Lewis Arundel; Or, The Railroad Of Life

by Frank E. Smedley

CHAPTER LXI.—“WE MET, ’TWAS IN A CROWD!”

Lord Bellefield safely accomplished his journey to Venice, reaching that city of palaces without let or hindrance. Despite his imperturbable assurance, a close observer might have discovered from external signs that his lordship was ill at ease, and in no particular was it more apparent than in the marked change in his manner towards General Grant and his daughter. The cold nonchalance with which he formerly tolerated the General’s stateliness, and the easy, almost impertinent confidence with which he had been accustomed to prosecute his suit to Annie, had given place to an affectation of studiously courteous deference when he addressed the father, and to respectful yet tender devotion in his intercourse with the daughter, which proved that to secure the good opinion of the former, and, if possible, the affections of the latter, had now become a matter of importance to him. With General Grant he was in great measure successful, that gallant officer believing, in his simplicity, that his intended son-in-law had at length finished sowing his wild oats; a species of seed which, being universally acknowledged to contain, besides every small vice extant, the germs of the seven deadly sins, has this remarkable peculiarity, that being once sown, it is popularly supposed to bring forth a plentiful crop of all the domestic virtues. Deluded by this fallacy, the General fondly trusted that the coming event of matrimony had cast its shadow before, and extinguished all the wild-fire which had hitherto flung its baleful glare over his Lordship’s comet-like course; or, to drop metaphor and condescend to that much better thing, plain English, the gallant officer taught himself to believe that Lord Bellefield had at length seen the error of his ways and intended to marry and live virtuously ever after. With the lady, however, his lordship did not succeed so easily; and skilful tactician as he not unjustly considered himself, never had he felt more completely bewildered or more thoroughly perplexed how to act. Annie’s whole nature appeared to him so completely altered that he could hardly recognise her as the same person. Instead of the simple, amiable, child-like character which he had despised but fancied would do very well for a wife, he now found a proud, capricious beauty, whose mood seemed to vary between cold indifference and a teasing, sarcastic humour, which he could neither fathom nor control. If he tried to interest or amuse her, she listened with a careless, distrait manner, which proved his efforts to be completely unavailing; if he attempted the tender or sentimental, she laughed at him, turning all he said into ridicule by two or three words of quiet but bitter irony. She appeared tacitly to acquiesce in their engagement, but any attempt to fix a time for its fulfilment served only to estrange her still more. Does the reader think this change unnatural? may he never witness the alteration which a grief such as Annie’s makes, even in the gentlest natures—may he never experience the bitterness of that nascent despair, which can sour the sweetest temper and force cold looks and cutting words from eyes accustomed to beam with tenderness, and lips from which accents of affection alone were wont to flow!

One morning, rather more than a week after Lord Bellefield’s arrival, an expedition was proposed to visit one of the architectural lions of the picturesque old city, and as the General seemed inclined to accede to the scheme, and Annie urged no objection, it was agreed that they should go.

“I make one proviso,” observed Charles Leicester, “and that is, that you come home in good time. I don’t wrant to frighten you, in fact there is nothing to be frightened about, only I know that there has been for some time past a spirit of disaffection abroad among the workmen at the Arsenal, and if they should attempt to make a demonstration by congregating in the squares and few open spaces in this amphibious city, it might be disagreeable for you.”

“But is such an event at all probable?” inquired Laura.

“Why, yes,” was the reply; “I had a note this morning from Arundel”—catching a reproachful look from his wife, Charley stopped in momentary embarrassment, then continued—“a—that is, from a friend of mine, telling me such a thing was possible—however, I’ll go with you myself, and keep you in proper order.”

As Charley in his forgetfulness blundered out the name of Arundel, Laura did not dare to look at Annie; when, however, she ventured a moment afterwards to steal a glance towards her, her features wore the cold, listless look which had now, alas! become habitual to them, and exhibited no sign of emotion by which her friend could decide whether she had remarked the name, or whether it had passed without striking her ear. Almost immediately afterwards she rose, and saying she supposed she had better get ready, quitted the room. Lord Belle-field had not been present at this little scene. With faltering steps Annie sought her own apartment, closed and locked the door; then, instead of preparing to dress, flung herself into an easy-chair, and pressing her hands upon her throbbing temples, tried to collect her thoughts. She had heard the name only too clearly, and combining it with Walter’s tale of the ghost, had guessed the truth. He was then in Venice, and not only that, but he had evidently established some communication with the Leicesters, and must therefore be aware of the presence of her father and herself; nay, by what she had gathered from Charles’s speech, he must be actually engaged in watching over their safety; and as the idea struck her, a soft, bright light came into her eyes, and a faint blush restored the roses to her cheeks, so that any one who had seen her five minutes before would scarcely have recognised her for the same person. “But with what purpose could he be there? why, if the Leicesters knew it, had they so studiously concealed it from her?—from her!” and as she repeated the words the recollection of Walter’s speech, “He went away because he loved you, and you did not love him,” flashed across her. “What if it were true? what if he had really loved her, and had left them because his feelings were becoming too strong for his control?” and then a thousand remembered circumstances (trifling in themselves, but confirmatory of that which she now almost believed to be the truth) occurred to her. But if this were indeed the case—if, instead of resigning his situation because, as her fears had urged, he had guessed at the nature of her sentiments towards him, he had loved her, and his honourable feelings had driven him into a self-imposed exile—what must he not have suffered! and oh! knowing as much as he did of her feelings towards Lord Bellefield, what must he not have thought of her, when he learned that in less than four-and-twenty hours after his departure she had renewed her engagement to a man he was aware she both disliked and mistrusted! above all, what a false view must it have given him of her feelings towards himself! Oh, how she hoped, how she prayed this blow might have been spared him! Then the present, what did it mean? the future, how would it turn out? On one point she was determined: only let her ascertain beyond a doubt that Lewis loved her, and she would die rather than marry Lord Bellefield. The evils that befall us in this world are not without even their temporal benefit. Two years of hopeless sorrow had given a species of desperate courage to a mind naturally prone to a want of self-dependence. Anything was preferable to the anguish she had gone through; and Annie Grant’s decision now was very different to the “lady’s yea” or nay she would have uttered ere the storm of passion had swept over her maiden spirit.

The effect produced on Annie by the new light which had broken in upon her did not immediately pass away, and although her remarks were chiefly addressed to her cousin Charles, Lord Bellefield was equally surprised and puzzled by the change in her manner. In order to reach the building they were about to visit, they were forced to disembark from their gondola, and after proceeding along a species of cloister, to cross one of the foot-bridges which so constantly in Venice intersect the canals. Under the shade of an arch of this cloister stood the tall figure of a man; as the party approached he drew back further into the shadow, and, himself unseen, observed them attentively as they passed. The excitement of the morning had left its traces in the flushed cheek and sparkling eye of Annie Grant. At the moment she quitted the boat, Charley Leicester had made her laugh by some quaint remark on the personal appearance of a fat little individual who was one of the gondoliers, but whose figure by no means coincided with the romantic associations his avocation recalled. As, leaning on Lord Bellefield’s arm, she passed the arch behind which the stranger was concealed, her companion addressed to her some observation which necessitated a reply. Turning to him with the smile Leicester’s observation had provoked still upon her lips, the light fell strongly on her features, revealing them fully to the eager gaze of (for we intend no mystification as to his identity) Lewis Arundel. He looked after them with straining eyeballs, till a corner of the building hid them from his view. Then dark lines spread across his forehead, the proud nostril arched, the stern mouth set, the flashing eye grew cold and stony, and a spirit of evil seemed to take possession of him.

“So,” he muttered, “it has come to this; with my own eyes have I beheld her perfidy. It is well that it should be so, the cure will be the more complete, and yet”—he pressed his hand to his throbbing brow—“yet how beautiful she is! She is changed; her face has acquired expression, soul, power, all it wanted to render it perfect, and—to madden me.”

He paused, then appearing to have collected strength, continued more calmly, “Yes, I have seen it; she clung to his arm, she smiled on him, she loves and will marry him. It is over; for me there must be no past; I must sweep it from my memory. Happiness I can never know; as far as the affections are concerned, the game of life is played. Well, be it so, my art still is left me, and the dark, the unknown future.”

Again he paused. Ere the arrival of the party, the sight of which had so deeply affected him, he had been sketching an antique gable opposite. He resumed his work, and by a few hasty but graphic strokes transferred to his sketch-book the object which had attracted him to the spot. Replacing his drawing materials, he continued, “ ’Tis strange how the sight of that man affected me: I fancied I had taught myself the evil and folly of nourishing sentiments of hatred against him, and yet the moment I beheld him, all the old feelings rushed back upon me with redoubled vigour. I must avoid his presence, or my wise resolutions will go for nothing.” He sighed deeply. “This, then, is all the fruit of two years of mental discipline, to find, at the end of the time, that I love her as deeply and hate him as bitterly as I did at the beginning. Oh, it is humiliating thus to be the slave of passion!”

Communing with himself after this fashion, Lewis quitted the spot and proceeded in the direction of his own lodgings. On reaching the square of St. Mark he found it partially occupied by an excited crowd, composed of the very lowest order of the people, its numbers being constantly swelled by fresh parties pouring in from various parts of the city. It instantly occurred to Lewis that in order to reach the Palazzo Grassini, Leicester and his companions would be forced to cross the square, and consequently obliged to make their way through the crowd; and a feeling which he did not attempt to analyse, but which was, in truth, anxiety for Annie’s safety, determined him to remain there till he had seen them return. Accordingly, turning up his coat collar, and slouching his hat over his eyes in order to conceal his features, he mingled with the crowd. In the meantime the Grant party, ignorant of the difficulties that awaited them, were quietly examining statues and criticising pictures.

