LII. VINDICATES THE APHORISM THAT “’TIS AN ILL WIND WHICH BLOWS NO ONE ANY GOOD.”…

LII. VINDICATES THE APHORISM THAT “’TIS AN ILL WIND WHICH BLOWS NO ONE ANY GOOD.”

Richard Frere sat at his breakfast-table; before him stood an egg untasted, which, having once been hot, was so no longer, whilst a cup of coffee, that had undergone the same refrigerating process, threw out its fragrance unregarded. In his hand was an opened letter: we will take the liberty of peeping over his shoulder and making our readers acquainted with its contents. They ran thus:--

“Dear Frere,--I have quitted Broadhurst for ever, and broken off all connection between General Grant and myself. Why I have done this I cannot at present tell you; years hence, when time shall have seared wounds which now bleed at the slightest touch of memory, you shall know all. I have suffered, and must suffer, much; but suffering appears identical with existence--at least, in this present phase of being. I am ill in mind and body; the restless spirit within is at length beginning to tell upon even my iron constitution. The mind must have rest if I would continue sane, the body must be braced by exertion if I wish not to degenerate into a mere nervous hypochondriac. Accordingly, when you receive this letter I shall have quitted England. My project--if such vague ideas as mine deserve the title--embraces a walking tour through Europe, which may possibly be extended to Syria and Persia, should my object not be previously attained. At my banker’s lies the sum of £500, the wages (minus the little my travelling expenses will require) of my two years’ slavery; before that is exhausted fresh funds will be placed at the disposal of my mother and sister, or I shall be dead; in either case I leave my family as a sacred deposit to your care. Dear old Frere, do not judge me harshly. I am not (if I know my own motives) acting with selfish rashness in this matter. My whole being, intellectual and physical, has received a fearful shock, and the course I propose to pursue appears to offer the only chance of a restoration to a healthy frame of mind. I could not do this did I not know that in you my mother and Rose will find a more efficient protector than the one they will lose for a season; I could not do this did I not love you so well as to have perfect faith in your friendship in the very highest sense of the word. Enough on this head--we know each other. In the unlikely event of pecuniary difficulty arising, apply to Mr. Coke, the solicitor, in Lincoln’s Inn. He has my directions also in case of any accident befalling me, and from time to time he will be informed of my whereabouts, as for at least the next year I shall not write to any of you--it is my wish to forget that such a country as England exists. I enclose a note for poor Rose: may I ask you to deliver it in person, and break this matter to her and my mother? As yet they are not even aware that I have quitted Broadhurst. God bless you, and good-bye for----; but we will not pry into the future--‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof:’

“Yours ever, Lewis Arundel.”

This letter Frere read carefully through; having done so, he ejaculated “Well!” in a tone of the utmost astonishment; then pushing his hair back from his forehead, as if he sought to give his intellectual powers freer play, he steadily reperused it, but apparently with little better success, for when he had a second time arrived at the signature, he gazed round the room with an expression of the most intense perplexity, exclaiming, “I never read such a letter, never!”

Spreading the paper before him, he carefully turned up his wristbands, seized a silver butter-knife, which in his abstraction he conceived to be a pen, felt the point to see if it would write, dipped it into the milk by way of ink, and thus prepared, again attacked the mysterious document sentence by sentence, keeping up during this third reading a running fire of comments somewhat after the following fashion--

“Hum! well! he’s left Broadhurst for ever, etc., etc., and he can’t tell me why now, but will years hence--when he has forgotten all the minute particulars which would make the affair intelligible, I suppose; sensible, very. Thrown away three hundred pounds a year, with a mother and sister depending upon him, and ‘no future prospects,’ as they say in all the ‘shocking destitution’ advertisements. Oh, wise young judge! Well, never mind. ‘Seared wounds--existence identical with suffering--restless spirit affecting iron constitution’--cum multis allis, etc. Now, all that clone into plain English means that he has got into a rampant state of mind about something, which, interfering with the gastric juices and all the other corporeal chemicals, has put his digestion out of sorts; ergo, in order to repair damages he has started on a continental walking-tour: might have done worse; the exercise will settle the dyspepsia in double-quick time; I’m doctor enough to know that. Then he leaves five hundred pounds to support one mother and sister till further notice, or till I receive intelligence of his untimely decease. In the meantime he very obligingly commits the live stock aforesaid to my care, as a sacred deposit; thus, without being allowed as much as even a voice in the matter, I suddenly find myself plus a mother and sister--more peculiar than pleasant, eh? Well, never mind. Then he asserts the truism that he could not do this without faith in my friendship, mentioning the unnecessary fact that we know each other Next comes a very funny idea: if the money runs short, I’m to apply to a lawyer of all people in the world. Now, in my innocence I should have fancied just the reverse, and that if we had been burdened with more cash than we knew what to do with, the lawyer would have been the boy to help us through the difficulty! Well, one lives and learns--what have we next? Oh! my young friend wishes to forget the existence of--England! nothing more--wishes to forget the existence of his own glorious country! The boy’s as mad as a March hare. Then he very coolly hands over to me the pleasant task of breaking the news of his most uncomfortable conduct to his left-off mother and sister; and for the prospective performance of all this toil and trouble he benevolently blesses me, and adducing a text of Scripture, which applies much more to my case than to his own, concludes.

“Well, I should just like anybody to explain to me the meaning of that letter; for as to making out either what he has done, or what he is going to do, from that document, I’d defy Odipus himself to accomplish it. Now, let me see what is the first article in my little list of commissions: enlightening our mother and sister, I suppose; and a very hazy style of illumination I expect it will be, unless sister’s note. should happen to throw some brightness on the matter. ‘Poor Rose!’ He may well say poor! Why, she dotes on him--actually dotes on him. I’d give anything in the world to have her--that is, to have a sister love me as that girl loves him. I know she will be miserable; I’m certain of it;” and sticking the butter-knife behind his ear, a place in which he still retained the school-boy habit of putting his pen, Frere rose from his seat, and resuming his soliloquy, began to pace the room with hasty strides.

“What can have induced the boy to throw up his appointment in this insane fashion I can’t conceive. If it were any one else, I should fancy he had misconducted himself, and that the rhapsodical letter was merely an excuse for avoiding a plain statement of a disgraceful truth; but there’s something about Lewis Arundel which makes one certain he’d never commit a small sin or conceal a large one. If he had murdered that scamp Bellefield in a duel, he would have mentioned it directly. Perhaps old Grant has insulted his dignity; Arcades ambo, they’re a peppery pair; ‘high stomached are they both, and full of ire.’ The elder gentleman has a double claim, literal and metaphorical, to the quotation, if I remember his build rightly. Poor Lewis! I expect he is in a dreadful state of mind; I should feel very sorry for him if I were not so angry with him for bothering Rose in this way. Well, I must think about starting; no science shop for me to-day, or to-morrow either. By the bye, I must ring for Jemima, and enlighten her as to my movements, and she’ll be as cantankerous as a bilious crocodile, I expect. However, it must be done, so here goes;” and giving the bell a very modest pull, he dropped into his reading-chair awaiting the arrival of his acidulated domestic with a singularly mild, not to say timid expression of countenance.

“Oh, Jemima, I rang--that is to say, the bell rang--to tell you I am obliged to go out of town to-day, and shall not return till tomorrow evening at the earliest,” began Frere in an apologetic tone of voice, as his ancient duenna, puffing and blowing from the ascent of the staircase, entered.

As he spoke, the positively cross expression of her antique features advanced a degree, and became comparatively crosser as she replied with a toss of the head--

“Well, I’m sure! what next, I wonder!” Then addressing her master in a tone of withering contempt, she continued: “Do you know what it is you’re a sayin’ of, Master Richard?”

“Well, I believe I do,” returned Frere humbly.

“I believe you don’t,” was the unceremonious rejoinder. “I believe you go on reading them foreign books in heathen Greek till you don’t know what you’re a saying or a doing of; here you tell me one thing one day, and something diametrically contradictious of it the next, till old Nick his blessed self wouldn’t know how to act to please you!”

“Why, what have I said contradictious, as you call it?” inquired Frere.

“What have you said?” repeated Jemima in a tone of intense disgust; “why you’ve told me to get ready a dinner for six this here very day, and now you say you’re a going out of town, and won’t be back till to-morrow night. Do you call that behaving as a master of a house ought to do, let alone a sanatory Christian?”

“A true bill, by all that’s unlucky!” muttered Frere.

“It’s a true bill that you’ll have to pay for as fine a couple of chickens as ever was trussed, which is now cast away before swine, for as to ’em keeping till the day after to-morrow, it’s a model impossibilitude.”

“I should rather have thought a physical one,” suggested Frere sotto voce.

“Then there’s a tongue,” continued Jemima, unheeding the interruption, “as beautiful a one as ever I set my two eyes on.”

“I wonder if it’s as long as her own,” observed Frere, speculatively pursuing the under-current of his private annotations.

“A tongue that with care and good carving would have lasted you for breakfast for a fortnight.”

“Then it would not have gone by any means as fast as a certain unruly member with which I am acquainted,” continued the commentator.

“Together with a lovely turbot, which I almost had to go down on my bended knees to get out of the fishmonger--turbots being like pearls of price at this time of year, with three dozen of natives, which was astonished not to be able to procure, so was forced to put up with lobster sauce instead, and a beauty it is now, though it will be non compo scenlis by the day after to-morrow, and fit only to make people sick in the dusthole, where it’s a sin to let it go, with so many poor starving creatures a-wanting it, which was not the case when your blessed mother was upon the face of the earth, in a violent satin gownd, a setting you moral copies ‘A woeful waist makes wilful want,’ and ‘My name is Norval, on the Grumpy Hills,’ which ought to have taught you better than to have asked five gents to come here, looking like fools, and yourself the sixth, gone out of town, leaving me to tell ’em so, with the house full of good things all turning bad, and nobody but me to eat ’em, which is a hard trial for an aged woman, that, taking you from the month, ought to be respected, if grey hairs is honourable, which they don’t seem to be nowadays, when we have got a bad lot of wigs over our heads, with half of ’em nothing in ’em but crimped horsehair, I do believe.”

Here the worthy woman’s breath failing her, Frere was at length able to get in a word or two.

“My good Jemima,” he began blandly, “listen to me. When I invited my friends and ordered a dinner, I was of course not aware that I should be suddenly called upon to leave town; such being the case, however, we must make the best of it. I will, therefore, despatch notes to the gentlemen who were to have been my guests, putting them off; and in regard to the comestibles, such as from their animal fabric require cooking must be cooked, and we must endeavour to consume them in detail at--at our earliest convenience. Now have I slain your Hydra, my good Jemima?”

“I don’t understand your gibberish, Master Richard, nor don’t want to. My poor dear mistress, which piously departed this moral life in a mahogany coffin and silver nails, didn’t used to talk so, though she’d been brought up at boarding-school with the best of pastors and masters to honour and obey; but this I know, that the blessed dinner will go to rack and ruin in spite of all your cooking retail combustibles, and that puts me in mind, what have you been doing with your breakfast? why, goodness gracious! he’s never touched a bit of it, and” (here she caught sight of the butter-knife), “Oh lor, oh lor! if he ain’t gone clean demented. What’s the matter?” she continued, as Frere, astonished at her unusual vehemence, sought to learn the cause of her disquietude; “what’s the matter, indeed? Look in the glass, and if you’re fit for any place but Bedlam you’ll soon see what’s the matter.”

Thus apostrophised, Frere turned his eyes in the unwonted direction of the chimney-glass, and there descrying the butter-knife behind his ear, was somewhat disconcerted; and muttering that it must have got there by accident, of its own accord, instead of a pen, he felt that his position was quite untenable, and so, retreating ignominiously to the stronghold of his own bedroom, he busied himself in preparation for his departure, actually going the length of shaving himself and putting on a decent suit of clothes. Another half-hour saw him on the road to----.

It was on the afternoon of the same day that Rose Arundel sat at the window of their little drawing-room sketching the tower of an old church, which peeped prettily from amid a luxuriant group of giant elms. Mrs. Arundel had gone in a friend’s carriage to execute a host of minor commissions at a neighbouring town, and Rose, having written part of her quota for the next month’s magazine, was rewarding her industry by endeavouring to catch a peculiar effect of sunlight on the tower aforesaid. Having worked with brush and pencil for some minutes, she paused to criticise her drawing. It was a faithful copy of the landscape before her nicely executed, but she shook her head in dissatisfaction.

“It is laboured and tame,” she said; “half-a-dozen touches from Lewis’s pencil would have given the effect twice as well. What a strange thing is the power of genius, the hand creating at a stroke the brilliant conceptions of the mind!” and then she drew out some of her brother’s sketches in Germany: bold, free, spirited, and marked by refined, severe taste, skilled alike to select the telling points and reject the commonplace details, save where such details were required to assist in carrying out the leading idea, they all bore indisputable evidence of a true artist-mind.

From the sketches Rose grew to think of him who had traced them. She had not heard from Lewis for quite three weeks; his last letter had indicated a mind ill at ease, and Rose had written to him to entreat him to confide in her, if, as she feared, he was unhappy. Why did he not reply to her letter? Answering her question with a sigh, she turned again, pencil in hand, to the window, and perceived a gentleman advancing rapidly along the road leading to their cottage. For a moment her pulse beat quickly: could it be her brother? but Lewis’s was a figure not easily to be mistaken, and a second glance convinced her she was wrong; and then she gave a little start, and a bright blush made her look so pretty that it was quite a shame nobody was there to see her; had there been, perhaps she would not have turned to the glass, and still blushing and smiling, smoothed the glossy bands of her rich brown hair. Why she performed this ceremony at this particular moment we leave our female readers to discover, and having done so, of their courtesy to enlighten us. Then, like a puritanical little hypocrite as she was, she reseated herself at her drawing-table, sketching away as zealously as if the results of fixature and bandcline had been as little known to the philosophy of the nineteenth century as is the secret of alchemy.

In another minute the full, rich tones of a man’s voice were heard, bearing down the shrill expostulations of Rachel--

“Never mind about your mistress, young woman; where’s Miss Rose?”

“Upstairs, sir; but----”

“There, that’ll do, ‘but me no buts;’ let me get by; which is the door?--here we are.”

And as he uttered the last words, Frere, tired and dusty, with a carpet bag and a parcel of books in one hand, and his hat and the umbrella in the other, entered the little drawing-room. Rose advanced to receive him with a bright smile.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Frere,” she said, extending her hand. Frere shook it heartily, squeezing it in the process much harder than was agreeable.

“Why, how prett--a--I mean to say how well you are looking,” he began. “Country air suits you better than the pea-soup-coloured atmosphere of London.”

So unable did he appear to remove his eyes from her face, that, in spite of her best endeavours, the becoming blush again overspread her features; turning away as if for the purpose of arranging her drawing materials, she observed--

“Mamma is taking a drive with a friend; I’m afraid she won’t return just yet.”

“So much the better,” began Frere; then perceiving the rudeness of the remark, he continued, “what I mean is that I want to talk to you about a letter I’ve received from Lewis, and I can get on better with you than with mamma, I expect. You and I understand each other, you see; now Mrs. Arundel thinks I’m a bear or thereabouts, and fit for nothing but growling and biting.”

“Perhaps I think the same,” remarked Rose, smiling at this unexpected proof of his penetration; “but you spoke of a letter from Lewis; I’m so glad he has written to you, for it’s three weeks since I’ve heard from him. You are looking grave,” she added hurriedly; then becoming suddenly alarmed, she continued: “Something has happened to him, and you have come to break it to us--is it not so?”

Frere regarded her with a good-natured smile, half laughing at, half pitying her; then holding up his finger, as if he were rebuking an impetuous child, he said--

“How thoroughly woman-like and unreasonable, jumping to a conclusion without any sufficient data to go upon; selecting the most dolorous hypothesis imaginable, and then preparing to afflict yourself at sight of the phantom your own fancy has conjured up; now,” he continued, taking her hand and half leading, half urging her to the sofa--“sit down, listen quietly to what I have to tell you--think the matter over with your usual good sense--and then we’ll consult together as to the best course to pursue; and if anything useful and expedient can be devised, rely upon me to execute it.”

Pale and trembling, but in every other respect collected, Rose obeyed. As soon as she was seated Frere placed himself by her side, and drawing out Lewis’s letter, said--

“Your brother has left Broadhurst and thrown up his tutorship; his reasons for so doing he has not explained to me; but as he evidently wrote in a state of considerable mental agitation, that may account for the omission. Moreover, he promises to tell me all at some future time: he sends also a note for you, which may perhaps throw more light upon the matter. Here it is.”

So saying, he produced the enclosure, and breaking the seal, handed it to Rose. It ran as follows:--

“Do not fancy me unkind, dearest Rose, or insensible to the blessing (almost the only one now left me) of your affection, when at this miserable crisis of my fate I deny myself the consolation of your sympathy: I say, deny myself, for wretched as I am, torn as is my soul by the blackest unbelief in the existence of human truth and goodness, I yet know you to be good and true, and love you more entirely than I have ever done. Frere will tell you that I am even now, as you read these words, upon a foreign soil; the length of my self-imposed exile is as yet unfixed, but many months must elapse ere I shall again visit England. Had I come to you, I could not have withheld my confidence; your sympathy would have utterly unmanned me; I should have lost the little strength and self-reliance remaining to me, and have totally succumbed to the blow that has fallen upon me. Rose, love, at times I fancied, when you were staying in Park Crescent, that you divined my secret! The struggle was then going on, and I dreamed in my folly that self-conquest was attainable; thus madly have I accomplished the ruin of my happiness. I have quitted Broad-hurst by my own act--fled to preserve my honour; that and an aching heart are all that remain to me. I trust to you and Frere to communicate this matter to my mother: of course, should you from my broken hints divine the truth, you would never dream of imparting it to her; a thousand reasons forbid it. In regard to Frere, I leave you to judge; he is trustworthy as yourself. If he smile at my folly in loving so poor a thing as he holds woman to be, his kind heart will sympathise with my wretchedness, even if my own weakness has produced it. I have entrusted him to pay my mother the usual yearly allowance, and placed funds at his disposal to enable him to do so. While I live, she and you shall never know greater poverty than you endure at present. I go to regain, in foreign travel, the vigour of mind and body which this blow has well-nigh paralysed. Thank God in your prayers that he has spared my reason, and left me strength to make this effort: may he watch over you both! In all difficulties apply to Richard Frere. Good-bye, dearest; forgive me the sorrow I occasion you; it seems as though I were fated alike to suffer myself and to cause suffering to all I love.--Yours ever affectionately, Lewis.”

Rose perused her brother’s letter eagerly; as she proceeded her bright eyes filled with tears. Frere waited until she had concluded, and then, without speaking, handed her the epistle he himself had received. When she had also finished this, he inquired, “Well, what do you make of it--anything?”

Rose turned away her head, and drying her eyes, replied with a deep sigh, “Poor fellow, it is only too clear!”

“That’s just about the very last remark now that I should have expected any one to utter, after having read that letter. What a thing it is to be clever!” observed Frere.

Without noticing his observation, Rose placed in his hand Lewis’s letter to herself. Frere read it with a gradually elongating countenance merely pausing to mutter, “Much he knows about my opinion of women.”

Having finished it, he refolded it carefully, and handing it back to Rose, began, “This enlightens us in some degree as to the matter; Lewis has, it seems, fallen in love as they call it, disastrously, with some party unknown.”

“Oh, you cannot doubt to whom he refers,” exclaimed Rose earnestly. “It is this to which my fears have pointed ever since I first beheld her; thrown into constant communication with such a creature, one fitted----”

“Why you don’t mean to say he’s fallen in love with Miss Livingstone?” interrupted Frere, looking the very picture of astonishment.

“This is scarcely a subject on which it is kind to jest, Mr. Frere,” rejoined Rose almost sternly; “of course I refer to that gentle, lovely, fascinating Annie Grant.”

“I do assure you I was perfectly serious,” returned Frere hastily. “I wouldn’t joke about anything that makes you unhappy, if my life depended upon it; but I never dreamed of its being Annie Grant; why, she’s engaged to her unpleasant cousin, Lord Bellefield.”

“I thought the engagement was broken off,” observed Rose.

“Ay, but it’s on again,” resumed Frere. “I met a man yesterday who is one of Bellefield’s intimates, and he told me that his lordship was staying at Broadhurst--that he has made up his feud with the General, and that the engagement has been, formally renewed.”

“Now, then, I see it all,” exclaimed Rose. “Poor Lewis has been long struggling against a deep attachment for that sweet Annie, whom none could know without loving; nourishing, perhaps half-unconsciously, a secret hope that she was not wholly indifferent to him--a hope which to an honourable mind like his must have brought more pain than pleasure. And now this renewal of the engagement must have proved to him how entirely he was mistaken; and unable to witness his rival’s triumph, he has, as he tells me, fled the spot where each kind word from Annie, and every haughty glance from Lord Bellefield, would have been like a dagger to his heart. No wonder the mental conflict has nearly maddened him--my poor, poor Lewis!”

Preoccupied by her sympathy for her brother’s sorrow, Rose did not observe the effect her words had produced upon Frere; nor was it till he spoke in a low, deep voice, which trembled with suppressed feeling, that she observed his emotion.

