The hysterical affection of the praiseworthy antipolygamist having taken place late in the evening, may be said to have broken up the party. Mrs. General Gudgeon, who, when the catastrophe occurred, was more or less asleep over the same book of prints to which she had devoted herself on her first arrival, originated, as she witnessed the confusion, a faint idea—(all this lady’s ideas, and they were not many, were of a dim and hazy character, so that a good impression of her thoughts—if we may be allowed the term—was a rarity hardly to be met with)—that her better half was in some way connected with the matter; and knowing that dining out usually “produced an effect upon him” (as she delicately and indefinitely phrased it), she forthwith instituted an inquiry after her carriage, and that “vehicle for the transmission of heavy bodies” being reported in readiness, she issued marching orders, and as soon as the honourable and gallant officer could be got upon his legs, took him in tow, and in his company departed.
The Dackerels hastened to follow this example, the maternal Dackerel having come in for her share of the General’s “good things,” and appearing much inclined to “trump” Miss MacSalvo’s hysterics with a fainting fit; J. D. D., with a face even longer than usual, supported her retiring footsteps. He had been warming his chilly spirit in the sunshine of the widow’s smiles, till, in the possibility of some day calling that delicate creature his own, the outline of a new and fascinating destiny had been traced upon the foolscap paper of his imagination; but the doom was still upon him, and in the calls of filial piety he recognised a fresh postponement even of this last forlorn hope. Frere had shaken hands with Rose, apologised for not being able to lunch with them the next day—a thing which nobody had asked him to do—and, having set the butler and both the tall footmen to look for his cotton umbrella, and put on consecutively two wrong greatcoats, was about to walk home, when Mr. James Rasper interfered; he would drive his friend home—anywhere—everywhere—so that he would but accompany him. He wanted to show him his cab; he wished to learn his opinion of his horse—in short, he would not be denied; and Frere, beginning to think his friendship a worse alternative than his animosity, was forced to consent, which he did thus—
“Well, yes, if you like. I shall get home sooner, that’s one comfort; and I’ve got three hours’ work to do before I can go to bed. Is this your trap? The brute won’t kick, will he? Ugh! what an awkward thing to get into. I believe I’ve broken my shin. Go ahead! Mind you steer clear of the lamp-posts. I can’t think why people ride when they’ve got legs to walk with.”
Bracy waited patiently to hand Miss MacSalvo downstairs, which he did with much gravity and decorum, lamenting the disgraceful conduct of General Gudgeon, of whom he remarked, with a portentous shake of the head, that “he greatly feared he was not a man of a sober or edifying frame of mind,” which observation was certainly true as far as the sobriety was concerned.
Whether Jemima of the sour countenance had, in arranging Frere’s bed, imparted somewhat of the angularity of her own nature to the feathers, or whether the events of the evening had excited that part of his system in regard to the existence whereof he indulged in a very bigotry of scepticism, namely, his nerves, certain it is that when (having read Hindostanee till daylight peeped in upon his studies) he went to bed he did not follow his usual system of dropping asleep almost as soon as he had laid his head upon his pillow; neither could he apply his ordinary remedy for insomnolency, for when he tried to concentrate his attention on some difficult sentence in his Hindostanee, or to solve mentally an abstruse mathematical problem, a figure in white muslin obscured the Asiatic characters or entangled itself inextricably with rectangular triangles, so that the wished-for Q. E. D. could never be arrived at. Frere had never thought Rose Arundel pretty till that night—one reason for which might have been that he had never thought about her appearance at all; but now, all of a sudden, the recollection of her animated face as, carried away by the impulse of the moment, she had begun to tell him how she admired his noble conduct, occurred to him, and all its good points flashed upon him and haunted and oppressed him. The smooth, broad forehead—he had observed that before, and decided it to be a good forehead in a practical point of view—i.e.> a capacious knowledge-box; but now he felt that it was something more, and the mysterious attribute of beauty forced itself upon his notice and flung its charm around him. Then her eyes—those deep, earnest, truthful eyes—seemed yet to gaze at him, with a bright expression of interest sparkling through their softness. He could not, try as he pleased, banish the recollection of those eyes; as he lay and thought they came across him, and bewitched him like a spell. And her mouth—what a world of eloquence was there even in its silence; there might be traced the same firmness and resolution which marked the haughty curl of Lewis’s short upper lip; but the pride and sternness were wanting, and in their place a chastened, pensive expression seemed to afford a guarantee that the strength of character thus indicated could alone be aroused in a good cause; but the true expression of that mouth was to be discovered only when a smile, suggestive of every softer, brighter trait of woman’s nature, revealed the little pearl-like teeth. All this seemed to have come upon Frere like a sudden inspiration; he could not banish it from his recollection, and the more he reflected upon it, the less he understood it. And so he tossed and tumbled about, restless alike in mind and body, till at last, just as the clock struck six, he fell into a doze. But sleep afforded him no refuge from his tormentress. Rose, changed and yet the same, haunted his dreams; but a halo appeared to surround her—she had acquired a character of sanctity in his eyes. Never again could he inadvertently address her as “sir,” and he would as soon have thought of connecting the idea of a “good fellow” with one of Raphael’s Madonnas as with Rose Arundel. At half-past seven Jemima—a very chronometer for punctuality—knocked at his door, and receiving no answer, sans cérémonie walked in, to see what might be the matter; and finding her master rather snoring than otherwise, invaded his slumbers by exclaiming in a shrill voice—
“It ain’t of much use me getting out of my blessed bed with the rhumatiz in the small o’ my back to bring your hot-water by halfpast seven, if you lay there snoring like a hog, Master Richard, and won’t answer a body when they call you;” to which appeal she received the somewhat inconsequent reply—
“Well, suppose I wouldn’t let him shoot me, there’s nothing very fine in that, Rose.”
