In this “tight little island,”—of which as a whole we are all so proud, although it affords ample occupation for its public in grumbling at its institutions, vi its Times newspaper—the only season of the year when fogs are not, and every day does not resemble a “washing-day” on a large scale, the only period in fact when the country is endurable, is the early summer. Thus the educated classes, whose well-balanced and carefully developed minds enable them to arrive at sound conclusions, and whose well-stored pockets render them free to come and go untrammelled by pecuniary considerations, have bound themselves by the laws of the tyrant Fashion to spend June and July in London, where they simmer in hot rooms, when they should be in bed and asleep, until all the goodness is boiled out of them—which new “theory of evil” beg to offer to the notice of Miss Martineau, and all other speculative minds anxious to elevate humanity by substituting earthly nonsense for heavenly revelation. But however you may brick her up and smoke-dry her, nature will assert herself, and, turning with disgust from oats at 40s. the quarter in a mahogany manger, pine for green meat and a canter over the spring turf. So a compromise has been effected between town and country amusements, and horticultural fÊtes have been devised to afford parboiled fashionables breathing time between their rounds of dissipation, together with a gentle reminder of the “pleasures of the plains,” which they are sacrificing to their craving for unnatural excitement. Horticultural fÊtes are brought about in this wise: Early in the inclemency of a British spring, while London is shivering over its fondly cherished fire, that noun of multitude perceives in the first column of its Times a notice that members of the Horticultural Society may obtain tickets at privileged prices until some specified day; thereupon All-London writes to its particular friend the M. H. S. for an “order,” and the member vouching by implication for All-London’s standing and respectability—into which he has probably gone no deeper than its coat—All-London besieges the office of that floral autocrat, Dr. Lindley, and clamours for tickets, crying “Give, give,” and insatiable as the daughter of the horse-leech. Having at length obtained its desire, All-London buttons up its great-coat and waits timidly but eagerly for the first Horticultural. But the London season is an outrage upon, and an insult to nature, and nature takes her change out of the first Horticultural; it is a pouring wet day, Chiswick becomes Keswick, and the Duke of Devonshire’s grounds, yielding to hydraulic pressure, cease to be dry grounds any longer. Dr. Lindley... we have not the pleasure of that gentleman’s personal acquaintance, but we can imagine Dr. Lindley feels disappointed and... expresses it. Then All-London exchanges its greatcoat for a paletot, and looks forward with a timid anxiety to the second Horticultural, which being in June enjoys the advantage of April weather, and is only showery, so the boldest quarter of London goes, from the Herbert Fitz-tip-tops, careless of the bronchial tubes of their serving-men and carriage-horses, down to the Robinson Joneses, safe in the immunity of a hack brougham, driver, and horse—a long-suffering trio, so accustomed to wait in the rain, that use has become a second nature to these amphibious hirelings. Our enterprising pleasure-seekers come back ere dewy eve, and say that, considering the fact that flowers won’t blow out of doors in cold weather, and that the gravel was a swamp, and the turf a morass, the tents very hot, and the east wind very cold, and that there was nobody there except a few dreadful people, who really ought not to be anywhere—(Mrs. Robinson Jones was actually pushed up against Mr. Cutlet and his rib, her own butcher, who makes a clear £2000 a-year, while genteel Robinson Jones scarcely averages £1500 at the Bar; but what does that signify?)—and that the female Quarter-of-London had got the ridiculous soles of its little French shoes wet through in five minutes, and had felt a tightness at its chest ever since; allowing for these and several other slight drawbacks, it really was not such a complete failure after all! But even English weather has its bright side; and, content with taking the shine out of the first two, on the third Horticultural fÊte the sun seems resolved to come out strong, and, setting parasols at defiance, imprint his burning kisses on the pale features of all the pretty women in town, like an ardent old luminary as he is. And All-London, finding that it really is a beautiful day, puts on its best bib and tucker, and takes its wife and daughters to Chiswick. Where the roads are watered they are very muddy, where they are not watered they are dusty; and as the dust sticks to the carriages, and the dust sticks to the mud, and the horses get first very hot going there, then very cold waiting there, and the pole of every other carriage invariably runs through the back panel of the vehicle immediately preceding it, coachmen are not, as a general rule, fond of the third Horticultural; but nothing can please everybody, and these Flower-shows “please the ladies” (to quote Mr. Crane’s favourite