Lewis Arundel; Or, The Railroad Of Life

by Frank E. Smedley

CHAPTER XLII.—A TÊTE-À-TÊTE, AND A TRAGEDY.

A PARTY more silent than the trio occupying General Grant’s carriage never drove from the door of Her Majesty’s theatre. Annie, delighted to find herself once again in safety, leant back amidst cloaks and cushions to recover as best she might the effects of the terror she had undergone. Somewhat to her surprise and displeasure, Emily, without uttering a word by way either of explanation or condolence, also threw herself back among the cushions, and arranging a fold of her mantle so as to conceal her face, appeared unconscious of the presence of her companions. To this silent system they scrupulously adhered till they reached Conduit Street, when Emily exclaimed in a quick, eager tone of voice, “Where are they going? Tell him to drive to Berkeley Square directly.”

Lewis, to whom this speech was addressed, let down the window and gave the coachman the requisite order, and in less than five minutes the carriage stopped at the house occupied for the season by the Countess Portici. The servant let down the steps, and Lewis springing out, assisted the Countess to alight; as she did so she turned her head, and saying hurriedly, “Annie, I shall see you tomorrow,” entered the house, and the door closed after her. Lewis resumed his place, and the carriage drove away.

“I think she is very unkind not to have said she was sorry for having missed me, and I’ll never go out with her again,” observed Annie petulantly. “And Lord Bellefield, too,” she continued—for she had by this time reached that stage of recovery when, tracing back her alarm to its first causes, it became a relief to her to pour forth her wrongs, and in Lewis she felt sure of a prudent and sympathising auditor—“it is all his fault for deserting us in such a shameful way.”

“You are not perhaps aware that, meeting me accidentally, his lordship despatched me to you as his substitute,” returned Lewis.

“Did he intend then to have come back himself, if you had been unable to act as his deputy?” inquired Annie quickly.

“He told me it was impossible for him to do so,” was Lewis’s reply.

“Then if he had not happened to meet you by mere chance, he would have left us to find our way to the carriage as best we could. How shameful! just imagine what would have become of me if you had not arrived when you did?—that dreadful man!—I believe I should have died of fright.” She paused, then added, in her usual gentle, winning voice, “I must again plague you with my thanks, Mr. Arundel; you are fated always to render me services for which I am unable to make you any return; except by my sincere friendship,” she continued timidly.

“And that is a reward for which a man might———” began Lewis passionately. He was going to add, “gladly die,” but he checked himself abruptly, and if Annie could at that moment have seen his face, she would have been scared at the expression of despair by which it was characterised, an expression changing instantly to a look of the sternest resolution, as he continued, in a calm, grave voice, “I mean that your uniform kindness and consideration have overpaid any trifling service I may have been fortunate enough to render you.”

“Did Lord Bellefield give any reason for being unable to return to us?” inquired Annie after a pause. Lewis replied in the negative, and Annie resumed, “Papa will be waiting for us—he never goes to bed till I come home. You must tell him all you know of what has occurred, Mr. Arundel; and pray make him understand clearly how much my cousin is to blame in the matter.”

“Of course, if General Grant questions me I must tell him exactly what I have done and why I did it,” returned Lewis gravely; “but—may I indeed use the privilege of a friend, and venture for once to advise you?”

“Oh yes, pray do,” rejoined Annie eagerly; “I shall be so much obliged to you. I dare say I am going to do something very foolish.”

“From my acquaintance with your father’s high and chivalrous character,” continued Lewis, “I feel sure that the facts with which I must make him acquainted will incense him greatly against Lord Bellefield, and as the General is, both from temperament and education, a man of action, his resentment is almost certain to lead to some practical results. Now just at present you are naturally and justly angry with your cousin; but young ladies’ anger is seldom of a very vindictive description, yours least of all so, and when, after frowning him into penitence, you have graciously forgiven him, will not a serious rupture with the General be a source of annoyance (to use no stronger word) both to you and to Lord Bellefield? All that I would recommend,” continued Lewis, seeing that Annie bent down her head and made no reply, “would be, not what the lawyers term suppressio veri—I would not for the world have you conceal anything; but much depends upon the spirit in which a tale is told, and I am anxious to save you from the subsequent regret which yielding to a momentary impulse of anger may cost you.”

“Tell me plainly what it is you think my father would do?” inquired Annie abruptly.

“I think—pardon me if I speak too freely—I think the General would resolve to break off the engagement which Mr. Leicester long since informed me existed between yourself and Lord Bellefield; and it was to save you the pain such a resolve might cost you that I ventured to offer you my advice.”

“You are mistaken,” replied his companion hurriedly; “such an arrangement as that to which you refer may have been, perhaps still is, contemplated; but the idea has always been distasteful to me, and anything which would preclude the possibility of further reference to it would be to me a subject of rejoicing rather than of regret You may think it strange in me to speak thus openly to you; but I am sure my confidence is not misplaced, and—and I am most anxious my father should understand clearly the insult (for I consider it no less) my cousin has to-night offered me.”

Whether the information thus communicated was a source of pain or pleasure to her auditor, we must leave the reader to conjecture for himself, as when Lewis next spoke his manner was calm and grave as ever.

“There is one possibility,” he said, “of which you must not entirely lose sight: there may have been some urgent necessity for Lord Belle-field’s presence elsewhere—some sufficient reason for his apparent neglect, which he will only have to mention in order alike to disarm your indignation and that of General Grant.”

“Really, my cousin appears to have secured a most able advocate,” returned Annie, with the slightest possible shade of annoyance perceivable in her tone. “I was scarcely prepared to find you so zealous in his cause.”

Lewis’s face grew dark as he replied in a low, earnest voice, “While I live, Lord Bellefield shall always meet with the strictest justice at my hands! Justice!” he continued bitterly, “it is a god-like principle, and sculptors have symbolised it well—the blinded brow, to show the stern singleness of heart; the scales, to weigh the merits of the case; and the keen sword, the agent of a sudden and full retribution.”

He spoke in a tone of such deep and concentrated feeling, that Annie, as she listened to his words, trembled involuntarily. With the keenness of a woman’s instinct she appreciated the intensity of the feeling and the power of the will that was, for the time, able to control it. For the time!—in that phrase lay the secret of her prescient, terror.

Lewis was too much engrossed by the strength of his own emotions to perceive the alarm he had excited; nor was it till they reached the corner of Park Crescent that he again spoke—

“How did you contrive to become separated from the Countess Portici?” he inquired. “You were absolutely alone amongst those people—were you not?—when I came up.”

Scarcely had Annie informed him of the circumstances which led to her desertion when the carriage stopped.

“The General wishes to see you before you retire for the night, Miss Grant,” insinuated the aristocratic butler, as, leaning on Lewis’s arm, Annie entered the paternal mansion.

“Where is my father?” she inquired hastily—“in the library?” Receiving an affirmative answer, she continued, turning to Lewis: “You must come with me; remember your promise!—I by no means consider myself safe till this interview is over.”

Lewis smiled assent; his unnatural stiffness of manner seemed to have disappeared like magic the moment their tête-à-tête was over, and Annie again restored to the protection of her own home.

The General appeared in high good humour. “You are late, you dissipated puss!” he said as Annie entered. “Ah! Mr. Arundel,” he continued, “I did not know you had been of the party. What have you done with Emily and Bellefield, Annie?”

“Emily is safely at home,” was the reply; “she would not come further than Berkeley Square. As to my cousin Bellefield, he must answer for himself, if he is not irrecoverably lost; he chose to leave us to take care of ourselves. We have had an adventure, and I should have died of fright if Mr. Arundel had not come to my assistance like one of the good genii in the ‘Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.’ But I must go to bed, or Aunt Martha will be implacable; she always examines Lisette on oath as to the precise moment at which she finally leaves my room. Mr. Arundel will tell you the whole history much better than I can—so good-night!” and casting a glance, half arch, half imploring, but wholly irresistible, at Lewis, she glided out of the apartment, and was gone ere the General had sufficiently “come at” the meaning of her speech to attempt to detain her.

Fixing his eyes on Lewis with a look of sublime perplexity, which bordered closely on the ludicrous, he exclaimed, “Pray, what is the meaning of all this, Mr. Arundel? Can you explain to what my daughter alluded?”

Thus called upon, Lewis was forced to narrate the adventures of the evening, with the details of which the reader has been already made acquainted.

The General heard him attentively, though his brow grew dark as he proceeded. He listened in silence, however, till Lewis began to describe the scene in the crush-room at the Opera-house, when he became so much excited that he sprang from his seat and began pacing the apartment with impatient strides. At the mention of Sir Gilbert Vivian’s impertinent behaviour he exclaimed—

“A scoundrel! I remember when he was broke upon parade for insolence to his commanding officer. I hope you knocked him down, sir!”

“I felt strangely tempted to do so,” replied Lewis, “but he had several of his friends with him, so that I should have been certain to get into a disagreeable squabble; and in that case what would have become of Miss Grant?”

“Very true, sir, very true,” returned the General hastily; “next to courage, coolness in action is the greatest attribute in a soldier—that is to say, in a gentleman—and I honour your forbearance for such a cause. Shake hands, sir!” and suiting the action to the word, General Grant crossed the room, and seizing Lewis by the hand, shook it warmly.

At this unusual display of feeling Lewis’s pale cheek flushed, and he continued his narration to the point when he handed Sir Gilbert Vivian his card. Here he paused, and continued in an embarrassed tone of voice: “I dare say he will take no notice of this—but if he should—of course I am aware that the affair must be left entirely in your hands, and that it is Lord Bellefield’s privilege to—to defend—that is, to chastise any insult offered to Miss Grant; but as you have so kindly signified your approval of my conduct in the affair hitherto—if you could reward me by allowing me to go out with this scoundrel——?”

This was a request so thoroughly after the General’s own heart, that, as he listened to it, his little, bright eyes danced and sparkled with satisfaction, which he had much difficulty not to express in words; but his moral obligations, as a disciplinarian and the father of a family, came across him, and he replied: “Duelling is a practice alike subversive of military discipline, and contrary to the dictates of religion; it is one, therefore, against which I have always—that is, for many years past—felt obliged to set my face. Until Lord Bellefield shall have afforded me some perfectly satisfactory explanation of his extraordinary conduct, his intercourse with this household must entirely cease; a man who could thus neglect his trust is the last person to whom I should dream of committing the honour of—ahem!—my family. As to this Sir Gilbert Vivian, from what I have heard of him, he is beneath the notice of a gentleman—quite a contemptible character; the fact of his annoying my daughter proves this. If it were not so, I vow to Heaven I’d have the fellow out myself on Monday morning.” And finishing with this consistent remark his tirade against duelling, the General resumed his peripatetic exercise, much to the detriment of the library carpet.

When Lewis had completed his recital, his auditor again “took the chair,” and leaning his head on his hand, remained pondering the matter for some minutes in silence. At length he said, “Did Lord Bellefield give you any possible clue to the reason why he could not return to the Opera-house?”

“He said nothing, sir, to throw any light upon the matter; but when I accidentally met him, as I have already mentioned, he appeared much agitated, his features were unusually pale, and characterised by an expression—I should almost say of horror.”

“Have you any knowledge of the house he was leaving? Why do you hesitate?”

“I will tell you frankly, General Grant,” returned Lewis, drawing himself up and meeting the General’s scrutinising glance with a clear, steadfast gaze. “For some time past Lord Bellefield and I have not been on good terms together. Since I have lived beneath your roof he is the only person who has treated me ungenerously, or caused me to feel the full bitterness of my dependent situation. Respect for you, and a sense of my own position, have prevented my resenting his lordship’s conduct as under other circumstances I might have done, but enough has passed between us to prove that we regard each other with no very friendly feeling.”

“I was not at all aware of this—you should have told me this sooner, Mr. Arundel. I allow no one to be treated discourteously in my house,” interrupted the General hastily.

“I should not have mentioned the fact now, sir,” replied Lewis calmly, “had I not been anxious to explain to you why it is in the highest degree repugnant to me to be forced by circumstances to appear as Lord Bellefield’s accuser, and thus lay myself open to the suspicion of being actuated by malicious motives.”

“No one who knew you would imagine that, sir,” returned the General; “but the truth should always be spoken regardless of consequences, and you must yourself perceive how important it is that I should form a just estimate of Lord Bellefield’s conduct in this affair.”

Lewis paused a moment in reflection, and then replied, “The part I have taken in this business was none of my own seeking, nor do I see that I am bound by any obligation of honour to withhold from you the only other fact of which I am aware in regard to the matter. I do happen to know the character of the house which Lord Bellefield was leaving, for as I walked down to the Palaeontological Society this afternoon with my friend Richard Frere, he pointed it out to me as a gaming-house of some notoriety.”

The expression of the General’s face, when he became aware of this uncomfortable little fact, grew so stern, that a distressed artist, wishing to paint some Roman father sacrificing his son, would have given all the small change he might have happened to have about him at the time for one glimpse of that inflexible countenance. Suggestive, however, of evil as was this circumstance, the whole affair appeared wrapped in such a veil of mystery that neither General Grant nor Lewis could, as they that night lay awake revolving the matter in their anxious minds, arrive at any satisfactory hypothesis by which to account for Lord Bellefield’s extraordinary behaviour. The following paragraph, which appeared in several of the Sunday papers, and was recopied in the “Morning Post” of Monday, was the first thing that tended to enlighten them; it was headed “appalling suicide.

“As our columns were going to press we received intelligence of one of the most awful catastrophes which it has ever been our melancholy duty to record; we refer to the untimely decease of Captain Mellerton, of the——th foot, who perished by his own hand in a notorious gambling-house not far from Charing Cross. As far as we have been able to ascertain the facts of the case, the unfortunate young gentleman, who was adjutant of the——th, lost a considerable sum of money (it is said £12,000) to Lord B—f—d, a nobleman of sporting notoriety, at the first Newmarket meeting. Being unable to meet so large a call upon his finances, he was induced in an evil hour to speculate with some of the regimental money committed to his charge, intending to replace it by the sale of an estate in Yorkshire; and having thus satisfied the demands of his noble creditor, he was on Saturday last unexpectedly called upon to send in his regimental accounts. In this extremity we have heard it rumoured that he was induced to apply to Lord B—f—d, as the only person on whom he had the slightest claim; but if we have not been misinformed, the appeal was vain, and urged to desperation by this failure of his last hope, the unfortunate young man repaired to the gaming-house in which the rash act was committed, played deeply, and when fortune again declared against him, drew a loaded pistol from his breast, and before the bystanders were aware of his design, terminated his existence by blowing out his brains. Captain Mellerton was the eldest son of the Honourable H. Mellerton, of Harrowby Park, Beds., and was shortly to be married to Miss A——— D—————, daughter of Sir ————— D—————, the wedding-day being fixed immediately after the commencement of the recess.”

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CHAPTER XLIII.—WHEREIN FAUST “SETS UP” FOR A GENTLEMAN, AND TAKES A COURSE OF SERIOUS READING.

When General Grant had perused the “Morning Post,” containing the paragraph with which the last chapter concluded, he left the remainder of his breakfast untasted, and hastening to the library, wrote the following letter:—

“My Lord,—On learning from my daughter the uncourteous, had almost written ungentlemanly, manner in which you neglected her safety on Saturday evening, I was naturally much incensed. A paragraph referring to you in the ‘Post’ of this morning affords a sufficient clue to the cause of your absence from the Opera-house, but unfortunately does so by casting upon you an imputation which (unless you can explain the affair to my entire satisfaction, which I confess appears to me improbable) must necessarily break off all intercourse between us. I am aware that your conduct may not have exceeded the limits which the world terms honourable, but I do not regulate my opinions by the world’s standard, and should consider that I was indeed neglecting my duty as a father were I to entrust my daughter’s happiness to a gamester whose success has involved the ruin and self-murder of a fellow-creature. These may sound harsh terms, but unless you can disprove that they are true ones, I for the last time sign myself, yours faithfully,

“Archibald Grant.”

Having relieved his mind by penning the above epistle, he despatched a mounted groom to convey it to its destination, and having seen him depart, shut himself up, in solitary dignity, to await an answer. In less time than could have been imagined the groom returned bearing the following missive:—

“Lord Bellefield presents his compliments to General Grant, and having perused his strangely offensive letter, begs to decline affording any explanation whatsoever of the conduct of which General Grant sees fit to disapprove. Lord Bellefield agrees in thinking that under these circumstances all intercourse between himself and General Grant’s family had better cease.”

While the General sat in his library pondering over this agreeable epistle with a rueful countenance, to which anger, vexation, and outraged dignity imparted a singularly undesirable expression, an eager and exciting conversation was being carried on in a pretty little apartment opening into a miniature conservatory, dedicated to the use of Annie Grant. Emily had arrived, all her own natural, fascinating, impulsive, silly little self again, and had pooh-poohed any attempt at coolness on Annie’s part by throwing her arms round her neck and kissing her a very unnecessary number of times, under the plea of her being “a dear, ill-used thing that must be petted.” And having thus at one and the same time expiated her offences and relieved her feelings, she danced across the room, bolted the door, drew a heavy damask curtain over it, and exclaiming, “Now we’re snug,” danced back again, and flinging herself into an easy-chair, began—

“Oh, my dear Annie! I am so miserable, so utterly wretched, I must go back to Italy; I’ve written to Alessandro to come and fetch me directly. I shall never be happy again—at least not till I’ve quite forgotten it all—and that will be never.” And here came out a little lace parody of a pocket-handkerchief, which, although by no means a desirable article wherewith to face a violent cold in the head, or at all calculated to withstand so much as an average sneeze, yet sufficed to dry the ghost of the tear which Emily’s deep wretchedness drew from her.

“My dear Emily, what is the matter?” returned Annie, alarmed by a thousand vague fears, though, not having seen the paragraph, she was as yet unconscious of the darkest cloud that obscured the family horizon.

“Oh, my love, I suppose I ought not to tell you anything about it, but I must, for I’ve no one else to confide in. That wretch Gus!—would you believe it? he actually wanted me to leave poor dear Alessandro, and to run away with him;” and then with many ejaculations, and much flourishing of the homoeopathic sized handkerchief, she went on to relate how, when she became separated from Annie at the Opera-house, “which was all that creature Gus’s fault, and done on purpose,” she was certain, the “creature” had availed himself of the opportunity he had thus secured to urge his undying attachment to her, which affection, despite its inherent principle of vitality, he declared would assuredly bring him to an early grave in the event of her obduracy continuing; but Emily, though positively a flirt, and negatively rather a goose than otherwise, was not unprincipled, and so when she had overcome her first impulse of surprise and mortification, all the virtuous wife arose within her, and she gave Gus to understand, by dint of sundry short, sharp, and decisive plain-spoken unpleasantnesses, that he had made a false move and ruined his game. Thence lapsing abruptly into a fit of sulky dignity, she ordered him, with the voice and gestures of a tragedy queen, to lead her to her carriage, finally despatching the foiled “Lionne” hunter to remedy one of his ill deeds by finding Annie, on which mission he departed in a state of mind the reverse of seraphic. Having concluded this historical episode, la Contessa proceeded to append thereunto certain annotations and reflections, in the course of which she contrived to fix much blame on society in general, and on Gus and Alessandro in particular, but none whatsoever on her own flirting manner and inordinate love of attention, which self-deluding analysis was by no means an original feature in the case, but rather an unconscious imitation of the proceedings of many a deeper thinker than poor little Emily.

The conference between the girls was still at its height when a summons for Annie from her father interrupted the proceedings; whereupon Emily, declaring that neither her health nor spirits were then capable of undergoing the pain forte et dure of an interview with Aunt Martha, drove home again, to fortify her principles and console her breaking heart with a volume of George Sand’s last novel. The General was in a great state of virtuous indignation. Lord Bellefield’s note had been as gunpowder sprinkled over the smouldering embers of his wrath, and when Annie arrived they (or, to translate the metaphor slang-icè, he) “flared up” to an immense extent. He told her of all the enormities which the newspapers attributed to her cousin, and signified his belief that the case had been rather understated than otherwise; he informed her of Lewis’s rencontre with the delinquent at the door of a gaming-house; he adduced the note which he had just received as a proof that its writer must be lost to all better feeling—utterly wanting in a proper respect for age and position; and, in short, he said a great many severe and unwise things, after the fashion of angry men in general, for which he was afterwards very sorry, finding such speeches easier to say than to unsay—which result is also by no means uncommon in similar cases.

