W hen things happen not to go smoothly in this mortal life (that is, about nine times out of every ten) people are apt to rail against destiny, deplore their evil fortune, or, if they happen to be very good indeed, reckon up the number of crosses vouchsafed them with self-complacent resignation; in fact, they each, after their own fashion, give currency to the sentiment expressed by our neighbours across the water, in the proverb, “L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” Now, although we acknowledge that this proverb embodies a great truth, yet, looking at the present state of things more closely, we conceive it to be by no means the whole truth—for this reason:—a large proportion of the evils of life are no results of blind chance, or, more correctly, no chastisements proceeding direct from the hand of Providence, but the natural, almost the necessary, consequences of our own actions. Action might be generally defined as the working—according to certain fixed rules—of cause and effect; if we would but bear this in mind, and reflect that every action produces some result good or evil, we might not indeed (so wrong-headed is human nature) act more wisely, but we should at all events feel less surprise when the inevitable results followed; and so, knowing that we had only ourselves to thank for our punishment, gain experience which might make some few fools of us wiser for the future.

These remarks were called forth by, and therefore might have occurred to, Alice Coverdale, had she been of what it is the fashion to term an “introspective habit”—i.e. had she been accustomed to turn her mind inside-out before its own eye. Not, however, being given to this uncomfortable practice, she failed to discern the troubles in store for her, and returned home fondly deeming that having at length perceived the error of her ways, she need only confess, and receive her husband’s absolution, to set every wrong right again. Harry did not come to fetch her, it being a day on which there was a magistrates’ meeting; but he was standing at the hall-door waiting to receive her, which he did warmly, and as if he was very glad to have her back again, though a gloom hung on his brow which, when the first confusion of her arrival was over, Alice could not fail to perceive; but conscious to a painful degree of her own faults and short-comings, she did not venture to remark upon it. When they reached the drawing-room, Harry threw back her veil, and regarded her with a long, earnest gaze, which brought the warm blood into her cheeks as in the days of her girlhood.

“You are looking better, brighter, and more like your former self than I have seen you for some time,” he said. He paused, then resumed sadly:—“Ah, Alice, I’m afraid you were happier in your old home than you will ever be in your new one!”

“Do not say so—do not think so, dear Harry!” was the eager reply. “I may have been silly, and—and wicked enough to have been unhappy, and to have vexed you and rendered you so, too; but I have been taking myself seriously to task since I have been away, and have come home full of good resolutions, and intending to strive hard to keep them; and if you would be so very good as to forgive me the past and help me in the future, I think perhaps I may succeed.”

Touched by her words and by the evident feeling with which they were spoken, Harry drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.

“We may both have been in some measure to blame,” he said, “but I by far the most so, for neglecting the sacred trust I took upon me when I possessed myself of your affection; but I was a heedless boy then—experience has made something rather more like a reasonable being of me by this time, I hope; at all events, I now know how to appreciate and guard the treasure I possess.” But even as he uttered these words his brow grew clouded, for he thought of Lord Alfred Courtland’s letter, lying at that moment in his pocket. Should he give it to her at once, as she stood by him blushing, and smiling, and looking up at him with all the light of her former love beaming in her soft blue eyes? What if she refused to show it him?—if its contents should destroy the harmony so happily re-established between them? Still it must be done sooner or later, and Harry was not one to put off the evil day. With that letter on his mind he could not meet Alice’s affection warmly and frankly as it deserved, and as she would expect him to do; besides, the contents might be of a nature to relieve, rather than to increase his anxiety, in which case he was needlessly prolonging his own uneasiness. So turning towards her, he said in a tone of voice which he vainly endeavoured to render easy and unconstrained, “Alice, love, here is a letter for you, which I chose to give you myself, and which, when you have read it, I hope and believe you will allow me to see also.” As he spoke he led her to the sofa, then handing her Lord Alfred’s unopened letter, waited in a state of anxiety which he vainly attempted to conceal, until she should have perused it. Alice coloured slightly when she perceived by the handwriting from whom the epistle proceeded; but, judging from her consciousness that nothing really wrong had passed between them that certainly she should be able to show it to Harry, and so eradicate any seeds of jealousy which might be lurking in his mind, she hastily broke the seal.