“Listen to him,” exclaimed Jemima, aghast; “lor’ a mussy! I hope he ain’t a wandering, or took to the drink. Master Richard, will ye please to wake and talk like a Christian, and not go frightening a body out of their wits,” she continued in a tone of voice as of an agitated sea-mew.
“Eh, what? oh, is that you, Jemima? I was so sound asleep; go away and I’ll get up directly,” muttered Frere, becoming conscious of those usual colloquial antipodes, “his room and his company.” But Jemima had been flurried and rendered anxious on his account, first by his silence, next by his incoherent address, and now finding her alarm had been without foundation, her better feelings turned sour, and having her master at an advantage, seeing that he could not rise till she should please to convey herself away, she gave vent to her acidulated sentiments in the following harangue—
“Yes, it’s all very well to say ‘go away,’ as if you was speaking to a dog, after frightening people out of their wits by talking gibberish about shooting and fine roses; but I see how it is, you’re a taking to evil courses, a staying out here till one o’clock in the morning, for I heard ye a comin’ in, lying awake with the rhumatiz in the small o’ my back, drinking and smoking cigars, which spiles the teeth and hundermines the hintellects, and accounts for being non compo Mondays the next morning; but I’ve lived with you and yours thirty year and odd, and I ain’t a-going to see you rack-and-ruining of your constitution without a-speaking up to tell you of it, for all your looking black at the woman that nursed you when yer was an hinocent babby, all onconscious of sich goings on.”
“My good woman, don’t talk such rubbish, but go away and let me get my things on,” returned Frere in a species of apologetic growl.
“Rubbish indeed!” continued Jemima in a violent falsetto, her temper being thoroughly aroused by the contemptuous epithet applied to her unappreciated homily; “that’s all the thanks one gets for one’s good advice, is it? but I don’t care. I’ve lived with you, man and boy, nigh half my life, which, like the grass of the field, is three score years and ten come Michaelmas twelvemonth, and I’m not a-going to see you take to evil courses without lifting up my voice as a deacon set on a hill to warn you against ’em, which is what your blessed mother would have done only too gladly if she wasn’t an angel in the family vault, where we must all go when our time comes; smoking filthy cigars and stopping out till one o’clock in the morning, indeed!” and muttering these words over and over to herself, as a sort of refrain, Jemima hobbled out of the room with more stoutness and alacrity than could have been expected from her antiquated appearance. Relieved from the incubus of her presence, Frere rose and proceeded to dress himself; but the nightmare that had oppressed him, whether sleeping or waking, haunted him still.
In vain he tried to shave himself; the vision in white muslin came between his face and the looking-glass and occasioned him to cut his chin. At his frugal breakfast it was with him again, and strange to say, took away his appetite; it went out with him to his scientific institution, and weakened his perceptions, and absorbed his attention, and dulled his memory, till even the most positive resolved nebulæ swam in a mist before him, and the mountains of the moon, which had lately developed a new crater, might have been the bona fide productions of that planet instead of merely her African godchildren, for aught that he could have stated to the contrary. He got through his morning’s work somehow, and then the vision prompted him to call at Lady Lombard’s, and gave him no peace till he started for the goodly mansion of that hospitable widow, which he did in such an unusually agitated frame of mind, that for the first time in the memory of man he forgot his cotton umbrella; he hurried wildly through the streets, overthrowing little children and reversing apple-women, not to mention an insane attempt to constitute himself a member of the “happy family,” by dashing violently against the wires of their cage, which contains all kinds of strange animals except a Richard Frere, or a Podiccps Cornutus, till at last he reached the locality in which Lady Lombard’s house was situated.
