“Humph!” grunted Frere, “that sounds all very nice and amiable, but I prefer deeds to words! I’ll tell you what it is, Miss Grant,” he continued, turning suddenly upon Annie, “you talked about malaria being the exciting cause of Lewis’s illness, it was no such thing—the cause of his fever was anguish of mind—the poor boy’s been miserable for the last two years, almost crazy with grief, as I take it, for he has been doing all sorts of wild, unreasonable things; and if the truth must be told, it strikes me it’s more your fault than any one else’s.”
“My fault!” exclaimed Annie, her face and neck flushing crimson at this unexpected charge. “Oh, Mr. Frere, how can you speak such cruel words?”
“Because they happen to be true ones, young lady,” returned Frere sternly. “You are the daughter of a rich man, and a man in a high station, and for that reason it’s very seldom you have the plain, honest truth spoken to you; but you shall learn it to-day from my lips, if you never heard it before in your life, and if it is not palatable, the fault does not rest with me. I knew something of this same affair when Lewis quitted Broadhurst all in a hurry, two years ago, and I set it down as a foolish bit of boyish romance, which a few months’ absence would cure; but it was not till I watched by his bedside, and listened through the solemn hours of the night to his frenzied ravings, that I became aware the passion he felt for you was rooted in his very heart’s core, and saw that by his deep, his overpowering love for one who I fear was not worthy of him, he had shipwrecked the happiness of a lifetime. Silence!” he continued angrily, as Annie, half rising from her seat, seemed about to interrupt him, “silence! you have voluntarily, or involuntarily, been the cause of deep misery to the two persons (for Rose has suffered greatly on her brother’s account) for whom I care most in the world, and you shall learn before we part the evil consequences of your acts, and tell me whether you possess either the will or the power to repair them.”
Annie again attempted to speak, but finding her accuser would not listen to her, sunk back with a gesture of despair, while Frere continued—
“Very early in his residence at Broadhurst, Lewis, as I imagine, became attached to you, though for a long time he would not acknowledge the fact even to himself: at length, however, self-deception became impossible; then began the struggle between his pride and his affection; and from that period to the hour in which he quitted Broadhurst he lived in a state of mental torture. Well, you could not help his falling in love with you, you will say; and because a poor tutor was bold and foolish enough to forget the difference of position between you (which, by the way, he never did for one moment, though the recollection was agony to his proud spirit), and to raise his eyes to his employer’s daughter, you were not bound to forget it also—I grant you that—but shall I tell you what you could have helped? (which I should never have known anything about but for poor Lewis’s delirious ravings)—you could have helped saying and doing a hundred little nameless things, trifles in themselves perhaps (so are straws, but they show which way the wind blows!), things which gave the poor fellow the idea that you returned his affection, and that had he dared to declare his feelings, he might have obtained such a confession from you; an attempt which he was far too honourable to make, but rather, with an aching heart, tore himself away from Broadhurst, throwing up every prospect he then had in life: you might have helped this, Miss Annie Grant, and if you had been worthy of the love of such a noble nature you would have done so.”
As Frere, completely carried away by the excited feelings which his recapitulation of Lewis’s wrongs and sufferings had aroused, paused for breath, poor Annie, who during the latter portion of his harangue had been utterly unable to restrain her tears, replied in a voice scarcely audible through emotion—
“You cruelly misjudge me, Mr. Frere—most cruelly—and are making an unkind and ungenerous use of knowledge which, if your friend had retained his reason, would never have been in your possession.”
Frere felt the justice of this reproach, and moreover the sight of poor Annie’s tears appealed to his kindness of heart, and served to disarm his wrath.
“Well, that is certainly true,” he said, “and if I have indeed misjudged you, why I can only say I am very sorry for it; at all events I need not have spoken so harshly and rudely to you; but you see, Miss Grant, I feel very deeply about this matter, and the idea that all which Lewis has suffered had been the consequence of your love of admiration and idle coquetry made me angry with you.”
“Indeed, indeed, I am no coquette,” murmured poor Annie.