CHAPTER LXV.—FAUST PAYS A MORNING VISIT.
Frere, on the principle of striking whilst the iron is hot, had no sooner obtained Lewis’s promise to place in his hands the arrangement of the quarrel between Lord Bellefield and himself than he induced his friend to write a carefully worded apology for having in the heat of passion assaulted his lordship on the previous evening. Lewis took the pen, and without a murmur wrote as Frere dictated, his compressed lips and knitted brow alone telling of the martyrdom his proud spirit was undergoing; but his strength of will was as powerful for good as for evil; he had resolved on the sacrifice, and cost what it might, he would make it.
“And now, what is your intention?” he inquired, as Frere, having signified his approbation of its contents, folded the note and deposited it safely in his pocket-book. “Suppose Bellefield should refuse to accept this apology?”
“Never fear,” was the confident reply, “he must accept it; and to tell you the truth, although he may bluster and give himself airs when he perceives you are not forthcoming, I expect he will only be too glad to be quit of such an awkward customer. I don’t wish to be personal, but depend upon it you are by no means pleasant as an enemy; there is ‘a lurking devil in your eye,’ as Byron says (and he ought to know about devils, for, adopting the fallen angel hypothesis, he was very like one himself), that would try a man’s nerve rather when he found himself standing opposite your loaded pistol at eighteen paces.”
Lewis smiled faintly.
“The devil has been pretty well taken out of me this time,” he said; “henceforth I shall be essentially a man of peace.”
He paused, pressed his hand to his brow, and a slight shiver passed through his frame. Frere regarded him anxiously.
“What are you shivering about?” he inquired. “You don’t feel ill, do you?”
“No, it is nothing,” was the reply. “I have, as you may easily imagine, gone through a good deal, both mentally and bodily, of late, and I am a little overworn; but a couple of hours’ sleep will set me right again.”
“Then the sooner you take it the better,” rejoined Frere. “Never mind me; I shall ensconce myself in this arm-chair till the man of war, your second, makes his appearance, and sleep or read as the Fates may incline. What time do you expect your accomplice?”
“He will be here at half-past four,” was the reply.
“And it is now just two; so turn in, and pleasant dreams to you.” Thus saying, Frere threw himself back in the chair, and drawing a volume of Dante out of his pocket, set to work to polish up his Italian, as he termed it. Lewis rose to follow his friend’s advice, but a mist seemed to swim before his eyes, his brain reeled, his trembling knees refused to support him, and staggering forward he sank heavily to the ground in a fainting fit. Frere, much alarmed, raised him in his arms, and carrying him with some difficulty into the inner room, laid him on his bed, and began, with more energy than skill, to apply every conceivable or inconceivable remedy to recover him, but with only partial success, for although after the lapse of a few moments colour returned to his lips and pulsation to his heart, he neither spoke nor appeared to recognise his friend’s voice, and after a few inarticulate murmurs sank into a dull, heavy sleep. Frere covered him with the bedclothes as well as he was able, then drawing a chair to the bedside, seated himself thereupon to watch his slumbers. Half-past four arrived, and with it Major Ehrenburg, the Austrian officer who had promised to act as Lewis’s second. Before he came a new idea had entered Frere’s head—it might not be necessary to make use of the apology at all, Lewis’s sudden illness would be a sufficient reason for his not meeting his adversary.
“The amusement you have promised yourself in seeing my friend shoot or be shot you will be disappointed of, Mein lieber Herr?” he said with a quiet smile, as the Austrian stared at him in surprise and twisted his moustaches fiercely. “Lord Bellefield in his angry moods is no doubt a very terrible fellow, but Lewis is about to wrestle with a more deadly foe yet, or I am much mistaken.”
“Excuse me, sir, I have no time for badinage,” returned the other, bowing with haughty politeness; “nothing can prevent this duel. I must speak with the Signore Luigi himself immediately. Permit me to pass.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Frere, holding open the door of the bedroom; “but in regard to nothing being able to prevent the duel, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ You will find my words to be true. See, his adversary has laid him on his back already.”
The young soldier advanced to the bedside; Lewis still slept, but his slumbers were disturbed and feverish. As the other bent over him he turned uneasily and murmured some inarticulate sounds. Laying his hand on his shoulder, Ehrenburg attempted to rouse him.