“Laura, you look tired, and Annie seems as if she were becoming somewhat ‘used-up,’” observed Leicester, glancing from his wife towards his cousin. “No wonder either, for we’ve been on our feet for more than two hours, and as for my share in the matter, I tell you plainly, if you keep me here much longer, you’ll have to carry me home on your back, Mrs. Leicester, for walk I won’t.”

Thus urged the ladies confessed their fatigue, and their willingness to return; but there was still another gallery of paintings unseen, which the General evidently wished to visit. He had commissioned an artist to copy two or three of them, and he required Lord Bellefield’s opinion as to the propriety of his choice. This occasioned a difficulty, which Laura met by proposing the following scheme—viz., that she, Annie, and Charley should leave the General and Lord Bellefield to their own devices, and taking a gondola, row to a point at which they would be within two minutes’ walk of St. Mark’s. Lord Bellefield made some slight remonstrance, and it was clear he disapproved of the scheme, but the General was peremptory, so he had no resource but to submit with the best grace he was able.

“Famous things gondolas are, to be sure,” observed Charley, as, placing a cushion beneath his head, he stretched himself at full length under the awning; “they afford almost the only instance that has come under my notice in which the intensely romantic and the very decidedly comfortable go hand in hand—they cut out cabs, and beat ’busses into fits. Now, we only want a little melody to make the thing perfect—Laura, sing us a song!”

“Sing you asleep, you mean, you incorrigible——”

“There, that will do; don’t become vituperative, you termagant,” interrupted her husband. “Annie, dear, gentle cousin Annie, warble forth something romantic with your angel-voice, do, and I’ll say you’re——”

“What?” inquired Annie.

“A regular stunner!” was the reply.

“And if the epithet be at all appropriate, it clearly proves me unqualified for the office,” returned Annie, smiling, “so you really must hold me excused.”

“Then the long and short of the matter is that the duty devolves upon me,” rejoined Charley, and slowly raising himself into a half sitting, half kneeling attitude, he placed himself at his wife’s feet, after the fashion of those very interesting cavaliers who do the romantic on the covers of sentimental songs; then having played an inaudible prelude upon a supposititious guitar, he placed one hand upon his heart, and extending the other in a theatrical attitude towards the boatman, begun—

“Gondolier, row—O!”

when, having extemporarily parodied the first verse of that popular melody, he was beginning the second with—

“Ain’t this here go—

Glorious—oh—o-”

when the prow of the gondola struck against the steps where they were to land with so sharp a jerk as to pitch the singer on his hands and knees, and effectually check his vocalising. After discharging the boatman, they proceeded a short distance along the bank of the canal, and then turned down a narrow lane, or alley, leading to the square of St. Mark. In this Leicester was annoyed to perceive knots of disreputable-looking men talking rapidly, or hurrying along with eager gestures towards the square. Finding, as they advanced, that the crowd became thicker, Leicester paused, irresolute whether or not to proceed.

“Surely we had better turn back,” urged Laura. “I should not be afraid if we were alone, for I know you could take care of me, but——,” and she glanced towards Annie, who, although she said nothing, had turned very pale, and clung with convulsive energy to her cousin’s arm. Charles looked back, and to his utter dismay perceived that the crowd behind had been increased by a fresh accession of numbers, and that their retreat was effectually cut off.

“There is nothing remaining for us but to keep on,” he said; “the stream of people appears, fortunately, to be going our way, and all we can do is to go with it: I dare say they are too much engrossed by their own affairs to trouble their heads about us. Whatever occurs, don’t let go my arm, either of you; it is rather disagreeable, certainly, but there is nothing to be really afraid of, and we shall reach home in five minutes.”

Hoping these assertions, in regard to the truth of which he was himself somewhat sceptical, might suffice to reassure his companions, Leicester continued his course, occasionally annoyed by the pressure of the crowd, but not otherwise molested till they reached the square of Saint Mark. Here the sight that awaited them was by no means encouraging: the whole space was filled with a dense crowd of the lowest rabble of Venice, who, many of them the worse for liquor, appeared in a state of considerable excitement, and filled the air with mingled shouts, cries, and curses. To pass safely through such an assembly, with his attention divided between his two charges, appeared next to impossible, and thoroughly perplexed, Charles Leicester paused, unable to decide whether it were better to advance or attempt to retrace their steps. As he thus pondered a rush of people forced them forward, and they found themselves completely hemmed in by the crowd, while from the pressure of those around them Laura and Annie experienced the greatest difficulty in retaining their grasp of Charley’s arm. Still no personal incivility was offered them, and Leicester began to hope they might gradually make their way across the square without actual danger, when a cry from Annie convinced him of his error. The cause of her alarm was as follows:—

One of that industrious fraternity (some members of which are to be met with in every large city) whose principles in regard to the rights of property are reprehensibly lax, attracted by the sparkling of a valuable brooch in Annie’s shawl, conceived the opportunity too good to be lost; accordingly, pressing close to her, he made a snatch at the ornament, seizing it so rudely as to tear open the shawl and partially drag it from her shoulders. As, alarmed by her cry, Charles turned to discover its cause, a tall figure sprang forward and wrested his spoil from the robber, flinging him off at the same time with such force that he staggered and fell; then addressing Leicester, the stranger said in a deep, stern voice, each accent of which thrilled through Annie’s very soul—

“Make for the church steps—think only of protecting Mrs. Leicester. I will be answerable for this lady’s safety.”

Then Annie was conscious that her shawl was replaced and carefully wrapped round her, and she felt herself half-led, half-carried forward by one before whose resistless strength all obstacles seemed, as it were, to melt away. How they passed through that yelling, maddened crowd she never knew, but ere she had well recovered from her first alarm at the ruffian’s attack, she found herself placed on the steps of St. Mark’s Church, her back leaning against a column, and the tall, dark figure of her preserver standing statue-like beside her, in such a position as to screen her from the pressure of the crowd. Involuntarily she glanced up at his features; hidden by the coat collar and slouched hat, the only portion of his face that remained visible was the tip of a black moustache, the proud, arched nostril, and the cold, stony gaze of two fierce black eyes, fixed upon her as though they would pierce her very soul. It was a look to haunt her to her dying day, and worse than all, she understood it! In a moment the idea flashed upon her. He had loved her! he knew she was about to marry his bitterest enemy, and now he hated her. Poor Annie, if mental agony could kill, that instant she had died. Lewis, thou art bitterly avenged!

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CHAPTER LXII.—“POINTS A MORAL,” AND SO IT IS TO BE HOPED “ADORNS A TALE.”

“What is the next move?” inquired Leicester, coming up with his arm round his wife’s waist, and his hat crushed into the shape of a biffin.

“Wait here for a few minutes,” returned Lewis, “the crowd is already dispersing in the direction of the Arsenal.”

“The Arsenal, what do they want there?” inquired Leicester.

“To waylay Marinovitch as he leaves the place, and murder him,” returned Lewis in a stern whisper, “but he has been warned of their design, and will of course take measures to ensure his safety.”

“Pleasant all this!” muttered Leicester, taking off his injured hat and endeavouring in some degree to restore its original shape; “here’s a case of wanton destruction—glad it is not my head all the same. Now the coast seems pretty clear, suppose we move on.”

Coldly and silently Lewis resumed his office of guardian: the space intervening between St. Mark’s Church and the Palazzo Grassini was passed in safety, and they stood within the courtyard of Leicester’s dwelling. Charley laid his hand on Lewis’s shoulder.

“You will come in?” he said; “you are hot and tired, and require refreshment—a glass of wine?”

Lewis shook his head.

“It is impossible,” he replied coldly; then adding, “I am happy to have been of use to—to Mrs. Leicester and yourself,” he raised his hat slightly to Annie and turned to depart: recollecting however that he still held in his hand the brooch which he had rescued from the ruffian’s clutches, he paused with the intention of giving it to Laura; but Laura had caught sight of “Tarley’s” curly head peeping out at her, and actuated by a sudden impulse of maternal affection, or for some other reason which we shall not attempt to fathom, she had tripped off in the direction of her self-willed offspring. Leicester was slowly following her, all his faculties apparently engrossed by a second attempt to reform his outraged hat. Lewis and Annie were left therefore virtually alone. Advancing towards her with an expression of countenance so cold and immovable that every feature might have been carved in marble, Lewis began—

“I beg pardon, I had forgotten to return your brooch.”

It was the first time that morning he had personally addressed her, and his doing so appeared to break the spell which had kept her silent; she took the brooch from him, murmuring some indistinct words of thanks, then gaining courage as she proceeded, she glanced at him appealingly, saying—

“Strange as this meeting is, I am sure I cannot be mistaken—Mr. Arundel, have you quite forgotten me?”

As she uttered these words a kind of spasm passed across Lewis’s face, and for a moment he appeared afraid to trust himself to speak; recovering, however, he replied in the same cold, measured tone which he had used throughout the adventure—

“No, Miss Grant, I (and he laid an emphasis on the pronoun, so light that a casual observer would not have detected it, and yet which shot a pang through Annie’s heart that caused her colour to come and go, and her limbs to tremble) do not forget so quickly.”

Unable to meet his glance, which she felt was fixed upon her, and scarcely conscious, in her agitation, of what she was saying, Annie faltered out—

“You will give my father an opportunity of thanking you, I hope; he will, I cannot doubt—that is, we shall all be glad to renew our intimacy with so old a friend.”