The letter was a long one, for Lord Alfred, being really very sorry for his misconduct on the night of the ball, and very anxious to retrieve Alice’s good opinion, waxed eloquent upon his theme, and expended as much fine writing upon his exculpation as would have formed a leader in the Times. After two sides of penitence, he continued:—

“In fact my excuse amounts to this: that I was, and I may say am, a fool in the hands of a knave; and a very, very bad excuse I feel it to be. But really D’Almayne is such a clever rogue, if rogue he be—knows so much of life is so brilliant and amusing—dresses so well—does everything with such perfect tact and good taste—is, in short, so consistent as a whole, that although one neither respects nor approves of him, yet it is impossible (at least for me) to resist his influence; time after time have I resolved to break with him, and time after time have I allowed him again to do what he pleased with me. I can truly and honestly declare, that everything that I have said or done which could cause you a moment’s annoyance, has been prompted by him; he flattered my vanity by urging me to get up a sentimental flirtation with la belle Coverdale, as he impertinently styled you; and, but for your good sense in showing me you had no taste for such folly, I know not what absurdities I might have committed. Again, he told me that ill-natured story of Mr. Coverdale, which I believe he embellished, and gave a much more serious colouring to than the truth would bear out; and finally and lastly, he it was who persuaded me to take you to the door of the boudoir to witness that scene between Miss Crofton and your husband, of which I feel certain we do not know the true explanation; for I am most confident my good friend Coverdale cares for you, and you only, as an affectionate husband should do. Why D’Almayne did all this, except that I fancy he has some spite against Coverdale, I do not know or care. Nor do I think I am wrong in thus showing the exquisite Horace up in his true colours to you, as every word I have stated is the simple truth; and were he to tax me with having done so, I should be perfectly ready to justify my conduct and abide the consequences, though he is such a dead shot, and fond of ‘parading his man’ at daybreak. Of course you will not show this letter to your husband, as, although I do not think, if he knew the whole truth, he would be very angry with me, such would not be the case in regard to D’Almayne, and might lead to something serious between them. But if, my dear Mrs. Coverdale, I can obtain your forgiveness, and (after my return from Italy, where I am shortly about to join my family) you will, in consideration of my penitence, still allow me the privilege of your friendship, I shall not so deeply regret the inexcusable folly of,

“Yours very sincerely,

“Alfred Courtland.”

“His lordship has treated you to a voluminous epistle,” observed Harry; “I am, I own, curious to learn what the boy can have found to say to you; he was by no means so prolific with his pen in the days of Greek exercises.”

As he spoke he held out his hand for the letter; but Alice drew back; the words “of course you will not show this letter to your husband”—“dead shot”—“fond of parading his man before daybreak”—“lead to something serious,” &c., swam before her eyes, her brain reeled, all the blood seemed to rush to her heart, and for a moment she felt on the verge of fainting. By an effort she recovered herself sufficiently to falter out—

“Dear Harry, do not ask to see it—I cannot show it to you—it is a private letter, meant for my eye only; and—and—you will not ask to see it!” She spoke in the humblest, most imploring tone; but the shadow on Harry’s brow grew deeper.