Having relieved his feelings by this explosion, he proceeded to the more serious business of the interview by informing her that the necessary consequence of these uncomfortable revelations must be the dissolution of all ties, present or prospective, between herself and Lord Bellefield, which autocratic act he performed with outward austerity and inward trepidation, as he fully expected Annie to receive the harsh decree with a violent burst of tears, and, man-like, there was nothing he dreaded so much—he would rather have faced a charge of cavalry any day. But to his surprise Annie sustained the information with a degree of stoical self-control that was perfectly marvellous. She neither wept, sighed, nor attempted the hysteric line; she only said gravely, “It’s all very sad and shocking; but of course, dear papa, I am ready to agree to whatever you think best.” The General rubbed his hands—there was a daughter for you! Not a word of opposition—to hear was to obey; it actually restored him to good humour. He talked to her kindly and sensibly for a quarter of an hour, and then went out and purchased for her a valuable diamond bracelet, which was his idea of rewarding self-sacrifice in woman. And so did Annie, involuntarily and unconsciously, gain high praise and honour for submitting with resignation to a decree which afforded her unmitigated satisfaction. As she left the library she encountered poor Walter, who appeared in unusually high spirits. Next to Lewis, Annie held the foremost place in Walter’s affections, from the unvarying patience and kindness with which she treated him. Moreover, having failed to inspire him with the degree of respect not unmingled with awe with which he was accustomed to regard his tutor, he looked upon her in the light of a companion and an equal, to whom it might be safe to confide certain mischievous performances in which, as his spirits acquired more elasticity, and his mental powers began to develop, he saw fit from time to time to indulge. With some such intention did he now approach her, whispering as he drew near, “I want you, Annie; I want you to come with me and see Faust dressed like a gentleman.”

“See what, you silly boy?” returned Annie, laughing.

“Come with me and you shall see,” was the rhythmical and oracular response; and seizing her by the hand, he dragged her off in the direction of the sitting-room appropriated to his own use and that of his tutor.

“Is Mr. Arundel there?” inquired Annie, pausing when she discovered their destination.

“No, he’s not att home; there’s no other gentleman there except Mr. Faust,” was the reply; and thus reassured, Annie complied with the boy’s whim, and allowed him to carry her off unopposed. Now, since we have had any especial intercourse with that worthy dog, Faust’s education had progressed rapidly as well as Walter’s. Lewis, partly from want of occupation during the many weary hours his attendance on Walter necessitated, partly because by so doing he was enabled to excite and interest the feeble intellect of his poor charge, had availed himself of the unusual power of control he had acquired over the dog to teach him sundry tricks somewhat more difficult to perform than the ordinary routine of canine accomplishments; for instance, having perfected him in sitting on his hind legs in the attitude popularly supposed to represent the act of begging, he went on to teach him to sit thus perched up in a corner for a space of time gradually increasing, as by practice the animal’s muscles acquired more rigidity, until at length it was no uncommon feat for him to remain in this attitude for an hour at literally a “sitting.” Moreover, if a light book or pamphlet were placed on his forepaws, he would support it, and remain gazing on the open page before him with a solemn gravity of countenance, indicating, apparently, the deepest interest in the work he seemed to be perusing. Of the results of this educational course Walter had on the present occasion availed himself; and accordingly, Annie, on her introduction to the study, found the excellent dog seated on his hind legs in a corner, with an extempore mantle formed of a red scarf drooping gracefully from his shoulders, and an old cap of Walter’s on his head. Thus attired, he appeared to be conning, with an expression of puzzled diligence, a tract against profane swearing by Mrs. Hannah More, presented to Walter by Miss Livingstone on the occasion of his inadvertently making use in her presence of the scandalous expression, “Bless my heart!” Annie, duly impressed by this spectacle, laughed even more than Walter had hoped for, and told Faust that he was much the best dog in the world, in which assertion she was not, as we think, guilty of any great exaggeration. And Faust, taking the compliment to himself only when the occurrence of his name rendered the allusion unmistakably personal, slobbered affectionately with his great comic mouth, and winked with his foolish, loving eyes, and made abortive attempts to wag his ridiculous friendly tail, which was crumpled up un-wag-ably in the corner, and in the plenitude of his excellence sat more erect than ever, and studied his profane swearing still more diligently.

As soon as Walter’s delight at Annie’s amusement had in some degree subsided, he turned to her, saying—

“But, Annie, you have not found out why! told you Faust looked like a gentleman.”

“Oh! because he sits there reading his book with such an air ol dignified composure, I suppose,” was the reply.

“No; I’d a better reason than that,” returned Walter, with a look of unusual sagacity.

“Well, then, you must tell me what it was, for I can’t guess,” observed Annie good-naturedly.

“Look again, and find out,” rejoined Walter.

Thus urged, Annie examined the dog more attentively than she had done before, and discovered that round his neck was slung the identical gold watch and chain which, at her suggestion, Charles Leicester and his wife had given to Lewis.

“Why, you’ve hung Mr. Arundel’s watch round Faust’s neck! Oh, Walter, how foolish of you; he might have thrown it down and broken it!” exclaimed Annie, aghast at her discovery.

“Yes, that’s it,” returned Walter, chuckling with delight at the success of his puerile attempt at a trick. “All gentlemen wear gold watches, you know, and so does Mr. Faust.”

“You ought not to have put it on him; I’m sure Mr. Arundel will be very angry,” resumed Annie; and kneeling down by the dog, she began untwisting the chain from his neck. “Sit still, Faust; be quiet, sir,” she continued, as Faust, in his affection, attempted to take an unfair advantage of the situation to lick her hands and face, in which act of impertinence Walter sedulously encouraged him; still Annie persevered, and at length succeeded in disengaging the chain and rescuing the watch from its dangerous position. “There,” she exclaimed, “I have remedied the effects of your mischief, Master Walter; but I should never have been able to accomplish it if Faust had not been the best behaved, dearest old dog in the world;” and with an impulse of girlish playfulness she threw her arms round the animal and pressed his rough head against her shoulder, her soft auburn ringlets falling like a shower of gold upon his shaggy coat.

At this moment, Lewis, who had been to talk over his Saturday evening’s adventures with Frere (or, at least, such portion of them as he chose to reveal, for on some subjects he was strangely reserved, even with Frere), returned, and finding the door ajar, entered noiselessly, and stood transfixed by the sight of the tableau vivant we have endeavoured to describe. He thought that he had never beheld anything so lovely in his life before, nor was he far wrong. The time that had elapsed since we first introduced Annie Grant to the reader had altered only to improve her beauty; her figure had gained a certain roundness of outline, and her face acquired a depth of expression, which had been the only finishing touches wanting to complete one of those rare specimens of loveliness on which we gaze with a speculative wonder as to why so much beauty should be, as it were, wasted on this world of change, and sin, and sorrow, and not reserved for that “Petter Land,”

“Where all lovely things and fair

Pass not away.”

Whether ideas at all analogous to these presented themselves to the mind of Lewis, we are unable to say; certain it is, however, that (his artist eye attracted by the picture before him) he stood gazing as one entranced, while his colour went and came, and his broad chest heaved with the intensity of his emotion. How long affairs might have remained in this position it is impossible to decide, had not Faust, becoming aware of his master’s presence by some mysterious canine instinct, made an unceremonious attempt to free himself from Annie’s caresses; and that young lady, raising her eyes, encountered those of Lewis fixed upon her with an expression which changed in an instant from ardent admiration to one of grave courtesy as he found that he was observed. Annie’s manner, as she rose and came forward, afforded but little clue whether or not she had noticed this change, and though her colour appeared somewhat heightened, no want of self-possession was discernible as she said, holding up the watch—

“See what I have been rescuing from the mischievous devices of Master Walter! He had actually hung my cousin Charles’ present to you round Faust’s neck in order to make him look like a gentleman, as he declared. Walter, come and answer for your misdeeds; I intend Mr. Arundel to be very angry with you—where are you, sir?” and as she spoke she looked round for her companion, but whether really alarmed at the possibility of being reproved for his mischief, or whether actuated by some reasonless caprice of his half-developed intellect, Walter was nowhere to be found; so Lewis, having thanked Annie for her care of his watch, politely held open the door for her to depart. But when kidnapped by Walter, Annie had been carrying am armful of books, and Lewis, becoming aware of this fact, could do no less than offer to take them up to the drawing-room for her. Having accomplished this feat, he was about to retire, when it occurred to him that he was bound in common civility to inquire whether she had sustained any ill effects from her alarm.

“Oh, no,” replied Annie; “thanks to your kindness and consideration, I am literally quitte pour la peur?

“I suppose,” she added hesitatingly, “you have ere this learned the sad cause of Lord Bellefield’s absence on Saturday night?” and on Lewis replying in the affirmative, she continued, “And do you believe all that the newspapers insinuate? Can my cousin have really behaved so very wickedly?”

“I called on my friend Richard Frere this morning,” returned Lewis, “and I hear from him that the main facts of the case are matters of notoriety; for instance, racing men are well aware that Lord Bellefield won a large sum of money from this unfortunate young man; nor would your cousin attempt to deny that it is so. I am not sufficiently acquainted with the fashionable London world to hazard an opinion on the subject; but Frere, who knows everybody, says the story has gained universal credence; and though by no means disposed to judge human nature severely, believes in it himself.”

“It is very, very shocking,” murmured Annie; “and I had hoped it could not be true, but papa is much incensed, and believes it fully; and I fancy you do also, although, having such just cause to dislike my cousin, you are too generous to blame him.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken,” returned Lewis kindly; for her manner confirmed him in an impression which had arisen in his mind that the distaste she had expressed to the engagement with Lord Bellefield would vanish as her anger at his neglect cooled. “Indeed, I do not think so; on the contrary, I have a strong conviction that the affair has been misrepresented and exaggerated, and that your cousin will be able to clear himself, not only to your satisfaction, but to that of General Grant also.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Annie impetuously; and then, ere the words were well spoken, she continued, “No, I do not mean that. How wicked of me to say so! but, oh! it is such joy to feel that I am free—free as air!” Then observing that Lewis’s eyes were fixed upon her with an inquiring glance, though his lips framed no sound, she added with a bright blush, “Yes, you were a true prophet, Mr. Arundel,” and turning abruptly, she quitted the room.

And Lewis! Did he rejoice that the man he hated was thus crossed in his dearest wishes—thus held up to public obloquy? Strange as many will deem it, he did not. On the contrary—except on Annie’s account—he was annoyed at the turn events had taken. In the first place, although the facts were so strong that he could not reasonably discredit the reports that were in circulation, he felt a sort of instinctive belief that Lord Bellefield was not guilty of all the evil laid to his charge. He recalled the expression of his face as he had seen it on the night of the suicide; it had not been that of a man hardened in crime, who had left the victim of his betting schemes unaided in his extremity to seek refuge from dishonour in the madness of self-destruction, but rather that of a being of mixed good and evil startled by some frightful reality of life into a condition of temporary remorse. If Lewis could have realised his exact wishes at this moment, he would have desired to clear Lord Bellefield’s character by his own unassisted efforts, and as a reward, to have called him out the next morning and fought with small swords (pistols would have decided the matter too quickly to satisfy him) till one or both should have furnished subjects for the undertaker. Then his thoughts reverted to Annie—she was free, and rejoiced in her freedom, therefore she was to be won. Watch his features as the idea strikes him: first a flush of joy, crimsoning brow and cheek, fading to the pale hue of despair; then the clenched hand and compressed lips, that tell of the strong will battling with, ay, and conquering—for the will is as yet the stronger—the germs of a consuming passion. Brave young heart, tasting for the first time the full bitterness of life, angels might have wept to view thy gallant striving!

The aphorism embodying the statement that a storm is usually followed by a calm, although by no means original, is not on that account the less true; nor in tracing the course of events in the household of General Grant shall we discover an exception to this rule in the “Law of Storms.” Immediately after the incident we have related. Lord Bellefield (probably wishing to escape the disagreeable notoriety likely to be obtained by his share in the catastrophe) escorted his sister to Italy, without making any attempt to deprecate the anger of General Grant; and although the Marquis of Ashford, who greatly desired that the proposed matrimonial alliance should take place (hoping that marriage might wean his son from various expensive pursuits, of the nature whereof the reader may have gleaned some faint idea from the previous course of this narrative), made sundry attempts to effect a reconciliation, the General remained implacable. From his new position, as occasional secretary to her father, Lewis was thrown into constant intercourse with Annie, while, from the deservedly high opinion General Grant had formed of him, he was treated more as a friend than a dependant. Before Mrs. Arundel and Rose left London, Annie obtained her father’s permission to invite the latter to spend a few days with them. Rose placed the invitation in Lewis’s hand before showing it even to Mrs. Arundel. She divined that her brother would feel strongly on the subject, and determined to be guided by his wishes. He read Annie’s note in silence: it was like herself—simple, frank, and warm-hearted; it was accompanied by a few lines from the General—kind (for him) and courteous in the extreme. “Miss Arundel would confer an obligation on his daughter by allowing her the opportunity of becoming acquainted with,” etc., etc. The General had heard of Rose’s literary reputation, and looked upon her as a second Madame de Staël. A woman who had written a book appeared to his simplicity a thing as wonderful as, in these latter days, when, to speak poetically, the sun of literature is obscured by the leafy greenness of the softer sex, we are accustomed to regard a woman who has never done so. Lewis read the two notes; there was not a shadow of patronage from beginning to end at which the most rampant pride could take offence—the invitation was unexceptionable; and then a crowd of conflicting ideas rushed upon him, and he paced the apartment for once in a state of the most complete indecision. This was not a mood of mind which could ever continue long with Lewis, and pausing abruptly, he said, “I really do not see how you can well refuse, after such a very kind note from—from the General.”

“I shall be delighted to accept it, dear Lewis, since you wish it as well as myself; I long to know more of that sweet Annie.”

“You will be disappointed if you expect to find Miss Grant unusually clever,” returned Lewis moodily. “She has good natural abilities, but nothing more, neither has she been accustomed to live amongst intellectual people; she is by no means your equal in point of talent.”

Rose looked surprised at this depreciatory speech; she considered Annie so fascinating that she did not imagine it in man’s nature to criticise her unfavourably, and that Lewis, of all people, should do so was very incomprehensible. She only replied, however, “Miss Grant is much more accomplished than I am, at all events; she sketches like an artist, plays with great taste and execution, and sings most sweetly. I do not think it by any means an advantage to a woman to be unusually clever: it tends to force her out of her proper sphere, and to urge her to a degree of publicity repugnant to all the better instincts of her nature.”

“I quite agree with you,” rejoined Lewis cordially. “A woman should have a quick, vigorous intellect, to enable her to perceive and appreciate the good, the true, and the beautiful, but nothing beyond. With a single exception, dear Rose, I consider literary women complete anomalies, things to wonder at and to pity; depend upon it, few women who devote their lives to literature are really happy.”

As Lewis ceased speaking Rose sat for some moments pondering the truth of the opinions which he, in common with many of the best and wisest of his sex, held on this subject. At length she said, “I agree, and yet I differ with you. Surely a fine mind is one of the noblest gifts God can bestow upon His creature, because,” she added reverently, “the higher the intellect the nearer it must approach to His own perfect wisdom; therefore talent ought to be a boon to woman as well as to man; but is it not in the application of that talent that the mischief lies? If the consciousness of mental superiority unfits a woman for the performance of her natural duties, instead of enabling her to fulfil them more thoroughly, the fault rests not in the gift, which is in itself a privilege, but in the misapplication of it by the person on whom it is bestowed. Retirement is a woman’s natural position, and anything which leads her to forsake it tends to unsex and deteriorate her. I do not say that it must necessarily do so; if, for instance, some pious motive, such as a desire to assist her family, actuates her, she often appears to be protected from the dangers which surround the path which she has chosen, but that these dangers are great and many it is vain to deny.”

“My opinion is,” rejoined Lewis, “that amongst either men or women those only should write books who, from some cause or other, are so thoroughly imbued with their subject that utterance becomes as it were a necessity; then, and then only, do they produce anything great and good. The strongest argument I know against women writing is that they never appear to exceed pleasing mediocrity. You have no female Shakespeare or Milton—even Byron and Scott are unapproached by the bravest of your literary Amazons. Certainly women should not write and having uttered this opinion much as if he would have liked to alter the ‘should’ into ‘shall,’ and to be made autocrat of England till he had purged the land from blue-stockings.” Lewis took his hat and departed, leaving that “talented authoress,” his sister, to chew the cud of his encouraging observations as best she might.

The practical result of this conversation was that Rose spent a week in Park Crescent, and thus the occurrences thereof fell out. Miss Livingstone first catechised, then patronised the young tutor’s sister. The General also tried a pompously condescending system, but Rose’s sweetness subdued the old soldier; and ere the week had passed he became devoted to her, and in his stately fashion loved her only a little less than his own daughter. And Annie—she first began by being afraid of her new acquaintance because she was an authoress; then she discovered that she was not so alarming-, after all; next it occurred to her that she was very sensible; afterwards that she was very affectionate, which went a great way with Annie; and finally, that she was quite perfect, and exactly the friend she had been all her life pining for. From the moment she discovered this, which was once upon a time when Rose, carried away by the heat of congenial conversation, began to talk about her brother, she delighted to lay bare her pure, girlish heart to her new-found friend. And what does the reader suppose it contained? Any very mysterious secret, any dire and soul-harrowing episode, as became the heart of a heroine? Alas, for poor, degenerate Annie! there were no such interesting contents in her warm little bosom, only much simplicity, sundry good resolutions containing the germs of future self-discipline, great natural amiability, a ready appreciation of all that was excellent in art or nature, and an open and unbounded admiration of, and respect for, the character of Lewis; so open indeed that Rose thankfully acknowledged to her secret soul that one alarming possibility which had lately occurred to and haunted her—viz., that Annie and Lewis were falling in love with each other—could have no foundation in fact. The only drawback to Rose’s pleasure in her visit was, strange to say, the behaviour of her brother. His manner when alone with her—and the delicate tact of Annie Grant afforded them many opportunities for a tête-à-tête—was wayward and fitful in the extreme. Sometimes, but very seldom, he appeared low and out of spirits; at others he was cold and sarcastic, or even perverse and unjust; and though these fits were invariably followed by expressions of the most affectionate regard towards Rose herself, yet the idea with which they impressed her was that his mind was ill at ease, and that for some reason which he studiously concealed, he was unhappy. The week passed away like a dream, and Annie, as she parted from her new friend, felt as if some being of a superior order, endowed with power to make and to keep her good, were leaving her again to fight single-handed with the trials and temptations of life.

Frere had been despatched by his scientific superiors to inspect certain organic remains which had come to light during the formation of a railroad cutting in the north of Ireland; which remains, assuming to be the vertebræ and shin bone of an utter impossibility (the comparative-anatomical sketch, which Frere designed on the ex pede Herculem principle, represented the lamented deceased as a species of winged hippopotamus, with a bird’s head, a crocodile’s tail, and something resembling an inverted umbrella round its camelopard-like neck, forming a whole more picturesque than probable), excited the deepest interest in the world of science, which lasted till, unluckily, one of the workmen, striking his pick-axe against a partially imbedded bone, found that the Rumpaddyostodon (for so had Frere’s chef already named it) was composed of Irish oak.

Ere Frere returned from this expedition Mrs. Arundel and Rose had quitted London, a fact which annoyed that gentleman more than he could reasonably account for. Having, however, recovered from his strange fit of shyness, he wrote Rose a long account of his adventures, winding up by originating a pressing invitation to himself to spend a fortnight with them during the vacation, which invitation he not only accepted most graciously, but with the utmost benevolence volunteered to prolong to three weeks, if he could possibly manage it.

