Laura spoke solemnly and with feeling, and her companion, as she listened, trembled and turned pale. When she had concluded, however, Annie merely shook her head, repeating hopelessly—
“It must be—it must be!”
“And, pray, why must it be?” asked Laura quickly, for she was becoming slightly provoked at that which she deemed Annie’s childish weakness, the only fault, perhaps, with which her clear head, warm heart, and earnest, zealous nature unfitted her to sympathise. “Why, if the thing is wrong in itself, and is to render you miserable, must it be? At all events let us make some efforts to prevent it; suffer Charles and me——”
“Dearest Laura,” interrupted Annie mournfully, “I assure you nothing can be done; any attempt to break off the match now would be unavailing and only end in making me still more wretched than I am at present.”
Annoyed alike at her perseverance in that which Laura could not but consider a culpable want of moral courage, and at the way in which she still withheld her confidence, while at the same time the idea occurred to her, though she was vexed with herself for admitting it, that one so feeble-minded was no fitting bride for the high-souled, brave-hearted Lewis, the spirited little matron was about to utter a somewhat sharp reply, when, glancing at Annie’s pale, beautifully-formed features, the expression of deep anguish she read there disarmed her, and merely saying, “We take different views of this matter, Annie dear, and must talk of it again when we are both more composed,” she rose and left the apartment.
Annie waited until the sound of the closing door assured her that she was alone, and then murmuring, “She too is angry with me and despises me—nobody loves me. Oh, that I were dead!” »he hid her face in the sofa cushion and gave way to a passionate burst of grief.
Now there is one of our dramatis personæ for whom we have reason to believe many of our readers entertain a warm regard—a regard in which we confess ourselves fully to participate—of whom we have lately heard but little; of course we refer to that most “meritorious individual,” that dog of dogs, dear, honest old Faust. Since Lewis had quitted Broadhurst Faust’s character, like those of his betters (if mortals are better than dogs), had in a degree altered. The blind, unhesitating obedience he had been accustomed to pay to his master’s slightest signal he accorded to no other person; if Walter called him he would come, it is true, but he would do so in the calm, leisurely, dignified manner in which one gentleman would comply with the request of another. Towards the General he conducted himself with a degree of respectful hauteur which seemed to say, “We are not friends; there is no sympathy between us, but as long as I continue to reside in a family of which you are the head, I owe it to myself to render you the amount of courtesy due to your position.” For Mr. Spooner, the usurper who had dared to succeed his beloved master, he showed a most unmitigated contempt, totally ignoring all his commands, and resenting any attempt on his part to enforce his authority by the utterance of a low, deep growl, accompanied by a formidable display of sharp white teeth. Towards Annie alone did he evince any great affection, which he showed chiefly by attending her in her walks and taking up his position under the sofa, or close to the chair on which she was sitting—demonstrations of attachment which, as we have already hinted, were for some unexplained reason a source of considerable annoyance to Walter. During the conversation between Laura and Annie, Faust had been lying unnoticed under the sofa, and now finding his young mistress alone, and for some cause or other unhappy (he knew that quite well), it occurred to him that the correct thing would be to come out and comfort her, which he attempted to do by laying his great rough head in her lap, wagging his tail encouragingly, and licking her hand. In her loneliness of heart even the poor dog’s sympathy (endeared to her as he was by a thousand cherished recollections) was a relief to Annie, and stooping down she imprinted a kiss on his shaggy head, whispering as she did so, “Good Faust—you have never forsaken me!” At this moment the door opened, and Walter entered hastily. As his eye fell upon Annie and the dog his cheeks flushed, and he exclaimed hastily—
“Annie, I wish you’d let Faust alone; how often have I told you that I won’t have him meddled with?”
With a start at this sudden interruption Annie hastily raised herself, and pushing the dog gently from her, said—
“Dear Walter, do not be angry; Faust came and licked my hand, you would not have me unkind to him?”