1852

“Scarcely so much, mamma; indeed, it wants a quarter of nine yet. The coach does not arrive till half-past eight, and he has quite four miles to walk afterwards.”

“Oh! this waiting, it destroys me,” rejoined the first speaker, rising from her seat and pacing the room with agitated steps. “How you can contrive to sit there, drawing so quietly, I do not comprehend!”

“Does it annoy you, dear mamma? Why did you not tell me so before?” returned Rose gently, putting away her drawing-apparatus as she spoke. No one would have called Rose Arundel handsome, or even pretty, and yet her face had a charm about it—a charm that lurked in the depths of her dreamy grey eyes, and played about the corners of her mouth when she smiled, and sat like a glory upon her high, smooth forehead. Both she and her mother were clad in the deepest mourning, and the traces of some recent heartfelt sorrow might be discerned in either face. A stranger would have taken them for sisters, rather than for mother and daughter; for there were lines of thought on Rose’s brow which her twenty years scarcely warranted, while Mrs. Arundel, at eight-and-thirty, looked full six years younger, despite her widow’s cap.

“I have been thinking, Rose,” resumed the elder lady, after a short pause, during which she continued pacing the room most assiduously, “I have been thinking that if we were to settle near some large town, I could give lessons in music and singing: my voice is as good as ever it was—listen;” and, seating herself at a small cottage piano, she began to execute some difficult solfeggi in a rich, clear soprano, with a degree of ease and grace which proved her to be a finished singer; and, apparently carried away by the feeling the music had excited, she allowed her voice to flow, as it were unconsciously, into the words of an Italian song, which she continued for some moments, without noticing a look of pain which shot across her daughter’s pale features. At length, suddenly breaking off, she exclaimed in a voice broken with emotion, “Ah! what am I singing?” and, burying her face in her handkerchief, she burst into a flood of tears: it had been her husband’s favourite song.

Recovering herself more quickly than from the violence of her grief might have been expected, she was about to resume her walk, when, observing for the first time the expression of her daughter’s face, she sprang towards her, and placing her arm caressingly round her waist, kissed her tenderly, exclaiming in a tone of the fondest affection, “Rose, my own darling, I have distressed you by my heedlessness, but I forget everything now!” She paused; then added, in a calmer tone, “Really, love, I have been thinking seriously of what I said just now about teaching. If I could but get a sufficient number of pupils, it would be much better than allowing you to go out as governess, for we could live together then; and I know I shall never be able to part with you. Besides, you would be miserable, managing naughty children all day long—throwing away your talents on a set of stupid little wretches,—such drudgery would ennui you to death.”

“And do you think, mamma, that I could be content to live in idleness and allow you to work for my support?” replied Rose, while a faint smile played over her expressive features. “Oh, no! Lewis will try to obtain some appointment: you shall live with him and keep his house, while I go out as governess for a few years; and we must save all we can, until we are rich enough to live together again.”

“And perhaps some day we may be able to come back and take the dear old cottage, if Lewis is very lucky and should make a fortune,” returned Mrs. Arundel. “How shall we be able to bear to leave it!” she added, glancing round the room regretfully.

“How, indeed!” replied Rose, with a sigh; “but it must be done. Lewis will not feel it as we shall—he has been away so long.”

“It seems an age,” resumed Mrs. Arundel, musing. “How old was he when he left Westminster?”

“Sixteen, was he not?” replied Rose.

“And he has been at Bonn three years. Why, Rose, he must be a man by this time!”

“Mr. Frere wrote us word he was the taller of the two by half a head last year, if you recollect,” returned Rose.

“Hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Arundel, starting up and going to the window, which opened in the French fashion upon a small flower-garden. As she spoke, the gate-bell rang smartly, and in another moment the person outside, having apparently caught sight of the figure at the window, sprang lightly over the paling, crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds, and ere the slave of the bell had answered its impatient summons, Lewis was in his mother’s arms.

After the first greeting, in which smiles and tears had mingled in strange fellowship, Mrs. Arundel drew her son towards a table, on which a lamp was burning, saying as she did so, “Why, Rose, can this be our little Lewis? He is as tall as a grenadier! Heads up, sir!—Attention!—You are going to be inspected. Do you remember when the old sergeant used to drill us all, and wanted to teach Rose to fence?”