Lewis, shortly after the departure of his mother and sister, received what Annie termed “marching orders”—viz., an intimation that on a certain day and hour he and his pupil were to hold themselves in readiness to start for Broadhurst, it being one of the General’s pet idiosyncrasies to manage his family movements saltatim, by jerks, as it were, which disagreeable habit he had acquired during his campaigning days, when the exigencies of military service necessitated such abrupt proceedings. The consequence of this particular exercise of discipline was that Lewis received the following note on the evening before their departure:—

“Dear Sir,—Learning this morning, accidentally, that you are about to leave town to-morrow, and wishing much to see you on a matter of some importance before you do so, shall I be putting you to any great inconvenience if I ask you to do me the favour of breakfasting with me to-morrow? Name your own hour, from six o’clock downwards. My boy is waiting, or more properly (you know his mendacious propensities) lying in wait for your answer. N.B.—I am aware of the utter vileness of that pun, but my ink is so confoundedly thick that really I could not make a better one.

“Yours faithfully,

“T. Bracy.”

---

CHAPTER XLIV.—LEWIS PRACTICALLY TESTS THE ASSERTION THAT VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD, AND OBTAINS AN UNSATISFACTORY RESULT.

“This is kind of you, Mr. Arundel,” exclaimed Bracy, shaking him heartily by the hand, when, in reply to his friend’s invitation, Lewis made his appearance at his chambers by eight o’clock on the following morning; “I like a man who will come to you at a minute’s notice. Now, as I know your time’s short, we’ll go to work at once, and talk as we eat. Bring the eggs and rolls, Orphy.”

“Please, sir, they ain’t none of ’em come,” responded the individual thus addressed, who was no less a personage than the tiger “for falsehood famed.”

“I knew he’d say that,” observed Bracy aside, with a look of exultation, “I knew he’d say so, because I saw the man bring them five minutes ago; sharp boy! he never loses an opportunity of lying. Perhaps they may have arrived while you’ve been up here,” he continued blandly; “go and see, Orphy.”

“What do you call your tiger?” inquired Lewis as the imp disappeared.

“Why, his real name is Dick Timmins,” returned Bracy; “I have taken the trouble to ascertain that fact beyond a doubt—of course I should not have believed it merely upon his authority—but I call him Orphy, which is a convenient abbreviation of Orpheus, because, like that meritorious mythical musician, he is at all times and seasons perfectly inseparable from a lyre! ‘a poor pun,’ sir, ‘but mine own.’”

“It must surely be inconvenient and troublesome to be obliged perpetually to guard against some deception or other, to be in continual doubt as to what has or what has not taken place in your household,” remarked Lewis.

“Not at all, my dear Arundel, there’s the beauty of it,” returned Bracy. “Others doubt and are perplexed, but I am never at a loss for a moment; I know all his most intricate involutions of lying, and can track him through a course of falsehood as a greyhound follows a hare: that boy could not deceive me unless he were suddenly to take to telling the truth; but there’s not the least fear of that, his principles are too well established. Ah! inter alia, here he comes—do you see the pun? pre-suppose an Irish brogue, and accent the penultimate instead of the first syllable in the second word, and it’s not such a bad one after all.”

When, to use the popular lyric style, the “false one had departed,” and the gentlemen were again left tête-à-tête, Lewis, reminding his companion that his time was short, hinted that it would not be amiss if he were at once to acquaint him with the business to which he had referred in his note.

“Ah! yes, to be sure,” replied Bracy; “it was a letter I had from Frere yesterday which put the thing into my head. Let us see, what does he say?” And pulling a letter from his pocket, he ran his eye down it, reading and soliloquising somewhat after the following fashion: “Hum! ha! ‘never take shares in an Irish railway’—thank ye, I never mean to—‘the natives in these parts are not Cannibals, at which no one at all particular in his eating would wonder, after seeing the state of filth’—well, I won’t read that, it will spoil our breakfast—‘the organic remains are coming out splendidly; I feel little doubt they must have belonged to some antediluvian monster yet unknown to science.’ Ah! the fossil remains of a pre-Adamite Irish bull, probably; and that’s another, by Jove, for there would have been nobody to make it at that time of day: there’s a P.S. about it, though—Ah! here it is—‘only fancy, my organic remains prove to be vegetable, not animal; nothing more or less than a new species of Irish Oaks.’ A new species of Irish Hoax rather; I wonder how he came to miss the pun—some men do throw away their opportunities sadly; but I’m wasting your time—now then—‘in regard to what you tell me about the Bellefield affair, I can do nothing, not being on the spot; your best plan will be to communicate with Lewis Arundel—he is thoroughly au fait as to the whole matter; tell him everything, and act according to his advice. You may safely do so. I always thought his lordship a great scoundrel’ (rather strong language!), ‘but in this case he appears more to be pitied than blamed; I like fair-play all the world over, and would give even the devil his due.’ There,” continued Bracy, folding up the letter, “that’s what Richard Frere says, and I, knowing his advice to be good, am prepared to act upon it.”

“It may be good,” returned Lewis in a tone of annoyance, “but as far as I am concerned *it is particularly enigmatical. There are many reasons why it is undesirable, I may say impossible, for me to interfere with Lord Bellefield’s affairs.”

“Still, if you are the man I take you to be,” replied Bracy seriously, “you would not wish any one to labour under an unjust imputation, from which a word of truth can set him free. But it’s no use beating about the bush; hear what I have to say, and then you can act or remain neuter, as you please. Of course you read the newspaper account of that sad business about poor Mellerton?”

Lewis replied in the affirmative, and Bracy continued, “Except in one or two points, the statement was substantially correct, but these happen to be rather important ones. In the first place, I should tell you that Mellerton was an intimate friend of my own. We were great cronies at Eton, and never lost sight of each other afterwards. I first heard of this betting affair from an officer of high rank, who holds an appointment by which he is necessarily a good deal behind the scenes at the War Office. Somehow it reached his ears that Mellerton had been betting heavily and met with severe losses, and knowing that I had some influence with him, he wished me to give him a friendly hint, which I accordingly did. Mellerton took it very well, poor fellow! and thanked me for my advice, which was his invariable custom, though I can’t say he usually acted upon it. He confessed that he had lost more money than was convenient, and told me he had been forced to borrow, but the amount of his losses he studiously concealed. On the morning of the day of his death the same person sent for me again, and told me he was afraid Mellerton had been behaving very madly, and in the strictest confidence informed me that it was determined upon to examine into his accounts, and that if, as he feared, they would not bear the light, his character would be blasted for life, adding that I was at liberty to warn him of this, and give him an opportunity, if possible, of replacing the money. Owing to a chapter of accidents, as ill luck would have it, I was unable to meet with Mellerton till late in the evening, when I found him in a state of distraction, having just received officially the information I had sought to forestall. Seeing how much I knew already, he told me everything. I will not recapitulate the miserable details, but the newspapers did not overstate the truth. Well, as a forlorn hope, I suggested the appeal to Lord Bellefield’s generosity, and after much persuasion he agreed to let me make the trial. I sprang into a hansom cab, and drove like the wind to Ashford House. Bellefield was dining with his sister; I followed him to Berkeley Square, and then to the Opera-house, where I lost not a minute in explaining my business. Well, sir, instead of rejecting the appeal, as has been reported, Lord Belle-field appeared greatly distressed at the intelligence—jumped into his cab, taking me with him, and as we drove down to poor Mellerton’s lodgings, expressed his readiness to do whatever I thought best—adding that he had £10,000 at his banker’s, which was quite at Mellerton’s service till he could sell his Yorkshire estate. The rest of the tale you know. The poor fellow, thinking, from my prolonged absence, that my attempt had failed, and unable to bear the disgrace of exposure, placed a loaded pistol in his pocket, repaired to a gaming-table, betted to the full amount of his defalcation, lost, and blew his brains out. We got there just as the surgeon they had sent for declared life was extinct; and you never saw a man so cut up as Bellefield was about it. He accused himself of being a murderer, and in fact seemed to feel the thing nearly as much as I did myself. As soon as he had a little recovered he volunteered to drive to Knightsbridge, to break the thing to poor Fred Mellerton’s brother, while I did the same by his mother and sisters; and a nice scene I had of it—I thought the old lady would have died on the spot. But now, to come to the point, I hear that old Grant, believing all the newspaper lies, has quarrelled with his intended son-in-law and broken off the engagement; and that Lord Bellefield, too proud to make any explanations, has allowed him to continue in his mistake. Is this so?”

“I have no reason to believe your information incorrect,” was the cautious reply.

“In that case, don’t you think it is due to Lord Bellefield to acquaint General Grant with the truth?”

Lewis paused for a minute or two in thought ere he replied, “Certainly; it would be most unjust to withhold it.”

“Well, I’m very glad you agree with me,” returned Bracy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who has escaped some disagreeable duty. “Then I may depend upon you to set the matter right?”

“Upon me!” rejoined Lewis in surprise.

“Yes, to be sure,” was the reply; “that’s what Frere expects. You see, it’s rather a delicate affair for a man to interfere in, particularly one who is a complete stranger. I don’t believe I ever set eyes on Governor Grant in my life. Now you, living in the house, can find a hundred opportunities. There is a good deal in selecting the mollia tempora fandi with men as well as with women.”

“Then I am to understand that you have related these facts to me for the express purpose of my communicating them to General Grant?”

“Yes, to be sure. Do you think I should have put you to the inconvenience of coming here this morning merely for the sake of having a gossip?”

“And suppose I were to refuse to make this communication?” continued Lewis.

“Such a supposition never occurred to me,” replied Bracy in amazement; “but if you were to do such an unexpected thing, matters must take their own course. In telling you, I’ve done all that I consider I am in any way called upon to do; if you, for any reason, deem it unadvisable to enlighten General Grant, there the thing must rest. Frere tells me to be guided by your advice, and so I shall; as I have just said, I leave it entirely to you.”

“I understand you perfectly,” rejoined Lewis, and as he spoke a contemptuous smile curled his lip; “still, justice requires that the General should not be kept in ignorance, and although there are many reasons why it is painful and objectionable to me to enlighten him, yet there are others which prevent my refusing; and now, Mr. Bracy, as my time is short, you will excuse my being obliged to leave you.”

“Oh! certainly,” returned Bracy, as his visitor rose to depart;

“‘Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.’

Liberty Hall this, sir! chacun à son gout, ‘everybody has the gout,’ as the little girl at the boarding-school construed it. Then you’ll make Governor Grant comprehend that in this particular instance Bellefield behaved like a brick? Disagreeable business to be obliged to interfere in, but, as Frere says, you’re just the man to do it; good morning;” and uttering these words with the greatest empressement, he shook Lewis’s hand warmly and suffered him to depart. As the door closed on his retreating figure Bracy threw himself back in an easy-chair.

“There’s something in the wind that I’m not awake to,” he muttered in soliloquy; “I don’t comprehend that good youth at all. There must be private feeling mixed up in it; something in the love and murder line, I suspect. How savage he looked when he undertook the job—rather he than I, though: Bellefield’s as likely to call a man out, as to say Thank ye, for interfering; but, as Frere says, Arundel’s just the man to carry the thing through. He’s a plucky young fellow and deucedly good-looking, but he certainly does not appreciate wit—ahem—that is, puns—properly;” and with this reflection Bracy took pen and paper and sate him down to indite an essay on moral courage and the responsibility of man, wherewith to fill up a vacant corner of Blunt’s Magazine.

And Lewis—what a task had he undertaken! He who would have made any sacrifice to gratify Annie’s lightest wish must now bring the first cloud over the sunshine of her young life; he must be the means of reconciling her father and Lord Bellefield; he must, by his own act, give the woman he loved to the man he hated. The woman he loved!—had then the fear that had lain cold and heavy at his heart, that had come between him and—resignation, assumed a definite shape? did he at length own that he, the poor tutor, the paid dependent, loved the rich man’s daughter? Oh! Lewis, where was thy pride—where that Hell-angel beautiful in evil, which hath haunted thee even from thy childhood upwards like a second self? Had Rose’s tears prevailed and thy pride deserted thee? Would that it had been so; but no, he had not yet learned that hardest lesson for the young and manly-hearted, self-distrust; his bosom-sin clave to him, and striving single-handed, how should he subdue it!

Lewis was not one of those who deceive themselves long on any point; and his emotions after the scene at the Opera-house, the amount of self-control he was obliged to exert to restrain any outbreak of feeling in the tête-à-tête drive with Annie, had revealed the truth to him, and ere he slept that night he knew that now indeed was the sum of his wretchedness complete; for he loved, for the first time, one fitted to call forth all the depth and earnestness of his passionate nature, and he loved without hope. Pressing his hands to his burning brow, he sat down calmly to think. Calmly; yes, the treacherous repose of the smouldering volcano were an apt illustration of such a forced calmness. Renunciation and self-conquest! this then was his portion for the time to come. Self-conquest! Pride caught at the word; an enemy strong as the strength of will which should subdue it. Reason cried, “Flee from temptation;” but pride whispered, “The task is worthy of you; accomplish it.” And resolution aided pride, and the iron will came into play, and the contest was begun. And now the reader can understand why Lewis’s interview with Bracy would scarcely tend to raise his spirits, or render his general frame of mind more satisfactory.

Punctual to the moment the carriage made its appearance, drawn by four posters; and the General and the two ladies ensconced themselves in the interior, while, the day being lovely, Lewis and his pupil took possession of the rumble. About two miles from Broadhurst was a steep hill; on reaching this point Annie and her father, Lewis and Walter alighted, with the intention of walking up; but before half the distance was accomplished the General pleaded guilty to a very decided twinge of gout, and unwilling to provoke a second, reentered the carriage, the others continuing their pedestrian exertions without him.

Annie, delighted to regain the freedom of the country, was in high spirits. “Why do people stay in London at this time of year?” she exclaimed. “This lovely sky, and the trees, and the birds, and the sunshine, are worth all the operas and pictures and balls and every sight or amusement London can afford; those things excite one for an hour or two, but this makes me perfectly happy.”

Lewis glanced at her for a moment, sighed involuntarily, and then rousing himself, uttered some commonplace civility, which so clearly proved that he was forcing himself to make conversation from the subject of which his thoughts were far away, that Annie, struck by his manner, paused and fixed her large eyes earnestly upon him. At length she said—

“I am sure you are ill or unhappy, Mr. Arundel. I am now too well aware how utterly unable I am to compensate for the loss of such a friend and counsellor as dear Rose (oh! how I envy you that sister!), but if you would sometimes tell me when you are annoyed or out of spirits, instead of wrapping yourself in that cold, proud mantle of reserve, I think even such poor sympathy as mine might make you happier.”

Lewis glanced round. Walter, actuated by some caprice of his wayward intellect, had run on before—they were virtually alone. Now it had occurred to Lewis that, as Annie had allowed him to perceive her dislike to the idea of a union with Lord Bellefield, he should entirely lose her good opinion were she to learn that it was through his representations that a reconciliation with her father had been brought about; and although this would have been a very desirable result for many reasons, and have materially assisted him in his design of conquering his unhappy attachment, yet he by no means appeared to approve of the notion, but on the contrary had, with his usual fearlessness, determined to seize the first opportunity of explaining to her why reason and justice obliged him to act in opposition to her wishes. And now that the opportunity had arrived, the considerate kindness of her address disarmed him, and in the unwillingness to inflict pain on her he half abandoned his purpose; but here his strength of will—that fearful agent for good or for evil—came into action and settled the matter. It was right; it must be done. Accordingly he thanked her for her kindness, made her a pretty speech as to valuing her sympathy, which expressed somewhere about one-fifteenth of what he really felt on the subject—said, which was quite true, that nothing had for a long time afforded him greater pleasure than the friendship which had sprung up between her and Rose—then, speaking in a low, calm voice, he continued, “I have been both grieved and annoyed this morning; you guessed rightly when you thought so. Will you forgive me, and still regard me as your friend, when I tell you that circumstances force me to act in direct opposition to your wishes, and to do that of which I fear you will highly disapprove?”

Annie looked at him with an expression of surprise and alarm, which gave way to a bright, trustful smile as she replied, “Nothing can lead me to doubt your friendship, Mr. Arundel; I have had proofs of its sincerity too convincing for me ever to do so. If you are obliged to say or do anything which may pain me, I am sure you feel it to be duty which compels you. And now tell me what you refer to.”

Poor Lewis! the smile and the speech went straight to his heart, like the stroke of a poniard: pride, resolution, and all the other false gods he relied on disappeared before it; and for the moment love was lord of all. But self-control had become so habitual to him, that the most acute observer could not have detected the slightest indication of the inward struggle; and ere he spoke his will had resumed its mastery, and his purpose held good. He gave her, in as few words as possible, an account of his interview with Bracy; and told her that it was his intention immediately to acquaint General Grant with the facts that had thus come to his knowledge.

She heard him in silence; and when he had finished she said in a low voice, which thrilled with suppressed emotion, “My father will forgive him, and all will be as if this thing had never happened.”

They walked on side by side, but neither spoke. At length Lewis said abruptly, “I have told you this man and I were not on friendly terms; I now tell you that he has heaped insult after insult upon me till I hate him. Yes, you may start, and your gentle woman’s nature may condemn me, but it is so: I hate him.” He spoke calmly, but it only rendered his words more terrible, for it told not merely of the angry impulse of the moment, but of the deep conviction of a lifetime; and Annie shuddered as she listened. Regardless of her emotion, Lewis continued, “Circumstances have in this instance forced me to appear as Lord Bellefield’s successful accuser. To some minds this petty triumph might have afforded satisfaction; to me it has been a source of unmixed regret; the retribution I seek is not of such a nature. Fate has now placed in my hands the means of vindicating his character; and every principle of honour, nay of common justice, binds me to do so. We may not do evil that good may come. I should forfeit my self-respect for ever were I to conceal this knowledge from your father. You would not have me do so, I am certain?” Lewis paused for a reply; there was silence for a moment, and then in a low, broken voice Annie said, “No! you must tell him. But I am very, very unhappy!” And uttering the last words with a convulsive sob, she covered her face with her hands, and turned away to conceal the tears she could no longer repress.

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CHAPTER XLV.—ANNIE GRANT TAKES TO STUDYING GERMAN, AND MEETS WITH AN ALARMING ADVENTURE.

Whether the sight of Annie’s tears would have produced any change in Lewis’s determination, had their tête-à-tête continued uninterrupted, is a question in regard to which psychologists may arrive at any conclusion which pleases them; for Walter having literally, or figuratively, caught his butterfly, rejoined his companions almost immediately, and under cover of his puerile volubility Annie contrived to dry her eyes and outwardly regain her composure.

In the course of the following morning Lewis found an opportunity of making the important communication. General Grant heard him with grave attention, and when he had concluded, observed—

“This alters the whole aspect of the affair. Any man may commit a fault, but if he sees his error, and is willing by every means at his command to atone for it, it behoves all generous-minded persons to forgive him. I perceive that I have, in this instance, acted hastily, and owe Lord Bellefield reparation. I shall write to him immediately, and have to thank you, Mr. Arundel, for affording me this information, which may give me an opportunity of effecting a reconciliation with one on whom I had long since decided to bestow my daughter’s hand. Your disinterested, I may say magnanimous conduct in this matter, entitles you to my fullest confidence. I shall make it an express stipulation that for the future Lord Bellefield shall evince all due consideration towards you.”

And this speech, and the haunting memory of Annie’s tears, were Lewis’s reward for doing his duty.

The result of this communication was that the General wrote a long letter to Lord Bellefield, using many words to express his meaning, which might have been advantageously compressed into half the number; however, it satisfied its composer, who considered it a miracle of diplomacy and a model of style. Lord Bellefield’s answer was cold and haughty; his pride had been wounded, and his was not a mind frankly to forgive an injury of that nature; still he did not reject the General’s overtures. He was going to travel in Greece (he wrote), but on his return to England he would see General Grant and refute the calumnies which had been spread to his disadvantage: he was aware that he had enemies who might be glad to avail themselves of any opportunity to vilify his character, but he trusted to the General’s sense of justice to discourage such attempts. And the contents of this letter were communicated to Annie by her father, together with a rebuke for having so easily believed reports to her cousin’s disadvantage, which lecture somewhat failed in its effect from the unlucky fact that, in this particular instance, the lecturer’s practice happened to have been diametrically opposed to his preaching; but the rebuke led to one evil result—viz., it crushed in the bud a half-formed project which Annie had conceived of acquainting her father with her growing disinclination to a union with her cousin, and of imploring him to take no step towards a renewal of the engagement. Moral courage (save when her feelings were very strongly excited) was not one of Annie’s attributes, and as the evil she feared was not a proximate one, she trusted to chance to postpone it still further, if not to avert it altogether. Thus, being naturally of a light-hearted, joyous temperament, she ere long recovered her usual gaiety, and an occasional sigh, or a quarter of an hour’s unwonted abstraction, alone attested her recollection of this dark speck on the horizon of her future life.

