be, she had not the smallest conception. Should she order the carriage, and pay visits?—no, impossible! they were all first visits to a set of total strangers, and she could no more call upon them alone than she could fly: besides she would be lost in that great carriage all by herself, and the horses would be sure to avail themselves of the opportunity to shy and run away, if Harry were not there to protect her. She knew the white-legged horse had a spite against her, for when she wanted to pat his nose one day, he tried to bite her—what a wonderful thing instinct was, to be sure! No, she would go and take a brisk walk, that would rouse her, and do her headache good; besides, she could have the dear dogs for company—oh, yes! a walk by all means. Where should she go?—why, across the fields to visit Mrs. Markum, and see how the little stranger looked in his gorgeous apparel, and learn whether mother or son wanted for anything. Harry would like her to do that, he was so fond of Markum. Ah, Alice! had you no mental reservation?—did not a hope lurk in the bottom of your heart that at the gamekeeper’s cottage you might possibly catch a glimpse of his master, calling in for dry shoes, or a relay of powder and shot? Poor, loving little Alice, ashamed to confess, even to herself, the depth and strength of her affection!—silly little Alice, jealous even of her involuntary rivals, the partridges, who would gladly have dispensed with the attentions her husband was paying them!—weak, foolish, little Alice!—and yet more truly wise in such loving folly, stronger in the weakness of such tender womanly devotion, nearer the Divine ideal, whence God who made man in his own image formed woman as a help meet for him, than the most self-engrossed esprit fort who ever confused herself and others by prating of things above her comprehension.

So Alice set out for her solitary ramble, taking with her Pepper and Ginger, which (although the former was often found in a pretty pickle, and would have been wholly inappropriate in a bream tart; and the latter, judging by the appearance of a very red tongue, was decidedly “hot i’ the mouth”) were not a couple of spicy condiments, but a brace of Skye terriers. The dogs were in charming spirits, which they displayed by running after and barking at respectable blackbirds seeking their frugal “diet of worms;” coming back in eccentric and violent circles, to twitch the ends of Alice’s boa and the corners of her shawl, only to dash away again and lose themselves, by forcing burglarious entrances into forbidden rabbit-burrows, with the vicious intention of worrying the timid inmates, in their little brown coats with practical jokes of tails. And here be it observed parenthetically, that of all the freaks of nature, the unexpected way in which she has seen fit to turn up rabbits’ tails, and to line them with white, to the great disfigurement and personal hazard of the owners, has always appeared to us one of the strangest, and only to be accounted for by the hypothesis of a chronic practical joke. Whether this idea enhanced the fun Pepper and Ginger had with the rabbits during that expedition, or whether it never occurred to them, is more than we can tell; but the extent to which those dogs persisted in burying themselves alive, and harassing their mistress by a succession of these amateur extramural interments, almost justifies us in supposing it must have done so.

Having at last succeeded in reducing her four-footed torments to such a measure of obedience that, when thoroughly tired of scampering and scratching, they condescended to follow her, Alice entered a grass field, and had walked half across it ere she discovered the alarming fact that there were some cows grazing in it; one of which she, to her intense discomposure, immediately decided to be a bull, because, as she afterwards graphically described it, “it moo’d so low down its throat that it almost growled at her.” Of course all bulls being mad, and a mad bull being enough to frighten anybody, Alice began to run; which feat of activity (or activity of feet, if any reader should prefer the phrase so transposed) charmed the dogs—who thought she did it for their express delectation—to such an extent, that they began to bark furiously, which frightened the cow (for despite her base voice, she was a “very” cow after all, and fortunately a quiet one into the bargain), so that, exalting her tail, and twisting it like a corkscrew for the greater effect, she also set off running, thereby adding to Alice’s terror to such a degree, that, if a providential stile had not mercifully rescued her, the consequences might have been serious. This last “spirt,” however, brought her to Markum’s cottage, where she found the baby in a great state of slobbering splendour—very red, ugly, and promising, and altogether (as an assistant old lady, not to say hag, rather the worse for something that had dropped into her tea out of the gin-bottle, and who, from the accident, was in an extensive condition of maudlin and inappropriate Christianity, piously observed), a “little crowing mercy.” Having done her duty by this young child—that is, having said it was very pretty, which, to speak mildly, was untrue—and a very fine child, which, as far as regarded its dress, it certainly was—and exactly like its father, which was an awful——well, never mind, pious fraud we’ll call it,—Alice tipped the inappropriate Christian half-a-crown (in exchange for which she received a tipsy blessing), and took leave, having obtained geographical instructions by which she might, on her homeward route, avoid the proximity of the basso profundo cow.

The walk back (with the trifling exception of an episode wherein Ginger disturbed the tenants of a wasps’-nest) proved singularly uneventful, and Alice, in her secret soul, pronounced the whole expedition a failure—which, as it had cured her headache, was very ungrateful of her; but she was so engrossed by a little pain about the heart, which nothing but her husband’s return could cure, that she had entirely forgotten her headache.

The hall clock struck four as its mistress entered—four o’clock, two long hours to dinner-time! the time when Harry would, that is, ought to, return; for she daresay’d he would be late, and that they should not sit down to table till half-past six, at the very earliest. What should she do to fill up this unharmonious interval? Why, as she had worked so hard all the morning, surely she had a right to amuse herself now. She would read some entertaining book, which would make her laugh and raise her spirits; for, despite her best endeavours, she was getting decidedly miserable. So to this end she opened a parcel of books from the library, and began upon a new novel, by that very talented lady, Mrs. Bluedeville, and read how a “fair and gentle girl,” brought up by a select coterie of fiendish relations, and subjected from infancy to a series of tortures, sufficient to have expended the stoutest negro, developed, under these favourable circumstances, into a perfect Houri of Paradise, with the “additional attraction” of possessing the mind, manners, erudition, and phraseology of an old Divine of the Church of England. This interesting young martyr, released from her educational Bastile, and turned out to grass for a brief space in a pleasant meadow, wherein pastured a gallant, but very moral, officer of dragoons, naturally falls in love with the same, who fortunately does not resent the liberty. Angelica, taken up from her month’s run and put to work much too heavy for her, becomes better and better, until, as might have been expected, she overdoes the thing, and getting too good to live, has nothing left for it but to die, which she accordingly does on the arrival of the post which brings an account of the bold dragoon (in whom, from a fancied resemblance to Harry, Alice had taken the deepest interest) having fallen a victim to his dauntless courage, which, leading him to kill sixteen mounted Sikhs in single combat, had failed to preserve him from the vindictive fury of the seventeenth evil-disposed survivor. Strange to say this talented work, delightful as it was, failed to render Alice much more cheerful; but it succeeded in occupying her till it was time to go and dress for dinner, and for this she was grateful to the genius of Mrs. Bluedeville.

By six o’clock Alice, ready for dinner in more senses than one, betook herself to the drawing-room, where she waited patiently for half-an-hour, reading up sundry parts of Mrs. Bluedeville, which, in her rapid flight through that lady’s instructive romance, she had failed to peruse. At seven o’clock she rang the bell, and inquired of the butler whether his master had come in, or whether, if not, anything definite was known of his whereabouts. The reply was unsatisfactory in the extreme.

Master had not returned, he (Wilkins) could form no idea where he was likely to be; but, as a general maxim, considered shooting to be a highly dangerous amusement. Would Mrs. Coverdale obligingly condescend to ring the bell when she wished the dinner to be brought up?

Shooting a dangerous amusement! Yes, of course, so it was—guns constantly went off of their own accord, and shot those who were carrying them. How was it she had never thought of this before? and she had been blaming Harry, when, perhaps——the idea was too horrible to clothe in words, but it had occurred to her, and for Alice now there was no peace.

Mrs. Bluedeville was thrown aside with no more ceremony than if she had been a penny-a-liner; and with flushed cheeks and a beating heart the anxious young wife began to pace up and down the apartment. As the minutes crept by (so slowly!) Alice’s fear increased, until, at half-past seven, the suspense grew intolerable; and, ringing the bell, she was just giving incoherent orders for two mounted grooms to set off in utterly useless directions, when bang! bang! went a double-barrelled gun in the stable-yard, and Wilkins (an amiable but timid London servant) and his mistress nearly jumped into each other’s arms.

Still haunted by the conviction that something untoward must have happened, Alice hastened to meet her husband as he entered the hall. “Oh, Harry dearest, how glad I am you are safe!” she exclaimed; “but tell me,” she continued, referring to the mysterious cause of his prolonged absence, “tell me—what is it?”

“Sixteen brace of birds, three hares, two couple of rabbits, a landrail, and a woodpigeon; and a very fair bag I call it for one gun,” was the unexpected reply.

Relieved, yet slightly provoked, Alice resumed: “But what has made you so late? I have been dreadfully frightened about you—”

“Frightened! what at? oh, you silly child! But come, let us have dinner; I shall be ready in less than ten minutes. The idea of being frightened!” and with a smile of compassionate derision, Harry marched off to dress, humming—

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky

Proclaim it a hunting morning.”

And this was Alice’s recompense for a lonely day spent in looking forward to, and longing for, her husband’s return, ending in half-an-hour of breathless anxiety for his safety! She felt decidedly cross, and we think she had a right to be so. During dinner she was silent and dignified on principle—her husband should see that she felt his neglect. But Harry didn’t see it one bit, bless him! He was very hungry, so for some time kept strictly to business, and he was very happy, so when his appetite was appeased, he rattled on about anything and everything, and was so pleasant and cheerful that Alice felt dignity would be quite out of place, had a little struggle with her feelings, and then mentally forgave him.

To prove that she did so, she laid herself out to entertain and amuse him, and with this view, when the servant had left the room, she treated him to a comic account of her day’s adventures, and having talked herself into a great state of communicativeness and sociability, had just reached the bass cow episode, when a slight sound, not very unlike the voice of the cow itself, reached her ear—Harry had fallen fast asleep!

CHAPTER XXII.—KATE SOWS THE WIND.

So Kate Marsden married the cotton-spinner, and old Mr. Hazlehurst repurchased his farm on very easy terms. We wonder which of the two was best pleased with the bargain! Kate turned very pale when she promised to love, honour, and obey a man whom she disliked, despised, and intended to rule; nor do we wonder at it, for, with all her faults, Kate perceived the intrinsic beauty of truth, and loved it, as she did everything beautiful. But though she loathed herself for what she was doing, though her bitterest enemy could not have taken a harsher view of her conduct than she herself took, she had gone too far to retract, and having swallowed the camel of crushing her own heart and that of Arthur Hazlehurst, she could not stultify herself by straining at the gnat of swearing falsely in the service for the solemnization of matrimony. Kate’s was one of that peculiar order of consciences which can commit a sin knowingly, on an emergency, but dare not be guilty of a blunder. In the one case, the end appears to justify the means; while in the other, the entire transaction is unworthy. Sophistry, Kate, sophistry! which, while you think it, and act upon it, fails to satisfy even your warped and distorted sense of right and wrong.