And here a new and unaccountable crotchet took possession of his brain. Frere, who since he could run alone and express his sentiments intelligibly in his native tongue had never known what bashfulness meant, was seized with a sudden attack of that uncomfortable sensation, the extinguisher of so many would-be shining lights of humanity, who but for that “flooring” quality would have published such books and made such speeches that the hair of society at large, upraised with wonder and admiration, must have stood on end through all time, “like quills upon the fretful porcupine.” So violent was this attack of shyness that, after having hurried from his office as though life and death hung upon his speed, he could not make up his mind whether to pay the projected visit or not, and actually strolled up and down, passing and repassing the door some half-dozen times before he ventured to knock at it; nay, to such an extent had this mysterious “timor panico” seized upon him, that when the plush-clad “man mountain” appeared in answer to his summons he merely left his card, and inquiring meekly how the ladies were, posted off at, if anything, a more rapid pace than that at which he had walked on his way thither.
Then ere he had proceeded the length of a street came the reaction, under the influence of which he not unjustly stigmatised himself as an egregious fool, and but for very shame would fain have retraced his steps. He could not, however, make up any credible excuse for facing the noble footman a second time, so as the next best thing to seeing Rose, he found his way to Park Crescent and called upon Lewis, to whom he related how he felt so restless and fidgety that he was persuaded he must be about to develop a feverish cold, or some analogous abomination. Having engaged Lewis to accompany him on the following evening to a lecture at the Palaeontological on “The Relations of the Earlier Zoophytes,” whoever they might be, he was about to depart, when, as he reached the hall, a carriage, with a splendid pair of greys, dashed up to the door, and a pretty little brunette with sparkling black eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a bonnet the colour of raspberry ice, descended, and passing Frere with a glance half saucy, half contemptuous, ran upstairs as if she were an habituée of the house. This was Emily, Countess Portici, Loid Bellefield’s younger sister, who, having at nineteen run away with an Italian nobleman, for love of his black eyes and ivory complexion, had ere she was five-and-twenty grown heartily sick of them and of Italy, and discovered some good reason to quit that land of uncomfortable splendour to enjoy the gaieties of a London spring, leaving her picturesque husband to console himself as best he might during her absence. She possessed very high spirits without any vast amount of judgment to counterbalance them, and her present frame of mind was that of a school-girl rejoicing in a holiday, into which she was determined to cram as much pleasure, fun, and frolic as an unlimited capacity for enjoyment would enable her to undergo. On the strength of her position as a married woman, she constituted herself Annie’s chaperon on all occasions when the vigilance of Minerva Livingstone could be eluded; and as that Gorgon of the nineteenth century was not so young as she had been, and found late hours tend to reduce her stamina and degrade the dignity of ill temper to the ignominious level of mere peevishness, she unwillingly allowed the Countess Portici to act as her substitute and escort Annie to such evening entertainments as from their nature threatened to invade the hours dedicated by Minerva to repose. There was much similarity of feature and of manner between the Countess and her brother Charles Leicester, only that Charley’s languid drawl was in Emily replaced by a sparkling vivacity, which, together with a certain selfish good-nature that led her to promote the enjoyment of others on every occasion in which it did not come in contact with her own, was sufficient to render her a general favourite. Annie was no exception to this rule; and always delighted to escape from the petrifying influence of Minerva, eagerly seconded all her lively cousin’s schemes for her amusement.
The object of the Countess’s visit on the present occasion was to secure Annie for the following evening, when they were to dine together, and were afterwards to be escorted to the Opera by Lord Bellefield, where they were to hear a new soprano with a voice three notes higher than that of anybody else, which notes might by a mild and easy figure of speech be not inaptly termed bank-notes, seeing that by their exercise the fair cantatrice had realised the satisfactory sum of thirty thousand pounds.
The Countess’s scheme happening to fit in very nicely with the views of the elders, as the General dined out, and Minerva was nursing a cold, which must have reduced the temperature of her blood to some frightful figure below zero, the project met with no more opposition than, from the constitution of Miss Livingstone’s mind, was inevitable. And thus it came about that on the following day Emily called for Annie, and the two girls (for the matron was a very girlish specimen of five-and-twenty) drove round the park together, and then retired to Emily’s boudoir and “talked confidence” till it was time to dress. Annie’s revelations did not go much more than skin-deep, and related chiefly to anxieties concerning papa and difficulties with Aunt Martha, who was “so tiresome about things, and never would let anybody love her,” and then branched off to a retrospective sketch of the preliminary difficulties which had obstructed Charley Leicester’s wedding, ending by a detailed account of the ceremony itself, and Annie’s hopes and fears as to the ultimate result of the bridegroom’s good resolutions.
