CHAPTER LVII.—WALTER SEES A GHOST.
Lewis, having lighted a powerful lamp by the aid of which he was accustomed to paint at night, was enabled to take a more particular survey of his new acquaintance than circumstances had yet permitted. He was a tall, powerfully-built stripling, with a dark complexion and handsome features, but although he could scarcely have numbered twenty years, his face wore a prematurely old expression, and there was a wild, reckless look in his eyes which told of a spirit ill at ease. He wore a sailor’s dress, though the materials of which it was composed were of a finer quality than ordinary; he coldly refused the chair which Lewis offered him, and folding his arms across his breast, waited to be questioned. Lewis in the meantime took his seat at the table, placed the pistols on the desk before him, and fixing his piercing glance on the face of his captive, began—
“My knowledge of you is this: I find you an active and zealous member of a conspiracy to overthrow the Austrian Government in this city—one of a set of conspirators whose first act is to be the assassination of Colonel Marinovich, commandant of the Arsenal. As far as I am concerned, you first resolved to denounce me to your associates as a spy; foiled in that attempt, you incite an accomplice to murder me, and on his failure, use your best endeavours to stab me yourself; in the struggle I disarm you, and you find yourself in the power of the man for whose blood you have been thirsting. Even allowing, for the sake of argument, that you were justified in seeking the life of one who might betray your treasonous designs, you still remain a convicted conspirator, and my natural course would be to hand you over to the police; for your threat of never being taken alive is absurd, since you lost your stiletto I could have captured you at any moment I pleased. However, the fact of your being an Englishman interests me in your behalf, and if you will answer my questions frankly and truly, I may be induced to let you off. In the first place, tell me who you are, and enough of your former life to enable me to understand how I find you thus plotting with foreigners with whom you can have no feelings in common, for an evil purpose.”
“I can soon satisfy you, if that is all you require,” was the reply. “My life has from its commencement been a curse to myself and to others. Wrong has produced wrong; I was badly brought up, and I have turned out badly; I am not the first that has done so, nor shall I be the last. At the age when most children are carefully trained to good, I was as sedulously instructed in evil. At twelve years old I could swear, game, and drink, and my instructors laughed to see the boy aping the vices of the man. My mother died in giving me birth; my father, I know not why, never loved me: he used me cruelly, and I hated him for it; so I left my home and worked for four years on board a man-of-war. At the end of that time the ship was paid off. Seeking pleasure, I fell into vicious company; squandered, and was robbed of my pay, and for some weeks I wandered a houseless beggar through London streets. The chance kindness of a stranger rescued me from that state of wretchedness”—a peculiar expression flitted across the features of his auditor as he mentioned the fact of his rescue from beggary; not observing it, he continued: “I then entered the merchant-service, and speedily rose to the rank of mate. The misery I had undergone rendered me more careful. I saved money, studied my profession, and hoped in time to become a captain of a merchantman. I embarked the whole of my savings in a trading speculation which would more than have doubled them, when the ship containing my property was wrecked. I was picked up by a vessel bound to this port, and was landed here again a beggar; and after trying in vain to procure any better situation, I have been forced to work in the arsenal as a common labourer to save myself from starvation. But even there my ill-fortune and the cruelty and injustice of men followed me. Peculation to a great extent was discovered amongst the workmen; I was examined before Colonel Marinovich; in vain I protested my innocence. God knows I have committed sins enough; but thieving and lying were never among them. However, I was condemned to receive forty lashes. Yes, sir; I, an Englishman, innocent of the crime of which I was accused, was beaten like a slave by the orders of a tyrannical foreigner; and now, perhaps, you can tell what took me to the meeting to-night? It was the hope of revenge, and there were others there with the same deadly purpose. The man who proposed the assassination of Marinovich was innocent as myself, and like me had smarted beneath the tyrant’s lash. You by revealing this plot threatened to cheat us of our just revenge, and for that reason I would have sacrificed your life. And now you know my history, what will you do with me?”
There was a moment’s pause ere Lewis, fixing his eyes on him with a clear, penetrating glance, said slowly and impressively, “There are a few minor particulars which appear to have escaped your memory; I will try to supply the deficiency. You were born in the village of B————, in H——shire. Your early instructors in evil were the worthless characters who accompanied your father on his poaching expeditions. You left home because in a drunken mood your father struck you, and would not confess afterwards that he was sorry for so doing. You would have run away sooner but for your affection for your sister Jane. The stranger who rescued you from beggary was a young man who met you by chance at the door of a house in ———— Street, Russell Square; you begged of him in Italian; the merchant-ship in which you served, to whose commander he gave you an introduction, was the ‘Beauty,’ of Southsea, Captain Singleton, and your own name is Miles Hardy. Am I not correct in these particulars?”