“Luigi,” he said, “it is late; they will be on the ground before us.” The only reply was again an inarticulate murmur; but on his repeating his summons Lewis sat up and stared about him with a look of dull unconsciousness, then a wild light came into his eyes, and glaring furiously at the Austrian, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice—
“Villain, it is false! she loves you not—she never loved you!”
“Do you not know me Luigi?” inquired Ehrenburg in a more soothing tone of voice.
“Know you, scoundrel, yes! On earth, or in the lowest hell, I should know and hate you.” He paused, glanced wildly round the room, then exclaimed in a voice scarcely audible through passion, “What I here in my own house do you come to triumph over and to insult me? This is too much.” And with a scream of fury he made a spring at the other’s throat, which he would have succeeded in grasping, probably to his severe injury, had not Frere, who had watched him closely during the foregoing scene, thrown himself upon him, and with the assistance of the young soldier, who at length began to perceive the true state of the case, contrived to hold him down, till, exhausted by the violence of his struggles, he ceased to resist any longer.
“He must have exposed himself to malaria, and the fever has attacked the brain—is it not so?” inquired Ehrenburg as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak.
“So I fear,” was the reply. “Malaria, or macaroni, or some horrid foreign thing or other, has brought on a violent fever, and, as you see, he is now about as mad as a March hare (though perhaps a belief in that popular zoological delusion may not extend to the Austrian dominions)”—this last remark was made sotto voce. “And now, Mein Herr, the sooner you’re off the better, for Lord Bellefield, unless he is much belied, is not particularly famous for patience. You’ll explain to him why Lewis can’t do himself the pleasure of shooting him this morning; and you may add, with my compliments—Richard Frere’s, at your service—that it’s better luck than he deserves. By the way,” he continued, “if you could give one a hint how to come by such an article as a doctor I should esteem it an additional favour.”
“I will call at the residence of an English physician as soon as I leave this house,” was the reply; “fortunately, one who is reckoned very skilful resides within a few doors.”
“That’s right,” returned Frere, “none of your foreign quacks for me. Doctors are bad enough all the world over, I dare say; but an English one is a degree better than any of your homoeopathic, mesmeric, electro-biologic, clairvoyant humbugs—Al piacer di revedervi, Signore; I mean, Leben sie wohl, mein Herr. A mustachioed, laced, and padded young puppy!” he continued, as, with a haughty bow and a puzzled expression of countenance, the young Austrian quitted the apartment; “can’t he be content with cutting throats himself without encouraging his neighbours to go and shoot at one another! I hate a fellow who will be second in a duel as I hate a professional hangman. I’d half a mind to let poor Lewis strangle him—a foreigner more or less is no great matter.”
The physician’s opinion coincided with that of Richard Frere. Overwrought both in mind and body, Lewis had been attacked by fever of the most virulent nature, and every resource that the science of medicine afforded appeared powerless to subdue it. Night and day Richard Frere sat by the sick man’s bedside, listening with an aching heart to his fevered ravings. Now, for the first time, did he become aware of the depth and strength of that passion which, having destroyed its victim’s peace of mind, seemed about to finish its work of devastation by sapping the very springs of life itself. In his delirium the idea appeared to have fixed itself in Lewis’s imagination that the duel had taken place, and that Lord Bellefield had perished by his hand; and the agonised self-reproaches which his remorse forced from him were painful to listen to. Occasionally he would appear to forget even this, and imagining himself in the presence of her he loved, would breathe forth expressions of the deepest tenderness, when suddenly the recollection of his supposed guilt would flash across him, and upbraiding himself in the bitterest terms, he would exclaim that a bar existed between them, and declare himself a murderer accursed before God and man. And so the weary days wore on, and the sufferer grew paler and weaker, while still the fire which was consuming his young life burned fiercely as at first.