Emily, on the contrary, plunged at once in médias res, and related how all last winter she had been rendered wretched by “Alessandro’s” attentions to the Marchese Giulia di B———ani (she revealed the blank in an agitated whisper), and what all her particular friends had said to her on the subject, and how she had jointly and severally replied to them that the dignity of her sex supported her; whence, warming with her subject, she went on to state how she in her turn had supported this dignity by repulsing the advances of Captain Augustus (familiarly and affectionately reduced, for colloquial purposes, into Gus) Travers, who, having been her first love, and retired vice Alessandro Conte de Portici promoted to the rank of husband, considered that it was again his innings, and had diligently sought to become platonically her third love and disputed the post of cavalier servente with all and sundry, in spite of which constancy and devotion she had persevered in her repulsiveness until, between her cruelty and a reckless indifference to malaria, poor Gus was attacked with a brain fever, and then of course when he grew a little better she could not continue unkind to him, for she might have had his life to answer for, and that was a serious consideration; and so by degrees he took to coming to the Palazzo Portici constantly and went about to places with her, and somehow she got accustomed to him, and Alessandro did not seem to mind, and poor Gus always behaved very well, and only asked to be allowed the privilege of her friendship, and everybody did the same sort of thing—“It’s their way over there, you know, Annie dear;” till at last Belle-field came, and he had never been able to endure Gus because he was so handsome, poor fellow, so Bellefield made a great fuss and said all sorts of shocking things, and set Alessandro at her; and worse than all, quarrelled with Gus and wanted to horsewhip him, and it almost came to a duel, only she wrote Gus a little note, imploring him not to fight, but to go away and forget her; and he had done the first directly, and she dared say he had done the second, for she’d never seen him since, which of course she was very glad of. And here she heaved a deep sigh and caressed a comic and unnatural transalpine poodle, which by reason of its flowing locks looked like an animated carriage mat, as though it had been a pet lamb, the sole prop of some heart-broken and dishevelled shepherdess, to which picture of pastoral pathos did Emily, Countess di Portici, then and there mentally assimilate herself.
And to all this history of loves, and hates, and platonic friendships, whatever they might be, simple innocent Annie listened with much interest and more perplexity. She had a vague notion that Emily had behaved foolishly, if not wrongly; but she was very fond of her cousin, who, from the difference in their respective ages, had acquired a degree of ascendency over her which their natural characters scarcely warranted. Then Annie’s deep ignorance of foreign manners and customs threw a mist of uncertainty around the whole affair, beneath the shadow of which she was able to put the most charitable construction on Emily’s conduct without “stultifying her moral sense” (to speak as a logician); still she felt called upon to give her cousin a little good advice in regard to striving entirely to forget, and scrupulously to avoid for the future, the too fascinating Gus, for which Emily kissed her and called her a dear, silly, little prude; then twining their arms round each other’s taper waists, the girls descended to the dining-room, united for the time being, literally and figuratively, by the closest bonds of amity and affection. Standing rather in awe of her brother, Emily conducted herself during the meal with so much gravity and decorum that she quite threw a shade over Annie’s usual lightheartedness, and by the time they reached their opera box a more sombre trio (not even excepting the soprano, the tenor, and the baritone, of whom the first two were prepared to be poisoned, and the third to stab himself on their marble tomb before the evening should be over) could not have been found beneath the roof of Her Majesty’s theatre.
Between the acts of the opera a divertissement was introduced, in which a danseuse, who had acquired an Italian reputation, but who was as yet unknown in England, was to make her first appearance. Emily was conversing volubly about her various merits, when a fashionably-dressed young man with delicate features, a profusion of dark waving curls, and a pair of the most interesting little black moustachios imaginable, lounged into one of the stalls and began lazily to scrutinise the company through a richly-mounted opera-glass. He was undeniably handsome, but the expression of his face was disagreeable, and his whole demeanour blasé and puppyish in the extreme. As he entered, Annie perceived her cousin to give a violent start, and, as she met her glance, to colour slightly; then, evidently unwilling to attract her brother’s notice, she made a successful effort to recover herself, and appeared completely absorbed in the terpsi-chorean prodigies of the new opera-dancer. Just at the conclusion of the divertissement some one knocked at the door of the box, and on Lord Bellefield’s opening it, Annie heard a man’s voice say, in a hurried manner, “Can your Lordship allow me two minutes’ conversation? My business is of the utmost importance.” Lord Bellefield replied in the affirmative and quitted the box, closing the door behind him. As he did so, Emily, laying her finger on her cousin’s arm, said in a hurried whisper: “Annie, do you see that gentleman in the fourth row of stalls, the sixth from this end? That’s Gus; isn’t he handsome, poor fellow? Ah!” she continued, as the object of her scrutiny suddenly brought his opera-glass to bear upon their box, “he has made me out, and he does not know that Bellefield is here. Oh! I hope he won’t think of coming up!”
As she spoke, Gus, having become aware of her presence, made an almost imperceptible sign of recognition, and in the same quiet manner telegraphed an entreaty to be allowed to join her; upon which Emily frowned and shook her head by way of prohibition, favouring Gus afterwards with a pensive smile, to show that her refusal proceeded less from choice than from necessity. Almost as she did so Lord Bellefield returned, looking annoyed and anxious. “I am obliged to leave you for half-an-hour,” he said, “but you will be perfectly safe here, and I shall return in plenty of time to escort you home. You may depend upon my coming to fetch you.” And almost before he finished speaking he had quitted the box and was gone.
