Lewis Arundel; Or, The Railroad Of Life

by Frank E. Smedley

“And what were these wonderful reasons, if one might make so bold as to ask without having one’s nose snapped off one’s face?” inquired Minerva, curiosity and crossness combined overcoming her habitual fear of her august nephew-in-law.

“A—really I am not accustomed to be cross-questioned in this way. A—you, madam, strangely forget our relative pos——; however, I may as well mention once for all that I have Mr. Arundel’s authority for stating that his reasons for quitting Broadhurst are purely of a personal nature. And now I beg this subject may not be alluded to again; I am the last person who should be accused of driving him out of the family;” and having by this time worked himself up into a very considerable passion, in which frame of mind he was, like most other of his fellow-mortals, particularly unreasonable and incautious, he glanced furiously at poor innocent Annie and strode out of the room like an offended autocrat, as he was.

And this agreeable little scene formed the subject of Annie’s reverie, as, with her golden hair hanging like a veil around her, she watched the moonbeams sleeping on the velvet turf. Why had Lewis left them so suddenly?—why, if her father knew the reason, did he refuse to reveal it; and still more strange, why should Lewis so scrupulously have concealed it from her? Then again, her father had appeared angry with her—could he suppose she had had anything to do with the young tutor’s departure? And then an idea struck her which even there, alone, beneath the silent night, caused her face and neck to become suffused by a burning blush—could it be possible that she had betrayed herself, that Lewis had discovered her affection for him? And then she blushed yet more deeply at the plain words in which she had for the first time expressed, even to herself, her heart’s secret yearnings. The idea was painful in the highest degree to a mind of such child-like purity as Annie’s, and yet the more she thought of it the more probable did it appear; it would account for everything that perplexed her. If she really had been so madly imprudent, so utterly deficient in maidenly reserve, as to allow Lewis to perceive the depth of her regard for him, his honourable feeling would instantly oblige him to leave the family, and no doubt her father’s cross-questioning had in some degree elicited from him the truth. Oh! what deep humiliation—regard it in whatever light she would, what bitter, endless misery! Lewis’s calm manner, his gentle, unimpassioned kindness, his late avoidance of her society, since—distracting thought—since he had begun to perceive her regard, his stern resolve, so soon acted upon, to quit the family, all proved that her affection was not returned. Cruel degradation, to love a man who was indifferent to her, and to have allowed him to perceive it. Annie possessed a spice of her father’s haughty disposition, though in general the many essentially feminine points of her character prevented it from appearing; but this was an occasion which called forth every particle of pride in her nature. What could she do to remove the stain (for such in her morbid self-reproach did she consider it) from her? Nothing! Would to heaven she could lie down and die! Her father, too, evidently suspected the truth; Lord Bellefield would probably be the next person to become acquainted with the disgraceful history—and with the recollection of her cousin’s name a new idea flashed across her. Yes, there was a way of escape—a method of silencing every busy tongue! But at what a sacrifice! Could she bring herself to consent to marry Lord Bellefield her object would be at once attained. No, she felt it was impossible. But then, on the other hand, could she bear to labour under the suspicion of loving, without return (there was the bitter sting!), a man beneath her in station?—(she could remember this difference now, when it would only add to her self-torment). Well, fortunately, she was not called on to decide the question at once; she would think more upon the matter: at all events, there was the possibility to fall back upon as a last resource. Then her thoughts reverted to Lewis, the brave, the true, the noble-hearted! She should never see him again; he would achieve greatness—(she felt as sure of that as if she had held in her hand the “Gazette” announcing his acceptance of the Premiership)—and some other would share it with him, while she should be the wife——the alternative was too hateful to contemplate, so she substituted, in her grave. Yes, she should never see him again! And she recalled his image, as on that summer day he had approached the window to summon her to the German lesson, when, as she read of Max Piccolomini, she had realised his appearance in the dark, proud beauty of him who sat beside her. She remembered his joyous, animated look as he bounded across the lawn, his glowing cheek, his bright, sparkling eye, the waving masses of his raven hair, and his eager, happy smile as his glance met hers! Two ideas engrossed her: he did not love her—she should never see him again; and forgetting her pride, her woman’s dignity, even her self-upbraiding, in the intensity of her sorrow, the poor child flung herself on her bed in an agony of tears, and poured forth the bitter desolation of a lonely, breaking heart.

The next morning she pleaded a headache (a heart-ache would have been nearer the truth) as an excuse for breakfasting in her room, and did not make her appearance till it was nearly luncheon time. During that meal the General was unusually dictatorial, not to say fractious, and more than once spoke so harshly to Annie that she had some difficulty in repressing her tears. The meal was above half concluded ere Lord Bellefield, who excused himself by saying he had had some important letters to write, made his appearance. When at last he joined them, he did so apparently in the most amiable frame of mind; he received a reprimand from the General for his want of punctuality with a good-humoured smile, and introduced a carefully veiled compliment into his apology, which greatly tended to soften that gallant veteran’s ill-temper; he interposed with skilful kindness to avert sundry crabbed attacks, aimed by Miss Livingstone at poor Annie, and introduced some interesting topic which drew out the elders, and gave a new and agreeable turn to the conversation; he sympathised with Annie’s headache, for which he invented an equally opportune, plausible, and false excuse, and, in short, he laid himself out to fascinate, and succeeded à merveille. Annie felt really grateful to him, for he had come to her rescue at a moment in which kindness and sympathy were peculiarly acceptable to her.