When Lewis began speaking his companion’s attention became riveted. As he proceeded his surprise grew deeper and deeper; but when he mentioned his name he sprang forward, and regarding him with wildly gleaming eyes, exclaimed, “Tell me, what are you? man or devil? who thus know every secret of my life.”
“I am no devil,” returned Lewis, smiling, “but a mortal like yourself; you have seen me before; look well at me; do you not recognise me?”
Thus appealed to, the young man carefully scanned his features, and then, in a low, hesitating voice, rejoined, “You are, or I am much mistaken, the gentleman who rescued me from beggary.”
“You are right,” was the reply; “we are both much changed since that night, but I knew you at the moment you seized me by the throat.”
“Thank God, I did not succeed in taking your life!” exclaimed Miles Hardy earnestly; “you are almost the only person who has ever shown me disinterested kindness; and how have I sought to repay it! Oh, sir, can you forgive me?”
“The simple fact that you did not recognise me exonerates you from the charge of ingratitude, my poor fellow,” returned Lewis kindly; “but now sit down. Ere I can explain to you how I gained the knowledge which has so much surprised you, you have a long tale to listen to, and one which will cause you much sorrow. You turn pale; wait, I will get you a glass of wine.”
“It is nothing,” was the reply; “I have fasted long; it will pass away in a moment;” but as he spoke he sank heavily into a chair which stood beside him.
Lewis produced from a cupboard food and wine, and placing them before him, induced him to partake of some refreshment, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the light return to his eye and the colour to his cheek. Lewis then filled for himself a glass of wine, replenished that of his companion, and seating himself, hastened to relate to Miles Hardy the strange train of events by means of which he had become acquainted with so large a portion of the young man’s history. The feelings with which Miles Hardy listened to the account of his unhappy father’s career, and the mingled grief and anger with which he heard how the heritage of his mother’s shame had descended to his unfortunate sister, may easily be imagined. Lewis strove with an amount of patient kindness, for which those who knew only the fiery side of his character would scarcely have given him credit, to soothe the passionate emotions which his tale excited in an auditor so deeply interested in the fortunes of those to whom it related. After long perseverance his efforts were in some degree crowned with success—Miles became more calm, and agreed with Lewis that his first duty was to seek for, and endeavour to reclaim, his sister. His share of the legacy would furnish him with funds sufficient to enable him to live without the necessity of daily labour, and until his right to the money should be established, Lewis insisted on becoming his banker. The next question was not so easily arranged: Lewis informed Miles that in regard to the events of the evening he had arrived at the following determination—viz., to call on Colonel Marinovich, make him acquainted with the plot against his life, beg him to inform his superiors that such a conspiracy was on foot, and explain the manner in which he had become aware of its existence; but as far as Miles was concerned in the affair, he would promise to preserve a total silence, on one condition—namely, that he, Miles, should withdraw from the conspiracy and engage to keep the peace in regard to the commandant of the Arsenal. To this proposition the young man demurred.
“What,” he said, “give up my just revenge!—submit to undeserved chastisement like a beaten hound, and leave it to less tame and slavish spirits to punish the tyrant for his cruelty!—allow them to meet the danger and divide the glory while I stand by inactive! Never!”
“Believe me, Miles,” returned Lewis earnestly, “revenge, even just revenge, partakes of the nature of sin, and brings upon him who obtains it the curse of an upbraiding conscience. But yours is not a just revenge; you have suffered wrong, and the sense of this blinds your judgment. I know by report the character of this Marinovich; I know him to be a just and honourable man, though a stern disciplinarian. Great abuses had existed at the Arsenal, and it was in order to reform them that the command was bestowed on him. In your individual case he has acted unjustly, but in all probability appearances were strongly against you, and he had not sufficient personal acquaintance with you to know that amongst such inveterate liars as are the majority of the lower order of Venetians, your word might be relied on. His only fault is, therefore, that he committed an error in judgment, and would you on this account take a man’s life? Besides, conniving at assassination is a cowardly proceeding, unworthy any Englishman, and especially a brave young fellow like yourself.”
