Lewis explained that the thing was impossible, and Frere continued—
“Well, what must be, must, I suppose; and as my hearing—————‘s reply is another inevitable necessity, I must e’en say Good-night, so Schlaffen sie wohl.”
Lewis grasped his proffered hand, and leaving the gallery, started on his homeward route. As he approached Charing Cross his attention was attracted by the restlessness of a magnificent horse, which, in a well-appointed cab, was waiting at the door of one of the houses. As he slackened his pace for a moment to ascertain whether the efforts made by a diminutive cab-groom to restrain the plunging of the fiery animal would prove successful, the house door was flung open, and a gentleman, apparently in headlong haste, sprang down the steps so recklessly that he missed his footing, and would have fallen had not Lewis caught him by the arm in time to prevent it. As the person he had thus assisted turned to thank him, the reflection of the gaslight fell upon his face, and Lewis recognised Lord Bellefield, though his features were characterised by a strange expression which Lewis had never observed in them before. Drawing back, he bowed coldly, and was about to pass on when Lord Bellefield exclaimed—
“Stay one moment, Mr. Arundel. I have been forced to leave the Opera-house suddenly: the Countess Portici and Miss Grant are in Lord Ashford’s box, and I have promised to return to see them home, but am quite unable to do so. You would oblige—that is, I am sure General Grant would wish you——”
“Will your lordship favour me with the loan of your pass-ticket?” interrupted Lewis shortly.
As Lord Bellefield complied with this request, Lewis remarked that his hand trembled to such a degree that he could scarcely grasp the ivory ticket.
“You will tell the Countess that it was impossible for me to come to them,” continued the young nobleman hurriedly; then passing his hand across his eyes, as if he were half bewildered, he sprang into the cab, and seizing the reins, drove off at a furious pace in the direction of Westminster Abbey.
Lewis gazed after him for a moment in surprise, then turning on his heel, walked rapidly to the end of the Haymarket, hoping to reach the theatre before the opera should be concluded. In this expectation he was however disappointed, for when he gained the Opera Colonnade he perceived, from the crush of carriages and the bustle and confusion which was going on, that the opera was over. Hastily pushing through the crowd, he endeavoured to find the box Lord Bellefield had indicated, but to one as little acquainted as was Lewis with the intricacies of the Opera-house this was no such easy matter; first, he ran up considerably too high; in his eagerness to retrieve this error he descended as much too low; and even when he had attained the proper level he more than once took a wrong turning. At length he caught a box-keeper, who, on learning his difficulties, volunteered to conduct him to the box he was in search of. Lo, and behold, when they reached the spot the door stood open, and the box was tenantless!
In order to explain how this awkward and embarrassing result had been brought about, we must beseech the reader’s patience while we resume the broken thread of our narrative where we relinquished it at the end of the last chapter.
Scarcely had Lord Bellefield quitted the box five minutes when the attendant opened the door and Augustus Travers made his appearance. He was very humble and courteous, and all he said to Emily with his tongue might have been printed in the “Times” the next morning without affording matter for the most arrant gossip to prate about; but the language spoken by his eloquent blue eyes was of a very different character. He told her vocally that he had been travelling in the East since they had last parted; that he had been unwell, had felt restless and unsettled; that he had found it impossible to remain contentedly in any place, had become a citizen of the world, a wanderer over the face of the globe; that he had only returned to town during the last week, and had no notion she had left Italy—dear Italy!—and here his eyes said, “that country which your presence made a paradise to me,” just as plainly as if his tongue had spoken the words (in fact they said it more plainly, for his tongue appeared to consider it fashionable to speak English with a slight lisp, which occasionally rendered his meaning indistinct); “but when he saw her”—continued his tongue—“he could not resist coming up to her box to learn whether she had quite forgotten all her old friends;” and here his eyes resumed that his faith in her was so strong that nothing, neither absence nor aught else, could in the smallest degree shake it.