“This is kind of you, Mr. Arundel,” exclaimed Bracy, shaking him heartily by the hand, when, in reply to his friend’s invitation, Lewis made his appearance at his chambers by eight o’clock on the following morning; “I like a man who will come to you at a minute’s notice. Now, as I know your time’s short, we’ll go to work at once, and talk as we eat. Bring the eggs and rolls, Orphy.”
“Please, sir, they ain’t none of ’em come,” responded the individual thus addressed, who was no less a personage than the tiger “for falsehood famed.”
“I knew he’d say that,” observed Bracy aside, with a look of exultation, “I knew he’d say so, because I saw the man bring them five minutes ago; sharp boy! he never loses an opportunity of lying. Perhaps they may have arrived while you’ve been up here,” he continued blandly; “go and see, Orphy.”
“What do you call your tiger?” inquired Lewis as the imp disappeared.
“Why, his real name is Dick Timmins,” returned Bracy; “I have taken the trouble to ascertain that fact beyond a doubt—of course I should not have believed it merely upon his authority—but I call him Orphy, which is a convenient abbreviation of Orpheus, because, like that meritorious mythical musician, he is at all times and seasons perfectly inseparable from a lyre! ‘a poor pun,’ sir, ‘but mine own.’”
“It must surely be inconvenient and troublesome to be obliged perpetually to guard against some deception or other, to be in continual doubt as to what has or what has not taken place in your household,” remarked Lewis.
“Not at all, my dear Arundel, there’s the beauty of it,” returned Bracy. “Others doubt and are perplexed, but I am never at a loss for a moment; I know all his most intricate involutions of lying, and can track him through a course of falsehood as a greyhound follows a hare: that boy could not deceive me unless he were suddenly to take to telling the truth; but there’s not the least fear of that, his principles are too well established. Ah! inter alia, here he comes—do you see the pun? pre-suppose an Irish brogue, and accent the penultimate instead of the first syllable in the second word, and it’s not such a bad one after all.”
When, to use the popular lyric style, the “false one had departed,” and the gentlemen were again left tête-à-tête, Lewis, reminding his companion that his time was short, hinted that it would not be amiss if he were at once to acquaint him with the business to which he had referred in his note.
“Ah! yes, to be sure,” replied Bracy; “it was a letter I had from Frere yesterday which put the thing into my head. Let us see, what does he say?” And pulling a letter from his pocket, he ran his eye down it, reading and soliloquising somewhat after the following fashion: “Hum! ha! ‘never take shares in an Irish railway’—thank ye, I never mean to—‘the natives in these parts are not Cannibals, at which no one at all particular in his eating would wonder, after seeing the state of filth’—well, I won’t read that, it will spoil our breakfast—‘the organic remains are coming out splendidly; I feel little doubt they must have belonged to some antediluvian monster yet unknown to science.’ Ah! the fossil remains of a pre-Adamite Irish bull, probably; and that’s another, by Jove, for there would have been nobody to make it at that time of day: there’s a P.S. about it, though—Ah! here it is—‘only fancy, my organic remains prove to be vegetable, not animal; nothing more or less than a new species of Irish Oaks.’ A new species of Irish Hoax rather; I wonder how he came to miss the pun—some men do throw away their opportunities sadly; but I’m wasting your time—now then—‘in regard to what you tell me about the Bellefield affair, I can do nothing, not being on the spot; your best plan will be to communicate with Lewis Arundel—he is thoroughly au fait as to the whole matter; tell him everything, and act according to his advice. You may safely do so. I always thought his lordship a great scoundrel’ (rather strong language!), ‘but in this case he appears more to be pitied than blamed; I like fair-play all the world over, and would give even the devil his due.’ There,” continued Bracy, folding up the letter, “that’s what Richard Frere says, and I, knowing his advice to be good, am prepared to act upon it.”
“It may be good,” returned Lewis in a tone of annoyance, “but as far as I am concerned *it is particularly enigmatical. There are many reasons why it is undesirable, I may say impossible, for me to interfere with Lord Bellefield’s affairs.”
“Still, if you are the man I take you to be,” replied Bracy seriously, “you would not wish any one to labour under an unjust imputation, from which a word of truth can set him free. But it’s no use beating about the bush; hear what I have to say, and then you can act or remain neuter, as you please. Of course you read the newspaper account of that sad business about poor Mellerton?”
