“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis, starting, “you are probably joking,” he continued seriously; “but you know not, dear old friend, how deeply such tidings might affect me at this moment; you know not—how should you?—the mood of mind in which you find me; but tell me in a word, is there any earnest in what you have said?”
“In a word,” muttered Frere, “hum! concise and epigrammatical that! but I’ll try to accommodate you, so here goes by way of answer. Yes!”
“And she has never even hinted at such a fact in her letters,” exclaimed Lewis; “out of sight, out of mind, indeed. I may have—Heaven help me!—I have neglected my trust, in my self-engrossment; but I did not think Rose would have been the person thus to visit my sins upon my head. Who is the man?” he continued sternly. In the whole course of his existence Frere had never felt more uncomfortable; all his old diffidence and humility rushed upon him, and for the moment he felt as if he had been suddenly detected in an act of petty larceny; however, his sturdiness of nature and common sense came to his rescue, and he replied, “It is no fault of Rose’s, for I made it an especial point that she should not tell you of her engagement by letter.”
“You did, and wherefore?” inquired Lewis in surprise.
“Because I chose to tell you myself,” returned Frere. “Your sister is not an angel, for angels live in heaven and not on earth, but she is the most lovable, the most pure-minded, decidedly the sweetest-looking woman (though that does not so much signify) in this world, and I should have added, the most sensible, only that she has, in her tenderness of heart, seen fit to promise to marry a rough, uncouth animal like me. Lewis, old fellow,” he continued in a faltering voice, “I know better than you can do how unworthy I am of such a blessing, but if loving her better than my own life gives me any title to possess her, Heaven knows that I do so.”
When Frere reached that point in his peroration at which he mentioned Rose’s promise to marry him, his auditor started, and raising his eyes, murmured an ejaculation of fervent thankfulness. As he concluded, Lewis clasped his hand eagerly in his own, saying, “My dear old Frere, you know not how happy you have made me; one great weight, which was crushing my soul to the dust ere you appeared, is removed by your words. Of all men living you are the one I would have selected for my dearest Rose’s husband; and now, if I—that is to say, whatever befalls me she will be happy.”
“Then you are not disappointed?” rejoined Frere, greatly relieved; “you know you used at one time to be just a very little bit ambitious, and I fancied you might have been cherishing some splendid scheme for marrying Rose to a duke—she’s good enough for the best of ’em, even if dukes were what they should be, instead of what they are too many of ’em. Well, I’m very glad!—but now about yourself—‘if anything befalls you,’ you say; pray what is likely to befall you more than any other people? and what do you mean by being crushed by a weight, and by looking so melodramatically miserable?”
Lewis heaved a deep sigh, and then replied, “You speak jestingly; but there are many melodramas less strange than my wayward fortune: such as it is, however, I have provoked and will go through with it. Frere, you love Rose for her own sake, be kind to and forbearing with my mother for mine—she has many faults, a giddy head, an impulsive disposition (than which there can be no greater temptation), but a warm heart—and—and I feel I have never done a son’s duty by her. Frere, you will take care of her?”
The events of the day and evening had well-nigh exhausted even Lewis’s untiring energy, and the sight of Frere arriving so unexpectedly had brought back to him so many home memories, recollections of earlier days, ere with the strength and freedom of manhood had come its trials and its sins, that as he thought of these old associations and remembered kindnesses slighted, affection cast away, duties neglected, for the sake of that one master-passion, he forgot for the time the wrongs he usually felt so keenly, and remorse for his selfish neglect overwhelmed him and caused his voice to falter and his eyes to grow dim with the mist of unshed tears. Frere perceived his emotion, and waited till it had in a degree subsided; then going up to him, he laid his hand on his shoulder caressingly, saying, “Come, Lewis, we have known each other from boyhood; we have long been brothers in affection, and are soon about to become so in name, associated by a still nearer tie—we never used to have secrets from each other, and should not do so now. I have learned from Rose the cause you have had for sorrow, and for two years have suffered you to try your own method of cure, without attempting to interfere with you, but I now see that the experiment has failed, and that you are miserable—is it not so?”
Lewis bowed his head in token of assent, he could not trust himself to speak.