“It is most strange—incomprehensible, in fact—how and why you misunderstand me in this way!” he said. “I have a right to ask to see that letter; I should be neglecting a plain and positive duty if I failed to do so—putting aside all personal feeling in the matter—the duty I owe to you, the responsibility I took upon myself when I married you, requires it. I have suffered too much already from my careless neglect of these sacred obligations to fall into the same error again!” He paused; then taking Alice’s hand in his own, he continued with a mournful tenderness:—“You are but a young girl yet, my poor child; as ignorant of the ways of the world as if you were a child; I have deprived you of the safeguard of a father’s authority, of a mother’s watchful tenderness, and, with my best endeavours, it is but most imperfectly I can make up for these deficiencies. You may trust me in this matter; in trifles I know I am rash and headstrong, but in a case like this, where my deepest, strongest feelings are concerned, you need not fear me; your happiness is not a thing to trifle with. Understand me clearly; I do not in the slightest degree suspect you of anything in this affair but thoughtlessness; I do not believe anybody or anything could deprive me of your affection but my own acts; and if, by my heedless folly in neglecting you to follow my selfish amusements, I have not already alienated your love, I hope and believe that I shall give you no farther cause for repenting that you ever entrusted me with so priceless a treasure.” A warm pressure from the hand which he still retained, assured him better than words could have done that his wife’s heart was still in his keeping, and he continued:—“With every confidence in you, however, it is not right that I should allow this foolish boy to continue his intimacy with you, after the tone he and his libertine friend, that scoundrel D’Almayne, have chosen to give it. I have heard more than one conversation at clubs and elsewhere in regard to ‘D’Almayne’s promising pupil, and la belle Coverdale’ as the puppies had the insolence to call you” (Alice started as she remembered Lord Alfred’s allusion to the phrase being D’Almayne’s), “which would have caused your cheeks to burn with shame and anger, and which, if I were quite the rash, headstrong character people would make me out to be, might have led to unpleasant consequences;—men have been shot for such remarks before now. Thus, it is quite time this folly should be brought to an end. I hoped it would die a natural death when I took you out of town; but as Alfred Courtland has chosen to write to you, I think it my duty, as I before said, to see the letter, that I may be able to judge what steps it may be necessary to take to bring the affair to a close.”

“Indeed, Harry dearest, there will be no need to take any steps at all!” exclaimed Alice, eagerly. “Lord Alfred simply writes to apologise for something he did which annoyed me on the evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, owing, as he confesses, to his having drunk more Champagne than was wise. I can assure you the letter evinces nothing but good feeling on his part, and is rather to his credit than otherwise.”

“Then, in the name of common sense, why not show it to me—write him a good-humoured, friendly answer—and there will be an end to the matter without any more fuss?” exclaimed Harry.

Poor Alice, she could only repeat “I cannot show it you—do not ask me!” and as the words passed her lips, she felt how foolish, or obstinate, or wicked, they must make her appear. Her husband rose and took a turn up and down the room, as was his wont when anything annoyed him, yet he did not wish to lose his self-control—the first symptom, in fact, of the approach of his “quiet manner.” Alice recognised it, and her heart fluttered, and her colour went and came. Having regained his self-command, Harry reseated himself, and began:—

“You need not be afraid to trust me in this matter, Alice, love; I promise you I will do nothing inconsiderate or hasty, if you will but act straightforwardly by me, and treat me with proper confidence. Alfred Courtland is a mere boy; the utmost I suspect him of is foolish romance, which, joined with his inexperience in the ways of the world, enables such men as D’Almayne to guide him as they please. I have an old regard for him, having known him from his childhood; and the worst I am likely to do to him is to read him a lecture, give him a little good advice, and possibly write to his father, and suggest that he had better look after the young gentleman until he is a year or two older, and, it is to be hoped, wiser. Perhaps, even, when I see the letter I may not deem it necessary to interfere at all. Come, do not let any fanciful punctilio weigh with you, but give it me at once.”

“Harry, do not ask me! Indeed, indeed, dear Harry, I cannot—must not show it to you! Oh! how unlucky, how strangely unfortunate I am!—now, too, when I wanted so to do right!” and, overcome by the embarrassment of the situation, Alice burst into tears.

Surprised and annoyed at her continued refusal, Harry, despite his confidence in his wife’s fidelity, not unnaturally began to suppose there must be more in this letter than he had at first imagined; and his desire to see it increased, as he became more and more convinced that Alice meant to adhere to her determination not to show it to him. Again he rose, and again, more impatiently than before, began to stride up and down the room; he continued silent for two or three minutes, and when he did address his wife, it was without resuming his place by her side.