Lewis paused ere he could trust himself to reply. Her evident emotion, the earnestness of her manner, half timid, half imploring, tended to soothe his wounded spirit and disarm his wrath; but the vision of the morning, in which he had seen her clinging to Lord Bellefield’s arm and smiling upon him, was too fresh in his recollection, and the demon of pride and jealousy still retained full dominion over him.

“You must pardon me,” he said, “I will reserve my visit to General Grant till I can congratulate him on his daughter’s marriage.” Then raising his hat ceremoniously, he bowed to her, and was gone!

No traces of the tumultuous assembly, which had so greatly alarmed Laura and Annie, remained when Lord Bellefield and General Grant crossed the square of St. Mark on their return from the morning’s sight-seeing. As they drew near the Palazzo Grassini, a tall lad in squalid raiment, leaning upon crutches, and with a patch over one eye, approached and begged of them. The General at first refused to listen to him, but becoming wearied by his pertinacity, felt in his pocket for something to give him.

“I have no small change about me,” he remarked, after a minute’s ineffectual search, “but you have, Bellefield; they gave you a handful of their stupid little coins at the last shop we went into. Lend me two or three, will you?”

As he mentioned his companion’s name the beggar fixed his piercing eye on the features of the person addressed, scanning them eagerly, as though he sought to fix them indelibly in his memory. Returning his glance with a haughty stare, his lordship carelessly flung him a couple of Zwanzigers and passed on. The beggar watched his retreating figure till it was no longer visible, then turning quickly, hobbled with his crutches out of the square, continuing the same method of progression till he reached the nearest canal, when, looking round to assure himself that he was not observed, he coolly pitched his supporters into the water, removed the patch from his eye, which by no means seemed to require such a protection, walked briskly till he reached a spot where a small skiff was moored, springing into which he commenced rowing vigorously, and was soon hidden from sight by a bend of the canal.

When Lewis returned to his lodgings the following note awaited him:—

“My search is ended; I have found my sister in time to see her—die! Her seducer, heartless in his villainy, brought his victim to a foreign land, kept her in luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left her—to starve. My curse has little power, or it would have withered him long ago; but may the curse of that God who made him and her cleave to him until— Imeet him. Sir, I know not how to thank you. She has told me how you warned her, how you explained to her his real character. She was infatuated, but it is not for me to judge her. We seem a doomed race, fatal alike to ourselves, to those we love, and to those we hate. Oh, that she could live! she is soft and gentle, and—ay! though a scoundrel has debased her, still I say it—she is good and pure, and she would have calmed my angry spirit; she would have taught me to love something human. But it was not to be: each hour that I sit by her I expect to be her last. She sends you her blessing; may God’s go with it.

“Miles H————-.”

Lewis could not peruse this letter without deep emotion. In the just, though, alas! ill-governed indignation which gave a rude eloquence even to the expression of this poor youth’s outraged feeling, he traced a likeness to his former self. “Heartless in his villainy, he kept her in luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left her—to starve.”

This was the man Annie Grant loved and was about to marry! Oh, how his heart bled for her! He pictured to himself her future life—how she would gradually, by slow and painful steps, discover her husband’s true character, each advance in knowledge a new and separate misfortune, until love should become indifference, and indifference end in hatred. Even yet he might prevent it. His London agent had forwarded to him that morning an English newspaper containing an unmistakable allusion to the events of the Derby day, and openly declaring Lord Bellefield a defaulter. This shown to General Grant, and his tale of Hardy’s daughter verified by the evidence now in his possession, the old soldier would sooner see his daughter lying dead at his feet than sanction her union with a man devoid alike of honour and of principle. But then came in pride. Had he known that Annie loved him, or had General Grant never mistrusted him, Lewis would have come forward without a moment’s hesitation; but his motives had been once doubted, his affections betrayed, and his pride could neither forget nor forgive it. Besides, Lord Bellefield would attribute his interference to a feeling of petty malice; such was not the revenge for which, despite his principles and his reason, his soul still thirsted. So pride gained the day, though, tyrant-like, in the very midst of his triumph he made his victim miserable.

Unable to apply his mind to anything, he strolled out, trusting the evening air would allay the fever of his blood. After wandering about restlessly for some time he remembered that he had eaten nothing for many hours, and turning into the nearest casino he called for wine and biscuits. Having finished his frugal repast, he was about to leave the house when three persons entered, and crossing through the refreshment-room, passed into a salon which he knew to be devoted to play. One of the three, a short, insignificant-looking man, was a stranger to him, but the two others he recognised instantly—they were Walter and Lord Bellefield. A sudden impulse prompted him to follow them; at that time in the evening the salon was certain to be pretty well filled, and Lewis trusted to avoid observation by mixing with the crowd, relying on the alteration in his appearance to escape recognition, even if he were perceived either by Walter or Lord Bellefield. Accordingly, waiting his opportunity, he joined a group of Italians, who, eagerly talking over the attempt upon the life of Colonel Marinovitch (which had been frustrated by his escaping on board the corvette which guarded the harbour), scarcely perceived this addition to their party. Entering with them, and still keeping in the background, he took up a position whence he could observe the proceedings of those for both of whom he felt an interest equally deep, though so utterly distinct in character.

Lord Bellefield, who appeared unusually listless and indifferent, lounged up to the table and staked a few Napoleons on the chances of the game; then, drawing forward a chair he seated himself, and continued carelessly to watch the proceedings of the other players. But despite the presence of the man he hated, Lewis’s attention soon became wholly absorbed in observing Walter. From his entire conduct it was evident that this was by no means his first visit to the salon; on the contrary, it was only too plain that a taste for gambling had been implanted in the poor boy’s feeble yet obstinate mind. That he clearly understood the nature of the game Lewis could not believe, but that he had acquired sufficient insight into the rules to enable him to adhere to them, and that he was keenly alive to the results of the deal, or the throw, elated when he won and depressed when he lost, was most certain.

The third person of the party, whom Lewis rightly conjectured to be his successor in the office of tutor, did not play himself, but appeared to take great interest in Walter’s game, looking over his cards and advising him what to do. Lewis also noticed that whenever Walter won he always received gold, but that his losses were paid in paper money, and the truth immediately occurred to him—viz., that, child-like, the poor boy only attached value to the glittering coin, and that the worth of the bank-notes had been completely misrepresented to him, so that he believed himself winning when in fact he was losing considerable sums. Moreover, from certain glances which passed between Mr. Spooner and the proprietor of the salon, who held the bank, Lewis became convinced that some secret understanding existed by which the tutor shared in the profits.

That Lord Bellefield was entirely ignorant of all that was passing before his eyes Lewis could not conceive, while at the same time the trifling nature of the stakes rendered it most unlikely that he could have any personal interest in the affair; the probability therefore was that he saw what was going on but felt totally indifferent as to the matter. This view was confirmed when, as Walter grew more excited, began playing higher, and at last staked ten Napoleons upon one cast, Mr. Spooner approached Lord Bellefield and whispered something in his ear, to which his friend replied carelessly, “Oh, let him have his fling while he’s in the humour;” then in a lower tone he added, “not blind! but the money is, I dare say, of more use in your pocket than in his, so you’ll be the greater fool of the two if you attempt to prevent him.”

Spooner appeared again to urge some difficulty, to which Lord Bellefield rejoined with a sneering laugh, “Yes, it suits you charmingly to assume the rôle of the innocent! Can’t you get him to sign another bond payable when he comes of age? Tortoni will no more refuse to cash it than he did on a former occasion;” then smiling again, he added, “I tell you I am not blind, mon ami, but ’tis no concern of mine; I am not the lout’s guardian, Heaven be thanked.” Although from the position in which he stood Lewis only caught a word or two here and there of this conversation, yet his quick apprehension supplied the blanks with sufficient correctness, and the whole villainy of the thing burst upon him. Here was a man engaged to educate and watch over the poor, feeble-minded being before him abusing the power thus entrusted to him to lead him to evil, and availing himself of the imbecility he was bound to protect to swindle his helpless charge; while Lord Bellefield, whose duty it was to denounce such practices to General Grant the instant he suspected them, had evidently not only no intention of doing so, but sat coolly looking on, smiling with a fiend-like satisfaction at each fresh development of human wickedness.

As Lewis watched Walter’s flushed cheeks, eager eyes, and hands which trembled as they were stretched out to receive the gold which this time he had been allowed to win; as he marked the lines which excitement and the permitted indulgence of a capricious, obstinate temper had traced upon his smooth brow and round the corners of his mouth, all his old affection for the poor boy rushed back upon him, and his just anger grew to such a pitch that he could scarcely repress it. At this moment a fresh deal had begun.

“I will win more,” exclaimed Walter eagerly; “Mr. Spooner, tell him I want to double my stake.”

“But that has been done already,” was the reply; “the dealer has doubled every one’s stake this time.”

“Then I will double that,” returned Walter, carried away by the excitement of the game; “tell him so, I say.”

Spooner appeared for a moment undecided; the stake, thus quadrupled, amounted to forty Napoleons, and alarmed at its magnitude, he glanced in irresolution towards Lord Bellefield. A look of undisguised contempt for his pusillanimity was the only reply his lordship vouchsafed; goaded on by which, Spooner turned to comply with his pupil’s direction.

But Lewis could bear it no longer; regardless of consequences, he strode across the room and laid his hand upon Walter’s shoulder, saying as he did so, in a gentle though determined voice, “Walter, you must not play for such high stakes.”