The return to Broadhurst appeared to produce a soothing effect upon Lewis also—it gave him an opportunity calmly to review his position; and a new idea struck him, generalising from which he sketched out a system different from that which he had hitherto pursued in regard to Annie Grant. True, he could never hope to call her his—love was forbidden him—but friendship, warm, ardent friendship—love elevated, spiritualised, purified from the slightest admixture of passion,—this he might enjoy safely; it only required a strong effort of will, a determined, uniform exercise of self-control. To be enslaved by hopeless love was mere weakness; to crush the sentiment entirely was Quixotic and uncalled for; but to control and regulate it, to fix limits which it should not exceed, and thus to convert a curse into a blessing, this was an effort worthy of a reasonable being, and this he would accomplish. In order to carry out this design he determined no longer to avoid Annie as he had done; it was cowardly to fly thus from temptation; besides, it was evidently useless to do so; imagination supplied the deficiency, and the evil was but increased. No, he would face the danger and subdue it. Thus, too, he might be of use to her, for with all his admiration of her character he read it aright, and saw that there were weak points which required the aid of principle to strengthen them; that her pursuits were frivolous, her mind uncultivated, and her existence practically aimless, because her views of life were confused and indistinct, and her standard of excellence a visionary one. All this he saw, and seeing, felt that he could remedy. And while he pondered on these things Annie recalled an old wish to study German, and asked her father’s permission to be allowed to do so, if Mr. Arundel could find time to give her lessons; whereupon the General, having a great respect for any language of which he was personally ignorant, preferred her request to Lewis, and that young gentleman was graciously pleased to accede thereunto. Miss Livingstone of course played duenna, and but for one circumstance would have performed her character with a degree of cold-blooded virulence worthy of the most fractious tigress that ever mangled “lovers tender and true.” This fortunate circumstance was that the lessons, being usually taken by way of dessert after an early dinner, invariably sent Minerva to sleep. In vain did she bring out her “poor basket,” in which receptacle lay hid certain harsh underclothing for infant paupers; in vain did she attempt sewing the seams of Procustes-like pinafores, which, solving the problem of the minimum of brown holland capable of containing a living child, were destined to compress the sturdy bodies of village urchins; the “colo calathisve Minervo” were unable to resist the attacks of the god Somnus, and ere Annie had stretched her pretty little mouth by the utterance of a dozen double-bodied substantives, the lynx-eyes were closed in sleep, and for all practical purposes Miss Livingstone forfeited every right to the first half of her patronymic.

Reader, if you are of the gender which uncourteous grammarians are pleased to designate the worthier, tell me,—in strict confidence, of course,—did you ever read German with a pair of bright eyes turning from the crabbed Teutonic characters to look appealingly into your own optics, while two coral lips, formed for pleasanter purposes than growling German gutturals, complain of some enigmatical sentence which has not got a right meaning to it, the said eyes and lips being the outward symbols of a warm heart and quick intelligence, ready to discern and feel the grandeur of Schiller, the Shakespeare of the Fatherland, or thrill to the trumpet blasts of young Korner’s warrior spirit, or trace the more subtle thinkings of Goethe, that anatomist of the soul of man? Tell me, did you ever read with so desirable a fellow-student? If you have done so, and can honestly say you did not think such schooling delightful, the sooner you close this book the better, for depend upon it there is little sympathy between us. Lewis at all events had no cause to be dissatisfied with his pupil, who was equally docile and intelligent, and in a marvellously short space of time was able to read and translate with tolerable fluency; while the few German sentences in which her instructor from time to time saw fit to address her appeared less like heathen Greek to her at each repetition. As soon as she had sufficiently mastered the difficulties of those aggravating parts of speech, the compound separable verbs, and acquired moderate control over other equally necessary and vicious parts of the grammar, they commenced translating that most poetical of allegories, La Motte Fouqué’s “Undine”; and Annie, as they read, took it all at first au pied de la lettre, and imagined, with a degree of shuddering horror, which, as it was only a tale, was rather pleasant than otherwise, all the supernatural uncomfortables Huldbrand underwent in the Enchanted Forest, and admired all the generous impulses of the heroine’s singular uncle-and-water, Kuhleborn, who, however, she considered would have been better adapted for family purposes, if he had been rather more of a man and less of a cataract. Then Undine herself, the capricious, fascinating, tricksy sprite—the thoughtful, loving, feeling woman—how Annie sympathised with and adored her! For Huldbrand she felt a species of contemptuous pity, but Bertalda, oh! she was sure no woman was ever so heartless, so utterly and wickedly selfish. And then when Lewis unfolded to her his view of the Allegory (every one is sure to form a particular theory of his own as to the meaning of “Undine,” and to think he only has discovered the author’s intention), and Annie learned that the tale shadowed forth the mighty truths which throng the passage to eternity, and symbolising the struggle between good and evil, showed how Principalities and Powers wage throughout all time an undying warfare—the breast of man their battlefield—her pulses quickened and her cheek flushed; for she felt for the first time the solemn realities of existence, and saw dimly how a single life might be a link between the Ages, and a portion, however insignificant, of the mighty whole. What wonder then if part of the reverence, the awe, chastened by a deep, solemn joy, with which she recognised the workings of Infinite power, and Infinite love, cast their spell around him who had first awakened these perceptions within her?—what wonder if unconsciously comparing him with those around her, she grew to believe him a being of another and a higher nature, and so to hang on his slightest word or look, to dread his frown, and deem his smile sufficient compensation for hours of unwonted study?

The German lessons seemed to agree particularly well with Lewis also; for his eye grew brighter and his step more free, the extreme paleness of his complexion changed to a manly brown, a slight tinge of colour imparted a look of health to his cheek, and—unromantic as it may appear—his appetite increased alarmingly. Would the reader learn the secret of this improvement? It is soon told. Living in the present, blinding himself to the truth, he was happy! His system, he told himself, had succeeded—his theory had been tested, and proved a true one—resolution had conquered, and the insanity of love had cooled down to the reasonableness of a delightful friendship.

Lewis was excessively pleased with himself at this result. At length, then, he had attained that complete and perfect degree of self-control he had so long endeavoured to acquire; his feelings were reduced to a due submission to his will; and henceforward his happiness was in his own hands. And thus basking in this gleam of sunshine, he shut his eyes to all beyond, and dreamed that he possessed an elixir to dissipate every cloud, and that henceforward storms would disappear from the horizon of his destiny and become mere myths, existing only in memory. And these were some of the earliest results of the German lessons.

About this time a small but unpleasant adventure occurred to poor Annie which occasioned her a severe fright, and rendered her nervous and uncomfortable for many days afterwards. She had been on an expedition to the cottage of a poor neighbour who was suffering from illness; and as the sick woman lived beyond a walk, Annie had gone on horseback, attended by an old coachman who had lived in the family many years. Having accomplished her mission, she had ridden about a quarter of a mile on her return when she discovered that she had left her handkerchief behind, and directing the servant to ride back and fetch it, she proceeded at a foot’s pace in a homeward direction. The road she was following wound round the base of a hill thickly covered with trees and underwood, the spreading branches of the oaks meeting across the lane and making a species of twilight even at midday.

As Annie Grant was passing under one of the thickest of these trees, a tall, gaunt figure sprang from behind its knotted trunk and seized the bridle of her pony. Gazing in alarm at her assailant, Annie perceived him to be a man of unusual stature; his features were pale and emaciated, and an unshorn, grizzly beard added to the ferocity of their expression; his clothes, which were torn and soiled, hung loosely about him, while the long bony fingers which clutched her bridle-rein, the sunken cheeks, and hollow, glaring eye-balls, gave evidence that his herculean proportions had been reduced almost to a skeleton leanness by disease or want. Annie had, however, little time to make observations, for, accosting her with an oath, the ruffian demanded her purse. Drawing it forth, she held it to him with a trembling hand. He seized it eagerly and examined its contents, his eyes glittering as he observed the sparkle of gold. Hastily concealing it about his person, he next demanded her watch, which Annie, after a hopeless glance in the direction from which she expected the appearance of the servant, also relinquished. Having secured his plunder the fellow paused, apparently reflecting whether by detaining her longer he could gain any further advantage; as he did so the sound of a horse rapidly advancing struck his ear, and immediately afterwards a turn in the road enabled him to perceive the figure of a servant on horseback, the sunshine glancing from his bright livery buttons. The moment this object met his view he started, and shading his eyes with his hand, gazed fixedly at the approaching horseman. Having thus satisfied himself as to the man’s identity, he exclaimed with an oath, “It is the old bloodhound’s livery, and the girl must be his daughter. Oh, what a chance I have thrown away! Yes,” he continued, turning fiercely upon poor Annie and threatening her with his clenched fist, “if I had guessed you were the daughter of that ———— old Grant, you should not have got off so easy, I promise you.” He paused as a new idea struck him, and his face assumed an expression of diabolical revenge; placing his hand in his breast he drew forth a pistol, cocked it, and muttering, “There is time yet,” levelled it at his trembling victim. With a faint scream Annie dropped the reins, and clasping her hands in an agony of fear, murmured a petition for mercy. The ruffian stood for a moment irresolute; but, desperate as he was, some touch of humanity yet lingered in his breast, a softening recollection came across him, and muttering, “I can’t do it, she looks like poor Jane,” he uncocked and replaced the pistol.

At this moment the servant, having heard Annie’s scream, came up at a gallop, and the robber, uttering a fearful imprecation, sprang back into the wood and disappeared among the trees.

It was some minutes before Annie, who was on the verge of fainting, was able to give a coherent account of the adventure which had befallen her. As soon, however, as she had in some degree recovered from the effects of her terror, she desired the servant to ride close beside her, and urging her pony into a rapid canter, made the best of her way home. Here she found matters in a state of unusual bustle and confusion. The General had received information that Hardy the poacher had broken out of H————— gaol, effected his escape unperceived, and was supposed to be concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood of Broadhurst. Accordingly he was marshalling all the available males of his establishment, preparatory to setting out on an expedition to search for, and if possible to apprehend the escaped felon.

Great was his horror and indignation when he learned the danger to which his daughter had been exposed, and ascertained from the description she gave of her assailant that the man who had robbed her, and even threatened her life, was none other than the ruffian Hardy.

The preparations which he had already made he now considered insufficient for ensuring the success of the expedition; he accordingly despatched a mounted groom to procure the assistance of a couple of policemen, and sending for Lewis, begged him to lead a party to search the country in one direction, while he proceeded with a second division of the household forces in another. As the young tutor heard of the alarm to which Annie had been subjected, his cheeks flushed and his compressed lips quivered. He said little, however, but returning to his room, placed a brace of small pistols in the breast of his coat, attached spurs to the heels of his boots, then mounting a horse which was in readiness for him, rode off. The tenants were roused, the gamekeepers summoned, the policemen arrived. General Grant remained absent till nearly ten o’clock at night, and his daughter became alarmed to the last degree for his safety. At length he returned; their search had been unsuccessful, but Mr. Arundel and some of the men would remain on the watch all night, and he would resume the pursuit next morning.

For three days and nights Lewis never entered a house, and was scarcely out of the saddle; the fourth day the police received a report from the authorities at Liverpool, stating that an individual in some degree corresponding to the description of Hardy had taken his passage in a vessel bound for the United States, and that the wind being favourable, the ship had sailed before they had been able to search her; and with this unsatisfactory report the family at Broadhurst were forced to content themselves.

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CHAPTER XLVI.—IS CALCULATED TO “MURDER SLEEP” FOR ALL NERVOUS YOUNG LADIES WHO READ IT.

The incident related in the last chapter produced a strange and alarming effect upon Miss Livingstone; in fact it may be said to have laid the foundation of a species of monomania which haunted her to the day of her death. From this time forth she laboured under the delusion that a man trained from his youth up to rob and murder his sleeping fellow-creatures was secreted at one and the same moment under every bed and behind all the window curtains in the house. A singular and alarming property belonging to this ambushed ruffian was the extraordinary shadow cast by his legs and feet. Miss Livingstone was perpetually scared by discovering it in the most unlikely places and positions; indeed the statistics of these shadowy phenomena tended to show that it was this villain’s ordinary custom to stand upon his rascally head. Then the noises he made were most strange and unearthly, and a habit he possessed of moaning whenever the wind was high really exceeded anything with which human nature could be expected to put up. The trouble he occasioned everybody was inconceivable; for at least a month after Annie’s adventure the butler almost lived in Minerva’s bedroom, so constantly was he summoned to unearth this lurking traitor; and yet, although Miss Livingstone was quite certain the monster was there, for she had seen the shadow of his boots, with the soles upwards, upon the tester of the bed, by some dreadful fatality he always contrived to evade the strictest search. Once Miss Livingstone thought she had got him, for, having summoned assistance on the strength of hearing him snore, she actually enjoyed the satisfaction of being sworn at by him, when she looked under the bed and poked for him with a large umbrella; but this time he turned out to be the cat. The servants became so harassed by these repeated alarums that at length the butler gave bona fide warning, while the footmen, when there was nobody to hear them, vehemently protested they were not hired as thief-catchers, and that Miss Livingstone had better set up a private policeman of her own, if she chose to be so subject to house-breakers.

Lewis was not at all pleased with this adventure: in the first place, it interrupted the German lessons, for poor Annie had been so seriously frightened—not without cause—that it made her really ill, and for some days she remained on a sofa in her own room. In the second place, Lewis had been so deeply affected when he first heard of the danger to which she had been exposed, that for a moment a doubt crossed his mind whether such a degree of emotion was exactly consistent with that mild imposition yclept platonic friendship. In the third place, he had used his best endeavours to catch Hardy once again, and had been thoroughly and completely baffled. Time, however, that wonder-working individual, passed on, and by his assistance Annie’s nerves recovered their tone, and the German lessons were recommenced; Miss Livingstone saw fewer visions of reversed legs, and confined her researches after the concealed one to a good peep under the bed night and morning. The General made a great fuss about the whole affair, and severely reprimanded several individuals for permitting Hardy to escape who never had it in their power to prevent his doing so. Having relieved his mind by this judicious exercise of authority, he applied himself to other pursuits, and speedily forgot the whole transaction.

About two months after the occurrence of the robbery Lord Belle-field wrote to announce his return, and General Grant went to London alone in order to meet him. Before his departure, Annie, whose dislike to the interrupted engagement appeared to increase rather than to diminish, determined to make a great effort, and to acquaint her father with her disinclination to the proposed alliance, and to entreat him to take no steps which might lead to a renewal of the matrimonial project. The General heard her attentively, and then observed—

“I perfectly understand and appreciate your feelings, my dear Annie; they are such as, under the peculiar circumstances, become my daughter. Remember, my dear, that the matter is in wiser and more experienced hands than yours; and rest assured that nothing shall be done of which even your punctilious delicacy and true sense of honour can disapprove.” Then, seeing Annie was about to speak, he continued, “Any further discussion is not only unnecessary, but as the matter now stands, would appear to imply a doubt of my capability of acting for you; which I should consider, to say the least, disrespectful. You will oblige me by withdrawing, my dear Annie.” Thus saying, he rose, and opening the door with all the frigid courtesy of the Grandisonian school, ushered her out. And so poor Annie’s attempt proved a signal failure.

On the following morning the General left Broadhurst, having given Annie a very unnecessary caution against riding out with merely a servant, and made it his especial request that Lewis and Walter should accompany her by way of escort; a proceeding of which neither tutor nor pupil appeared to disapprove.

General Grant was absent for more than a fortnight; and as the weather was unusually fine during the whole of the time, Annie and her attendants rode out every day. Oh, those rides! what delightful expeditions were they! By a tacit consent between Lewis and Annie, all allusion to the future was avoided, in word or thought; they lived in the present—those loving hearts; they were together, and that sufficed them; and the trees appeared greener, and the flowers more brilliant, and the sunshine brighter, than they had ever seemed before; all was happy as a fairy dream, and dream-like did it pass away.

A letter from the General announcing his intended return was in Annie’s hand, as, bending over a ponderous volume of crabbed characters, she awaited her German lesson. The windows of the breakfast-room in which she was seated opened on to an ample lawn, interspersed with groups of shrubs and gay flower-beds. In crossing this lawn Walter had contrived to intercept Lewis and inveigle him into a game at ball.

Flushed by the exercise, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and his dark curls hanging in wild disorder about his brow, the young tutor approached the window at which Annie was seated. Concealed by the heavy folds of the window curtain, the girl watched him unperceived: involuntarily she contrasted his frank and easy bearing, his free and elastic step, and the smile, half proud, half playful, which parted his curved lips and sparkled in his flashing eyes, with the cold reserve which usually characterised his demeanour, and for the first time she became aware what a bright and noble nature had been obscured and warped by the false position into which circumstances had combined to force him. Who could blame her, who rather would not love her the better, and thank God that He has implanted such beautiful instincts in every true woman’s heart, if she felt that she should wish no fairer destiny than to devote her life to bring back the sunshine of his, and by her affection restore to him the youth of soul which misfortune had wrested from him!

Little guessing the thoughts that were passing through her mind, Lewis advanced towards the window, exclaiming, “Miss Grant, I have a petition to urge—the day is so lovely it is quite wicked to remain indoors: can I persuade you to use your influence with Miss Livingstone to allow us to transfer the site of our German lesson to the bench under the lime-tree? I will promise to arrange a most seductive seat for her in the very shadiest corner.”

“My aunt has departed on a charitable mission,” was the reply; “she received a message to say that an unfortunate child whom she has been doctoring out of that dreadful medicine chest of hers is much worse, and she has rushed off armed with pills and powders.”

“To give it the coup de grace I suppose,” interrupted Lewis.

Annie shook her head reprovingly, and continued, “In the excitement of the occasion, she appears to have entirely forgotten our poor German lesson.”

“In which case the decision as to place rests with you!” resumed Lewis eagerly; “the matter is therefore settled—you will come.” The accent upon the “will” was intended to be one of entreaty, but somehow the tone in which it was uttered partook largely of command, and Annie, as she obeyed, said with a smile—

“Or rather, I must come—that is clearly your meaning, Mr. Arundel; however, I see Walter and Faust are already en position, and I will not set them an example of disobedience, so if you can find the books, I will join you immediately.”

It was, as Lewis had declared, a lovely evening; the sky was of that deep, clear blue which indicates a continuance of fine weather, a soft breeze sighed through the blossoms of the lime-tree beneath which they sat. Faust lay at Annie’s feet, gazing up into her face as though he loved to look upon her beauty, which perhaps he did, for Faust was a dog of taste, and particular in the selection of his favourites. Walter, stretched at his length upon the turf, was idly turning over the pages of a volume of coloured prints. Lewis opened the work they were translating; it was that loveliest of historical tragedies, Schiller’s “Piccolomini,” and Annie read of Max, the simple, the true, the noble-hearted, and thought that the world contained but one parallel character, and that he was beside her. They read on beneath the summer sky, and tracing the workings of Schiller’s master mind, forgot all sublunary things in the absorbing interest of the story. The scene they were perusing was that in which Max Piccolomini describes the chilling effect produced upon him when he for the first time beholds Thekla surrounded by the splendours of her father’s court, and says (I quote Coleridge’s beautiful translation for the benefit of my un-German readers, and in consideration of the shallowness of my own acquaintance with the language of the Fatherland)—

“Now, once again, I have courage to look on you,

To-day at noon I could not;

The dazzle of the jewels that play’d round you

Hid the belovèd from me.