It was evident that Lewis’s reasoning was not without its effect on him whom he addressed, for his brow contracted, his fingers closed and relaxed, his mouth quivered convulsively, and his whole demeanour was that of a person struggling against some powerful temptation. At length he exclaimed abruptly—
“I know not how it is, you sway me like a child. I had resolved not to rest till that man was dead, but I never before saw the matter in the light in which you have now placed it. I believed that his death would be an act of justice, and considered that, in order to obtain justice, we must take the law into our own hands—but I feel the truth of what you say, that assassination is cowardly; I felt it when Jacopo was dogging your footsteps, and but for the cause that was at stake, could have found in my heart to warn you.”
“Then you will agree to my proposal?” inquired Lewis.
“Yes, I will agree to withdraw from the conspiracy, but it is at the risk of my life that I do so; if I am found in Venice after my desertion is known, I am a dead man. Moreover, I will promise you to abstain from secretly attempting Marinovich’s life; but if I should ever meet him face to face and hand to hand, I will teach him to remember having flogged an Englishman.”
Lewis felt that in his new character of Mentor he ought to combat this openly declared resolution, but he abstained from doing so, partly because he felt it would be useless, and partly because he sympathised so completely in the sentiment, that he could not muster sufficient hypocrisy to reprove it. Accordingly he remained satisfied with the concession he had gained, and furnishing Miles with all the information he possessed in regard to his sister, which was but vague and unsatisfactory (a rumour that she had passed some time in Rome on her first arrival in that country being the only trace he had yet been able to discover of her proceedings), Lewis gave him an introduction to an agent whom he had employed to gain further tidings, and forcing a sum of money upon him more than sufficient to defray his expenses, hastened his departure ere the brilliant rays of an Italian sun had spread the lustre of the coming day throughout the picturesque old streets and palace-crowned squares of Venice.
On the following morning Lewis fulfilled his intention of calling on Colonel Marinovich, who heard his recital in silence, and when he had concluded, thanked him for his information, said he was aware great disaffection existed amongst the men employed at the Arsenal, and that energetic measures must be taken to prevent its spreading further, promised to report the discovery of the secret meeting to the Governor, took down Lewis’s address, and politely bowed him out.
Having despatched a note to Charles Leicester telling him he wished to see him, Lewis debated with himself how much of the previous night’s adventure he should reveal to him, and at length decided that it would be more prudent to avoid mentioning his encounter with and recognition of Miles Hardy, as although he had refused to reveal to him the name of the seducer of his sister, yet any reference to an affair in which Lord Bellefield had so singularly misconducted himself must necessarily be painful to Leicester. Moreover, although in his dealings with Miles Hardy Lewis had acted justly, according to the best of his judgment, he was by no means clear that the law might take the same view of the matter. Charley came—listened to his friend’s account—yawned—wondered why he had such a strange predilection for putting his life in danger, prophesying that he would do it once too often and be sorry for it afterwards—expected there would be a shindy in Venice before long—wished Laura and the brat were safe in England, and that the other people were not coming—voted it all an awful bore—asked Lewis whether he liked foreign tailoring, into the merits and demerits whereof he entered at some length—yawned again, and patting him affectionately on the back, told him to take better care of himself for the future, and lounged carelessly out of the studio.