“Ay,” he said, more as if communing with his own spirit than as though he were addressing her, “Ay, it must be a hard thing to love with all the depth of such a passionate nature as Lewis’s one who is indifferent to him; but it is a more bitter thing still to see the long years gliding by, and to pass from boyhood to youth, from youth to manhood, and to find middle age stealing quickly upon you, and never to have had any human being to love you--never to have found any heart on which you might pour out those riches of affection which every generous nature pants to bestow.” He paused--then, as the recollections he had excited seemed to crowd upon him, continued, “Oh, the bitter tears I have shed when, scarcely more than a child, I have wept to hear other boys tell of happy homes, and a mother’s love, and the affection of brothers and sisters; then came the silent but more enduring sorrow of youth, when tears can no longer form a vent for the heart’s isolation, and the restless spirit preys upon itself; and last, the struggle of maturer manhood, which in its meridian strength contends against the sorrows of its weaker morning, and strives to live down the fruitless longing for that affection which it cannot attain, and conquering all but the one abiding grief, remains to own itself still lonely-hearted, and sees its only hope of comfort in the grave. Ay, this is grief which the help of God alone can enable one to endure.”

The deep feeling, the simple, manly pathos with which he spoke were more than Rose or any true woman could hear unmoved. Laying her hand on his to attract his attention, she said in a sweet, gentle voice, “Indeed, Mr. Frere, you do your friends injustice. Lewis loves you as a brother; my dear father had the warmest affection for you, and often said that if Lewis did but resemble you, if he proved as high-principled, as kind-hearted, and as persevering, his dearest wishes would be fulfilled: even I myself----” she paused, glancing timidly at her companion; but as he remained with his hand pressed upon his brow, apparently buried in abstraction, she gathered courage, and continued--

“Even I feel that in you God has given me a second brother, and that I should be most ungrateful, most unworthy such disinterested kindness as you have invariably shown me, did I not feel the warmest esteem and--and--gratitude----”

And here, suddenly becoming aware that Frere’s beautiful eyes were fixed upon her with the same peculiar expression of delight which she had once before observed in them, on the occasion of his telling her how he had convinced Rasper the irascible of the evil of duelling, poor Rose’s eloquence failed her, and she became abruptly silent. Frere paused for a moment, and then with a forced calmness which scarcely veiled the depth of his emotion, said--

“Dear Rose, forgive me if I am about to cause you pain; but your kindness has afforded me a vision of such exquisite happiness that it would be a source of endless self-reproach to me if through any reserve on my part I failed to realise it. Rose, you cannot be my sister, but you can, if you will, hold a far dearer title--you can become my honoured wife. I have loved you long, although it was my sorrow at your departure from London which first opened my eyes to the nature of my feelings. Since then my sense of my own unworthiness to aspire to the joy of possessing such an angel has alone kept me silent. Rose, I know my own presumption in thus addressing you; I am aware only too painfully of my own uncouthness, my deficiency in all the polished conventionalities of life; but if the deepest, tenderest devotion of a heart which has pined through a lifetime for some object on which to pour forth its treasure of love can make you happy; if you think that in time you could in some degree return my affection----”

“Oh, hush, hush!” interrupted Rose, in a broken, faltering voice; “I cannot bear to hear you speak thus! If, good and noble as you are, my love can indeed make you happier-”

She could not conclude her sentence, but Frere seemed perfectly satisfied with the fragment as it stood.

The result of the interview may best be gathered from the following remark of Mrs. Arundel, who, returning home about an hour after the occurrence of the conversation above related, declared that when she came in “she found to her horror and astonishment Ursa Major looking as if he would like to hug Rose, and, stranger still, Rose appearing rather flattered by the attention than otherwise.”

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LIII. DEPICTS THE MARRIED LIFE OF CHARLEY LEICESTER

We must now request our readers to draw on the seven-leagued boots of their imaginations, and, thus accoutred, to stride remorselessly over the space of two years. ’Tis soon done; a slight mental effort, an agile hop, skip, and jump of the fancy, and the gulf is passed--time is annihilated. Let us raise the curtain and mark the changes the destroyer has wrought. The world goes round much the same as before; two years make little difference in the personal appearance of the fifty-eight-centuries-old planet--no lack of births, deaths, and marriages to regulate the average supply of the human race; if the cholera creates a deficiency one year, more poor curates marry, and starving Irishmen take unto themselves wives, the next, and those “beautiful” babies who contrive to turn out such very plain adults multiply upon the face of the earth, and the thinned ranks are replenished. And yet two years cause strange alterations when we dive beneath the surface of society and become cognisant of the fortunes of individuals: smiles have given place to tears, and the grief of the mourner has turned to joy; poor men have grown rich and rich men poor, and the bad (with but few, very few exceptions to prove the rule) have become worse, and the good advanced in righteousness; and the mass of the half-hearted, clinging yet more closely to this earth, of which they are so enamoured, where their grave is awaiting them, see heaven afar off, and wish feebly, and for a shorter time each seventh day, that they were good enough to reach it. Thus the passenger train, with its cargo of hopes, and fears, and wishes, speeds along the Railroad of Life.

In a magnificent apartment in one of those Arabian-night-like edifices, a Venetian palazzo--which, having belonged to one of the great historical families of the middle ages, whose chief was, by virtue of his position, a petty sovereign, was now let for the season to a wealthy Englishman--lounged Charley Leicester, whose own surprise at the change of fortune which could render such a description of him appropriate had not even yet ceased. On a sofa opposite sat his wife, on whose knee was perched a very young gentleman, to whom we could scarcely sooner have introduced our readers, for the excellent reason that he had not made his appearance at the Cradle Terminus of our Railroad when last we treated of his amiable parents. The present phase of this extremely young aristocrat was, so to speak, one of ex-babyhood; he was in the very act of ceasing to be “the most beautiful creature in the world,” and as yet retained enough of his pristine loveliness to deserve the epithet of a really pretty child. He exhibited in his proper person an instance of that strange phenomenon which (why, we have either no idea, or we hope, for the sake of morality, a wrong one) always excites such extreme astonishment in the minds of all nurses, maiden aunts, and female acquaintance--he was decidedly like his own proper papa and mamma. For the rest, when placed on the carpet he preferred a quadrupedal to an erect method of progression--had a strange habit of making the rashest experiments in gastronomy by putting everything wrong and dangerous into his mouth--never sat still for two minutes consecutively--would, in the same breath, laugh heartily and bewail himself piteously, from exciting causes, which may be expected to remain a mystery throughout all time, and confined his conversation to two substantives and a colloquial hieroglyphic--viz., “Pap-pa,” “Mam-ma,” and “gib-Tarley,” which last was believed to be an infantine-English compound of his Christian name and the verb “to give,” and signified an insatiable desire to render himself monarch of all he surveyed by a process of general self-appropriation. At the moment in which we shall introduce the reader to the party thus assembled, a servant entered bearing a packet of letters on a silver waiter, and handing them to Leicester, withdrew.

“Letters from England, by Jove!” exclaimed Charles, untying the string which encircled them.

“Any for me, Charley?” inquired Laura, who in her position of wife and mother looked the prettiest little matron conceivable.

“Two for me, and one for you, from Annie Grant, if I may judge by the writing,” replied her husband, as he rose to hand it to her.

“Gib-Tarley, pap-pa! gib-Tarley,” vociferated that individual in the prettiest of infantine trebles, making insane plunges at the letters.

Laura, raising her hand above the curly pate of her acquisitive offspring, gained possession of the interesting missive, then, holding “Tarley” out at arm’s length, she exclaimed--

“Here, take your boy, papa; he is in a troublesome humour, and I wish to read my letter in peace.”

Leicester meekly obeyed, muttering as he did so, “Wide-awake young woman--knows a thing or two, that mamma of yours, master Tarley;” then taking the child on his knee, he continued, “Now Tarley means to be a good boy, and sit quite still, because papa is going to be busy with the affairs of the state.”

The effect of this exhortation appeared to be to excite, on the part of the young gentleman to whom it was addressed, a sudden and violent determination there and then to convert his father into an extempore high-mettled racer, which equine transformation he strove to accomplish by placing himself astride on the paternal knee, clutching a fragile and delicate watch-chain by way of bridle, kicking the sides of his fictitious Rosinante with immense juvenile vigour, and vociferating at the top of his small voice, “Pap-pa, gee-gee! pap-pa, gee-gee!”

Charley cast an appealing glance at his wife; she appeared hopelessly immersed in her letter, so resigning himself to his fate, he murmured faintly, “The thermometer stands at 750 in the shade, that’s all,” and started at a brisk canter. The progress of the ride, however, served to exhilarate both horse and jockey to such a degree, that ere long a violent game at romps was established, which ended in papa’s perching his youthful son on his shoulder, and still influenced by the equestrian hypothesis, galloping round the room with him, and clearing the sofa at a flying leap in the course of their rapid career, to Laura’s undisguised terror.

“There, my dear Charles, that will do; you will break the child’s neck and your own also to a certainty if you do such wild things. Now ring for nurse to take him, I want to talk to you about this letter.”

“Tarley,” however, by no means approving of this arrangement, and insisting strenuously upon a prolongation of his ride, his father, who it must be confessed rather spoiled him than otherwise, complied with his demand for “Gee-gee more!” by again dashing round the room with him, and continuing his headlong course till he had deposited his rider within the august precincts of the nursery, where the precocious Ducrow, falling under the baleful glance of an autocratic nurse, subsided into a state of infantine depression, and was heard no more.

Leicester, having returned to the apartment in which he had left his wife, flung himself, in a state of apparent exhaustion, upon the sofa he had lately jumped over, exclaiming, “That child will be the death of me, I’m certain of it; where he can get all this dreadful energy of character from I can’t conceive. It must come from the Peyton side, for I’m certain that even at his early age I had a much more clearly defined idea of the dolce far niente than that unnatural little essence of quicksilver possesses. By Jove, if he should turn out as fast when he grows up as he appears now before he has begun growing at all, it will be an awful look out for our grey hairs.”

“Nonsense, Charley, you’ve energy enough when you care to exert it; in fact it is all your own doing, you know you delight to excite the child. But now be sensible, and sit up and listen to me, for I really want to consult you about this letter.”

“As to listening to you, my love, I’m only too happy to do so at all times and seasons, and I’ll promise to be as sensible as is compatible with my general mental capacity, but in regard to the sitting up, you really must excuse me. I have a strong idea I sprained something in jumping over this sofa just now, my back or my shin, I forget the precise spot, but I can assure you it requires rest.”

“Oh, you idle man,” was the laughing answer, “how incorrigible you are!” and as Laura pronounced this condemnation she seated herself on a footstool by her husband’s side, drew out the letter, and handing it to him, said, “They have consented to my plan, and are coming here in the course of the next fortnight; but I do not like the tone of Annie’s note, she must be much more really ill than I was at all aware of, and there appears throughout a spirit of depression, which is completely foreign to her nature--I cannot understand it.”

“I have a despatch from the General,” began Leicester, leisurely breaking the seal; “perhaps that may tend to elucidate the mystery. What a fist the old fellow writes! the letters all hold up their heads as if they were a regiment of soldiers, and his signature bristles like a stand of bayonets. Oh! he ‘hopes to be in Venice by Friday week, if his daughter’s health, which has given him some little uneasiness lately, should permit them to travel with the degree of swiftness and punctuality which has appeared to him expedient in laying out their intended route.’ I’m very sorry dear Annie is ill; what can be the matter with her, think you?”

“Who is your other letter from?” inquired Laura, avoiding his last question.

“From Bellefield,” returned Leicester, opening it; “he can’t come with the Grants, but he’ll follow them before long. He has backed the Dodona colt for the Derby, and has got a heavier book on the race than he likes; he was hit hard at the last Newmarket meeting, and if anything were to go wrong with the colt, and he not on the spot to hedge on the first hint, the consequences might be more unpleasant than people in general are aware of. Well! thank heaven, with all my follies, I always contrived to keep clear of the betting-ring. I don’t like that note of Belle’s; he’ll get into some awful scrape if he does not take care.”

“For which I shall not pity him one bit,” rejoined Laura. “Born to a high position, gifted with a princely fortune; if he chooses to disgrace the one, and squander the other by gambling with a set of blacklegs, he deserves whatever he may meet with. I hope I have not pained you, Charley dearest,” she continued, observing a slight shade of annoyance on her husband’s good-humoured face; “but truth is truth; I cannot like that man; I wish he were not your brother, and oh! how I wish he were not to be the husband of our darling Annie. I say, Charley, how came it you never fell in love with her yourself? Do you know--don’t be conceited now--I think I was very lucky to get you under the circumstances?”

A gay laughing answer rose to the lips of Charles Leicester, and then the memory of the empty, heartless life he had led before his marriage, and the deep, true happiness he had enjoyed since, came across him, and drawing his wife towards him, he imprinted a kiss on her smooth forehead as he replied, “If I am, indeed, worthy of your affection, darling, it is you alone who have rendered me so, for before I knew you I was a mere conceited, idle, frivolous butterfly, spoiled by the world, and with just sense enough (like most spoilt children) to despise my spoiler, without sufficient manliness of nature to free myself from its trammels by any unassisted efforts of my own.”

What reply Laura made to this speech, if indeed she made any, we do not feel ourselves called upon to chronicle; suffice it to say that she did not, by word, look, or deed evince the smallest symptom of having repented of her bargain. A pause ensued, which was broken by Leicester, who exclaimed--

“By Jove! I was very nearly forgetting all about it--what’s o’clock?” then drawing out a small enamelled watch, one of the relics of former days of dandyism, he continued, “half-past three; there is just time. I have procured an order to see the pictures Cardinal d’Ancona was telling you about last week.”

“Oh, the two paintings from Lord Byron’s ‘Giaour,’ by the young artist about whom no one knows anything, and who is said to be a genius? I’m so glad; when shall we go?” inquired Laura.

“Why, it’s a case of Hobson’s choice,” returned Leicester; “for it seems the painter was so tormented by idle people coming to his studio that he has been forced to lay down a rule only to admit visitors on two days in the week, from three till five; but the oddest part of the business is that he chooses to be absent on these occasions, leaving an old attendant to play cicerone--in fact, there appears to be some kind of mystery about the man. However, to-day is the day, so the sooner we’re off the better, more especially as I must be with the Consul by half-past four.”

“I shall be ready in less than five minutes,” rejoined Laura, “so let us prosecute this wondrous adventure by all means--a mystery is such a rarity in these matter-of-fact days, that even so small a one as that of a man who prefers avoiding one’s notice instead of seeking to obtrude himself upon it, is interesting.”

“When will women cease to be curious?” soliloquised Leicester, elongating his body in order to reach a newspaper without the trouble of rising. Another quarter of an hour saw them en route.

Under Leicester’s able guidance they stopped at the door of a small house at the corner of a street turning out of the square of St. Mark’s. On presenting the order an old man with grey hair came forward and ushered the visitors into a room lighted by a skylight, beneath which were arranged various pictures, some finished, others in a less forward state of preparation. After examining several of the smaller sketches, which displayed unusual talent, both Leicester and his wife paused with one accord before a large painting. The old cicerone approached them, “That is the picture,” he said in Italian, “about which every one is talking; it is very grand, but the companion picture is finer: the Signore has refused 600 guineas for the pair. They are taken from your Lord Byron’s poem, the ‘Giaour’; here is the passage, ecco lo!” As he spoke he pointed to the following stanzas--

“With sabre shiver’d to the hilt,

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;

Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand

Which quivers round that faithless brand;

His turban far behind him roll’d,

And cleft in twain its firmest fold;

His flowing robe by falchion torn,

And crimson as those clouds of morn

That, streak’d with dusky red, portend

The day shall have a stormy end;

A stain on every bush that bore

A fragment of his palampore,

His breast with wounds unnumber’d riv’n,

His back to earth, his face to heaven,

Fall’n Hassan lies--his unclosed eye

Yet lowering on his enemy,

As if the hour that seal’d his fate

Surviving left his quenchless hate;

And o’er him bends that foe with brow

As dark as his that bled below.”

The artist had indeed well represented the fearful tragedy; the principal light in the painting fell upon the figure, and especially the face of the prostrate Hassan, which convulsed by the death agony, yet glanced with an expression of “quenchless hate” upon his destroyer. The features of the Giaour, owing to the position in which he stood, with one foot planted on the breast of his fallen enemy, were not visible, but his figure was tall and commanding, and his attitude in the highest degree expressive of triumphant power. Leaning against the same easel stood the companion picture--it contained but a single figure, but it was one which being seen, it was scarcely possible to forget, such a living embodiment did it present of hopeless despair. The stony eye, the sunken cheek, the stern yet spiritless mouth--all spoke of one who had indeed “nothing left to love or hate,” all realised the painful description of “the vacant bosom’s wilderness,” that paralysis of the soul in which

“The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void,

The leafless desert of the mind.”

In this painting also the features of the Giaour were partially concealed by the hood of a monk’s frock, which threw a deep shade across them, and the drooping, nerveless figure served in great degree to tell the tale. The two pictures were entitled “Revenge, and its Fruits.” Laura and her husband gazed at them long and silently; at length Leicester observed, with the air of a man who tries to dissipate a sentiment akin to superstitious fear, by listening to the sound of his own voice--“’Pon my word, they are very extraordinary pictures; there’s I don’t know what about them--a kind of uncomfortable fascination--they’re very horrible, but they’re very clever, eh?”

“Oh! they are most wonderful,” returned Laura in a subdued voice, as if she almost feared to trust herself to speak, “particularly the second. I never saw anything express such utter hopelessness as that face and attitude; one feels that active pain even would be a relief to the monotony of that dull despair. What an uncommon person the artist must be! The execution is good, but it is the mind in the pictures that is so extraordinary.”

Leicester, who during this speech had been attentively examining the face of the prostrate Hassan, suddenly exclaimed, “Yes! of course, now I see who it is. Look here, Laura, do you perceive a likeness to anybody you know in the face of this floored individual?”

Thus accosted, Laura, after a moment’s scrutiny, replied, “It is like your brother.”

“Just what struck me,” returned Leicester; “what a quaint coincidence! I’ve seen some one somewhere of whom the other fellow reminds me too.”

“The figure bears a shadowy resemblance to the Signore Luigi himself, Eccellenza,” observed the old attendant; “at least, I have always thought so.”

“He must be rather an alarming, sanguinary kind of personage, at that rate; he has not flattered himself, I must say.”

“The Signore is tall and dark, but handsome as the Belvidere Apollo--he is not sanguinary as you say, Signore, but of a gentle kindness which touches the heart. I am bound to love him, for he saved me from ruin.”

“How was that? tell me,” asked Laura in a tone of interest.

“My dear Laura, I am grieved to prevent your hearing this worthy man’s recital, but unfortunately it only wants five minutes of the time at which I promised to be with the Consul.”

“How long shall you be obliged to stay with him?” inquired his wife.

“Less than half-an-hour, perhaps twenty-five minutes would suffice,” was the reply; “shall I leave you here and come back for you before five o’clock?”

“There are several pictures the Signora has not yet examined,” suggested the old man. Thus urged, Laura consented to remain; an idea which she would not confess even to her husband, so wild and fanciful did she feel it to be, had taken possession of her, and her curiosity in regard to the mysterious artist had become redoubled.

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LIV. TREATS OF A METAMORPHOSIS NOT DESCRIBED BY OVID

“You were going to tell me some anecdote,” Laura observed as Leicester quitted the studio.

The Cicerone, who was a venerable-looking old man with grey hair and a thoroughly Italian cast of features, placed a chair for the lady before a view in Venice, at which she had not yet looked, and then resumed--

“Favorisca di sedersi la prego Signora. I was going to relate how the Signore whom I serve generously rescued me from ruin; but to do so I must trouble the Eccellenza with a few particulars of my own history. I was originally educated as a painter, but although I was a correct copyist, and possessed some skill in mixing colours, I had not the afflatus, the inexplicable, the divine gift of genius, which cannot be acquired. Look at these pictures,” he continued, warming into enthusiasm as lie pointed to the paintings from the “Giaour”; “in my prime I could execute better than that, my colouring was richer and smoother, my shades less hard and abrupt, though to acquire that skill had cost me fifteen years’ constant study; but alas! the mind was wanting. I could execute but I could not conceive--my pictures would never have entranced any one as you were entranced before those great soul-creations!” He paused, sighed deeply, then resumed: “So I grew poor, I had a wife and children to support, and I bent my pride to become a scene-painter at the Fenice Theatre. I worked there twenty long years, and then from over use my eyesight grew dim, and they discarded me. After that I was employed by the great painter of the day, Signore B--elli, to prepare canvas and mix colours for the young artists whom he instructed. A year and a half ago a pupil came to study with him--he was a stranger----”

“Of what country?” inquired Laura eagerly.

“I cannot inform the Signora. He speaks French, German, Italian, and very rarely English, equally well, but I do not think he is a fellow-countryman of mine. The other young artists who frequented B--elli’s studio would often tease me for sport, but the Signore was always kind, and would not permit them to do so when he was present. One day a pupil, who was finishing the drapery of a Madonna and Child, of which picture all the more important parts had been painted by B--elli himself, called to me to bring him some particular colour which he required--in my haste I stumbled and overthrew a flask of oil, which fell upon the not yet dry painting, entirely obliterating the features of the Madonna. Irritated at the difficulty into which I had plunged both him and myself, the student sprang up and seized me by the throat; in a moment the Signore Luigi interfered, and compressing the youth’s arm in his powerful grasp, forced him to release me.

