“‘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?”