With a cry of mingled joy and surprise Walter sprang from his seat, gazed earnestly at Lewis’s features, then exclaiming, “Oh, you have come back at last!” threw himself upon his friend’s breast with a burst of tears. Much affected, Lewis returned his embrace, and leading him carefully to a seat, waited till he should recover from his surprise and emotion. In the meantime the game had come to a standstill, the bystanders, consisting chiefly of foreigners, being as much charmed by such a scene as an Englishman would have been annoyed at it. The moment quiet was in some degree restored, the proprietor, mindful of his own interest, resumed his deal, inquiring with a glance at Spooner what sum his young friend had staked. Spooner paused, but Lord Bellefield, who had risen and with lowering brow approached the scene of action, prompted him, and he replied, “Forty Napoleons.”

Lewis’s eye flashed. “It is at your peril you do this,” he said; “my first act on quitting this place shall be to inform General Grant of the manner in which you betray the trust he has reposed in you.”

Spooner turned pale; but relying on Lord Bellefield’s support, managed to stammer out, “And pray, sir, who the deuce may you be?”

“I will tell you, and this worshipful company also,” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, stepping forward. “This fellow is, or rather was, a menial in General Grant’s household, discarded for insolent behaviour, and as such unfit for the society of gentlemen, into which as he has now ventured to intrude himself, I, for one, vote he be ignominiously expelled.”

This speech caused, as might be expected, a sensation throughout the room, and the bystanders congregated round Lewis and Lord Bellefield, glancing from one to the other, to discover from their bearing and appearance which was the true man, and which the false. Up to this moment Lewis had been wrapped in a large Spanish cloak; he now allowed it to glide from his shoulders, as, advancing a step, he boldly confronted his adversary.

“Your lordship has been pleased to speak explicitly,” he said; “were I inclined to follow your example, I might, with some shadow of truth, denounce you as a ruined blackleg and an outlawed defaulter; but I prefer simply declaring that in the statement you have just made you have maliciously and unequivocally—lied!”

As he spoke he raised his head proudly, and folding his arms across his breast, waited the effect of his words. He was not kept long in suspense. However numerous might be Lord Bellefield’s faults, a want of personal courage was not one of them. As Lewis referred to the cause of his ignominious exile his face grew pale with rage, but when he gave him the lie his fury became uncontrollable. Springing forward with a leap like that of a maddened tiger, he struck Lewis a violent blow on the cheek, which, firmly as his feet were planted, staggered him, exclaiming as he did so—

“Take that, beggar!” Instead of rushing on his adversary, as those amongst the spectators who knew him (and there were several who did so) expected, Lewis, recovering himself, stood for an instant regarding Lord Bellefield with a smile of triumph, though to those who remarked him closely there was an expression in his eyes which, in spite of themselves, caused them to shudder, while, strange to say, he was drawing a soiled white kid glove on his right hand; having done so, he advanced a step, saying in a stern, deep voice—

“Your Lordship is too generous—the beggar returns your almsgiving—thus!”

As he spoke there was a sudden movement in the crowd—a frightful blow was struck, and Lord Bellefield lay insensible on the ground, the blood flowing from a cut on his forehead, whilst over him stood Lewis, his mouth set, and his eyes burning with the fire of hatred. Several of the bystanders sprang forward to assist the fallen man, but Lewis sternly motioned them back.

“Wait,” he said,—his voice sounded deep and hollow, and there was something in the expression of his face which quelled the stoutest heart amongst those who stood around him,—drawing the glove from the hand which had struck the blow, he dipped it in the blood that still trickled from the forehead of the fallen man, muttering to himself as he did so, “That, then, has come to pass—is the rest to follow?” He next examined the countenance of his prostrate foe—“He is merely stunned,” he said; “raise him, and bring water to bathe his temples.” As he spoke he assisted those who stepped forward to lift the injured man and place him on a chair; having done so, he left him to the care of the bystanders, and again folding his arms, stood coolly awaiting the issue.

The event justified his predictions: on the first application of the cold water Lord Bellefield revived, and in less time than could have been expected, the bleeding, which was very slight, was arrested. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said, addressing a young Italian of rank, with whom he was acquainted, and who had been bathing his temples with the cold water—

“Rastelli, you may inform that scoundrel that he has succeeded; rather than allow him to escape with impunity, I will undergo the degradation of meeting him.” He spoke in a low, faint voice, but the expression with which he glanced towards Lewis as he pronounced the word “scoundrel” was one of undying hatred.

“If your Lordship intended to apply that observation to the Signore Luigi, I shall have the felicity to explain that your Excellency labours under a mistake; that gentleman is the son of a gallant officer, with whom I have had the honour to serve in more than one campaign. It is no condescension in any one under the rank of a Royal Prince to meet the son of the brave Captain Arundel.”

The speaker was an old General Officer in the Austrian service, who possessed a European reputation, and whose dictum on all points of honour was conclusive. Lord Bellefield bit his under-lip in anger and vexation, cursing his own hastiness which had elicited this vindication of his enemy: perceiving, however, that he should only place himself still more completely in the wrong by any attempt to impugn the old Austrian’s statement, he merely bowed haughtily in reply, then desiring to be shown into a private room, he took Rastelli’s arm and quitted the salon.

Lewis stood gazing after his late opponent with a dark and troubled countenance; it was not remorse that he experienced, for were the deed to have been done over again, he would not have shrunk from its performance; and yet the feeling which engrossed him partook of a remorseful character—it seemed to him as though he had now lost all power of free will—he had taken the first step, and the rest must follow; there was no longer any possibility of turning back. Like one walking in his sleep, he permitted himself to be led into another room—he heard, as in a dream, Rastelli enter and make arrangements with a young Austrian officer who had volunteered to act as his second for his meeting Lord Bellefield at daybreak. As the person challenged, he had the choice of weapons, but he waived his right, and allowed his opponent to select pistols. Ehrenburg (his second) whispered to him that Lord Bellefield was reported to be a dead shot, but an indifferent swordsman.

“The more reason to allow him to choose pistols,” was Lewis’s careless reply.

Ehrenburg still urged the madness of throwing away a chance. “It will be no boy’s play,” he said; “mark my words, Luigi, this duel will be one for life or death.”

“Do you think I do not know it?” returned Lewis sternly, “ay, as well as if I now saw him lying dead before my feet,” and as he spoke an involuntary shudder passed through his powerful frame.

“May not another contingency be possible, buon’ amico? especially if you allow him to secure the advantage of pistols?” suggested Ehrenburg.

“Would to Heaven it might so occur,” was Lewis’s eager reply; “I hope no better fate than to die by his hand, believe me; but it will not be so—I know—I feel it? Ehrenburg, that man has stood like some evil spirit across my path; time after time he has heaped insult upon me; once, coward-like, the assassin sought my life; but till tonight I have never opposed him. Why? because it is written here” (and he touched his forehead) “that when the final struggle shall come, my destiny is stronger than his, and he must perish. You may smile and deem my words the mere ravings of superstition, but you will see, if we meet to-morrow morning, Bellefield will never leave the ground alive, and I shall quit it with the brand of Cain upon my brow.”

He spoke so gravely and with such an evident belief in the reality of his convictions, that for a moment Ehrenburg himself felt impressed. But a duel was no very uncommon event with the young Austrian: he had been principal on two occasions, when no serious result had followed, and second on half-a-dozen more; besides, he was essentially a practical man. So he merely shrugged his shoulders, hinted that Lewis’s nerves might be excited, which would produce these little fancies, advised him to take a cup of coffee, and then repair to the shooting-gallery and practise steadily for an hour or so to get his hand in, promised to be with him in good time on the following morning, inquired whether he could be of any further assistance, and then strolling back to the gaming-table, relieved Lewis of his presence.

To gain his lodgings and lock himself into his studio was scarcely the work of five minutes; then flinging himself upon the first seat that came in his way, he gave himself up to bitter thoughts. Two years ago he had fled his country, had quitted all who were dear to him, because his fiery passions were beyond his control—because he had loved too deeply and hated too bitterly. He had plunged into a life of wild adventure to dissipate his feelings; he had schooled his heart in solitude; he had devoted all his energies to the acquirement of an art; nay, he had devoted the first efforts of the skill he had thus gained to embody a visible representation of the danger of ill-bestowed love and the curse of gratified revenge; and this was the result!

He remained for a few minutes with his head resting on his hands, apparently stunned by his conflicting feelings; then rousing himself by an effort, he heaved a deep sigh and drew out the glove. As his eye fell upon the stain of blood, he shuddered, and hastily putting it from him, began pacing up and down the apartment. An antique lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling, throwing its light strongly on the two pictures from the “Giaour.” Involuntarily Lewis paused before them, and remained gazing from one to the other with an expression of remorse and horror. “Am I indeed about to realise these creations of my gloomy fancy?” he murmured; “shall I become that human tiger, that stony, soulless image of impenitent despair! Revenge, how I have thirsted for it, how, when writhing under that man’s insults, I have pictured to myself the day of reckoning, and deemed life itself would be a cheap sacrifice for one hour of unlimited vengeance; and now, when this coveted boon lies within my grasp, I see it in its true light, and own this wished-for blessing to be a dark, consuming curse. Seen through the distorted medium of outraged feeling, retribution appeared an act of justice. The demon wore an angel’s form. But viewed in its true aspect, the sentiment is that which leads to murder, and the deed, with its sickening details, revolting butchery. Yet, seeing this clearly, knowing to what it will lead, I must go on: I owe him satisfaction. Satisfaction!” and he smiled at the mocking term. “Yes,” he resumed, “I must go on, even if I wished to turn back. If I could forego my revenge and forgive him, it is now too late. Well, be it so; ’tis weakness to repine at the inevitable. I will meet my fate boldly, be it what it may; and for him, he has brought the punishment upon his own head, and must abide the issue!” He resumed his walk up and down the apartment; then a new idea struck him. “What a strange expression her features wore when she ventured to address me,” he said; “and in the crowd she did not shrink from me, but trusted herself to me with a gentle, child-like confidence.” He paused, pressed his hand to his forehead, then exclaimed, “O God, if I have wronged her—if”—and here his voice sank almost to a whisper—“if, Heaven help me, she should have loved me after all!”

