For a few days Anne Porteous felt rather miserable. She was angry with herself for her imprudence in allowing such a misfortune to have happened; her feminine vanity was not in the least bit tickled at having the refusal of the famous editor, for she was not at all of that class of savage females who gloat over the roll of their rejected suitors as a Red Indian does over his string of scalps. No; she felt really and truly vexed for her old and kind friend, though, with the inconsistency of her sex, she could not but feel just the least bit piqued that, seeing he had cared for her so much as to ask her to be his wife, he had taken her unavoidable refusal so calmly and in such good part. She was glad to find, however, he had not forgotten her altogether; although he was now at Lucerne, she got the Olympic and other London magazines addressed to her in his familiar splashy handwriting, just as before. But there were no letters now. Formerly, she used to act as correspondent between him and her father, whose fingers were too stiff from rheumatism to make writing convenient. She missed the gay cheerful letters, with their satirical sketches of the lions of the circles he moved in, and their playful banter of herself even. However, one day the postman brought a letter which turned her thoughts into an entirely different channel. It ran as follows:
Brussels, 19th Sept. 188-.
My darling Nan—I have just time to write this before starting for London by the tidal train. Old Uncle Joseph is dead. I have just got the telegram announcing the event, which took place this morning. I hope he will have left me a good round sum, so that I can start practice at once, and then a certain young lady I know of will not be long of coming to keep house for me. With a thousand kisses.—Yours ever,
Alfred Roberton.
She mused over this letter for a few minutes; something in it jarred on her feelings. She did not quite like the matter-of-fact way in which the writer announced the death of his uncle, to whom he was entirely indebted for his upbringing and education. Nor was she quite pleased at the assured way he spoke of a ‘certain young lady’ coming to keep house for him. Why, as yet he had not even seen her father—not to speak of his having got no consent to their union. Nan was a pre-eminently practical young woman; but a kind, loving, faithful heart beat in her bosom, and it resented the tone of the note as being callous and far too self-assured. Of course, it was written under a pressure for time; but still it might have contained some little expression of sorrow for the death of one who had done so much for him, instead of hoping for a good legacy.
Alfred Roberton was her engaged lover. She met him at a dancing party given by a mutual friend in le Quartier l’Anglais, Brussels. He was possessed of a stalwart handsome figure, and an agreeable face and voice. That he was clever, might possibly be inferred from the fact that he had carried off quite a number of college honours. That he thought himself clever, didn’t require to be inferred from anything—it was stamped on his face, and showed itself in his every look and gesture. Whether Anne saw this, we know not; if she did, it was insufficient to prevent her falling deeply in love with him. A few moonlight strolls under the linden trees, a few soft pressures of the hand, a few sighs and tender speeches, and practical, sober-minded Anne gave her whole heart to this handsome youth—the first who had ever addressed her in the magic accents of love. And he? Well, he loved truly and sincerely enough in his own sort of way, just as he had loved other young ladies before. He was one of those men who seem to hold a power of fascination over the other sex. He did not mean to be a flirt—but how could he help the girls falling in love with him? He couldn’t make a brute of himself, and be rude and insolent to them—could he? His conquests were, however, usually of brief duration; for some reason or other not known, his previous love affairs had come to an untimely end. It was generally thought by his friends—and himself too—that his love for Anne was sincere and genuine, and could end in nothing else than matrimony. His uncle’s demise would bring matters to a crisis. He had adopted him at an early age, being himself a childless widower. Mr Joseph Roberton was a Scotchman, and had gone early in life to push his fortune in the great Metropolis. Starting business after a while as a cheesemonger, he had in the course of years managed to scrape together quite a little fortune; and when his brother died, he gladly adopted his only son Alfred, and gave him a first-class education. When he arrived at an age for choosing a business or profession, he expressed a desire to be a doctor, so his uncle sent him to Edinburgh University, where, in due course of time, he received his diploma of M.D. While he was engaged pursuing his medical studies, his uncle took it into his head to marry his housekeeper, Mrs Janet Grant. Alfred did not like this change in the old gentleman’s domestic arrangements, for, truth to say, there was little love lost between him and the late housekeeper; but any unpleasant feeling he might have felt in the matter was changed into unmitigated disgust by the advent of a baby-cousin—his uncle’s son and heir. The old gentleman was of course delighted at this addition to his family; but it did not make any difference in his treatment of his nephew. He still gave him an allowance of three hundred pounds a year; and as he had now got his professional degree, it was arranged that he should travel on the continent for a year, visiting the various centres of medical science, and making himself acquainted with the latest discoveries, before beginning practice in London. It was while on this tour that he met Anne Porteous.
About a week after receiving her lover’s letter, a tall, gentlemanly looking stranger entered the coffee-room of Lochenbreck Inn, and, much to the waiting-maid’s surprise, asked to see Miss Porteous. Anne did not need to look at the stranger’s card; she knew instinctively it was her lover, and there being no one else in the room, she went to meet him. The first fond greetings over, she saw there was something on his mind, and that not of a pleasant nature. She was not long kept in suspense.
‘Do you know, Nan, I have been swindled—thoroughly swindled? After my uncle’s funeral, I waited to hear the will read, of course. The family lawyer was there; and he said there was no will. His client, he said, had been talking some time ago of making one, and had even given him some general directions about it; but he says it was never executed, and that the scheming old housekeeper and her brat are heirs to all. Isn’t it shameful?’
‘Well, Alfred dear,’ Anne replied in a consolatory tone, ‘you know they were nearer to him than you could ever be, and you mustn’t grudge them taking what is justly their own. Besides, remember how kind your uncle was to you in his lifetime. Look at what a lot of money he spent on your education and in fitting you for a profession.—But did your aunt give you nothing—not even a remembrance of your uncle?’
‘Well, yes,’ he grumblingly rejoined; ‘she gave me a cheque for a hundred guineas, and had the impudence to tell me she never wanted to see my face again.’