Kate Marsden married Mr. Crane—there was a union! On the one side youth and beauty; intellect, lofty enough to have aimed at any achievement which the mind of woman has accomplished; energy, sufficient to have gained the object striven for; ambition, that when all was won would have despised the trophies at her feet, and sighed for more worlds to conquer; and a deep passionate nature, combining the fiery elements of a southern temperament with the steady perseverance and inflexible resolution characteristic of a daughter of the sturdy north: on the other side, advancing age, mental weakness, timidity, and its natural concomitant—suspicion, together with a general paucity of ideas, centred in a vulgar pride of wealth. All Kate’s friends congratulated her, and many envied her good fortune; and Horace D’Almayne smiled on his future victim, as he surely reckoned her; and Arthur Hazlehurst sat alone in his dusky chambers, with bitter thoughts busy at his heart, struggling, like a brave and good man, against the tempting fiend that bade him rise up and curse her who had thus rendered desolate his young existence; and the minister of religion stood before the altar, and pronounced his blessing over this hollow mockery of marriage, which no amount of blessing could hallow; and the happy pair drove off to some fool’s paradise to enjoy the honeymoon.

Poor Mr. Crane! if he had dreamed of the volcano of feeling that smouldered at his side beneath that cold, calm exterior, he would assuredly have flung open the carriage-door, sprung out (albeit not accustomed to such feats of activity), and never ceased running until he had reached Manchester. Fortunately, however, his wife’s mind was a sealed book to him, and so he reached the end of his journey in peace and safety.

Having borne the honeymoon with resignation, Kate endured her bad bargain tête-à-tête at various watering-places, and amongst innumerable lakes and mountains of tourist notoriety, until she had taught him the only accomplishment she cared to inculcate, viz., obedience, which he learned very readily, seeing that it relieved him from all trouble and responsibility. This point accomplished, she took him to a fashionable hotel in St. James’s Street, where she wrote to her friend, Arabella Crofton, to join her. However, before that excellent young woman of the world had time to wind up the ends of a few trifling skeins of policy, with which she had been constructing nets for small birds at Baden-Baden, Horace D’Almayne found out the residence of the happy couple, and proceeded to call upon, dine with, and make himself generally useful and agreeable to them. Kate did not like him, but she had been for two months tête-à-tête with Mr. Crane, and Horace possessed this advantage over that devoted husband, that he was not a fool, and Mr. Crane was. Horace was not a fool; on the contrary, he was such a clever knave that it was really a pity that he was not something better: he saw the game he had to play, and he resolved to play it as skilfully as his faculties and experience would enable him. He possessed considerable insight into character, and sufficient tact to accommodate himself to the peculiarities, and avail himself of the weaknesses, he might thus discover. Accordingly, his first move was to endeavour to lull Kate’s suspicions of him, which he saw had been aroused; his next to make himself by degrees useful to her—necessary to her; then, let him win her confidence on any subject (he would have been delighted if she had told him the day of the month, or that she had dropped a pin, in confidence, for it would have been a beginning), until by word, look, or sign, she admitted her indifference towards her husband, and then the game would be his own.

With Mr. Crane D’Almayne’s course appeared very simple. The millionaire’s one clear idea was the omnipotence of wealth; he knew D’Almayne was poor, and that he had lent him money which he never expected to be repaid. He considered him in the light of a sort of Master of the Ceremonies, who could guide him in the ways of fashionable life, whereof he felt his ignorance—a kind of upper upper-servant—the Vizier to his Caliphship, and he lent him money as a delicate way of paying his wages. At present D’Almayne was in high favour with Mr. Crane; his wife was looking very handsome, quite a gem of a wife—equal to his pictures or his port wine; D’Almayne had negotiated his marriage for him, and the speculation had been a successful one; he lent D’Almayne £500 before he had been in town a week. Horace saw it all, but he was not proud; as he would have said, “It suited his book too well,” so he pocketed his wages meekly.

“My dear Kate, can you amuse yourself for a couple of hours or so alone? D’Almayne and I are going to look at a pair of carriage-horses—a—I shall bring him home to luncheon, and—a—now I think of it, I asked him to dine here and go to the concert at the Hanover Square Rooms with us afterwards;” and having thus unfolded his programme for the day, Mr. Crane glanced timidly towards his wife, to learn whether it would receive her sanction and approval. There was a moment’s silence, and then in a low, musical voice, Kate replied coldly—

“I have letters to write this morning, so the arrangement will suit me perfectly. If the horses are fine ones, I hope you will buy them.”

Mr. Crane stroked his chin (a habit in which he indulged when anything pleased him) and smiled. His wife was satisfied with him—happy man! But he had stroked his chin rather prematurely, for, in the same cold tone, Kate resumed—

“There is one point on which I am anxious clearly to understand you. Is it your wish that Mr. D’Almayne should virtually live with us? because, that he will do so, unless some decided measures are taken to discourage him, is self-evident.”

This was a straightforward and uncompromising way of putting the case which slightly discomposed poor Mr. Crane.

D’Almayne was, as we have said, eminently useful to his patron, so much so, that at that precise epoch the good gentleman would have been sorely puzzled how to get on without him; but the more he acknowledged this in his secret soul, the less did he desire that any one, and especially his young wife, should perceive it.

“Well, my dear Kate,” he began, “you see Mr. D’Almayne has turned his attention to points which, engaged as I have been for many years in commerce, I have never found time or opportunity to render myself acquainted with.”

“In fact, he has made himself necessary to you,” interposed Kate.

“No, my dear, no—by no means necessary—not at all so; but that he is useful, very useful to me, I confess. I am sorry to perceive that you have taken up a slightly unreasonable (if I may be permitted to say so) prejudice against this young man.”

“You are mistaken,” returned Kate, calmly. “I am perfectly indifferent to him. If it is your wish to make use of him, he will of course be here constantly; but as you have so kindly yielded to my desire that my friend, Miss Crofton, should reside with us, his presence or his absence will make little difference to me—only, if at any future time you should hear comments on the intimacy, you will remember that I have admitted it solely to gratify you.”

Mr. Crane, propitiated by this concession, and by the grounds on which Kate had placed it, was endeavouring to stroke some form of thanksgiving out of his chin, when the door opened, and the subject of their conversation was shown in. After a few desultory remarks, Horace, turning to Mr. Crane, observed—

“I called at the house-agent’s in my way here, and have obtained the particulars of two houses which it will be quite worth your while to look at; one is in Belgrave Square, the other in Park Lane.”

As he spoke, Kate raised her head and fixed her large eyes upon his face; but he appeared unconscious of having deserved her scrutiny, and was quietly examining some memoranda he had written on the back of a card, regarding the number of rooms and other particulars respecting the houses. So perfectly unconscious was his manner, that for once Kate’s penetration was at fault. She remembered having on one occasion, months before, at the Grange, mentioned in his presence that if she went to live in London she should prefer either Belgrave Square or Park Lane for her residence; but whether he also had recollected this, or whether his selection was the result of accident, she could not decide. Moreover, it was not easy for her to determine how to act in the matter. If he had made the selection intentionally, and she allowed it to pass unnoticed, it would be a sort of tacit admission that she was willing to receive such secret attentions from him, appreciating them as kindnesses rather than resenting them as impertinences; while, on the other hand, if by any chance it was a mere coincidence, she was unwilling to afford him even the minute triumph of perceiving that she felt sufficient interest in him to remember whether or not he had been present on an occasion, since which several months had elapsed, or that she cared to know if he had observed, or regarded her wishes. So she took a middle course, and, availing herself of a pause in the conversation, inquired carelessly—

“Where did you say the houses were situated, Mr. D’Almayne?” On obtaining the information she required, she added, “And how came you to select those particular localities?”

As he turned to reply, their glances met, but his face was perfectly inscrutable.

“If, as your tone implies, they do not meet your approval, my dear Mrs. Crane, we need take no farther trouble in regard to them,” was his ambiguous reply. “I chose them because I fancied situations so generally popular might not be displeasing to you.”

Kate was again foiled, and D’Almayne, as he quietly observed it, muttered inwardly, “Won the first trick, at all events!”

Mr. Crane, leaving the room to put on his great-coat, a precaution without which he was most careful not to stir from home, D’Almayne observed,—

“You would prefer bay carriage-horses to grey, or any more conspicuous colour, would you not?”

Surprised at his having thus discovered her taste, Kate was so far thrown off her guard as to exclaim,—

“How in the world do you know that?”

Horace smiled a quiet smile.

“I reasoned from analog,” he said; “your dress is always rich and striking, but never showy; and the effect is produced by its consistency as a whole.”

Kate involuntarily returned his smile; tact and keen intelligence were qualities she highly appreciated.

“You are a close observer,” she said, “and shall be rewarded by learning the interesting fact that I do prefer bay horses to those of any other colour.”

Before the week was over, Mr. Crane had purchased a magnificent pair of bay carriage-horses, and had taken a lease of a noble mansion in Park Lane. The only fault Kate could discover in either, was the conviction forced upon her that it was to the agency of Horace D’Almayne she was indebted for them.

CHAPTER XXIII.—ADVICE GRATIS.

Harry could not give up shooting, Harry would not give up shooting, and Harry did not give up shooting. On the contrary, he could, would, and did shoot every day, and all day long, except on Sundays, throughout September and October; at least, there were so few exceptions that they only proved the rule. Alice did not like it at all; at first she was very miserable. One day Harry found her crying, and being considerably surprised and greatly concerned at the unaccountable discovery, did not rest until he had ascertained the cause, when he was particularly shocked, and blamed himself so much, that he refrained from shooting for two whole days, and really would have striven to reform his conduct, only that, unfortunately, an invitation arrived to join a grand battue at a certain Colonel Crossman’s. This, in his then frame of mind, he would have refused; but there being a Mrs. Crossman in the case, Alice was included in the invitation, and they were begged to stay three or four days; which, as the Popem Park preserves were the best stocked of any in the county, was an offer not lightly to be rejected. Thus, unfortunately, they went—we say unfortunately, because Colonel Crossman was, taken as a whole, a jovial, hot-tempered, selfish brute; and his wife a quick-witted, worldly-minded, selfish fool. They did very well together, because, as he usually lived out of the house, and she in it, and both did exactly as they liked, when they liked, their faults seldom clashed; if such a collision did take place, there was an awful tumult, in which brutality had his way for the minute, and paid for it in minor miseries which folly indicted upon him for the next fortnight. And yet this amiable couple had a kind of theoretical and useless affection for each other, which was engendered partly by habit, and partly by a deep and essentially vulgar reverence for appearances, which, together with going to church once on Sunday, stood them in the stead of religion and of morality. Thus were they bad counsellors for our young married couple. On the first morning of her visit, Alice was standing at the drawing-room window, watching the figures of her husband and Colonel Crossman striding through a turnip field about a quarter of a mile distant, when Mrs. Crossman joined her.