This morning when I found you in the circle

Of all your kindred, in your father’s arms,

Beheld myself an alien in this circle,

Oh! what an impulse felt I in that moment

To fall upon his neck and call him father;

But his stern eye o’erpower’d the swelling passion,

I dared not but be silent—and those brilliants

That like a crown of stars enwreath’d your brows,

They scared me too—Oh! wherefore, wherefore should he

At the first meeting spread, as ’twere, the ban

Of excommunication round you?—wherefore

Dress up the angel for the sacrifice,

And cast upon the light and joyous heart

The mournful burden of his station? Fitly

May love woo love, but such a splendour

Might none but monarchs venture to approach.”

As Lewis read this speech, the bright, happy look faded from his face, and his voice grew deep and stern; there was in the whole scene a strange likeness to his own position, which pained him in the extreme, and brought back all his most bitter feelings. Engrossing as was this idea when once aroused, he could not but observe the unusual degree of taste and energy which Annie, who appeared carried away by the interest of the drama, infused into her reading, and the tones of her sweet voice did ample justice to the friendly, confiding tenderness with which Thekla endeavours to console her lover. After her appeal to the Countess Tertsky—

“He’s not in spirits, wherefore is he not?

He had quite another nature on the journey,

So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent”—

she turns to Max, saying—

“It was my wish to see you always so,

And never otherwise.”

Annie spoke the last words so earnestly that Lewis involuntarily glanced at her, and their eyes met. It was one of those moments which occur twice or thrice in a lifetime, when heart reads heart, as an open book, and sympathetic thought reveals itself unaided by that weak interpreter the tongue. Through weary years of sorrow and separation that look was unforgotten by either of them; and when Annie bent her eyes on the ground with a slight blush, confessing that the large amount of womanly tenderness which she fain would show was not unmingled with a portion of womanly love which she would as fain conceal, and Lewis dared not trust himself to speak lest the burning thoughts which crowded on his brain should force themselves an utterance, neither of them was sorry to perceive the figure of Aunt Martha rustling crisply through the stillness, as, burthened with boluses, Minerva appeared before them, to give a triumphant account of her victory over Tommy Crudle’s catarrhal affection, of which ailment she promised Annie a reversion for her imprudence in sitting out of doors without a bonnet.

When Lewis retired to his room that night he sat down to think over in solitude the occurrences of the day. Had he been deceiving himself, then? was his unhappy attachment still unsubdued—nay, had it not strengthened? under the delusive garb of friendship, had not Annie’s society become necessary to his happiness? Again—and as this idea for the first time occurred to him, the strong man trembled like a child from the violence of his emotion—had he not more than this to answer for? Selfishly engrossed by his own feelings, madly relying on his own strength of will, which he now perceived he had but too good reason to mistrust, he had never contemplated the effect his behaviour might produce upon a warm-hearted and imaginative girl. Lewis was no coxcomb, but he must have wilfully closed his eyes had he not read in Annie’s manner that morning the fact that she was by no means indifferent to him. True, it might be only friendship on her part—the natural impulse of a woman’s heart to pity and console one who she perceived to need such loving-kindness—and with this forlorn hope Lewis was fain to content himself. Then he strove to form wise resolutions for the future: he would avoid her society—the German lessons should be strictly confined to business, and gradually discontinued; and even a vague notion dimly presented itself of a time—say a year thence—when Walter might be entrusted to other hands, and he should be able to extricate himself from a situation so fraught with danger. And having thus regarded the matter by the light of principle and duty, feeling began to assert its claims, and he cursed his bitter fortune, which forced him to avoid one whom he would have braved death itself to win. He sat pondering these things deep into the night; the sound of the clock over the stables striking two at length aroused him from his reverie, and he was about to undress, when a slight growl from Faust, who always slept on a mat in Lewis’s dressing-room, attracted his attention, and as he paused to listen, a low whistle, which seemed to proceed from the shrubs under his window, caught his ear. Closing the door of the dressing-room to prevent Faust from giving any alarm, he walked lightly to the window, which, according to his usual custom, he left open all night, and silently holding back the curtain, looked out. As he did so a window on the ground floor was cautiously opened and the whistle repeated. After a moment’s reflection he became convinced that the room from which the signal whistle had been replied to was occupied by the new butler, who had replaced the individual harassed into the desperate step of resigning by Minerva’s incessant crusades against the Under-the-bed One. At the sound of the signal whistle the figures of four men appeared from the shrubs, amongst which they had been hidden, and noiselessly approached the window. The candle which Lewis had brought upstairs with him had burned out; and although his window was open, the curtains were drawn across it; he was therefore able, himself unperceived, to see and hear all that was going on. As the burglars, for such he did not doubt they were, drew near, the following conversation was carried on in a low whisper between their leader, a man of unusual stature, and Simmonds the butler.

“You are late; the plate has been packed and ready for the last two hours.”

“There was a light in the————d tutor’s room till half-an-hour ago,” was the reply; “and we thought he might hear us and give the alarm if we did not wait till he was in bed.”

“It would not have much signified if he had when you were once in,” returned Simmonds: “the grooms don’t sleep in the house; the valet is in London; so there’s only the tutor, the footman, and the idiot boy, besides women.”

“Where is the old man?” inquired the other.

“Not returned,” was the answer.

A brutal curse was the rejoinder, and the robber continued, “The girl is safe?”

“Yes.”

“And the tutor?”

“Yes. What do you want with them?”

“To knock out his ————d brains, and take her with us,” was the alarming reply. Simmonds appeared to remonstrate, for the robber replied in a louder tone than he had yet used—

“I tell you, yes! Old Grant shall know what it is to lose a daughter as well as other people.”

Afraid lest the loudness of his voice should give the alarm, the other exclaimed in an anxious whisper—

“Hush! come in;” and one after the other the four men entered by the open window.

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CHAPTER XLVII.—CONTAINS A “MIDNIGHT STRUGGLE,” GARNISHED WITH A DUE AMOUNT OF BLOODSHED, AND OTHER NECESSARY HORRORS.

Lewis, having overheard the conversation detailed in the preceding chapter, perceived himself to be placed in a position alike dangerous and difficult. In the spokesman and leader of the party he had recognised (as the reader has probably also done) his old antagonist, Hardy the poacher. The matter then stood thus: four ruffians (one of whom, burning with the desire of revenge for wrongs real and supposed, possessed strength and resolution equal to his animosity) were already in possession of the lower part of the house, their avowed objects being robbery, murder, and abduction; the butler, faithless to his trust, was clearly an accomplice; Hardy, fighting as it were with a halter round his neck, was not likely to stick at trifles, and Lewis foresaw that the conflict, once begun, would be for life or death, and on its successful issue depended Annie’s rescue from a fate worse than death. His only ally was the footman; and whether this lad’s courage would desert him when he discovered the odds against which he had to contend was a point more than doubtful. However, there was no time to deliberate; Lewis felt that he must act, and summoning all the energies of his nature to meet so fearful an emergency, he prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible. On attempting to unlock his pistol case the key turned with difficulty, and it was not without some trouble and delay that he was enabled to open it. As he did so, it occurred to him that his pistols, which he kept loaded, might have been tampered with. It was fortunate that he thought of ascertaining this, for on inserting the ramrod he found the bullets had been withdrawn from both barrels. Carefully reloading them, he placed the pistols in a breast-pocket ready for use, and taking down from a nail on which it hung a cavalry sabre which had belonged to Captain Arundel, he unsheathed it, and grasping it firmly with his right hand, he turned to leave the room, with the design of arousing the footman. As he did so a faint tap was heard, and on opening the door the figure of Annie Grant, pale and trembling, wrapped in a dressing-gown and shawl, appeared before him, while her French soubrette, in an agony of fear, was leaning against the wall listening (with eyes that appeared ready to start out of her head with fright) for every sound below. As Lewis advanced Annie perceived the sabre, and pointing towards it, she exclaimed in an agitated whisper—

“Oh! you have heard them, then! what will become of us?”

Lewis took her trembling hand in his.

“Calm yourself,” he said in the same low tone; “I will defend you, and if needs be, die for you.”

His words, spoken slowly and earnestly, appeared to act like a charm upon her. She became at once composed, and looking up in his face with an expression of childlike trust, inquired—

“And what shall I do?”

“Go back to your apartment and pray for my success; God is merciful, and will not turn a deaf ear to such angel pleadings,” was the solemn reply.

Annie again gazed earnestly at him, and reading in the stern resolution of his features the imminence of their danger, was turning away with a sickening feeling of despair at her heart, when Lewis again addressed her.

“I am going to awaken the man-servant,” he said; “the butler is an accomplice of these scoundrels, and has admitted them. They cannot, however, molest you without ascending the stairs, and as they do that I shall encounter them; the result is in the hands of God.”

He was about to leave her, but there was a speechless misery in her face as she gazed upon him which he could not resist. In an instant he was by her side.

“Dear Annie,” he said, and his deep tones faltered from the intensity of his emotion—it was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name—“Dear Annie, do not look at me thus sorrowfully; it is true we are in peril, but I have ere now braved greater danger than this successfully, and—should I fall, life has few charms for me—to die for you——!”

At this moment the sound of a man’s voice in anger was heard from the lower part of the house, and starting forward with a scarcely suppressed cry of terror, the French girl seized Lewis’s arm, while, pointing in the direction of the footman’s room, she exclaimed—

“Allez, allez, cherchez vite du secours, nous allons être assassinés tous.”

Lewis placed his finger on his lips in token of silence, and listened a moment as the voices below were again audible and then died away.

“They are quarrelling over their booty,” he said, “and are too well occupied to think of us at present.”

He then led Annie to the door of her room, urged her to fasten it on the inside, and pressing her hand warmly, left her. After one or two futile attempts he discovered the man-servant’s apartment; the door was unfastened, and he pushed it open, when the loud, regular breathing which met his ear proved that the person of whom he was in search was as yet undisturbed. Approaching the bed, Lewis paused for a moment, and shading the light with his hand, gazed upon the face of the sleeper. He was scarcely beyond the age of boyhood, and his features presented more delicacy of form than is usually to be met with in the class to which he belonged. He was sleeping as quietly as a child; while Lewis watched him, he murmured some inarticulate sounds, and a smile played about his mouth. As Lewis stooped to wake him, he could not but mentally contrast the calm sleep from which he was arousing him with the probable scene of violence and danger in which he would so soon be engaged. It was no time for such reflections, however, and laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder, he said—

“Robert, you are wanted, rouse up!”

Startled by the apparition of a tall figure bending over him, the young man sprang up, exclaiming—

“What’s the matter? who is it?” then recognising Lewis, he continued, “Mr. Arundel! is anybody ill, sir?”

“Hush!” was the reply; “get up and put on your clothes as quickly as possible; there are thieves in the house. I will wait at the top of the stairs till you join me; but make no noise, or you may bring them upon us before we are prepared for them.”

So saying, he quitted the room. In less time than he had imagined it possible, the young servant joined him.

“Have you roused Mr. Simmonds?” was his first query.

“The butler has proved unworthy of the trust reposed in him,” returned Lewis; “he has admitted these men into the house, and they are now in his pantry, preparing to carry off the plate.”

As he spoke his companion’s colour rose, and with flashing eyes he exclaimed, “Let us go down and prevent them; there’s plate worth £500 under his care.”

Lewis held the lamp so that it shed its light upon the young man’s face and figure. He was a tall, well-grown youth, and his broad shoulders and muscular arms gave promise of strength; his eye was keen and bright, and an expression of honest indignation imparted firmness to his mouth. Lewis felt that he might be relied on, and determined to trust him accordingly.

“They have worse designs than merely stealing the plate,” he said; “they intend to carry off Miss Grant, and murder me. Chance enabled me to overhear their plan; I mean, therefore, to wait at the top of the stairs and use any means to prevent their ascending them: will you stand by me?”

“Ay, that I will; a man can but die once,” was the spirited reply.

Lewis grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

“You are a brave fellow,” he said, “and if we succeed in beating off these scoundrels, it shall not be my fault if your fortune is not made. There is a carabine hanging in the General’s bedroom, is there not?”

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, Lewis continued, “Fetch it, then, and the sword with it, if you think you can use it.”

As Robert departed on this mission, Lewis, surprised at the delay on the part of Hardy and his associates, glided lightly down the staircase to reconnoitre their proceedings. The lower part of the house was of course in total darkness; but as he approached the butler’s pantry a bright stream of light issued from a crack in the door, while the tramp of nailed shoes on the stone flooring inside, together with an occasional muttered word or oath from one of the party, proved that they were busily engaged in some toilsome occupation, which Lewis rightly conjectured to be conveying the plate to a cart outside. Returning as cautiously as he had advanced, Lewis rejoined his companion, whom he found waiting for him at the top of the stairs, carabine in hand. Having ascertained that the charge had been removed from this also, he reloaded it with some of the slugs intended for his pistols, and placing the lamp so that it cast its light down the staircase, leaving the spot where they stood in shade, he handed one pistol to Robert, reserving the other for his own use in any emergency which might occur; and thus prepared they awaited the approach of the robbers. Their patience was not in this instance destined to be severely taxed, for scarcely had they taken their stations when the creaking of a door cautiously opened, and the tread of muffled footsteps announced that the crisis was at hand; and in another moment Hardy and his associates were seen stealthily advancing towards the foot of the stairs. As they perceived the light of Lewis’s lamp they paused, and a whispered consultation took place. At this moment the rays fell strongly upon the upper part of the poacher’s figure, and Lewis, levelling his carabine, could have shot him through the heart. It was a strong temptation. Hardy once dead, Lewis had little fear of being able to overcome or intimidate the others. He knew that it was life for life, and that by all laws, human and divine, the act would be a justifiable one; but he could not bring himself to slay a fellow-creature in cold blood. Besides, although since his unmanly attack on Annie, Lewis had felt in the highest degree irritated against the poacher, he compassionated him for the loss of his daughter, and could not entirely divest himself of a species of admiration for his strength and daring: so, though he still held the carabine directed towards the group, he did not pull the trigger; and thus, by a strange turn of fate, Lewis spared Hardy’s life, as Hardy had on a former occasion spared his, when the motion of a finger would have sent him to his long account. At this moment the butler joined the party, and Lewis caught the words, “They have fire-arms!”

“Never fear,” was the reply in the tones of Simmonds’ voice, “they may bark, but they won’t bite; I’ve taken care of that.”

“Come on, then,” exclaimed Hardy impetuously; “let us rush at them together and overpower them;” and grasping a bludgeon with one hand, while in the other he held a cocked pistol, he dashed upstairs followed by his accomplices. Lewis waited till they had passed a turn in the staircase, and then aiming low, in order if possible to stop their advance without destroying life, he fired. Simmonds, who was one of the foremost, immediately fell, and losing his balance, rolled down several steps; one of the others paused in his career, and from his limping gait was evidently wounded; but Hardy and two more continued their course uninjured. The smoke of the discharge for a moment concealed Lewis’s figure; as it cleared away, Hardy levelled his pistol at him and fired. The bullet whistled by Lewis’s ear, and passing within an inch of his right temple, lodged in the wall behind him; while, following up his ineffectual shot, the robber rushed upon him. Lewis, however, had too keen a recollection of his antagonist’s matchless strength to risk the chance of allowing him to close with him, and springing back, he struck him, quick as lightning, two blows with the sabre—the first on his arm, which he raised to protect his head, the second and most severe one on the shoulder near the neck: this last blow staggered him, and reeling dizzily, he grasped the banister for support, the blood trickling from the wound in his shoulder. In the meantime the two others, one of them having felled the young footman to the ground by a back-handed stroke with a bludgeon, attacked Lewis simultaneously. Having parried one or two blows with his sabre, Lewis made a desperate cut at the head of the man with the bludgeon. The fellow raised his staff to ward off the stroke, and the blow fell upon the oak sapling, which it severed like a reed; but unfortunately the shock was too great, and the sword snapped near the hilt. Seeing that he was thus left defenceless, and might probably be overpowered, as both his assailants were strong, square-built fellows, Lewis had no resource but to draw his pistol; and, as before, endeavouring to aim so as to disable without destroying life, he fired, and the man nearest to him fell. His comrade immediately threw himself upon the young tutor, and a fierce struggle ensued. In point of strength the combatants were very equally matched; but, fortunately for the result, Lewis was the most active, and by a sudden wrench disengaging himself from his antagonist’s grasp, he struck him a tremendous blow with his clenched fist on the side of the head, which sent him down with the force of a battering-ram. As he did so a giant arm was thrown round his waist, a knife gleamed at his throat, and in a hoarse, broken voice, the savage ferocity of which had something appalling in its tones, Hardy exclaimed—

“I’ve owed you something a long time, young feller; and now I’ve got a chance, I’m going to pay you.”

Both his hands being occupied, he, with the fury of some beast of prey, seized Lewis’s hair with his teeth, and endeavoured to draw his head back in order to cut his throat; but, by dint of struggling, Lewis had contrived to get his right arm free, and grasping the wrist of the hand which held the weapon, he was enabled, as long as his strength might hold out, to prevent the ruffian from executing his murderous purpose. Hardy made one or two efforts to shake off the grasp which thus fettered him, but his muscular power was so much impaired by the sabre cut on the arm that he was unable to accomplish his design. Accordingly, trusting to his great strength, and thinking that Lewis would become exhausted by his attempts to free himself, Hardy determined to wait rather than run the risk of affording his victim a chance of escape by removing the arm which encircled him. While affairs were in this position, Robert, having recovered the stunning effects of the blow which had felled him, regained his feet, and was advancing to Lewis’s assistance when the robber who had been slightly wounded in the leg as he was ascending the stairs, and had since remained a passive spectator of the struggle, interposed, and rousing, through the medium of a kick in the ribs, the fellow whom Lewis had knocked down, closed with the young servant, and attempted to wrench the pistol (which went off in the scuffle without injuring any one) from his grasp, while his accomplice, gathering himself slowly from the floor, prepared to assist him. In the meantime the struggle between Lewis and Hardy appeared likely to terminate in favour of the young tutor, for the exertions made by the poacher to retain his captive caused the blood to flow rapidly from his wounds, and a sensation of faintness stole over him which threatened momentarily to incapacitate him. As he became aware of this fact his fury and disappointment knew no bounds; and collecting his powers for one final effort, he released Lewis’s waist, and transferring his grasp to his coat collar, suddenly flung his whole weight upon him and bore him heavily to the ground; then raising himself and planting his knee on Lewis’s chest, he stretched out his hand to pick up the knife which he had dropped in this last attack. Had he made the attempt one minute sooner, it would have been successful, and Lewis would indeed have laid down his life for her he loved; but his time was not yet come. As the poacher leant over to reach the knife, a dizzy faintness overpowered him, his brain reeled; a slight effort on Lewis’s part was sufficient to dislodge him, and uttering a hollow groan, he rolled over on his back and lay motionless, his deep, laboured breathing alone testifying that he was still alive. Hastily springing from the ground, Lewis, on regaining his feet, turned to assist his companion, who was still manfully battling with his two assailants: as he did so the sound of feet became audible, and the gardener and three of the other outdoor servants, aroused by the report of fire-arms, rushed in, having effected their entrance by the open window of the pantry. Their arrival ended the affair. The burglar who was uninjured, finding the door of Lewis’s bedroom open, took refuge there, leaped from the window, alighted on some shrubs, which broke his fall, and the darkness favouring him, effected his escape. The other four, who were all wounded more or less seriously, were secured.

A surgeon was immediately sent for: he examined Hardy (who remained in a state of unconsciousness) first. He pronounced the cut in the arm of little consequence, but the wound in the neck had divided several important vessels, and he considered it highly dangerous. The burglar at whom Lewis had discharged his pistol was severely wounded in the hip, but the surgeon did not apprehend any serious consequences. Simmonds, the butler, proved to have been hit in the knee by a slug from the carabine, an injury which would probably lame him for life. The remaining member of the gang had come off more easily, a shot having passed through the fleshy part of the leg; Robert, the servant, displayed a broken head; and Lewis, besides being severely bruised, had in the last struggle with Hardy received a wound in the left wrist from the point of the ruffian’s knife. As soon as, by the application of proper restoratives, Hardy became sufficiently recovered to bear removal, a carriage was sent for, and the captured burglars were conveyed to the nearest town; the two most severely injured were taken to the hospital, and the other pair securely lodged in the county gaol.