Confused and half-frightened at his sudden departure, Annie remained for a minute or two with her eyes fixed on the door through which he had as it were vanished; when she again glanced towards the stage the stall lately occupied by Augustus Travers was vacant.
Lewis, according to agreement, accompanied Frere to the Palaeontological, and added to the circle of his acquaintance those mysterious beings, the “Relations of the Earlier Zoophytes.” When the lecture was over, Frere, who had an order to admit two into the House of Commons, took Lewis with him to hear the speaking. The debate proved interesting: the Premier addressed the House at length; a well-known satirist rose to reply to him, remarking on various points in the speech with much talent and more ill-nature, and the minister was again on his legs to answer his opponent, when Lewis, glancing at his watch, discovered to his annoyance that it was considerably past eleven; and aware that General Grant had a particular objection to his servants being kept up late, communicated this fact to his companion, and wished him goodnight.
“What! can’t you stay and hear —————‘s answer?” was the reply, “and then I’d come away, too.”
Lewis explained that the thing was impossible, and Frere continued—
“Well, what must be, must, I suppose; and as my hearing—————‘s reply is another inevitable necessity, I must e’en say Good-night, so Schlaffen sie wohl.”
Lewis grasped his proffered hand, and leaving the gallery, started on his homeward route. As he approached Charing Cross his attention was attracted by the restlessness of a magnificent horse, which, in a well-appointed cab, was waiting at the door of one of the houses. As he slackened his pace for a moment to ascertain whether the efforts made by a diminutive cab-groom to restrain the plunging of the fiery animal would prove successful, the house door was flung open, and a gentleman, apparently in headlong haste, sprang down the steps so recklessly that he missed his footing, and would have fallen had not Lewis caught him by the arm in time to prevent it. As the person he had thus assisted turned to thank him, the reflection of the gaslight fell upon his face, and Lewis recognised Lord Bellefield, though his features were characterised by a strange expression which Lewis had never observed in them before. Drawing back, he bowed coldly, and was about to pass on when Lord Bellefield exclaimed—
“Stay one moment, Mr. Arundel. I have been forced to leave the Opera-house suddenly: the Countess Portici and Miss Grant are in Lord Ashford’s box, and I have promised to return to see them home, but am quite unable to do so. You would oblige—that is, I am sure General Grant would wish you——”
“Will your lordship favour me with the loan of your pass-ticket?” interrupted Lewis shortly.
As Lord Bellefield complied with this request, Lewis remarked that his hand trembled to such a degree that he could scarcely grasp the ivory ticket.
“You will tell the Countess that it was impossible for me to come to them,” continued the young nobleman hurriedly; then passing his hand across his eyes, as if he were half bewildered, he sprang into the cab, and seizing the reins, drove off at a furious pace in the direction of Westminster Abbey.
Lewis gazed after him for a moment in surprise, then turning on his heel, walked rapidly to the end of the Haymarket, hoping to reach the theatre before the opera should be concluded. In this expectation he was however disappointed, for when he gained the Opera Colonnade he perceived, from the crush of carriages and the bustle and confusion which was going on, that the opera was over. Hastily pushing through the crowd, he endeavoured to find the box Lord Bellefield had indicated, but to one as little acquainted as was Lewis with the intricacies of the Opera-house this was no such easy matter; first, he ran up considerably too high; in his eagerness to retrieve this error he descended as much too low; and even when he had attained the proper level he more than once took a wrong turning. At length he caught a box-keeper, who, on learning his difficulties, volunteered to conduct him to the box he was in search of. Lo, and behold, when they reached the spot the door stood open, and the box was tenantless!
In order to explain how this awkward and embarrassing result had been brought about, we must beseech the reader’s patience while we resume the broken thread of our narrative where we relinquished it at the end of the last chapter.
Scarcely had Lord Bellefield quitted the box five minutes when the attendant opened the door and Augustus Travers made his appearance. He was very humble and courteous, and all he said to Emily with his tongue might have been printed in the “Times” the next morning without affording matter for the most arrant gossip to prate about; but the language spoken by his eloquent blue eyes was of a very different character. He told her vocally that he had been travelling in the East since they had last parted; that he had been unwell, had felt restless and unsettled; that he had found it impossible to remain contentedly in any place, had become a citizen of the world, a wanderer over the face of the globe; that he had only returned to town during the last week, and had no notion she had left Italy—dear Italy!—and here his eyes said, “that country which your presence made a paradise to me,” just as plainly as if his tongue had spoken the words (in fact they said it more plainly, for his tongue appeared to consider it fashionable to speak English with a slight lisp, which occasionally rendered his meaning indistinct); “but when he saw her”—continued his tongue—“he could not resist coming up to her box to learn whether she had quite forgotten all her old friends;” and here his eyes resumed that his faith in her was so strong that nothing, neither absence nor aught else, could in the smallest degree shake it.