“Ah! there they go,” she observed, in a vinegar-and-water voice; “we shall see no more of them till seven o’clock, depend upon it.”

“Does Colonel Crossman never return to luncheon?” inquired Alice timidly, for she stood slightly in awe of the female soldier beside her.

“Return to luncheon!” was the astonished reply, delivered in much such a tone as might have been anticipated if Alice had inquired whether the gallant colonel usually made his mid-day meal upon red-hot ploughshares; “come home to luncheon! not he. He wouldn’t do such a thing to save my life, I believe; certainly not if the scent was lying well. Why, Mr. Coverdale does not spoil you in that way to be sure, does he? The colonel told me he was a thorough sportsman.”

“So he is,” returned Alice with a sigh, which escaped her involuntarily.

“Ah! no woman with a heart should ever marry a sportsman,” rejoined Mrs. Crossman, with rather more vinegar and less water in her tone than before. “Out all day, from the first of September till the breeding season comes round again; then the moment they’ve finished dinner and their bottle of port-wine, asleep they go, and only wake to stamp and swear with the cramp, and drop off again, till they tumble upstairs to bed, and are no comfort to anybody. You are a young wife yet, my dear, and your husband’s hardly grown tired of you, perhaps, but wait another month or two and you’ll see—men are all alike!”

There was just enough applicability to her own case in this tirade to make Alice feel rather angry and thoroughly uncomfortable; but the idea of comparing Harry with Colonel Crossman was too bad, and anger predominated as she replied, “Mr. Coverdale is not quite so selfish as you imagine, my dear madam; certainly he left me a good deal alone when the shooting season first began, but as soon as he was aware how dull and lonely I felt, he gave up shooting for, for—”

“Half a day?” inquired Mrs. Crossman, sarcastically.

“He did not go out for two whole days; and since that he has generally returned to luncheon,” replied Alice, colouring from vexation.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Crossman, with an affectation of extreme surprise; “actually stayed at home for two whole days, when he’s been married as many months—what a model man! Not that I believe Colonel Crossman ever did so much as that even,” she continued, turning on the vinegar. “I picked him up in India, you know—was actually weak enough to fall in love with the creature! even went the length of refusing two district judges and the resident at Bamboozel for his sake! And would you believe it, we hadn’t been married above a week, when the man was brute enough to go out hog-hunting, and leave me all by myself at Boshbogie, on the borders of the great Flurry-yun-ghal Jungle, with nothing more conversable than tawneys and tigers within thirty miles of me; but, however, I was not long before I learned how to take care of myself—and the sooner you do the same, my dear, the better for your happiness. Men are easily enough managed if you do but set the right way to work. If you choose to be always humble and meek to ’em, they’ll let you lie down for them to wipe their boots on, but if you only show them you’ve got a spirit of your own, and don’t care for ’em——

“But I don’t know that I have got what you call a spirit of my own,” interrupted Alice, smiling at her companion’s vehemence, “and I certainly do care about my husband.”

“Ah, my dear, that’s all very well now; but wait a bit—wait till some day when he wants to go shooting, and you want him to do something else, and then see of how much use your meekness and fondness will be to you. He will think to himself, ‘Oh! she will be just as well pleased a couple of hours hence, as if I had lost my day’s sport for her silly nonsense.’ I know he will, men are all alike. No; sooner or later you’ll find you will have to pluck up a spirit, and treat your husband as he will treat you. If he leaves you by yourself all day, fill your house with company; if he goes out shooting and hunting with his friends, do you go out riding or driving with yours; if he has his season in the country, do you have yours in London; operas and shopping are amusements you’ve just as good a right to, as he has to go popping at the partridges and pheasants; and if you care so much about keeping him at home, hook some young dandy (there will be plenty ready to nibble when such a bait as your pretty face is hung out for them), and flirt with him steadily till the desired effect is produced. That will bring your husband to his senses, if anything will. I once settled the Colonel in three days by going all respectable lengths with Adolphus Fitz-duckling. It led to a duel, though; but that was because both Duck and Crossman were army men, and mixed up with a fighting set. I took care never to go quite so far again, except with a civilian; but then I hadn’t got such a quiet, demure manner as you have. A set of impudent young puppies in the Old 43rd used to call me ‘Flirting Fan.’ However, I can tell you I was able to keep the Colonel in much better order, ‘flirting him down,’ as I used to call it, than I’ve ever managed to do since I grew old—that is, less young than I was at that time.” And so this good woman, or rather this woman who, despite her faults, had some good in her, whereby she vindicated her title to humanity, ran on until Alice heartily wished her back again amongst the tawneys, or the tigers: we are afraid that at that especial moment our little heroine would decidedly have preferred the latter.

In the meantime, Harry and the Colonel were blazing away at the long-tails most unmercifully: Harry, who was a crack shot, bringing down everything he pointed his gun at, while the Colonel, whose hand had an awkward trick of shaking, as if its proprietor was in the habit of imbibing too much port-wine, missed much oftener than was agreeable to him, on each of which several occasions he attributed his failure to, and condemned in no measured terms either the gun, or the bird, or both. About two o’clock Harry pulled out his watch, and glancing at it observed—“I don’t know what your arrangements may be, Colonel, but if Mrs. Crossman is of as sociable a disposition as my little wife, she will consider us great bears if we don’t return till dinner time.”

At this moment a splendid cock-pheasant rose, “whirring” into the air at some considerable distance from the sportsmen, whereupon the Colonel, considering it a difficult shot, called out, “Your bird, Coverdale.” Harry, embarrassed with his watch, which he still held in his hand, raised his gun, and catching his finger in the guard chain, pulled the trigger too soon, and missed with both barrels, while the Colonel, seeing that the pheasant was now so far off that it could be no discredit to miss it, pulled at it, and by accident brought it down.

“Bravo! Colonel, that is the cleverest shot that has been made to-day by long odds!” ejaculated Harry.

“Ah! that’s a trifle to what I used to do when I was your age,” was the slightly apocryphal reply; “nothing with feathers or hair on it had a chance, if I put my gun up at it, I can tell you. But what were you saying about going home? why I’m just getting into shooting order; you’re not knocking up, to be sure, already.”

“No; nor six hours’ more hard walking would not do it,” returned Harry, laughing, as he mentally contrasted his own powers with those of the Colonel, who, although he had carefully assigned all the toughest of the work to his guest, was evidently beginning “to want his corn,” as Coverdale metaphorically paraphrased the fact of his entertainer’s requiring his luncheon. “I merely asked you whether Mrs. Crossman would not disapprove of our remaining out all day?”

“Mrs. Crossman may go and——hang herself in her own petticoat strings!” was the uncourteous rejoinder. “Ah! I see how it is,” continued the “old soldier.” “I see all about it: you’re a young hand yet, Coverdale, and I’m an old one; take my advice. You’ve married a nice gal, and a pretty gal—don’t you go and spoil her; it’s the nature of women to like to have their own way; and one of their ways—and a most aggravating and unaccountable one it is—is always to have a fellow dangling about after them, and there they’ll keep him driving ’em out, or riding with ’em, or dawdling in shops, and paying their bills for ’em—they don’t forget that, mind you—or reading to ’em, or some such confounded humbug. Hang it, sir, I’d sooner be a galley-slave, or a black nigger at once! Well, if you begin by indulging a woman (they’re all alike in such points), she’ll be your master ever after, and your life won’t be worth a——” (As we do not know the exact value of the coin to which the Colonel alluded, we abstain from a more particular mention of it). “No; if you’re to have any peace or comfort in the married state, you must let your wife see that you’re determined to show you’re the superior. The only way to do it effectually is—come to heel, Countess, ah! would you then!” (and whack, whack went the dog-whip against poor Countess’s sides)—“the only way to break ’em in is—(whack)—to show ’em clearly whose will is the strongest, and whose must yield. I had trouble enough with Mrs. Crossman, I can assure you. She was not an easy woman to break in, sir; but she found she’d met her match. If she scolded, I stormed; if she raved, I swore; if she sulked, I whistled; if she cried, I lit a cigar; if she fainted, I laid her on the hardest board that I could pick out in the floor, and smoked till she came round again. The only time she went into hysterics I flung a pail of cold water over her—that cured her at once and for ever. I dare say you think me an old brute, but the day will come when you’ll recollect my advice, and be glad enough to act upon it. Women are all alike, more or less.”

Harry did think him an old brute, and thanked his stars that neither in mind nor in person did Alice in the smallest degree resemble Mrs. Crossman; he also thought that he should never remember the Colonel’s advice with any other feeling than disgust. Ah! Harry—Harry!

CHAPTER XXIV.—A STORM BREWING.

“H arry! My dear Harry!—Wilkins, where is your master? I told you I must speak to him before he went out, and now you’ve let him go without——”

“Wilkins! where the d——— Oh! Wilkins, what did you do with that bag of snipe-shot I brought down from London?”

Thus apostrophised by an agitated soprano at the drawing-room door, and an impatient tenore robusto in the entrance-hall, Wilkins, the amiable and timid London butler, who had played the character of Job’s comforter to Alice’s Didone abandonata on the memorable evening of the first of September, made two or three steps in the direction of the drawing-room, then twisting round with a sudden jerk, as though he had been worked by machinery with which somebody was playing tricks, rushed frantically into the hall, and handing his master a wrong bag of shot exclaimed, without any breath left—

“This—a—is them, sir; and my mistress—a—says——”

“Swan-shot, you fool—that is, Wilkins, big enough to roll over a bullock! It’s the snipe-shot I’m looking for. No, not that. Don’t you know snipe-shot when you see it? When the scent’s getting duller every minute, too! I ought to have been out these two hours. That’s right, my good fellow: don’t be a month about it—give it me. I shall be home to dinner.”

“But my mistress particularly wishes to speak——” faltered poor Wilkins. Harry, flinging down with an angry gesture the shot-belt he had just filled, and muttering that he had better give up going out at all, strode off to the drawing-room, and putting his head in through the partially opened door, as though he were afraid of being taken prisoner if he trusted himself bodily in the apartment, exclaimed—

“How, then, little woman, what is it? Quick, please, for I want to be off.”