Smiling at his mother’s caprice, Lewis Arundel drew himself up to his full height, and, placing his back against the wall, stood in the attitude of a soldier on parade—his head just touching the frame of a picture which hung above him. The light of the lamp shone full upon the spot where he had stationed himself, displaying a face and figure on which a mother’s eye might well rest with pride and admiration. Considerably above the middle height, his figure was slender, but singularly graceful; his head small and intellectual looking. The features, exquisitely formed, were, if anything, too delicately cut and regular; which, together with a brilliant complexion and long silken eyelashes, tended to impart an almost feminine character to his beauty. The expression of his face, however, effectually counteracted any such tendency; no one could observe the flashing of the dark eyes, the sarcastic curl of the short upper lip, the curved nostril slightly drawn back, the stern resolution of the knitted brow, without tracing signs of pride unbroken, stormy feelings and passions unsubdued, and an iron will, which, according as it might be directed, must prove all-powerful for good or evil. His hair, which he wore somewhat long, was, like his mother’s, of that jet black colour characteristic of the inhabitants of a southern clime rather than of the descendants of the fair-haired Saxons, while a soft down of the same dark hue as his clustering curls fringed the sides of his face, affording promise of a goodly crop of whiskers. Despite the differences of feature and expression,—and they were great,—there was a decided resemblance between the brother and sister, and the same indescribable charm, which made it next to impossible to watch Rose Arundel without loving her, shed its sunshine also over Lewis’s face when he smiled.

After surveying her son attentively, with eyes which sparkled with surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Arundel exclaimed, “Why, how the boy is altered! Is he not improved, Rose?” As she spoke, she involuntarily glanced from Lewis to the picture under which he stood. It was a half-length portrait of a young man, in what appeared to be some foreign uniform, the hand resting on the hilt of a cavalry sabre. The features, though scarcely so handsome, were strikingly like those of Lewis Arundel, the greatest difference being in the expression, which was more joyous, and that the hair in the portrait was of a rich brown instead of black. After comparing the two for a moment, Mrs Arundel attempted to speak, but her voice failing from emotion, she burst into tears, and hastily left the room.

“Why, Rose, what is it?” exclaimed Lewis in surprise; “is my mother ill?”

“No; it is your likeness to that picture, Lewis love, that has overcome her: you know it is a portrait of our dearest father” (her voice faltered as she pronounced his name), “taken just after they were married, I believe.”

Lewis regarded the picture attentively, then averting his head as if he could not bear that even Rose should witness his grief, he threw himself on a sofa and concealed his face with his hands. Recovering himself almost immediately, he drew his sister gently towards him, and placing her beside him, asked, as he stroked her glossy hair—

“Rose, dearest, how is it that I was not informed of our poor father’s illness? Surely a letter must have miscarried!”

“Did not mamma explain to you, then, how sudden it was?”

“Not a word: she only wrote a few hurried lines, leading me to prepare for a great shock; then told me that my father was dead; and entreating me to return immediately, broke off abruptly, saying she could write no more.”

“Poor mamma! she was quite overcome by her grief, and yet she was so excited and so anxious to save me, she would do everything herself. I wished her to let me write to you, but she objected, and I was afraid of annoying her.”

“It was most unfortunate,” returned Lewis; “in her hurry she misdirected the letter; and, as I told you when I wrote, I was from home at the time, and did not receive it till three weeks after it should have reached me. I was at a rifle-match got up by some of the students, and had just gained the prize, a pair of silver-mounted pistols, when her letter was put into my hand. Fancy receiving such news in a scene of gaiety!”

“How exquisitely painful! My poor brother!” said Rose, while the tears she could no longer repress dimmed her bright eyes. After a moment she continued, “But I was going to tell you,—it was more than a month ago,—poor papa had walked over to Warlington to negotiate about selling one of his paintings. Did you know that he had lately made his talent for painting serve as a means of adding to our income?”

“Richard Frere told me of it last year,” replied Lewis.

“Oh yes, Mr. Frere was kind enough to get introductions to several picture-dealers, and was of the greatest use,” continued Rose. “Well, when papa came in, he looked tired and harassed; and in answer to my questions, he said he had received intelligence which had excited him a good deal, and added something about being called upon to take a very important step. I left him to fetch a glass of wine, and when I returned, to my horror, his head was leaning forward on his breast, and he was both speechless and insensible. We instantly sent for the nearest medical man, but it was of no use; he pronounced it to be congestion of the brain, and gave us no hope: his opinion was but too correct; my dear father never spoke again, and in less than six hours all was over.”

“How dreadful!” murmured Lewis. “My poor Rose, how shocked you must have been!” After a few minutes’ silence he continued, “And what was this news which produced such an effect upon my father?”

