Lord Bellefield seized the letters eagerly. Signing to the valet to leave the room, without heeding his lucid explanation of the delay, he selected one in a particular handwriting, and tearing it open, hastily perused the first few lines; then rubbing his hands, he exclaimed with an oath, “By ———! Beppo’s won, and I’m a clear, £12,000 in pocket. Charley, boy,” he continued, with a sudden impulse of generosity (for no one is all bad), “how much are your debts?”
“I believe about £2000 would cover them,” returned Leicester.
“Then I’ll clear you, old fellow,” replied Lord Bellefield, clapping him on the shoulder, “and you shall marry your rich bride a free man.”
“My dear Bellefield, I can’t allow it—you are too kind—I—I really don’t know how to thank you—I can’t think what’s come to everybody this morning,” cried poor Charley, as, fairly overpowered by his good fortune, he seized Lord Bellefield’s hand and wrung it warmly. At that moment those two men, each warped and hardened differently, as their dispositions differed, by the world’s evil influence, felt more as brothers should feel towards each other than they had done since they played together years ago as little children at their mother’s knee. With one the kindly feeling thus revived was never again entirely forgotten; with the other—but we will not anticipate.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—BEGINS ABRUPTLY AND ENDS UNCOMFORTABLY.
“Well, what is it? for I can see by your eyes that you have something you wish to ask me, Walter,” observed Lewis, as his pupil stood before him nervously moving his feet and twisting the lash of a dog-whip round his hands.
“Only Millar wanted—that is, he didn’t want, but he said he would take me out with him to see him shoot those great pretty birds.”
“Pheasants,” suggested Lewis.