“There is an invitation just arrived from Allerton House for Tuesday week. What am I to say?”

“Oh, we must go, of course. I want you to get intimate with Lady Allerton, she’s a charming woman, and Lord George is a good little fellow in his way, though an awfully bad shot. Dinner, I suppose?”

“Yes; but, Harry, wait one moment and listen to me!” exclaimed Alice. “You need not be in such a hurry; you will have plenty of time for that horrid shooting before six o’clock.”

“Horrid shooting, indeed! Much you know about it,” muttered the victimised sportsman, inwardly chafing at the delay; “it will be horrid shooting in one sense, if I am hindered much longer. The scent won’t lie when the dew is off, and I may as well go out with a walking-stick as with a gun, for there will be nothing to shoot at.”

“Well, I’ll let you go directly, you impatient, silly boy,” returned Alice, smiling at the serious, business-like view her husband took of his amusement. “The only thing I wish to say is, that if we accept this invitation, we shall be almost certain to meet the Duke and Duchess of Brentwood there; and you know I’ve been waiting for you to go with me, day after day, and I’ve never returned their visit yet. You must take me to call before Tuesday week; I’ve been quite rude already.”

“All right,” returned Harry; “we’ll go in style, and call on the old duchess. I’ll wear a red coat, and stick a peacock’s feather in my hat, if that will please you. It’s a pity she’s so like a Chimpanzee! Most probably she is related to the monkey tribe—suppose we ask her when we call; it will be a new and original style of conversation, eh? Well, ta ta! It’s so late now that I’m afraid you won’t have the felicity of seeing me again till dinner-time;” and without allowing his wife an opportunity of remonstrating, Harry closed the door, and was soon paying off the long-bills in a way in which they scarcely approved of having their “little accounts” settled. Alice watched him depart with a smile, which faded into a sigh as she turned to write an acceptance to the dinner invitation, and then employ and amuse herself as best she might, during the weary hours which must elapse ere her husband would return.

Lord Allerton was the eldest son of the Duke and Duchess of Brentwood, who were the great people, par excellence, of the Coverdale Park neighbourhood; and when the Duke and Duchess came to spend their Christmas in the country, Alice, stimulated thereunto by the conversation of the Mesdames Jones, Brown, and Robinson of those parts, felt slightly curious to know whether these ancient and venerable limbs of the aristocracy would deign to honour her by a call, and was proportionably gratified and bored when, on a dreary morning, the dull old Duchess came and paid her a singularly heavy and uninteresting visit. To induce Harry to accompany her when she returned this equally flattering and alarming civility, had been for several days the sole object of Alice’s existence,—an object in which, as the reader may perceive by the foregoing conversation, she had hitherto been unsuccessful.

The next morning Alice once again made an attempt to entice her better half away from the pleasures of the plains; but the rabbits had begun barking the young ash-trees in a favourite plantation, and were to be “pulled down” accordingly. This occupation lasted several days; at the expiration of which period certain poachers, choosing to join in the amusement uninvited, had to be “pulled up” for their iniquities—a series of ups and downs which left only two days vacant before the important Tuesday dedicated to the dinner-party at Allerton would arrive. The first of these days it rained cats and dogs, and snowed fragments of polar bears so decidedly, that even Harry could not get out till about half-past three, when, in desperation, he enveloped himself in a Macintosh, and galloped over to the town, five miles off (as all towns are from all country houses), to match some ribbon for Alice, and look at the newspaper on his own account. The County Press was just out, and therein Harry perceived a leading article attacking the decision arrived at by himself and his brother magistrates in the case of the “pulled up” poachers. This being equally irritating and interesting, he sat down in the reading-room of the library diligently to peruse the same—phsa-ing, pish-ing, and “confounding the fellow” at every second line. He had just got to a paragraph beginning, “Mr. C—d—le may be well qualified to lead the way across a stiff line of country after the hounds, or roll over unoffending hares and rabbits in a battue—but that is no proof that he possesses an equal right to ride rough-shod over the enactments of a British Parliament, or to overturn the decrees of abler lawyers than are to be found among the bench of magistrates at H————,” when a large hand was placed over his eyes, and a loud, jovial voice exclaimed—

“Never mind, Harry, my boy—little Flipkins the editor’s got a wife with the devil’s own temper, and she helps him to write the leaders; she took a dislike to you when she was Miss Jamby, and kept the confectioner’s shop, when you neglected her, and flirted with the girl behind the counter, because she happened to be the prettiest, and now she’s paying you off; you can’t horsewhip a woman, you know, so you’d better take it easy.”

Before the speaker had arrived at the conclusion of his advice gratis, Coverdale had removed the hand which impeded his vision, and turning round, exclaimed—

“Why, it’s Tom Rattleworth, by all that’s extraordinary—I thought you were in Canada, with your regiment, man!”

“So I was till the gout carried off the governor, and left me a miserable orphan with £15,000 a-year in my pocket. When that lamentable event occurred I thought I was, for the first time in my life, worth taking care of, so determined to cut the red cloth and pipe-clay business, and come home and live virtuously ever after.”

“You seem to have recovered your spirits pretty well, if one may judge by present appearances,” returned Coverdale, half-amused, half-disgusted at his quondam friend’s sentiments—“at all events you’ve not grown thin upon it.”

“No! but that’s the very fact which proves how deeply I feel my forlorn condition; it’s old Falstaff—is it not—observes how grief swells a man? I don’t ride a pound under twelve stone,” was the rejoinder. “By the way,” continued Rattleworth, “that reminds me—it’s deucedly lucky I met you; you’re the very man that can tell me all about it—Broomfield is anxious to give up the fox-hounds; he is growing old and lazy, and he wants me to take ’em.”

“My dear fellow, I’m delighted to hear it,” exclaimed Harry, eagerly; “old Broomfield is completely past his work, and of all the men I know you’re the fittest to succeed him—you will do the thing as it ought to be done. I should have undertaken them myself, if I had not become a Benedict: Broomfield tried to persuade me.”

“Well now look here,” resumed Rattleworth, meditatively; “I’ve promised to meet Broomfield to-morrow, and take his horses and everything at a valuation. Now there is not a man in the county whose opinion about a horse I’d sooner have than yours; can you spare time to go with me? I shall really consider it a personal favour if you will do so.”

“Of course I will,” returned Harry; for if he had a weak point on which he was accessible to flattery, it was concerning his knowledge of horse-flesh; “there can be nothing I should like better, in fact—what time do you go?”

“I was to lunch with him at one,” was the reply; “and we were to look at his stud afterwards.”

“Then I’ll meet you at the cross roads by Hanger Wood, at half-past twelve,” returned Harry; and so, with a hearty shake of the hand, the friends parted.

Tom Rattleworth was the only son of a man who had begun life as a land-agent and attorney in H—————; but having very early in his career dabbled in stock-jobbing till he made a considerable sum of money, which his business connection enabled him to lay out to great advantage, he grew rich, purchased an estate, married into one of the county families, and brought his son up “as a gentleman”—that is, he sent him to Eton, where he learned nothing but how to get into and out of scrapes; and bought him a commission which he would have done better without. Nature having thus placed a silver spoon in Tom’s mouth, appeared to consider his head sufficiently furnished without going to any unusual expense in the article of brains; so she gave him barely an average quantity, and made up the deficiency by an actual passion for horse-flesh. Thomas, thus endowed, was the schoolfellow and holiday associate of Harry Coverdale; and having one, and only one taste in common, they had kept up their intimacy, until Harry started on his grand tour, and Tom was sent with his regiment to Canada, since which period the interview we have just described was their first meeting.

As Coverdale cantered home through the mud, and rain, and sleet, it suddenly flashed across him that the next was the only day remaining in which to call on the Duke and Duchess of Brentwood before the dinner at Allerton House; and his conscience smote him as he reflected that the engagement he had formed would prevent him from accompanying Alice; indeed, so annoyed did he feel at this unlucky coincidence, that for a moment he was on the point of turning his horse’s head, and riding after Tom Rattleworth to get off the engagement; but it was growing dusk, and he reflected that Chase Hall, the residence of the renowned Thomas, was so far out of his way that he should be unable to reach home by dinner-time, and then Alice would get frightened about him, which would annoy her more than being obliged to pay her visit alone; so with this bit of sophistry he, for the moment, quieted his conscience. Before he arrived at his own house, he had mentally decided that, as it would only worry his wife, he should say nothing about the Rattleworth engagement to her that evening, and that in the morning he should mention it as an equally unfortunate and unavoidable necessity, and persuade her to pay the first visit without him. Of course she would be a little annoyed just at first, but she was so sweet-tempered and amiable, that—that—and here his reflections refused to clothe themselves in intelligible language;—had they done so honestly, the sentence would have ended thus—“that she would submit without making a scene.” And so he cantered home, where Alice, with her sunny smile and bright loving eyes, was waiting to receive him, and made a vast fuss with the poor dear because he must be so wet, which, thanks to Mr. Macintosh—his admirable invention—he was not in the slightest degree, though he appreciated the affectionate fuss Alice made about him all the same.

Harry! you blind, stupid Harry!—as if her little finger, bless it, were not worth all the horse-flesh that ever was foaled, from Bucephalus, down to the winner of the last Derby.

The next morning was a very fine one. Alice and Harry made their appearance in the breakfast parlour about nine o’clock; each was a little out of sorts. Alice, not having been able to get any air or exercise on the previous day, had waked with a headache, which Harry continually forgetting, would leave the door of his dressing-room open, and attire himself to the tune of “A hunting we will go.” Then a new morning gown, on which Miss Flippery, the dressmaker at H————, had staked her credit, did not fit, and in turning round to look at the set of the back, Alice trod on the skirt, and tore it out of the “gathers”—whatever they may be; and as women seldom swear, and the evil was scarcely serious enough to cry over, poor little Mrs. Coverdale was unable to vent her annoyance, and brought it down to breakfast with her accordingly. Harry, on the other hand, conscious that he was about to commit an act of injustice, on which (although he repented of it sufficiently to feel very uncomfortable) he was still determined, tried to keep up his courage by affecting a degree of hilarity which caused him to make bad jokes about every subject mentioned, and to evince such a total want of sympathy with his wife’s headache and consequent depression of spirits, that Alice for the first time in her life considered him tiresome and in the way, and felt inclined to say sharp things to him and snub him. After a longish pause, interrupted only when, on two occasions, Harry was pulled up for whistling, and a third time for beating the devil’s tattoo on the chimney-piece, Alice began, “Really Wilkins has taken to burning the toast so black, it is impossible to eat it. I wish you would speak to him about it, Harry.”