phrase), and that is the great point after all. It was probably with a view to “pleasing the ladies” that Mr. Crane had thought proper to invest capital in half a dozen Horticultural tickets—seeing that his own horticultural tastes were confined to drinking Sherry-cobbler in an arbour, whenever such a privilege was vouchsafed to him, and his knowledge limited to the capability of discriminating between a cabbage and a cauliflower. The weather having been such as we have described it during the first and second fÊtes—on both which occasions Mr. Crane bewailed the useless expense into which his gallantry had seduced him, with a truly touching degree of pathos—these tickets remained unused until the third and last flower-show, when “the face of all nature looking gay,” and “bright Phoebus” obligingly condescending to “adorn the hills,” the ex-cotton-spinner and his spouse, Harry Coverdale and Alice, together with Arabella Crofton, availed themselves of five of them—Horace D’Almayne quietly pocketing the sixth in a fit of mental (and physical) abstraction. They were to start at a quarter before two, as Mr. Crane always preferred being early on all occasions; but at a quarter before two, when the carriages drew up to the door, Alice was not ready, and moreover it was Alice’s own fault that she was not ready; and thus it fell out. Lord Alfred Courtland played the flute well for so young a man, and an amateur; since he had been in town, a talented professor instructed him in this art, who was an exiled patriot—that is to say, he and several other ardent young men had attempted one fine morning to take their “Fatherland” away from the gentleman in possession, and give it to the Secret-blood-and-bones-united-brother band—the same being a pet name by which they saw fit to call themselves. What they would have done with their fatherland, if they had got it, neither do they, nor does any one else appear to have the least idea; but this difficulty of disposing of their country was fortunately spared them, as their enterprise consisted simply of a stroll along the principal street of their native city, in company with a drum and a little red flag, bearing the cheerful device of a skull and cross-bones, with the motto, “Death to Tyrants!” which stroll continued until they accidentally encountered a company of soldiers, who conveyed them—drum, flag, and all—to the state prison, where they were detained, until it being discovered that they were eating their heads off, the authorities exiled them, to save their keep. Herr Hildebrand Tootletoot-zakoffski, one of this devoted band, had brought his Polish sorrows and his German flute to England, and between them both managed to make a much more comfortable income than tyranny had hitherto allowed him to enjoy under the mildewed institutions of his own blighted country. For the rest he was a mild little man, addicted to conversing on music and patriotism with a sort of washy sentimentality, which enabled him to pass as an individual of refined tastes and cultivated mind with those who did not look beyond the surface; personally he rejoiced in a complexion as of bad putty, and an amount of heroic beard and moustaches which would have stuffed a chair-cushion very comfortably. And being such as we have described him, Herr Hildebrand—an acquaintance of and introduced by Horace D’Almayne, who, in his multifarious occupations, may have been a banded-brother, for aught we know to the contrary—had suggested to Lord Alfred Courtland the great advantage it would be to him in his, the professor’s, talented absence, if he, Lord Alfred, could find any amiable pianiste of his acquaintance, able and willing to play duets with him, to “improve his time;” and as he said this in the presence of and immediately after a tÊte-À-tÊte with Horace D’Almayne, it really was scarcely necessary for that judicious mentor to suggest to his lordship pretty little Mrs. Coverdale, although to guard against mistakes he did so. Thus Alfred Courtland and Alice had played a good many duets in Park Lane; and on the morning in question, luncheon being announced in the middle of one of these interesting performances half an hour sooner than usual, to guard against the possibility of anybody’s being too late, Alice, feeling by this time quite at home in her cousin’s house, coolly told Lord Alfred to come down and partake of the mid-day meal, as she was resolved to finish the duet after it was over, before she went to dress, and if they made haste she was sure there was plenty of time. But time unfortunately is one of those stubborn facts with which it is impossible to take a liberty without suffering for one’s rashness; and although the latter part of the duet was rattled through with a Costa-like rapidity, which elicited from his breathless lordship an acknowledgment that “it is the pace that kills,” yet when all the rest of the party were assembled, Alice was only half dressed. Then, as was his wont on such occasions, Mr. Crane fell into a fretful fuss, and trotted up and down the room, and made everybody fidgety and uncomfortable, especially Harry, who was provoked with Mr. Crane for being annoyed with Alice, and with Alice for having given him cause for annoyance.