Then Emily replied that she was always delighted to see any old friend, but that she really was quite shocked to find him looking so ill; which observation she uttered with particular tenderness, because, not being aware that he had played French Hazard at a club in St. James’s Street till five o’clock on the previous morning, she accounted for his pale looks by the romantic hypothesis that he was dying for love of her. And so they continued to converse in an undertone, apparently much to their mutual satisfaction, while Annie, having bowed coldly when she was introduced to the fascinating Augustus, of whose presence there she greatly disapproved, pretended altogether to ignore him, and to turn her attention solely to the opera. And time ran on, till, just as the baritone singer was approaching, with suicidal intentions, the (imitation) marble tomb supposed to contain the corpses of his tenor and soprano victims, but which really was tenanted by a live carpenter, who, in a paper cap and flannel jacket, was waiting till the fall of the curtain should enable him to carry away the entire mausoleum, Annie, looking at her watch, perceived that it was past eleven, and glancing towards Emily, reminded her in dumb show that Lord Bellefield might be momentarily expected. This intelligence Emily, in a low tone, communicated to her friend, who smiled, to show his white teeth, and replied that “Bellefield and he had met at Baden, and had become wonderful friends again;” despite which assurance Emily still urged his departure, and he still lingered on, till the opera came to an end before Lord Bellefield made his appearance. Being Saturday night, there was no ballet, and the house began to empty rapidly.
“What can possibly have become of your brother, Emily?” exclaimed Annie, who, disliking the whole situation most particularly, was fast lapsing into that uncomfortable state of mind familiarly termed “a fuss.”
“If you will allow me, I shall be delighted to see you to your carriage,” insinuated Gus.
“Thank you, but I am sure my brother will be here directly,” returned Emily; “he would be extremely annoyed to find that we had gone without waiting for him. Pray do not let us detain you.”
But of course Gus would not go; “he should be wretched unless he knew they were in safety; he saw they were anxious, he would ascertain whether Lord Bellefield had returned; there might perhaps be difficulty in getting up their carriage,” and so he left the box, promising to return instantly.
“What are we to do, Emily, if Bellefield does not come?” exclaimed Annie, pressing her hands together much as the primaa donna had done when, some quarter of an hour since, she had ejaculated at the very tip-top of her lofty voice, “Addesso Morir!”
“What are we to do, you silly child?” replied Emily, laughing, “why, walk downstairs, to be sure, and allow Gus to take care of us till we can find the carriage. Is not he handsome, poor fellow!”
Before Annie could urge her dislike to this scheme, Travers returned, bringing with him a tall, good-looking boy, embarrassed by a perpetual consciousness of his extreme youth and his first tail-coat.
“I can see nothing of Lord Bellefield,” began Gus; “it is evident something must have occurred to prevent his return. Let me introduce my brother Alfred,” he continued, addressing Emily; “he was a naughty little boy in pinafores when you saw him last—and now what will you do? every one is going or gone.”
“Oh, wait a minute longer; I’m sure he will come,” urged Annie.
“Really we cannot,” returned Emily. “We shall get shut up in the opera-house all Sunday, if we don’t take care.”
“Which would be indeed dreadfully wicked—a most terrific climax of depravity,” simpered Gus. “Seriously,” he continued, “you must accept my arm, though I am sorry the alternative should be so very disagreeable to you.” These latter words he spoke in such a tone that Emily alone could hear them, for which he obtained a reproachful, tender, and upbraiding glance, with a view to which reward he had probably uttered them.
“Come, Annie, we positively must go,” exclaimed her cousin impatiently.
“Alfred, why don’t you offer Miss Grant your arm?” chimed in Gus, drawing Emily’s within his own. Thus urged, poor Annie, sorely against her will, accepted Alfred’s trembling arm and quitted the box; Emily and Augustus Travers following. As they descended the stairs a slight confusion occurred: an Irish gentleman had lost his hat, and wanted to return to look for it, a measure against which a stout old lady, to whom he was acting as escort, vehemently protested, while an obsequious box-keeper was vainly endeavouring to understand the locality in which the embarrassed Hibernian imagined he had left the missing article. While Annie and her juvenile protector were manoeuvring to get past this group, Augustus Travers paused, saying in a low tone to his companion, “Let them precede us; I must speak two words to you in private, and if I lose this opportunity I may never have another. Emily, if you value my peace of mind, I entreat you do not refuse.”
A large party, composed chiefly of young men, was descending at the moment, so that Emily’s reply was inaudible, but when, having got in some degree clear of the confusion, Annie looked back for her chaperone, Travers and the Countess were nowhere to be seen. Horrified at this discovery, Annie stopped abruptly, exclaiming, “Oh, we have missed Mr. Travers and my cousin! We had better turn back.”
The boy glanced quickly round, and as he perceived the truth of her assertion a meaning smile passed across his features. All traces of it had, however, vanished ere he replied, “They must have turned down the other staircase, but it will bring them out at the same place as this would have done; we shall meet them at the bottom.” Then, as his companion still hesitated, he continued, “I can assure you it is so; we should only lose them if we were to return.”