“Certainly, my love,” was the cheerful reply; “what shall I say to him? That although I approve of his blacking my boots, I disapprove of his blacking my toast, and that I shall thank him to do it brown in future?”

“If you like to risk the chance, which is almost a certainty, that the man will misunderstand you, for the sake of making a stupid slang pun, I advise you to do so,” was the captious reply.

“Phew!” whistled Harry; “how solemn, and sensible, and serious we’ve grown all of a sudden! I beg to inform you, Mrs. Coverdale that I expect my wife to admire my puns, if nobody else does.”

“Then you must contrive to make better ones, and to time them rather more appropriately,” rejoined Alice, so snappishly that her husband looked up in surprise. Recalled to herself by the unmistakeable astonishment depicted on the bright, good-natured countenance of her better half, Alice continued in a milder tone, “You must not mind what I say this morning, Harry, dear; my headache makes me so dreadfully cross and stupid.”

“Poor little thing! you were shut up all yesterday, you know, and that is enough to give anybody a headache,” returned Harry, who considered houses were built only to dine and sleep in, and would have had Alice spend her days al fresco, even as he delighted to do. “You must go out as much as possible to-day; luckily it is very fine.”

“Yes; and I am to be honoured with my husband’s company too, which is a most unaccustomed pleasure,” rejoined Alice, brightening up at the recollection. “It is certainly very good policy to make yourself so scarce, though I wish you did not adhere quite so strictly to it; why you have not driven out with me since we returned from Popem Park! At what time do you mean to order the carriage?”

“Why it’s an hour’s drive at least; James had better be at the door by two o’clock,” replied Harry. Then turning towards the fire, and moving the ornaments on the chimney-piece into wrong positions, he continued, with an elaborate attempt at nonchalance, which veiled most inefficiently his consciousness that he was about to perform an act against which his moral sense rebelled, he resumed: “I’m afraid my love that I must ask you to call upon the Duchess of Brentwood without me this morning—a business engagement of—a—importance—that is, one that I cannot avoid, will, I am afraid——”

And here he broke off abruptly, for, glancing at his wife, he perceived an expression in her pretty face that he had never beheld there before; the bright eyes were flashing, the soft cheeks burned, and the coral lips pouted with unmistakeable anger. Harry had at length gone too far, and his sweet-tempered, loving-hearted little wife was positively and seriously angry with him. But so unusual a circumstance demands a fresh chapter.

CHAPTER XXV.—THE STORM BURSTS.

Alice Coverdale, annoyed and pained by what she considered her husband’s injustice and unkindness, did not leave him long in doubt as to her feelings upon the subject; for as soon as she could conquer a choking sensation in the throat sufficiently to speak, she exclaimed:—

“Really, Harry, I must say you are most unkind and inconsiderate; you chose of your own accord to accept the invitation to Allerton House, though I warned you at the time that it would necessitate your calling on the Duke and Duchess first: you agreed—in fact, you promised to do so. There has not been a day since that I haven’t reminded you of this promise, so it is impossible you can have forgotten it;—there was a time, and not so very long ago either, when you were ready enough to go anywhere with me, and were only too glad to find I wished you to do so. I little thought, poor foolish girl that I was, how soon things would alter; and now, when you knew as well as I did that this is the last day on which we can pay this visit, you’ve formed some stupid engagement (to go and shoot somewhere, I dare say; I wish guns had never been invented—horrid dangerous things—always going off unexpectedly and killing people), and so made it impossible to return the Duchess’s call: and tomorrow I shall be ashamed to look her in the face, or to speak to her; though I dare say she won’t give me a chance to do that, for she is as proud as Lu——— as a woman can be.”

Here, from sheer want of breath, Alice being forced to pause, Harry quietly remarked: “Women can be as proud as men for that matter, ecce signum, but now just listen to a little common sense for a minute. I fully intended and wished to accompany you, but I happened yesterday, at H————, to meet with a very old friend of mine, who informed me that he was going this morning to transact certain business matters which would involve the expenditure of a considerable sum of money, in regard to which affair he particularly required my advice and opinion.”

“He must be going to buy a gun or a horse then,” interrupted Alice; “those are the only things people imagine you understand; and I don’t wonder at them either, when they see you waste half your life about this horrid sporting. If you give up all intellectual pursuits in this way, you’ll go on till you become fit for nothing but to hunt, shoot, eat, drink, and sleep, like that dreadful old creature, Colonel Crossman.”

Thoroughly provoked by this last speech (which touched on a sensitive point in Harry’s disposition, and aroused a latent fear, by which he was always more or less oppressed, lest people should consider him, from his fondness for field sports, a mere addlepated, fox-hunting squire), he replied, with more asperity in his tone than he had ever before used, or believed it possible he could use, towards Alice, “Take care you don’t become a peevish shrew, like Mrs. Crossman. You are angry, and forget yourself; when you grow calm again, you will perceive how foolish and unreasonable you have been to lose your temper about such a silly trifle.”

“You think being rude to your friends and unkind to your wife a silly trifle, do you?” inquired Alice.

Harry’s colour rose as he took a turn up and down the room to compose his feelings ere he would trust himself to reply. “You want to make me angry,” he said, “but I do not intend to afford you that satisfaction. Listen to me,” he continued, seeing that his wife was again about to interrupt him, “listen to me, and when you have heard what I am about to say, you can reply as you please. I made this engagement to oblige my friend, without at the moment recollecting that to-day was the time appointed for calling on the Duchess; but when I reflected that one was business of importance, and the other a mere visit of ceremony, I hoped and believed you would be reasonable enough, when I should have explained the matter to you, not even to wish me to give up my engagement, and would exercise sufficient common sense and self-control, to go and pay the visit alone.”

“Then you thought wrongly,” returned Alice, with vehemence; “if you required a wife who could go about by herself and visit a set of proud, stiff people, who are strangers to her, and keep up your position in the county, while you are out hunting and shooting all day, for your own selfish amusement, you should have chosen some fashionable woman of the world, and not a poor simple country girl like myself, who relied on your affection to protect and encourage her;” and here Alice showed strong symptoms of a disposition to bring that “young wife’s last resource” of a flood of tears to bear upon her disobedient and refractory spouse.

Harry, seeing this, and having been throughout the interview haunted by a latent consciousness that he was in the wrong, was strongly tempted to yield, and, dispatching a messenger to Tom Rattleworth furnished with some good and sufficient social white lie to account for his non-appearance, to stay quietly at home till the time should have arrived to accompany his wife to visit their aristocratic neighbours; but, unhappily, Colonel Crossman’s caution, “You’ve married a nice gal and a pretty gal, take care you don’t go and spoil her,” flashed across him: “women are all alike, more or less; it’s the nature of ’em to choose to have their own way; if you indulge ’em at first, they will be your masters ever after; show your wife she has met her match,” &c. &c.—these, and such like precepts, rang in Harry’s ears. Alice was angry and unreasonable, striving for the upper hand, in fact; he must not permit this: for her sake, as much as for his own, he was called upon to assert himself, and vindicate his marital authority. Yes, painful as it was to his feelings to speak or act harshly to his young wife, whom, even at that moment, he cared for more than any other created being, he would give her a lesson which should cure the evil at once and for ever. So putting on a very grave look he began: “My dear Alice, you are forgetting yourself, forgetting our relative positions; but there is a quiet way of settling such affairs; verbose discussions of this nature do not suit me—I am essentially a man of action. It is the husband’s right to command, the wife’s duty to obey. I had hoped your own proper feeling would have saved me the pain of being forced to remind you of this. I must now add, that I consider myself bound to fulfil my engagement to my friend, and intend to do so: during my absence, it is my wish and desire that you should drive and call on the Duchess of Brentwood; if, which I can scarcely conceive possible, you still refuse to do as I have pointed out, I shall, before I leave this room, write a note to Lady Allerton, informing her that we are unable to dine with her to-morrow, without assigning any cause whatsoever for this change of intention—which, as I cannot give the true reason, and will not stoop to invent a false one, is the only course left open to me.”

Having delivered himself calmly and firmly of this despotic speech, Harry folded his arms across his broad chest, and leaning his autocratic back against the chimney-piece, stood looking as if he felt himself completely “monarch of all he surveyed,” his wife included. Meanwhile a fearful struggle between good and evil was proceeding in Alice’s mind; a kind word or look would instantly have caused the good to triumph: but her husband stood cold and inexorable as a statue of Fate. Then the same personage who tempted Eve to the sin which lost her Eden, suddenly caused to flash across Alice’s recollection all Mrs. Crossman’s arguments, and she determined to follow her advice, to “pluck up a spirit, and treat her husband as he treated her,” &c. Accordingly, by a great effort restraining her tears, which during Harry’s harangue had begun to flow, she looked up with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, as she replied:

“The obedience you require is not that of a wife but of a slave, and I refuse to yield it. You have treated me unkindly and unjustly, and I will not sacrifice myself to oblige you.” Harry made no reply, though his lips moved convulsively, as though he could scarcely command himself to keep silence; then snatching pen and ink, he scrawled a hasty note, sealed and directed it, and rising, quitted the room without uttering a single word. As the door closed behind him, the tears which Alice had hitherto with such difficulty repressed, burst forth unrestrained. She was roused from a paroxysm of weeping by the sound of horses’ feet, and springing to the window, reached it in time to see Harry give a note to a groom, who rode away at speed in the direction of Allerton House; then mounting his own horse, he also galloped off, ere Alice could muster sufficient presence of mind to attempt to recall him.

CHAPTER XXVI.—THE ATMOSPHERE REMAINS CLOUDY.