Lewis replied in the affirmative, and Bracy continued, “Except in one or two points, the statement was substantially correct, but these happen to be rather important ones. In the first place, I should tell you that Mellerton was an intimate friend of my own. We were great cronies at Eton, and never lost sight of each other afterwards. I first heard of this betting affair from an officer of high rank, who holds an appointment by which he is necessarily a good deal behind the scenes at the War Office. Somehow it reached his ears that Mellerton had been betting heavily and met with severe losses, and knowing that I had some influence with him, he wished me to give him a friendly hint, which I accordingly did. Mellerton took it very well, poor fellow! and thanked me for my advice, which was his invariable custom, though I can’t say he usually acted upon it. He confessed that he had lost more money than was convenient, and told me he had been forced to borrow, but the amount of his losses he studiously concealed. On the morning of the day of his death the same person sent for me again, and told me he was afraid Mellerton had been behaving very madly, and in the strictest confidence informed me that it was determined upon to examine into his accounts, and that if, as he feared, they would not bear the light, his character would be blasted for life, adding that I was at liberty to warn him of this, and give him an opportunity, if possible, of replacing the money. Owing to a chapter of accidents, as ill luck would have it, I was unable to meet with Mellerton till late in the evening, when I found him in a state of distraction, having just received officially the information I had sought to forestall. Seeing how much I knew already, he told me everything. I will not recapitulate the miserable details, but the newspapers did not overstate the truth. Well, as a forlorn hope, I suggested the appeal to Lord Bellefield’s generosity, and after much persuasion he agreed to let me make the trial. I sprang into a hansom cab, and drove like the wind to Ashford House. Bellefield was dining with his sister; I followed him to Berkeley Square, and then to the Opera-house, where I lost not a minute in explaining my business. Well, sir, instead of rejecting the appeal, as has been reported, Lord Belle-field appeared greatly distressed at the intelligence—jumped into his cab, taking me with him, and as we drove down to poor Mellerton’s lodgings, expressed his readiness to do whatever I thought best—adding that he had £10,000 at his banker’s, which was quite at Mellerton’s service till he could sell his Yorkshire estate. The rest of the tale you know. The poor fellow, thinking, from my prolonged absence, that my attempt had failed, and unable to bear the disgrace of exposure, placed a loaded pistol in his pocket, repaired to a gaming-table, betted to the full amount of his defalcation, lost, and blew his brains out. We got there just as the surgeon they had sent for declared life was extinct; and you never saw a man so cut up as Bellefield was about it. He accused himself of being a murderer, and in fact seemed to feel the thing nearly as much as I did myself. As soon as he had a little recovered he volunteered to drive to Knightsbridge, to break the thing to poor Fred Mellerton’s brother, while I did the same by his mother and sisters; and a nice scene I had of it—I thought the old lady would have died on the spot. But now, to come to the point, I hear that old Grant, believing all the newspaper lies, has quarrelled with his intended son-in-law and broken off the engagement; and that Lord Bellefield, too proud to make any explanations, has allowed him to continue in his mistake. Is this so?”
“I have no reason to believe your information incorrect,” was the cautious reply.
“In that case, don’t you think it is due to Lord Bellefield to acquaint General Grant with the truth?”
Lewis paused for a minute or two in thought ere he replied, “Certainly; it would be most unjust to withhold it.”
“Well, I’m very glad you agree with me,” returned Bracy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who has escaped some disagreeable duty. “Then I may depend upon you to set the matter right?”
“Upon me!” rejoined Lewis in surprise.
“Yes, to be sure,” was the reply; “that’s what Frere expects. You see, it’s rather a delicate affair for a man to interfere in, particularly one who is a complete stranger. I don’t believe I ever set eyes on Governor Grant in my life. Now you, living in the house, can find a hundred opportunities. There is a good deal in selecting the mollia tempora fandi with men as well as with women.”
“Then I am to understand that you have related these facts to me for the express purpose of my communicating them to General Grant?”
“Yes, to be sure. Do you think I should have put you to the inconvenience of coming here this morning merely for the sake of having a gossip?”
“And suppose I were to refuse to make this communication?” continued Lewis.
“Such a supposition never occurred to me,” replied Bracy in amazement; “but if you were to do such an unexpected thing, matters must take their own course. In telling you, I’ve done all that I consider I am in any way called upon to do; if you, for any reason, deem it unadvisable to enlighten General Grant, there the thing must rest. Frere tells me to be guided by your advice, and so I shall; as I have just said, I leave it entirely to you.”
“I understand you perfectly,” rejoined Lewis, and as he spoke a contemptuous smile curled his lip; “still, justice requires that the General should not be kept in ignorance, and although there are many reasons why it is painful and objectionable to me to enlighten him, yet there are others which prevent my refusing; and now, Mr. Bracy, as my time is short, you will excuse my being obliged to leave you.”
“Oh! certainly,” returned Bracy, as his visitor rose to depart;
“‘Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.’
Liberty Hall this, sir! chacun à son gout, ‘everybody has the gout,’ as the little girl at the boarding-school construed it. Then you’ll make Governor Grant comprehend that in this particular instance Bellefield behaved like a brick? Disagreeable business to be obliged to interfere in, but, as Frere says, you’re just the man to do it; good morning;” and uttering these words with the greatest empressement, he shook Lewis’s hand warmly and suffered him to depart. As the door closed on his retreating figure Bracy threw himself back in an easy-chair.
