On perceiving her husband, Alice started, and, between surprise and anger, her cheeks assumed a hue more resembling that violent and unsentimental flower the peony, than the blush-rose, to the use of which our minor poets are so strongly addicted. This blush which, with all his trust in and affection for his wife, Harry could scarcely fail to misinterpret, did not tend to impart any great degree of cordiality to his manner, as he thus accosted her:—

“I scarcely expected to find you still here, so late as it is; but I only reached Park Lane within the last half-hour. There had been an accident on the line, and our train was delayed between two and three hours. You look flushed and tired. You’ve been tempting her to dance too much, I’m afraid, Courtland. I saw the carriage waiting as I came in. I should think you must have had enough of this nonsense, Alice! What say you to coming away? I’ve lots of news to tell you from home.”

“I’m afraid your budget must wait a little longer. I’m engaged to Lord Alfred for the next dance, and intend to fulfil my engagement; so you had better submit to your fate quietly, and provide yourself with a partner,” was Alice’s cool reply.

“Courtland will excuse you, I am sure,” urged Harry; “come away, if for no better reason than that I wish it.”

“An all-sufficient one in your autocratic eyes, I dare say,” was the flippant rejoinder; “but the barrel-organs remind us too constantly that ‘Britons never shall be slaves,’ for me to think of sacrificing my freedom to all your imperious fancies. Come, my lord, they are going to wind up with Sir Roger de Coverley; let us take our places.” So saying, Alice accepted the proffered arm of her cavalier servente, and walked off with him, leaving her husband to struggle against his rising anger (which in her then frame of mind she saw and disregarded) as best he might. A severe struggle it was, and one in which nothing but his deep love for her, and fear of compromising her by word or deed, could have rendered him successful. By a powerful exercise of self-control, he contrived to avoid any outward manifestation of his feelings; and after watching Alice and her partner for some minutes, with flashing eyes and an aching heart, as they hurried through the boisterous evolutions of that romping dance, he wandered listlessly through the rooms, now partially deserted, seeking some spot where he might be alone with his troubled thoughts, and avoid the necessity of replying to the commonplaces of society, to which, at that moment, he felt himself completely unfitted. Having passed through the music-room, he found himself in an elegantly-furnished boudoir, which at first sight he believed to be untenanted, and, flinging himself into an easy-chair, leaned his head on his hands, and gave way to painful reflections. After remaining in this attitude for several minutes, a sound resembling a sigh caught his ear, and, hastily looking up, he perceived Arabella Crofton.

“Were you here when I entered?” he inquired.

“Yes; I was standing in the recess of the window, and the curtain concealed me. I should have spoken to you, but as I perceived you were preoccupied, I was afraid to disturb you, and did not intend to move until you had left the boudoir, but your ears are so quick that you detected me. I wish,” she continued, in a timid, faltering voice, “your brow did not wear so deep a shade, or that I were in any degree able to remove it.” As she spoke; she drew nearer to him, and leaned her arm on the back of the chair on which he was sitting.

Kindness and affection are never so much prized as when we have suffered injustice at the hands of one we love. Words cannot console at such a moment: but sympathy—the conviction that another heart feels for and with us, is able in some degree to do so. Whatever faults Arabella Crofton might possess,—and that they were neither few nor light no one was better aware than Harry Coverdale,—the truth and strength of her regard for him he did not doubt. Deeply, fondly, earnestly as he loved his wife, he must have been more than mortal had he not perforce contrasted the levity (to use the mildest term) and unkindness of her on whom he thus lavished his whole treasure of affection, with the ready sympathy, the watchful tenderness of one who, if she had been all evil, nay, if she had not possessed in some degree unusual generosity of character, might have hated him with a strength proportioned to the regard she now appeared to feel towards him. Men are constitutionally denied the relief which the gentler sex derive from tears; but if, when a woman would weep, a man of deep, strong feeling can be sufficiently softened to give vent to his sorrow in words, the effect is somewhat analogous. Harry’s heart was full to overflowing, and Arabella’s well-timed sympathy caused the torrent of his grief to burst forth.