“‘Remember, Carlo,’ he said gently, ‘Antonelli is an old man.’

“‘He has ruined himself and me!’ exclaimed the other, clasping his hands in despair; ‘B--elli will discharge him without doubt, and me he will refuse to instruct any longer.’

“‘Perhaps there is yet an alternative,’ urged the Signore Luigi; ‘B--elli will not return till to-morrow morning; much may be done in eighteen hours; I will strive to restore the face.’

“He immediately set to work; fortunately he paints with as much quickness as skill. When night drew near he dismissed us; through the long hours of darkness he laboured incessantly, pausing neither for sleep nor refreshment. With the earliest ray of dawn I was again at the studio: he was painting still, calm, earnest, grave, as is his wont, only appearing a little paler than usual; but such a work of art had grown beneath his hand, such a marvellous creation! the Madonna herself could not have appeared more lovely than was that heavenly face. It was completed ere B--elli arrived; when he beheld it he was amazed.

“What inspired hand has traced those features?” he demanded. The history was related to him. He once more examined the picture, then turning to the Signore, who stood near with folded arms, gazing on the other’s excitement with an air of cold indifference, he exclaimed in a tone of mingled admiration and rage, “Go, I can teach thee no longer; it is thou shouldst be the master.”

“The Signore took him at his word. He engaged these painting rooms, arranged with B--elli that I should accompany him, and is now the first painter in Italy as to talent, and when his execution is a little more perfected--ah! se ne saprà qualche cosa, we shall see how men will talk of him!”

“And the head was very lovely, was it? what style of face was it?” inquired Laura.

“How can I tell you? it was perfection, vi bisognava vederla,” was the enthusiastic reply. “Stay,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which now only wanted ten minutes to five; “I have an idea; there is yet time, but you must never relate that you have beheld it. Here, follow me;” and drawing out a key, he unlocked a door leading into a small apartment, comfortably though simply furnished, and fitted up with bookshelves somewhat after the fashion of an English study. “Ecco!” resumed Antonelli, “he has again sketched the head, but the subject is different. He will not allow me to place this picture in the studio, though it is such a gem I could sell it for a large price.”

As he spoke he drew back a curtain, and the light fell upon a small picture painted with greater care, and more elaborately finished than any which Laura had yet seen. It represented a girl of exquisite beauty in a kneeling attitude, with her arms flung sportively around the neck of a magnificent dog, her golden tresses falling over and mingling with the waves of his shaggy coat.

As Laura gazed her colour went and came quickly, and her eyes seemed to grow to the canvas: both girl and dog were portraits done to the life, and she recognised each of them immediately--her wild conjecture was then the truth!--her determination was instantly taken. Seating herself as if to examine the picture more nearly, she contrived by one or two artful questions to set the garrulous old man talking again, and forgetful of the flight of moments, drew him on to relate to her how the Signore had discovered that his youngest born, the son of his old age, possessed a talent for painting, and how the Signore was giving him lessons, and the talent was daily developing under such favourable circumstances, until the old man had begun to hope that the boy might succeed better than his father had done, and retrieve the shipwrecked fortunes of the Antonellis.

While he was yet in the midst of his recital the clock struck five, and almost at the same moment a quick, active footstep was heard bounding up the staircase, and the deep tones of a man’s voice exclaimed--

“Antonelli, Antonelli, dove sei buon amico?”

With a horror-stricken glance at his companion, the old man was about to rush precipitately out of the room, when Laura, quietly laying her hand upon his arm, said--

“There is nothing to be alarmed about! bisogna ch’io gli parli--tell the Signore that an old friend is waiting to see him.”

As she spoke a tall, graceful figure appeared at the door of the study, and stopped in amazement on perceiving how it was tenanted. In no way embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself, Laura rose from her seat with the same degree of quiet, courteous, self-possession with which she would have received a guest in her own drawing-room, and advancing towards the new-comer, said, holding out her hand--

“Your kindness will pardon the little stratagem by which I have sought to verify my conjecture, that in Signore Luigi I should have the pleasure of recognising an old friend.”

“Leave us, Antonelli,” exclaimed his employer sternly; then carefully closing the door, he turned towards his guest, and bowing coldly, inquired, “To what am I indebted for the honour of a visit from Mrs. Leicester?”

“To the fact that I was vain enough to fancy the pleasure I feel in meeting an old friend might be mutual; and that Mr. Arundel would not resent the liberty I have taken in disregarding the regulations of the famous Signore Luigi: if I am so unfortunate as to have committed a mistake, it is soon remedied,” she continued quickly, finding that Lewis--(as we have not intended any but the most transparent mystification in regard to the identity of the painter and our hero, we may as well call him by his proper name)--remained silent; as she spoke she rose and advanced towards the door. Her look and words recalled Lewis’s wandering thoughts; he took her hand, reconducted her to her seat, and then in a tone of deep feeling said--

“Forgive me! but you do not, cannot know the train of overpowering memories your sudden appearance called up; indeed I am glad again to look upon the face of an old friend, since you accord me the privilege of so considering you--glad as a two years’ exile from all who ever knew or cared for him can make a man.”

“Is it so long since you quitted England?” inquired Laura.

“It is,” was the reply. Lewis paused, and then continued: “I left England under circumstances which caused me great mental suffering--suffering which time and a complete change of scene could alone render less bitter. I travelled for five months, passing through Greece and visiting Constantinople; at the expiration of that period I wandered hither, my vigour of mind and body in great measure restored. The wonders of this country revived my enthusiasm for art; this, and the necessity of following some profession, led me to the idea of adopting the career of a painter. For a year I worked ten hours daily in the studio of Signore B--elli, at the end of that period I quitted him and commenced painting on my own account; hitherto my success has surpassed my most sanguine expectations, so that I trust I have at last hit upon my true vocation.”

“I am so delighted to hear it!” exclaimed Laura warmly; “but how is it we have seen nothing of you before--did you not hear of our arrival? we have been here more than a month!”

Lewis coloured, bit his lip, and then replied, “My recollections of England were so painful that I resolved, partly for that reason, partly that I might keep my mind free from any anxieties which could interfere with my devoting my faculties fully and entirely to my new profession, to avoid the society of the few English who were likely to come in my way; indeed, my only associates have been the young artists with whom I became acquainted in the studio of B--elli, and the family of the worthy old man who acts as my assistant.”

“But you will make us exceptions to the rule?” pleaded Laura; “Charles will be really hurt if you refuse to come to us.” Lewis paused, his impulse was to refuse, but there was a genuine kindness in Laura’s manner which vouched for her sincerity; had she been a man he would have adhered to his resolution, but it was not easy to say no to Laura.

“Forgive my apparent churlishness,” he began, “but may I ask whether you have any of--of your English friends staying with you?”

“Not at present; Charles and I are leading a quiet, humdrum Darby and Joan life, which need not alarm even your hermit-like habits. You must promise to dine with us to-morrow at six.”

“You are most good-natured to humour what must appear to you my absurd caprices,” replied Lewis, touched by her thoughtful kindness.

“But you will come?” she said, holding out her hand to him.

Lewis took it in his own, and pressed it warmly as he replied, “Nobody could resist such gentle pleading.”

At this moment the door was flung open, and Charles Leicester burst in, looking more puzzled, excited, and angry than he had ever been known to do in the previous course of his existence; while Antonelli, vociferating eagerly in Italian and broken English, was vainly endeavouring to detain him.

CHAPTER LV.--IS DECIDEDLY ORIGINAL, AS IT DISPLAYS MATRIMONY IN A MORE FAVOURABLE LIGHT THAN COURTSHIP.

The Honourable Charles Leicester was, take him all in all, about as easy-tempered a fellow as ever breathed; but when old Antonelli informed him that his young and pretty wife was closeted with a mysterious stranger, at the same time positively refusing to allow him to enter the apartment in which they were shut up together, even he considered that it was time to exert himself; so seizing the old man by the arm and swinging him round with a degree of energy which greatly discomposed that worthy cicerone, he threw open the door, and staring with an angry and bewildered gaze into the dimly-lighted room, discovered, to his horror and disgust, Laura quietly sitting with her hand clasped in that of a handsome young Italian, for such did Lewis at first sight appear. The period which had elapsed since Leicester had last seen him had produced so marked a change in his appearance, that meeting him for the first time under circumstances so utterly disconnected with all former associations, he might well deem he was addressing a total stranger. Lewis’s pale features had regained in a great degree their look of health, and exposure to a southern sun had converted the delicate complexion into a manly brown, while, having allowed his moustaches and even a short curly beard to grow, the lower part of his face was enveloped in a mass of glossy black hair; this, and the stern, thoughtful expression of his countenance, caused him to look at least five years older than he really was. He rose as Leicester entered and advanced a step towards him; then, seeing that the other did not in the slightest degree recognise him, he paused and exchanged a smiling glance with Laura as he marked Charley’s puzzled, angry expression.

Laura, entering thoroughly into the absurdity of the situation, determined to improve it to the uttermost; returning Lewis’s glance with a look into which she contrived to throw an amount of tenderness that by no means soothed her husband’s irritation, she began--

“Ah, Charles, let me introduce you; you will be delighted to hear that Signore Luigi has kindly promised to dine with us to-morrow.”

“The deuce he has!” muttered Leicester to himself; “he might have waited till I had asked him, I think;” then acknowledging the introduction by a freezing little bow, he continued aloud--

“Now, my dear Laura, we must really be going;” then crossing to the place where his wife was seated, he held out his arm with the evident intention of linking hers with it and walking her off forthwith.

But Laura clearly disapproved of such precipitation; for without showing the slightest disposition to move, she replied--

“Restrain your impatience a few minutes longer, Mr. Leicester. Having formed so agreeable an acquaintance,” she continued, glancing at Lewis, “you really must allow me time to prosecute it.”

It was not in Charles Leicester’s nature to be angry with any one for five minutes consecutively; with his wife, whom he idolised, it was utterly impossible; so, making up his mind that Luigi was a kind of lion, to be regarded in the light of an exhibition, and stared at and fed accordingly, and that Laura’s sudden fancy for him was only an instance of womanly caprice--“women always went mad about celebrities,” he knew--he made a short, penitent, civil speech, and then flung himself lazily into a chair, with a look of half-bored, half-sulky resignation, which, under the circumstances, was perfectly irresistible.

That his two companions found it so was evidenced by their simultaneously bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, increased to an alarming degree by the look of blank astonishment that came over Leicester’s face at their incomprehensible conduct.

As soon as Laura could recover breath she began, “Why, Charley, you dear, good-natured, stupid old thing! don’t you see who it is yet?”

At the same moment the Mysterious One approached him, saying, “Have you quite forgotten the existence of Lewis Arundel?”

For a moment Charley gazed in half-sceptical astonishment, and then seizing his hand, and shaking it as if he were anxious to make up for his dulness by dislocating his friend’s shoulder, he exclaimed, “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you--I really am quite ashamed of myself--but, ’pon my word, you’ve made yourself look so particularly unlike yourself, and the whole thing altogether is so very strange and unexpected, and more like an incident in a novel than a real bona-fide transaction of every-day life, that you must hold me excused. My dear Laura, I began to think you were gone out of your senses, and that I should have to procure a keeper for you. Why, Arundel, then you’ve turned out a genius after all, a second Michael Angelo, eh! I prophesied you would, if you remember, that day when you painted the cow?”

As he spoke he stooped to pick up his cane and gloves, which in the excitement of the discovery he had allowed to drop; consequently he did not perceive the effect his words had produced upon Lewis. Did he remember the incident to which Leicester had alluded? Would to heaven he could forget that which was branded on his memory as with a red-hot iron, the fact that on the day in question he had for the first time beheld Annie Grant! He turned pale--the blood seemed to rush back upon his heart, and oppress him with a feeling of suffocation--he was forced to lean against a table for support.

These signs of emotion were not lost upon Laura’s quick eye, and rising at the moment to divert her husband’s attention, she observed, “Now I have at length succeeded in enlightening your understanding, Charley dear, I am quite at your service.”

“Come along then,” was the reply; “you’ll dine with us to-morrow without fail, Signore Luigi, alias Arundel, you polyglot mystery. ’Pon my word, it’s the oddest coincidence I ever knew, exactly like a thing in a play, where everybody turns out to be somebody else. Come along, Laura; I must try and conciliate your old friend the cicerone, too, for I swung him round in my wrath most viciously; I hope I have not dislocated any of his venerable joints; I got the steam up to no end of a height, I can tell you, when I fancied I had lost my love. By-by, al piacer di rivederla, Signore.” Thus running on, Charley Leicester tucked his wife under his arm, and having handsomely rewarded Antonelli, departed.

In the course of their walk home, Laura, after her husband had again and again expressed his astonishment at the denouement which had just taken place, inquired, “You never clearly made out the reason why Mr. Arundel quitted Broadhurst, did you, Charley?”

“No! Bellefield hinted in his way, which gives one an impression without one’s exactly knowing what grounds one has for taking it up, that Arundel had misconducted himself in some manner; but the General’s letter quite contradicted such an idea, and spoke of him in the very highest terms. I thought nothing of what Bellefield said, for they never liked one another, and entre nous, I consider Belle behaved shamefully to him on one or two occasions.”

Laura paused for a minute in thought, and then inquired, “What did the remark you made about sketching a cow refer to?”

“Oh! did I never tell you that?” returned Charles, laughing; “the incident occurred on the occasion of his first introduction to the Grant family;” and then he proceeded to give her a full, true, and particular account of the interesting adventure, with which the reader is already acquainted. As he concluded, Laura observed--

“In fact, then, he beheld for the first time Annie Grant. Now I can guess why he turned pale when you referred to it: Charley, you must be very careful how you say anything about the Broadhurst party before him.”

“Eh! and wherefore, oh wise little woman, endowed with an unlimited power of seeing into milestones?” was the bantering reply.

“Well, if I tell you, you must promise never to mention the idea, for it is only an idea, to anybody till I give you leave,” returned Laura.

Charley compressed his lips, and went through a pantomimic representation of sewing them together.

“Nay, but I’m serious,” resumed Laura; “if I tell you, you must be careful, and not blunder it out in any of your absent fits; do you promise?”

“I’ll do more than promise,” returned her husband energetically; “I’ll swear by all

The heathen gods and goddesses,

Without skirts and bodices,

never to reveal to mortal ear the fatal secret--so let us have it!”

“Well then, if you must know, I suspect Mr. Arundel to have had better taste than you, and not to have escaped with a whole heart from the fascinations of Annie Grant.”

“Phew--!” replied Leicester, giving vent to a prolonged whistle indicative of intense surprise; “that is the state of the case, eh? then my allusion to the cow was just about the most unlucky topic I could have hit upon. I certainly have a genius for putting my foot in it, whenever circumstances afford an aperture for the insertion of that extremity. I should not wonder if that idea of yours, always supposing it to be correct, might explain his sudden departure from Broadhurst, and account for this strange freak of expatriating himself and starting as a second-hand modern Michael Angelo. I say, Laura, suppose the fancy should happen to be mutual, Bellefield may have had more cause for disliking Arundel than people were aware of.”

“She would never have accepted your brother if she knew that another loved her, and felt that she returned his affection; Annie is too good and true-hearted for that,” returned Laura warmly.

“Time will show,” replied Leicester. “I only hope it may not be so; for between Arundel and Belle I should not know how to act. Belle is my brother, and to Arundel’s good advice I shall always consider I am in great measure indebted for a certain plague of my life--(without whose plaguing the said life wouldn’t be worth having, all the same);--the only course I can take, if our suspicions prove true, will be to preserve a strict neutrality.”

“And how would you wish me to act, Charley dear?” inquired Laura, taking her husband’s fingers caressingly between her own soft, white little hands. “You know I can’t recommend Annie to marry your brother if she does not love him.”

“Follow the dictates of your own good sense and kind heart, darling, and you will be sure to do rightly. I have the most perfect confidence in you, and would not influence you one way or another, if I could.”

The tears rose to Laura’s eyes at this fresh proof of her husband’s affection; and as she reflected on what he had said in regard to Lewis’s share in bringing them together, she inwardly vowed that if ever it lay in her power to do him a similar good turn, she would not be slothful in advancing his interests.

True to his promise, Lewis dined with them the next day; by mutual consent all reference to the past was avoided, and no allusion made to any of the Broadhurst party. As soon as Lewis found this to be the case, a certain proud embarrassment observable in his manner disappeared; and yielding to the delight of again finding himself in congenial society, he unconsciously displayed his brilliant conversational powers--relating, with playful wit, or forcible and striking illustration, the adventures which had befallen him, and the scenery he had beheld in his late pedestrian tour, till Charles and Laura, who had only been acquainted with him when the cloud of his dependent position at Broadhurst hung over him and concealed his natural character beneath a veil of proud reserve, were equally delighted and astonished; and when, late in the evening, he took his departure, they vied with each other in performing a duet to his praise.

“He talks so well!” exclaimed Charley.

“He knows so much!” cried Laura.

“He has been everywhere,” continued the former.

“And done everything,” resumed the latter.

“He is so clever and epigrammatic,” urged the gentleman.

“And his descriptions of scenery are so poetical,” put in the lady.

“His figure is so striking,” said the master.

“And his face so handsome,” rejoined the mistress.

“What a pair of eyes he has!”

“And such a smile!”

“Then his moustaches and whiskers are irreproachable.”

“And his hands whiter than mine.”

“In fact, he is a stunner!” declared the baritone.

“Though I detest slang, I must confess that he is,” chimed in the soprano.

“If I were a woman I should be over head and ears in love with him,” suggested Charley.

“I am both the one and the other,” responded his wife, casting an arch glance at her spouse, as much as to say, “How do you like that?” which rebellious speech her lord and master punished by stopping her mouth with--the only remedy we believe ever to have been found effectual in such a case.

From that time forth Lewis became a constant visitor at the Palazzo Grassini, and at last completed his triumph over Laura’s affections by asking, as a favour, to be allowed to take a sketch of “Tarley”; “he wanted a study of a child’s head so much.” Then the sketch was pronounced so successful that nothing would serve but that it must be perpetuated in oils, and as the possibility of making “Tarley” sit still long enough for such a purpose did not exist unless Laura sat also, Lewis consented to paint them together, although he had hitherto steadily refused to take a portrait, in spite of large sums which had been offered him to do so.

Laura received a second epistle from Annie Grant postponing their visit for another fortnight. Her father had all along expected Miss Livingstone would accompany them as a matter of course; but when it came to the point that redoubtable spinster broke into open revolt, asserted her independence, nailed her colours to the mast, and determined upon death or victory. So resolute was she, that after a most obstinate engagement with sharp tongues, which followed upon two days of sulky silence, the General was forced to make terms and yield his own will to that of a woman; so Minerva remained behind to garrison Broadhurst. As, however, the General by no means approved of his daughter travelling without some female companion, the journey was very nearly being given up, when, at the last moment, a lady, the wife of an Austrian officer quartered at Venice, was discovered, who, seeking for an escort to enable her to join her husband, was only too happy to be allowed to accompany the Grant party. These delays, however, would necessarily retard their arrival for at least a fortnight. Days passed away; the picture (and a very pretty one it was) of the fair young mother and her little, rosy, merry child, advanced towards completion, and Lewis began to look forward with a feeling almost akin to regret, to the time when the sittings, and the agreeable, friendly conversations to which they gave rise, would be at an end.

Since he had quitted England his thoughts and feelings had undergone various and considerable changes; at first he had striven, in the excitement of active adventure, to banish recollection, and after a time he succeeded so far as to take a lively interest in all he saw. The revolutionary spirit, which has since produced such changes in modern Europe, was then beginning to show itself, and he witnessed the outbreak of a rather serious émeute in one of the German States, in which he contrived to get mixed up, and by these means he came in for a couple of day’s hard fighting, and a week of intense fatigue and excitement. This, paradoxical as it may appear, was of the greatest psychological assistance to him; it roused him effectually, and took him completely out of himself. The excitement was kept up for some little time longer, for, owing to the part which his old student associations had led him to take in the affair, he brought upon himself the suspicions of the Prussian government, and the next event of his tour was in fact a flight to save himself from arrest. During this period he was accompanied by a young German, who, much more deeply implicated in the affair than Lewis had been, dreaded that his capture might lead to his execution; and unwilling to atone for his patriotism with his life, he and his companion hurried from the scene of their exploits, experiencing innumerable dangers, difficulties, and hairbreadth escapes, ere they arrived at that sanctuary for political refugees, the city of the Sultan. Having by these means regained his energy and vigour of mind, Lewis applied himself heart and soul to the study of his new profession, and in the interest of the pursuit kept his powers, mental and bodily, so fully employed as to hold memory at bay, and to require neither society nor sympathy. But now a change had again come o’er him; he had in great measure mastered the difficulties of his art, he had solved the problem whether by his talent he could secure a competency for himself and those belonging to him; constant and indefatigable labour was no longer an obligation, and ere the Leicesters discovered him he had begun to feel, though he would scarcely acknowledge it even to himself, the want of those social ties from which, in his first frenzy of grief, he had voluntarily separated himself. In the society of the Leicesters he obtained exactly the amount of relaxation which he required--Laura appreciated and understood him, Charles, without understanding, liked him; while on his part, the lady’s society interested and soothed him, and that of her husband afforded him amusement and companionship.