On Annie’s expressions of gratitude to her preservers, or on the feelings with which Lewis heard her lips pronounce his praises, we will not dwell, neither will we expatiate on the view Miss Livingstone (who appeared in a tremendous nightcap of cast-iron white-washed, and a dressing-gown of Portland stone) was pleased to take of the affair, in which she recognised a vindication of the reality of the individual who was always under the beds and behind the curtains, who for the future she declared to have been Hardy, professing herself able to swear to the expression of his boots in any court of justice throughout the United Kingdom.

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CHAPTER XLVIII.—WHEREIN THE READER DIVERGES INTO A NEW BRANCH OF “THE RAILROAD OF LIFE” IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.

Lewis, bruised and wearied after his skirmish with the housebreakers, flung himself on a sofa in his dressing-room, to try if he could obtain a few hours’ sleep ere fresh cares and duties should devolve upon him; but sleep demands a calm frame of mind, and in his spirit there was no peace. One thought haunted him—in his brief and agitating interview with Annie, had he betrayed himself? Sometimes, as he recalled the words he had spoken, and the feelings which had as it were forced them from him, he felt that he must have done so; and then he regretted that Hardy’s bullet had flown wide of its mark, and wished that he were lying there a senseless corpse rather than a living man endowed with power to feel, and therefore to suffer. Then he bethought him how alarmed and confused Annie had appeared, and he conceived that she might have been too thoroughly preoccupied and self-engrossed to have marked his words, or to have attributed to them any meaning save friendly interest. One thing was only too clear: of whatever nature might be Annie’s feelings towards him, his affection for her was love—deep, fervent, earnest love—a passion that he could neither banish nor control. How then should he act? flight had now become the idea that most readily occurred to him: again, the possibility of leaving Walter presented itself to his mind, and this time not as a mere remote contingency, but as a step which he might at any moment be called upon to take, if he could not recover his selfcontrol so entirely as to endure Annie’s presence; nay, to receive marks of her gratitude and esteem, or even, on occasion, to share her confidence, without betraying his feelings. Then in his self-tormenting he caught at the expression which he had half thought, half uttered, to “endure” her presence—to endure that which he idolised, the presence of one for whom he would sacrifice friends, family, the love of adventure, his ambitious hopes, nay, as he had but now proved, life itself. A wild idea crossed his mind: if love were thus all-powerful with him, a strong-minded, determined man, might it not be equally so with her, a young, impulsive girl, whose very nature was an embodiment of tenderness; might she not secretly pine to sacrifice rank, station, riches, for the sake of love and him? Sacrifice—ay, rather rejoice to cast off such trammels! Should he strive to ascertain this? Should he tell her how he loved her with a passion that was undermining the secret springs of his very existence, and implore her to fly with him to some fair western land, where the false distinctions of society were undreamed of, and the brave, true-hearted man was lord, not of his servile fellows, but of the creation which God had destined him to rule? The picture, seen by the false glare of his heated imagination, appeared a bright one, the lights stood out boldly, and the shadows remained unheeded till the first gleam of returning reason brought them prominently forward, and he shuddered to think that he could have entertained for a moment a project so completely at variance with every principle of honour and of duty. Thus feverish alike in mind and body, he tossed restlessly on his couch, till at length, thoroughly exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed bright dreams of happy love, to make the stern reality appear yet darker and more drear on waking.

On his return to Broadhirst, General Grant expressed his most unqualified admiration at the gallant defence of his house, property, and daughter (we quote his own “table of precedence”) by Lewis and the man-servant. On the former he bestowed a sword (presented to him in bygone days by some Indian potentate) to replace the weapon broken in the struggle, together with a handsomely-bound copy of the “Wellington Despatches”; the latter he rewarded by promotion to the post of butler, vice Simmonds (in a fair way to be) transported, together with a douceur of twenty pounds; which piece of good fortune so elated the youthful Robert that he publicly declared he should like to have his head broken every night, and wished the house might be robbed regularly twice a week till further orders. The wounded men recovered rapidly, with the exception of Hardy, whose case assumed a very alarming character: owing to the state of his constitution, impaired by a course of intemperance, to which, since his escape from prison, he had given himself over, erysipelas supervened, and in a few days his life was despaired of. On receiving this intelligence Lewis rode over to H—————, and calling at the hospital, requested to be allowed to see the man whose life he had been the involuntary instrument of shortening. The permission was readily accorded, and he was conducted along several passages to the room, or rather cell, for it was little else, in which, for the purpose of security as well as to separate him from the other inmates of the establishment, the burglar had been placed. As soon as Lewis had entered the door was closed and fastened on the outside. Noiselessly approaching the truckle bed on which Hardy lay, the young tutor paused as his glance fell upon the prostrate figure of his former antagonist. Stretched at full length upon the couch, his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages, and his muscular throat and broad, hairy chest partially uncovered, he looked even more gigantic than when in an erect posture: his face was pale as death, and an unnatural darkness beneath the skin betokened to any one accustomed to such appearances the speedy approach of the destroyer; while a small hectic spot of colour on the centre of each cheek gave evidence of the inward fever which was consuming him. When Lewis approached the bed his eyes were closed, and his deep breathing at first led to the belief that he was asleep; that this was not the case, however, soon became apparent. Opening his eyes, he accidentally encountered those of Lewis fixed upon him with an expression of mingled pity and remorse: as their glances met Hardy gave a start of surprise, and gazed at him with a scowl which proved that his feelings of animosity against Lewis were still unabated; while a puzzled look evinced that his mental powers were so much weakened that he doubted whether the figure he beheld were real or a creation of his morbid fancy. Advancing to the bedside, Lewis broke the silence by inquiring whether he suffered much pain. As he began to speak, the confused look disappeared from the sick man’s countenance, and glaring at him with an expression of impotent rage, he exclaimed in a low, hoarse voice—

“So you’re come to look upon your handiwork, are you? I hope you like it!”

“I am come to tell you that I am sorry the blows I struck you in self-defence should have produced such disastrous consequences, and to ask your forgiveness, in case the means employed for your restoration to health should prove ineffectual,” replied Lewis.

“Restore my health!” repeated Hardy bitterly. “Do you mean that you expect these doctors can cure me? Do you think these wounds, that burn like hell-fire, can be healed by their plasters and bandages? I tell you no! You have done your work effectually this time, and I am a dying man. You want me to forgive you, do you? If my curse could wither you where you stand, I would and do curse you! If priests’ tales be true, and there be a heaven and a hell, and by forgiving you I could reach heaven, I still would curse you, in the hope that by so doing I might drag you down to hell with me.”

The vehemence with which he uttered this malediction completely exhausted him, and falling back on the pillow he lay with closed eyes, his laboured breathing affording the only proof that he was still alive. Throwing himself upon a chair by the bedside, Lewis sat wrapped in painful thought. The reflection that hatred to him for acts which circumstances had forced him to commit might cause the unhappy being before him to die impenitent, and that he might thus be instrumental to the destruction both ot his body and soul, was distressing to him in the extreme; and yet how to bring him to a better frame of mind was not easy to decide. At length, following out his own train of thought, he asked abruptly—

“Hardy, why do you hate me so bitterly?”

Thus accosted, the poacher unclosed his eyes, and fixed them with a piercing glance upon the face of his questioner, as though he would read his very soul. Apparently disappointed in his object, for Lewis met his gaze with the calm self-possession of conscious rectitude, he answered surlily—

“Why do you come here to torment me with foolish questions? It is enough that I hate you with just cause—and you know that it is so. I hate you now, I shall hate you dying, and I shall hate you after death, if there is a hereafter. Now go. If by staying here you think to persuade or entrap me into saying I forgive you, you only waste your time.”

“Listen to me, Hardy,” returned Lewis, speaking calmly and impressively. “You are, as you truly say, a dying man. In this life we shall probably never meet again. The reality of a future life you appear to doubt: I believe in it; and I believe that your condition there may be affected by your dying with such feelings in your heart as you have now expressed. It is therefore worth while to discuss this matter, and see whether you have such just cause to hate me as you imagine.”

As Hardy made no reply, Lewis continued: “It is true that on a former occasion I secured your capture when perhaps I was stepping beyond my regular path of duty to do so; but in this last affair I merely acted in self-defence, as I overheard from my open window your scheme for my destruction. You discharged a pistol at me ere I attacked you: had the ball gone half an inch more to the right I should have been a dead man. Whatever may be your faults, you are brave; and that quality alone should prevent your bearing malice against one who met you in fair, open fight. It was a game for life and death, and it is unjust to hate me for winning it.”

“Boy, you will madden me,” exclaimed Hardy passionately, raising himself on his elbow as he spoke, though the pain the action caused him forced a groan from his compressed lips. “Do you suppose I care for your paltry blows? If they had not finished me, brandy or my own hand would soon have done so; for life has long been a curse to me, and had become unbearable since—may the torments I shall soon endure, if there be a hell, fall upon you for it!—since you and the titled scoundrel, your accomplice, stole my daughter from me.”

“I!” exclaimed Lewis in astonishment. “Do you imagine me to have had any share in that wickedness? Why, man, I never saw your daughter save on two occasions; and on the second of these I warned her—unfortunately without effect—against the designs of the villain who betrayed her.”

As he spoke Hardy gazed eagerly at him, and when he ceased, exclaimed—

“Tell me when and where was it that you did this?”

“It was on the morning after the electioneering ball at Broadhurst. I was shooting with the gamekeeper—met your daughter by accident in the grass field by the larch plantation—and witnessing her parting with Lord Bellefield, I took the opportunity of telling her his true name and character, and warning her against his probable designs. But, unluckily, she had observed a disagreement between us on the previous evening, and supposing me to be actuated by malicious motives, discredited my assertion.”

“You are not deceiving me?” questioned Hardy eagerly. “You could not, dare not, do so now!”

“You do not know me, or you would not doubt my word. I have spoken the simple truth,” returned Lewis coldly.

“Here!” continued Hardy, producing from beneath the pillow a small Bible which the chaplain had left with him: “you tell me you believe in this book. Will you swear upon it that you are not trying to deceive me?”

Lewis raised the book reverently to his lips, and kissing it, took the required oath. Hardy watched him with a scrutinising gaze, and when he had concluded, held out his hand, saying—

“I have wronged you deeply, Mr. Arundel, and must ask—what! never thought again to ask at the hand of man—your forgiveness. I have sought your life, sir, as the wild beast seeks his prey; and chance, on one occasion, and your own courage and address on others, have alone preserved it.”

He then went on to relate how, his suspicions having been excited by hints from the neighbours, he had learned that his daughter was in the habit of meeting some gentleman by stealth. How he watched for this person constantly, without success, till the day after the great party at Broadhurst, when, lying concealed in the larch plantation, he had been attracted by the sound of voices, and creeping beneath the underwood, had witnessed, though not near enough to overhear what passed, the interview between Lewis and his daughter, when he naturally concluded the young tutor to be the individual against whom he had been cautioned. He then went on to relate that the opportune arrival of the gamekeeper had alone prevented him from shooting the supposed libertine, but that he had determined on his destruction, and that his subsequent capture by Lewis and the General had alone hindered him from executing his design. It was not till after his escape from H———— gaol that he first heard Lord Bellefield’s name coupled with that of his daughter, which information complicated the affair; but still feeling convinced that Lewis was guilty, either as principal or accessory, he joined in the scheme for robbing Broadhurst, in order to be revenged on the young tutor, as well as on General Grant, against whom he had long nourished feelings of animosity, on account of his poaching persecutions.

His penitence for the wrong he had done him by his unjust suspicions were so sincere and spontaneous, that Lewis imagined he recognised, amid the ruin of a naturally generous disposition, that “seed of the soul” which remains in almost every nature, however the rank growth of evil passions uncontrolled may have checked its development. Taking advantage of an expression which Hardy used, that “he thanked God he had not added to his other sins the murder of one who had sought to befriend his child,” his companion observed—

“You say you thank God for preserving you from an additional crime: now, does not the fact of your involuntarily making use of that form of speech tend to convince you that the belief in a God and a future state is natural to the mind of man?”

Hardy seemed struck by the force of this remark, and Lewis, pursuing the subject, had the satisfaction of perceiving that he had excited the wounded man’s interest, and ere he quitted him he obtained his promise to listen to the exhortations of the chaplain, whose advances he had hitherto angrily repulsed. Pleased with the result of his visit, Lewis on his way home called upon the clergyman who fulfilled the duties of chaplain to the hospital, and mentioning to him Hardy’s improved frame of mind, begged him to see him again as soon as possible, to which request the chaplain willingly acceded.

Three days after this interview Lewis received a note from this gentleman thanking him for his hint, and informing him that its results had been as satisfactory as in such a case was possible. Hardy appeared sincerely penitent, willing to embrace and anxious to profit by the truths of religion, as far as his weakened faculties enabled him to apprehend them. He added that he was sinking fast, and had expressed the greatest desire to see Lewis again before he died, as he had some request to make to him. On the receipt of this information Lewis immediately set out for H————.

A great alteration had taken place in Hardy’s appearance in those three days. His cheeks had become still more hollow, the unnatural brightness of his eyes was replaced by a dull, leaden look, and the hectic colour had faded to the pale, ashy hue of approaching dissolution, whilst the hoarse, deep tones of his voice were reduced almost to a whisper through weakness. But the most remarkable change was in the expression of his features; the sullen scowl, which betokened a spirit at war alike with itself and others, had given place to a look of calm resignation; there were indeed traces of bodily pain and mental anguish about the mouth, but the upper part of the face was in complete repose. Lewis gazed upon him with deep interest, and the idea suggested itself that thus might have appeared the demoniac when the words of power had gone forth, “Hold thy peace, and come out of him.” Nor was the comparison inapt, for if ever the mind of man was possessed by an evil spirit, that of Hardy had been so by the demon of revenge. As the dying man perceived his approach his features lighted up.

“I knew you would come, Mr. Arundel,” he said. “I felt that! should not die without seeing you again.”

“Do you suffer much pain now, Hardy?” inquired Lewis kindly.

“Scarcely any since six o’clock this morning, sir,” was the reply; “but I know what that means—that’s mortification coming on. I’ve seen men die from sabre wounds before now. I was a soldier once—at least I was farrier to a troop of cavalry, which is much the same thing; but this was not what I wanted to say to you.” He paused from exhaustion, and pointed to a glass containing some strengthening cordial. Lewis held it to his parched lips; having drunk a portion of it, he appeared considerably revived.

“I am going fast,” he resumed, “and must not waste the minutes that remain. You have treated me with kindness, sir—one of the few who have ever done so; you are a bold foe and a warm-hearted friend, and that is a character I understand and can trust. Moreover, you tell me you showed poor Jane” (as he mentioned his daughter’s name tears stood in his eyes and his breath came short and fast) “her danger, and strove to warn her against the villain who has wronged her, and this shows you are a good man; therefore I am going to ask you to do me a favour. When I am dead, I want you to find out Jane and tell her whatever you may think best to induce her to leave this man. And when she hears that I’m dead, if she seems to feel it very deep and take on about it—which likely enough she will, for she did care for me once—you may tell her that I forgave her before I died. I never thought to do so, for she has finished what her mother began; between them they’ve first made me the devil I have been, and then—broken my heart.” He paused, and when he had sufficiently recovered breath, continued, “When I married her mother, five-and-twenty years ago, I was a different man from whatever you’ve known me. I’d been brought up to my father’s trade of a blacksmith, and worked steadily at it till I was able to lay by a fair sum of money, besides keeping the old man as long as he was alive. However, in the village where we lived was a farmer, well-to-do in the world, and his daughter was far the prettiest girl in those parts; she’d had a good education, and gave herself airs like a lady, and looked down upon a rough young fellow like me; but I bore it patiently, for I loved her, and determined I’d never marry anybody but her. For a long time she would not look at me, but I persevered; any man that come a-courting her I picked a quarrel with and thrashed. I found many ways of making myself handy to the old man, her father, and somehow she got used to me like, and grew less scornful; and just then a sister of my father’s, who had been housekeeper at Broadhurst, died and left me £300, and I’d saved about £200 more, and the old man wanted help to manage his farm. And the long and short of the matter was I married Harriet Wylde, took a farm next her father’s, and gave up blacksmithing.

“For four years I was as happy as man could be; everything seemed to prosper with me. My wife had one child, a girl; a proud man was I when she was first placed in my arms, but had I known what was to be her fate I would have smothered her in her cradle! There was a young gentleman lived near us—his father was a rich baronet—I had been accustomed to break in horses for the son, and when I took the farm we used to shoot together. He was a frank, generous-hearted man, and treated me like a friend and equal. On our shooting expeditions he would often come and lunch at my house; on one occasion he brought his younger brother with him. This young fellow had just returned from Italy, and brought foreign manners and foreign vices with him. My wife was still very good-looking, like poor Jane, but handsomer; and this heartless villain coveted her beauty. I know not what arts he used; I suspected nothing, saw nothing, but one evening on my return my home was desolate. I obtained traces of the fugitives—he had taken her to a seaport town in the south of England, meaning to embark for France—I followed them, and in the open street I met him; the bystanders interfered between us, or I should have slain him where he stood. He was taken to an inn, where he kept his bed for some weeks from the effect of the punishment I had administered to him. I was dragged off to prison; the law which suffered him to rob me of her whom I prized more dearly than house and goods punished me for chastising the scoundrel with six months’ imprisonment. I consorted with thieves, poachers, and other refuse of society; and in my madness to obtain revenge upon the class which had injured me, I listened to their specious arguments till I became the curse to myself and others which you, sir, have known me. Well, society sent me to school, and society has had the benefit of the lessons that were taught me. I came out of gaol a bad and well-nigh a desperate man, to learn that my wife had returned to her father’s house and died, giving birth to a boy. In my anger I refused to acknowledge the child, but the old man took care of it. Time passed on: the elder of the two brothers quarrelled with his father and died abroad, the younger one married; but God visited him for his sin. His wife saw by accident in an old newspaper an account of my trial for the assault; the shock brought on a premature confinement; she also died in childbirth, and the child remained an idiot. Yes! you start, but you have guessed rightly—the boy to whom you are tutor is the son of the man who wronged me. The ways of God are very wonderful: had the boy possessed his proper senses you might never have come here, and I might not now be lying on my death-bed.”

Again Hardy broke off from weakness, and again Lewis administered the cordial to him and wiped the cold dews from his brow.

“Little more remains to tell,” he added after a few minutes’ pause; “and ’tis well that it is so, for death comes on apace. I do not fear to die; I have long wished myself dead, life was such deep misery, yet now I should be glad to live, that I might undo some of the evil I have caused. Since I saw you last I have felt more like my former self than I have ever done from the time my wife left me. Poor Harriet! Do you think we shall meet in the world of spirits, Mr. Arundel?”

“These are things God alone knows,” replied Lewis gravely. “He has not seen fit to reveal to living man the secrets of the grave!” After a short silence, in which Hardy appeared to be collecting strength to finish his relation, he continued—

“After my release from the prison I took to drinking to banish reflection. Drinking is a vice which brings all others in its train. I soon fell into bad company, became involved in debt; and at last, in a drunken fit, enlisted in the——th Dragoons, my height attracting the notice of a recruiting party from that regiment. I served ten years, at the end of which time my wife’s father died and left his little property between the two children, with the exception of a sum to purchase my discharge if I chose to come and take care of them. The confinement and regularity of a soldier’s life did not suit me, and I availed myself of the opportunity thus offered, returned home, and lived on a certain income set apart for the maintenance and education of the children. This was a fresh chance for me, and had I conducted myself properly I might have yet known some peaceful years; but a craving for excitement haunted me. I sought out some of my old companions, joined a Chartist association, took to habits of poaching—and this has been the end of it.”

“What became of the boy who was left to your care?” inquired Lewis. Hardy uttered a low groan.