“Why does she try me thus!” he said; “it is, it must be, mere want of thought; she is wilful, I see it, as clearly as I see and know that it was my culpable neglect which first made her so; but this is a hard punishment for even so gross a fault! If she knew how her cold looks and hard words pain me—how it grieves, destroys me to be forced to deny her anything—to feel it my duty, as I perceive it to be now, to oppose her slightest wish! And then to see her doing things which may give those who do not know her truth and purity as I do, occasion to slander her—Arabella, it maddens me!” he pressed his hand to his forehead to still its throbbing; but when his companion appeared about to attempt to console him, he resumed, abruptly—“Don’t speak; you cannot defend her—her conduct admits of no defence, and I will not hear her blamed! Neither can you advise me; as far as action goes, my course is clear—I shall take her out of town tomorrow; and as I cannot have it out with that scoundrel D’Almayne, or the weak, ungrateful boy he is ruining, without compromising her, I must postpone the day of reckoning with them—it will come sooner or later, that is all clear enough; but that is not the point”—here words failed him, and covering his eyes with his hand, he relapsed into his former gloomy silence.

Arabella Crofton was a woman of strong passions, and naturally of strong impulses also, but these she had learned in great measure to control; thus her manner was usually quiet and collected, and she both spoke and acted according to a rule laid down by herself for her own guidance, and tending towards some definite end. But when, as in the present instance, she was actuated by any overpowering feeling, she was for the moment completely carried away by it, and would act for good or evil, as the impulse which controlled her was a right or wrong one, even in direct opposition to her own plans and intentions. She disliked Alice most heartily, and she had many—we cannot say “good,” but sufficient—reasons for doing so; yet she sympathised so strongly with Harry’s grief at the idea that his wife was encouraging the attentions of Lord Alfred Courtland, that—believing, as she did honestly, Alice to be merely amusing herself, possibly for the sake of annoying her husband, but evidently not from any deep feeling for her admirer—she could not help trying to comfort him.

“Do not afflict yourself so deeply,” she said; “I cannot bear to see you suffer thus! Believe me, you think too seriously of this matter; Mrs. Coverdale is only amusing herself with this foolish, infatuated young man. I am as certain as if I were in her confidence that she does not really care for him; the very openness with which she accepts his attentions proves that it is so; as soon as she has left the gaieties and frivolities of town, she will forget his very existence.”

“She may forget him,” was the bitter reply; “but will she ever forget the cause which has driven her to encourage him—which has forced her to seek amusement in all these heartless gaieties and follies? will she ever forget the time when, pursuing my own selfish pleasures, I left her, day after day, alone—she who had always been accustomed to live in a cheerful family, will she ever forget my neglect, and restore to me that love without which life has no longer a charm for me—that love which I once possessed, and which, God help me! I fear I have alienated for ever!”

“Yes, she will,” was the eager reply; “if she ever loved you, she loves you still; real, true love never dies: it would be better for some of us if time could efface feeling!”

The evident emotion with which she uttered these last words touched Harry’s kind heart, and, regarding her with a look of pitying interest, he rejoined—

“Poor Arabella! you too have had much sorrow to contend with; and no one can lament more deeply than I do the share I have had in increasing it. Mine is a strange fate!—love that I cannot return is lavished and wasted on me, and the only affection I pine for, I have alienated by my own rash and inconsiderate conduct!”

She stood by him as he spoke, in the excitement of his feelings he had taken her hand and clasped it in his own. At this moment two figures, which had been pausing at the door of the boudoir, passed hastily on—by the rustling of the dress, one of them was evidently a woman.

“But now hear me once more,” he continued, raising himself, and regarding her kindly but steadily; “I am sorry, very sorry, to find that you have not yet overcome—however, we will not allude to that—if at any time you want a friend’s advice or assistance, apply to me: my purse, I need scarcely say, is always at your command; in fact, as I am well-off, and you unfortunately are not, I think it is an over-refined though generous scruple, which prevents you from allowing me to assist you as I might and wish to do. Why do not you remember and strive to follow my advice? You are still in a dependent situation quite unworthy of you; while you have talents and powers which, if you would employ them in some straightforward, honest avocation—instead of forming plans and seeking objects of, to say the least, questionable advisability—would secure you a respectable and comfortable position. Think of all this, dear Arabella, and then apply to me, as to an old friend, to advance you funds to carry out my ideas in any way which seems to you most advisable.”