As the day approached on which the Broadhurst party were expected to arrive, Laura became considerably perplexed as to how she might best break the matter to Lewis: she had once, by way of experiment, mentioned to her husband, in Lewis’s presence, the fact that she had received a letter from Broadhurst, and the start he gave at the name, the death-like paleness which overspread his countenance, the quivering lip, and clenched hand, told of such deep mental suffering, that, frightened at the effects she had produced, Laura immediately changed the subject and had never again ventured to allude to it.

The last sitting for the picture chanced to be fixed for the very morning before that on which the Grants were expected to arrive. Laura consulted her husband as to the affair: Charley stroked his chin, caressed his whiskers, gazed vacantly at himself in the chimney-glass, and then, putting on a look of sapient self-confidence, in regard to the reality whereof it was clear he entertained the strongest misgivings, he began in a thorough master-of-the-family tone--

“Why, it seems to me, my love, that the present is exactly one of those emergencies in which a woman’s tact is the very thing required. I should advise you to feel your way with great caution, very great caution, and when by this means you have ascertained the best method of breaking it to him, I should speak at once without any further hesitation, and--and----”

“I think you had better undertake the business yourself, Charley dear, as you seem to have such a clearly defined idea how to set about it,” interrupted Laura with a roguish smile.

“Not at all; by no means, my dear,” replied Charley, speaking with unwonted energy. “A--in fact, so strongly do I feel that a woman’s tact is the thing required, and that any interference of mine might ruin the whole affair, and, in short, bring about something very disagreeable, that I have made arrangements which will keep me from home during the whole morning, so as to leave you a clear field.”

“Oh, you dreadfully transparent old impostor! a child of five years old could see through you,” exclaimed Laura, laughing heartily at the detected look which instantly stole over her husband’s visage. “Now, if you don’t honestly confess that you have not an idea how to get over the difficulty,” she continued, “that you dread a scene with a true degree of masculine horror, and yet have not the most remote notion how to avoid one, I’ll ‘make arrangements which will take me from home all the morning,’ and leave you to flounder through the affair as best you can.”

“There is a vixen for you,” exclaimed Charley, appealing to society at large. “Poor Socrates! I always had a deep commiseration for his domestic annoyances when I read of them at school, but I little dreamed that I should live to have personal experience of the miseries of possessing a Xantippe;” then throwing himself into a mock-tragic attitude, he ejaculated, “Ungrateful woman! I leave you to your fate,” and shaking his fist at her, pressed his hand to his forehead, and rushed distractedly out of the room--in less than two minutes he lounged in again, drawing on his gloves. “What a bore tight gloves are!” he murmured feebly--“here, Laura!” so saying, he seated himself by his wife’s side, languidly holding out his hand, while with the most helpless air imaginable he allowed her to pull on the refractory gloves for him, which she did with a most amusing display of energy and perseverance.

“Voilà, Monsieur!” she said; “that herculean feat is accomplished. Have you aught else to command your slave?”

Charley regarded her with a look of affection as he replied, “What a blessing it is to have a good, clever little wife to do all the horrid things for one! Good-bye, my own! When you have done victimising Arundel with your alarming intelligence, ask him to dine with us to-day; I want particularly to talk to him. He knows the people here better than I do; but it strikes me the politics of the place are getting into a fix.”

So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her brow, admired his hand in the new, well-fitting glove, and sauntered out of the apartment as listlessly as though he were walking in his sleep.

Punctual to his appointment, Lewis arrived, looking so handsome and animated that Laura felt doubly grieved at having to make a communication which she was persuaded would tend to renew the memory of a grief against which he appeared to have struggled with some degree of success. Her task was rendered the more difficult from the conviction that Lewis’s intercourse with her husband and herself had been of great service to him, by insensibly overcoming his misanthropic distaste to society. This intercourse, she feared, the tidings she was about to impart to him would effectually interrupt.

“Where is ‘Tarley’?” inquired Lewis, after exchanging salutations with “La Madre.”

“In the nursery, adorning for the sacrifice of his personal freedom during the period you may require him to remain en position.” answered Laura; “shall I ring for him?”

“May I fetch him myself? I promised him a ride on my back for good conduct at the last sitting, and he must not be disappointed,” urged Lewis in reply.

“Agreed--always promising that you take great care not to tumble the clean frock,” returned Laura with a gratified smile. “Who could believe that man was the same creature who used to look so stern, and cold, and proud?” she added mentally, as Lewis departed on his mission; “he has as much tenderness of nature as any woman. If he really does love Annie, and she can prefer Lord Bellefield, she deserves all the unhappiness such a choice will inevitably bring upon her; her greatest enemy can wish her nothing worse. Well, ‘Tarley,’ are you going to sit still and be good?” she continued, as that self-willed juvenile entered, seated in triumph upon Lewis’s shoulder, and grasping a lock of his horse’s ebon mane the better to preserve his balance.

“Tarley” having signified in the very smallest broken English his intention to keep the peace to the best of his little ability, the sitting began in good earnest, and terminated, as far as that young gentleman was concerned, in less than an hour, during which period, as he only tore his mamma’s gown once, made a hole in the sofa-cover, and had one violent fit of kicking, he may comparatively be considered (all things are comparative) to have kept his word. A few finishing touches still remained to complete Laura’s portrait, and these Lewis hastened to add. The conversation (originating in “Tarley’s” escapades) turned on education.

“The theory which I hold to be the true one is simple enough,” remarked Lewis; “the first thing to inculcate is--oblige me by turning a little more to the light--implicit obedience; that once acquired--rather more still--you may, as the mind develops, occasionally give a reason for your commands--you see my object is to get a clearer light on the left eye-brow--thank you; don’t move.”

“But that obedience, to be of much avail, should be founded on other feelings than mere fear of punishment,” returned Laura; “for that in sturdy minds produces obstinacy, in weak ones deceit and falsehood, and in both cases necessarily loses its effect as the pupil advances towards maturity. It always appears to me that in our conduct towards children we should strive to imitate (with reverence be it spoken) God’s dealings towards ourselves. We should teach them to love and trust us, and obedience based on affection and faith will surely never fail for time or for eternity. Then,” she continued, as Lewis, bending over his work, failed to reply, “I should endeavour to make their punishments appear as much as possible the natural consequences of their faults; for instance, I should allow them to experience to the uttermost the mental suffering caused by pride and anger, and in their cooler moments point out to them that it may be wise, as well as right, to suffer even injustice mildly, rather than bear the distress of mind a contrary line of conduct is sure to entail. I should impress upon them the evil of coveting by denying them the thing they so eagerly sought. In fact,” she added hastily, fancying from her companion’s silence that for some reason her conversation was distasteful to him, “I have a great many sapient, theoretical ideas in regard to education, but how they may turn out when I come to put them in practice remains to be proved.”

Lewis, who during the conclusion of this speech had been painting away as zealously as if his life depended upon his exertions, though a close observer might have remarked, by his downcast eye and quivering lip, the effect Laura’s words produced on him, replied earnestly--

“Would to Heaven all mothers felt as truly and wisely as you do about education; were children taught such principles of self-government as you propose, there would be fewer aching hearts among us.”

Having uttered these words and sighed deeply, he spoke no more until he had finished Laura’s portrait.

“There,” he said, “I need detain you no longer; with the exception of a few touches to the drapery, which I can do at my own rooms, the picture is completed.”

Laura approached and duly admired it, declaring the likeness of “Tarley” to be perfect, but feeling quite certain Lewis had flattered her terribly, at which little touch of woman’s nature the young artist smiled as he denied the accusation. And now the moment had arrived when Laura must break her intelligence to him as best she might. Her straightforward, simple nature disdained all subterfuge, and she began accordingly.

“There is a topic which, from a fear, perhaps uncalled for, of giving you pain, Charles and I have avoided, but which I am now compelled to mention to you. You asked me at our first meeting whether we were alone; after to-day we shall be so no longer, and the guests we expect are none other than your former pupil Walter, General Grant, and his daughter.” Laura had purposely placed herself in such a position that she could not see her companion’s features as she made this communication, and the only sign of agitation which met her ear was the sound of his quick and laboured breathing.

After a moment’s pause he said in a hurried, stem tone of voice, “I cannot meet them! it is impossible, I must leave this place directly.”

“Nay, that surely is unnecessary, no one here knows you but ourselves; you have only to resume your incognito, and in Signore Luigi, the Venetian painter, no one will recognise Lewis Arundel. We will keep your secret inviolably.”

“Can I rely on the discretion of Mr. Leicester?”

“Perfectly; if he knows you consider the matter important, he will remain silent as the grave.”

“Be it so then,” returned Lewis after a pause. Having paced up and down the room, he threw himself on a sofa, and covering his eyes with his hand, remained buried in painful thought.

Laura watched him with deep interest, till at length she could restrain the expression of her sympathy no longer.

“I must speak that which is in my mind,” she said earnestly. “I know that you are good and true-hearted, you can have done no wrong that you have cause to be ashamed of, why then do you fear to meet these people?”

Lewis started, raised his head, and flinging back his dark hair, exclaimed almost fiercely, “Did you say fear? I fear no living being! There is no man who can accuse me of evil-doing; my name is as spotless as your own pure soul.”

“Then why refuse to meet them?”

“Because I fear my own heart,” was the vehement reply, “because I have sworn never to meet her again till I have learned to look upon her with the indifference her weak fickleness deserves, and that,” he added bitterly, “will not be till grey hairs bring insensibility to woman’s love and such-like gilded toys, or till she has crushed out the last germs of my lingering madness by marrying the heartless scoundrel to whom she is engaged.” He paused, and then continued more calmly, “You ask me why I refuse to meet these people; hear the truth, and then judge for yourself whether I can meet them; nay, judge for me also if you will, for I am half-frenzied by the anguish I have suffered, and am as incapable to decide for myself in this affair as a child, such puppets are we to our loves and hates;” and then in eager, hurried accent he told her of his love for Annie Grant, his struggle for self-conquest, his signal failure, his fearful hope that she returned his affection, the parting, his confession to the General, the strange tidings he had learned in London, and then the cruel paralysing blow of Annie’s engagement, renewed the very day after he had left Broadhurst, believing on no slight grounds that she loved him and him only. All the burning sorrow, pent for two long years within his secret soul, he poured forth before her; and Laura listened with glowing cheeks and tearful eyes, and a growing resolve in her brave, pure heart to set aside all conventionalisms and every hollow form of society, and if Annie should but prove worthy of him, to labour with all the energy of her earnest nature to bring these young, sad, loving hearts together again.

CHAPTER LVI.--LEWIS ATTENDS AN EVENING PARTY, AND NARROWLY ESCAPES BEING “CUT” BY AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

“Now listen to me, and be good, and sensible, and tractable for once in your life,” exclaimed Laura, when Lewis’s agitation had in some degree subsided. “You appear to have acted with more than sufficient self-will and impetuosity all through this affair, and the result has not proved so satisfactory as to justify you in refusing a friend’s advice and assistance. Excuse my plain speaking,” she continued, with a frank smile which would have thawed the moroseness of the most churlish misanthrope who ever reversed the precepts of Christianity by hating his neighbour, “but I must either say all I think or be wholly silent. Besides, it is no kindness to hide the truth from you.”

“What would you have me do?” returned Lewis sadly. “Believe me, I reproach myself for my past folly more bitterly than you could do were you my worst enemy, instead of the gentle, zealous friend you are.”

“I would not have you at present do anything, more especially anything rash,” returned Laura, “but simply leave the matter in my hands.”

“Promise me----” began Lewis.

“I promise you I will do nothing which can in the smallest degree compromise your honour, or even your pride,” returned Laura, with the slightest possible degree of sarcasm in her tone; “beyond this I will promise you nothing, and if you have not sufficient faith to trust my friendship thus far, you are less worthy of it than I have deemed you.”

Lewis glanced with mingled surprise and admiration at the animated features of his spirited confidante. Accustomed to Rose’s calm, persuasive reasoning, and the half-earnest, half-playful, but wholly bewitching manners of sweet Annie Grant, Laura’s keen wit and fearless bearing surprised and pleased, while at the same time they insensibly influenced him. “I will trust you,” he said; “you have the strong sense and bold energy of a man’s mind united with all the gentleness and refinement which are woman’s especial attributes. I will and do trust you fully. But alas! dear friend,” he continued sorrowfully, “neither you nor any one else can remove the cause of my unhappiness. I will not attempt to deceive you or myself; despite my best endeavours to forget her I cannot, and I am miserable. I, who deemed myself so strong, am powerless to cast this affection from me; and though I despise her for her weak fickleness, though I scorn her for allowing herself to be contracted to that man of whom I never can bear to think as the brother of your kind-hearted, liberal-minded husband, I yet love her with the reasonless passion of an idiot.”

“You take too gloomy a view of the affair. She may not be so much to blame as you imagine; she may yet prove worthy of your affection,” urged Laura.

“Would to Heaven it could be so!” exclaimed Lewis vehemently. “You bid me consider the matter calmly and sensibly,” he continued, after a pause; “by doing so I perceive the hopes with which you would fain inspire me to be unreasonable and delusive. Facts speak for themselves, and as they remain unalterable, so must my grief. Either she does not return my affection, and is attached to her intended bridegroom, or, loving me, she has with the most culpable weakness allowed herself to be persuaded into an engagement with a man every way unworthy of her, to whom she is, to say the least, indifferent; and this, not in consequence of a lengthened persecution, but within twenty-four hours after I have left her, fondly deeming that had fate allowed me to ask her hand she would not have refused it.”

“It is very strange, very unaccountable,” returned Laura, musing, “so much so, indeed, that I feel sure we do not yet know the whole truth, and that there must be some way of explaining her conduct satisfactorily.”

Lewis shook his head mournfully.

“Farewell,” he said; “you will soon be able to judge for yourself, and will find that the view I take of the affair, gloomy as it may appear, is indeed the only true one.”

“You will dine with us to-day? Charles particularly wishes it; you must not refuse. Remember, it will be the last time for some weeks that I may have an opportunity of seeing you!” pleaded Laura.

“I do not know why I consent, except that it seems impossible to say no to you,” returned Lewis, unable to resist the influence of Laura’s sympathetic kindness. “You will find me but a dull companion,” he continued with a deep sigh, “for your intelligence has completely unmanned me.”

“We will take the chance of that,” replied Laura with an incredulous smile; and so, shaking hands, they parted.

The dinner passed off heavily enough. Lewis, despite his efforts to the contrary, appeared out of spirits and distrait. Charles, having been cautioned and tutored to the utmost extent of female foresight as to what he was to say and what to avoid, grew nervous and puzzle-pated; called Laura, Annie, and asked Lewis why he did not send for Miss Grant (meaning his, Lewis’s, sister Rose) to live with him and keep his house; by which blunders he provoked his wife to such a degree that she could have found in her heart to box his ears for him, without the smallest compunction. The arrival of “Tarley” and the dessert produced a marked improvement, that young gentleman being in the highest possible state of health and spirits, and influenced by a strong determination to partake of everything on the table, wine included, to ignore all established precedents as to eating jam by the intervention of a spoon, to consider walnuts appropriate missiles to throw at the company generally, and the cut-glass decanters in particular, to set maternal authority at defiance, as evinced by a resolution to pull off his left shoe and imbed it in orange marmalade, and in fact to do everything which appeared good in his eyes and naughty in those of his elders, and then and there to make a night of it. These little antics, at first amusing, and secretly patronised and fostered by Charles and Lewis, soon becoming tiresome, and at length unbearable, Laura asserted her prerogative, and disregarding much kicking and a hysterical affection, which was neither laughing nor crying, but a compound of the two, succeeded in carrying away her unruly offspring. When the gentlemen were left to themselves, Leicester, filling his glass and handing the bottle to Lewis, began--

“Do you mix much with the young men of the place, so as to judge of their political bias at all?”

“I am acquainted with some dozen, or more, young artists, though I do not enter much into their pursuits, from want of inclination; although, at first, they pressed me to belong to their clubs. I should say, however, judging from their conversation, that democratic principles were rife among them.”

“I fear so; indeed, from information we have received, I should not be surprised if some attempt were likely to be made to throw off the Austrian yoke.”

“Surely that would be great folly,” returned Lewis; “with the troops and resources the Governor, Count Palffy, has at his command, any popular tumult might easily be quelled. It is only from cowardice or inaction on the part of the authorities that any of these successes in Northern Italy have been achieved.”

“Ay, but inaction is just what I fear,” rejoined Leicester; “the Austrians will not believe in the amount of popular disaffection which exists; they will go on ignoring the danger till the moment at which it could be most successfully combated has escaped them. Not that I care very much about the matter; I am neither Trojan nor Tyrian; but I am anxious to gain some certainty as to the chance of a popular outbreak, that I may take measures to provide for the safety of Laura and the child: besides, I think you are aware we have some guests coming to us; had I known this sooner I should have written to them to postpone their visit till some more favourable opportunity.”

“I will investigate the matter,” returned Lewis eagerly, “and will communicate to you any information I may obtain; women should never be exposed to the chance of witnessing the horrors of street warfare.”

After conversing on this topic for some minutes longer, the gentlemen, being neither of them addicted to the practice of wine-bibbing, followed Laura to the drawing-room. Lewis appeared silent and depressed, and a gloom hung over the little party which no effort on the part of the hostess could dispel.

Soon after ten o’clock their guest rose to take leave.

“I shall send Charles to you very often; and if possible, without attracting attention, I shall occasionally come with him,” observed Laura; “so mind you are not to freeze up again into a marble misanthrope: I consider I have improved you vastly since you have been under my tuition, and I by no means desire to have laboured in vain.”

“You have shown me kindness which I may never be able to repay,” answered Lewis; “but to prove that I neither forget nor feel ungrateful for it, I will struggle against the faults you so justly reprobate: if I sometimes fail, you must remember that it is difficult to preserve a cheerful, easy manner with an aching heart, and so pardon me.”

Having taken a cordial leave of his host and hostess, and refused Charles’s offer of walking home with him, partly because he knew it would be an act of self-denial in his friend to relinquish his wife’s society, partly because he wished to be alone, Lewis quitted the Palazzo Grassini and strolled on in the direction of his own abode. As he passed under the Piazza of St. Mark, a particularly beautiful effect of moonlight on the opposite buildings struck him, and leaning against one of the columns, he paused to observe it. The place where he was standing was in deep shadow, and to any one approaching from the left his figure was invisible, the massive column effectually hiding it. Having thoroughly fixed in his recollection the appearance which had attracted him, and which he proposed to transfer to canvas, he was about to quit the Piazza when a figure wrapped in a dark mantle advanced with a quick yet stealthy tread.

As the new-comer approached the spot where Lewis was stationed a low whistle pierced the air, and immediately a second figure, also disguised in a dark robe, appeared from behind a pillar which had hitherto concealed him, and addressing the other, observed--

“You are late; I have waited for you.”

“The delay was unavoidable, Signor,” was the reply; “I was forced to wait myself for Paulo, as until I had seen him I could not bring you the password.”

“And what is it?” inquired the first speaker eagerly. The other glanced round with a suspicious air as he replied, “I Martiri di Cosenza.” *

* The brothers Bandiera, two youths of high Patrician Venetian descent, were denounced to the Austrian government, and shot as conspirators at Cosenza, June 25th, 1844.

“Good!” was the rejoinder; “and the place of meeting?”

“The great Hall of the Palazzo--iani,” naming one of the many ruined palaces which are to be found in Venice.

“Wisely chosen,” observed the first speaker, who appeared of a rank superior to that of his companion; “the time of meeting must be at hand?”

“If Vossignoria proceeds thither leisurely, the hour will strike as you reach the appointed rendezvous.”

“’Tis well,” was the reply. “Now leave me; we must not be seen together.”

The person addressed raised his cap as a token of respect, and turning, hurried from the spot--his confederate paused a moment as if in deliberation, and then strolled leisurely away in the direction of the Palazzo--iani. Lewis waited till the echoes of his retreating footsteps died away in the distance, then starting in the direction of his own dwelling, he walked with rapid strides till he reached the corner of one of the less-frequented streets; having done so, he struck down it, running at a pace which few could have kept up with till he approached his own house, when he again moderated his speed. Letting himself in with a private key, he entered his sitting-room, took a brace of small pistols from a drawer, loaded them carefully, and concealing them in a breast-pocket, flung a dark cloak over his shoulders and again quitted the room. His determination was taken. Accident having put him in possession of the time and place of some secret meeting, as well as the pass-word which he doubted not would ensure his admission, his love of adventure occasioned him instantly to resolve to be present at it. The assembly was doubtless of a political nature, and besides gratifying his taste for excitement, he might obtain some information in regard to the probability of a popular insurrection, and thus satisfy Leicester’s anxiety for the safety of his wife and child--in which (though Lewis would not own the motive even to himself) might be involved that of Annie Grant. That the expedition he projected was a dangerous one he was well aware, but he trusted to chance and to his own tact and presence of mind to save him from discovery, and in case of these failing him, he possessed the pistols as a last resource. Twenty minutes’ brisk walking brought him beneath the walls of the Palazzo.