Completely overwrought by these conflicting emotions, Lewis sank into a chair, and burying his face in his hands, struggled in vain for composure, a deep-drawn, choking sob from time to time attesting his mental agony. How long he remained in this position he never knew. It might have been minutes, for he took no note of things external; it might have been hours, for a lifetime of heartfelt desolation appeared crowded into that dark reverie. He was aroused at length by a tap at the door, which, as at first he could scarcely collect his ideas sufficiently to attend to such sublunary matters, soon grew into a loud and impatient knocking with the handle of a stick or umbrella. Imagining it to be one of his artist friends, come probably to bring him information in regard to the late disturbances, he replied in Italian that he was particularly engaged and could not see any one.

“Polite and encouraging, certainly,” muttered a deep-toned voice, at the first sound of which Lewis sprang from his seat and listened with an eager yet half incredulous expression of countenance. “A thousand and one pardons, Signor,” continued the person on the outside, speaking in Italian, with a peculiarity of accent which proved him to be unaccustomed to pronounce the language, or probably even to hear it spoken; “but you really must condescend to see me, even if Diabolus himself is supping with you, and there is only macaroni enough for two.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Lewis flung open the door, and there in proprio persono stood Richard Frere and the cotton umbrella!

“Frere, dear old fellow! is it, can it indeed be you?” exclaimed Lewis joyfully, forgetting for the moment everything in the surprise of welcoming such an unexpected visitant.

“Yes, it’s me,” returned Frere, squeezing and shaking his friend’s hand as if he had a design of reducing it to a jelly. “Richard’s himself, and no mistake. Lewis isn’t himself, though, it seems, but Signore Luigi, forsooth. I had hard work to find you, I can tell you. But good gracious! what has happened to the man?” he exclaimed, catching sight of Lewis’s bearded face and pale, haggard features, “why, he has turned into somebody else, bodily as well as in name. You look just like one of these horrid Italian fellows, with the proper tragic expression of countenance which they get up by way of advertising that they are ready and willing to cut throats at half-a-crown a windpipe, country orders punctually executed, and the business performed in a neat and tradesman-like manner; but tell me seriously, you’re not ill?”

“Not in body, nor usually in mind either,” was the reply; “but today events have occurred which have thoroughly unmanned me, still I shall ‘win through it,’ somehow; and now tell me of yourself, of Rose, of my mother—they are well?”

“A good deal better than you seem to be,” growled Frere, who during this speech had been attentively observing his friend’s features; “however, I’ll soon satisfy your curiosity—and then you shall satisfy mine,” he added in an undertone, and removing a wonderful species of travelling cap, he followed Lewis, who led the way to his inner apartment, and then listened eagerly to Frere’s account of the various events which had taken place since he had quitted his native land. Rose, by Frere’s special desire, had, in writing to her brother, hitherto forborne to allude to her engagement; the worthy bear, with a characteristic mixture of deep-seated humility and surface vanity, fearing that Lewis might not think him a fitting match for his sister, and therefore feeling anxious that the matter should be disclosed to him in the wisest and most judicious manner possible—by himself viva voce. Thus, after having spoken of various less important matters, Frere was gradually working his way towards the interesting disclosure with a degree of nervous diffidence quite unusual to him, when Lewis, whose attention began to flag, brought him to the point by exclaiming, “And about Rose, what is she doing: she tells me in her letters she still writes for some magazine; but is she looking well? does she seem happy? though I suppose,” he continued, trying to hide his state of mind by falling in with his friend’s jesting mode of speech, “these are minor particulars into which it never occurs to your wisdom to inquire. I know your old habit of practically ignoring the existence of women as a sex, regarding them as a race of unscientific nonentities fitted only ‘to suckle fools and chronicle small beer.’”

Frere for a moment looked rather disconcerted; then veiling his discomfiture under an affectation of rough indifference, he replied, “I can tell you one ‘minor particular,’ as you call it, and that is the fact of the young lady in question being engaged to be married.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis, starting, “you are probably joking,” he continued seriously; “but you know not, dear old friend, how deeply such tidings might affect me at this moment; you know not—how should you?—the mood of mind in which you find me; but tell me in a word, is there any earnest in what you have said?”

“In a word,” muttered Frere, “hum! concise and epigrammatical that! but I’ll try to accommodate you, so here goes by way of answer. Yes!”

“And she has never even hinted at such a fact in her letters,” exclaimed Lewis; “out of sight, out of mind, indeed. I may have—Heaven help me!—I have neglected my trust, in my self-engrossment; but I did not think Rose would have been the person thus to visit my sins upon my head. Who is the man?” he continued sternly. In the whole course of his existence Frere had never felt more uncomfortable; all his old diffidence and humility rushed upon him, and for the moment he felt as if he had been suddenly detected in an act of petty larceny; however, his sturdiness of nature and common sense came to his rescue, and he replied, “It is no fault of Rose’s, for I made it an especial point that she should not tell you of her engagement by letter.”

“You did, and wherefore?” inquired Lewis in surprise.

“Because I chose to tell you myself,” returned Frere. “Your sister is not an angel, for angels live in heaven and not on earth, but she is the most lovable, the most pure-minded, decidedly the sweetest-looking woman (though that does not so much signify) in this world, and I should have added, the most sensible, only that she has, in her tenderness of heart, seen fit to promise to marry a rough, uncouth animal like me. Lewis, old fellow,” he continued in a faltering voice, “I know better than you can do how unworthy I am of such a blessing, but if loving her better than my own life gives me any title to possess her, Heaven knows that I do so.”

When Frere reached that point in his peroration at which he mentioned Rose’s promise to marry him, his auditor started, and raising his eyes, murmured an ejaculation of fervent thankfulness. As he concluded, Lewis clasped his hand eagerly in his own, saying, “My dear old Frere, you know not how happy you have made me; one great weight, which was crushing my soul to the dust ere you appeared, is removed by your words. Of all men living you are the one I would have selected for my dearest Rose’s husband; and now, if I—that is to say, whatever befalls me she will be happy.”

“Then you are not disappointed?” rejoined Frere, greatly relieved; “you know you used at one time to be just a very little bit ambitious, and I fancied you might have been cherishing some splendid scheme for marrying Rose to a duke—she’s good enough for the best of ’em, even if dukes were what they should be, instead of what they are too many of ’em. Well, I’m very glad!—but now about yourself—‘if anything befalls you,’ you say; pray what is likely to befall you more than any other people? and what do you mean by being crushed by a weight, and by looking so melodramatically miserable?”

Lewis heaved a deep sigh, and then replied, “You speak jestingly; but there are many melodramas less strange than my wayward fortune: such as it is, however, I have provoked and will go through with it. Frere, you love Rose for her own sake, be kind to and forbearing with my mother for mine—she has many faults, a giddy head, an impulsive disposition (than which there can be no greater temptation), but a warm heart—and—and I feel I have never done a son’s duty by her. Frere, you will take care of her?”

The events of the day and evening had well-nigh exhausted even Lewis’s untiring energy, and the sight of Frere arriving so unexpectedly had brought back to him so many home memories, recollections of earlier days, ere with the strength and freedom of manhood had come its trials and its sins, that as he thought of these old associations and remembered kindnesses slighted, affection cast away, duties neglected, for the sake of that one master-passion, he forgot for the time the wrongs he usually felt so keenly, and remorse for his selfish neglect overwhelmed him and caused his voice to falter and his eyes to grow dim with the mist of unshed tears. Frere perceived his emotion, and waited till it had in a degree subsided; then going up to him, he laid his hand on his shoulder caressingly, saying, “Come, Lewis, we have known each other from boyhood; we have long been brothers in affection, and are soon about to become so in name, associated by a still nearer tie—we never used to have secrets from each other, and should not do so now. I have learned from Rose the cause you have had for sorrow, and for two years have suffered you to try your own method of cure, without attempting to interfere with you, but I now see that the experiment has failed, and that you are miserable—is it not so?”

Lewis bowed his head in token of assent, he could not trust himself to speak.

“We are not placed in this world to be miserable,” continued Frere; “true, this life is a state of trial, and it would not be so if we had not many evils, temptations, and sorrows to endure; but by God’s help the evils may be borne, the temptations overcome, and the sorrow turned to joy, if we do not oppose our will to His; but if we do, sin lieth at the door, we league ourselves with the enemy of mankind, and misery must come of it. Do not misunderstand me,” he added kindly; “I do not seek to blame you, I can have no pleasure in so doing, but on the contrary deepest pain; still it is evident your mind is diseased, and if in probing the wound to discover the nature of the evil I hurt you, you must pardon me for the sake of the object I have in view. But! am talking at random, for want of a more clear insight into the cause of your present difficulty. Come, be frank and open with me; let us face the evil boldly, and between us devise some means of overcoming it.”