A week passed away. The Grant party had arrived; Annie, although she made a great effort to appear in her former spirits, was evidently labouring under some ailment, mental or bodily, or both combined, which was wearing away her youth, and, as it appeared, changing her whole nature. Laura, who watched her closely, observed that she was unusually silent and abstracted, falling into long reveries, from which she would awake with a start, and glancing round with a half-frightened air, would immediately begin talking in an unnaturally excited manner, as if to do away with any suspicion to which her silence might have given rise. Her temper also, which had been remarkable for its sweetness, had now become uncertain, and she occasionally answered even the General with a wayward captiousness which surprised Laura only one degree less than the preternatural meekness with which that gallant officer submitted to her caprices and indulged her every whim; but the fact was, General Grant had sufficient acuteness to perceive that for some cause, utterly beyond the scope of his philosophy to account for, his daughter was not the quiet, gentle, will-less creature she had been, and that if he required her to yield to him in great matters he must allow her to rule in small. Moreover, he had lately become seriously alarmed about her health; a London physician whom he had consulted on the subject having plainly told him unless great caution was observed she would go into a decline, and warned him that the seat of the disease appeared to be in the mind, and that anything like harshness or opposition must be avoided. Walter also was much changed during the two years which had elapsed. In appearance he was now a young man, tall, and slightly but gracefully formed, with well-cut, regular features, though a want of intellectual expression marred what might otherwise have been considered a handsome countenance. But considerable as was the alteration in his personal appearance, the change in his mental capacity was equally perceivable, his powers of mind had developed to a greater degree than had been anticipated, but alas! deprived of Lewis’s firm yet gentle rule, the improvement in his disposition had by no means kept pace with the extension of his faculties. For some weeks after Lewis had quitted Broadhurst, poor Walter could not be persuaded that he would not come back again, nor was it till the arrival of a tutor, recommended by Lord Bellefield, that he fully realised the fact of his friend having left him never to return. The first effect this conviction produced upon him was a fit of deep dejection; he refused all attempts at consolation, could scarcely be persuaded to take nourishment, and sat hour after hour playing listlessly with the wavy curls of Faust’s shaggy coat. At length, in order to rouse him, General Grant desired the dog to be taken away from him; the remedy proved only too effectual. The new tutor, a certain Mr. Spooner, who appeared as if he had been selected because he was in every respect the exact reverse of Lewis, was the person to whom the General entrusted this commission.
Absorbed in his own sad thoughts, Walter allowed him to coax the dog from his side by the attraction of a plate of meat, but when he laid his hand on the animal to buckle a collar and chain round his neck, he started up, exclaiming—
“What are you going to do with Faust? he is never tied up; let him alone.” Finding that his remonstrance was not attended to, he continued, “Faust! Faust! come here, sir, directly.”
The dog struggled to obey, but Mr. Spooner, having fastened the chain round his neck, endeavoured to force him out of the room, and in doing so stepped accidentally on Faust’s toes, who uttered a shrill yelp of pain. Walter’s eyes flashed.
“You are hurting him,” he cried; “how dare you!” and without waiting for a reply, he darted across the room, seized the astonished Mr. Spooner, who, unfortunately for himself, happened to be a small, slightly-framed man, by the throat, and shook him till his teeth chattered; then suddenly releasing him, he snatched the chain from his grasp, and leading the dog away, muttered in a threatening tone—
“Never you touch Faust again; if you do, I’ll strangle you.”
The results of this scene were twofold: Walter had rebelled and gained his point, and the person whom he had thus conquered had lost all chance of obtaining that degree of ascendency over him without which his control must become merely nominal. This produced, as might be expected, the worst possible effect upon poor Walter’s disposition. He became positive and wilful in the extreme, and his tutor, partly to save himself trouble, partly to avoid any outbreak of temper, gave way to him on every occasion; unless, indeed, he had any particular personal interest at stake, when he sought to gain his point by cajolery and manoeuvring, and being rather an adept in those ingenious arts, was usually successful.
One new and inconvenient caprice of Walter’s was a dislike which he appeared suddenly to have taken to Annie Grant, which displayed itself in various ways: sometimes he would avoid all intercourse with her, even sulkily refusing to answer her when she spoke to him; at others he would seek her out and endeavour to annoy her by saying what he deemed sharp things. Occasionally, however, he would fall into his old habits, and confide in her as his playmate, from whom he was sure of sympathy and assistance; when suddenly, perhaps, even in the midst of some conversation with her, he would appear to recollect his new-born animosity, and his manner would entirely alter. One thing invariably excited his extreme indignation, and this was any attempt on her part to caress or notice Faust. The pain this altered demeanour caused Annie (perhaps in consequence of some theory which she had formed as to its origin) was known but to her own heart, and could be guessed at merely by her unwearying efforts to conciliate poor Walter. Laura, upon whose quick-sightedness nothing was lost, carefully noted these changes, and made her own private comments upon them. In pursuance of her design of befriending Lewis, she made several attempts to penetrate the veil of reserve which hung around Annie Grant; but in vain: with her lightness of heart seemed also to have departed her openness of disposition, and Laura had too much good taste, as well as too much sympathy with her grief, to endeavour to force her confidence. At length one day, as Laura and Annie were sitting together, Laura working zealously at some article of juvenile finery, destined unconsciously to foster the seeds of incipient dandyism already apparent in that embryo man-about-town “Tarley,” and Annie listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, from which her thoughts were far away, the elder lady suddenly broke silence by observing—
“‘Tarley’ will be two years old to-morrow; how the time slips away, it really seems impossible!”