“There’s something in the wind that I’m not awake to,” he muttered in soliloquy; “I don’t comprehend that good youth at all. There must be private feeling mixed up in it; something in the love and murder line, I suspect. How savage he looked when he undertook the job—rather he than I, though: Bellefield’s as likely to call a man out, as to say Thank ye, for interfering; but, as Frere says, Arundel’s just the man to carry the thing through. He’s a plucky young fellow and deucedly good-looking, but he certainly does not appreciate wit—ahem—that is, puns—properly;” and with this reflection Bracy took pen and paper and sate him down to indite an essay on moral courage and the responsibility of man, wherewith to fill up a vacant corner of Blunt’s Magazine.
And Lewis—what a task had he undertaken! He who would have made any sacrifice to gratify Annie’s lightest wish must now bring the first cloud over the sunshine of her young life; he must be the means of reconciling her father and Lord Bellefield; he must, by his own act, give the woman he loved to the man he hated. The woman he loved!—had then the fear that had lain cold and heavy at his heart, that had come between him and—resignation, assumed a definite shape? did he at length own that he, the poor tutor, the paid dependent, loved the rich man’s daughter? Oh! Lewis, where was thy pride—where that Hell-angel beautiful in evil, which hath haunted thee even from thy childhood upwards like a second self? Had Rose’s tears prevailed and thy pride deserted thee? Would that it had been so; but no, he had not yet learned that hardest lesson for the young and manly-hearted, self-distrust; his bosom-sin clave to him, and striving single-handed, how should he subdue it!
Lewis was not one of those who deceive themselves long on any point; and his emotions after the scene at the Opera-house, the amount of self-control he was obliged to exert to restrain any outbreak of feeling in the tête-à-tête drive with Annie, had revealed the truth to him, and ere he slept that night he knew that now indeed was the sum of his wretchedness complete; for he loved, for the first time, one fitted to call forth all the depth and earnestness of his passionate nature, and he loved without hope. Pressing his hands to his burning brow, he sat down calmly to think. Calmly; yes, the treacherous repose of the smouldering volcano were an apt illustration of such a forced calmness. Renunciation and self-conquest! this then was his portion for the time to come. Self-conquest! Pride caught at the word; an enemy strong as the strength of will which should subdue it. Reason cried, “Flee from temptation;” but pride whispered, “The task is worthy of you; accomplish it.” And resolution aided pride, and the iron will came into play, and the contest was begun. And now the reader can understand why Lewis’s interview with Bracy would scarcely tend to raise his spirits, or render his general frame of mind more satisfactory.
Punctual to the moment the carriage made its appearance, drawn by four posters; and the General and the two ladies ensconced themselves in the interior, while, the day being lovely, Lewis and his pupil took possession of the rumble. About two miles from Broadhurst was a steep hill; on reaching this point Annie and her father, Lewis and Walter alighted, with the intention of walking up; but before half the distance was accomplished the General pleaded guilty to a very decided twinge of gout, and unwilling to provoke a second, reentered the carriage, the others continuing their pedestrian exertions without him.
Annie, delighted to regain the freedom of the country, was in high spirits. “Why do people stay in London at this time of year?” she exclaimed. “This lovely sky, and the trees, and the birds, and the sunshine, are worth all the operas and pictures and balls and every sight or amusement London can afford; those things excite one for an hour or two, but this makes me perfectly happy.”
Lewis glanced at her for a moment, sighed involuntarily, and then rousing himself, uttered some commonplace civility, which so clearly proved that he was forcing himself to make conversation from the subject of which his thoughts were far away, that Annie, struck by his manner, paused and fixed her large eyes earnestly upon him. At length she said—
“I am sure you are ill or unhappy, Mr. Arundel. I am now too well aware how utterly unable I am to compensate for the loss of such a friend and counsellor as dear Rose (oh! how I envy you that sister!), but if you would sometimes tell me when you are annoyed or out of spirits, instead of wrapping yourself in that cold, proud mantle of reserve, I think even such poor sympathy as mine might make you happier.”
Lewis glanced round. Walter, actuated by some caprice of his wayward intellect, had run on before—they were virtually alone. Now it had occurred to Lewis that, as Annie had allowed him to perceive her dislike to the idea of a union with Lord Bellefield, he should entirely lose her good opinion were she to learn that it was through his representations that a reconciliation with her father had been brought about; and although this would have been a very desirable result for many reasons, and have materially assisted him in his design of conquering his unhappy attachment, yet he by no means appeared to approve of the notion, but on the contrary had, with his usual fearlessness, determined to seize the first opportunity of explaining to her why reason and justice obliged him to act in opposition to her wishes. And now that the opportunity had arrived, the considerate kindness of her address disarmed him, and in the unwillingness to inflict pain on her he half abandoned his purpose; but here his strength of will—that fearful agent for good or for evil—came into action and settled the matter. It was right; it must be done. Accordingly he thanked her for her kindness, made her a pretty speech as to valuing her sympathy, which expressed somewhere about one-fifteenth of what he really felt on the subject—said, which was quite true, that nothing had for a long time afforded him greater pleasure than the friendship which had sprung up between her and Rose—then, speaking in a low, calm voice, he continued, “I have been both grieved and annoyed this morning; you guessed rightly when you thought so. Will you forgive me, and still regard me as your friend, when I tell you that circumstances force me to act in direct opposition to your wishes, and to do that of which I fear you will highly disapprove?”