“Strange to say,” replied Rose, “we have not the slightest notion. No letter or other paper has been found which could at all account for it, nor can we learn that papa met any one at Warlington likely to have brought him news. The only clue we have been able to gain is that Mr. Bowing, who keeps the library there, remarked that papa came in as usual to look at the daily papers, and as he was reading, suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise and put his hand to his brow. Mr. Bowing was about to inquire whether anything was the matter, when he was called away to attend to a customer; and when he was again at liberty papa had left the shop. Mr. Bowing sent us the paper afterwards, but neither mamma nor I could discover in it anything we could imagine at all likely to have affected papa so strongly.”

“How singular!” returned Lewis, musing. “What could it possibly have been? You say my father’s papers have been examined?”

“Yes, mamma wrote to Mr. Coke, papa’s man of business in London, and he came down directly, but nothing appeared to throw any light on the matter. Papa had not even made a will.” She paused to dry the tears which had flowed copiously during this narration, then continued: “But oh! Lewis, do you know we are so very, very poor?”

“I suspected as much, dear Rose; I knew my father’s was a life income. But why speak in such a melancholy tone? Surely my sister has not grown mercenary?”

“Scarcely that, I hope,” returned Rose, smiling; “but there is some difference between being mercenary and regretting that we are so poor that we shall be unable to live together: is there not, Lewis dear?”

“Unable to live together?” repeated Lewis slowly. “Yes, well, I may of course be obliged to leave you, but I shall not accept any employment which will necessitate my quitting England, so I shall often come and take a peep at you.”

“Oh! but, Lewis love, it is worse than that—we shall not be able to—— Hush! here comes mamma; we will talk about this another time.”

“Why, Lewis,” exclaimed Mrs. Arundel, entering the room with a light elastic step, without a trace of her late emotion visible on her animated countenance, “what is this? Here’s Rachel complaining that you have brought a wild beast with you, which has eaten up all the tea-cakes.”

“Let alone fright’ning the blessed cat so that she’s flowed up the chimley like a whirlpool, and me a’most in fits all the time, the brute! But I’ll not sleep in the house with it, to be devoured like a cannibal in my quiet bed, if there was not another sitivation in Sussex!” And here Rachel, a stout serving-woman, with a face which, sufficiently red by nature, had become the deepest crimson from fear and anger, burst into a flood of tears, which, mingling with a tolerably thick deposit of soot, acquired during the hurried rise and progress of the outraged cat, imparted to her the appearance of some piebald variety of female Ethiopian Serenader.

“Rachel, have you forgotten me?” inquired Lewis, as soon as he could speak for laughing. “What are you crying about? You are not so silly as to be afraid of a dog? Here, Faust, where are you?” As he spoke he uttered a low, peculiar whistle; and in obedience to his signal a magnificent Livonian wolf-hound, which bore sufficient likeness to the animal it was trained to destroy to have alarmed a more discriminating zoologist than poor Rachel, sprang into the room, and, delighted at rejoining his master, began to testify his joy so roughly as not only to raise the terror of that damsel to screaming point, but to cause Mrs. Arundel to interpose a chair between herself and the intruder, while Rose, pale but silent, shrank timidly into a corner of the apartment. In an instant the expression of Lewis’s face changed; his brow contracted, his mouth grew stern, and fixing his flashing eyes upon those of the dog, he uttered in a deep, low voice some German word of command; and as he spoke the animal dropped at his feet, where it crouched in a suppliant attitude, gazing wistfully at his master’s countenance, without offering to move.

“You need not have erected a barricade to defend yourself, my dear mother,” said Lewis, as a smile chased the cloud which had for a moment shaded his features; “the monster is soon quelled. Rose, you must learn to love Faust—he is my second self; come and stroke him.”

Thus exhorted, Rose approached and patted the dog’s shaggy head, at first timidly, but more boldly when she found that he still retained his crouching posture, merely repaying her caresses by fixing his bright, truthful eyes upon her face lovingly, and licking his lips with his long red tongue.

“Now, Rachel,” continued Lewis, “it is your turn; come, I must have you good friends with Faust.”

“No, I’m much obliged to you, sir, I couldn’t do it, indeed—no disrespect to you, Mr. Lewis, though you have growed a man in foreign parts. I may be a servant of all work, but I didn’t engage myself to look after wild beasts, sir. No! nor wouldn’t, if you was to double my wages, and put the washin’ out—I can’t abear them.”

“Foolish girl! it’s the most good-natured dog in the world. Here, he’ll give you his paw; come and shake hands with him.”