Annie’s only reply was a deep sigh, and Laura continued—
“Why, Annie, you’ll be of age in a month—four short weeks more, and you will actually have arrived at years of discretion. How wise you ought to be!”
Finding Annie still remained silent, Laura only waited till she had passed some interesting crisis in her stitching, and then looked up. To her alarm and surprise she beheld the “big tears” silently coursing each other down her friend’s pale cheeks: in an instant she was by her side.
“Annie, dearest,” she said, “you are weeping; what is it? Have I said or done anything to pain you?”
Annie slightly shook her head in token of dissent, and made an effort to check her tears, which proving ineffectual, eventuated in a bitter sob. Laura could not stand the sight of her grief; throwing her arms round her, she said—
“Annie, you are miserable; I see, I know you are; and your unhappiness is wearing you to death. Why will you not confide in me? Perhaps I might help you. What is it, darling? will you not tell me?” She paused for a reply, but obtaining none, continued: “This marriage with Lord Bellefield, it is distasteful to you, I am afraid?”
A shudder which passed through poor Annie’s frame as Laura mentioned the name of her intended husband proved that on this point her suspicions had not erred. Fancying she now saw her way more clearly—
“Dearest,” she resumed, “do not afflict yourself thus; you must not, shall not marry him. I will speak to the General myself. Charles shall write to his brother; you shall not be sacrificed.”
“Hush! hush!” interrupted Annie, struggling to recover composure; “you do not know what you say. I must marry him; there is no alternative.”
“Do not say so, Annie,” returned Laura gravely; “marriage is a sacred thing, not lightly to be entered into; and in marriage one requisite alone is indispensable—love! Tastes may differ, faults of temper or disposition may exist; yet if man and wife truly love each other, they will be very happy; but to marry without love is a grievous sin, and it entails its own punishment—wretchedness.”
Laura spoke solemnly and with feeling, and her companion, as she listened, trembled and turned pale. When she had concluded, however, Annie merely shook her head, repeating hopelessly—
“It must be—it must be!”
“And, pray, why must it be?” asked Laura quickly, for she was becoming slightly provoked at that which she deemed Annie’s childish weakness, the only fault, perhaps, with which her clear head, warm heart, and earnest, zealous nature unfitted her to sympathise. “Why, if the thing is wrong in itself, and is to render you miserable, must it be? At all events let us make some efforts to prevent it; suffer Charles and me——”
“Dearest Laura,” interrupted Annie mournfully, “I assure you nothing can be done; any attempt to break off the match now would be unavailing and only end in making me still more wretched than I am at present.”
Annoyed alike at her perseverance in that which Laura could not but consider a culpable want of moral courage, and at the way in which she still withheld her confidence, while at the same time the idea occurred to her, though she was vexed with herself for admitting it, that one so feeble-minded was no fitting bride for the high-souled, brave-hearted Lewis, the spirited little matron was about to utter a somewhat sharp reply, when, glancing at Annie’s pale, beautifully-formed features, the expression of deep anguish she read there disarmed her, and merely saying, “We take different views of this matter, Annie dear, and must talk of it again when we are both more composed,” she rose and left the apartment.
Annie waited until the sound of the closing door assured her that she was alone, and then murmuring, “She too is angry with me and despises me—nobody loves me. Oh, that I were dead!” »he hid her face in the sofa cushion and gave way to a passionate burst of grief.