The day following the night of Lord Bellefield’s death was a remarkable one, for it witnessed the assassination of the unfortunate Marinovitch, whose courage and strong sense of duty forbade him to desert his post, even in order to preserve his life; this act of dastardly revenge heralded the revolt in Venice. The Palazzo Grassini was, as may be supposed, the scene of much alarm and anxiety. General Grant and Leicester had been foiled in their attempt to trace the after proceedings of the party who had kidnapped Lord Bellefield, nor was any light thrown upon his mysterious disappearance until another night and day had elapsed, when, in consequence of a high reward offered by the family to any person who could afford information in regard to the affair, an individual in the garb of a gondolier sought an interview with General Grant. This worthy (who was none other than Jacopo, the bravo whose stiletto had so nearly proved fatal to Lewis) having bargained for the promised reward and for a free pardon for his own share in the transaction, confessed that he and certain of his associates had been engaged by an Englishman named Hardy, with whom he had been for some months acquainted, to seize and carry off a gentleman, against whom Hardy, for some reason, appeared to nourish a deep revenge; that this gentleman had been staying at the Palazzo Grassini; and that Hardy having pointed him out to him, he (Jacopo) had watched him the whole evening, and finding he remained abroad so late, had arranged to waylay him as he returned home, and succeeded in his design, though the plan was nearly being frustrated by the unexpected absence of Hardy, who however joined them at the last moment. He then communicated those details of the enterprise with which the reader is already acquainted, up to the time when he left Hardy and Lord Bellefield together in the ruined convent, beyond which he either was, or affected to be, ignorant in regard to the affair. The clue thus gained was, however, sufficient. Led by Jacopo to the room in which the duel had taken place, the General and Leicester soon found their worst fears realised. The body lay covered with a cloak, on which was pinned a paper, written by Hardy before the duel, stating his intention of forcing Lord Bellefield to a mortal combat, adding that when that paper was found either one or both of them would have gone to their long account; at the bottom was scrawled in pencil—
“I have kept my word; he brought his fate upon his own head—no one had any hand in his death but myself; he fell in fair fight, having wounded me severely, but, as I think, not mortally.—(Signed) Miles Hardy.”
All Leicester’s early affection for his brother was brought back by his dreadful fate, and he wept over his corpse like a woman. The General shuddered slightly when his eye first perceived the expression of rage and hatred stereotyped on the rigid features of the dead man’s face, then his brow contracted and his mouth grew stern as he turned to issue directions for the murderer’s apprehension. Whether, being Italians, the police looked upon manslaughter with a favouring eye, or whether the disturbed state of the city facilitated his escape, certain it is that Miles Hardy contrived to evade the search made for him; and after offering large rewards for his apprehension, and using every other means in his power to stimulate the exertions of the police, General Grant was fain to rest satisfied that he had done all which the strictest sense of duty could command at his hands. Perhaps, as the memory of the scene he had witnessed by Jane Hardy’s death-bed recurred to him, and he thought of the cruel provocation her brother had received, even the stern old soldier might be glad that he had not been called upon to condemn Miles to an ignominious and painful death.
The feelings both of Laura and Annie, when they became acquainted with this frightful catastrophe, may easily be imagined. From Laura it was impossible to conceal it, for, unused to deep emotion of any kind, her husband’s grief was for the time so overpowering that he completely lost all self-control, and it was only by the judicious exercise of her good sense and tenderness that she was enabled to restore him to anything like composure. Nor had she a much easier task with Annie, for a superstitious but not unnatural fancy seized her that (her earnest desire to avoid a union with Lord Bellefield having been thus fearfully accomplished) she was in some degree morally guilty. But Laura, tender, kind, judicious Laura, with her man’s head and her woman’s heart (a rare alliance, constituting human perfection), argued and soothed and coaxed and reasoned, until Annie’s self-upbraiding horror yielded to her gentle persuadings, as did of old the demon which tormented Saul to the melody of David’s harp: and indeed there is on earth no music sweeter than a loving woman’s voice.