“What brought you here?” exclaimed Lewis, suddenly raising his head and fixing his piercing eyes full upon his friend’s countenance.

Frere smiled a melancholy smile. “Hot-headed, petulant, and jealous of interference yet!” he said. “My poor Lewis, I did not come to catechise you—affairs of quite another nature brought me here: I am trying to carry out an arrangement between my uncle Ashford and your ci-devant foe, Lord Bellefield.” As he mentioned Lord Bellefield’s name Lewis shuddered, and his eyes again sought the ground. “And now that I have cleared up this alarming doubt,” resumed Frere, “tell me what ails you, for that you are miserable, and that I mean to know wherefore, and do my best to render you otherwise, are two self-evident facts.”

“’Tis useless,” returned Lewis in a low voice; “the die is cast, and neither you nor any one else can help me. Would to Heaven you had come a day sooner and taken me away from this accursed place; as it is, my own mad passion has hurried me on, and my fate is fixed. Now,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which stood at a quarter to twelve, “I must ask you to leave me—we may meet to-morrow—or—if anything should prevent it—and if—if I have not an opportunity of telling you all you seek to know—my papers—that is, I will leave you a letter explaining everything—good-night.” Scarcely able to control his voice in this which Lewis felt might too probably be a last farewell, he hurried through the speech in a strange, almost incoherent manner.

Frere regarded him fixedly. “Unless you condescend to explain to me what you purpose doing within the next twenty-four hours,” he said, “I’ll not leave you till that time has expired. I tell you what it is, Lewis: I have not lived three-and-thirty years in the world without having learned to read men’s faces, and I read in yours that you are standing on the verge of some great folly, madness, or—crime; and now, what is it?”

Lewis paused for a moment in deep thought, and then said calmly, “Sit down, Frere; you are an Englishman, and a man of highly honourable feeling; moreover, you are my oldest, my most cherished friend. I am, as you say, maddened by circumstances and on the verge of a great crime; sit down, I will tell you all, and you shall judge between God and man, and me.”

Calmly, clearly, truthfully, in the deep silence of night, did Lewis recount to his friend the strange passages with which the reader is already acquainted; he related the simple facts, whether they told for or against him, just as they occurred; without entering into unnecessary detail he left nothing important unsaid, till Frere had conceived a clear idea of Lewis’s whole career from the hour he entered Broadhurst to the moment in which he was speaking.

“The upshot of all this is,” observed Lewis in conclusion, “that I am weary of life; littleness, brutality, and oppression in man, weakness and treachery in woman, and the tyranny of passion in oneself, render this world an incipient hell. To-morrow must end it one way or the other—either he will shoot me or I shall shoot him; the latter contingency I shall not long survive; such remorse as I should feel would be unendurable. To save myself from the guilt of suicide I shall volunteer into some fighting regiment engaged in these civil broils—Tyrian or Trojan, Austrian or Venetian, I care little; my sympathies side with one, my associations with the other, and with either I may obtain the only prize I covet—a soldier’s death.”

“Now listen to me, Lewis,” returned Frere gravely. “I once at your own request promised you that while we both lived I would never give you up, but would stand between you and your fiery passions, and I thank God who in his mercy has sent me here at this particular moment to enable me to fulfil my engagement. You have suffered, and are suffering deeply, and from my heart I pity you; but seeing, as I do only too clearly, the cause of all this misery, it would be no kindness in me to omit to point it out to you. Your two leading faults of character, pride and an overweaning degree of self-confidence, are at the bottom of it all. Pride made Lord Bellefield your enemy—when he offered money for the dog he never intended to insult you; your proud answer irritated his pride, and from that time forth he sought to injure you—evil produced evil, dislike grew to hatred, hatred begat revenge, revenge cherished only required opportunity to become developed into assault and murder; that opportunity has now arrived, you have been guilty of the first, you contemplate the second. So much for pride—now for self-confidence. You imagined nothing could tempt you to forget your dependent position in General Grant’s family (a position which your pride led you falsely to consider a degradation) so far as to forfeit your self-respect by loving Annie, so you permitted yourself to enjoy her society till your affections were beyond your own control—mistake number one. Then self-confidence whispered that it would be heroic to overcome this passion, so instead of avoiding the danger, you stayed to brave it till you had sacrificed your happiness, if not hers also—mistake number two. Still untaught by experience, in your own strength you endeavoured to crush out the memory of the past; still thinking only of self, you fled your country, recklessly severing ties and neglecting duties. Two years’ vain struggling have proved your boasted strength to be abject weakness, unable to save you from becoming the slave of your evil passions, and I arrive here to find you contemplating the sin of—well, if I call it murder you will deem that I exaggerate, so I will say the sin of gambling in a lottery of manslaughter, with every chance against you.” Lewis again raised his eyes to Frere’s face as he replied calmly, but in a cold, hard tone of voice—

“You have described my miserable career harshly indeed, but in the main truly. You profess yourself my friend—in making this painful recapitulation therefore I presume you to have some friendly object; what is it?”

“First to exhibit to you the disease, then to point out the remedy,” returned Frere.

“And if you can do this,” exclaimed Lewis—“if, remembering what I am, you can show me how I might have avoided my errors in the past, how I may do aught to retrieve them in the future, I will indeed reckon you my friend—nay, I will bless your coming as that of an angel sent from heaven to aid a desperate, well-nigh a despairing man.”

“Pray what religion do you profess?” asked Frere abruptly.

Lewis started, but recovering himself, replied coldly, “The same as you do yourself.”

“And do you believe in the truth of it?”

“Why ask such a question?” returned Lewis with a slight degree of annoyance perceivable in his tone; “whatever may have been my faults, I am no infidel.”

“I will tell you why I ask,” replied Frere; “because, though you confess with your lips the truths of Christianity, in your life you have practically denied them.”

Lewis made no answer, and Frere continued in an earnest, impressive voice, his manner becoming every moment more animated as he grew excited with his subject—

“If, as you say you do not doubt, Christianity be true, it amounts to this. The God who made and governs this world has been pleased to reveal to us His will—namely, that if we believe in Him and obey Him, He will save us from eternal misery and bestow upon us eternal happiness. To enable us to fulfil the second condition, that of obedience, He has given us a code, not so much of laws as of principles of action, by which we may become a law to ourselves. In order to demonstrate how these abstract principles are applicable to the exigencies of our mundane career, He sent His Son into the world, ‘a man subject to like passions as ourselves, only without sin,’ because he was a consistent embodiment of the doctrines he taught. Now had you taken these precepts, to which you accord an unpractical and therefore an equally senseless and useless belief, as the rule of your actions, how different a result would have followed; instead of provoking animosity by haughty looks and proud words, you would have remembered that ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath;’ instead of returning evil for evil, you would have considered the example of Him, who ‘when He was reviled, reviled not again,’ and called to mind His precepts, ‘resist not evil, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;’ instead of seeking to avenge your own quarrel by deeds of violence, which outrage nature, and bring their own punishment with them even here, in the pangs of conscience, you would have thought of His words who hath said, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ and left your cause in His hands. Instead of attempting to do everything in your own strength, and failing thus miserably, you would have recollected that ‘God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness,’ and prayed to Him for support and assistance. Even now, instead of having recklessly determined to expose yourself to the chance of committing what you own to be a crime of such frightful magnitude, that the remorse it must entail on you would be unbearable, the question would be, not, how at any sacrifice you must vindicate your honour in the eyes of men, but ‘how then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?”’ He paused, then asked abruptly, “Do you admit all this?”

Lewis’s features worked convulsively, as in a hollow, broken voice he replied, “Yes I do, God help me!”

“And He will help you,” returned Frere, “if your repentance is indeed sincere; but that must be proved by acts, not words—Will you give up your revenge, and agree not to meet Lord Bellefield tomorrow?”

“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Lewis fiercely, springing to his feet. “The sole possession my father bequeathed to me was his name and his spotless honour, and it shall never be said that he left them to one whom men had a right to call coward.”

“And yet a coward you are,” returned Frere sternly, “not in the particular of brute courage, shared with you by the tiger and the wolf, but in the far higher attribute of moral courage, the martyr spirit which enables the highest order of minds to endure the scorn of worldly men, rather than offend God and degrade themselves by the commission of evil. I will ask one more question, and then I have done with you: you say you believe in a future and eternal life—are you fitted to enter upon that life to-morrow through the dark portal of a sudden and violent death?”

As Frere uttered these awful words, in a tone of the deepest solemnity, Lewis, who had been impatiently pacing the room, stopped short as though arrested in his course by a thunderstroke. Placing his hand to his brow, he staggered as if about to fall, and Frere sprang up to support him. Recovering himself, he murmured—

“I must be alone, in half-an-hour you shall know my decision.”

Then opening the door, he motioned to Frere to await him in the painting-room, and closing it after him, locked it. What passed in that half-hour—how, prostrate before the Great White Throne, the proud man wrestled with his agony, can be known but to One, the Searcher of Hearts. When, at the expiration of the prescribed time, the door was gently unclosed and Frere entered, he found Lewis, pale indeed and trembling, but calm as a little child.

“Bless you, dear old friend!” he said, “Truth and you have conquered; I place myself in your hands—do with me as you will.”

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CHAPTER LXIII.—SHOWS HOW IT FARED WITH THE LAMB WHICH THE WOLF HAD WORRIED.