“I couldn’t do it, sir; I’m jest a-going to set the tea-things. I won’t, then, that’s flat,” exclaimed Rachel, waxing rebellious in the extremity of her terror, and backing rapidly towards the door.

“Yes, you will,” returned Lewis quietly; “every one does as I bid them.” And grasping her wrist, while he fixed his piercing glance sternly upon her, he led her up to the dog, and in spite of a faint show of resistance, a half-frightened, half-indignant “I dare say, indeed,” and a muttered hint of her conviction “that he had lately been accustomed to drive black nigger slaves in Guinea,” with an intimation “that he’d find white flesh and blood wouldn’t stand it, and didn’t ought to, neither,” succeeded in making her shake its great paw, and finally (as she perceived no symptoms of the humanivorous propensities with which her imagination had endowed it), pat its shaggy sides. “There, now you’ve made up your quarrel, Faust shall help you to carry my things upstairs,” said Lewis; and slinging a small travelling valise round the dog’s neck, he again addressed him in German, when the well-trained animal left the room with the astonished but no longer refractory Rachel.

“You must be a conjurer, Lewis,” exclaimed his mother, who had remained a silent but amused spectator of the foregoing scene. “Why, Rachel manages the whole house. Rose and I do exactly what she tells us, don’t we, Rose? What did you do to her? was it mesmerism?”

“I made use of one of the secrets of the mesmerist, certainly,” replied Lewis; “I managed her by the power of a strong will over a weak one.”

“I should hardly call Rachel’s a weak will,” observed Rose, with a quiet smile.

“You must confess, at all events, mine is a stronger,” replied Lewis. “When I consider it necessary to carry a point, I usually find some way of doing it; it was necessary for the sake of Faust’s well-being to manage Rachel, and I did so.”

He spoke carelessly, but there was something in his bearing and manner which told of conscious power and inflexible resolution, and you felt instinctively that you were in the presence of a masterspirit.

Tea made its appearance; Rachel, upon whom the charm still appeared to operate, seeming in the highest possible good humour,—a frame of mind most unusual with that exemplary woman, who belonged to that trying class of servants who, on the strength of their high moral character and intense respectability, see fit to constitute themselves a kind of domestic scourges, household horse-hair shirts (if we may be allowed the expression), and, bent on fulfilling their mission to the enth, keep their martyred masters and mistresses in a constant state of mental soreness and irritation from morning till night.

Tea came,—the cakes demolished by the reprobate Faust in the agitation of his arrival (he was far too well-bred a dog to have done such a thing had he had time for reflection) having been replaced by some marvellous impromptu resulting from Rachel’s unhoped-for state of mind. The candles burned brightly; the fire (for though it was the end of May, a fire was still an agreeable companion) blazed and sparkled cheerily, but yet a gloom hung over the little party. One feeling was uppermost in each mind, and saddened every heart. He whom they had loved with a deep and tender affection, such as but few of us are so fortunate as to call forth, the kind and indulgent husband and father, the dear friend rather than the master of that little household, had been taken from amongst them; and each word, each look, each thought of the past, each hope for the future, served to realise in its fullest bitterness the heavy loss they had sustained. Happy are the dead whose virtues are chronicled, not on sculptured stone, but in the faithful hearts of those whom they have loved on earth!

During the evening, in the course of conversation, Mrs. Arundel again referred to the project of teaching music and singing. Lewis made no remark on the matter at the time, though his sister fancied, from his compressed lip and darkened brow, that it had not passed him unobserved. When the two ladies were about to retire for the night, Lewis signed to his sister to remain; and having lighted his mother’s candle, kissed her affectionately, and wished her good-night, he closed the door. There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Lewis saying abruptly, “Rose, what did my mother mean about giving singing lessons?”

“Dear, unselfish mamma!” replied Rose, “always ready to sacrifice her own comfort for those she loves! She wants, when we leave the cottage, to settle near some large town, that she may be able to teach music and singing (you know what a charming voice she has), in order to save me from the necessity of going out as governess.”

“Leave the cottage! go out as governess!” repeated Lewis in a low voice, as if he scarcely understood the purport of her words. “Are you mad?”

“I told you, love, we are too poor to continue living here, or indeed anywhere, in idleness; we must, at all events for a few years, work for our living; and you cannot suppose I would let mamma——”

“Hush!” exclaimed Lewis sternly, “you will distract me.” He paused for some minutes in deep thought; then asked, in a cold, hard tone of voice, which, to one skilled in reading the human heart, told of intense feelings and stormy passions kept down by the power of an iron will, “Tell me, what is the amount of the pittance that stands between us and beggary?”

