“He meant to insult me—his words, his look, everything proves it—and I did not resent it. Perhaps he thinks I fear him—if I believed so, I’d follow him, and before them all fix on him the blow of shame that he must avenge, or own himself a coward.” As he spoke he took two or three hasty strides towards the door; checking himself, however, as his eye accidentally fell upon Walter, who had entered with him, and who stood regarding him with looks of stupid amazement, he continued: “But I must not think of myself only; the interests of others are at stake—Rose—my Mother—that poor boy—I dare not sacrifice them.” He flung himself into a chair, and pressing his hand against his burning brow, resumed, “Oh, why am I called upon to bear this?—how have I sinned, that this degradation should be forced upon me?—the coward! he knows I am bound hand and foot, or he dare not thus insult me; it is like striking a fettered man—” He paused, then added, “Well, a time may come when I may meet him more as an equal; at all events, now it is my duty to bear as much as human nature can, and I’ll do it.” He remained silent for a few minutes, with his hand over his eyes, waiting till the excitement should pass away. From this state he was aroused by feeling something touch him, and looking up, he perceived the idiot, half kneeling, half sitting by his side, gazing up into his face with looks of wonder and sympathy. This mute evidence of affection acted as a balm to his wounded spirit, and laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “Walter, my poor fellow, have I frightened you? I was not angry with you, you know. Come, we will walk down to the lake and see the skating. What has become of Faust, I wonder? We must take him with us, of course.”
“Who was that who went away just now?” returned Walter. “He with the hair over his mouth, I mean?”
“That was Lord Bellefield, your friend Mr. Leicester’s brother.”
“He’s a bad man, isn’t he?”
“Why should you think so, Walter?”
The boy paused for a few moments in reflection, then answered, “His eyes look wicked and frighten me; besides, he made you angry—I hate him.”
“You should not say that, Walter; you know it is not right to hate any one,” returned Lewis, feeling dreadfully hypocritical; then linking his arm in that of his pupil, they passed out through the conservatory.
As the sound of their retreating footsteps died away a figure peeped timidly into the apartment, and seeing it was untenanted, entered and gazed after them long and fixedly. It was Annie Grant, who, returning to learn the result of Lewis’s embassy to her father, had involuntarily overheard both the insult and the burst of wounded feeling which it had called forth.
In that short five minutes were sown seeds that, as they grew to maturity, bore sleepless nights and weary days, and the tearless sorrow of a breaking heart, as a portion of their bitter fruit.
The lake in Broadhurst Park presented a gay scene on the afternoon in question. The General, anxious to propitiate the good-will of the voters, had ordered the park to be thrown open to all who might choose to witness or join in the amusement of skating. A sharp frost, which had continued without intermission for several days, had covered the water with a firm coating of ice, which afforded a surface as smooth as glass for the evolutions of the skaters. The sun was shining brightly, bringing out beautiful effects of light and shade on the steep and rugged banks, and causing the hoar-frost on the feathery branches of a young birch plantation to glitter like sprays of diamonds. On the side approached by the drive from the house a tent had been pitched, in such a direction that any of the party who feared to expose themselves to the cold might witness the performances of the skaters and yet be sheltered from the troublesome intrusion of the north wind.