About nine o’clock in the evening marked by the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, General Grant was informed that a young man, who refused to give his name, requested five minutes’ private conversation with him. Somewhat surprised at this demand, the General followed the servant into an apartment used by Charles Leicester as a study, and desired that the person might be shown in; in another moment a tall, swarthy young fellow, dressed in the garb usually worn by the lower classes in Venice, made his appearance. As soon as the servant had quitted the room, the stranger presented a note to the General, saying, “If you will read that, sir, you will perceive the object of my visit, and learn the necessity which forces me to intrude upon you at such an untimely hour.”

The note, which was written in a delicate but somewhat illegible female hand, ran as follows:—

“A dying woman implores you, sir, to visit her; not for her own sake, for her hope rests in God and not in man, but for the sake of one who must be dearest to you in the world—your daughter. The writer has information to impart to you which may save you and her from years of deepest misery. The bearer of this note will conduct you safely to one who again implores you by all you hold sacred not to neglect this summons, or delay returning with the messenger, lest you should arrive too late. The writer pledges her word, the word of one about to enter upon eternity, that you shall return safely.”

“This is a very strange note,” observed General Grant, suspiciously eyeing the young man, who stood awaiting his decision; “how am I to know that this is not some cunningly devised scheme, dangerous to my life or liberty?”

“I swear to you that you may safely trust me,” replied the stranger eagerly; “adopt what precautions you will, leave your money, or aught that is of value, at home—take pistols with you, and if you see any signs of treachery, shoot me through the head. I could tell you that which would render you as eager to accompany me as you now appear unwilling to do so, but I have promised to leave her to explain the affair as seems to her best—she is my sister, and dying; if you delay you will arrive too late.”

“You are an Englishman, I presume?” inquired the General, still undecided.

“I am so,” was the reply, “and have served my country on board a man-of-war.”

“A sailor! what was your captain’s name, and what ship did you belong to?” demanded the General.

“‘The Prometheus’—Captain Manvers,” was the concise answer.

“Were you in her during the year 18——?” continued his questioner, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, added, “Where were you stationed then?”

“We accompanied a convoy of transports, taking the——th and——th foot to Madras, and then proceeded to China,” was the answer.

The General nodded approvingly. “Quite true,” he said; “Captain Manvers is a friend of my own, and I know his vessel to have been then employed as you have stated. I will trust you; wait five minutes while I prepare to accompany you.”

Within the time he had mentioned General Grant returned, wrapped in a military cloak, beneath which he wore a belt supporting a sabre and a brace of pistols.

“If I do not return in two hours, give this note to Mr. Leicester,” he said to the servant who attended them to the door; then motioning to the stranger to precede him, he quitted the Palazzo Grassini. Leaving the square of St. Mark they advanced towards the Rialto; crossing this, and passing the fruit and vegetable market beyond, they reached a spot where a gondola was moored. Having stepped into it, the General, on a signal from his guide, seated himself near the stern, while the young sailor took an oar and assisted his companion in propelling the light vessel. Having proceeded some short distance in this manner, the rowers paused at a flight of steps. Here the stranger signified to General Grant that they must disembark; then resuming his office of guide, he led the way along the banks of the canal, and through courts and narrow alleys, inhabited by the lower orders of Venice, till he stopped before a rude door. At this he tapped twice in a peculiar manner. An old crone appeared in obedience to his summons, and cautiously unclosing the door, admitted them. Taking a lamp from her hand, the young man led the way up a steep flight of stairs, closely followed by his companion.

“Wait one minute,” he said as they reached the top; returning almost immediately, he continued in a low whisper—

“She is awake and perfectly collected, but appears sinking fast; she is anxious to see you without delay; tread as lightly as possible, and follow me.”

Advancing a few steps, he opened the door of a bedroom, and the General, stooping his head to avoid striking it against the top of the doorway, entered. The apartment, though small, was clean and more comfortably fitted up than from the external appearance of the house he had been led to expect. On a low truckle bed, in one corner of the room, lay the form of the dying girl; at a sign from her brother, General Grant approached, and seating himself on a chair by the bedside, waited till she should address him. For a few minutes she appeared quite unable to do so, and her visitor feared, as he gazed on her emaciated form and sunken features, that she had indeed delayed her communication till the paralysis of coming death had sealed her lips, never again to unclose in this life. In his earlier days General Grant had been familiar with death in some of its most appalling shapes; he had seen men fall by his side, mutilated by ghastly sabre wounds, to be trampled under the hoofs of maddened, plunging horses; he had stood immovable when the deadly artillery ploughed up the ground around him and mowed down whole ranks as the scythe of the reaper prostrates the nodding corn; and when the word of command had gone forth, he had led on the stern remnant that were left, till the bayonet avenged the losses they had sustained; and when the fight was won, he had sat by the couch of some wounded comrade, and watched the strong man battle as it were with death, and yield his last sigh in a fruitless struggle with the inexorable enemy. But he had never before seen any one worn to the brink of the grave by sorrow and disease, and despite his utmost efforts to the contrary, the sight shocked and distressed him deeply. The picturesque stage of decline had long since passed away, and in the appearance of his victim the destroyer stood revealed in his true colours. The features of the poor sufferer were characterised by an expression of fatigue and distress, that told of long days and weary nights of patient endurance; she was so emaciated that the form of the skull and the outline of the bones of the cheek and jaw were distinctly visible through the parchment-like skin, giving a strange, unearthly appearance to the face, while the parched lips, the dark fever spot burning in the centre of each cheek, and at intervals the low, husky cough, which once heard can never be mistaken, evinced only too surely the presence of that fell disease, which seems, as its peculiar attribute, to select its victims amongst the young and fair. Her whole appearance was so worn and corpse-like, that when, after a paroxysm of coughing, she raised her drooping eyelids and fixed her earnest, appealing glance upon her visitor, he started as though he had seen one raised from the dead by the agency of some special miracle.

“I thank God that you are come, sir,” she said in a low, sweet voice, “that I may yet do some good before I die. I have been the cause of much evil in my short life, and I felt it was a duty to tell you the truth of my sad history, and do the little that is possible to save another from enduring the same misery that has brought me to the condition in which you see me.” She paused, and the silent, inward cough—the voice of death—again shook her fragile frame. “You do not know me,” she resumed; “I am Jane Hardy.” As she mentioned her name the General started, and bending his head, drank in her every word with deep attention. “About three years ago,” she continued, “or perhaps rather less, a gentleman who was staying at Broadhurst was thrown from his horse while hunting. He was stunned by the fall, and some of his companions brought him to our cottage. There was no one but myself at home, and I fetched water and bathed his temples. As soon as he began to revive, the friends who had brought him said laughingly that they could not leave him in better hands, and quitted us to follow the hunt. As the gentleman began to recover he entered into conversation with me. He was very witty and clever, and told me of the fine sights he had seen in foreign lands, and many other beautiful and wonderful things which I had never heard of, and before he went away he drew me to his side and kissed me, and said he should come again to see his kind little nurse, and I—God help me—I was young and simple, and I believed all he said, and from that hour I loved him. Well, sir, he came not only once, but often, and I listened to his soft words and specious promises until I ceased to think of or care for anything but him. I had no mother to warn me; my poor father had become stem and morose, and I feared him and sought only to conceal my attachment from him. With some of the facts you, sir, are already acquainted. My father was captured on one of his poaching expeditions and sent to gaol. I sat up the whole night waiting for his return, and in the early morning came, not he whom I was expecting, but my tempter. He told me what had occurred, revealed to me for the first time his real rank, promised to obtain my father’s pardon by means of his wealth and influence, and, as the price of his assistance, implored me to fly with him. He could not make me his bride in England, he said; his position forbade it; but he vowed he would carry me to some bright land in the sunny south, and that we should be united and live happily there. Weak fool that I was! I believed him, and consented.

“The rest of the tale is soon told. I accompanied him to London; he was kind to me, and my dream continued. By his desire I followed him to Rome, under the care of his valet. For a time I was treated with every attention; servants obeyed me, luxuries surrounded me; but his promise of marriage he never fulfilled. Then he began to grow tired of me, and my punishment commenced. He soon proved to me the true nature of his disposition; his temper was fearful, at once passionate, sulky, and vindictive, and I was a safe object on which to vent it. Still I could have borne this uncomplainingly if I could have believed that he continued to love me. But his coldness and indifference became every hour more apparent, till at length I awoke one morning to learn that he had deserted me. I discovered his direction and wrote to him. I forbore reproaches; I knew that I had lost his love—I knew, alas! too late, that he had never really loved me, and all I sought was to return to England, beg my father’s forgiveness, and then, if it pleased God, to die. But I entreated him to send me money enough to take me home again. He left my letter unanswered for a week, and then enclosed me a cheque for five pounds, telling me that I had already cost him more than I was worth, and that I need expect nothing further at his hands.”

“And the name of this diabolical scoundrel was—-?” inquired

General Grant eagerly.

“Lord Bellefield,” was the reply, in a clear, distinct, though feeble tone of voice.

“What proof can you give me of this?” was the cautious rejoinder.

“These letters,” returned the girl, producing a small packet from beneath her pillow.

The General took them, examined the post-marks and the seals, compared the signatures with that of a letter he took out of his pocket, read two or three of them and then returned them, muttering in a voice that trembled with suppressed rage, “They are genuine, and they are his.”