Pausing under the shadow of the building, he waited till he had seen two or three persons, carefully muffled up, proceeding in a particular direction. Conjecturing from their appearance and evident desire to escape observation that they were bound on the same errand as himself, he followed with a quick but noiseless step the next man who passed. This person walked on rapidly till he reached a small archway; here he stopped and looked round, as if to assure himself that he was not followed, when, perceiving Lewis, he seemed embarrassed, and after a moment’s deliberation, during which he scrutinised the young artist’s figure narrowly, he stationed himself in the centre of the path, as if to intercept Lewis’s further progress. As he approached the stranger advanced a step to meet him, observing in Italian--

“The Signor walks late, and chooses a strange path; may I venture to inquire his object in so doing?”

“The same as your own,” returned Lewis sternly; adding in a tone of command, “We are too late already, lead the way.”

The person thus addressed, in whom, from a slight peculiarity in his accent, Lewis recognised him who had appeared the inferior of the two speakers whose conversation he had overheard in the Piazza of St. Mark, seemed for a moment undecided how to act; and then, either deceived by Lewis’s manner, or purposing to postpone any further investigation till he should obtain the assistance of the other conspirators, he passed through the archway, and turning abruptly to the right hand, ran up a flight of stone steps terminated by a low door closely studded with large iron nail heads. Giving a low whistle, some one from within partially opened the door and the stranger entered, followed by Lewis. The moment he had done so, the door was shut and bolted behind him, and he found himself in total darkness; at the same instant he felt his arms pinioned by a powerful grasp, while a gruff voice exclaimed--

“Give the pass-word!”

“I Martiri di Cosenza,” replied Lewis firmly.

“Proceed,” was the rejoinder, as the grasp was removed from his arms, and the light of a dark lantern was thrown along the narrow stone passage in which Lewis now found himself. Having traversed this, a second door opened at his approach, a rush of cold air streamed upon him, and he found himself in a large dimly-lighted chamber, in which were assembled somewhere about thirty persons, who were gathered round a long table, at the upper end of which stood a man, who, with his arm extended, and his whole bearing indicative of strong excitement, was addressing the meeting. Drawing the collar of his cloak more over his face, and choosing a spot where the shadow of one of the heavy columns which supported the roof served in some measure to conceal him, Lewis joined the group. As he did so, the speaker, glancing with flashing eyes round the assembly, exclaimed--

“We are resolved, then--the cup is full to overflowing--we will bow no longer beneath the yoke of foreign tyrants. Our brethren in Milan have set us a glorious example--the accursed Austrian already trembles before their valour. Italy has shaken off her lethargy;--we have only to be true to ourselves and to the glorious cause, and liberty awaits our efforts.”

A subdued murmur of consent and approbation ran through the assembly, and the speaker continued--

“Thus agreed, then, it only remains for us to act, and our first duty is to succour those who have suffered for our sakes. Those heroes, those martyrs to the cause of the Venetian people, Daniel Manin and Niccolo Tommaseo, languish in an unjust imprisonment; we will demand their liberation, and that with a voice that shall force the tyrants to listen--the voice of an awakened and indignant nation.”

As the speaker ceased, amidst a subdued buzz of approbation, a man in the dress of an artisan arose, and rolling his fierce blood-shot eyes around the assembly, exclaimed--

“Yes, brothers, we will liberate our brave compatriots--Manin and Tommaseo shall be set free to aid in the struggle for our liberty; but we must do more, Venice must rise and cast out those foreign butchers. A blow must be dealt which shall strike terror into their coward hearts; a blow which shall prove to them the fate they may expect, if they dare to oppress and withstand a people struggling for their freedom. And on whom can it so justly fall as on the arch-tyrant, sold hand and soul to Austria, thirsting only for vengeance and for murder--the base persecutor Marinovich?”

He paused; there was a moment’s silence, and then a low whisper went round the assembly, “Death to Marinovich!” There was again a pause, and then men began to communicate with one another in deep muttered tones. After a short interval the first speaker, who had been writing rapidly, arose, and again addressing them, said--

“We are, then, agreed; and our first act shall be the liberation of Manin and Tommaseo. It is time that we disperse as silently and cautiously as may be; we must creep now that we may soar hereafter.”

In order not to interrupt the thread of our narrative, we have described the proceedings as they occurred--we must now revert to Lewis. During the delivery of the first speech he observed that the man who had addressed him as he entered, and who appeared a tall, muscular young fellow, had contrived to place himself by his side, and was regarding him from time to time with looks of mistrust and suspicion. At the proposal for the assassination of Colonel Marinovich, the commandant at the Arsenal, a man who, though a strict disciplinarian, Lewis knew by report to be a brave and gallant officer, he had been unable to repress some slight sign of disapprobation. As he did so he perceived a scowl pass across the features of his watcher, who took the opportunity of drawing yet nearer to him, while an accidental movement revealed the unpleasant fact that he held in his hand a naked stiletto. As the president ended his final address, Lewis, who had kept his eye fixed on the features of his dangerous neighbour, felt convinced that the man only awaited the termination of the business proceedings to denounce him to his fellow-conspirators. With his usual coolness and decision in moments of danger, Lewis saw that his only chance of safety lay in taking the initiative; accordingly, catching the man’s eye, he fixed on him a piercing glance, as he said in a stern whisper--

“The first word you utter aloud you are a dead man;” at the same moment he presented the muzzle of a pistol within an inch of his ear. The man started slightly and attempted to increase the distance between them, but Lewis laid an iron grasp on his collar and detained him; having stood for a moment irresolute, he said, in the same low whisper in which Lewis had addressed him--

“You are an Austrian spy.”

“I am not,” returned Lewis; “I am an Englishman.”

The other again started, regarded him fixedly, and then resumed--

“Swear by all you hold sacred never to reveal that which you have learned to-night.”

“I will swear nothing, except to blow out your brains if you attempt to speak or move without my permission,” was the stern, uncompromising rejoinder.

The stranger’s lip quivered and his grasp tightened on the stiletto, but he caught the glance of Lewis’s flashing eyes and felt that he was in earnest, and that his life hung upon a thread. The members of the secret association were by this time noiselessly gliding away in parties of two and three, and Lewis, fearing if he remained too long he might attract the attention of the president, who still continued writing at the table, determined to depart; accordingly, he said in a low whisper--

“Now we will go--precede me; but if I observe you attempt, by word or sign, to betray me, that moment I shoot you like a dog.”

The stranger, who seemed by this time sullenly to have resigned himself to his fate, or possibly to be reserving his strength for the execution of some scheme which he had devised for the future, obeyed in silence, and left the vault closely followed by Lewis, who still retained a firm grasp of his collar, although the ample folds of his cloak prevented the fact from being observed. In this manner they reached the door at the top of the stairs, and here were stationed two brawny-limbed, ruffianly-looking fellows, who acted in the double capacity of porter and sentry. Their attention, however, appeared solely directed to prevent the intrusion of any unwelcome visitant, the advisability of refusing egress to any one who had already passed their scrutiny never seeming to occur to them. This Lewis felt to be the deciding moment of his fate; once outside the gate he would be in comparative safety. Pressing the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his companion’s neck by way of a gentle hint, he muttered, “Remember!”

The young man shuddered slightly as the cold iron touched him, but made no reply. As they reached the gateway, the janitor stationed on the left side, addressing Lewis’s companion, made some inquiry in a low voice. Glancing round appealingly, as if to indicate that he was forced, even for their common safety, to reply, he spoke a few words in a dialect Lewis did not comprehend, when the gate-keeper respectfully held the wicket open and they passed out. And now once again Lewis felt that he was a free man, and he inwardly congratulated himself on having escaped so great peril, which congratulations were, as the event proved, somewhat premature.

Having descended the steps, Lewis loosened his hold on the stranger’s collar, saying carelessly, as he replaced his pistol in his breast--

“There, young gentleman; thanks to your prudence and my precaution of bringing a brace of pistols with me, I have drawn my head out of the lion’s mouth without having it bitten off for my pains. But now I want to have a little serious conversation with you.”

“Wait till we are further from the Palazzo--iani, then,” was the reply, in a voice that yet trembled from excitement or some other deep emotion; “we may be overheard; keep more in the shade of the buildings.”

Suspecting no treachery, Lewis complied. Scarcely had he done so, however, when he fancied he heard a stealthy footstep following him, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with a tall, savage-looking ruffian, who, armed with a naked stiletto, was evidently meditating mischief. Confused by his sudden motion, the fellow stood for a moment irresolute; not so his intended victim. The path along which he had been proceeding followed the course of one of the smaller rii or canals by which Venice is in so many directions intersected. Availing himself of this circumstance, Lewis rolled his cloak round his arm and sprang upon his assailant, parrying, with the shield thus constituted, a hasty and ineffectual stab which the other made at him. Foiled in his attempt, the ruffian drew back to avoid Lewis’s onset, thereby approaching incautiously too near the bank of the canal. His antagonist was not slow to perceive the opportunity thus afforded him. Following up his retreating foe so as to prevent him from turning to perceive his danger, he waited till the man reached the brink of the canal, then stretching out his foot, he tripped him up, and parrying a second stab as he had done the former one, pushed him over the bank, which at that part was somewhat steep. A heavy fall and a loud splash in the water announced that his stratagem had succeeded, but at the same moment he felt his throat compressed by a powerful grasp, a naked stiletto flashed before him, and the eyes of the young conspirator, burning with hatred and revenge, glared at him through the darkness with the ferocity of those of some savage animal. Up to this point Lewis’s courage and self-possession had never for a moment failed him, but now a strange, wild idea occurred to him, and a horrible dread suddenly overwhelmed him: his senses reeled, his limbs trembled, and for the first time in his life he experienced the mental agony of fear. Instinctively he seized the uplifted wrist of his assailant, and gazed with starting eye-balls at his face, on which the cold moonlight streamed. Yes! there could be no doubt: in the features of the being with whom he was engaged in deadly conflict he recognised a dark, shadowy, but most unmistakable resemblance to Hardy the poacher. Was it incipient madness, or was he thus horribly to be convinced of the reality of tales which he had hitherto deemed the mere drivellings of superstition?--could the dead indeed rise from their graves to seek vengeance on their slayers?

As these thoughts flashed meteor-like through his brain, his antagonist made a violent but ineffectual effort to free his wrist, and this action in great measure restored Lewis’s self-possession. Ghosts had not thews and sinews, and even in that moment of peril a flush of shame at his childish terror spread over his brow, and the impulse seemed to rend redoubled vigour to his frame. Consequently the struggle, though severe, was short. Superior in strength to his assailant, Lewis, having succeeded in wresting the dagger from his grasp, hurled it into the canal, leaving him completely unarmed and at his mercy. The stranger was the first to speak. Folding his arms across his breast with an air of dogged resolution, he said, speaking for the first time in English, and without the slightest foreign accent--

“You were wrong to throw away that weapon; it would have done your work as effectually and more silently than the pistol.”

“You consider your life as forfeit, then?” inquired Lewis.

“I expect you to do by me as I would have done by you,” was the concise reply.

“I am no assassin,” returned Lewis coldly; “and that reminds me of your worthy associate. You engaged my attention, so that I am ignorant whether he sank or swam.”

“Never fear for honest Jacopo,” was the answer; “he follows the calling of a gondolier when his stiletto is not in requisition, and can swim like a fish. Look yonder; he has gained the shore, and is even now watching us.”

As he spoke, Lewis observed a tall figure crouching under a projecting portion of the bank of the canal.

“He will not molest you further,” continued his late antagonist; “once foiled in his spring, like the tiger, he will not renew the attack. Had he slain you I should have paid him five zwanzigers; as it is, the poor fellow will only get his ducking for his pains.”

“Why did he follow us?” asked Lewis.

“When you entered I gave him a hint not to let you pass on your return; had he attempted to stop you, however, I believed you would shoot me, therefore, thinking I could obtain your death or capture without losing my own life, I gave him a glance by which he knew he was not to interrupt you. He then asked me in the thieves’ patois of this place what he was to do, and I told him to follow us, as you were a spy. You know the rest.”

Lewis paused for a moment, and then said abruptly, “You are an Englishman?”

“I am.”

“You will accompany me to my rooms,” rejoined Lewis; “I would question you further.”

“For what purpose?”

“That you will learn at the fitting time,” returned Lewis.

“What if I refuse?”

“I will summon the police, and if you attempt to escape, I will shoot you through the head,” was the stern rejoinder.

“I will go with you,” replied the stranger; “but I warn you I will not be arrested: my liberty is dear to me, my life I hold cheap--so cheap that even now, unarmed as I am, and unequal to you in muscular strength, I am tempted again to rush on you and try the chances of a death-struggle.”

“I would advise you not to do so,” returned Lewis calmly; “besides,” he added, “I may be more disposed to befriend you than you are aware of--it is with no hostile purpose I thus force you to accompany me, believe me.”

“I will trust you,” was the reply. “Your looks and words have, I know not why, a strange power over me--you must possess the gift of the Malocchio, which these Italians believe in--it was your glance, far more than your pistol, which kept me silent in the chamber of meeting.”

During almost the whole of this conversation they had been walking side by side in the direction of the street in which Lewis’s studio was situated, and in another five minutes they reached it.

“Have I your word of honour that you will not again attempt my life, or seek to escape till our interview is concluded?” asked Lewis.

“You have,” was the concise reply.

“Follow me, then,” continued Lewis; and drawing a key from his pocket, he unfastened the door, entered, closed it again, and accompanied by the stranger, led the way through the painting-room into his study.

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LVII. WALTER SEES A GHOST

Lewis, having lighted a powerful lamp by the aid of which he was accustomed to paint at night, was enabled to take a more particular survey of his new acquaintance than circumstances had yet permitted. He was a tall, powerfully-built stripling, with a dark complexion and handsome features, but although he could scarcely have numbered twenty years, his face wore a prematurely old expression, and there was a wild, reckless look in his eyes which told of a spirit ill at ease. He wore a sailor’s dress, though the materials of which it was composed were of a finer quality than ordinary; he coldly refused the chair which Lewis offered him, and folding his arms across his breast, waited to be questioned. Lewis in the meantime took his seat at the table, placed the pistols on the desk before him, and fixing his piercing glance on the face of his captive, began--

“My knowledge of you is this: I find you an active and zealous member of a conspiracy to overthrow the Austrian Government in this city--one of a set of conspirators whose first act is to be the assassination of Colonel Marinovich, commandant of the Arsenal. As far as I am concerned, you first resolved to denounce me to your associates as a spy; foiled in that attempt, you incite an accomplice to murder me, and on his failure, use your best endeavours to stab me yourself; in the struggle I disarm you, and you find yourself in the power of the man for whose blood you have been thirsting. Even allowing, for the sake of argument, that you were justified in seeking the life of one who might betray your treasonous designs, you still remain a convicted conspirator, and my natural course would be to hand you over to the police; for your threat of never being taken alive is absurd, since you lost your stiletto I could have captured you at any moment I pleased. However, the fact of your being an Englishman interests me in your behalf, and if you will answer my questions frankly and truly, I may be induced to let you off. In the first place, tell me who you are, and enough of your former life to enable me to understand how I find you thus plotting with foreigners with whom you can have no feelings in common, for an evil purpose.”

“I can soon satisfy you, if that is all you require,” was the reply. “My life has from its commencement been a curse to myself and to others. Wrong has produced wrong; I was badly brought up, and I have turned out badly; I am not the first that has done so, nor shall I be the last. At the age when most children are carefully trained to good, I was as sedulously instructed in evil. At twelve years old I could swear, game, and drink, and my instructors laughed to see the boy aping the vices of the man. My mother died in giving me birth; my father, I know not why, never loved me: he used me cruelly, and I hated him for it; so I left my home and worked for four years on board a man-of-war. At the end of that time the ship was paid off. Seeking pleasure, I fell into vicious company; squandered, and was robbed of my pay, and for some weeks I wandered a houseless beggar through London streets. The chance kindness of a stranger rescued me from that state of wretchedness”--a peculiar expression flitted across the features of his auditor as he mentioned the fact of his rescue from beggary; not observing it, he continued: “I then entered the merchant-service, and speedily rose to the rank of mate. The misery I had undergone rendered me more careful. I saved money, studied my profession, and hoped in time to become a captain of a merchantman. I embarked the whole of my savings in a trading speculation which would more than have doubled them, when the ship containing my property was wrecked. I was picked up by a vessel bound to this port, and was landed here again a beggar; and after trying in vain to procure any better situation, I have been forced to work in the arsenal as a common labourer to save myself from starvation. But even there my ill-fortune and the cruelty and injustice of men followed me. Peculation to a great extent was discovered amongst the workmen; I was examined before Colonel Marinovich; in vain I protested my innocence. God knows I have committed sins enough; but thieving and lying were never among them. However, I was condemned to receive forty lashes. Yes, sir; I, an Englishman, innocent of the crime of which I was accused, was beaten like a slave by the orders of a tyrannical foreigner; and now, perhaps, you can tell what took me to the meeting to-night? It was the hope of revenge, and there were others there with the same deadly purpose. The man who proposed the assassination of Marinovich was innocent as myself, and like me had smarted beneath the tyrant’s lash. You by revealing this plot threatened to cheat us of our just revenge, and for that reason I would have sacrificed your life. And now you know my history, what will you do with me?”

There was a moment’s pause ere Lewis, fixing his eyes on him with a clear, penetrating glance, said slowly and impressively, “There are a few minor particulars which appear to have escaped your memory; I will try to supply the deficiency. You were born in the village of B--------, in H----shire. Your early instructors in evil were the worthless characters who accompanied your father on his poaching expeditions. You left home because in a drunken mood your father struck you, and would not confess afterwards that he was sorry for so doing. You would have run away sooner but for your affection for your sister Jane. The stranger who rescued you from beggary was a young man who met you by chance at the door of a house in -------- Street, Russell Square; you begged of him in Italian; the merchant-ship in which you served, to whose commander he gave you an introduction, was the ‘Beauty,’ of Southsea, Captain Singleton, and your own name is Miles Hardy. Am I not correct in these particulars?”

When Lewis began speaking his companion’s attention became riveted. As he proceeded his surprise grew deeper and deeper; but when he mentioned his name he sprang forward, and regarding him with wildly gleaming eyes, exclaimed, “Tell me, what are you? man or devil? who thus know every secret of my life.”

“I am no devil,” returned Lewis, smiling, “but a mortal like yourself; you have seen me before; look well at me; do you not recognise me?”

Thus appealed to, the young man carefully scanned his features, and then, in a low, hesitating voice, rejoined, “You are, or I am much mistaken, the gentleman who rescued me from beggary.”

“You are right,” was the reply; “we are both much changed since that night, but I knew you at the moment you seized me by the throat.”

“Thank God, I did not succeed in taking your life!” exclaimed Miles Hardy earnestly; “you are almost the only person who has ever shown me disinterested kindness; and how have I sought to repay it! Oh, sir, can you forgive me?”

“The simple fact that you did not recognise me exonerates you from the charge of ingratitude, my poor fellow,” returned Lewis kindly; “but now sit down. Ere I can explain to you how I gained the knowledge which has so much surprised you, you have a long tale to listen to, and one which will cause you much sorrow. You turn pale; wait, I will get you a glass of wine.”

“It is nothing,” was the reply; “I have fasted long; it will pass away in a moment;” but as he spoke he sank heavily into a chair which stood beside him.

Lewis produced from a cupboard food and wine, and placing them before him, induced him to partake of some refreshment, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the light return to his eye and the colour to his cheek. Lewis then filled for himself a glass of wine, replenished that of his companion, and seating himself, hastened to relate to Miles Hardy the strange train of events by means of which he had become acquainted with so large a portion of the young man’s history. The feelings with which Miles Hardy listened to the account of his unhappy father’s career, and the mingled grief and anger with which he heard how the heritage of his mother’s shame had descended to his unfortunate sister, may easily be imagined. Lewis strove with an amount of patient kindness, for which those who knew only the fiery side of his character would scarcely have given him credit, to soothe the passionate emotions which his tale excited in an auditor so deeply interested in the fortunes of those to whom it related. After long perseverance his efforts were in some degree crowned with success--Miles became more calm, and agreed with Lewis that his first duty was to seek for, and endeavour to reclaim, his sister. His share of the legacy would furnish him with funds sufficient to enable him to live without the necessity of daily labour, and until his right to the money should be established, Lewis insisted on becoming his banker. The next question was not so easily arranged: Lewis informed Miles that in regard to the events of the evening he had arrived at the following determination--viz., to call on Colonel Marinovich, make him acquainted with the plot against his life, beg him to inform his superiors that such a conspiracy was on foot, and explain the manner in which he had become aware of its existence; but as far as Miles was concerned in the affair, he would promise to preserve a total silence, on one condition--namely, that he, Miles, should withdraw from the conspiracy and engage to keep the peace in regard to the commandant of the Arsenal. To this proposition the young man demurred.

“What,” he said, “give up my just revenge!--submit to undeserved chastisement like a beaten hound, and leave it to less tame and slavish spirits to punish the tyrant for his cruelty!--allow them to meet the danger and divide the glory while I stand by inactive! Never!”

