Having despatched a note to Charles Leicester telling him he wished to see him, Lewis debated with himself how much of the previous night’s adventure he should reveal to him, and at length decided that it would be more prudent to avoid mentioning his encounter with and recognition of Miles Hardy, as although he had refused to reveal to him the name of the seducer of his sister, yet any reference to an affair in which Lord Bellefield had so singularly misconducted himself must necessarily be painful to Leicester. Moreover, although in his dealings with Miles Hardy Lewis had acted justly, according to the best of his judgment, he was by no means clear that the law might take the same view of the matter. Charley came—listened to his friend’s account—yawned—wondered why he had such a strange predilection for putting his life in danger, prophesying that he would do it once too often and be sorry for it afterwards—expected there would be a shindy in Venice before long—wished Laura and the brat were safe in England, and that the other people were not coming—voted it all an awful bore—asked Lewis whether he liked foreign tailoring, into the merits and demerits whereof he entered at some length—yawned again, and patting him affectionately on the back, told him to take better care of himself for the future, and lounged carelessly out of the studio.
A week passed away. The Grant party had arrived; Annie, although she made a great effort to appear in her former spirits, was evidently labouring under some ailment, mental or bodily, or both combined, which was wearing away her youth, and, as it appeared, changing her whole nature. Laura, who watched her closely, observed that she was unusually silent and abstracted, falling into long reveries, from which she would awake with a start, and glancing round with a half-frightened air, would immediately begin talking in an unnaturally excited manner, as if to do away with any suspicion to which her silence might have given rise. Her temper also, which had been remarkable for its sweetness, had now become uncertain, and she occasionally answered even the General with a wayward captiousness which surprised Laura only one degree less than the preternatural meekness with which that gallant officer submitted to her caprices and indulged her every whim; but the fact was, General Grant had sufficient acuteness to perceive that for some cause, utterly beyond the scope of his philosophy to account for, his daughter was not the quiet, gentle, will-less creature she had been, and that if he required her to yield to him in great matters he must allow her to rule in small. Moreover, he had lately become seriously alarmed about her health; a London physician whom he had consulted on the subject having plainly told him unless great caution was observed she would go into a decline, and warned him that the seat of the disease appeared to be in the mind, and that anything like harshness or opposition must be avoided. Walter also was much changed during the two years which had elapsed. In appearance he was now a young man, tall, and slightly but gracefully formed, with well-cut, regular features, though a want of intellectual expression marred what might otherwise have been considered a handsome countenance. But considerable as was the alteration in his personal appearance, the change in his mental capacity was equally perceivable, his powers of mind had developed to a greater degree than had been anticipated, but alas! deprived of Lewis’s firm yet gentle rule, the improvement in his disposition had by no means kept pace with the extension of his faculties. For some weeks after Lewis had quitted Broadhurst, poor Walter could not be persuaded that he would not come back again, nor was it till the arrival of a tutor, recommended by Lord Bellefield, that he fully realised the fact of his friend having left him never to return. The first effect this conviction produced upon him was a fit of deep dejection; he refused all attempts at consolation, could scarcely be persuaded to take nourishment, and sat hour after hour playing listlessly with the wavy curls of Faust’s shaggy coat. At length, in order to rouse him, General Grant desired the dog to be taken away from him; the remedy proved only too effectual. The new tutor, a certain Mr. Spooner, who appeared as if he had been selected because he was in every respect the exact reverse of Lewis, was the person to whom the General entrusted this commission.
Absorbed in his own sad thoughts, Walter allowed him to coax the dog from his side by the attraction of a plate of meat, but when he laid his hand on the animal to buckle a collar and chain round his neck, he started up, exclaiming—
“What are you going to do with Faust? he is never tied up; let him alone.” Finding that his remonstrance was not attended to, he continued, “Faust! Faust! come here, sir, directly.”
The dog struggled to obey, but Mr. Spooner, having fastened the chain round his neck, endeavoured to force him out of the room, and in doing so stepped accidentally on Faust’s toes, who uttered a shrill yelp of pain. Walter’s eyes flashed.
“You are hurting him,” he cried; “how dare you!” and without waiting for a reply, he darted across the room, seized the astonished Mr. Spooner, who, unfortunately for himself, happened to be a small, slightly-framed man, by the throat, and shook him till his teeth chattered; then suddenly releasing him, he snatched the chain from his grasp, and leading the dog away, muttered in a threatening tone—
“Never you touch Faust again; if you do, I’ll strangle you.”
The results of this scene were twofold: Walter had rebelled and gained his point, and the person whom he had thus conquered had lost all chance of obtaining that degree of ascendency over him without which his control must become merely nominal. This produced, as might be expected, the worst possible effect upon poor Walter’s disposition. He became positive and wilful in the extreme, and his tutor, partly to save himself trouble, partly to avoid any outbreak of temper, gave way to him on every occasion; unless, indeed, he had any particular personal interest at stake, when he sought to gain his point by cajolery and manoeuvring, and being rather an adept in those ingenious arts, was usually successful.
One new and inconvenient caprice of Walter’s was a dislike which he appeared suddenly to have taken to Annie Grant, which displayed itself in various ways: sometimes he would avoid all intercourse with her, even sulkily refusing to answer her when she spoke to him; at others he would seek her out and endeavour to annoy her by saying what he deemed sharp things. Occasionally, however, he would fall into his old habits, and confide in her as his playmate, from whom he was sure of sympathy and assistance; when suddenly, perhaps, even in the midst of some conversation with her, he would appear to recollect his new-born animosity, and his manner would entirely alter. One thing invariably excited his extreme indignation, and this was any attempt on her part to caress or notice Faust. The pain this altered demeanour caused Annie (perhaps in consequence of some theory which she had formed as to its origin) was known but to her own heart, and could be guessed at merely by her unwearying efforts to conciliate poor Walter. Laura, upon whose quick-sightedness nothing was lost, carefully noted these changes, and made her own private comments upon them. In pursuance of her design of befriending Lewis, she made several attempts to penetrate the veil of reserve which hung around Annie Grant; but in vain: with her lightness of heart seemed also to have departed her openness of disposition, and Laura had too much good taste, as well as too much sympathy with her grief, to endeavour to force her confidence. At length one day, as Laura and Annie were sitting together, Laura working zealously at some article of juvenile finery, destined unconsciously to foster the seeds of incipient dandyism already apparent in that embryo man-about-town “Tarley,” and Annie listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, from which her thoughts were far away, the elder lady suddenly broke silence by observing—
“‘Tarley’ will be two years old to-morrow; how the time slips away, it really seems impossible!”