“That is another sin I have to answer for,” he said. “I never liked the child—I doubted whether it was mine, and the sight of it recalled the memory of my wrongs; accordingly, I treated the boy harshly, and he repaid me by sullen disobedience; and yet there should have been sympathy between us. He was brave even to rashness, and copied my vices with an aptitude which proved his power of acquiring better things. By the time he was thirteen he could set a snare, hit a bird on the wing, thrash any boy of his own weight, and alas! drink, game, and swear as well as I could myself. One night I had been drinking he angered me, and in my rage I struck him. For a moment he looked as if he would return the blow; but the folly of such an attempt seemed to occur to him, and he glanced towards a knife which lay on the table; then his sister threw her arms round him, and he refrained. He waited till she had gone to bed, sitting sulkily without speaking. When we were alone he looked up and asked me abruptly, ‘Father, are you sorry that you struck me that blow?’ There was something in the boy’s manner that appealed to my better feelings, and I was half inclined to own myself wrong, but a false shame prevented me, and I angrily replied ‘that I would repeat the blow if he gave me any more of his impertinence.’ He looked sternly at me, and muttering, ‘That you shall never do,’ quitted the room. From that day to this I have never seen him. My poor Jane, who was dotingly fond of him, was broken-hearted at his loss. She told me he often threatened to run away when I had treated him harshly, and that his intention was to go to sea. I have no doubt he contrived to put it into execution. Perhaps if her brother had remained with her the poor girl might not have left her home so readily. God help me, my sins have brought their own punishment!”

An attack of faintness here overpowered him, of so severe a character that Lewis thought it advisable to summon assistance. When Hardy had in some degree recovered, Lewis, on consulting his watch, found that he must return without further delay; he therefore prepared to depart, bidding Hardy farewell, and promising to see him again on the following day. The dying man shook his head.

“There will be no to-morrow for me in this world,” he said; then pressing Lewis’s hand, he added, “God bless you, Mr. Arundel; you have done me more good by your kind words than your sword has done me evil; nay, even for my death I thank you; for had I lived on as I was I should only have added crime to crime. You will remember your promise about poor Jane?”

Lewis repeated his willingness to do all in his power to carry out the dying man’s wishes; and Hardy added, “It may be that the poor boy I told you of is still alive. If he should ever return, I should like him to know that I have often grieved for my bad conduct to him. I have left a letter for you with the clergyman in case I had not seen you,” he continued; “it only contains the request I have now made, and one or two other particulars of less consequence; he will give it to you when I am gone.” He again pressed Lewis’s hand feebly, and closing his eyes, lay more dead than alive.

As Lewis quitted the room the surgeon met him and informed him that it was not probable Hardy would survive through the night, but promised that every attention should be bestowed upon him. Lewis’s thoughts, as he rode back to Broadhurst, naturally ran upon the history of sin and shame and sorrow to which he had just listened, and he could not but wonder for what purpose a frank, generous nature, such as Hardy had originally possessed, should have been so severely tried. A like question may have occurred to many of us, and we may have felt that the safest course is to look upon such things as mysteries to be regarded by the twilight of a patient faith, which waits trustfully till all that now seems dark shall be made clear in the glorious brightness of the perfect day.

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CHAPTER XLIX.—CONTAINS A PARADOX—LEWIS, WHEN LEAST RESIGNED, DISPLAYS THE VIRTUE OF RESIGNATION.

On the morning after his second visit to Hardy, Lewis received a packet from the hospital chaplain enclosing the letter of which the dying man had spoken, together with a note containing the information that Hardy had breathed his last about two hours before, daybreak. The chaplain had seen him, and judged him to be in a fitting state of mind to receive the last consolations of religion. After partaking of the Holy Communion he had fallen into a state of unconsciousness, and died without any return of pain. Lewis opened Hardy’s letter: it merely contained a repetition of the request in regard to his unfortunate daughter, together with a reference to one of his associates, in whose possession was a packet containing his father-in-law’s will and other papers, all of which he begged Lewis to take charge of and examine at his leisure; he also gave a clue by which Miss Grant’s watch and trinkets might be recovered, and expressed his deep penitence for that robbery, as well as for his other crimes. As Lewis perused this letter, he for the first time became more fully aware of the embarrassing situation in which he had placed himself by his promise to Hardy. How was he to discover Lord Bellefield’s victim? how endeavour to reclaim her? After a few minutes’ thought his determination was taken. General Grant had announced that morning the fact that Lord Bellefield, having accepted an invitation to Broadhurst, might be expected in the course of the following day; Lewis therefore resolved to address a letter to his lordship, to be given him on his arrival, detailing such portions of Hardy’s confession as related to his daughter, and the promise which he had been thereby induced to make to the dying poacher; adding that if Lord Bellefield would afford him the information necessary to enable him to carry out her father’s wishes, and would pledge his word of honour to avoid her for the future, he should not attempt to give publicity to the matter, but that in the event of his refusal he should feel it his duty to make General Grant acquainted with the whole affair.

In pursuance of the system he had laid down for himself, Lewis avoided Annie’s society as much as was possible; a line of conduct which she soon appeared to observe, and at first to wonder at.. The arrival of Lord Bellefield, however, and her knowledge of Lewis’s feelings towards him, afforded her an imaginary clue to the young tutor’s altered demeanour; still, the change annoyed and pained her more than she chose to acknowledge even to her own heart. Lord Belle-field was all amiability; he had visited Italy, and brought back innumerable anecdotes of the domestic felicity of his brother Charles, whose wife he reported to be a model to her sex. His accounts of Charles’s prodigious business efforts, varied by occasional lapses into the dolce far niente of dandyism, were amusing in the extreme Annie was forced to own that her cousin appeared greatly improved, and yet her repugnance to a renewal of the engagement seemed daily to increase. General Grant, however, by no means sympathised with this caprice, as he considered it, and was only restrained from some violent manifestation of domestic despotism by his confidence in his own authority, and in the certainty of Annie’s obedience whenever he might see fit to demand it. Lewis wrote the letter to Lord Bellefield, and having ascertained that it had reached him safely, waited patiently for an answer. Several days elapsed without his receiving one, and he was debating what step he should next take, when, as he was pacing up and down a shrubbery walk, wrapped in meditation, he suddenly met Lord Bellefield face to face. Determining not to lose an opportunity, he raised his hat, and bowing slightly, began—

“This meeting is fortunate, as I am anxious to ask your lordship a question. Have you not received a letter from me?”

“I have, sir,” was the haughty and concise reply.

“It is customary between gentlemen to acknowledge the receipt of a letter,” urged Lewis, “more particularly when, as in this instance, the writer has pledged himself to act according to the tenor of the answer.”

“I scarcely see how your observation applies to the present case,” was the insolent rejoinder. “In regard to your letter, I have treated it with the silent contempt it merited.”

Lewis’s brow flushed; controlling the angry impulse, however, he said calmly, “Your lordship cannot irritate me by such insinuations—you are aware of the alternative when you refuse to answer my letter?”

“I am, sir; you are welcome to take any course you please: I scorn your false accusations, and leave you to do your worst.”

“In that case we understand each other,” was the stern reply, and again raising his hat, Lewis passed on.

After this brief conversation he lost no time in obtaining a private interview with General Grant; scarcely, however, had he begun his statement when the General interrupted him by observing—

“I need not trouble you to proceed; Mr. Arundel; I am in possession of all the facts you are about to detail—Lord Bellefield has given me a full explanation of the matter, and I can assure you that you are labouring under an erroneous impression. The main facts of the story are, I am sorry to say, true; but the chief actor in the affair was a rascally valet of Lord Bellefield’s, who assumed his master’s name and apparel in order to accomplish his nefarious designs.”

“But I myself witnessed an interview between Lord Bellefield and the poor girl on the morning after the ball,” returned Lewis in surprise; “I should not have brought such a charge on insufficient grounds, believe me.”

“Your zeal, sir,” replied the General—“for I am willing to attribute the step you have taken solely to misdirected zeal—has assuredly led you into error. Lord Bellefield, who seems by some means aware of this idea of yours——”

“I mentioned the fact that I had seen him in a letter which I addressed to him on the subject,” interrupted Lewis. “It is only fair when you accuse a man of any fault to explain the grounds on which you believe him to have committed it.”

“Quite right, sir, quite right,” rejoined the General with an approving nod; “it is owing to the fair and manly way in which you have stated this matter that Lord Bellefield has been enabled to clear himself to my entire satisfaction. In regard to the interview to which you refer, he has recalled to me the fact that he spent the morning in question almost entirely in my company; we were engaged upon matters connected with the approaching election—you must therefore have mistaken the identity of the person you imagined to be him.”

“I am not apt to make such mistakes,” replied Lewis dryly, feeling convinced that the story was a clever fabrication from beginning to end, while, at the same time, he was becoming aware that for him to prove it to be so would be next to impossible.

“Nevertheless, you must have done so in this instance,” resumed General Grant; “but the mistake is easily to be accounted for. Lord Bellefield tells me that in order more safely to carry on his schemes, this rascally valet used to disguise himself so as to resemble his master as much as possible, even wearing false moustachios to increase the likeness; the fact of his having deceived you proves how successfully the fellow had contrived his disguise.”

While the General was speaking, Lewis hastily ran over in his mind all the evidence he possessed to prove Lord Bellefield’s guilt; and though he still felt as deeply convinced as he had ever been that in his first impression he had not erred, yet so skilfully had this story of the valet been adapted to suit the circumstances of the case that it appeared impossible to undeceive a man whose habits of mind were so obstinate as those of General Grant. His first introduction to the girl after the glove affair in the ice-room, although it carried conviction to his own mind, proved nothing, save that having witnessed a quarrel between two gentlemen, she was naturally enough alarmed as to the probable consequences to which it might lead. Again, in his second interview she might have been herself deceived by the valet’s representations into believing him to be Lord Bellefield, or, as she said, Mr. Leicester, his brother; or again, it was still more probable that she had been in her lover’s confidence, and striving to mystify and deceive Lewis. Hardy might have been aware of other facts, but his mistake in regard to Lewis proved that his information was not to be relied on. All this Lewis saw at a glance; and seeing, felt more annoyed and embarrassed than he could express.

“Time will prove the truth,” he said; “I cannot believe in Lord Bellefield’s innocence, but I am unable, at the present moment, to adduce any facts which might not bear the interpretation he has chosen to put upon them, and can only express my sorrow at having annoyed you, sir, by making a charge which I have failed to substantiate.”

“You annoy me more, Mr. Arundel, by refusing to be convinced by evidence which, after having given the matter my fullest attention, has sufficed to satisfy me. I can only imagine that in this matter private pique has warped your usually clear judgment; perhaps, after a little cool reflection, you may be induced to take a more charitable view of the affair.” So saying, the General stalked out of the room with a majestic port, as of an offended lion, leaving Lewis in a frame of mind the reverse of seraphic. But his trials for that morning were not yet at an end. Annie Grant had brooded over the young tutor’s gloomy looks and altered demeanour till she had made herself quite unhappy, when the idea occurred to her that she herself might be to blame. Since the last German lesson, to which allusion has been made, she had felt an instinctive dread of sounding the depth of her own feelings, or of allowing any one else, and much more Lewis, to perceive them. But it now struck her that in avoiding one extreme she had fallen into the other, and that Lewis might conceive the alteration in her manner to be owing to Lord Bellefield’s influence. This notion having once struck her, was so inconceivably painful that she determined to avail herself of the first opportunity of inquiring to what cause Lewis’s estrangement might be attributed; and if she found it had been produced by any supposed coolness on her part, she resolved to explain away such impression, and as she herself would have termed it, “make friends” again. Pondering these thoughts, she entered the library by a door communicating with the garden; in her hand she carried a bunch of roses, which she had just gathered, and hanging from her arm was her garden bonnet, which she had converted for the occasion into an extempore basket, also filled with roses; her golden ringlets, scared from their propriety by the wind, hung in picturesque disorder about her face and neck; the alarm she had lately undergone had rendered her somewhat paler than ordinary, and her delicate features were characterised by an unusually pensive expression. She entered so quietly, that Lewis, who, buried in thought, was seated at the table, his head resting on his hands, did not perceive her presence until, in a soft, low voice, she uttered his name. At the moment she spoke he was thinking of her—striving in vain to banish her image, which haunted his imagination like some restless ghost—trying to think down the temptation which was hourly becoming too strong for him; and when the sound of her voice reached him, and looking up with a start he saw her standing by him in the power of her dazzling beauty, it seemed as though the phantom of his imagination had suddenly assumed a bodily shape to tempt him beyond all power of resistance. Something of all this must have appeared in the expression of his features, for Annie began, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Arundel, I had no idea of startling you; I fancied you had heard me enter—but you look pale and tremble, surely you are not ill?”

“Oh, no!” he replied, forcing a smile, “it is nothing; a slight giddiness which will pass away in a moment.”

As he spoke, however, he pressed his hand to his brow, which throbbed as though it would burst. Annie became alarmed, and placing her flowers on the table, she drew nearer to him, saying—

“I am sure there is something the matter; you are either ill or unhappy; you have received some bad news of your mother, or dear Rose, is it not so?”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” returned Lewis, making an effort to rouse himself; “I was buried in thought, and your sudden entrance startled me. I am not usually given to such freaks, but since our nocturnal adventure I must confess to having become practically convinced of the existence of nerves. I must have lost more blood from this cut in the wrist than I was at first aware of.”

“Ah! that dreadful night!” exclaimed Annie, clasping her hands and turning pale at the recollection; “I shall never forget all I went through on that night if I live to be a hundred. I had been asleep for an hour or more, when I suddenly woke and saw Lisette standing by my bedside pale and trembling; as soon as she could find voice to speak she told me there were robbers in the house, and that we should all be murdered. My first idea was that you would be able to save us, and I told her to go and arouse you instantly; I soon found, however, she was too much alarmed to go alone, so I rose and accompanied her. The rest you know; but you can never know the agony of mind I suffered after you had left me: first, the dreadful interval of suspense before the robbers came upstairs, and then the fearful sounds of the conflict. I felt sure they would kill you, and I thought how wickedly selfish I had been to allow you to stay there and meet them, when, but for me, you might have escaped. I felt as if I had condemned you to death, and that I could never—never be happy again. Oh! it was too horrible!” and carried away by the recollections she had called up, Annie sank into a chair and covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out some painful object.

And Lewis, what had been his feelings, as, hurried on by the interest of her subject, Annie had thus unconsciously afforded him a glimpse into the inmost recesses of her heart? When she mentioned that her impulse on the first alarm of danger had been to rely on his protection, his dark eyes beamed with an inexpressible tenderness; but as she proceeded, and her artless confession proved that in the moment of peril her fears were not for herself but for him, his emotions became uncontrollable, and the volcano of passion, whose secret fires had already begun to prey upon his very life-springs, threatened to burst forth and bear down all before it. Already he had half risen from his seat; in another moment his arm would have encircled her, and the words that told of his deep, his overpowering love—the words that, once said, could never have been recalled, would have been poured forth, when, by one of those dispensations of Providence which men call Chance, his eye fell upon two persons who were pacing, arm-in-arm, along a terrace walk on the farthest side of the lawn—they were General Grant and Lord Bellefield. The revulsion of feeling was instantaneous; duty, honour, pride, all came to the rescue, and the fight was won, but the cost remained yet to reckon. Lewis, once excited, was not a person to take half-measures; with the speed of thought, the resolution rushed upon him that while their mutual relations remained unchanged, he and Annie must never meet again. The purpose was no sooner formed than it was acted upon. Turning to his companion, who, engrossed by her own feelings, had remained wholly unconscious of the struggle that had been proceeding in Lewis’s breast, he said in a calm, mournful voice, “Although I have not exactly received evil tidings, yet circumstances have occurred which require my presence elsewhere, and I am now about to ask your father’s permission to leave Broadhurst; this will, therefore, probably be the last time I shall see you.”

“Until you return,” interrupted Annie eagerly.

A bitter smile flitted across Lewis’s mouth as he replied, “Yes, until I return! I will therefore bid you good-bye at once.” He paused, and his eye fell upon a rose-bud she was unconsciously playing with. “I have a fancy for that flower,” he said; “will you give it to me?”

“Nay, let me find you a better one,” was the reply; “this is blighted.”

“For which reason I prefer it to any other; you know I have odd fancies sometimes.” He took the bud from her, fixed it in his buttonhole, then resumed, “I must now seek the General—good-bye!”

Annie regarded him with a pleading glance, as though she would fain learn more; but reading in the stern resolution of his countenance the inutility of further questioning, held out her hand in silence; he took it, clasped it in his own, then, yielding to an irresistible impulse, pressed it hurriedly to his lips, and was gone.

General Grant was naturally by no means of a suspicious disposition; the position in which he was placed giving him irresponsible authority over nearly every person with whom he came in contact, had rendered him pompous and arbitrary; but although not a man of enlarged mind, or possessing much delicacy of perception, he was actuated by a strong principle of justice. This attribute imparted a degree of frankness and generosity to his character, which, despite occasional displays of obstinacy or prejudice, caused him to be very generally respected, and in some instances beloved. To a mind of this nature there can be nothing more vexatious or annoying than to have its preconceived opinions of a person shaken by artful insinuations, which will require long and patient investigation to verify or disprove. In such a state of mind as we have described, however, did Lord Bellefield leave General Grant when, after pacing up and down the memorable terrace walk which had been the scene of De Grandeville’s ill-judged confidence to Charley Leicester, he at length quitted him. The subject of their conversation had been the character of Lewis Arundel; and Lord Bellefield had taken advantage of the General’s momentary irritation against the young tutor to suggest, rather than positively to make, the following accusation:—He first hinted that the General had been deceived by Lewis’s fair seeming, to adopt a wrong view of his disposition, and that, instead of the chivalrous, high-spirited, honourable being he imagined him, he was in fact an artful and accomplished hypocrite. He then proceeded to state that he had long seen this, and even suspected the object of his lengthened residence at Broadhurst, nay, possibly of his original entrance into that family; this object he declared to be a systematic design to ensnare the affections of the General’s daughter, probably relying on his good looks and insinuating manner to enable him to inveigle her into a runaway marriage. “Hence,” he observed, “his animosity towards me; hence his unsuccessful attempts to blacken my character, first in regard to poor Mellerton’s affair, and now concerning the poacher’s daughter. If he could once have succeeded in producing a quarrel between us, he would have had a clear field to himself. I was unwilling to disturb you by telling you this before, sir,” he continued. “I felt perfect confidence in my cousin Annie’s affection; and as to the young fellow himself, he was of course quite beneath my notice; but Annie, after all, is a mere girl, and naturally inexperienced in the ways of the world. Since the hint you threw out, advising me to proceed with gentleness, because she appeared to have some girlish scruples as to the renewal of the engagement, I have felt it was incumbent on me to put you on your guard without delay. The man is handsome—chance has given him many opportunities of interesting a romantic girl, and it must be confessed our dear Annie has a spice of romance about her.”

“I do not think so, sir,” interrupted the General snappishly; “none of the Grants ever were romantic. I am not romantic myself, and I do not believe a daughter of mine would forget her duty, her position, in fact her relationship to me, so far as to indulge in romance in regard to a private tutor. Moreover, I believe Mr. Arundel to be a highly honourable young man; he is the son of a soldier and a gentleman, and I cannot but consider that you wrong him by your suspicions; at the same time, I promise you the matter shall be looked into, the engagement between my daughter and yourself formally renewed, and the moment she is of age, it is my wish that the marriage should take place. It is desirable for your sake as well as for hers. I trust when you become a married man to see you give up racing, and take more interest in public business. It is, as you are aware, my intention to settle Broadhurst upon your second son; it will therefore behove you to distinguish yourself as one in whom the families of Leicester and Grant are united.”