“Believe me, Miles,” returned Lewis earnestly, “revenge, even just revenge, partakes of the nature of sin, and brings upon him who obtains it the curse of an upbraiding conscience. But yours is not a just revenge; you have suffered wrong, and the sense of this blinds your judgment. I know by report the character of this Marinovich; I know him to be a just and honourable man, though a stern disciplinarian. Great abuses had existed at the Arsenal, and it was in order to reform them that the command was bestowed on him. In your individual case he has acted unjustly, but in all probability appearances were strongly against you, and he had not sufficient personal acquaintance with you to know that amongst such inveterate liars as are the majority of the lower order of Venetians, your word might be relied on. His only fault is, therefore, that he committed an error in judgment, and would you on this account take a man’s life? Besides, conniving at assassination is a cowardly proceeding, unworthy any Englishman, and especially a brave young fellow like yourself.”

It was evident that Lewis’s reasoning was not without its effect on him whom he addressed, for his brow contracted, his fingers closed and relaxed, his mouth quivered convulsively, and his whole demeanour was that of a person struggling against some powerful temptation. At length he exclaimed abruptly--

“I know not how it is, you sway me like a child. I had resolved not to rest till that man was dead, but I never before saw the matter in the light in which you have now placed it. I believed that his death would be an act of justice, and considered that, in order to obtain justice, we must take the law into our own hands--but I feel the truth of what you say, that assassination is cowardly; I felt it when Jacopo was dogging your footsteps, and but for the cause that was at stake, could have found in my heart to warn you.”

“Then you will agree to my proposal?” inquired Lewis.

“Yes, I will agree to withdraw from the conspiracy, but it is at the risk of my life that I do so; if I am found in Venice after my desertion is known, I am a dead man. Moreover, I will promise you to abstain from secretly attempting Marinovich’s life; but if I should ever meet him face to face and hand to hand, I will teach him to remember having flogged an Englishman.”

Lewis felt that in his new character of Mentor he ought to combat this openly declared resolution, but he abstained from doing so, partly because he felt it would be useless, and partly because he sympathised so completely in the sentiment, that he could not muster sufficient hypocrisy to reprove it. Accordingly he remained satisfied with the concession he had gained, and furnishing Miles with all the information he possessed in regard to his sister, which was but vague and unsatisfactory (a rumour that she had passed some time in Rome on her first arrival in that country being the only trace he had yet been able to discover of her proceedings), Lewis gave him an introduction to an agent whom he had employed to gain further tidings, and forcing a sum of money upon him more than sufficient to defray his expenses, hastened his departure ere the brilliant rays of an Italian sun had spread the lustre of the coming day throughout the picturesque old streets and palace-crowned squares of Venice.

On the following morning Lewis fulfilled his intention of calling on Colonel Marinovich, who heard his recital in silence, and when he had concluded, thanked him for his information, said he was aware great disaffection existed amongst the men employed at the Arsenal, and that energetic measures must be taken to prevent its spreading further, promised to report the discovery of the secret meeting to the Governor, took down Lewis’s address, and politely bowed him out.

Having despatched a note to Charles Leicester telling him he wished to see him, Lewis debated with himself how much of the previous night’s adventure he should reveal to him, and at length decided that it would be more prudent to avoid mentioning his encounter with and recognition of Miles Hardy, as although he had refused to reveal to him the name of the seducer of his sister, yet any reference to an affair in which Lord Bellefield had so singularly misconducted himself must necessarily be painful to Leicester. Moreover, although in his dealings with Miles Hardy Lewis had acted justly, according to the best of his judgment, he was by no means clear that the law might take the same view of the matter. Charley came--listened to his friend’s account--yawned--wondered why he had such a strange predilection for putting his life in danger, prophesying that he would do it once too often and be sorry for it afterwards--expected there would be a shindy in Venice before long--wished Laura and the brat were safe in England, and that the other people were not coming--voted it all an awful bore--asked Lewis whether he liked foreign tailoring, into the merits and demerits whereof he entered at some length--yawned again, and patting him affectionately on the back, told him to take better care of himself for the future, and lounged carelessly out of the studio.

A week passed away. The Grant party had arrived; Annie, although she made a great effort to appear in her former spirits, was evidently labouring under some ailment, mental or bodily, or both combined, which was wearing away her youth, and, as it appeared, changing her whole nature. Laura, who watched her closely, observed that she was unusually silent and abstracted, falling into long reveries, from which she would awake with a start, and glancing round with a half-frightened air, would immediately begin talking in an unnaturally excited manner, as if to do away with any suspicion to which her silence might have given rise. Her temper also, which had been remarkable for its sweetness, had now become uncertain, and she occasionally answered even the General with a wayward captiousness which surprised Laura only one degree less than the preternatural meekness with which that gallant officer submitted to her caprices and indulged her every whim; but the fact was, General Grant had sufficient acuteness to perceive that for some cause, utterly beyond the scope of his philosophy to account for, his daughter was not the quiet, gentle, will-less creature she had been, and that if he required her to yield to him in great matters he must allow her to rule in small. Moreover, he had lately become seriously alarmed about her health; a London physician whom he had consulted on the subject having plainly told him unless great caution was observed she would go into a decline, and warned him that the seat of the disease appeared to be in the mind, and that anything like harshness or opposition must be avoided. Walter also was much changed during the two years which had elapsed. In appearance he was now a young man, tall, and slightly but gracefully formed, with well-cut, regular features, though a want of intellectual expression marred what might otherwise have been considered a handsome countenance. But considerable as was the alteration in his personal appearance, the change in his mental capacity was equally perceivable, his powers of mind had developed to a greater degree than had been anticipated, but alas! deprived of Lewis’s firm yet gentle rule, the improvement in his disposition had by no means kept pace with the extension of his faculties. For some weeks after Lewis had quitted Broadhurst, poor Walter could not be persuaded that he would not come back again, nor was it till the arrival of a tutor, recommended by Lord Bellefield, that he fully realised the fact of his friend having left him never to return. The first effect this conviction produced upon him was a fit of deep dejection; he refused all attempts at consolation, could scarcely be persuaded to take nourishment, and sat hour after hour playing listlessly with the wavy curls of Faust’s shaggy coat. At length, in order to rouse him, General Grant desired the dog to be taken away from him; the remedy proved only too effectual. The new tutor, a certain Mr. Spooner, who appeared as if he had been selected because he was in every respect the exact reverse of Lewis, was the person to whom the General entrusted this commission.

Absorbed in his own sad thoughts, Walter allowed him to coax the dog from his side by the attraction of a plate of meat, but when he laid his hand on the animal to buckle a collar and chain round his neck, he started up, exclaiming--

“What are you going to do with Faust? he is never tied up; let him alone.” Finding that his remonstrance was not attended to, he continued, “Faust! Faust! come here, sir, directly.”

The dog struggled to obey, but Mr. Spooner, having fastened the chain round his neck, endeavoured to force him out of the room, and in doing so stepped accidentally on Faust’s toes, who uttered a shrill yelp of pain. Walter’s eyes flashed.

“You are hurting him,” he cried; “how dare you!” and without waiting for a reply, he darted across the room, seized the astonished Mr. Spooner, who, unfortunately for himself, happened to be a small, slightly-framed man, by the throat, and shook him till his teeth chattered; then suddenly releasing him, he snatched the chain from his grasp, and leading the dog away, muttered in a threatening tone--

“Never you touch Faust again; if you do, I’ll strangle you.”

The results of this scene were twofold: Walter had rebelled and gained his point, and the person whom he had thus conquered had lost all chance of obtaining that degree of ascendency over him without which his control must become merely nominal. This produced, as might be expected, the worst possible effect upon poor Walter’s disposition. He became positive and wilful in the extreme, and his tutor, partly to save himself trouble, partly to avoid any outbreak of temper, gave way to him on every occasion; unless, indeed, he had any particular personal interest at stake, when he sought to gain his point by cajolery and manoeuvring, and being rather an adept in those ingenious arts, was usually successful.

One new and inconvenient caprice of Walter’s was a dislike which he appeared suddenly to have taken to Annie Grant, which displayed itself in various ways: sometimes he would avoid all intercourse with her, even sulkily refusing to answer her when she spoke to him; at others he would seek her out and endeavour to annoy her by saying what he deemed sharp things. Occasionally, however, he would fall into his old habits, and confide in her as his playmate, from whom he was sure of sympathy and assistance; when suddenly, perhaps, even in the midst of some conversation with her, he would appear to recollect his new-born animosity, and his manner would entirely alter. One thing invariably excited his extreme indignation, and this was any attempt on her part to caress or notice Faust. The pain this altered demeanour caused Annie (perhaps in consequence of some theory which she had formed as to its origin) was known but to her own heart, and could be guessed at merely by her unwearying efforts to conciliate poor Walter. Laura, upon whose quick-sightedness nothing was lost, carefully noted these changes, and made her own private comments upon them. In pursuance of her design of befriending Lewis, she made several attempts to penetrate the veil of reserve which hung around Annie Grant; but in vain: with her lightness of heart seemed also to have departed her openness of disposition, and Laura had too much good taste, as well as too much sympathy with her grief, to endeavour to force her confidence. At length one day, as Laura and Annie were sitting together, Laura working zealously at some article of juvenile finery, destined unconsciously to foster the seeds of incipient dandyism already apparent in that embryo man-about-town “Tarley,” and Annie listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, from which her thoughts were far away, the elder lady suddenly broke silence by observing--

“‘Tarley’ will be two years old to-morrow; how the time slips away, it really seems impossible!”

Annie’s only reply was a deep sigh, and Laura continued--

“Why, Annie, you’ll be of age in a month--four short weeks more, and you will actually have arrived at years of discretion. How wise you ought to be!”

Finding Annie still remained silent, Laura only waited till she had passed some interesting crisis in her stitching, and then looked up. To her alarm and surprise she beheld the “big tears” silently coursing each other down her friend’s pale cheeks: in an instant she was by her side.

“Annie, dearest,” she said, “you are weeping; what is it? Have I said or done anything to pain you?”

Annie slightly shook her head in token of dissent, and made an effort to check her tears, which proving ineffectual, eventuated in a bitter sob. Laura could not stand the sight of her grief; throwing her arms round her, she said--

“Annie, you are miserable; I see, I know you are; and your unhappiness is wearing you to death. Why will you not confide in me? Perhaps I might help you. What is it, darling? will you not tell me?” She paused for a reply, but obtaining none, continued: “This marriage with Lord Bellefield, it is distasteful to you, I am afraid?”

A shudder which passed through poor Annie’s frame as Laura mentioned the name of her intended husband proved that on this point her suspicions had not erred. Fancying she now saw her way more clearly--

“Dearest,” she resumed, “do not afflict yourself thus; you must not, shall not marry him. I will speak to the General myself. Charles shall write to his brother; you shall not be sacrificed.”

“Hush! hush!” interrupted Annie, struggling to recover composure; “you do not know what you say. I must marry him; there is no alternative.”

“Do not say so, Annie,” returned Laura gravely; “marriage is a sacred thing, not lightly to be entered into; and in marriage one requisite alone is indispensable--love! Tastes may differ, faults of temper or disposition may exist; yet if man and wife truly love each other, they will be very happy; but to marry without love is a grievous sin, and it entails its own punishment--wretchedness.”

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?”

“Oh! it’s Faust’s fault, is it?” returned Walter crossly. “Faust, come here! Take him to our room, Mr. Spooner, and keep him there till I come; he shall not stay in the drawing-room if he does what I don’t like. Faust, do you hear me, sir?”

“He will never follow me, Sir Walter; it’s no use calling him,” remonstrated Mr. Spooner.

“He will do as I tell him, and so will you too,” returned Walter imperiously, and twisting his handkerchief, he tied it round the dog’s neck, led him to the door, gave the end of the leash thus formed to Mr. Spooner, and then fairly turned the pair of them out of the room. Having accomplished this feat, he strolled listlessly to the fireplace, and amused himself by pulling about the ornaments on the chimney-piece for some minutes. At length a new idea seemed to strike him, and turning to his companion, he said--

“Do you know why I was so angry with Faust just now?”

“Because I was petting him, I suppose, as you don’t seem to like me to do so,” returned Annie.

“Ah! that was not all, though,” rejoined Walter; “I wanted him particularly to have been with me when I was out walking to-day, very particularly.”

“Yes, and why was that?” inquired Annie, who always encouraged him to talk to her, in the hope of overcoming the dislike which he had taken to her, and which, for many reasons, pained her inexpressibly. Walter remained for a minute or two silent, and then coming close to her, he asked in a low whisper--

“Annie, do you believe in ghosts?”

“My dear Walter, what an odd question,” returned Annie in surprise; “why do you ask it?”

Walter glanced carefully round the room, to assure himself that they were alone ere he replied, in the same low, awe-stricken whisper, “Because, if there are such things, I think I’ve seen one.”

“Silly boy,” rejoined Annie, anxious to reassure him, for she saw that he was really frightened, “you have fancied it. What was your ghost like, pray?”

“Promise you won’t tell anybody.”

Annie, half amused, half puzzled by the boy’s earnestness, gave the required pledge. As soon as she had done so, Walter, stooping down so as to bring his mouth on a level with her ear, replied--

“It was the ghost of Mr. Arundel!”

Overcome by so unexpected a reply, Annie was a moment or so before she could find words to inquire, “My dear Walter, what could make you imagine such a thing? Perhaps you were asleep, and dreamed it--when was it?”

“No, I was not asleep; and it was not fancy,” returned Walter gravely. “I was out walking this morning early with Mr. Spooner, and we lost our way, and after trying for some time to find it, Mr. Spooner hired a boat, and told the boatman to set us down near--near--well, I forget the name, but he meant near here. When we got out, we had to go through some narrow passages between the different streets, and in one of them, which was very dark because of the high houses, we met a figure of a man, very tall, and wrapped in a long black cloak; it drew back to let us pass, and just as I got close to it it turned its head, and I saw the face; it was stem and dark, and wore a black beard, but the beautiful eyes were the same, and when I saw them I knew it was Mr. Arundel, or,” he added, sinking his voice, “his ghost!”

As his companion remained silent, he continued, “When I saw who it was, I stopped, and was just going to speak, but at that moment he stared hard at me, gave a violent start, and before I could do anything to prevent it, vanished through a dark archway.”

“Oh! you must have mistaken some one for him,” returned Annie, struggling for composure--“Mr. Arundel is probably in England, and ghosts are out of the question; besides, if there are such things, which I much doubt, they only appear after people are dead.”

Walter considered for a minute, and then met the difficulty by consolatorily suggesting, “Perhaps dear Mr. Arundel is dead--perhaps he grew so unhappy that he could not live without ever seeing Faust and me, and--ah! Annie, how could you be so cruel as to send him away?”

“I send him away, Walter! what can have put such a strange notion into your head?” exclaimed Annie, astonished at the accusation.

“Yes you did,” returned Walter vehemently; “he went away because he loved you and you would not love him--it was very cruel of you, and I hate you for it whenever I remember how unkind you have been,” and overcome by his feelings, the poor boy burst into tears.

A thousand confused thoughts flashed like lightning across Annie’s brain. What could he mean?--was she listening to the mere folly of idiocy, or could he indeed have any possible foundation for his assertion? Anxious to soothe him, she laid her hand caressingly upon his, while, replying rather to her own heart than to his last observation, she said--

“No, my poor Walter, he whom you so much regret never loved me.”

“Ah, but he did, though,” returned Walter positively, drying his tears--“I know it.” He spoke so decidedly that Annie, despite her reason, could not but feel curious to hear more, and turning away her head to hide her agitation, she asked in a low voice--

“How do you know?”

“If I tell you, you must never tell the General or anybody,” returned Walter--“people think I’m a fool, and I know I am not clever, and can’t learn like other boys, and sometimes I feel a weight just here,” and he pressed his hand to his forehead, “and then all my sense goes out--I wonder where it goes to, Annie--do you think it finds wings and flies up to heaven among the white angels? I think so sometimes, and then I long to be a bird and fly with it.” Too much interested to allow him to fall into a new train of thought, Annie recalled his wandering ideas by saying--

“You were talking about Mr. Arundel, Walter dear.”

“Oh yes, and about you, I remember,” resumed Walter. “I knew, at least I thought, he was very fond of you a long time ago, but I was not quite sure of it till one day when I dressed Faust up like a gentleman, with Mr. Arundel’s watch, and you took it off the dog’s neck, and then you threw your arms round him and kissed him as you did just now--that was what made me angry when I remembered about the first time--well, while you were hugging Faust, Mr. Arundel came to the door and saw you, though you did not see him, and his eyes danced and sparkled, and his mouth melted into such a sweet smile; he was so glad to see how fond you were of Faust, and then I knew he loved you, for if he had not, he would not have cared about it, you know. Then he went away and left me Faust, and I thought because he had left Faust he was sure to come back, but I know now that he left him to comfort me, and went away himself all alone. Then that stupid Mr.. Spooner came; he’s a great friend of Lord Bellefield’s, and one day they were talking together, and they fancied I did not attend to them, but I did though, for I knew they were talking about Mr. Arundel. Well, Mr. Spooner asked why he went away, and Lord Bellefield replied, ‘Why, if the truth must be told, he had the audacity (what does that mean?) to raise his eyes to my cousin Annie.’ Mr. Spooner questioned him further, and he informed him that Mr. Arundel had gone boldly to the General, and said he loved you.”

“Told my father so!” exclaimed Annie.

“Yes, so he said,” resumed Walter; “and the General told him you loved Lord Bellefield instead, and meant to be his wife; and then poor Mr. Arundel said he would go away, and so he did, but of course if you had loved him he would have stayed, and we should all have been so happy together. So you see, Annie, it was you that sent him away, and since I’ve known that I’ve hated you, and tried to keep Faust from loving you, only he will, and I can’t hate you quite always; but I never meant to tell you all this, and you must never tell Lord Bellefield, or he would be ready to kill me.”

He paused, then regarding her with a sad, regretful look, he said,

“But, Annie, is it really true that you don’t love dear Mr. Arundel?” Poor Annie! affected and excited as she had been by the foregoing scene, this last speech was too much for her, and throwing her arms about the boy’s neck, and hiding her burning cheek against his breast, she whispered, “Dearest Walter, do not hate me! you have no cause to do so!”

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LVIII. CONTAINS MUCH PLOTTING AND COUNTERPLOTTING

It was the evening of the Tuesday in Epsom week, the day before the Derby. Lord Bellefield, though outwardly calm, was inwardly a prey to the most painful mental excitement. His lordship had met with a continued run of ill-fortune latterly--everything he had attempted had turned out badly: if he betted on a race, the horse he backed invariably lost; if he played, cards and dice equally declared against him; he had lavished hundreds in presents to a new opera dancer, and at the moment in which he deemed his suit successful she had eloped with a younger, richer, and handsomer man; his tradesmen began to mistrust him and to dun him unpleasantly; several of his intimates to whom he owed money grew cool and eyed him suspiciously; his extravagance had reached his father’s ears, and Lord Ashford had not only ventured to remonstrate with him, but apparently bent on adding insult to injury, had cited the example of his younger brother, Charles Leicester (whom from his heart he despised), and held him up as a pattern for his imitation, while Lord Bellefield was forced to bear this lecturing patiently; for although the estates were entailed, his father had been a careful man, and was possessed of a large personalty which he could leave to whom he pleased. The only piece of good luck to set against all this “monstrous quantity” of vexation was the admirable promise displayed by the Dodona Colt. This exemplary quadruped, now individualised by the name of “Oracle,” appeared to have been born with a metaphorical silver spoon in its delicate mouth, for from the moment in which its four black legs (suggestive of its future fleetness, for black-legs are invariably fast) put their feet into this uncomfortable world everything had prospered with it. The breeder was astonished at it, the groom who watched over its infancy was delighted with it; Turnbull, the trainer, was so impressed by its merits that he never could speak of it without a volley of the strongest oaths in his vocabulary, by which expletives he was accustomed (transposing a certain poetical dictum) to strengthen his praise of anything which was so fortunate as to win his approval; and by the united kind regards of all these worthies this favourite of nature had grown in public opinion until it now held the proud position of first favourite for the Derby. Lord Bellefield was by this time no new hand upon the turf; on the contrary, by dint of having been cheated, and associating with those who had cheated him, for several years, he had acquired, besides a sort of prescriptive diploma to do as he had been done, a considerable insight into the mysteries of the training stable as well as the betting ring. He was therefore habitually cautious; but in the present instance all his acquired knowledge and natural acuteness coincided with the opinions of his underlings, to prove to him that in the Dodona Colt he had indeed drawn a rare prize; and that if he could but ensure that which our sanguine country is popularly supposed to expect--viz., that “every man should do his duty,” his horse, and none other, must be winner of the Derby. Accordingly, all the powers of his intellect (which, although not enlarged, was subtle and acute) were now directed to two points--viz., first, to take all precautions to ensure that his horse should be fairly dealt by; and secondly, to make such a book on the event as might retrieve his bankrupt fortunes. This last feat he had succeeded in accomplishing even beyond his utmost wishes; and accustomed as he was to hazard large sums upon the cast of a die, he began to grow alarmed at the magnitude of the stake for which he was about to contend.