For a moment she remained silent; then bending over him, so that her ringlets mingled with his dark curling hair, she murmured—

“You are good, and kind, and generous, as you ever were; and—yes, I will strive to make myself worthy of your friendship; if I fail, you know my impulsive, passionate nature, and you will pardon, not condemn me; for my greatest sorrow, you now know how to pity me! You say you intend to leave London to-morrow, and I think it will be wise in you to do so—perhaps we may never meet again, and so, my dear, dear friend, farewell!”

He had retained her hand, and she returned his cordial, warm pressure; then, by a sudden impulse, she stooped, pressed her pale lips upon his high, smooth brow, and—was gone.

Harry followed her with his glance as she left the room.

“Poor thing!” he murmured, “she has many high qualities; and such a life as she leads must be a complete purgatory to her proud, impetuous disposition; I hope she will fall into good hands, and—and keep out of my way. Alice evidently dislikes and suspects her, and nothing I can say is likely to lessen the feeling. Now for taking my poor, dear, naughty, foolish, little wife home, and lecturing her. She seemed angry with me; because I did not arrive in time to accompany her to the ball, I suppose—as if I could prevent railway-trains from breaking down!—ah, it’s wretched, miserable work all of it!”

Having arrived at this cheerful conclusion, Harry rose and proceeded in search of his wife.

In the meantime, the country-dance being ended, Lord Alfred had offered his arm to his partner, and proposed a stroll through the rooms—a proposition to which Alice, who, in her present state of feeling, was anxious to do anything rather than hasten the inevitable tÊte-À-tÊte with her husband, consented. As they passed a group who were gathered round a clever copy from one of the great works of some old master, D’Almayne approached Lord Alfred, and, making some light remark to screen his real object, found an opportunity to whisper to his pupil—

“Take her to the door of the boudoir, and detain her there to look at the pictures in the anteroom for a minute; there is a tableau vivant inside the apartment which will interest her deeply!” Partially guessing his meaning, Lord Alfred executed the task with so much tact and skill, that all this by-play was completely unnoticed by Alice, and when they reached the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, she stopped to examine a picture, in perfect unconsciousness of any plot or contrivance; as she did so, the following sentence, spoken in tones of deep emotion, fell upon her ear:—

“Love that I cannot return is lavished and wasted on me, and the only affection I pine for, I have alienated by my own rash and inconsiderate conduct!”

The sound of the voice was all that Alice required to enable her to decide that the speaker was her husband: and a hurried glance proved to her that his speech had been addressed to Arabella Crofton, her rival, as she had long suspected her to be—a fact in regard to which she now received the assurance of her own senses.

Harry’s speech could bear but one interpretation: the “love wasted on him which he could never return,” was her own—his wife’s! the “affection he pined for, and had alienated by his rash and inconsiderate conduct,” was that of Arabella Crofton, the “rash conduct” he was so bitterly repenting—his marriage. Yes, she saw it all, and felt that for her there was no longer such a thing as happiness in this life. Now that she knew, that she had heard from his own lips, that he no longer loved her,—nay, that he had transferred his affection to another,—she felt how all important, how essential it had been to her—existence without Harry’s love to brighten it, would be like the universe without sunlight—cold, dark, desolate.

Poor little Alice! she had acted very wrongly; she had been self-willed, petulant, unjust, and disobedient to her husband; but if suffering could atone for sin, the bitterness of that moment might have expiated graver offences than those of which she had been guilty. Her first idea was to get away from the spot: lost as he was to her, Harry should never say she was a spy upon his actions. She turned to communicate her wish to her companion, and saw his eyes fixed on her face with a peculiar intelligence which she had never observed before, and in an instant the thought flashed across her that she had been brought there by design; and, without allowing time for reflection as to the advisability of making such an accusation, she exclaimed—

“You knew they were there, and brought me on purpose to see them, and so to destroy the happiness of my future life! what have I ever done to you to deserve this at your hands!”