Falling out with the wife of one’s bosom is a process that bears a marked affinity to two other domestic operations which, from time immemorial, have lapsed into well-merited disrepute—viz., quarrelling with one’s bread and butter, and cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face; the same moral but uncomfortable necessity of inherent self-chastisement being common to all three. Thus Harry Coverdale, having vindicated his marital dignity, and galloped off the irritation consequent upon so acting, heartily wished the deed undone, and Alice and himself friends again; for, little as he appeared to prize it, her affection had become necessary to him, and he could no more do without it, than he could have dispensed with sunshine in summer, or fires at Christmas. Accordingly it was in no very amiable frame of mind that he joined his fox-hunting ally; and it required all the allurements of oysters, porter, devilled bones, and unimpeachable port wine, to enable him to “cast dull care away,” sufficiently to take a proper and sportsman-like interest in all the minutiæ of the proposed transfer of stock, canine and equestrian. Once fairly in for it, however, his stable-minded propensities asserted themselves, and he spent a deeply interesting afternoon in feeling back-sinews, detecting incipient curbs and spavins, condemning an incurable sand-crack, and otherwise testing and pronouncing judgment upon the quadrupedal inmates of Squire Broomfield’s hunting stables. As the waning light heralded the approach of dinner-time (that important epoch in the day with all country gentlemen, and with most London ones also), and the last horse had been trotted out and trotted in again, and its petticoats (which grooms call ‘body-clothing’) replaced, Harry’s thoughts fell back into their former gloomy train. Anxious, therefore, to learn how Alice was progressing under the weight of his high displeasure, he was about to take leave, when Tom Rattleworth drew him aside, observing in a confidential whisper,—

“I say, Coverdale, old Broomfield is going to ask you to stay and dine—I know he is, he looks so pleased with himself. For mercy’s sake don’t refuse, or else I shall have to endure a tête-à-tête with the old boy, and that will use me up all together—horse, foot, and artillery; for, besides being bored to extinction, he will do me out of every advantage you have obtained for me to-day. He’s an awful screw, and I’m good for nothing at a bargain after the first bottle; so if you leave me to his tender mercies, I’m safe to be butchered like a lamb, and served up in my own mint sauce before we quit the mahogany.”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” was the reply, “for my wife has been at home by herself all day, and it is not fair to expect her to spend the evening in solitude also. But you need not be victimised on that account; come home and dine with us. You’ve never met my wife; she was in the school-room and a pinafore when you went abroad with your regiment. Say yes, and then you can tell old Broomfield that you are engaged to me.”

“So be it then,” was the rejoinder, and thus was Mr. Broomfield cheated of his guests, and Harry enabled to avoid a tête-à-tête dinner, and possibly a scene, with his outraged spouse. In the meantime, Alice had been enduring all the mental torments consequent upon having been angry with the person one loves best in the world. First, the idea that she had been most cruelly used, and extensively sinned against, and put upon, was the only one which presented itself to her mind in anything like a clear and definite shape; and she bewailed her evil fortune in a very thunderstorm of weeping. Having by this means condensed, and disposed of, a vast amount of superfluous steam, she grew calmer and more reasonable, when the uncomfortable possibility gradually dawned upon her, that she also might have been to blame—that she had first irritated, and then defied Harry, and utterly and completely failed in her duty as a wife; and so penitent did she become on the strength of this conviction, that if her husband had returned at that moment, she would have thrown herself at his feet and humbly implored his pardon, which act of unqualified submission must have disarmed Harry so entirely and totally, that he would instantly have forgiven her, and frankly confessed himself to blame, and Alice would never again have experienced the effects of his “quiet manner.” But, unfortunately, Harry was at that moment differently occupied, in impressing upon Tom Rattleworth the important fact, that Lucifer would be all the better for having a red-hot iron passed lightly over his off fetlock at the first convenient opportunity, and thus Alice’s extreme penitence evaporated as her anger had done. The final conclusion at which she arrived was, that she would confess her fault to Harry on his return, and then try calmly and quietly to convince him of his injustice. If she should succeed in this, of which she did not feel by any means certain, they would exchange forgiveness; and, warned by that which had occurred, take heed to their ways, and live in harmony and affection ever after. All these sentiments Alice proposed to deliver when she and her husband should be tête-à-tête after dinner, at which time she had observed Harry to be usually in an amiable and convincible frame of mind. It may easily be imagined, therefore, that when she heard Tom Rattleworth declare with much enthusiasm, and in a voice raised to the pitch in which its possessor had been wont to direct the gallant fraction of the British army lately under his command to “Should—der ar-r-ums,” that he was open to “be blessed,” on the spot, if “the jolly old place did not look stunning,” she was by no means inclined to afford him the benediction he had invoked, and heartily wished him at the bottom of the Red Sea, which we take to be the lowest geographical limit to which a lady’s anathema can be permitted to descend. She had not time to do more than condemn her unknown visitor to the oceanic penal settlement aforesaid, ere a sound as of a jibbing man impelled forward by some powerful agency in the rear, together with the following expostulation, met her ear:—“My dear fellow, I’m not fit to be introduced; I’m all over mud, I am upon my life!”

In another moment the drawing-room door flew open, and her husband and a tall, large, bushy-whiskered, bluff, young man, who looked as if he could only have been brought in doors by way of a trick, like a pony, or a wheelbarrow, stood before her.

“Alice, this is Tom Rattleworth, an old schoolfellow of mine, who is very anxious to form your acquaintance, and has kindly consented to dine with us,” observed Harry.

“Hey!—haw!” began Tom Rattleworth, uttering sounds like a bashful ogre in his intense consciousness of his muddy disqualification for female society; “haw!—hey! the kindnesses all—haw!—the other way. I hope—Mrs. Coverdale—my dear fellow—will excuse—I told you I wasn’t fit to be seen; but you seem to be—the roads are—impetuous as ever—so very muddy.” Having delivered himself of this slightly incoherent address, the embryo M.F.H. “made his reverence” to Alice, and then performing the military evolution expressed in the mysterious terms, “To the right about! wheel!” he laid violent hands upon his host, and forced him out of the room as energetically as he had been himself propelled into it.

The dinner soon made its appearance, and was a “real blessing” to all parties, for it provided them something wherewith to occupy their mouths, and thus obviated the painful necessity of manufacturing small-talk—a toil compared with which the labours of Hercules appear child’s play, and the up-hill work of Sisyphus a mere game at ball.

The first sharp edge of his appetite taken off, Tom Rattleworth began to converse fluently upon the only topic which never failed him, and which invariably formed the staple ingredient in his discourse, and, indeed, in his thoughts generally—viz., himself and his own sayings and doings.

Alice, bored and unhappy, uttered monosyllabic replies, when she perceived that she was expected to do so; and remained silent and distraite when such exertions were not required of her.

Harry, partly grieved at perceiving the accustomed sunshine in his wife’s pretty face overcast, partly irritated at what he imagined to be the sulkiness of her manner; annoyed at his friend’s egotistic chatter, which he felt was disgusting Alice, and which he could not contrive to check (seeing that the obtuseness of Tom Rattleworth’s faculties rendered him totally impervious to a hint); and generally provoked by the change from his usual state of careless, light-hearted happiness to his present uncomfortable frame of mind—a change which he rightly enough attributed in a great measure to his own hastiness and mismanagement, almost lost his temper. This he displayed by rating the lad who assisted Wilkins, until he reduced that unhappy juvenile to such a pitch of nervousness and general mental debility, that, having inveigled his mistress into sugaring instead of peppering a broiled turkey’s leg, and replenished the Champagne glasses from a bottle of bitter ale, he was sent out of the room in disgrace. But in this mortal life (which would be quite unendurable if such were not the case) all things sooner or later come to an end—and dull dinners are no exceptions to the rule—thus, after the dessert had been placed on the table, Alice, having finished her half-glass of sherry and nibbled a fragment of some little vegetable absurdity preserved in candied sugar, and looking like a geological specimen rather than a sweetmeat, reckoned she had sufficiently fulfilled her duty as hostess, and was watching for an opportunity to escape and go and be wretched comfortably by herself, when Tom Rattleworth, addressing her especially, began:—

“’Pon my word, my dear Mrs. Coverdale, when I see you and my friend Harry here so happy together.” (Harry seized a pear and began denuding it of its rind with a kind of ferocious eagerness, suggestive to any one acquainted with the dessous des cartes of his willingness to perform a similar operation upon his mal à-propos guest), “I declare it makes a fellow feel quite down in the mouth when he thinks of going home to enjoy his own single blessedness, as they call it—though single t’other thing would be more like the truth, I fancy—but then it isn’t everybody that’s as lucky as Harry and you—not suited to each other so charmingly, you understand.” (Alice, avoiding her husband’s eye, bent over her sweetmeat as though she were anxious to count the number of spangles of candied sugar it took to cover a square inch thereof.) “Now there was a man in our regiment—curious coincidence, his name was Harry, too—but those things do happen so curiously—Harry Flusterton his name was—well, ma’am, when we were quartered up at Montreal, there was a family there to whom Harry and I took out introductions, and as we found ourselves decidedly hard up for amusement, we used to visit there pretty much. There were two or three daughters in the family, but the eldest was the one that took my fancy most, and Harry Flusterton was of the same opinion. Accordingly we both laid siege to her, but Harry soon began to shoot ahead, and I, finding that it was no go, quietly took up with number two, who, although she hadn’t her sister’s points, figure, or action, was by no means a girl to be despised, especially in a dull place like that; well, my dear fellow—haw!—my dear ma’am, I mean—’pon my word, I’m not fit for ladies’ society—but the long and short of it is, Harry was married—everybody thought he was the luckiest dog breathing—I’m sure I did for one, and said as much to Eliza—that was the younger one, you understand, that I was obliged to put up with. When I made that remark to her, she looked at me queer like, and says she, ‘I hope your friend is a very sweet temper, Mr. Rattleworth?’ ‘Of course he is,’ returned I, for he was, up to the day he married, as easy tempered a fellow as you’d wish to meet with. Would you believe it, Mrs. Coverdale, this charming creature that we had both fallen so desperately in love with (not but that I liked Eliza just as well when I once got used to her) turned, out a regular vixen—a perfect virago, ma’am; why Harry himself told me that they hadn’t much more than got over the honeymoon, when the first time he wanted her to do something she didn’t like, some nonsense about visiting, or some such stuff, the way she flared up was a caution to single men——”

“My dear Rattleworth, I’m sorry to interrupt you,” exclaimed Coverdale, who could bear it no longer, “but I’m afraid my wife is a little overcome by the heat of the room—those servants will make such ridiculously large fires. My dear Alice, if you prefer the drawing-room, I’m sure Rattleworth will excuse you; this place is like the black-hole in Calcutta.” And while Rattleworth, talking all the time, sprang to open the door, Harry covered his wife’s retreat by instituting a furious onslaught upon the unoffending fire. It was well he came to the rescue when he did, for in another minute Alice would have been in hysterics. To get rid of his dear friend as soon as possible was Harry’s next anxiety, but this was no such easy matter. Thomas Rattleworth, Esq., M.F.H., was at that happy moment the victim of two strenuous necessities—one to listen to the sound of his own voice, expressing not so much his ideas as his paucity thereof; and the other to imbibe a bottle of port wine, in twelve doses of a wine-glass each; and these necessities had the unfortunate property of re-acting upon and increasing each other; for talking made him thirsty, and drinking made him talkative, so that it was eleven o’clock before he had talked himself out, by which time the terminus of a second bottle of port had been arrived at. With a feeling of relief such as Sinbad the Sailor might have experienced when he felt the legs of the Old Man of the Sea gradually relaxing their clasp around his wearied shoulders, did Harry assist his friend to light a cigar, then watched its fiery tip gradually disappear in the darkness, as Rattleworth’s cover hack cantered off with its master’s six feet one of good-natured goose-flesh.