“The rest of my tale is soon told,” resumed Jane Hardy. “Lord Bellefield had left debts behind him, and when it was known he had quitted Rome, not meaning to return, those to whom he owed money seized the few valuables that I possessed (chiefly dresses and trinkets which he had given me), and my last hope, that of returning to England, was taken from me.” Here a fit of coughing, prolonged till it seemed as though it must annihilate her feeble frame, effectually interrupted the speaker. Her brother held a strengthening cordial to her parched lips, and after a lapse of some minutes she was enabled to resume her narration, though her voice was so weak and husky that it was with difficulty her auditor could catch her words. “I have little more to tell,” she said. “I suffered much, very much misery, but, thanks to the kindness of some sisters of charity (rightly were they so called), I was saved from the depths of degradation into which too many, deserted as I was, have been forced.” Again she paused from weakness, and with the tenderness of a woman Miles Hardy wiped the cold dews of approaching death from her brow, and put back the rich masses of her (even yet) beautiful hair. The General was visibly affected.

“Can nothing be done to save her?” he said; “I will ascertain who are the most skilful physicians in Venice and send them to her. No money shall be spared.”

A dark look flitted across Miles’s face, but the dying girl turned towards the speaker, and a faint smile testified that she had heard and understood him.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “that my last moments have not been spent in vain. Your daughter—they say she is good and beautiful; he will take her heart for the plaything of an hour and then crush it as he has crushed mine. You will not let her marry him?”

“Sooner would I see her stretched on her death-bed before me,” was the stern rejoinder.

The girl smiled again. “You have made me so happy,” she whispered; then with difficulty, and pausing between each word, she continued, “Tell him I forgive him and pray for him; I pray that he may repent.” Again she paused, apparently struggling for breath: “Miles, it is very dark,” she said; “come nearer, dear!” Her brother placed his arm round her, and nestling her head in his bosom, an expression of child-like happiness spread over her features. Having lain thus for some moments she suddenly started up, exclaiming aloud, “Oh God! my chest!” In a moment the severe pain seemed to pass away and the happy smile returned. “May He bless you, dearest!” she murmured; then a solemn change came over her countenance, there was a slight struggle, and then—the jaw relaxed, the eyes glazed, and she fell back in her brother’s arms a corpse.

When later on that night women came to perform the last sad offices to the dead, an English Bible was found beneath the pillow, and a leaf was turned down at the text, “Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much;” words of mercy we should do well to bear in mind, and humbly trust they may indicate the future of many a “broken and contrite heart.”

While General Grant was thus occupied, Annie, little dreaming of the various events that had occurred, and which so nearly concerned her happiness, was thinking over the scenes of the morning, and afflicting her spirit by the recollection of Lewis’s parting words. What would she not give that he could know the truth; know why she had allowed herself to be engaged to a man whom Lewis had good reason to believe she both disliked and feared; but it was impossible, situated as she was, to enlighten him, and she must submit to bear that most bitter of all trials, the knowledge that one we love thinks evil of us, and has just and reasonable grounds for such misconception. Then her engagement to Lord Bellefield, now more hateful to her than ever—what should she do to avoid it? to whom should she turn for counsel and assistance?—Laura?—she had great faith in her good sense, and, above all, in her energy of character—could she, dare she, confide in her? and she had just settled that she certainly could not when a gentle tap was heard at the door. Annie cried, “Come in,” and Laura entered.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, dear,” she said, “but I grew fidgety about you, fearing the alarm and fatigue of the morning might have been too much for your strength.”

Annie smiled mournfully and shook her head, at the same time making room for her friend on the settee upon which she was reclining. Laura placed herself by her side, and taking Annie’s hand in her own, stroked it caressingly.

“Poor little hand,” she said; “how soft and white it is, but it’s getting sadly thin; really, dear Annie, I must lecture you. You eat nothing, and your spirits have quite deserted you—you who were such a happy, merry little thing—it makes me miserable to see you.”

She paused for a reply, and at length it came, but in a form she did not expect, and which tended not at all to remove her anxiety.

“Do you think I am very ill, Laura?” Annie asked; “so ill that I am at all likely to die?”

“No, darling; I hope—I trust not,” returned Laura earnestly; “but why do you ask, and in so strange a tone that one could almost fancy you wished that it might be so?”

“Because I do wish it,” was the sad rejoinder; “if I live I must be very unhappy—there is no help for it, and so I wish to die. Is that wrong? I am afraid it is.”

Laura paused ere she replied—

“I don’t think you are likely to die—grief kills very slowly. I am sure you need not die of grief, or seek to die to escape a life of unhappiness, if you would only be reasonable. I love you as I should have loved a sister, had I possessed one; my only desire is to render you happier; I am a woman, as yourself, and as little likely as you would be, were our situations reversed, to do or counsel anything which could wound your feelings or compromise your delicacy; and yet you lock your sorrow in your own breast, and refuse to give me sufficient insight into your heart to enable me to be of the slightest comfort or assistance to you. Is this wise or even kind?”

Such an appeal, coming at that particular moment, was irresistible. Annie threw her arms round her friend, hid her face on Laura’s shoulder, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper, inquired—

“What is it you wish to know?”

“You dislike Lord Bellefield, and are anxious not to marry him?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” was the unmistakable answer.

“You love——”

Annie drew back, but Laura’s arm, passed round her slender waist, detained her.

“You love Lewis Arundel?”

This time Annie did not reply, but a convulsive pressure of the hand answered Laura’s question better than words could have done.

“Then, if you love him as he deserves to be loved, how could you allow yourself to be forced into an engagement with Lord Bellefield?”

“Must I, indeed, reveal to you all my folly and weakness?” murmured poor Annie.

“Really I am afraid you must, dear, if you wish my advice to be of the smallest use to you,” returned Laura with a kind, encouraging smile; “but perhaps the follies may prove not to have been so very foolish, and the weaknesses turn out amiable ones after all. Come, let us hear!” Thus urged, Annie recounted with smiles, and tears, and words, now dropping in broken sentences, now poured forth with all the eager vehemence with which feelings long restrained at length find vent, that portion of this veritable history which especially related to herself, and the rise and progress of her unfortunate attachment; until she reached the point whereat, overwhelmed by the belief that Lewis had departed from Broadhurst, suspecting her love and not reciprocating it, she had permitted herself to be hurried into an engagement with Lord Bellefield, sacrificing herself to guard against the possibility of any imputation being cast upon her maidenly reserve. Here Laura interrupted her by exclaiming—

“My poor child! I see it all now; you are to be pitied, not blamed; would to Heaven you had known the truth earlier! how much misery it might have saved you. Lewis Arundel quitted Broadhurst because he loved you with all the impassioned tenderness of his fiery nature, and found even his iron will powerless to control or even longer to conceal his feelings.”

“How do you know this?” exclaimed Annie, sweeping back her luxuriant ringlets from her flushed cheeks, and fixing her large, eager eyes upon her friend’s countenance.

“From his own lips when he first heard that you were coming here,” was the reply. And Annie, pressing her hands to her eyes, hid her face in the sofa cushion and burst into tears; but this time they were tears of joy.

Then, when she had in some degree recovered from her agitation, Annie learned the history of Lewis’s wanderings to cure his love, and how signally the remedy had failed, and how he had turned painter, and was cleverer than anybody else (a fact of which she felt convinced before she heard it), and how Laura had discovered his secret through the medium of his sketch of Annie and Faust—(she did not mention the “Giaour” pictures, fearing to alarm her friend)—and how Charles and she had seen a great deal of him and become very fond of him (oh how Annie loved her for saying that!), and how at last one day she had gained his confidence and he had told her all, and how she had resolved never to breathe a syllable of it to Annie unless she could clear herself in the matter of accepting Lord Bellefield, and thus prove herself not unworthy to possess the knowledge that the priceless blessing of Lewis’s noble and generous heart was hers, and hers only. And when Laura had finished, Annie, like a true woman, contrived by a series of “cunning-simple” questions to make her tell her tale all over again, particularly those portions which related to Lewis’s nobleness of nature, and the depth, strength, and permanent quality of his affection for herself; and when all had been said and re-said that could by any possibility be found to say, even on this interesting matter, Annie fixed her soft, imploring eyes on her friend’s countenance, and asked in a tone of the most innocent but complete helplessness—

“And now, dear Laura, tell me what is to be done?”

Up to this moment Laura had considered the whole question to hinge on one point—was Annie worthy of the love of such a man as Lewis, or not? This satisfactorily decided, all other difficulties seemed by comparison insignificant; but now, when the monster obstacle had disappeared, the engagement to Lord Bellefield, the General’s obstinacy, Lewis’s pride, Annie’s womanly reserve, and Charley’s indolence and dislike of saying or doing anything which could by the most remote possibility irritate or annoy any one, all flashed across her and bewildered her. Still she had great faith in her own energy and in the goodness of her cause, and so replied vaguely, but confidently—

“Why, my love! it’s perfectly absurd to give way to despair as you have been doing; of course something must, and therefore can and shall be done; but what it is to be will, I confess, require some little consideration!”

And just when their deliberations had reached this point, Laura received a summons from her husband to say that he desired to speak with her; so she imprinted a kiss on Annie’s smooth brow, and they parted.

“I say, Laura, read this,” exclaimed Charley, looking worried and perplexed, as he handed his wife the following note:—

“Dear Charles, I have desired your servant to give you this note in case I should not return in the course of the next two hours. I am about to accompany a young stranger, representing himself to be an English sailor, to visit his sister, who is said to be on her death-bed, and has some communication to make to me. I have examined the man, and believe his tale; but if I should not return within the time specified, it is probably a clever fabrication, and as no lie can be framed for other than an evil purpose you had better apply at once to the police, and look after me in whatever way they may advise.

“Yours faithfully,

“Archibald Grant.”

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