Utterly taken aback by this direct and unexpected attack, Lord Alfred coloured up, stammered something unintelligible, and at last attempted to screen himself behind the equivocation that he did not know Mr. Coverdale was in the boudoir.

“If you did not know it, you suspected it,” was the reply; “your features are more honest than your words, my lord, and betray you.”

Greatly confounded at this most unexpected result of his scheme, Lord Alfred vowed, and protested, and attempted to clear and defend himself, but in vain. The shock Alice had received had couched her mental vision, and, turning a deaf ear to his excuses, she sternly desired him to take her back to Mrs. Crane immediately; and then preserved an offended silence, so that his lordship was glad to take her at her word, and lead her back to the drawing-room, in which the Crane party had ensconced themselves.

“Kate, let us get home—I am wearied to death; somebody said the carriage was waiting.”

The words were commonplace enough, but something in the tone in which they were uttered caused Mrs. Crane to regard her cousin attentively, and her quick eye soon discerned that there was something amiss. “Alice, is anything wrong, dear? you are not ill?”

“Yes! no! my head aches—only let us get away!” was the reply.

“But some one told me that Mr. Coverdale had arrived; where is he?—you will wait for him?” returned Kate, alarmed and surprised at Alice’s unwonted agitation.

“He will come when he likes; he—has found some friends of his, I believe,” murmured Alice. “Only let us get away!” she added, in so imploring a tone that Kate, convinced some contre-temps had occurred, dispatched Mr. Crane in search of Miss Crofton, and, taking leave of Lady Tattersall Trottemout (who thinking they had resolved to spend the night there, naturally deplored their “running away so early”), repaired to the cloakroom. Here the others, including Harry Coverdale, joined them, and in another quarter of an hour they were safely housed in Park Lane.

Thus ended Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s soirÉe dansante; but its consequences continued to influence the lives of those whoso fortunes we are tracing, for many a long year.

Nothing passed between Coverdale and Alice in reference to the scenes we have just described until the next morning, when, before they went down to breakfast, Harry observed abruptly, “Alice, it is my particular wish that you should go down to the Park to-day: can you be ready to start by the four o’clock train?”

“Yes,” was the unexpectedly acquiescent reply; then, after a moment’s pause, “What reason am I to give Kate for leaving her so suddenly?”

Astonished at such a ready consent where he had expected strong opposition, if not an actual refusal to comply with his desire, Harry looked steadfastly at his wife, but her face was turned away, so that he could not read its expression. “My true reason I will explain to you at some time when we can talk the matter over coolly and quietly,” was the reply; “the reason I wish you to give your cousin—which is a good, true, and sufficient reason in itself, although not the only one by which I am actuated—is, that your sister Emily has received an invitation to stay with a friend of hers, which Mrs. Hazlehurst is anxious she should accept, thinking she requires change; but Emily very properly refused to leave her mother. I dined there the day before yesterday, and hearing of the dilemma, proposed that you should take Emily’s place for a fortnight or three weeks—I was not wrong in making such an offer, was I?”

“No; I shall be very glad to see and be of use to dear mamma,” was the reply.

“I should have told you all this last night,” continued Coverdale, “but for reasons I will not enter upon at present.”

He waited for some comment on his speech, but he waited in vain; Alice continued to add the finishing touches to her toilet, until, being completely equipped, she quietly observed, “It is time to go down, I think; the breakfast bell will ring directly;” and, suiting the action to the word, she departed, leaving her husband to follow when he pleased. Kate was surprised to hear of their sudden determination to leave town, and sorry to part with them; but their reason for so doing was such a plausible one, that she could urge nothing against it. She saw that there was something more—that neither Harry nor his wife were at their ease; but Alice kept her own counsel so closely that all Kate’s endeavours to win her confidence were futile, and she was obliged to content herself by supposing that it was a mere matrimonial breeze which would blow over, as such affairs usually do, without any very serious consequences resulting from it.