Half convinced by this argument, and completely frightened by the party of young men, who, talking and laughing, were rapidly following them, Annie suffered herself to be hurried on by her companion till she reached the foot of the staircase; here she paused and looked anxiously around for her cousin and Travers—they were nowhere to be seen. Annoyed, distressed, and frightened, she turned to her companion, exclaiming, “They are not here, you see. What are we to do?”
“Wait, I suppose,” returned the boy, who seemed puzzled and vexed. “This is a nice trick of Master Gus’s,” he continued in a half soliloquy; “he ought at least to have given me a hint what to do.”
Before Annie could inquire what he imagined his brother’s intentions might be, a fresh incident diverted, and, from its disagreeable nature, soon wholly engrossed her attention. The crush-room, as it is called, where she was now standing, was occupied almost entirely by men, who, broken up into parties of four or five, were pacing up and down, waiting for their friends to join them, or standing in groups, canvassing the various merits and demerits of the different performers. To one or two of these coteries Annie soon became an object of especial notice.
“Do you see that girl?” whispered a pert youth with light curls and a turned-down collar. “Isn’t she a regular stunner, eh?”
“Ya’as, dev’lish pwitty, ra-ally,” drawled a moustachiod puppy, staring through an eyeglass at the object of his admiration. “Aw—I wonder who she possibly ca-an be. I actually don’t know har.”
“I suppose she’s standing there to be looked at,” returned the first speaker. “Her juvenile gallant can’t get her along at any price, it seems.”
“Ra’ally, it were almost worth while to relieve him of his charge,” drawled moustachios. “He seems particularly incompetent to fill it, not—aw—equal to the situation—ha! ha!”
“Why don’t you volunteer, Spooner, if you think so?” urged a third speaker.
“Na-o, I don’t do that sort of thing—I’m—aw—quite a reformed character,” was the reply; “but if you wa-ant a leader for such a forlorn hope—aw—here comes your man.”
As he spoke, a tall, distinguished-looking individual, with much watch-chain and more whisker, who looked forty, but might be a year or two younger, lounged up to the group, and showing his teeth with a repulsive smile, inquired, “What are you young reprobates grinning about, eh?”
“We were only saying it was a pity that young lady had not a more efficient protector, and advising Spooner to volunteer, Sir Gilbert,” was the reply.
“Who are the individuals?” inquired the last comer, screwing a glass into the corner of his eye. A moment’s inspection served to elucidate the mystery; and removing the glass with a contemptuous smile, he added, “The boy is little Alfred Travers, who has just left Eton; he’s evidently waiting for his brother, who, I’ve a notion, has more strings than one to his bow to-night; as for the damsel, noscitur a sociis. We’ll play the fascinating Gus a trick for once in his life. Come with me, Forester; I may want you to bully the boy.” Then turning on his heel, he advanced towards Annie, and saluting her with a low bow, began—
“This is a most unexpected pleasure! I had no idea you were here to-night; where have you hidden yourself this age?” then perceiving that, confused by his address, and uncertain whether he might not be some acquaintance whose features she had failed to recognise, the young lady was completely at a loss how to reply, he continued, “I see that you have been cruel enough to forget me; while I, on the contrary, have carried your lovely image in my heart, and time has failed to efface even the shadow of a charm. But let me be of use to you. Have you a carriage here, or will you allow me to place mine at your disposal? The house is becoming deserted—let me escort you. Stand aside, young gentleman,” and as he spoke he advanced towards her, offering his arm.
But Annie, having recovered from her first surprise, felt convinced that the person addressing her was a total stranger, and drawing back in alarm, she said to her companion in a hurried whisper—
“Indeed, I do not know that gentleman—there must be some mistake—pray let us get away.”
Thus urged, the boy drew up his slight figure to its full height, and turning to the individual in question, said haughtily—
“You are mistaken, sir; I must trouble you to allow us to pass.”
“It is you who mistake jest for earnest, my good boy,” was the contemptuous reply; “the lady and I are old friends; she is merely trying to tease me by pretending to have forgotten me. This gentleman” (and he glanced at his companion) “will explain the matter to you.” Then again offering his arm to Annie, he continued, “Really, if you persist in your silly joke we shall have the carriage drive off.” Confused by his pertinacity, Alfred Travers glanced at his trembling companion, and reading the truth in the terrified expression of her face, his boyish chivalry took fire, and anxious to vindicate his title to be considered a man, he exclaimed, angrily—
“Stand back, sir, and let us pass; do you mean to insult the lady?”
The person he addressed, Sir Gilbert Vivian, was a roué Baronet who, having been a man about town for the last sixteen years, and having long since lost all the good character he had ever possessed, and acquired a reputation of a diametrically opposite tendency, was scarcely a person to stick at trifles, laughed as he replied—
“Do you hear that, Forester? This good youth accuses you of insulting the young lady—hadn’t you better give him a lesson in civility?”