When luncheon was concluded the General requested his daughter’s presence in the library. Poor Annie rose to obey him. A strange, wild idea seized her, that he might be going to refer to Lewis’s departure, perhaps to upbraid her for her share in causing it; and she trembled so violently that her knees almost refused to support her: in a moment Lord Bellefield was at her side.

“Take my arm,” he said kindly; “the effects of your headache have scarcely passed away even yet.” Annie accepted his arm in grateful silence, and in her guileless gentleness of heart accused herself of never before having done proper justice to her cousin’s kindly nature. As they approached the library he detained her.

“Dear Annie,” he said, “it would be affectation on my part to pretend ignorance of the subject on which your father is about to converse with you. The General appears for some cause, which I am unable to divine, especially irritable this morning: do not needlessly oppose him; and should he chance to urge my cause urgently, remember, dear one, how entirely my future happiness is involved in your decision.” As he ceased speaking he opened the library door without giving her an opportunity to reply, then, leading her in, pressed her hand, cast towards her an appealing glance, and turning, quitted the room. Lord Bellefield was a good tactician: for the first time the idea crossed Annie’s mind, “He loves me then,” and contrasting his devotion with Lewis’s supposed indifference, she pitied him. Could she have seen his change of countenance as the door closed upon him she would scarcely have done so; his look was that of some fiend who had compassed the destruction of a human soul, the personification of triumphant malevolence.

The General began his harangue: he informed Annie that she was no longer a child, and so far he was right; but he did not add, as he might have done, had he been as well acquainted with the workings of her mind as we happen to be, that the last twenty-four hours had performed the work of years to effect the change from the thoughtless child to the thinking, feeling woman, for the first time cognisant of those fearful realities, life and love! But if the worthy General said nothing of love, he soon discoursed at great length of (we were about thoughtlessly to add) its usual termination, marriage; which institution he looked upon solely in a military point of view—viz., as a solemn alliance between two powers for their mutual benefit. Having given his oratorical powers a good breathing canter around (as he attempted to depict them) the flowery meads of matrimony, he gradually narrowed his circle till he was ambling about his daughter’s proposed union with Lord Bellefield, and having by this time pretty well exhausted his eloquence, he dashed at once in médias res by inquiring whether she knew any just cause or impediment wherefore the engagement, broken off by him on the ground of her cousin’s falsely supposed misconduct, should not there and then be renewed, with a view, at the fitting time, i.e., as soon as she should attain the age of twenty-one, to their becoming man and wife. To this Annie replied with down-cast looks and many blushes, that if her father had no objection, she had made up her mind to live and die an old maid—she was going to add, like Aunt Martha, but, on second thoughts, doubting whether the association of ideas was likely to aid her cause, she repressed the simile. To this the General merely said “Pish!” and took snuff contemptuously: so Annie tried another tack.

“If ever,” she observed, “she were to marry, it must be a great many years hence; she was such a careless, silly little thing, not at all fit to manage a family. Did not papa remember when she went with him and Charles Leicester on their grouse-shooting expedition, and their cottage was fifteen miles from everywhere, how she forgot to take any tea or sugar, and they were obliged to drink whisky-and-water for breakfast for nearly a week?”

But to this papa turned a deaf ear, and showed such unequivocal signs of being about to get into a rage, that Annie in despair fell back upon her last argument, which was that, although her cousin Bellefield was very kind to her, and she had always looked upon him and Charles Leicester as her brothers, yet she did not like him well enough to wish to marry him,—“she was sure it was wicked to marry any one unless you loved him better—than anybody else,” she was going to say, but she changed it to, “than she loved Adolphus.” Thereupon the General’s anger, scarcely hitherto controlled, burst forth, and he informed her, with great volubility, that she had spoken the truth when she had called herself silly; for that her whole argument was so childish and absurd that he was perfectly ashamed of it and of her; and that if she chose to talk and act so childishly, she must expect to be treated as a child, and submit to the decision of those who were older and wiser than herself—that he would give her five minutes to reconsider the matter; and if she then refused to consent to a renewal of the engagement, he should begin to fear that she must have had some unworthy reason for such continued obstinacy. And as he uttered the last cruel words he fixed his little sharp eyes upon her as if he were trying to look her through and through. For a moment his reproach roused somewhat of his own spirit in his daughter; and drawing herself up proudly, the girl confronted him with flashing eyes and heaving bosom, and then, poor child! the consciousness of her secret attachment rushed upon her, and with streaming eyes she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming, “I am very foolish—very wicked. Dearest papa, forgive me, and I will do whatever you wish!”