Left to his own meditations, Harry started a cigar on his own account, and, the night being a fine one, he paced up and down the gravel walk in front of the house until he should have cleared his brain from the fumes of the wine civility had forced him to swallow. The calm stars came out one by one, and as he watched their bright effulgence, an idea of his childhood, that they might be the eyes of angels, recurred to his memory; and he could even fancy they appeared to gaze upon him reproachfully. No human being possessing even the lowest order of reflective powers, or the faintest vestige of imagination, can watch the tranquil splendour of a starlight night—a scene which at once proclaims God’s omnipotence, and appears a work fitted to the majesty of the Great Being who created it for his own glory—without becoming imbued with the idea of rest and peace, and desirous of realising these blessings in his own life. “With God and infinity so near us, how we loathe the trifles of existence! and, above all, how we despise and contemn the littleness of our fallen nature! how we repent with bitter tears of shame and contrition the evils they have wrought in ourselves, and through us to others! And how, at such a moment, do the qualities we inherit from heaven—truth, and love, and mercy—expand within us, and fill our souls, and raise us, for the time, above ourselves, and nearer to the high estate from which we have fallen—alas I that it should be only for the time! Coverdale was not insensible to these elevating influences; his love for Alice returned in all its original strength and purity, and he determined, before he slept that night, to bring about a reconciliation, even if his wife should refuse to confess that she had acted wrongly. Yes! he would actually go the length of owning that he had been to blame and was sorry for it, and then Alice would forgive him, and all would be as though this foolish disagreement had never occurred.

False reasoning, Harry! there are two things a woman, however thoroughly she may forgive them, never forgets—neglect and unkindness; and when once these have cast their shadow across the bright eager gladness with which she yields up her whole soul as a thank-offering to him she loves, man, with his stronger, sterner nature, can no more bring back the delicacy and freshness of that young affection, than he can restore to the peach the bloom which his careless fingers have profaned—the love may still exist in its full reality, but the bright halo of early romance which surrounded it has been dispelled, never to return.

CHAPTER XXVII.—THE PLEASURES OF KEEPING UP THE GAME.

Having looked at the stars, and profited by their quiet teaching, Harry went in a sadder and a wiser man, resolved, ere he slept that night, to confess his fault, and, if it might be so, obtain Alice’s forgiveness. But Alice, tired and unhappy, had gone to bed, and cried herself to sleep like a weary child; and when Harry entered her room, he found her lying with her head pillowed on her arm, and the tear-drops scarcely dried upon her long silken eyelashes, as soundly asleep as though care, and sin, and sorrow, were evils of which her philosophy had never dreamed—so Coverdale could only invoke a silent blessing upon her, and hasten to follow her example by going to bed and to sleep himself. Thus an opportunity was lost of regaining the “high estate” in his wife’s affections, from which he had fallen by reason of his inconsiderate selfishness, and hasty and impetuous temper; and it is a fact equally true and trying, that an opportunity once lost never returns, even an advertisement in the Times would fail to regain it.

One of the strangest and least comprehensive of psychological phenomena is the total change produced in our thoughts, feelings, opinions, hopes, fears, sympathies, antipathies, and all the other component parts which make up that wonderful spiritual steam-engine, the mind of man, by a good night’s sleep. We go to bed desperately in love with some charming girl we have flirted with half the evening, despising her cruel old male parent, who would come and disturb our tête-à-tête, and take her away at least an hour sooner than anybody not utterly callous to all the finer feelings of human nature would have dreamed of doing; and having with unchristian malignity her tall cousin in the Blues, who, having known her from her cradle upwards, dared to call her “Gussie” to our very face—we sleep soundly, our mind lies fallow for some six hours, and lo! a change has come o’er us; our goddess has stepped down from her pedestal, and appears a very average specimen of white muslined femininity and flirtation, whom her father has improved into quite an amiable model paterfamilias, at whose patient benignity in remaining, to please his daughter, at an evening party till half-past three a.m. we actually marvel; and as to that fine young fellow her cousin, we are really shocked when we recall our unchristian feelings towards him, and, as some slight compensation, mentally book him for an invite to that dinner at Blackwall which we propose bestowing upon a dozen of our very particular friends, in the unlikely event of our exchequer holding out till the white-bait season. Thus, by the next morning, Coverdale had slept off the sharp edge of his penitence, and when Alice began by a great effort to refer to the events of the previous day, with the intention of confessing herself in the wrong, and asking forgiveness, Harry, dreading a scene with a degree of horror equally masculine and English, checked the flow of her eloquence by exclaiming abruptly and cheerfully, “Yes, dear, certainly—but don’t say another word about it; we were both very silly, and made each other very miserable, when we might be as happy as the day is long; let bygones be bygones, we will forgive and forget, and be wiser for the future, eh?” As he spoke, he drew her to him, and sealing his forgiveness on her lips with a kiss, rendered all discussion impossible by leaving the room.

This speech (kiss included) ought to have satisfied any reasonable wife, but unfortunately at that moment Alice was not exactly in a reasonable frame of mind; she had dwelt so long on one idea, in accordance with which she had arranged the whole programme of a dramatic reconciliation scene, that she by no means approved of Harry’s short cut to concord, rendering null and void all her explanation of how, and why, and wherefore she had come to behave ill, together with a spirited sketch in monologue of her contrition for the past and vows of amendment for the future; the whole to conclude with certain annotations and reflections, which she trusted would so affect her husband’s feelings, and convince his understanding, that he would for the future restrict shooting to two short mornings a-week, and cast hunting “to the dogs” entirely, and now all the mysterious pleasure the gentler sex derive from talking a thing well over, was denied her.

Ah! that “talking over,” what a wonderful female attribute it is! how vast and important a part of “woman’s mission” does it constitute! in fact, we have met innumerable women—the majority of our female acquaintance, we should say—whose whole and entire mission appears to consist of a “call” to “talk over,” first, their neighbours’ affairs (a duty to their neighbour in which they never fail), secondly, their own. The French aphorism (seldom acted upon, by its voluble originators), Cela va sans dire, must seem unspeakably absurd to these advocates for an indefinite extension of the “freedom of debate;” while the “silent system” must appear a more “capital punishment” than death itself, always supposing the excellence of a punishment to be tested by its severity: but we are slightly digressing.

If anything were needed to prove the absurdity of human beings—creatures with immortal souls, placed in this world to prepare for eternity—darkening the sunshine of each other’s lives by bickering about trifles, that evidence would be afforded when we observe the manner in which such mental nebulæ vanish before the presence of any of the stern realities of existence. Thus when, breakfast being concluded, Harry was called mysteriously out of the apartment to learn that a mounted groom had just arrived from Hazlehurst Grange, with the intelligence that old Mr. Hazlehurst had been seized with a fit, from which, when the servant came away, he was not expected to recover, Coverdale’s only thought was how most tenderly and judiciously to break the sad news to Alice. Having executed his painful task with a degree of tact and delicacy of feeling for which those who knew only the rough side of his character would scarcely have given him credit, and soothed, to the best of his ability, the burst of grief with which Alice received the intelligence, Harry continued, “And now, love, the moment you are able to start, the phaeton will be ready; it is lighter than the close carriage, and in an emergency like the present, every minute becomes of consequence.”

“And you?” inquired Alice, glancing at him timidly through her tears.

“I of course will drive you myself; you did not suppose I should let you go alone.”

Alice could not reply, but as she pressed her husband’s hand caressingly, the old loving look came back into her eyes, and Harry felt that he was forgiven. On reaching the Grange the report of the sick man was more favourable than Alice had dared to hope. An apoplectic fit constitutes one of the few exceptional cases in which prompt medical assistance does not necessarily increase the evil, and the Esculapius of the neighbourhood had this time successfully interposed between death and his victim; while Mr. Hazlehurst had received a lesson sufficiently severe to prevent him from objecting to the substitution of toast and water and “bland” puddings for Port wine, bottled in the year 1830, and the roast beef of Old England. Coverdale having remained at the Grange for three days, during which time he had shaken hands with, and lamented over Arthur (who, summoned at the commencement of his father’s illness, appeared looking so pale and thin, that it was decided nem. con. that he was working himself to death—a view of the case which he rather than otherwise encouraged by the faintness of his denial), was forced to return to the Park to attend the next meeting of magistrates, and finally to dispose of the offending poachers. Accordingly, having arranged with Alice to send the close carriage for her on the day but one following, he took leave of the Hazlehurst family, and drove to H————. Here, after a long examination, the aforesaid poachers were convicted, and sentenced, one to nine months’, another to a year’s imprisonment—Markum’s evidence being so clear and convincing, that such an issue became inevitable. As the gamekeeper left the court, a tall, gipsy-looking fellow came up to him, and muttered in his car, “You’ll live to repent this day’s work, Master Keeper; look to yourself one of these dark nights.”

“Look to yourself if I catch you on our ground,” was Markum’s contemptuous rejoinder; “there’s enough oakum to pick in H———— gaol for Tom and you too.”

“Who is that fellow,” inquired Coverdale, as the man, perceiving that the keeper’s reply was beginning to attract attention, turned away with a scowl.

“That be Jack Hargrave, Mr. Coverdale, sir,” returned Markum; “brother along o’ Tom, as we’ve give twelve months to; and sarve ’im right, a poachin’, thievin’ wagrant.”

“Is this fellow a poacher also?” asked Harry.

“That is he then,” was the reply; “a reg’lur bred un, and as deep a hand as ever set a snare, only he’s so ‘wide o’,’ that it’s not so easy to nab the warmint; but I’ll be down upon ’im yet, for all his threatenings. He’s bin heard to swear he’ll put a charge o’ shot under my veskit some o’ these nights; he’d better not, though, or he may find there’s two can play at that game.”

“No violence, my good fellow, no violence; it’s not a light thing to shed the blood of a fellow-creature—besides, there’s a quiet way of managing these affairs. I shall warn the police to keep an eye on that man Hargrave; he looks dangerous; and you may as well put on another watcher, it won’t do to be shorthanded just now.” So saying, Coverdale turned away, and was soon deep in conversation with the inspector of the mounted rural police; after which, refusing to make one of a jovial party who were about to dine with Tom Rattleworth, and were tolerably certain to remain playing whist, and imbibing strong liquors till the small hours should be again upon the increase, he drove home to his solitary mansion.