Annie looked at him with an expression of surprise and alarm, which gave way to a bright, trustful smile as she replied, “Nothing can lead me to doubt your friendship, Mr. Arundel; I have had proofs of its sincerity too convincing for me ever to do so. If you are obliged to say or do anything which may pain me, I am sure you feel it to be duty which compels you. And now tell me what you refer to.”
Poor Lewis! the smile and the speech went straight to his heart, like the stroke of a poniard: pride, resolution, and all the other false gods he relied on disappeared before it; and for the moment love was lord of all. But self-control had become so habitual to him, that the most acute observer could not have detected the slightest indication of the inward struggle; and ere he spoke his will had resumed its mastery, and his purpose held good. He gave her, in as few words as possible, an account of his interview with Bracy; and told her that it was his intention immediately to acquaint General Grant with the facts that had thus come to his knowledge.
She heard him in silence; and when he had finished she said in a low voice, which thrilled with suppressed emotion, “My father will forgive him, and all will be as if this thing had never happened.”
They walked on side by side, but neither spoke. At length Lewis said abruptly, “I have told you this man and I were not on friendly terms; I now tell you that he has heaped insult after insult upon me till I hate him. Yes, you may start, and your gentle woman’s nature may condemn me, but it is so: I hate him.” He spoke calmly, but it only rendered his words more terrible, for it told not merely of the angry impulse of the moment, but of the deep conviction of a lifetime; and Annie shuddered as she listened. Regardless of her emotion, Lewis continued, “Circumstances have in this instance forced me to appear as Lord Bellefield’s successful accuser. To some minds this petty triumph might have afforded satisfaction; to me it has been a source of unmixed regret; the retribution I seek is not of such a nature. Fate has now placed in my hands the means of vindicating his character; and every principle of honour, nay of common justice, binds me to do so. We may not do evil that good may come. I should forfeit my self-respect for ever were I to conceal this knowledge from your father. You would not have me do so, I am certain?” Lewis paused for a reply; there was silence for a moment, and then in a low, broken voice Annie said, “No! you must tell him. But I am very, very unhappy!” And uttering the last words with a convulsive sob, she covered her face with her hands, and turned away to conceal the tears she could no longer repress.
Whether the sight of Annie’s tears would have produced any change in Lewis’s determination, had their tête-à-tête continued uninterrupted, is a question in regard to which psychologists may arrive at any conclusion which pleases them; for Walter having literally, or figuratively, caught his butterfly, rejoined his companions almost immediately, and under cover of his puerile volubility Annie contrived to dry her eyes and outwardly regain her composure.
In the course of the following morning Lewis found an opportunity of making the important communication. General Grant heard him with grave attention, and when he had concluded, observed—
“This alters the whole aspect of the affair. Any man may commit a fault, but if he sees his error, and is willing by every means at his command to atone for it, it behoves all generous-minded persons to forgive him. I perceive that I have, in this instance, acted hastily, and owe Lord Bellefield reparation. I shall write to him immediately, and have to thank you, Mr. Arundel, for affording me this information, which may give me an opportunity of effecting a reconciliation with one on whom I had long since decided to bestow my daughter’s hand. Your disinterested, I may say magnanimous conduct in this matter, entitles you to my fullest confidence. I shall make it an express stipulation that for the future Lord Bellefield shall evince all due consideration towards you.”
And this speech, and the haunting memory of Annie’s tears, were Lewis’s reward for doing his duty.