“There is a quiet way of arranging the matter, my dear sir,” he said; “let those who are ready start in the barouche, and I will wait and drive Alice in the mail-phaeton.”

“Yes, and then we shall never meet at the gardens, and never all come away at the same time, and my arrangements will be completely subverted, and everything will go wrong,” whined Mr. Crane. On this Harry ran up to hasten Alice, and Alice, who was attiring herself at express speed, was cross, and snubbed him out of the room, and he rejoined the company in the drawing-room with compressed lips and an angry flush on each cheek; and Arabella Crofton favoured him with a glance of intelligent pity, which, if it were intended to soothe his wounded spirit, failed in its effect most signally. After the lapse of an awful ten minutes, by the expiration of which period Mr. Crane was on the verge of tears, the culprit Alice made her appearance, looking very pretty, but not altogether as penitent as might have been desired; but as she said in a cheerful tone that she “really was quite distressed at having kept them all waiting,” we will hope she felt more than she allowed to appear. Then arose a debate and confusion of tongues and opinions as to how the party was to divide. Harry offered to drive the phaeton, Mr. Crane having privately hinted that such an arrangement would meet with his approval,—who was to accompany him? Harry suggested his own wife, meaning to treat her to a gentle reproof on the road for her want of consideration in having kept a whole party waiting merely to finish a silly duet with that boy Alfred Courtland. But Kate disapproved of this arrangement—perhaps because she had begun to suspect that the Coverdale couple did not always in “their little nest agree,” and had read in Harry’s flashing eyes warning of a perturbed spirit. Whether Alice’s conscience led her to the same result we do not pretend to decide, but for some reason she seconded her cousin until she discovered that by doing so Arabella Crofton would be her substitute, by which time the affair was settled beyond her power of altering. Her annoyance would have been sensibly diminished, however, if she could have known that the arrangement was if possible more distasteful to her husband than to herself, but unfortunately there was no clairvoyant at hand to afford her this desirable intelligence. Having handed up his companion, and done all that his chivalrous nature taught him was due from a gentleman to any woman entrusted to his care, and nothing farther, Harry gathered up his reins, placed himself by Miss Crofton’s side in the phaeton, and sitting bolt upright, drove off with an unapproachable expression of face, which indicated, as plainly as words could have done, his resolve not to advance beyond monosyllables until they reached Chiswick. But Harry was in such matters no match for the astute woman of the world who sat beside him. Apparently falling in with his humour she leaned back in the carriage, and the only sign she gave of her presence was an occasional sigh, which escaped her, as it appeared, involuntarily. Before they had proceeded far, however, they encountered the peripatetic theatre of that inconvenient humourist, dear old Punch, with his private band pop-going-the-weasel like an harmonious steam-engine; whereof the horses (the identical pair which had run away with Harry and Alice in the early spring-time of their courtship, and which Mr. Crane still retained, although he carefully avoided driving them himself)—preferring probably a more classical style of music—began to express their disapprobation by plunging violently, nearly dashing the phaeton against a coal waggon, a catastrophe which nothing but the most consummate skill on the part of their driver could have averted. As Coverdale succeeded in reducing the rebellious steeds to order, he could not help involuntarily glancing at his companion to ascertain how the incident had affected her. She was leaning forward, her attitude and the expression of her features indicated excitement and interest rather than terror, while her fine eyes, dilated and sparkling with a more than ordinary lustre, were fixed upon his countenance with looks of unmistakable admiration. Courage, or as he would have termed it “pluck,” especially in a woman, where he considered it as an “additional attraction,” while in a man it was simply a sine qu non, always delighted Harry Coverdale; and, being as innocent and natural as a child, he could no more help expressing his sentiments, than he could exist without inhaling vital air.

“Well, I never did see such nerve in a woman!” he exclaimed; “why you look pleased rather than frightened! not that there was any danger, except of damaging Mr. Crane’s near hind wheel. They don’t bit these horses properly, and that white-nosed animal hasn’t the tenderest mouth at the best of times.” And as he spoke he administered a smartish cut across the ears as a practical comment on the delinquent’s oral insensibility.

“You are such a good whip,” was the reply, “and it always interests me to see brute force controlled by skill, energy, and strength of will. You guide these fiery horses with such a calm sense of power, that I could never feel afraid when you were driving me.”

Miss Crofton was decidedly a clever woman; if there was one thing on which in his secret soul Harry prided himself, it was on his driving; and this practical compliment, standing as it unfortunately did in somewhat marked contrast to his wife’s feminine dislike of certain contentions with “queer tempered” horses, which had at odd times come in for a specimen of Coverdale’s “quiet manner,” appealed to his weak point—he was mortal, and it touched him, and at the touch his taciturnity vanished, and straightway he began to confide to his dangerous companion all his most secret thoughts and feelings in regard to——bitting hard-mouthed horses. It seemed an unlikely topic for Arabella to make much of, and yet she allowed him to run on, listening with a smile of pleased attention; for though his talk was solely equestrian, yet it served as well as any other subject to melt away the icy barrier behind which Harry had hitherto entrenched himself, and thus effectually defended himself against all attempts at a renewal of the former intimacy which appeared to have existed between them. Having explained completely to his own satisfaction the advantage which in the instance under consideration would be gained by driving “brown muzzle” up at the “cheek,” and the white-nosed horse in the “lower-bar,” together with copious notes, descriptive and explanatory, and voluminous annotations and reflections on this momentous question, Harry metaphorically resumed his seat amid continued cheering, and Arabella Crofton rose in reply. Of course she started on horses, to which she soon attached carriages, by means of which she in an incredibly short time contrived to ride back to Italy, and finding Harry stood it better than she expected, she continued in a voice indicative of deep but repressed feeling—

“Ah! that was a strange, strange summer we passed there! And yet, now I can calmly look back upon it, there were many happy hours, bright, sunny little bits, to set against the deep shadows of such a life as mine, times when I enjoyed the privilege of your friendship, before”—and here her voice faltered—“before I forfeited that and everything, even my self-respect, by my own mad folly!”