It was the first time since his marriage that Coverdale had dined by himself, and he felt proportionably lonely; everything tended to remind him of Alice—her favourite dog, a little black-and-tan spaniel, with large loving eyes, not unlike her own, leaped on his knee after dinner, and gazing wistfully at the empty chair opposite, uttered a low whine, as though it would inquire, “Where’s my mistress?” The footstool, whereon her dainty little feet were wont to repose—the screen with which she was accustomed to shade her fair cheek from the too ardent advances of the fire—each object, animate or inanimate, recalled his thoughts to Alice; and feeling, even more strongly than he had ever yet felt, how deeply and tenderly he loved her, he for the first time perceived that love in its true light, and, in acknowledging its full reality, became conscious of the duties and responsibilities such an affection entailed upon him. Faintly and dimly at first the light broke in upon him; deeply did he feel the difficulties of the task, and his own inability to perform it; and bitterly, most bitterly, did he regret his own selfish carelessness, which had, as he was fain to confess, tended already to estrange his young wife’s affection, and to convert a gentle, yielding girl, into a wilful and exacting woman. And thus he sat, pondering over and regretting the past, and forming wise and good resolutions for the future, while minutes gliding by unobserved grew into hours, until the sudden restlessness of the little dog, which had been sleeping quietly upon his knees, roused him, and looking at his watch, he perceived it was nearly midnight. As he did so the dog, whose restlessness appeared to increase, uttered a short bark, while at the same moment a distant sound was faintly audible, which Harry’s practised ear instantly recognised as the report of a gun. To spring to the window, open the shutter, and fling up the sash, was the work of an instant; a like space of time sufficed to resolve doubt into certainty,—guns were being discharged in a favourite plantation about half a mile from the house—a plantation in which the pheasants were as well fed and tame as barn-door fowls; it was evident the poachers were taking their revenge, and that these sacred birds, the Lares and Penates of Harry’s sporting mythology, were being ruthlessly slaughtered on their roosts. Harry rang the bell furiously; then, before the alarmed Wilkins (who, having commenced his career in the service of an apoplectic alderman, laboured under a chronic impression that somebody was in a fit) had passed beyond the door of the servants’ hall, he rushed impetuously out of the dining-room, and meeting that bewildered domestic in full career, nearly frightened him into an attack of the malady he so much dreaded for others, by exclaiming, “Here, quick! Tell Saunders, or some of them, to saddle the shooting cob, and bring him round instantly; then find me a hat and pea-jacket. Quick, I say!”

As the butler vanished on his mission, Coverdale took down from a peg in the hall, a special constable’s staff which had been intrusted to him on behalf of her gracious Majesty, at a time when an extra dose of politics and strong beer had proved too potent for the dense agricultural pates of certain free and independent (alias bribed and tipsy) electors of the neighbouring county town. It was a stout piece of ash, about a foot and a half long, thicker than an ordinary broom-stick, and weighted with lead, for the benefit of any unusually opaque skull into which it might be deemed advisable to knock a respect for our glorious constitution. Harry felt its weight, and, as he passed his wrist through the leather thong attached to it, he thought to himself they would be bold men who could prevent him, with that in his hand, from going where he pleased. The instant the cob appeared he sprang into the saddle. “Do you and Marshal get a couple of stout sticks, and make the best of your way to the ash plantation!” he exclaimed hastily; “there are poachers out, and from their venturing to come so near the house, I should fancy there must be a strong gang of them, and Markum may want all the help we can give him.”

So saying, Coverdale gathered up the reins, and without waiting the groom’s reply, rode off at a brisk canter. As he approached the wood, he drew in and paused, uncertain whether Markum might yet have reached the scene of action: as he listened, the sound of men crashing through the dry underwood became distinctly audible; then shouts and a clamour of angry voices, and finally, the unmistakeable noise of a conflict met his ear. Pausing no longer, he put his horse into a gallop, and dashed on till he reached a hand-gate leading into the wood. This, to his annoyance, he found locked; true, he had a master-key, which he had fortunately brought with him, but he was forced to dismount in order to unfasten the padlock. While thus engaged, the sounds proved that the affray was still raging fiercely, and, as he flung the gate open, a gun was discharged, followed almost instantaneously by the report of two others. Fearing mischief might occur before he could reach the combatants, Coverdale remounted hastily, and heedless alike of obstacles and darkness, galloped down one of the grass rides through the plantation, avoiding collision with the trunks and branches of trees by, as it appeared, a succession of miracles. Before, however, he could arrive at the scene of action, the sound of blows, the shouts and imprecations, had ceased, and nothing but a confused hum of voices, together with a low moaning, as of some person ill or in pain, met his ear. Forcing his horse through the tangled underwood, Coverdale came suddenly upon a group of men, amongst whom he recognised several of his own farm labourers, while two under-keepers were kneeling beside the prostrate figure of a man who, from the stiff, unnatural attitude in which he lay, appeared either dead or dying. To leap to the ground, and snatch a lantern from one of the bystanders, was Harry’s first act; then bending over the fallen man, he recognised in the ghastly features, distorted and convulsed with agony, the well-known countenance of honest, sturdy Markum, while from a gun-shot wound in his right side the dark life-blood was slowly flowing.

“How has this happened?” was Coverdale’s hurried inquiry. “Is it an accident, or have any of those scoundrels dared to shoot him?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then one of the elder men replied, “It wor no accident, Mr. Coverdale; but Giles there can tell you best, squire; he wor nearest to un when he dropped.”

The under-keeper thus appealed to—a tall, strapping young fellow, who was vainly attempting to staunch the blood which still continued to flow—turned to reply, while Coverdale, kneeling beside the wounded man, endeavoured to arrange a more effectual bandage.

“All as I know, sir,” he said, “is that I wor a watching nigh down by the warren, when up cum poor Master Markum here, and ‘Giles,’ says he, ‘ye’re wanted, lad; there’s them out as didn’t oughter be.’ So him and I, and the rest o’ our mates here, which master had appinted to meet at eleven o’clock—for I expect he’d had some hint give him of what was to be up, made for the ash spinney, and laid us down in a ditch. Well, it warn’t long afore we heard the blackguards at work among the pheasants, a banging away like blazes. We waited till they got near us, and then we up and at ’em like good uns. There was more of ’em nor there was o’ we, so they showed light a bit. Poor master there he jest wor real savage; he hit out hard and straight, and rolled ’em over like nine-pins; they worn’t o’ no manner o’ use again him, not none on ’em. Well, they soon got enough of that sort of fun, and one arter another cut away, till at last they all fairly turned tail and bolted—that is, all but one, and him master collared, and says he, ‘Stop a bit, Jack; I’m agoin’ to send you to see your brother in H———— gaol; I’m afeard Tom should be dull for want o’ cumpany, poor chap!’ Well, Jack Hargrave, for him it wor, fit sharp for his liburty, but master wor too good a man for him; and he’d a took him as safe as mutton, only Jack hollard arter one of his mates as had a gun, and told him to shoot the ———— keeper, and not let him be took. The fellow stopped and faced round—he wor a young chap as I knows well—I’d cotched sight of his face afore he cut away, a soft young feller, as anybody might bully into anything; and when Jack rapped out a volley of oaths, and told him to let fly, and chance hittin’ him, shoot he did, and poor master let go his hold o’ Jack’s collar, and rolled over and over like I’ve seen many a hare and rabbid roll over afore his gun.”

“But there was more than one barrel discharged,” interposed Coverdale; “I heard three shots in succession—how was that?”

“Why, when I see poor Master Markum fall, I was jest agoin’ to kneel down to raise him a bit, when I ketched sight o’ Jack Hargrave and his pal a cutting away like lamplighters, and I felt mad like to think he should get off scotfree arter what he’d been and done, and having my gun in my hand, I give ’em the contents of both barrels; it worn’t right, I knows, Mr. Coverdale, but if you’d been in my place, squire, I’m blessed if I don’t think you’d ha done the same, axing your pardon.”

Feeling a strong private conviction that “Giles” had only judged him correctly, Harry looked grave and shook his head, as if such a possibility could not exist in the case of a magistrate, ere he inquired, “Do you think you hit either of them?”

“They’d got a farish start before I pulled at ’em,” was the reply, “and the light ain’t that good for a long shot, but I fancy Jack Hargrave’s got something to take home with him, for he give a rare jump as the charge reached him; but it warn’t enough to stop him, for I see him a runnin’ like a greyhound arter-wards.”

While this conversation was proceeding, Coverdale, by aid of sundry neckcloths, and a strip that he cut from his own pea-jacket, had contrived a bandage which in great measure stopped the bleeding, and Markum revived sufficiently to recognise those about him; as his eyes fell on Coverdale, a faint smile passed across his features.

“Is it you, squire?” he murmured in a low voice. “Ah! you always had a kind heart of your own; Jack Hargrave’s kep his word, you see. I expects him and his mate ’as finished me atween ’em this time.”

“We’ll hope not, my poor fellow—but don’t speak. Do you think you can bear carrying yet—yes? Four of you take that hand-gate off its hinges, and bring it here; we’ll lay him on that. We shall have a surgeon for you directly, my poor fellow! I sent one of the lads off on my horse to fetch Mr. Gouger the moment I came up—now, steady with him. I’ll lift his head—that’s it; now raise the gate steadily. Gently there—well done—are you all ready? Step together mind—march.”

As he spoke, Harry (who himself supported one corner of the temporary litter he had contrived) and three others, raised the wounded man on their shoulders, and carried him to his own cottage, which fortunately was near at hand. He bore the transit bravely, though the pain occasioned by such motion as was unavoidable, reduced him more than once to the verge of fainting. Shortly after he had reached his destination the surgeon arrived. Coverdale waited until he had pronounced the wound dangerous, though not necessarily mortal, then leaving him to make a more minute examination, he quitted the house. He found a mounted policeman awaiting him outside, who, making his rounds, had been attracted by the sound of guns at that unusual hour.

“Ah, policeman, I was just going to send after you; my head keeper has been shot by these poaching rascals, and is seriously hurt, I’m afraid!” exclaimed Coverdale. “How are we to make sure of the fellows who did it? It lies between a man called Jack Hargrave—”

“A reg’lur bad un,” observed the horse-patrol, parenthetically.

“You said you knew the other man,” continued Harry, appealing to the under-keeper; “are you acquainted with his name?”

“They do call him ‘Winkey’ in a general way, from a trick he’s got with his eyelids; but his right name be Jim Fags,” was the reply.

Harry Coverdale's Courtship, and All That Came of It

HARRY COVERDALE’S COURTSHIP,AND ALL THAT CAME OF IT

By Frank E. Smedley,

Author of “Frank Fairlegh,” “Lewis Arundel,” “The Fortunes Of The Colville Family,” Etc.

London: George Routledge and Sons

1854

PREFACE