The result of this communication was that the General wrote a long letter to Lord Bellefield, using many words to express his meaning, which might have been advantageously compressed into half the number; however, it satisfied its composer, who considered it a miracle of diplomacy and a model of style. Lord Bellefield’s answer was cold and haughty; his pride had been wounded, and his was not a mind frankly to forgive an injury of that nature; still he did not reject the General’s overtures. He was going to travel in Greece (he wrote), but on his return to England he would see General Grant and refute the calumnies which had been spread to his disadvantage: he was aware that he had enemies who might be glad to avail themselves of any opportunity to vilify his character, but he trusted to the General’s sense of justice to discourage such attempts. And the contents of this letter were communicated to Annie by her father, together with a rebuke for having so easily believed reports to her cousin’s disadvantage, which lecture somewhat failed in its effect from the unlucky fact that, in this particular instance, the lecturer’s practice happened to have been diametrically opposed to his preaching; but the rebuke led to one evil result—viz., it crushed in the bud a half-formed project which Annie had conceived of acquainting her father with her growing disinclination to a union with her cousin, and of imploring him to take no step towards a renewal of the engagement. Moral courage (save when her feelings were very strongly excited) was not one of Annie’s attributes, and as the evil she feared was not a proximate one, she trusted to chance to postpone it still further, if not to avert it altogether. Thus, being naturally of a light-hearted, joyous temperament, she ere long recovered her usual gaiety, and an occasional sigh, or a quarter of an hour’s unwonted abstraction, alone attested her recollection of this dark speck on the horizon of her future life.
The return to Broadhurst appeared to produce a soothing effect upon Lewis also—it gave him an opportunity calmly to review his position; and a new idea struck him, generalising from which he sketched out a system different from that which he had hitherto pursued in regard to Annie Grant. True, he could never hope to call her his—love was forbidden him—but friendship, warm, ardent friendship—love elevated, spiritualised, purified from the slightest admixture of passion,—this he might enjoy safely; it only required a strong effort of will, a determined, uniform exercise of self-control. To be enslaved by hopeless love was mere weakness; to crush the sentiment entirely was Quixotic and uncalled for; but to control and regulate it, to fix limits which it should not exceed, and thus to convert a curse into a blessing, this was an effort worthy of a reasonable being, and this he would accomplish. In order to carry out this design he determined no longer to avoid Annie as he had done; it was cowardly to fly thus from temptation; besides, it was evidently useless to do so; imagination supplied the deficiency, and the evil was but increased. No, he would face the danger and subdue it. Thus, too, he might be of use to her, for with all his admiration of her character he read it aright, and saw that there were weak points which required the aid of principle to strengthen them; that her pursuits were frivolous, her mind uncultivated, and her existence practically aimless, because her views of life were confused and indistinct, and her standard of excellence a visionary one. All this he saw, and seeing, felt that he could remedy. And while he pondered on these things Annie recalled an old wish to study German, and asked her father’s permission to be allowed to do so, if Mr. Arundel could find time to give her lessons; whereupon the General, having a great respect for any language of which he was personally ignorant, preferred her request to Lewis, and that young gentleman was graciously pleased to accede thereunto. Miss Livingstone of course played duenna, and but for one circumstance would have performed her character with a degree of cold-blooded virulence worthy of the most fractious tigress that ever mangled “lovers tender and true.” This fortunate circumstance was that the lessons, being usually taken by way of dessert after an early dinner, invariably sent Minerva to sleep. In vain did she bring out her “poor basket,” in which receptacle lay hid certain harsh underclothing for infant paupers; in vain did she attempt sewing the seams of Procustes-like pinafores, which, solving the problem of the minimum of brown holland capable of containing a living child, were destined to compress the sturdy bodies of village urchins; the “colo calathisve Minervo” were unable to resist the attacks of the god Somnus, and ere Annie had stretched her pretty little mouth by the utterance of a dozen double-bodied substantives, the lynx-eyes were closed in sleep, and for all practical purposes Miss Livingstone forfeited every right to the first half of her patronymic.
Reader, if you are of the gender which uncourteous grammarians are pleased to designate the worthier, tell me,—in strict confidence, of course,—did you ever read German with a pair of bright eyes turning from the crabbed Teutonic characters to look appealingly into your own optics, while two coral lips, formed for pleasanter purposes than growling German gutturals, complain of some enigmatical sentence which has not got a right meaning to it, the said eyes and lips being the outward symbols of a warm heart and quick intelligence, ready to discern and feel the grandeur of Schiller, the Shakespeare of the Fatherland, or thrill to the trumpet blasts of young Korner’s warrior spirit, or trace the more subtle thinkings of Goethe, that anatomist of the soul of man? Tell me, did you ever read with so desirable a fellow-student? If you have done so, and can honestly say you did not think such schooling delightful, the sooner you close this book the better, for depend upon it there is little sympathy between us. Lewis at all events had no cause to be dissatisfied with his pupil, who was equally docile and intelligent, and in a marvellously short space of time was able to read and translate with tolerable fluency; while the few German sentences in which her instructor from time to time saw fit to address her appeared less like heathen Greek to her at each repetition. As soon as she had sufficiently mastered the difficulties of those aggravating parts of speech, the compound separable verbs, and acquired moderate control over other equally necessary and vicious parts of the grammar, they commenced translating that most poetical of allegories, La Motte Fouqué’s “Undine”; and Annie, as they read, took it all