So saying, the General relapsed into a solemn silence, and Lord Bellefield, inly raging at the tone of authority which his future father-in-law saw fit to assume towards him, quitted him, leaving the poison he had instilled into his mind to work; and it did work, for although he was disinclined in the highest degree to admit the truth of his intended son-in-law’s insinuations against Lewis, yet he could not banish them from his mind. A thousand little circumstances came to his recollection of which at the moment he had thought nothing, but which now appeared to favour Lord Bellefield’s view of the case; and for the first time his own imprudence in throwing so constantly together two young people in every way calculated to attract each other occurred to him, and he paced the terrace walk in a frame of mind by no means customary to that gallant officer—viz., one of self-reprobation. While thus pondering, at a sudden turn in the walk the object of his thoughts appeared before him, looking so tall, dark, and cold, as, with his arms folded across his breast, he stood statue-like beneath the shadow of an old yew-tree, that the General started as though he had seen a ghost. If any such notion occurred to him, however, the illusion was soon dissipated, for Lewis, raising his hat, advanced towards him and said—

“I have sought you, General Grant, to thank you for all the generous courtesy I have received at your hands, and to tell you that it is impossible for me longer to continue a member of your household.”

As Lewis spoke these words calmly and respectfully, the General’s face assumed an expression of surprise and dismay most wonderful to behold.

“What!” he exclaimed, “resign your appointment as tutor to my ward! quit Sir Walter before you have completed his education, when your system has been so surprisingly successful, too! Oh, the thing is impossible, I cannot hear of it.”

A look of sorrow passed across Lewis’s features as the General mentioned Walter, but he replied with the same calm, respectful, but determined manner, which, to one who knew him well, would have proved that he was acting in accordance with some resolve that he had formed upon principle, and to which he would adhere inflexibly.

“I am grieved to be obliged to relinquish my task unfinished,” he said, “more especially since the interest I have long felt in my poor pupil has rendered duties which others might consider irksome a labour of love to me. I trust, however, that I have been enabled so far to develop poor Walter’s intellects that any person who will treat him judiciously and kindly (and to no other, I am sure, you would entrust him) may be able to complete all that remains to be done towards his education.”

“And pray what is your reason for this sudden determination, Mr. Arundel?” inquired the General, becoming more and more perplexed as he perceived that it would be no easy matter to alter Lewis’s determination. “I presume some more advantageous prospect has been thrown open to you?”

Lewis shook his head mournfully. “You wrong me by such a supposition, sir,” he replied; “my future, as far as I can foresee it, is not a bright one, believe me.”

“Has Lord Bellefield in any way annoyed or interfered with you?” inquired the General, as a suspicion crossed his mind that his amiable future son-in-law might have taken some aggressive step against the young tutor; but Lewis again replied in the negative, adding that his reason for resigning his post was entirely of a personal nature, and that he had not come to the conclusion without due consideration.

“Really, sir,” returned the General, drawing himself up stiffly, as the suspicions instilled by Lord Bellefield suddenly flashed across his mind, “these enigmas are past my comprehension. You propose to resign at a moment’s notice the conduct of my ward’s education, thereby materially injuring him, and causing me the greatest inconvenience and annoyance; I think, therefore, you owe it to me as well as to yourself candidly to state your reason for so doing; at all events I must be allowed to say such concealment is most unlike your usual frank and manly course of proceeding.”

As the General uttered this reproach Lewis coloured, and his compressed lip and knitted brow told how deeply it affected him. When the other had ceased speaking he answered haughtily, “Your reproof may be deserved, General Grant, but it was my wish to save us both pain, which alone induced me to desire the concealment you reprobate; your words, however, oblige me to speak openly, and cost what it may, I will do so. I cannot remain longer beneath your roof \ because I love your daughter. Wait,” he continued sternly, as with a start of horrified surprise the General seemed about to give vent to his indignation in a torrent of words, “you have forced me to speak, and must now hear me out. I well know the feelings with which you regard my mad presumption, as you consider it; I know better even than you do the gulf which lies between your daughter and your paid dependant; but nature recognises no such distinctions—the same God who made her good and beautiful implanted in my breast the admiration for those qualities, and I could no more exist in her presence without loving her than I could stand in the glorious sunshine without feeling its genial warmth. My love was from the beginning as hopeless as I know it to be at this moment, when I read in your lowering brow that if your frown could annihilate me, you would deem the punishment only too mild for my offence against your pride of station; and yet I know, and you know it too, that casting aside the adventitious gifts of rank and fortune, my nature is more akin to your own than is that of the titled worldling you have selected as your future son-in-law. Before night sets in I shall have left this house for ever, and from that moment to you and yours I shall be as one dead. I may therefore say without fear of misconstruction that which I could not speak as long as I remained a member of your household. The tale that I told you regarding the poacher’s child was TRUE. In the version Lord Bellefield gave of it he lied to you. He is a man of evil passions and of narrow mind, and I warn you, if you entrust your daughter’s happiness to him, a time will come when you will bitterly repent it. I will next tell you why I have remained here thus long, and why I leave you now. My passion for your daughter has been the growth of months; how I have striven against it and endeavoured to crush it out—ay, though I crushed my heart with it, none will ever know; it is enough that I have failed, that where I fancied myself strong I have been proved weak. If I have suffered, ’tis through my own folly; if my future appear one fathomless hell of recollection, for myself have I prepared it.” He paused, drew his hand across his throbbing brow, and then continued—

“I remained here for Walter’s sake, relying on my own fortitude to conceal the mental torture I endured; I bore Lord Bellefield’s sneers, and harder still, your daughter’s gentle kindness, with an unmoved aspect, but at each successive trial the effort became greater, and my strength grew less, until this mornings when in her tender woman’s mercy, your daughter, reading in my face traces of the anguish which was consuming me, spoke words of kindliness and sympathy, chance alone, or rather the watchful providence of God, prevented my secret from transpiring. A similar trial might recur at any moment—I have lost all confidence in my power of self-control; therefore every principle of honour and of duty bids me leave this place without delay; and this, so help me Heaven, is the whole and simple truth.”

As he concluded, General Grant, whose brow had gradually relaxed during Lewis’s speech, exclaimed with a degree of warmth most unusual to him, “You have behaved like a man of honour, Mr. Arundel, under what I own to have been a very great trial, and I admire and respect you for so completely justifying the favourable opinion I have formed of you; I wish—that is, I could wish if the thing were not impossible—but it is useless to talk in this way—you must, as you wisely perceive, leave Broadhurst immediately. I will take upon me to find some reason to account for your abrupt departure, but you will carry with you my esteem and gratitude, and in whatever career you may think fit to adopt you may rely upon my willingness to assist you to the uttermost. May I inquire your future plans?”

“I have formed no plans,” returned Lewis hurriedly. “When I leave your house my only prospect is to begin life anew, with every hope that renders life endurable shut out from me for ever—I am grateful for your offers, but must decline them. Henceforward I am likely to do little credit to any one’s patronage, and must strive with existence alone and single-handed. And now, ere I leave you, let me again thank you for the courtesy you have uniformly shown me—I expected justice at your hands, you have added kindness also: we shall probably never meet again, but the chances of life are strange, and should it ever be in my power to return your benefits, you will not find me forgetful.”

He raised his hat as he spoke, and turned to depart. General Grant advanced as if he would detain him, but checking himself, he muttered—

“You shall hear from me—I will write to you at your banker’s;” and Lewis bowed and left him.

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CHAPTER L.—SHOWS HOW LEWIS CAME TO A “DOGGED” DETERMINATION, AND WAS MADE THE SHUTTLECOCK OF FATE.

“Walter, I am going to leave you,” observed Lewis in a quiet, gentle voice.

Walter, who was seated on a low stool playing with Faust, continued his amusement, merely replying carelessly, “Are you?”

Lewis knew from the nature of the answer that the sound but not the sense of his communication had reached his poor pupil’s understanding, and yet the apparent indifference of the remark pained him; it seemed as if all he loved were falling away from him. He had determined that it would be better for Walter not to be told at once that he was leaving never to return, but to allow the truth gradually to dawn upon him, after he had practically tested his ability to do without him; still he was anxious in some degree to prepare the poor boy’s mind to support the severe grief which he feared his absence would occasion him. Accordingly he returned to the attack.

“Look at me, Walter,” he said. Having caught his eye, he continued, “You did not understand me, dear boy; I am going away—going to leave you for a long time.”

“Ay? how long a time? a week?” inquired Walter.

“A great many weeks,” returned Lewis gravely, “and you must be very good all the time, and do everything as you know I should wish you to do it if I were here: do you understand me, and will you try?”

Walter nodded assent, paused, and then asked, “What will Faust do; may he stay with me?”

Lewis did not answer. Give up Faust, the only thing that he had left to love him! could he make this sacrifice?

“Because, if he may stay, I shall feel sure you will come back some time or other; nobody can leave Faust and not come and see him again—at least nobody who knows him and loves him as well as you and I do,” pleaded Walter, throwing his arm round the dog’s neck.

I am inflicting injury enough on the poor boy as it is, reflected Lewis sorrowfully; I must not deny him this thing, which he has set his heart upon. Well, it only makes the sacrifice the more complete. “Walter, will you be happy if I leave Faust with you?” he inquired gently.

“Oh, yes!” was the joyful reply, “quite happy till you come again.”

“Then he shall stay,” resumed Lewis; “remember he is your dog, I give him to you.”

“Yes, he is my dog,” repeated Walter gleefully; “only till you come back again though, you know,” he added, gazing wistfully at Lewis.

Poor Lewis! his heart was full, he could not trust himself to speak; this little incident had appealed to the affectionate side of his nature, and all but unmanned him. He approached Walter, swept back the soft, fair hair from his forehead, and imprinted a kiss on it, patted Faust’s shaggy head, and turning away abruptly, quitted the room. Ere nightfall he had completed the few arrangements which his sudden departure rendered necessary, and taking with him only a small travelling valise which he slung across his shoulders, he waited till the shades of evening had set in, and leaving directions with his ally Robert, now invested with all the dignity and privileges of butler-hood, in regard to his luggage, which he desired might be forwarded to a certain address in London, he quitted Broadhurst alone and on foot.

The town of H————— was situated about ten miles from the park gates of Broadhurst, and thither did Lewis direct his steps. He paced along mechanically, with a dull, heavy tread, as unlike his usual free elastic bounding step as possible; he kept his eyes fixed on the road before him, neither glancing to the right nor the left, and all his actions appeared like those of one moving in a dream. The night was dry and warm, and when Lewis had proceeded about six miles on his way the moon came out and bathed hill and valley in a flood of silvery light. Suddenly he paused, as the ruins of a picturesque old abbey, thrown out in bold relief by a dark background of trees, became visible at a turning of the road, and fixing his eyes on the time-worn structure, gazed long and earnestly; then a new idea seemed to strike him, and springing over a gate, he ascended with vigorous strides the green hillside on which the ruin was situated. Passing beneath crumbling arches and over the fallen stone-work covering old graves of a forgotten generation, he reached a portion of the building which seemed in somewhat better repair than the remainder. Having reached the upper end of the chancel, he paused, and leaning his back against the broken shaft of a pillar which had supported one of the arches, gave way to the painful recollections which the place excited. The last time he had visited that spot, Annie Grant had stood by his side, and as he taught her how the mystic piety of our forefathers had striven to symbolise the truths of Christianity in the cruciform cathedral, with its vaulted arches and heaven-aspiring pinnacles, her soft blue eyes had looked into his face with an expression of the respectful love we feel towards one whom we deem better and wiser than ourselves. And now how cruel was the contrast—how completely and painfully alone he felt. Then he longed (who has not at some crisis of the inner-life?) so earnestly that he almost fancied he possessed the power to separate mind and matter, and flying in the spirit to her he loved, to learn whether she thought of him and grieved for his absence. Pursuing the idea, he came to speculate on many things. Had they yet told her he would not return? What reason would the General assign for such an abrupt departure? Would she believe his account, or would her heart divine the true cause? And if it did, would she pity him?—strongest proof of love—he could bear the idea of her pity.

Poor Lewis! perhaps his greatest trial was this, that at the very moment when he gave her up for ever, a latent sense of power told him that he could have won her; this was indeed the “sorrow’s crown of sorrow”—the bitterness of more than self-renunciation, for Annie, too, might be rendered unhappy by his act. Then the future, the blank, fearful future—what lay in store for him there? “Fresh sorrow—no” (and he smiled as men on the rack have smiled when the tormentors have outwitted themselves, and the numbness of approaching death has produced insensibility to pain and robbed them of their victim), “he was dead alike to sorrow as to joy;” but at the moment, as if to prove him weak even in the vis inertio of despair, the possibility of Annie’s union with Lord Bellefield came before him like some hideous phantom, and he was forced to own that there might be depths of misery awaiting him greater than he had yet proved. And thus recalling the past and imagining the future, he afflicted himself with griefs real and visionary, till the moonbeams grew paler and altogether fled, and the stars disappeared one by one, and the red glow of the eastern sky proclaimed the coming day, and the sun arose glorious in his majesty, and his earliest rays poured through the broken roof and fell in a stream of golden light upon the ruined altar; then for the first time that night Lewis thought of Rose, and of what her advice would have been had she known of his unhappiness; and prostrating himself upon the altar-step, he prayed long and fervently.

The reflection that when our sorrow has become too heavy for us to bear there is One mighty to save, Himself in His earthly career a “Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” who will strengthen us to support them, must console the deepest mental anguish; and we do not believe that any man has ever prayed truly and earnestly without receiving comfort from so doing. For the very act recognises a belief in the existence and faith in the benevolence of a Being, all powerful alike to avert the evil we dread, and to bestow upon us the good we desire. And Lewis, when he arose from his knees, did so refreshed in spirit, and better fitted to do or to suffer, as he might be required by the changes and chances of that portion of The Railroad of Life over which he had yet to pass.

He reached the town of H———— as the inhabitants, aroused from their slumbers, were drowsily opening the shop-windows, and making his way to a small, unobtrusive inn, breakfasted. Having ascertained at what hour the last coach passed through for London, he left his valise under the care of the waiter, and passing along several dirty, narrow streets, at length reached a court, in one of the poorest and most wretched quarters of the town. Here, after some trouble and a disagreeable amount of threatening glances from sundry suspicious-looking characters, he succeeded in discovering the abode of a certain Jerry Sullivan. This worthy, having satisfied himself that Lewis was not a member of the detective police, graciously accorded him an interview, wherein Lewis explained to him that, in consequence of a communication made to him by Hardy on his death-bed, he was anxious to investigate the contents of a packet left in possession of his (Sullivan’s) maternal ancestor. This fact, Mr. Sullivan, whose brogue was considerably stronger than his regard for truth, immediately saw fit to deny, and was proceeding to lament the death of his mother, which he averred had taken place that day fortnight, when he was interrupted by the inopportune entrance of the lady in question, who appeared by no means dead, but in a very lively state of virtuous indignation. She immediately silenced her mendacious offspring, and beckoning Lewis into a kind of den which she inhabited, shut the door, and then questioned and cross-questioned him as to his connection with Hardy. Having satisfied herself, by perusing Hardy’s letter, that Lewis was no impostor, she unlocked an old trunk, whence she produced a bundle of papers and a sheet of parchment.

“There,” she said, “that’s the will he spoke of, poor fellow, and them’s the letters—and I only hope as you’ll be able to find the unfort’nate childring, and that they will come into the money all right—it’s nigh £100 year, I’m told.”

“Have you any idea whether Hardy had at all traced his daughter since she left him?” inquired Lewis.

“No; he heard nothink of her, poor chap; he was a’most brokenhearted about her, and that’s what drove him to the courses he took to. He worn’t a reg’lar prig, bless yer; he did a little in the poarching line wiles, but only for the sake o’ the sport, same as you gents—he wor above them things altogether. But I knows more than he did about the gal: there were a young ’ooman here a week ago as had seen her in London, dressed out and riding about in a coach like a lady; but that wor soon arter she fust went off with the young swell, and wor a kind of new toy like.”

“And did not the girl know anything of her since?” inquired Lewis.

“Well, she know’d this much, that when the young lord went abroad with his sister he made his valet stop behind and foller him in a few days with Jane Hardy, arter which she in course lost sight of her; but she thinks he’s left her over in them furring parts.”

“Them furring parts—that must mean Italy,” thought Lewis; and finding the old woman had told him all she knew on the subject, he thanked her for her information, secured the papers about his person, and was preparing to depart, when his companion stopped him, and summoning Jerry, whose main, if not only, virtue appeared to consist in filial obedience, caused him to escort the “young gent” beyond the purlieus of the miserable alley in which their abode was situated.

The visit had taken longer than Lewis had expected; and on his return to the inn he found the coach would pass through in about half-an-hour. Snatching a hasty meal, he placed the papers in his valise, and in a few minutes was on his road to London. The coach stopped at an inn in Holborn, and here Lewis, who, in his present state of mind, was anxious to avoid a meeting with any of his friends, Frere himself not excepted, determined for the next few days to take up his abode. Accordingly, he engaged a sitting-room and bedroom, which, for the sake of privacy and cheapness, were situated at the back of the house, at an altitude little inferior to that of the neighbouring chimney-pots. Having established himself in this uninviting residence, he sat down to try and arrange some plan for the future. He felt that he ought to write to Rose and his mother and acquaint them with his altered destiny; but to do so involved an explanation which he shrank from attempting. He tried to read, but the only book at hand was a volume of Schiller, and with a sickening feeling of despair he threw it from him. At length he bethought him of Hardy’s papers, and untying the string that bound them, he spread them on the table before him. The will, which he first examined, appeared formally drawn up, signed, and attested. The testator left property worth, as far as Lewis could make out, about £100 a year to Jane and Miles Hardy. Laying this aside, he turned over a mass of smaller papers, old game certificates, receipts for rent, and among others a note carefully preserved, endorsed in a bold free hand, “The first letter I ever received from Harriet.” It was an invitation, coquettishly worded, asking Hardy to join a party to the ————— races, written by her who had sinned so deeply, and had long since gone to give account of the misery she had caused and suffered. Lewis could not look on this record of an affection which even the greatest wrong woman can do to man had been unable wholly to destroy, without the deepest commiseration.

Laying the note carefully aside, he took up the bundle of old letters, and selecting one which was partially opened, glanced carelessly at its contents. Why does he start and change colour as his eye falls upon the handwriting? Why press his hand to his burning brow as the momentary doubt crosses his mind whether all the mental anguish he has lately suffered can have unsettled his brain, or whether that which he beholds is indeed reality? Eagerly does he devour the contents of the epistle, eagerly does he unfold letter after letter till not one of the packet remains unperused. Again, sitting late into the night, does he read and re-read them, then folding them carefully, paces up and down the room, chafing at the lazy hours that drag their weary length and oppose a barrier between his wishes and the coming day, when he may act and resolve doubt into certainty. For the whole of that night, the second during which he had never closed an eyelid, did he measure with restless steps the narrow limits of the apartment. Leaving his breakfast untasted, he hurried, at the earliest business hour, to the chambers of the family solicitor; for half the morning did they remain closeted together—together did they seek the office (yclept by Richard Frere a den of thieves) of Messrs. Jones & Levi, the lawyers who, as the reader may remember, addressed a mysterious letter to Lewis soon after his first arrival at Broadhurst. Carefully did the astute man of law examine and compare papers, and sift evidence, and draw out the crafty rogues with whom he had to deal; and when he had gained all the information he required, steadily and cautiously did he examine the affair in all its bearings; nor was it till he had thoroughly made himself master of the subject that he approached Lewis, and shaking him heartily by the hand, exclaimed, “Well, my dear sir, as far as one can judge in this early stage of the proceedings, I think you have a very good case; and I beg to congratulate you on the prospect before you.”

And what, then, was this prospect, at the mere possibility of which Lewis’s eye sparkled and his cheek glowed with the brightness of renewed hope? It was the prospect of inheriting an ancient and honourable name, of gaining a position which would render him not only equal but superior in rank to Annie Grant, and of possessing an income beside which Lord Bellefield’s fortune, impoverished by the turf and the gaming-table, sank into comparative insignificance. One short year more for him to prove his right before the eyes of men, and then, if Annie were but true to her own heart, he would boldly enter the lists against his rival, and in love or hate Lord Bellefield should find that he had met his match. Well might his step be proud and his bearing joyous and elated, for in twelve hours the whole aspect of life had become changed to him: such shuttlecocks are we in the hands of Fate, as unthinking men term the mysterious ordinances of the Omnipotent.

Had he known the contents of a letter which was even then awaiting him at his banker’s, his new-found joy might have been lessened.

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