Now there is one of our dramatis personæ for whom we have reason to believe many of our readers entertain a warm regard—a regard in which we confess ourselves fully to participate—of whom we have lately heard but little; of course we refer to that most “meritorious individual,” that dog of dogs, dear, honest old Faust. Since Lewis had quitted Broadhurst Faust’s character, like those of his betters (if mortals are better than dogs), had in a degree altered. The blind, unhesitating obedience he had been accustomed to pay to his master’s slightest signal he accorded to no other person; if Walter called him he would come, it is true, but he would do so in the calm, leisurely, dignified manner in which one gentleman would comply with the request of another. Towards the General he conducted himself with a degree of respectful hauteur which seemed to say, “We are not friends; there is no sympathy between us, but as long as I continue to reside in a family of which you are the head, I owe it to myself to render you the amount of courtesy due to your position.” For Mr. Spooner, the usurper who had dared to succeed his beloved master, he showed a most unmitigated contempt, totally ignoring all his commands, and resenting any attempt on his part to enforce his authority by the utterance of a low, deep growl, accompanied by a formidable display of sharp white teeth. Towards Annie alone did he evince any great affection, which he showed chiefly by attending her in her walks and taking up his position under the sofa, or close to the chair on which she was sitting—demonstrations of attachment which, as we have already hinted, were for some unexplained reason a source of considerable annoyance to Walter. During the conversation between Laura and Annie, Faust had been lying unnoticed under the sofa, and now finding his young mistress alone, and for some cause or other unhappy (he knew that quite well), it occurred to him that the correct thing would be to come out and comfort her, which he attempted to do by laying his great rough head in her lap, wagging his tail encouragingly, and licking her hand. In her loneliness of heart even the poor dog’s sympathy (endeared to her as he was by a thousand cherished recollections) was a relief to Annie, and stooping down she imprinted a kiss on his shaggy head, whispering as she did so, “Good Faust—you have never forsaken me!” At this moment the door opened, and Walter entered hastily. As his eye fell upon Annie and the dog his cheeks flushed, and he exclaimed hastily—
“Annie, I wish you’d let Faust alone; how often have I told you that I won’t have him meddled with?”
With a start at this sudden interruption Annie hastily raised herself, and pushing the dog gently from her, said—
“Dear Walter, do not be angry; Faust came and licked my hand, you would not have me unkind to him?”
“Oh! it’s Faust’s fault, is it?” returned Walter crossly. “Faust, come here! Take him to our room, Mr. Spooner, and keep him there till I come; he shall not stay in the drawing-room if he does what I don’t like. Faust, do you hear me, sir?”
“He will never follow me, Sir Walter; it’s no use calling him,” remonstrated Mr. Spooner.
“He will do as I tell him, and so will you too,” returned Walter imperiously, and twisting his handkerchief, he tied it round the dog’s neck, led him to the door, gave the end of the leash thus formed to Mr. Spooner, and then fairly turned the pair of them out of the room. Having accomplished this feat, he strolled listlessly to the fireplace, and amused himself by pulling about the ornaments on the chimney-piece for some minutes. At length a new idea seemed to strike him, and turning to his companion, he said—
“Do you know why I was so angry with Faust just now?”
“Because I was petting him, I suppose, as you don’t seem to like me to do so,” returned Annie.
“Ah! that was not all, though,” rejoined Walter; “I wanted him particularly to have been with me when I was out walking to-day, very particularly.”
“Yes, and why was that?” inquired Annie, who always encouraged him to talk to her, in the hope of overcoming the dislike which he had taken to her, and which, for many reasons, pained her inexpressibly. Walter remained for a minute or two silent, and then coming close to her, he asked in a low whisper—
“Annie, do you believe in ghosts?”
“My dear Walter, what an odd question,” returned Annie in surprise; “why do you ask it?”
Walter glanced carefully round the room, to assure himself that they were alone ere he replied, in the same low, awe-stricken whisper, “Because, if there are such things, I think I’ve seen one.”
“Silly boy,” rejoined Annie, anxious to reassure him, for she saw that he was really frightened, “you have fancied it. What was your ghost like, pray?”
“Promise you won’t tell anybody.”
Annie, half amused, half puzzled by the boy’s earnestness, gave the required pledge. As soon as she had done so, Walter, stooping down so as to bring his mouth on a level with her ear, replied—
“It was the ghost of Mr. Arundel!”
Overcome by so unexpected a reply, Annie was a moment or so before she could find words to inquire, “My dear Walter, what could make you imagine such a thing? Perhaps you were asleep, and dreamed it—when was it?”
“No, I was not asleep; and it was not fancy,” returned Walter gravely. “I was out walking this morning early with Mr. Spooner, and we lost our way, and after trying for some time to find it, Mr. Spooner hired a boat, and told the boatman to set us down near—near—well, I forget the name, but he meant near here. When we got out, we had to go through some narrow passages between the different streets, and in one of them, which was very dark because of the high houses, we met a figure of a man, very tall, and wrapped in a long black cloak; it drew back to let us pass, and just as I got close to it it turned its head, and I saw the face; it was stem and dark, and wore a black beard, but the beautiful eyes were the same, and when I saw them I knew it was Mr. Arundel, or,” he added, sinking his voice, “his ghost!”