“Dear Lewis, do not speak so bitterly; we have still each other’s love remaining, and Heaven to look forward to; and with such blessings, even poverty need not render us unhappy.” And as she uttered these words, Rose leaned fondly upon her brother’s shoulder, and gazed up into his face with a look of such deep affection, such pure and holy confidence, that even his proud spirit, cruelly as it had been wounded by the unexpected shock, could not withstand it. Placing his arm round her, he drew her towards him, and kissing her high, pale brow, murmured—

“Forgive me, dear Rose; I have grown harsh and stern of late—all are not true and good as you are. Believe me, it was for your sake and my mother’s that I felt this blow: for myself, I heed it not, save as it impedes freedom of action. And now answer my question, What have we left to live upon?”

“About £100 a year was what Mr. Coke told mamma.”

“And, on an average, what does it cost living in this cottage as comfortably as you have been accustomed to do?”

“Poor papa used to reckon we spent £200 a year here.”

“No more, you are certain?”

“Quite.”

Again Lewis paused in deep thought, his brow resting on his hand. At length he said, suddenly—

“Yes, it no doubt can be done, and shall. Now, Rose, listen to me. While I live and can work, neither my mother nor you shall do anything for your own support, or leave the rank you have held in society. You shall retain this cottage, and live as you have been accustomed to do, and as befits the widow and daughter of him that is gone.”

“But, Lewis——”

“Rose, you do not know me. When I left England I was a boy: in years, perhaps, I am little else even yet; but circumstances have made me older than my years, and in mind and disposition I am a man, and a determined one. I feel strongly and deeply in regard to the position held by my mother and sister, and therefore on this point it is useless to oppose me.”

Rose looked steadily in his face, and saw that what he said was true; therefore, exercising an unusual degree of common sense for a woman, she held her tongue, and let a wilful man have his way.

Reader, would you know the circumstances which had changed Lewis Arundel from a boy to a man? They are soon told. He had loved, foolishly perhaps, but with all the pure and ardent passion, the fond and trusting confidence of youth—he had loved, and been deceived.

Lewis had walked some miles that day, and had travelled both by sea and land; it may therefore reasonably be supposed that he was tolerably sleepy. Nevertheless, before he went to bed he sat down and wrote the following letter:—

“My dear Frere,—There were but two men in the world of whom I would have asked a favour, or from whom I would accept assistance—my poor father was one, you are the other. A week since I received a letter to tell me of my father’s death: to-day I have returned to England to learn that I am a beggar. Had I no tie to bind me, no one but myself to consider, I should instantly quit a country in which poverty is a deadly sin. In Germany or Italy I could easily render myself independent, either as painter or musician; and the careless freedom of the artist life suits me well; but the little that remains from my father’s scanty fortune is insufficient to support my mother and sister. Therefore I apply to you, and if you can help me, you may—your willingness to do so, I know. I must obtain, immediately, some situation or employment which will bring me in £200 a year; though, if my purchaser (for I consider that I am selling myself) will lodge and feed me, as he does his horse or his dog, £50 less would do. I care not what use I am put to, so that no moral degradation is attached to it. You know what I am fit for, as well 01-better than I do myself. I have not forgotten the Greek and Latin flogged into us at Westminster, and have added thereto French, Italian, and, of course, German; besides picking up sundry small accomplishments, which may induce somebody to offer a higher price for me; and as the more I get, the sooner I shall stand a chance of becoming my own master again, I feel intensely mercenary. Write as soon as possible, for, in my present frame of mind, inaction will destroy me. I long to see you again, old fellow. I have not forgotten the merry fortnight we spent together last year, when I introduced you to student-life in the ‘Vaterland’; nor the good advice you gave me, which if I had acted on—— Well, regrets are useless, if not worse. Of course I shall have to come up to town, in which case we can talk; so, as I hate writing, and am as tired as a dog, I may as well wind up. Good-bye till we meet.

“Your affectionate Friend,

“Lewis Arundel.

“P.S.—Talking of dogs, you don’t know Faust—I picked him up after you came away last year; but wherever I go, or whoever takes me, Faust must go also. He is as large as a calf, which is inconvenient, and I doubt whether he is full-grown yet. I dare say you think this childish, and very likely you are right, but I must have my dog. I can’t live among strangers without something to love, and that loves me; so don’t worry me about it, there’s a good fellow. Can’t you write to me to-morrow?”

Having in some measure relieved his mind by finishing this letter, Lewis undressed, and sleep soon effaced the lines which bitter thoughts and an aching heart had stamped upon his fair young brow.