Coverdale Park was reached without adventure, and appeared as cool, and calm, and happy as the country usually does to the eyes of fashion-wearied Londoners; and Harry, unaffectedly delighted to escape from the uncongenial atmosphere of a crowded city to his home,—which he loved with his whole heart,—forgot, in the pleasure he experienced, the amount of Alice’s misdemeanours, and was only anxious to be reconciled with her, and to assure her of his perfect and entire forgiveness. But since the previous evening a change—for which he could not account, and which began to render him very uneasy—had come over Alice, she was no longer irritable and petulant at one moment, yet amused and light-hearted at the next, but a settled gloom hung o’er her brow, which indicated sorrow rather than anger; and although she had never allowed him to surprise her in tears, her eyes bore unmistakeable traces of weeping. Their tÊte-À-tÊte dinner passed off heavily enough: as they sat moodily over their dessert, Harry observed, “The evening is most lovely—come out and take a stroll.” He spoke kindly, almost tenderly, and as Alice looked up to reply to him, her eyes filled with tears; hastily checking them before they could be observed, she agreed. Her husband carefully placed a shawl over her shoulders, brought from the hall her garden bonnet, and, drawing her arm within his own, they walked on for some distance in silence. At length Harry observed, “Alice, dear, you seem downcast and unhappy—why is this? surely you cannot regret that hot, miserable, artificial London? you must be glad to get back to our own dear, quiet home again?”

“I do not in the least regret London,” was the reply; “on the contrary, I am glad to be once more in the country again.”

“Then why this gloomy manner?” urged Coverdale; “I may have been a little annoyed with you at times lately, but I am quite prepared to believe it was mere thoughtlessness on your part; in fact, I never considered it anything else. I feel sure when you come to reflect seriously on the matter, you will yourself see that your conduct was a little injudicious; and, in that case, believe me the affair is from this moment forgotten and forgiven.” Harry paused for a reply, but for several moments none was forthcoming; at last, his patience being exhausted, he inquired in a tone of surprise, “Alice, did you hear what I was saying?”

“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Alice, starting, “I was not attending properly at that moment; you were blaming me for something, were you not? I am very sorry—what was it?”

As she spoke, Harry glanced towards her to discover whether she had been really too much pre-engrossed to attend to him, or whether she merely affected to have been so for the amiable purpose of provoking him; deciding in favour of the first hypothesis, he resumed: “I was saying, my dear Alice, that although your flirtation with that foolish boy, Alfred Courtland, had caused me some uneasiness—because people dared to remark on it, unluckily not in a way that I could take up—yet that I was convinced it was merely thoughtlessness on your part, and was anxious to forgive and forget it.”

If he had expressly tried to rouse Alice from the state of gloomy depression into which she had fallen, Harry could not have devised means more effectual than the speech he had just addressed to her. With flashing eyes she heard him to the end, then inquired: “And pray who has dared—(you may well use the word!)—who has dared to accuse me of flirting? But I need not ask,” she continued, bitterly; “no one but Miss Crofton would have ventured to asperse your wife’s character before you—from no one else would you have listened to such a falsehood—no one else could have induced you to believe it!”

Astonished, and, if the truth must be told, somewhat confounded at having the tables thus turned upon him, Harry exclaimed, “Alice, what do you mean? what are you talking about? have you taken leave of your senses all of a sudden?”

“If I had I should scarcely be surprised,” was the rejoinder; “but I know only too well what I am saying, and the cause I have to say and believe it; however, I do not want to reproach you, that would do no good; but—but—knowing what I know—” an hysterical sob choked her voice—“it is too hard that you should accuse me of flirting”—and here, utterly overcome by her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of weeping. Wholly confounded at this unexpected result of his very mild remonstrance, which had been intended more as a judicious way of forgiving Alice’s misdemeanours than as a reprimand, Harry led her to a seat, and then used his best endeavours to console and bring her to reason; but in vain, nor was it until she was fain to stop through sheer physical exhaustion that her tears ceased; by which time, what between bodily fatigue (she had not been in bed until between three and four on the previous night, or rather morning, could not sleep then, and had accomplished a railroad journey since) and mental agitation, she was so completely worn out that even Harry, who was not usually too clear-sighted on such points, perceived this was not a fitting opportunity to continue the discussion.