at first au pied de la lettre, and imagined, with a degree of shuddering horror, which, as it was only a tale, was rather pleasant than otherwise, all the supernatural uncomfortables Huldbrand underwent in the Enchanted Forest, and admired all the generous impulses of the heroine’s singular uncle-and-water, Kuhleborn, who, however, she considered would have been better adapted for family purposes, if he had been rather more of a man and less of a cataract. Then Undine herself, the capricious, fascinating, tricksy sprite—the thoughtful, loving, feeling woman—how Annie sympathised with and adored her! For Huldbrand she felt a species of contemptuous pity, but Bertalda, oh! she was sure no woman was ever so heartless, so utterly and wickedly selfish. And then when Lewis unfolded to her his view of the Allegory (every one is sure to form a particular theory of his own as to the meaning of “Undine,” and to think he only has discovered the author’s intention), and Annie learned that the tale shadowed forth the mighty truths which throng the passage to eternity, and symbolising the struggle between good and evil, showed how Principalities and Powers wage throughout all time an undying warfare—the breast of man their battlefield—her pulses quickened and her cheek flushed; for she felt for the first time the solemn realities of existence, and saw dimly how a single life might be a link between the Ages, and a portion, however insignificant, of the mighty whole. What wonder then if part of the reverence, the awe, chastened by a deep, solemn joy, with which she recognised the workings of Infinite power, and Infinite love, cast their spell around him who had first awakened these perceptions within her?—what wonder if unconsciously comparing him with those around her, she grew to believe him a being of another and a higher nature, and so to hang on his slightest word or look, to dread his frown, and deem his smile sufficient compensation for hours of unwonted study?
The German lessons seemed to agree particularly well with Lewis also; for his eye grew brighter and his step more free, the extreme paleness of his complexion changed to a manly brown, a slight tinge of colour imparted a look of health to his cheek, and—unromantic as it may appear—his appetite increased alarmingly. Would the reader learn the secret of this improvement? It is soon told. Living in the present, blinding himself to the truth, he was happy! His system, he told himself, had succeeded—his theory had been tested, and proved a true one—resolution had conquered, and the insanity of love had cooled down to the reasonableness of a delightful friendship.
Lewis was excessively pleased with himself at this result. At length, then, he had attained that complete and perfect degree of self-control he had so long endeavoured to acquire; his feelings were reduced to a due submission to his will; and henceforward his happiness was in his own hands. And thus basking in this gleam of sunshine, he shut his eyes to all beyond, and dreamed that he possessed an elixir to dissipate every cloud, and that henceforward storms would disappear from the horizon of his destiny and become mere myths, existing only in memory. And these were some of the earliest results of the German lessons.
About this time a small but unpleasant adventure occurred to poor Annie which occasioned her a severe fright, and rendered her nervous and uncomfortable for many days afterwards. She had been on an expedition to the cottage of a poor neighbour who was suffering from illness; and as the sick woman lived beyond a walk, Annie had gone on horseback, attended by an old coachman who had lived in the family many years. Having accomplished her mission, she had ridden about a quarter of a mile on her return when she discovered that she had left her handkerchief behind, and directing the servant to ride back and fetch it, she proceeded at a foot’s pace in a homeward direction. The road she was following wound round the base of a hill thickly covered with trees and underwood, the spreading branches of the oaks meeting across the lane and making a species of twilight even at midday.
As Annie Grant was passing under one of the thickest of these trees, a tall, gaunt figure sprang from behind its knotted trunk and seized the bridle of her pony. Gazing in alarm at her assailant, Annie perceived him to be a man of unusual stature; his features were pale and emaciated, and an unshorn, grizzly beard added to the ferocity of their expression; his clothes, which were torn and soiled, hung loosely about him, while the long bony fingers which clutched her bridle-rein, the sunken cheeks, and hollow, glaring eye-balls, gave evidence that his herculean proportions had been reduced almost to a skeleton leanness by disease or want. Annie had, however, little time to make observations, for, accosting her with an oath, the ruffian demanded her purse. Drawing it forth, she held it to him with a trembling hand. He seized it eagerly and examined its contents, his eyes glittering as he observed the sparkle of gold. Hastily concealing it about his person, he next demanded her watch, which Annie, after a hopeless glance in the direction from which she expected the appearance of the servant, also relinquished. Having secured his plunder the fellow paused, apparently reflecting whether by detaining her longer he could gain any further advantage; as he did so the sound of a horse rapidly advancing struck his ear, and immediately afterwards a turn in the road enabled him to perceive the figure of a servant on horseback, the sunshine glancing from his bright livery buttons. The moment this object met his view he started, and shading his eyes with his hand, gazed fixedly at the approaching horseman. Having thus satisfied himself as to the man’s identity, he exclaimed with an oath, “It is the old bloodhound’s livery, and the girl must be his daughter. Oh, what a chance I have thrown away! Yes,” he continued, turning fiercely upon poor Annie and threatening her with his clenched fist, “if I had guessed you were the daughter of that ———— old Grant, you should not have got off so easy, I promise you.” He paused as a new idea struck him, and his face assumed an expression of diabolical revenge; placing his hand in his breast he drew forth a pistol, cocked it, and muttering, “There is time yet,” levelled it at his trembling victim. With a faint scream Annie dropped the reins, and clasping her hands in an agony of fear, murmured a petition for mercy. The ruffian stood for a moment irresolute; but, desperate as he was, some touch of humanity yet lingered in his breast, a softening recollection came across him, and muttering, “I can’t do it, she looks like poor Jane,” he uncocked and replaced the pistol.