She paused in emotion, and her companion replied in a kind, frank manner,—

“Why distress yourself by reviving a disagreeable reminiscence?” (as he used the word a slight shudder seemed to convulse her, and a look of pain, but not the pain of contrition, flitted across her handsome features)—“an affair which I have, as I promised you, practically forgotten, which I should never again have entered upon with you, and in regard to which my lips are sealed to every other living creature.”

“You are kind and generous-hearted, as you ever were,” was the rejoinder, “but I cannot forget so readily”—here she paused, sighed deeply, then continued—“I am so glad to have had this—this conversation with you; your manner has been so cold and stern, I was afraid you had repented of your promise that if we ever met again it should be as friends.”

“Well, you see,” returned Harry, in an embarrassed tone, “you see circumstances have changed with me since the time to which you refer; and I thought—in fact, you yourself said in that note it would be better—I assure you I meant nothing unkind, why should I? as long as you——” and here, having been on the point of “putting his foot in it,” as he mentally paraphrased his colloquial Étourderie, Harry paused in confusion, actually blushing in his generous fear of wounding his companion’s feelings. Having relieved his embarrassment by giving that unfortunate scapegoat, the white-nosed horse, one more for himself, he resumed—“And now let me ask you whether you approve of the wife I have chosen?”

Harry made this inquiry, not because he felt particularly anxious to learn Arabella’s opinion of Alice, but because he wanted to say something, and this was the first idea which occurred to him, thus the moment he had spoken he wished the speech unsaid. Miss Crofton hesitated for a moment ere she replied, in a slightly constrained tone of voice—

“Your choice does your taste credit; for, in her style, Mrs. Coverdale is singularly pretty, and I can imagine her very attractive—when she pleases.”

“You speak as if she had not pleased, in your case,” rejoined Harry, smiling at the unmistakable emphasis with which the concluding words had been spoken. Miss Crofton smiled also; then with a melancholy expression she replied—

“In my anomalous position in life, I am too well accustomed to slights to feel a moment’s annoyance at such trifles.”

“But it annoys me though,” returned Coverdale, firing up with the indignation all generous natures feel at the idea of indignity being offered to any one in a dependent situation. “I am surprised at such want of right feeling, or even common courtesy, in Alice! She cannot be aware of the impression her manner has made on you. I shall speak to her about it.”

“Do not think of such a thing!” exclaimed Arabella, hastily; “it was folly in me to mention it:”—she fixed her eyes on his face, and reading there that his resolution was unchanged, she laid her hand gently on his arm, and continued. “Listen, and I will tell you the whole truth: womanly instinct, I suppose, made your wife dislike me from the first moment she was introduced to me. I have tried in vain to conquer her dislike, and we now, by a sort of tacit consent, avoid each other; were you to interfere in my behalf, it would be of no avail; on the contrary, it would increase the evil, and, pardon my saying, might lead to a disagreement between you; for, I may be mistaken, but I have fancied Mrs. Coverdale appears a little impatient of control sometimes—I hope I am mistaken.”

She waited for a reply; but Harry, not being able to deny the charge, and not choosing to assent to it, remained silent, and she, rightly interpreting his reserve, continued:—

“In that case, I implore you, do not dream of advocating my cause. Were I to be the occasion of any difference between you, it would render me most unhappy.”

After a moment’s silence, she added—

“I was so much interested when I heard you were going to be married, and hoped, nay prayed, that you might be as happy as I would—would always have you. I am grieved to think that Mrs. Coverdale should not fully appreciate the prize she has drawn in that most uncertain of all lotteries, marriage; but I feel sure she will learn to understand you better, and all will come right: you are evidently much attached to her, and that being the case, she must love you.” Then in a lower tone she added—“You are not one likely to love in vain.”

What reply, if any, Harry would have made to this speech, will never be known, as at that minute they entered the line of carriages setting down at the gate of the Chiswick Gardens, and Coverdale had enough to occupy him in preventing his excitable horses from committing a breach of the peace. Whether or no the phaeton groom was an observant man we cannot say, but if he felt the degree of amiable interest usually displayed by domestic servants in the affairs of their superiors, he must have been struck when mentally contrasting Mr. Coverdale’s manner of handing Miss Crofton into and out of that open carriage by an immense accession of cordiality, for which he was probably more puzzled to account than we trust the reader finds himself.