“Many men,” he said, “would consider themselves justified in forcing you to show that letter; but I do not feel so. I will, instead, put clearly before you the effect which your agitation and your determination to conceal its contents, must necessarily produce on my mind. Either the writer must address you in such language that you are afraid to show it, lest it should lead to a serious misunderstanding between him and me; or he refers to some previous passages between you, with which you are unwilling your husband should become acquainted. Now, as I have before said, I have every confidence in you, which nothing but proof positive that you are not deserving of it could shake. The matter then resolves itself into this:—that Courtland has addressed you in that letter in some unbecoming style; and if you persist in refusing to satisfy me on this point in the only effectual manner, viz., by showing me the letter, I shall be under the necessity of obtaining the information in some other way; and when once I have taken up the matter and begun to act for myself, depend upon it I shall go through with it, to whatever consequences it may lead. Should they be such as to cause you sorrow, remember it is now in your power to avert them—then it will be too late! Go to your own room, and reflect on all this quietly and calmly. If you decide to show me the letter, rely on my moderation and discretion; if you persist in your refusal, I must act as I may consider my position renders necessary; and may God help us both if evil should come of it! If you should think better of your unwise determination, bring or send me the letter at any moment; but if not, I had rather you remained in your boudoir during the evening, as I feel deeply on this matter, and cannot trust myself to speak of it without saying things which I should be sorry for afterwards. Now go, and think it over. Do not look so frightened,” he continued in a gentler tone; “believe me, I speak more in sorrow than in anger.”

“Oh, yes! I see you do,” returned Alice, in a tone of the deepest emotion; “and it is that which is breaking my heart! I had rather, ten thousand times, that you were angry with me: and yet I know I am doing what is best!” She paused; then, with a fresh burst of tears, she threw herself into her husband’s arms, exclaiming, “Harry! dearest Harry! have pity on me!” Her husband soothed and supported her tenderly till she grew somewhat calmer, then, kissing her forehead, he led her to the door, saying kindly but gravely, “Have pity on yourself, darling; act as I would have you, and all will go well.”

Greatly perplexed, considerably frightened, and altogether in that state of mind which can best be described by the term “upset,” poor Alice’s first performance was the thoroughly feminine one of “having her cry out." Having thus poured forth her grief, vi her eyelids, she set to work seriously to face her difficulties, and come to some decision which might, if possible, reconcile her conflicting duties. The simplest and easiest way would, of course, be to do as Harry wished her; show him the letter, and leave him to decide on the matter, both for her and for himself. With this view she carefully re-read it; and when she had done so, felt more than ever convinced that to allow her husband to see it, would be to ensure a quarrel with Horace D’Almayne,—and from that to a hostile meeting, Harry shot, and herself sent for by telegraph to receive his dying benediction, was only a natural feminine transition. Supposing she were to adhere then—as adhere she must—to her resolution, what would Harry do? Set off for London, to seek an explanation from Lord Alfred; yes, and he would get it too! Lord Alfred would be forced to say much the same as he had written; for it was clear he felt no delicacy about showing up D’Almayne; and though, perhaps, he might not mention the business in regard to Miss Crofton, yet Harry would soon collect that D’Almayne had first suggested to Lord Alfred to flirt with her, and then encouraged him to try and change what would have been simply an agreeable acquaintanceship into a sentimental love-affair. Oh! if she had but known all this sooner, she would have effectually cured Lord Alfred of his penchant, instead of encouraging him in order to pique Harry out of his supposed indifference. How blind, how stupid she had been! how she had mistaken everybody and everything! even in regard to Harry—his conduct about this letter—trusting her when she was obliged to confess appearances were strongly against her—treating her with such tender forbearance when her behaviour must seem to him, to say the least, perverse and incomprehensible! How differently had she behaved in regard to Miss Crofton! how ready had she been to suspect Harry on the slightest grounds! Yes, she saw it clearly now, her mother’s interpretation of that speech was the true one—Harry loved her still; nay, had never ceased to do so. Ah! her first idea of him was right—there was nobody like him; and she was not worthy of such happiness as to be his wife—his chosen one—the object of his deep, tender, manly affection. Her eyes were open at last; she saw the truth; recognised his worth, perceived her own deficiencies and faults. If this wretched business could ever be got over, how careful she would be to guard against her former errors! what happiness was there not yet in store for her! Could nothing be devised? As she pondered, an idea struck her. Harry evidently would take no step till the next morning; the post had not yet gone out; there would be time for her to write to Lord Alfred, explain her dilemma, and appeal to his good feeling to leave town for a day or two. Harry, thus missing him, would naturally return home, when she would ask Lord Alfred to write him such a letter as would satisfy his doubts—a duplicate, in fact, of the one which had caused all this trouble, only without the attack on D’Almayne. The scheme was not perfectly satisfactory; still, the more she thought of it the more she became convinced that it was the only way of escape from the present emergency. Lord Alfred, she felt pretty sure, would act as she wished, if she made his compliance the condition on which her forgiveness of the past and friendship for the future must depend. Then she trusted a good deal to the chapter of accidents to help her; and at some indefinite epoch, when Horace D’Almayne should have gone abroad, and be out of Harry’s way, she would show him the letter, explain why she had not done so sooner, confess the words she had overheard at Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party, the history she had been told in regard to Arabella Crofton, and in fact (to use an inelegant but graphic expression) make a clean breast of it, and trust to his affection to pity and forgive her. So she sat down and scribbled off a hurried but eloquent letter to Lord Alfred, which she flattered herself would produce the effect she desired. Having completed it, she indited a few lines to Harry, telling him she had thought the matter over calmly and seriously; and with the strongest desire to do as he wished her, she yet felt it her duty to adhere to her former decision.