At this moment the servant, having heard Annie’s scream, came up at a gallop, and the robber, uttering a fearful imprecation, sprang back into the wood and disappeared among the trees.
It was some minutes before Annie, who was on the verge of fainting, was able to give a coherent account of the adventure which had befallen her. As soon, however, as she had in some degree recovered from the effects of her terror, she desired the servant to ride close beside her, and urging her pony into a rapid canter, made the best of her way home. Here she found matters in a state of unusual bustle and confusion. The General had received information that Hardy the poacher had broken out of H————— gaol, effected his escape unperceived, and was supposed to be concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood of Broadhurst. Accordingly he was marshalling all the available males of his establishment, preparatory to setting out on an expedition to search for, and if possible to apprehend the escaped felon.
Great was his horror and indignation when he learned the danger to which his daughter had been exposed, and ascertained from the description she gave of her assailant that the man who had robbed her, and even threatened her life, was none other than the ruffian Hardy.
The preparations which he had already made he now considered insufficient for ensuring the success of the expedition; he accordingly despatched a mounted groom to procure the assistance of a couple of policemen, and sending for Lewis, begged him to lead a party to search the country in one direction, while he proceeded with a second division of the household forces in another. As the young tutor heard of the alarm to which Annie had been subjected, his cheeks flushed and his compressed lips quivered. He said little, however, but returning to his room, placed a brace of small pistols in the breast of his coat, attached spurs to the heels of his boots, then mounting a horse which was in readiness for him, rode off. The tenants were roused, the gamekeepers summoned, the policemen arrived. General Grant remained absent till nearly ten o’clock at night, and his daughter became alarmed to the last degree for his safety. At length he returned; their search had been unsuccessful, but Mr. Arundel and some of the men would remain on the watch all night, and he would resume the pursuit next morning.
For three days and nights Lewis never entered a house, and was scarcely out of the saddle; the fourth day the police received a report from the authorities at Liverpool, stating that an individual in some degree corresponding to the description of Hardy had taken his passage in a vessel bound for the United States, and that the wind being favourable, the ship had sailed before they had been able to search her; and with this unsatisfactory report the family at Broadhurst were forced to content themselves.
The incident related in the last chapter produced a strange and alarming effect upon Miss Livingstone; in fact it may be said to have laid the foundation of a species of monomania which haunted her to the day of her death. From this time forth she laboured under the delusion that a man trained from his youth up to rob and murder his sleeping fellow-creatures was secreted at one and the same moment under every bed and behind all the window curtains in the house. A singular and alarming property belonging to this ambushed ruffian was the extraordinary shadow cast by his legs and feet. Miss Livingstone was perpetually scared by discovering it in the most unlikely places and positions; indeed the statistics of these shadowy phenomena tended to show that it was this villain’s ordinary custom to stand upon his rascally head. Then the noises he made were most strange and unearthly, and a habit he possessed of moaning whenever the wind was high really exceeded anything with which human nature could be expected to put up. The trouble he occasioned everybody was inconceivable; for at least a month after Annie’s adventure the butler almost lived in Minerva’s bedroom, so constantly was he summoned to unearth this lurking traitor; and yet, although Miss Livingstone was quite certain the monster was there, for she had seen the shadow of his boots, with the soles upwards, upon the tester of the bed, by some dreadful fatality he always contrived to evade the strictest search. Once Miss Livingstone thought she had got him, for, having summoned assistance on the strength of hearing him snore, she actually enjoyed the satisfaction of being sworn at by him, when she looked under the bed and poked for him with a large umbrella; but this time he turned out to be the cat. The servants became so harassed by these repeated alarums that at length the butler gave bona fide warning, while the footmen, when there was nobody to hear them, vehemently protested they were not hired as thief-catchers, and that Miss Livingstone had better set up a private policeman of her own, if she chose to be so subject to house-breakers.
