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.