Having dined in town at his club, he returned to his luxurious bachelor ménage in ---------- Street, and desiring that he might not be disturbed, drew out his betting-book, examined it carefully, went through the calculations again and again, referred to the latest odds--and then closing it with a sigh, muttered, “Yes, they are all safe men, men who will pay to the hour, and if Oracle runs true, this cursed load of debt will be wiped off, and--I shall be rich enough to begin afresh and contract a new one!--if! ay, there’s the rub--if!” He strode up and down the room. “I am wretchedly nervous to-night,” he exclaimed, ringing the bell. “Bring brandy,” he continued as the servant appeared; then filling a wine-glass, he drank it off as if it had been water--“leave it,” he said; then resuming his walk, added, “It must go right--there is not a horse that can come near him; Tartuffe was the only one that had a chance, and Turnbull swears he is safe to lose; he witnessed the private trial himself, and the colt won by a head, carrying 5 lbs. extra weight. That amusement cost me £50 to bribe Austerlitz’s trainer to allow the trial to take place. True, Turnbull may have lied--and yet why should he? he owes everything to me--though that has nothing to do with it--gratitude, if there be such a quality, is simply prospective--men are grateful to those only from whom they expect favours. Well, even thus, Turnbull is bound to me hand and foot; besides, I know he has backed the colt heavily himself: barring accidents, then, against which no foresight can provide, and of which therefore it is useless to think, I stand safe to win. And yet it is a frightful sum to hazard on the uncertainties of a horse-race. If I should lose, I must either blow out my brains like poor Mellerton, or quit the country, marry Annie Grant, and live abroad on her money till my father dies--and he’s as likely to last twenty years longer as I am. I scarcely know which alternative is preferable. What an infernal fool I’ve been to bring myself into this scrape; but when a man has such a run of ill-luck against him as I have been cursed with for the last year, what is he to do?” He paused, stretched himself wearily, and then glancing at a gilt clock on the chimney-piece, muttered, “Twelve o’clock; I must be up early to-morrow and keep a clear head--I’ll smoke a cigar and turn in.” At this moment the house-bell rang sharply, and Lord Bellefield started like a guilty thing. With an oath at this fresh proof of his nervousness, he filled and drank a second glass of brandy, then stood listening with a degree of eager anxiety which, despite his efforts, he could not restrain. Doors opened and shut, and at length a servant appeared.

“What is it?” exclaimed Lord Bellefield before the man could speak.

“A person wishes particularly to see your lordship,” was the reply.

“Say I am engaged, and can see no one; I thought I told you I would not be disturbed,” returned his master angrily; “stay,” he continued, as a new idea struck him, “what kind of person is it?”

“He desired me to inform your lordship that his name was Turnbull,” was the answer.

With an oath at the man’s stupidity, Lord Bellefield desired him to admit the visitor instantly.

“Well, Turnbull,” he exclaimed eagerly as the trainer entered, “what is it, man?”

Thus adjured, Turnbull, a tall, stout-built fellow, with a clever but disagreeable expression of countenance glanced carefully round the room to assure himself that they were alone, and then approaching Lord Bellefield, began, “Why, you see, my lud, I thought I’d better lose no time, for there ain’t too many hours between now and tomorrow’s race, so I jumped on to my ’ack, cantered over to the rail, ’ailed a ’Ansom’s cab, and ’ere I am.”

“Nothing amiss, eh? nothing wrong with the colt?” asked Lord Bellefield with an affectation of indifference, though any one who had watched him closely might have seen that he turned very pale.

“No, bless his eyes, he’s as right as a trivet, and as playful and impudent as--as a brick,” continued Mr. Turnbull, rather at a loss for a sufficiently eulogistic simile; “it was only this morning he took up little Bill the ’elper by the waistband of his indispentionables and shuk him like a tarrier would a rat. It would have done your ludship’s ’art good to have seen him; he’ll come out to-morrow as fresh as paint, bless his bones.”

“Well then, what is it, if Oracle is all right?” returned his employer, greatly relieved.

“Why, unfortunately there’s somebody else as has got a ’orse as is all right too, and I’m afraid we ain’t quite so sure of the race as we fancied we was,” was the dispiriting reply.

“Why, I thought you had satisfied yourself that there was not a horse that could run near him. You tell me he beat Tartuffe carrying 5 lbs. extra weight.”

“Ay, so I believed; but the sharpest of us is done sometimes. It’s a wicked cross-bred world to live in, and a man need be wide-awaker than--than one o’clock, to be down to all their moves.” So saying, the discomfited trainer rubbed his nose as if to brighten his wits, and continued, “The truth is this, my lud--one of my grooms cum to me this morning, and said if I would stand a soveraign between him and one of his mates, he would tell me something as I ought to know. Well, seeing as this race is rather a peculiar one, and as any little mistake might turn out unpleasant----”

“What do you mean, sir?” interrupted Lord Bellefield, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture.

“Nothing, my lud, nothing,” returned Turnbull obsequiously, “only as our colt stands first favourite, and as we’ve made our calcilations to win, I thought the Californian farthing would not be thrown away. According he brought up his mate, as he called him, which was the hidentical boy as first rode the colt, and he confessed that him and the boy that rode Tartuffe had met one day when they was out a exercising, and just for their own amusement they give ’em a three-mile gallop. They run very near together, but Tartuffe beat our colt by above a length; that he’d seen the trial afterwards, and that he knowed from the difference in Tartufife’s running that he was not rode fair, or was overweighted, or something. Well, my lud, this information bothered me, and made me feel suspicious that some move had been tried on which we was not up to, and while I was scheming how to cipher it out, the same boy cum again, and told me that the lad that rode Tartuffe at the second trial was a keeping company along with his sister, and that he thought she might worm something out of him if she could be got to try. Accordingly I sent for the gal, and between bribing, coaxing, and frightening her, persuaded her to undertake the job. She had some trouble with the young feller, but she is a sharp, clever gal, and she never left him till she dragged it out of him.”

“Drew what out of him?” interrupted Lord Bellefield, unable to restrain his impatience; “can’t you come to the point at once? you’ll distract me with your prosing.”

“Well, the long and short of it is, as I see your ludship’s getting in a hurry (and, indeed, there ain’t no time to be lost), the long and short of it is, that they’ve bin and turned the tables upon us: while we put 5 lbs. extra weight on our horse, they shoved 8 lbs. on theirs.”

“Then Tartuffe ran within a head of the colt carrying 3 lbs. extra,” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, “and of course without that disadvantage would again have beaten him.”

“I think Oracle is a better horse now than he was at the time the trial cum off,” was the reply, “but the race ain’t the safe thing I thought it. It’s rather a ticklish chance to trust to, if your ludship’s got at all a heavy book upon the ewent.”

As he made this uncomfortable acknowledgment the trainer leered inquiringly with his cunning little eyes at his employer.

Lord Bellefield did not immediately answer; but leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece, remained buried in thought, his pale cheeks and the eager quivering of his under lip, which from time to time he unconsciously bit till the marks of his teeth remained in blood upon it, alone testifying the mental suffering he experienced. Ruin and disgrace were before him. Nor was this all. The Duc d’Austerlitz, a young foreigner who, bitten with Anglo-mania, had purchased a racing stud and was the owner of Tartuffe, happened to be the individual before alluded to as Lord Bellefield’s successful rival in the venial affections of the fascinating danseuse. He hated him, accordingly, with an intensity which would have secured him the approbation of the good-hater-loving Dr. Johnson. If anything, therefore, were wanting to render the intelligence he had just received doubly irritating to him, this fact supplied the deficiency. His lordship, however, possessed one element of greatness--his spirit invariably rose with difficulties, and the greater the emergency the more cool and collected did he become. Having remained silent for some minutes, he observed quietly, “I suppose, Turnbull, you, being a shrewd, clever fellow in your way, scarcely came here merely to tell me this. You are perfectly aware that, relying upon your information and judgment, I have made a heavy book on this race, and can imagine that, however long my purse may be, I shall find it more agreeable to win than to lose. You have, therefore, I am sure, some expedient to propose. In fact, I read in your face that it is so.”

The man smiled.

“Your ludship I always knew to have a sharp eye for a good horse or a pretty gal,” he said, “but you must be wide awake if you can read a man’s thoughts in his face. It ain’t such an easy matter to say what is best to do; if your ludship made rather too heavy a book on the race, I should recommend a little careful hedging to-morrow morning.”

Lord Bellefield shook his head. “Too late to make anything of it,” he replied, “that is, of course, I might save myself from any very heavy loss, but I must have money--a--in fact, I stand so fair to win largely by this race, that hedging will be quite a dernier ressort. But you have some better scheme than that to propose.”

“If your ludship is at a loss how to act, it is not likely that any plan of mine will do the trick,” was the reply.

Whether or not Turnbull wished to provoke his employer, certain it is his speech produced that effect, for with an oath Lord Bellefield exclaimed--

“What is it you are aiming at? if it be money you are standing out for, you have only to prevent Tartuffe from starting, and name your own price.”

“Why, you see, it might be as well to let him start; men have been transported for interfering with a race ’orse to purwent his starting--but he need not win the Derby for all that,” was the enigmatical reply.

Lord Bellefield’s lip curled with a sardonic smile; his knowledge of human nature had not then deceived him--Turnbull had some scheme in petto, and was only waiting to secure the best market for it.

“I suppose £1000 will satisfy you?” he said; and as the trainer bowed his gratitude, continued, “You are certain your plan cannot fail? What is it you propose?”

“Why, you see, my lud, ’orses is like ’uman creeturs in many respecs,” replied Turnbull sententiously; “there’s some things as agrees with their stummicks, and some as disagrees with ’em; the things that agrees with the hanimals makes ’em run faster, the things that disagrees makes them run slower, or if you give it ’em too strong they comes to a standstill all together. Now, if so be as Tartuffe was to have a taste of a certain drug as I knows on--that ain’t very different from hopium--give to him afore he goes to sleep to-night, he’ll come to the starting post all right and run very respectible, but if he beats our ’orse I’ll engage to eat him, saddle and all. I can’t speak fairer than that, I expect.”

“And who have you fixed upon to execute this piece of delectable rascality?” inquired Lord Bellefield, unable to repress a sneer at the meanness of the villainy by which, however, he was only too glad to profit.

“It was not a very easy matter to pitch upon the right man,” rejoined the trainer, “but luckily I happened to remember a party that seemed as if he’d been born a purpose for the job, and who has been so thoroughly cleaned out lately that he was not likely to be particular about trifles. I saw him before I left home, showed him which way his interest lay, put him up to my ideas on the subject, and I hope when I sees your ludship to-morrow morning I shall have some good news to tell you.”

“I’ll be with you early, before people are about,” returned Lord Bellefield; “it is important that I should know the result of this scheme as soon as possible. The greatest caution must be observed lest the matter should transpire, and if anything comes out, you of course must take it upon yourself. The man should go abroad for a time. And now I must try and get a couple of hours’ sleep, or my head will not be fit for to-morrow’s work. I breakfast at Epsom with a set of men, but I’ll be with you first. You’ve acted with your usual zeal and cleverness, Turnbull, and I’ll take care that you shall have no reason to repent your honesty to your employer; only let us win to-morrow’s race and your fortune is made. Good-night.”

As he spoke he rang the bell, and with many servile acknowledgments of his master’s promised liberality the trainer departed.

While this interview was taking place a far different scene had been enacting in the premises occupied by the racing stud of the Due d’Austerlitz. As the clock over the stables chimed the hour after midnight a light ladder was placed against the wall of one of the outer buildings, and a slightly-framed, agile man ran up it, and drawing it cautiously after him laid it in a place of security, where it would remain unnoticed till his return. He then crept with noiseless, catlike steps over roofs and along parapets, finding among rain-gutters and coping-stones a dangerous and uncertain footing, until he reached a building nearly in the centre of the yard; here he paused, and drawing from his pocket a short iron instrument, shaped like a chisel at one end, he cautiously chipped away the mortar round one of the tiles which protected an angle of the roof, and by removing the tile, exposed the ends of a row of slating. Quietly raising one of the slates, he, by means of the instrument above alluded to, which is known to the initiated by the euphonious title of a “jemmy,” snapped the nails which retained it in its place and removed it. Having acted in a similar manner by two others, he produced a small cabinetmaker’s saw, and cutting through the battens, opened a space sufficiently wide to admit the passage of a man’s body. Replacing his tools, he crept through the aperture thus effected, and letting himself down by his hands into the loft beneath, dropped noiselessly on to some trusses of hay placed there for future consumption. Part of his task was now accomplished, for he was in the loft over the loose-box in which Tartuffe was reposing his graceful limbs before the coming struggle; but the most difficult and hazardous portion of his enterprise remained yet to be accomplished. Crawling on his hands and knees, he reached one of the openings by which the hay was let down into the racks beneath, and cautiously peeping over, gazed into the interior of the stable itself, and noted the precautions taken to secure the safety of the racehorse and the difficulties which lay before him. The box in which the animal was placed was secured by a strong padlock, the key of which rested at that moment under the pillow of Slangsby, the Due d’Austerlitz’s trainer, while in the next box, half-lying, half-sitting on a truss of straw, dozed “Yorkshire Joe,” a broad-shouldered, bowlegged lad some eighteen years of age, who had been a kind of equestrian valet to Tartuffe during the whole “educational course” of that promising quadruped.

These particulars the intelligent eye of the tenant of the hay-loft took in at a glance, while his quick wit decided as rapidly the exact degree in which they were calculated to tell for or against the object he sought to accomplish. The padlock was in his favour; for as he did not intend to enter the horse-box by the door, it would serve to keep Joe out without interfering with his design; but the presence of the stable-boy presented an insuperable obstacle to his further proceedings. This difficulty had, however, been foreseen and provided against. Stealing on tiptoe across the loft, he selected a long, stout straw, and thrusting it through the key-hole of the door by which the fodder was taken in, he suffered it to drop on the outside. Scarcely had he done so, when a low cough announced the presence of some confederate, and satisfied that everything was in a right train, he noiselessly returned to his post of observation. In another moment his quick ear caught the sound of a modest tap at the stable-door. Honest Joe’s senses not being equally on the alert, the knock had to be repeated more than once ere he became aware of it. As soon as he grew convinced that the sound was not the creation of his sleeping fancy, he rubbed his eyes, stretched himself, and drowsily inquired, “Who’s there?”

“It is I--Mary; and I want particularly to speak to you,” replied a woman’s voice.

“Thy want must wait till morning, lass; for I’m not a-goaing to leave this place to-night for nothink nor nobody; so gang thee whoam agin,” was the uncourteous reply.

“No, but Joe, dear Joe, you must hear me to-night; it is something very important indeed. You must hear me,” pleaded the temptress.

“I woan’t, I tell thee; gangwhoam!” returned Joe gruffly.

“Well, if I’d thought you’d have been so unkind, I would not have stayed out of my warm bed, trapesing through Hepsom streets at this time o’night, which ain’t fit for a respecktible young woman to be out in, and coming all this way to put you up to something as may lose you your place, and worse, if you ain’t told of it. I didn’t expect sich unkindness--and from you, too; that I didn’t;” and here a sound akin to a sob, apparently indicating that the speaker was weeping, found its way to Joe’s ears, and going thence straight to his honest, unsuspicious heart, overcame his prudence and conquered his resolution. Rising from his seat, he approached the door and listened; the sobs still continued.

“Mary, lass, what ails thee?” he said; “I didn’t mean to anger thee, wench! but thee knoas I dare na leave t’horse; besoids t’stable-dour be locked, and maister’s got t’key.”

“And can’t you come to the window in the further stable, where we’ve talked many a time before?” suggested the siren. “It’s something about the horse I want to tell you, a dodge they’re going to try to prevent his winning to-morrow. You don’t think I’d have come out at this time o’night for nothing, do you, stupey?” This intelligence chased away Joe’s last lingering scruple, and muttering--

“About t’horse!--why did na thee say so afore?” he lit a hand-lantern at the lamp which hung from the ceiling, and assuring himself by a glance that his charge was in safety, quitted the stable by a side-door.

In the meantime, the occupant of the loft had not been idle. As soon as Joe became engrossed by the foregoing conversation, the sound of a fine saw at work might have been perceived by a more delicate organisation than that of the sturdy groom; and at the moment in which he left the stable two of the bars of the rack were silently removed, and through the opening thus effected a man cautiously lowered himself, and resting his feet for an instant on the manger, dropped lightly into the box occupied by Tartuffe.

This feat was accomplished so quietly, that the horse, which happened not to be lying down, but was standing, trying, through its muzzle, to nibble the straw of its bed, was scarcely startled, merely raising its head and staring at its unexpected visitant. This individual now produced from his mysterious pocket a handful of oats, and holding them out, allowed Tartuffe to smell and nibble at them; while the animal was thus engaged, he removed the muzzle, worn for the purpose of preventing it from eating its litter, or otherwise gaining access to any food of which the trainer might disapprove. His next proceeding was to draw out that ingenious instrument of torture yclept a twitch, which, for the benefit of those of our lady readers who do not happen to be gifted with “a stable mind,” or to have encouraged sporting tendencies, we may describe as a short, thick stick or handle, about two feet long, terminated by a loop of stout whipcord or leather, into which the upper-lip, or occasionally the ear of the horse, is inserted; then, by twisting the stick, the loop can be tightened so as to produce any amount of agony the inflicter may desire: the philosophy of the matter being, that the animal finding his struggles exactly double his pain, soon has sense enough to choose the lesser of two evils, and therefore stands still while nasty things are being forced down his throat and other liberties taken with him, which, but for the application of the twitch, he would actively resent. In the present instance, while the unfortunate Tartuffe was still chewing the oats by which his confidence had been betrayed, the twitch was fixed on his nose, tightened, and the nauseating ball which was to impair his strength and fleetness, and secure the victory to the Dodona Colt, and fortune to Lord Bellefield, was already in his mouth ere he was aware that any incivility was intended him. To give a horse a ball, however, it is not only necessary to put it into its mouth but to thrust it back as far as, if possible, the entrance of the gullet, and this operation, even when performed in the most skilful manner, is by no means easy to the operator or agreeable to the patient. In this last particular the victimised Tartuffe appeared to be entirely of our opinion; the blood of his noble ancestors stirred within him, and tossing up his head indignantly, he became practically aware of the full virtues of the twitch; the pain, however, only served to increase his rage, and he attempted to rear; but his struggles were vain; his tormentor pertinaciously clung to him, the ball was thrust further back in the mouth, and in another moment the desired object would have been attained, when suddenly the loop of the twitch, unable to bear the strain upon it, snapped. The first use the racehorse made of his freedom was to shake his head violently, and at the same time opening his mouth, the stupefying ball dropped from it.

We must now return to our friend, Yorkshire Joe, who, suspecting no evil, was engaged in interesting colloquy with the perfidious Mary; this seductive young lady having contrived, with a degree of ingenuity worthy a better cause, to prolong the interview by the following expedients. First, she assailed her admirer with coquettish reproaches for his unkindness and want of gallantry in refusing to speak to her; then she entered into a long account of how and when and where she had discovered the pretended design against Tartuffe, which she affirmed was to be put into execution two hours from that time.

“Eh! What! tie my hands behoind me, shove a gag into my mouth, and then and there lame t’horse afore my very eyes--dost thee say, lass? I’d only like to see the man, or men either, that could do it!” exclaimed Joe, doubling his fist indignantly; “and thee heard this in the tap-room of the Chequers, dost thee say?--What was that noise?”

“Nothing. I dropped one of my pattens, that was all,” returned the girl, stooping as if to pick it up, though she was not sorry for an excuse to hide her agitation, for her quick ear had detected the sound of a horse’s hoofs trampling on straw, and she knew that her accomplice was at work. “Why, you are quite startlish to-night, Joe!” she resumed, looking up at him with a forced smile; “did you think it was a ghost?--but it’s no wonder you’re nervous; it’s hard lines for you, poor fellow, sitting up at nights like this----”

“There it is agen!” interrupted Joe; “by ------ it’s in t’horsebox,” he continued, listening attentively. “Them ---------- thieves can’t be come a’ready, sure!” And heedless of Mary’s assurances that it was nothing, and her entreaties to remain only one moment longer, the groom, now thoroughly excited, leaped down from the window and rushed back into the stable.

With the speed of thought the girl sprang to the door at which she had previously tapped, and stooping her head to the key-hole, listened eagerly. The first thing that met her ear was a volley of abuse from Joe, accompanied by heavy blows struck against wood or iron; then a noise as of a door being burst open; next, broken curses, dull, muffled strokes, ejaculations of rage or pain, the sound of trampling feet, a crushing, heavy fall, and then total silence!

What had happened? She placed her eye to the key-hole, but could see nothing. She listened--but the throbbing of her own heart was the only thing she could hear: for the first time the fearful idea occurred to her, that by her treacherous dealing she might have occasioned her lover’s death; and regardless of consequences, she was about to start up and summon assistance, when a man’s hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaimed--

“So this is the way my grooms are tampered with! I was sure I heard talking going on. Hold up your head, you jade, and let us see what you’re like; nay, it’s no use to struggle, I’ve got you fast enough, and see who it is I will.”

So saying, Mr. Slangsby the trainer drew the girl towards him, and forcibly raising her head, threw the light of a bull’s-eye lantern full on her features. “Ha! little Mary Williams,” he continued, “and what brings you here at this time of night, you artful hussy?”

“Oh! Mr. Slangsby, pray open the door, sir; I--I’m afraid they’ve been and murdered poor Joe,” was the reply, and overcome by fear and remorse, the girl burst into tears--real ones, this time.

“They, and who are they, pray? There’s some rascality going on here, I expect; it’s lucky I got up.” As he spoke, Slangsby drew a key from his pocket, opened the door, and still retaining his grasp on the girl’s wrist, entered. The first object which met their sight was Joe, by no means murdered, although he bore evidences of a severe struggle in a black eye and bleeding knuckles.