Lewis was not at all pleased with this adventure: in the first place, it interrupted the German lessons, for poor Annie had been so seriously frightened—not without cause—that it made her really ill, and for some days she remained on a sofa in her own room. In the second place, Lewis had been so deeply affected when he first heard of the danger to which she had been exposed, that for a moment a doubt crossed his mind whether such a degree of emotion was exactly consistent with that mild imposition yclept platonic friendship. In the third place, he had used his best endeavours to catch Hardy once again, and had been thoroughly and completely baffled. Time, however, that wonder-working individual, passed on, and by his assistance Annie’s nerves recovered their tone, and the German lessons were recommenced; Miss Livingstone saw fewer visions of reversed legs, and confined her researches after the concealed one to a good peep under the bed night and morning. The General made a great fuss about the whole affair, and severely reprimanded several individuals for permitting Hardy to escape who never had it in their power to prevent his doing so. Having relieved his mind by this judicious exercise of authority, he applied himself to other pursuits, and speedily forgot the whole transaction.
About two months after the occurrence of the robbery Lord Belle-field wrote to announce his return, and General Grant went to London alone in order to meet him. Before his departure, Annie, whose dislike to the interrupted engagement appeared to increase rather than to diminish, determined to make a great effort, and to acquaint her father with her disinclination to the proposed alliance, and to entreat him to take no steps which might lead to a renewal of the matrimonial project. The General heard her attentively, and then observed—
“I perfectly understand and appreciate your feelings, my dear Annie; they are such as, under the peculiar circumstances, become my daughter. Remember, my dear, that the matter is in wiser and more experienced hands than yours; and rest assured that nothing shall be done of which even your punctilious delicacy and true sense of honour can disapprove.” Then, seeing Annie was about to speak, he continued, “Any further discussion is not only unnecessary, but as the matter now stands, would appear to imply a doubt of my capability of acting for you; which I should consider, to say the least, disrespectful. You will oblige me by withdrawing, my dear Annie.” Thus saying, he rose, and opening the door with all the frigid courtesy of the Grandisonian school, ushered her out. And so poor Annie’s attempt proved a signal failure.
On the following morning the General left Broadhurst, having given Annie a very unnecessary caution against riding out with merely a servant, and made it his especial request that Lewis and Walter should accompany her by way of escort; a proceeding of which neither tutor nor pupil appeared to disapprove.
General Grant was absent for more than a fortnight; and as the weather was unusually fine during the whole of the time, Annie and her attendants rode out every day. Oh, those rides! what delightful expeditions were they! By a tacit consent between Lewis and Annie, all allusion to the future was avoided, in word or thought; they lived in the present—those loving hearts; they were together, and that sufficed them; and the trees appeared greener, and the flowers more brilliant, and the sunshine brighter, than they had ever seemed before; all was happy as a fairy dream, and dream-like did it pass away.
A letter from the General announcing his intended return was in Annie’s hand, as, bending over a ponderous volume of crabbed characters, she awaited her German lesson. The windows of the breakfast-room in which she was seated opened on to an ample lawn, interspersed with groups of shrubs and gay flower-beds. In crossing this lawn Walter had contrived to intercept Lewis and inveigle him into a game at ball.
Flushed by the exercise, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and his dark curls hanging in wild disorder about his brow, the young tutor approached the window at which Annie was seated. Concealed by the heavy folds of the window curtain, the girl watched him unperceived: involuntarily she contrasted his frank and easy bearing, his free and elastic step, and the smile, half proud, half playful, which parted his curved lips and sparkled in his flashing eyes, with the cold reserve which usually characterised his demeanour, and for the first time she became aware what a bright and noble nature had been obscured and warped by the false position into which circumstances had combined to force him. Who could blame her, who rather would not love her the better, and thank God that He has implanted such beautiful instincts in every true woman’s heart, if she felt that she should wish no fairer destiny than to devote her life to bring back the sunshine of his, and by her affection restore to him the youth of soul which misfortune had wrested from him!
Little guessing the thoughts that were passing through her mind, Lewis advanced towards the window, exclaiming, “Miss Grant, I have a petition to urge—the day is so lovely it is quite wicked to remain indoors: can I persuade you to use your influence with Miss Livingstone to allow us to transfer the site of our German lesson to the bench under the lime-tree? I will promise to arrange a most seductive seat for her in the very shadiest corner.”
“My aunt has departed on a charitable mission,” was the reply; “she received a message to say that an unfortunate child whom she has been doctoring out of that dreadful medicine chest of hers is much worse, and she has rushed off armed with pills and powders.”
“To give it the coup de grace I suppose,” interrupted Lewis.
Annie shook her head reprovingly, and continued, “In the excitement of the occasion, she appears to have entirely forgotten our poor German lesson.”
“In which case the decision as to place rests with you!” resumed Lewis eagerly; “the matter is therefore settled—you will come.” The accent upon the “will” was intended to be one of entreaty, but somehow the tone in which it was uttered partook largely of command, and Annie, as she obeyed, said with a smile—
“Or rather, I must come—that is clearly your meaning, Mr. Arundel; however, I see Walter and Faust are already en position, and I will not set them an example of disobedience, so if you can find the books, I will join you immediately.”