As his companion remained silent, he continued, “When I saw who it was, I stopped, and was just going to speak, but at that moment he stared hard at me, gave a violent start, and before I could do anything to prevent it, vanished through a dark archway.”
“Oh! you must have mistaken some one for him,” returned Annie, struggling for composure—“Mr. Arundel is probably in England, and ghosts are out of the question; besides, if there are such things, which I much doubt, they only appear after people are dead.”
Walter considered for a minute, and then met the difficulty by consolatorily suggesting, “Perhaps dear Mr. Arundel is dead—perhaps he grew so unhappy that he could not live without ever seeing Faust and me, and—ah! Annie, how could you be so cruel as to send him away?”
“I send him away, Walter! what can have put such a strange notion into your head?” exclaimed Annie, astonished at the accusation.
“Yes you did,” returned Walter vehemently; “he went away because he loved you and you would not love him—it was very cruel of you, and I hate you for it whenever I remember how unkind you have been,” and overcome by his feelings, the poor boy burst into tears.
A thousand confused thoughts flashed like lightning across Annie’s brain. What could he mean?—was she listening to the mere folly of idiocy, or could he indeed have any possible foundation for his assertion? Anxious to soothe him, she laid her hand caressingly upon his, while, replying rather to her own heart than to his last observation, she said—
“No, my poor Walter, he whom you so much regret never loved me.”
“Ah, but he did, though,” returned Walter positively, drying his tears—“I know it.” He spoke so decidedly that Annie, despite her reason, could not but feel curious to hear more, and turning away her head to hide her agitation, she asked in a low voice—
“How do you know?”
“If I tell you, you must never tell the General or anybody,” returned Walter—“people think I’m a fool, and I know I am not clever, and can’t learn like other boys, and sometimes I feel a weight just here,” and he pressed his hand to his forehead, “and then all my sense goes out—I wonder where it goes to, Annie—do you think it finds wings and flies up to heaven among the white angels? I think so sometimes, and then I long to be a bird and fly with it.” Too much interested to allow him to fall into a new train of thought, Annie recalled his wandering ideas by saying—
“You were talking about Mr. Arundel, Walter dear.”
“Oh yes, and about you, I remember,” resumed Walter. “I knew, at least I thought, he was very fond of you a long time ago, but I was not quite sure of it till one day when I dressed Faust up like a gentleman, with Mr. Arundel’s watch, and you took it off the dog’s neck, and then you threw your arms round him and kissed him as you did just now—that was what made me angry when I remembered about the first time—well, while you were hugging Faust, Mr. Arundel came to the door and saw you, though you did not see him, and his eyes danced and sparkled, and his mouth melted into such a sweet smile; he was so glad to see how fond you were of Faust, and then I knew he loved you, for if he had not, he would not have cared about it, you know. Then he went away and left me Faust, and I thought because he had left Faust he was sure to come back, but I know now that he left him to comfort me, and went away himself all alone. Then that stupid Mr.. Spooner came; he’s a great friend of Lord Bellefield’s, and one day they were talking together, and they fancied I did not attend to them, but I did though, for I knew they were talking about Mr. Arundel. Well, Mr. Spooner asked why he went away, and Lord Bellefield replied, ‘Why, if the truth must be told, he had the audacity (what does that mean?) to raise his eyes to my cousin Annie.’ Mr. Spooner questioned him further, and he informed him that Mr. Arundel had gone boldly to the General, and said he loved you.”
“Told my father so!” exclaimed Annie.
“Yes, so he said,” resumed Walter; “and the General told him you loved Lord Bellefield instead, and meant to be his wife; and then poor Mr. Arundel said he would go away, and so he did, but of course if you had loved him he would have stayed, and we should all have been so happy together. So you see, Annie, it was you that sent him away, and since I’ve known that I’ve hated you, and tried to keep Faust from loving you, only he will, and I can’t hate you quite always; but I never meant to tell you all this, and you must never tell Lord Bellefield, or he would be ready to kill me.”
He paused, then regarding her with a sad, regretful look, he said,
“But, Annie, is it really true that you don’t love dear Mr. Arundel?” Poor Annie! affected and excited as she had been by the foregoing scene, this last speech was too much for her, and throwing her arms about the boy’s neck, and hiding her burning cheek against his breast, she whispered, “Dearest Walter, do not hate me! you have no cause to do so!”