“T’horse is all right, meister, but I wor only jest in time, though!” was his opening speech.

“In time for what?” inquired Slangsby eagerly.

“In time to stop yon villain from pizonin the blessed hanimal,” returned Joe, pointing to something which at first sight appeared to be a large bundle, but which proved on examination to be a human being most ingeniously tied hand and foot with haybands.

“Who the deuce are you, fellow?” asked the trainer, addressing the individual thus uncomfortably situated.

“It ain’t o’ no use talking to he, for a can’t answer with a wisp o’ straw stuffed atween his jaws,” observed Joe sententiously.

“Take it out then, and untie his legs so that he can stand up and answer my questions.”

“Better shut the dour fust then, meister, for he’s a proper slippery customer, I can tell you,” returned the groom. “He promised to gag me and tie my hands behind me, I do hear said, but he’s found two can play at that trick. Get up, ye warmint,” he continued, applying a by no means gentle kick to the ribs of his prostrate captive, “and show your ugly mug.”

The person thus upcomplimentarily apostrophised rose slowly and stood sullenly awaiting the irainer’s scrutiny. The latter, holding the lantern so that its light fell upon the stranger’s features, recognised him immediately.

“Mr. Beverley,” he said in a tone more of contemptuous pity than of anger, “is it you, sir? I knew times had been getting very bad with you, but I did not think you had come to this.”

The man’s lip quivered--the reproach touched him more than the most virulent abuse could have done. His had been, we fear, no very unusual fate; at all events he had only fallen one step lower than many who had followed the same career as he had done. Well-born, rich, and with above average abilities, a taste for gambling and low company had caused him to sink lower and lower in the scale of society, till the depth of misery and degradation to which he had been reduced, and the extent of the bribe offered by Turnbull, had overcome his last feeling of honour or honesty, and he had consented to become the agent of another’s villainy. Slangsby eyed him sternly for a moment, and then said--

“You know what you have laid yourself open to, I suppose?” The other nodded in sign of assent.

“I don’t wish to be hard upon you, sir,” the trainer continued, “so if you will speak out and tell me all, we may perhaps come to some better understanding: what say you?”

The other reflected a moment and then replied in a low voice, “I will do as you wish, but not here.”

“Joe, you have distinguished yourself,” observed his master, putting his hand into his pocket, “here is a ten-pound note for you. Do not mention this night’s work to anybody, and I will take care your wages are raised. Now, sir,” he continued to Joe’s late adversary, “I am ready to talk to you--by the way, about the girl; she was your accomplice, of course?”

The stranger nodded.

“Your sweetheart has deceived you, Joe,” added Slangsby; “give her a good lecturing, and then lock her up for the night in the saddle-room; she must not be at liberty till the race is over, upon any account.”

Honest Joe scratched his head in deep perplexity--then a light dawned upon him, and he perceived how Mary had beguiled him Seizing her roughly by the wrist, he dragged her off, exclaiming, “Come along, thee cheating jade, could’st thee foind nothing better to do than to go and deceive a poor lad that loved thee, and try to get him into trouble? If thee was but a man, I’d wollup thee till thou could’st not stand, and as it be, a little starving will do thee good, so cum along.”

At the same moment Slangsby and his companion quitted the stable, and adjourning to the trainer’s private apartments, held there a long and solemn conference; the result may be gathered from the following speeches--

“And you feel sure Lord Bellefield is aware of the whole thing?” questioned Slangsby.

“I’ve not a doubt of it,” was the reply. “Turnbull was too ready with the blunt to be acting on his own account, he has not got the money to do it. I am to have £500 clear for this job, and my expenses paid to any part of the continent I may select.”

“And we may trust you?”

“Why, of course you may, man; by doing as you propose I escape transportation, receive £500 to start afresh with, and get sent over to Paris out of harm’s way free of expense.”

“And your conscience?” inquired Slangsby with a sarcastic smile. “Curse conscience,” was the angry reply; “I began life with as much honourable feeling as any man, but the villainy of the world has crushed it out of me. Life is a struggle, and each one must take care of himself; while I had money I spent it liberally, and met my engagements honestly. Now I have none, I get it as I can. I undertook to drug your horse because I was deeply in debt, all but starving, and Bellefield’s bribe offered me a chance. I failed through an accident, and fell into your power; your proposal regains me the position, and I embrace it now as I did before. True, I deceive him: fancying your horse is poisoned he will double his bets, which are very heavy already, and be ruined, as better men have been before him, but this only serves him right for his rascality, and--puts £500 into my pocket. I have to thank you for your civility, Mr. Slangsby, and to wish you good morning.” He turned to go, then pausing, said--

“You have used me well in this affair, and to show you I am not all bad, I will give you a hint. Do not rely too much on the result of that trial: Bellefield’s colt was only recovering from the strangles then, and has since improved in speed and bottom; still Tartuffe can beat him if he is made the most of; everything therefore depends upon your jockey; if he is careless or over-confident, Oracle may have it yet--verbum sat.” So saying, he placed his hat on one side of his head, coolly ran his fingers through his hair, and departed.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LIX. DESCRIBES THAT INDESCRIBABLE SCENE, “THE DERBY DAY.”

“Fair laughed the morn, and soft the zephyr played,” as Lord Bellefield, having held an interview with his trainer, which had served in great measure to set his mind at ease, cantered back to the inn at Epsom, shaved the small portion of his chin which he saw fit to denude of hair, made an elaborate toilet in the best style of sporting dandyism, and then lounged down to breakfast, of which meal he had invited some dozen of his intimates to partake. Amongst the last comers was a tall, dark-whiskered man, who might be two or three years Lord Bellefield’s senior. Pointing to a seat on his right hand, his entertainer began--

“Well, Philips, how is it with you this morning? You’ve been wandering about as usual, picking up the latest news, I suppose? what say the prophets?”

“There is nothing original hazarded, my lord,” was the reply.

“Oracle is as much in favour as ever; Phosphorus is looking up slightly, and the Tartuffe party are backing their horse to a high figure; they seem to be in earnest, and mean to win if they can.”

“Ay, if they can,” returned Lord Bellefield, smiling ironically; “I confess, for my own part, I do not see that animal’s good points.”

“He has wonderful power in the loins, and his deep girth gives plenty of room for the lungs to play; no fear of ‘bellows to mend’ in that quarter,” was the reply.

“Very excellent points in a hunter or steeplechase horse, but misplaced in a racer, and by no means calculated to make up for a want of fleetness. Tartuffe, in my opinion, has not the true racehorse stride, as Austerlitz will find to his cost, if he really is laying money on him.”

“He may not cover so much ground in his stride as Oracle, but he is unusually quick in his gallop, and takes two strokes while another horse is taking one. Still black and yellow (Lord Bellefield’s colours) will give him the go-by, and that is all we have to look to,” was the reply.

In converse such as this, diversified by the interchange of bets of more or less magnitude, the breakfast (if a meal consisting of every delicacy that could please the palate or pamper the appetite, including meats, fish, etc., etc., can be legitimately so called) passed off. When liqueurs had been handed round, Lord Bellefield’s drag was announced, and the company dispersed, first to admire and criticise the turn-out, and then to dispose of themselves on and about it. The equipage was in perfect taste, and although not so showy as many others on which less care had been bestowed, or money expended, yet the drag, with its panels of the darkest possible cinnamon brown, picked out with a lighter shade of the same colour; the four blood bays, faultless in symmetry; the two outriders on horses so exactly matching those in harness, that any one unaccustomed to such matters might have been puzzled to conjecture how the grooms could distinguish one from another; the harness perfectly free from ornament of any kind, save black and yellow rosettes in the horses’ heads; the two grooms in dark, well-fitting, pepper-and-salt liveries, and irreproachable top-boots and leathers; the coronet on the doors, the cockades in the hats; every trifle down to the gold-mounted whip-handle, excellent of its kind, and in harmonious keeping with the whole, presented to the eye of a connoisseur a tout ensemble calculated to excite his highest admiration.

Seating himself firmly on his box, and controlling his fiery horses with an easy confidence which proved him a skilful whip, Lord Belle-field drove to the Downs, apparently impassable obstacles seeming to melt before him as if by magic (one of the surest tests of a good coachman), and arrived on the course exactly at the “correct” moment. As he drew up to take his place by the ropes, a showy britska, drawn by four splendid greys, the postilions’ bright green jackets and velvet caps blazing with gold, dashed in before him. The carriage contained two persons--a singularly handsome young man with a foreign cast of features, and a girl with black, flashing eyes and a brilliant complexion, dressed not only in, but considerably beyond the height of the fashion. These were the Duc d’Austerlitz and Mademoiselle Angélique, the fascinating_ danseuse_.

As Lord Bellefield, with curling lip, passed them to take up his station farther on, the Frenchman, catching his eye, nodded carelessly, and turning to his companion said a few words in a low tone, and they both laughed. Had Lord Bellefield been living at a period when the state of society allowed the hand to act out the feelings of the heart, he would at that moment have sprung upon the Due d’Austerlitz, and seizing him by the throat, have held on remorselessly till life became extinct. As it was, he merely returned the nod by a bow, smiled, kissed the tips of his gloves to Angélique, and drove on; so that, after all, civilisation has its advantages.

Having chosen his station, the bays were unharnessed and led away, and a mounted groom approached, leading his master’s hack.

“I am going down to the ring, and then to the Warren, to see them saddle,” began Lord Bellefield, “so I must leave you to take care of yourselves; but any one disposed for luncheon will find something to that effect going on here after the race. If I am not back, Robson will take good care of you.” So saying, he gave an order to one of the servants, who remained with the drag, then, mounting his horse, cantered away.

“He carries it off boldly enough, but they say if he loses the race he is a ruined man,” observed one of the friends he had left behind him.

“Oh, Lord Ashford will clear him,” remarked another; “his grandfather was one of the leading counsel of the day, and the old boy feathered his nest well before he gave up his wig and gown. He was one of the old school of lawyers, and worked in the days when a barrister’s professional income was a great fact, whereas now it is a great fiction.”

“Come, Briefless, no grumbling; back Oracle for a cool £500, and then you may cut chambers till the season’s over. But you are wrong about Bellefield. Lord Ashford has paid his debts three times, and has taken an oath on the family Bible never to do so again; but I don’t believe Bellefield’s anything like hard-up. You know he won £30,000 of poor Mellerton before he blew his brains out. Here’s Philips can tell us all about it; eh, what do you say, man?”

“Nothing,” was the cautious reply; “and I would not recommend you to let Bellefield find out exactly all you’ve been mentioning, my dear Chatterby; I’ve known him shoot a man for less.” So saying, Mr. Philips joined in the laugh he had raised against the voluble Chatterby, and then swinging himself down from the box, left them in order to take his place in the betting ring.

We must now change the venue to the Warren, a small but picturesque spot of ground encircled by a wall, within which enclosure the horses for the Derby and Oaks are saddled and mounted. Here jockeys and gentlemen, lords, blacklegs, trainers, and pickpockets, mix and jostle with one another indiscriminately. Assuredly Epsom, on the Derby day, in exclusive, aristocratic England, is the only true Utopia wherein those chimeras of French folly, Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, exist and prosper. Let the reader imagine from twenty to five-and-twenty blood-horses, each led by its attendant groom and followed by an anxious trainer, while the jockey who is to ride it, and on whose skill and courage thousands of pounds are depending, carefully inspects the buckling of girths, regulates the length of stirrup-leathers, and as far as human foresight will permit, provides against any accident which may embarrass him in the coming struggle. Then the horse-clothing is removed, and the shining coat and carefully-plaited mane of the racehorse are revealed to the eyes of the admiring spectators; an attendant satellite at the same moment assists the jockey to divest himself of his greatcoat, and he emerges from his chrysalis state in all the butterfly splendour of racing dandyism. Then the trainer, or the satellite before alluded to, “gives him a leg up,” and with this slight assistance he vaults lightly into the saddle and becomes as it were incorporate with the animal he bestrides. Quietly gathering up the reins, he presses his cap firmly on his head, slants the point of his whip towards the right flank, exchanges a few last words with the trainer, and then walks his horse up and down till his competitors are all equally prepared. On this occasion the cynosure of every eye was the first favourite, Oracle, and when his clothing was removed, and one of the cleverest jockeys of the day seated gracefully on his back, he certainly did look, to quote the enthusiastic language of his trainer, “a reg’lur pictur,” the perfection of a racehorse. Turnbull’s last words to the jockey were--

“Save him as much as you safely can till the distance, and if the pace has been anything like reasonable, it will be your own fault if the race is not your own.”

A slight contraction of the eyelid proved that the advice was understood and appreciated, and man and horse passed on.

“How is it Tartuffe does not show?” inquired Lord Bellefield of Turnbull in a whisper. “The dose can’t have been given too strong, eh?”

“No fear of that, my lud,” was the reply; “but they’ve probably discovered ere this that there is a screw loose somewhere, and they will keep him out of sight as long as they can, lest other people should become as wise as they are themselves.”

As he spoke the object of his remarks appeared; his rider was already mounted, and the horse-clothing removed. Tartuffe was a complete contrast to his rival in appearance. The Dodona Colt was a bright bay, with black mane, tail, and legs; his head was small, almost to a fault, and shaped like that of a deer, his neck longer and more arched than is usually the case in thorough-bred horses; while his graceful, slender limbs seemed to embody the very ideal of swiftness. Tartuffe was altogether a smaller and more compact animal, his colour a rich, dark chestnut, his head larger in proportion, and so placed on as to give him the appearance of being slightly ewe-necked, his forelegs were shorter, and the arm more muscular than those of his graceful rival; but the sloping shoulder, the depth of the girth, the breadth and unusual muscular development of the loins and haunches, together with a quick, springy step and a general compactness of form, afforded to the practised eye evidence of his possessing very uncommon powers both of speed and endurance.

“He looks fresh and lively enough,” remarked Lord Bellefield, after observing the horse narrowly. “What do you think about it?”

“It’s all right, my lud,” was Turnbull’s confident answer; “things speaks for themselves, the ’orse ain’t allowed to show till the last minute, and then he comes out with his jockey ready mounted. Now the logic of that dodge lies in a nutshell: finding the hanimal sleepy and out of sorts, they keeps him snug till they’re forced to purduce him, and then shows him with the jockey on him, when a touch with the spur and a pull or two at his mouth with a sharp bit makes him look alive again.” Approaching his lips almost to his employer’s ear, he continued, “Do you see that patch of black grease on his nose? that’s where the twitch has cut him. Beverley was obliged to twitch him to give him the ball--so now your ludship may bet away without any fear of Tartuffe,” and exchanging a significant glance, this well-matched pair parted.

“Ah! Bellefield, mon cher! how lovely your colt looks this morning--I suppose he is to win; for myself I am preparing to be martyrised with a resignation the most touching,” and as he spoke Armand Duc d’Austerlitz stroked his silky moustaches and admired his glossy boot with an air of the most innocently graceful self-satisfaction possible.

“You don’t really believe that which you say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied Lord Bellefield; “I never saw a horse in better racing condition than Tartuffe.”

“Ah! c’est un bon petit cheval, and I have betted, ah!--bah!--I cannot tell you what sums of money upon him, more than half my estates in Languedoc; positively I shall have to go through what you call the Bench of your Queen, if I lose.”

“In that case it is useless for me to inquire whether you are disposed to back Tartuffe against my bay colt,” insinuated Lord Bellefield.

“No, not if you have a fancy that way, mon cher ami,” replied Armand, smiling to show his white teeth; “what shall we say?--an even bet of £3000 shall it be, or £5000?”

“Five is the more comfortable sum of the two,” returned Lord Bellefield quickly. “I always like to bet fives or tens; it simplifies one’s book amazingly, and I never had a taste for intricate arithmetic.”

“Comme il vous plaira--say ten, if you like it better.” And as he spoke Armand drew out a miniature betting-book and a gold pencil-case blazing with jewels. Lord Bellefield paused for a moment; certain as he believed himself to be of the race, it was a great temptation. But, on the other hand, if he appeared too eager, might not suspicion attach to him in the event of any clue being gained to the poisoning affair? The idea was so alarming to him that prudence overcame avarice.

“I have unfortunately no estates in Languedoc,” he said laughingly; “and thousands are not so entirely a matter of indifference to me as to your Grace; so we will book the bet at five.”

The wager was accordingly so entered; and with friendly smiles and courteous words upon their lips these two men parted, one hating the successful rival, the other despising the detected swindler! Alas! for the shams and deceptions of society! pasteboard and tinsel are more real than its hollow-hearted seemings.

“Now you see your game,” were Slangsby’s last words to the jockey who was to ride Tartuffe. “Make running early in the race, so as to render the pace as severe as possible throughout: your horse will live to the end, and theirs won’t; but if he is not well blown before he gets to the distance, it will be a very close thing, and the length of his stride may beat you.”

“I’m awake,” was the concise reply; but Slangsby was quite satisfied therewith.

Racing may be very cruel, and it may lead to gambling and various other immoralities, major and minor; and being thus proved contrary to the precepts of Christianity, good people may be quite right in using their best efforts to discourage it. Nevertheless, it is a manly and exciting sport; and although the evils to which we have alluded may (and, we fear, do) attend it, we cannot see that the amusement in itself necessitates them. On the contrary, we conceive that they are added to it by the proneness to evil inherent in human nature, rather than as the natural consequence of the sport itself. However this may be, a finer sight than the start for the Derby we cannot easily imagine. Let the reader picture to himself some twenty three-year-old colts, their proud, expanded nostrils snuffing the wind, and their glossy coats glistening in the sunshine, ridden by the crack jockeys of England, and therefore of the world, drawn up in a line, preparatory to starting; let him reflect, in order fully to realise the earnest nature of the scene, that on the fact of which may prove the better horse depend many thousands--perhaps, in the aggregate, more than a million of pounds sterling; that the ruin of hundreds may be involved in the event of the race; that on the chances of that whirlwind course have been expended the anxious thought, the careful calculation of days and weeks and months; that the weighing and reducing these calculations to a theoretic system, by which some certainty may be attained, is the business of many men’s lives,--and he will then have some faint idea of the deep, overpowering interest that is excited by witnessing the start for the Derby.

On the occasion which we are describing two false starts occurred. Twice as the word “Go!” was pronounced by the stentorian lungs of the starter did one queer-tempered animal choose pertinaciously to turn its tail where its head should have been; and twice did the same “voice of power” vociferate the command “Come back!” and deep, if not loud, were the anathemas breathed by those jockeys who, having manoeuvred themselves into a good position, had contrived to “get away” well. However, “ ’tis an ill wind which blows good to nobody;” and these delays, annoying as they were to most of the parties concerned, were as much in favour of the supporters of Oracle as they were prejudicial to the interests of those who had backed Tartuffe.

Oracle, amongst other gifts of fortune, chanced to be blessed with a most amiable and placid temper, while Tartuffe, not possessing so philosophical a turn of mind, was apt to get excited in a crowd, and the first false start completely unsettling him, he availed himself of the second to bolt half-way to Tattenham Corner before his rider could pull him in; and even when that feat was accomplished he showed a decided preference for using his hind-legs only in progression on his return to the starting-post; by his riotous and unmanageable conduct taking a great deal more out of himself than was by any means prudent.

Once more, however, they are all in their places--the word is again given, and they are off--Tartuffe springing away with a bound like that of a lion, and half dislocating his rider’s arms by a furious effort to “get his head.” As it happened that there were two or three other “queer” tempered horses besides that of the Duc d’Austerlitz which required careful handling, the pace at first was by no means so “good” as Slangsby had wished it to be; nor could the jockey riding Tartuffe venture to improve it, for two reasons: in the first place, his horse was so excited that it required all his skill to prevent his running away with him; in the second, his former attempt to bolt had sufficed to puff him, and he required “saving” to enable him to regain wind. In the meantime Oracle was going sweetly and easily, keeping up with his horses in what appeared scarcely beyond a canter. When past the “Corner,” however, Tartuffe had decidedly improved, and his rider, remembering his instructions, began to make play. As the pace increased, the “first flight” became considerably more select, the “tender-hearted” ones gradually dropping in the rear.

Up to this point Phosphorus had been leading, followed by Advance, Whisker, The Lynx, Gossip, and Challenger; but down the next slope Tartuffe came up, passed the other horses, and after running neck to neck with Phosphorus for about a quarter of a mile, took the lead, and kept it by about half a length, Oracle lying well up on the near side. This order they preserved till near the distance, when Lynx and Challenger put on the steam to dispute the leadership with Tartuffe, who appeared by no means disposed to relinquish the post of honour, and the pace grew decidedly severe, in spite of which Oracle continued insensibly to creep up to the others.

At the distance Lynx found it “no go,” and fell back beaten; Gossip taking his place, closely waited on by Phosphorus and Oracle; a few strides more, in which Oracle improved his position, and then the final struggle begins, whips and spurs go to work in earnest--the pace is actually terrific--Gossip shuts up, Phosphorus is extinguished, Oracle and Tartuffe run neck and neck, dust flies, handkerchiefs wave, the spectators shout, when, just at the critical moment, the Frenchman’s horse shoots forward, as if propelled by some invisible power, the favourite is beaten by rather more than a head, and Tartuffe remains winner of the Derby.

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