During all this time poor Walter found himself sadly neglected. After the affair at the Casino, Mr. Spooner, ignorant of Lewis Arundel’s illness, and fearful that he would keep his word and inform General Grant of the shameful manner in which he had betrayed his trust, found some plausible excuse for resigning his situation and returning to England, at the General’s expense, before any exposure should take place. So he wrote himself a letter announcing the death of his mother (at that moment drinking brandy and water in the bar of a hotel in Birmingham, whereof she was landlady), and leaving three orphan sisters (invented for the occasion) solely dependent on him for everything; which epistle answered his purpose nicely. After his departure Walter was left pretty much to his own devices; and one of his chief amusements was drilling and talking to Faust, for whom all his old fondness had revived since the interview in which he had made up his quarrel with Annie. He was therefore especially annoyed and perplexed by a habit which the dog had lately acquired of absenting himself every day for several hours. Various were the schemes Walter laid to discover what became of the animal, but by some fatality they all failed to effect their object; and the cause of the dog’s absence, as well as the mode in which he contrived to effect his egress, still remained a mystery. At length, one evening, as Walter was sitting at a window of the Grassini palace which looked into a small courtyard or garden enclosed by a high wall, his attention was attracted by observing something which in the short glimpse he had of it appeared like an animal’s head pop up above the wall and disappear again. Watching the spot carefully, Walter soon witnessed a repetition of the phenomenon; but this time a rough, hairy body and legs followed the head, and after a slight scramble the delinquent Faust himself made his appearance at the top of the wall, which was sufficiently broad to afford him a precarious footing: he then deliberately, but with great caution, walked along the narrow causeway thus afforded, until he reached a spot where the limb of an old tree grew so as nearly to touch the wall; upon this he got, and contrived, by a mode of progression half-slipping, half-clambering, to arrive at a point whence he could easily jump to the ground. All these manouvres Walter carefully noted, and formed his plan accordingly. The boy’s curiosity—(we continue to use the term boy, for although in age and appearance poor Walter was now almost a man, in mind he was still far younger than his years, in spite of those occasional flashes of intelligence so often to be observed in cases of partial mental imbecility, which render a just estimate of the individual capacity so difficult to arrive at)—Walter’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused by this discovery, and he determined if possible to find out the nature and object of Faust’s clandestine expeditions. That he had some definite object Walter never for a moment doubted, for he had so completely made a friend and companion of the dog, that he had learned to look upon him much more as a reasonable being than as an animal guided only by an enlightened instinct.
For the rest of that day, and from an early hour on the following morning, Walter never lost sight of the dog, though he contrived to effect his purpose without interfering with its liberty of action. At length his patience was rewarded by seeing Faust enter the garden and begin to scramble up the identical tree, by means of which he had effected his descent on the previous day. Seizing his hat, Walter lost no time in following him; the tree was easy to climb, and the same branch which had afforded a passage for Faust enabled Walter to reach the top of the wall in safety. On the other side the difficulties were still less, for the ruins of some ancient building lay scattered in all directions, and a pile of them actually came within a few feet of the top of the wall, forming a rough but efficient flight of steps. By the time Walter regained terra firma, however, Faust had proceeded some distance, and had he chosen to run on might still have preserved his secret inviolate. But when Walter called him, he stopped and waited till his friend approached, though neither threats nor endearments could prevail upon him to turn back, or to allow Walter to come near enough to lay hold of him. And so the pair proceeded, Faust running on for a short distance, waiting till Walter drew near, and then resuming his course. The route the dog pursued avoided the more frequented ways, and Walter began to think Faust was merely taking a stroll for the benefit of his constitution, when the animal suddenly turned down an archway, and looking back to see that his friend followed, proceeded along a narrow alley which led into one of the smaller streets, and stopped at the door of a house which projected beyond some of the others. The door stood ajar, and Faust without ceremony pushed it further open and walked in. Walter paused, debating as well as his mental capacity enabled him to do, whether or not he should venture to follow. It was a knotty point to decide. On the one hand his fears urged him to turn back and not risk facing the possible dangers which might lie hidden within this mysterious mansion; curiosity, on the other hand, prompted him to enter and discover at once and for ever the aim and end of Faust’s incomprehensible visits. Fear was very near gaining the day, when, in thinking over every motive, probable or improbable, which might influence the dog, the bright idea flashed across him that perhaps Faust had discovered his former master, and the hope of again meeting his “dear Mr. Arundel” outweighing every other consideration, he boldly opened the door, and encountering Faust, who had returned to look for him, followed that sagacious quadruped up a flight of stairs.