As he spoke he made a significant gesture, which the other responded to by exclaiming—
“Insult the lady! what do you mean, you young cub, eh?” and grasping him by the arm, he twisted him roughly round, thereby separating him from Annie.
“Take that, and find out,” was the thoroughly school-boy answer, as, bounding forward, the ex-Etonian administered to his antagonist a ringing box on the ear.
This, save that the blow was more skilfully applied and rather harder than he had calculated upon, was just the result Forester had anticipated. Seizing the struggling boy by the collar, he declared he would give him in custody for an assault, and, despite his resistance, dragged him from the spot in a pretended search after a policeman. Availing himself of the confusion, the Baronet placed himself by Annie’s side, and bending over her, said—
“It’s no use waiting for the fascinating Augustus, I can assure you; he has other game in view to-night, and can’t come; so for once you must allow me the honour of acting as his deputy—’pon my word, you must,” and as he spoke he attempted to take her arm and draw it within his own.
Poor Annie! distressed, confused, and frightened, the desertion, or rather capture, of the boy, her only protector, had increased her alarm twenty-fold, and now the renewed persecution of the Baronet brought her fears to a climax, and attempting to withdraw her hand from his grasp, in a very agony of terror she exclaimed—
“Oh! where is Emily? will nobody help me?” and burst into a flood of tears.
At this moment a tall figure suddenly interposed between them, and the Baronet’s wrist was seized with such a vice-like grasp that he uttered an exclamation of mingled rage and pain, and dropped the little hand of which he had unjustly possessed himself as though it had been a red-hot cinder; while Annie, uttering a cry of delight, sprang forward, and clasping the arm of the new-comer, clung to it as some drowning wretch clings to the plank which shields him from the rushing waters that threaten his destruction.
Lewis, for he it was (as every reader above the unsuspecting age of four and a half has of course ere this discovered for himself), understanding at a glance the outlines of the situation, and intuitively divining much of what Annie must have gone through, pitied and sympathised with her so deeply that the anger he would otherwise have felt against the man who had insulted her was completely conquered by the stronger feeling which absorbed him, and his only thought was how best to soothe and tranquillise the frightened girl who clung to him.
“Do not alarm yourself,” he said kindly; “you have nothing more to fear. I will not leave you for a moment till you are again at home and in safety. Lean on my arm, you tremble so that you can scarcely walk;” and half leading, half supporting her, he drew her away from the scene of her disasters, and passing through the crowd of loiterers whom the scuffle between Forester and Alfred Travers had attracted to the spot, conducted her towards the nearest exit.
So quietly and suddenly had all this taken place, that ere Sir Gilbert Vivian had left off rubbing his wrist, or thoroughly realised the sudden frustration of his scheme, the object of his insolent attentions was almost out of sight. Irritated at his failure, and urged on by the scarcely suppressed laughter of those who had witnessed his defeat, he muttered an oath, and turning on his heel, followed hastily in the track of Annie and her deliverer. Coming up with them just as they reached the entrance leading into the colonnade, he tapped Lewis smartly on the shoulder, saying angrily—
“A word with you, sir, if you please. I wish to ask what you mean by your impertinent interference. Who the d——-l are you, I should like to know?”
A flush of anger passed across Lewis’s brow, and he was about to make a reply which would scarcely have tended to bring the matter to an amicable conclusion, when an almost convulsive pressure of the arm on which Annie hung recalled his self-control, and drawing himself up with a stern dignity which bespoke an apt pupil in the school of General Grant, he fixed his piercing eyes upon the Baronet as he answered, “You have already, sir, acting probably under some mistake” (and he laid a strong emphasis upon the last word), “subjected this lady to an amount of fright and annoyance which should secure the forbearance of any one moving in the society of gentlemen. Should you wish to call and apologise to her father for your share in this unlucky adventure, I shall be happy to explain to you in his presence the part I have taken in the affair. There is my address,” and without waiting further parley Lewis handed him his card, and drawing Annie gently forward, passed on. As they reached the entrance, a gentleman coming hastily the other way, nearly ran against them. Looking up, Annie perceived it to be Augustus Travers, who, recognising her, exclaimed, “I have left the Countess Portici in the carriage, and was returning to seek for you, Miss Grant. She is much alarmed at having missed you.” The only reply Annie made to this speech was by a slight inclination of the head, and pressing hastily forward, she passed on. As Lewis assisted her into the carriage, she, for the first time, spoke. “You will come with us,” she said eagerly; “remember you have promised not to leave me.” Then catching sight of Augustus Travers, who had followed them, a new idea struck her, and she continued, “Tell that gentleman I am afraid his brother has become involved in some difficulty on my account; he had better go back and seek for him.” Lewis repeated her message and then sprang into the carriage, which instantly drove off, leaving the discomfited dandy to accomplish his mission as best he might.