In the meantime Coverdale sat in gloomy meditation: why would not Alice let him see that letter? he could not, he did not imagine it contained anything to lessen his respect and affection for her; but if not, what could it contain to make her so resolute not to show it to him? He perceived with pleasure, though it added to his perplexity, that she was not swayed by any ebullition of temper, but was acting from a sense (however mistaken) of duty; he saw the pain it gave her to refuse him, and appreciated and rejoiced in the good resolutions she had formed at the Grange. It was strange, certainly, how events seemed to militate against the happiness of his married life! he had forfeited his domestic felicity by his own selfish addiction to his bachelor pursuits and habits, and it appeared impossible to regain it. Then he commenced a minute and painful review of all the occurrences of his matrimonial career, endeavouring to trace out the causes which had led to each several result, and carefully scrutinising his own conduct, to discover how far he had acted up to the rules he had laid down for himself. He was thus engaged when Alice’s note was brought to him; he read it, and his resolution was formed: he would go to London by the first train the next morning, see Lord Alfred Courtland, and learn the contents of his letter, either by fair means or foul; he would try fair means first, and be patient, and for Alice’s sake endeavour to avoid a quarrel—yes, that was decided on. So he sat down and wrote a couple of notes to put off engagements in the neighbourhood, then rang the bell. “Has the post-bag gone?” he asked, as the servant appeared. The reply was in the negative, and in another minute Wilkins returned with it. Harry and Alice had each a key, but when he was at home hers was seldom used; so was therefore rather surprised to find it already locked. Unlocking it, he attempted hastily to insert his two notes, but a letter which was in the bag had become fixed in a fold of the leather, and prevented his doing so. With an exclamation of impatience he took it out, and was about to replace it, when the address accidentally caught his eye; it was in his wife’s handwriting, and directed to Lord Alfred Courtland, with immediate written in one corner. “Leave the bag two or three minutes, Wilkins,” he said hurriedly, “I have thought of something else.” As soon as the servant quitted the room, Coverdale again took up the letter. What could it mean?—why had Alice written off in such hot haste to this young man? Had she divined his intention of seeking out Lord Alfred, and was this letter sent off thus hurriedly to tutor him what to say—or, worse still, what to conceal? Should he end all these wretched doubts and suspicions at once—should he send for Alice, and in her presence open and read the letter? The temptation was a strong one, but he overcame it. Even if the circumstances of the case were sufficient to warrant him, he felt it would be an act of domestic tyranny against which his generous nature revolted. What should he do then? Suffer the letter to go, and so throw away his only chance of arriving at the truth? No, that would be mere weakness: his resolution was formed. Putting Alice’s letter in his pocket, he relocked the post-bag, and ringing the bell, desired it might be taken immediately. Having seen his order executed, he sat down and wrote a note, and sealed up a packet. About four hours later on the same evening, i.e. between nine and ten o’clock, this packet was placed in Alice’s hands; it contained her letter to Lord Alfred Courtland, unopened, and the following note from her husband:—

“My dear Alice,—When you receive this I shall be on my road to London, whither I am going to have a little serious conversation with Alfred Courtland. As I wish and intend him to tell the truth uninfluenced, I have taken upon me to delay your letter a post. Trusting this affair may end so as to secure your happiness, in which I think you now see mine is involved,

“I am, ever yours affectionately,

“H. C.”

“P. S.—If you have occasion to write to me, direct to Arthur’s chambers.”