Now it so happened that the particular morning in question was that of the fourteenth day from the commencement of Lewis’s illness, and the physician had pronounced the crisis of the disease to be at hand. He had seen his patient late on the previous evening, and administered to him a powerful narcotic, from the effect of which he had not recovered when Walter and Faust commenced their ramble. Frere, who had sat up with him all night, had gone out to refresh himself with a short walk, leaving Lewis under the care of Antonelli, his old attendant. This worthy man had in his turn been called down to see a friend, who having heard of the Signore Luigi’s illness, had come to prescribe some outrageous remedy, in the infallibility whereof his faith was as unshakable as his ignorance on all medical subjects was profound. Antonelli, whose grief at his patron’s danger had been overpowering, was easily interested in his friend’s account of the wonderful specific; and with the garrulity of age, he remained discussing its merits for a much longer space of time than he was at all aware of. Thus it came about that Walter, when he had followed Faust upstairs, and after a second fit of hesitation entered an apartment through the partially open door of which the dog had disappeared, found himself in a room, in one corner of which stood a small iron bedstead whereon lay some person, who from his deep, regular breathing seemed to be in a sound sleep. Cautiously, and with noiseless footsteps, the boy approached and gazed upon the sleeper, nor, for a moment, could he recognise, in the pale, worn face which met his view, the features of his “dear Mr. Arundel.” But this doubt was speedily resolved when Lewis moved uneasily in his sleep and muttered some indistinct words, amongst which Walter caught the name of Annie. Two clear ideas now presented themselves to the boy’s mind: his friend was asleep and must not be roused, and from the expression of his features he must be either ill or unhappy. Having arrived at these conclusions, he proceeded to act upon them by seating himself at the bedside, to wait patiently till Lewis should awake, while he devoted all the powers of his intellect to form some theory by which to account for the change in his late tutor’s appearance. As he thus sat anxiously watching, Lewis again turned restlessly, murmuring something, the meaning of which Walter could not catch, then speaking more distinctly, he said—
“She leaned upon his arm; she smiled on him; she loves him! I saw it with my own eyes.”
He said this so plainly, that Walter, fancying he must be awake, addressed him, and asked if he were ill. Lewis caught the sound of the words, and replied—
“Ill in mind, Frere, nothing more.”
Walter, still believing him to be awake, continued—
“It is I—Walter; do you not know me?”
For a moment the sleeping man made no reply, then resuming the conversation which he imagined himself holding with Frere, he exclaimed eagerly—
“Love one man and engage herself to another! I tell you no! Annie Grant never loved me!”
At this moment Faust (who had been lying quietly, and as if he were quite at home, on a rug by the bedside), roused by the sound of his master’s voice, placed his fore-paws on the bed, and finding himself unnoticed, endeavoured to attract attention by licking first the sick man’s hand and then his face. The effect of the opiate had by this time in a great measure worn off, and roused by Faust’s intrusive affection, Lewis awoke with a violent start, and attempting to raise himself in a sitting posture, gazed around him in surprise, then fell back upon his pillow from weakness. After lying some moments perfectly motionless, he again unclosed his eyes and asked in a low, faint voice, “Am I dreaming still, or did I see Walter?”
“No, you are awake now, dear Mr. Arundel; it is I, Walter. Faust found you out, and brought me to see you.”
As Walter mentioned Faust, Lewis for the first time perceived his old favourite, and stretched out his hand with the intention of patting him, but the effort was beyond his strength, and his arm sank powerless by his side. Faust, however, perceived the attention, and acknowledged it by again licking his hand. Lewis turned his languid eyes from Walter to the dog, and a tear stole down his wasted cheek, then his lips grew compressed, and an expression of anguish overspread his countenance. With consciousness had also returned bitter memories. In the meanwhile Walter, delighted at recovering his long-lost friend, grew loquacious in the fulness of his joy, and ran on in his usual disconnected manner.
“So you haven’t forgotten Faust, then, Mr. Arundel? He has never forgotten you either, poor fellow! all the time you have been away; but I have taken great care of him, you see; he’s nice and fat, isn’t he? We’ve been very good friends too, only we used to quarrel sometimes when he would follow Annie, and I did not like it because—because——” Here he paused, having a kind of confused recollection that this was a subject on which he wanted to say something particular. After waiting for a minute or two his ideas grew in a degree clearer, and he continued—
“You know I took a dislike to poor Annie, because I thought she made you go away. I always thought so until she told me it was not the case, and how fond she was of you.”
When Walter first mentioned Annie’s name Lewis started and made a gesture to induce him to be silent, but the boy did not understand his wishes, and his auditor soon became too much absorbed in the interest of his disclosures to seek again to interrupt him.
“You were talking about Annie just now, you know, before you were quite awake,” resumed Walter, “and you said she did not love you. I remember I thought so too once, and that that was the reason why you went away, and so I took a dislike to her, and would not let Faust follow her, only he would. But we were both quite wrong, for Annie is just as fond of you as Faust and I are, and now I’ll tell you how I came to find it out.” He then in his rambling way gave a childish but perfectly intelligible account of his conversation with Annie Grant, with which the reader is already acquainted. Just as he had finished his recital, Richard Frere returned from his walk in time to overhear the last few words of the history, and to discover that Lewis had fainted from intense emotion.