CHAPTER LXV.—FAUST PAYS A MORNING VISIT.
Frere, on the principle of striking whilst the iron is hot, had no sooner obtained Lewis’s promise to place in his hands the arrangement of the quarrel between Lord Bellefield and himself than he induced his friend to write a carefully worded apology for having in the heat of passion assaulted his lordship on the previous evening. Lewis took the pen, and without a murmur wrote as Frere dictated, his compressed lips and knitted brow alone telling of the martyrdom his proud spirit was undergoing; but his strength of will was as powerful for good as for evil; he had resolved on the sacrifice, and cost what it might, he would make it.
“And now, what is your intention?” he inquired, as Frere, having signified his approbation of its contents, folded the note and deposited it safely in his pocket-book. “Suppose Bellefield should refuse to accept this apology?”
“Never fear,” was the confident reply, “he must accept it; and to tell you the truth, although he may bluster and give himself airs when he perceives you are not forthcoming, I expect he will only be too glad to be quit of such an awkward customer. I don’t wish to be personal, but depend upon it you are by no means pleasant as an enemy; there is ‘a lurking devil in your eye,’ as Byron says (and he ought to know about devils, for, adopting the fallen angel hypothesis, he was very like one himself), that would try a man’s nerve rather when he found himself standing opposite your loaded pistol at eighteen paces.”
Lewis smiled faintly.
“The devil has been pretty well taken out of me this time,” he said; “henceforth I shall be essentially a man of peace.”
He paused, pressed his hand to his brow, and a slight shiver passed through his frame. Frere regarded him anxiously.
“What are you shivering about?” he inquired. “You don’t feel ill, do you?”