LX. CONTAINS SOME “NOVEL” REMARKS UPON THE ROMANTIC CEREMONY OF MATRIMONY…

LX. CONTAINS SOME “NOVEL” REMARKS UPON THE ROMANTIC CEREMONY OF MATRIMONY

“Frere, old fellow, have you prepared your wedding garments?” inquired Bracy, meeting his friend accidentally one fine day, about a week after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter.

“Ay, I hear that your machinations have succeeded,” returned Frere gruffly, “and that De Grandeville is about to marry Lady Lombard. I’ll tell you what it is, Bracy; it strikes me that in assisting people to make fools of themselves and each other, you are just wasting your time and perverting your talents: depend upon it you may very safely leave folks to perform that operation on their own account, they are not likely to class that amongst their sins of omission.”

“Make fools of themselves!” repeated Bracy. “My dear Frere, it’s nothing of the sort, that was an ‘opus operatum,’ a deed done for our friends by beneficent Nature, long before I had the pleasure of their acquaintance. Moreover, in the present case, I am seeking to diminish, rather than to increase, the standing amount of folly--man and wife are one, you know; ergo, by uniting Lady Lombard and the mighty De Grandeville, the ranks of the feeble-minded are one fool minus.”

“Well, that certainly is an ingenious way of putting it,” rejoined Frere, laughing in spite of himself; “and pray how have you contrived to bring about this delectable affair; for I conclude the match is your handiwork?”

“Oh! the thing was easy enough to accomplish,” replied Bracy. “I invented pretty speeches, which I declared to each that the other had made about them; I exaggerated De Grandeville’s position to Lady Lombard, and Lady Lombard’s wealth to De Grandeville; in short, I lied perseveringly and judiciously until I fancied I had got the affair thoroughly en train. But I soon found out there was a hitch somewhere; it was clearly not on the lady’s side, for she was so far gone as to believe in De Grandeville to the extent of estimating him at his own valuation, which I take to be the ne plus ultra of credulity; so I set steadily to work to investigate him, and if possible find out what was the matter. I tried various schemes, but none of them would act, his reserve was impenetrable; at last, in despair, I gave him a champagne dinner at the Polysnobion, taking care to ply him well with wine, and to walk home with him afterwards. That did the business--he must have been most transcendently drunk and no mistake, for before we reached his lodgings, having confessed to me that his grandfather had been a tallow chandler, he went on to relate that the bar to his union with Lady Lombard was his inability to discover that she possessed any pedigree.”

“Well, for that matter,” interrupted Frere, “having admitted the tallow chandler, I don’t see that he need have been so very particular as to the aristocratic tendencies of Lady Lombard’s ancestry.”

“De Grandeville did not think so,” resumed Bracy; “he argued that no amount of chandlery could infuse vulgarity into the blood of one of his illustrious house; external circumstances, he declared, were powerless to affect the innate nobility of a De Grandeville: whole years of melting days would fail to drop a spot upon that illustrious name. But for a man, the founder of whose family came over with the Norman William, to marry a woman without a pedigree, one who probably never had so much as a grandfather belonging to her, was impossible: he had a warm regard for Lady Lombard; he considered that his name and influence, supported by her wealth, would place him in one of the proudest positions to which a mortal could aspire; but even for this he could not sacrifice his leading principle, he could not ally himself to any one without a pedigree.

“Seeing that he was in earnest, I forbore to laugh at him; and merely throwing out hints that I had reason to believe he was in error, and that although Lady Lombard’s father (an amiable soap-boiler, whose virtues simmered for sixty years in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch) had been engaged in commerce (he paraphrased the tallow chandler into a Russian merchant), as well as his grandfather, still the arguments which applied to the one case would hold good in the other, and at all events I begged him to take no rash or precipitate step in the matter till I had applied to a friend of mine (of course invented for the occasion) who was a genealogist, and used my best endeavours to clear up the difficulty--for which disinterested offer he, being still more or less inebriated, blessed me reiteratedly and fervently, and so, having seen him safely home, we parted. The next morning I visited Lady Lombard, led her on sweetly and easily to talk of her family, gained some information, and learned where to obtain more, and in less than two days had the satisfaction of proving her fiftieth cousin sixteen times removed to Edward the Third. De Grandeville was introduced to my friend in the Heralds’ Office----.”

“Whom you declared a minute ago to be invented for the occasion,” interrupted Frere.

“For which reason he was the more easily personated by Tom Edgehill of the Fusileers,” resumed the unblushing Bracy. “De Grandeville was allowed, as a great favour, to peruse the pedigree, believed in it----”

“Or pretended to do so,” suggested Frere.

“To the fullest extent!” continued Bracy, not heeding the interruption, “and the next thing I heard was that the parties were engaged.”

“So he is actually going to marry a woman without an idea, properly so called, in her head, and half as old again as he is, for the sake of her money. Well! that’s an abyss of degradation I’ll never sink to while there is a crossing to be swept in London,” was Frere’s disgusted comment.

“Chacun à son gout--for my own part I should prefer involuntary emigration at the expense and for the good of my country, vulgarly denominated transportation, to being married at all, even were the opposing party (my hypothetical wife, I mean) the most thorough-bred angel that ever wore a bustle,” returned Bracy. “By the way,” he continued, “I saw your little friend, Miss Arundel, the other day; she and her mother are staying with the ‘Lombardie Character,’ I find, but of course you know all this better than I do. Really that girl writes exceedingly good sense for a woman. Now if I were a marrying man, I don’t know any quarter in which I’d sooner throw the handkerchief.”

“You might pick it up again for your pains, for she wouldn’t have you, I’m sure,” growled Frere.

“Do you really believe so?” asked Bracy, with an incredulous smile. “Ahem! now I flatter myself the little Arundel has better taste.”

“Better sense than to do any such thing, you mean,” returned Frere more crossly than before. “Depend upon it, whenever Rose Arundel marries, she will choose a man who can respect and love her, and not a--well, I don’t mean to insult you, my good fellow, but truth will out--a self-conceited young puppy, whose head has been turned by foolish people, by whom his cleverness has been overrated and his vanity fostered.”

Bracy drew himself up, and for a minute pretended to look very fierce--then bursting into a hearty laugh, he patted his companion on the back affectionately, exclaiming, “Poor old Frere! did I put him in a rage? never mind, old boy, I only wanted to know whether there was any truth in the report that you were engaged to Miss Arundel--and now let me congratulate you. You have no doubt good cause for thinking the young lady would have shown her wisdom by selecting a sensible man such as you are, rather than a vaurien like myself, even if I were a marrying man and had placed such a temptation before her.”

Frere looked at him for a moment in utter astonishment, then muttered, “A vaurien, indeed! I always prophesied that foot-boy of yours would die with a rope round his neck, but I begin to think the complaint which will necessitate such an operation runs in the family, and that servant and master are alike affected by it.”

“And what may be the name of this alarming epidemic which you consider likely to terminate so fatally?” asked Bracy.

“A most unmitigated and virulent form of chronic impudence,” returned Frere, laughing; then shaking hands most cordially, these two oddly assorted friends parted.

After having left Bracy, Frere bent his steps towards the dwelling of Lady Lombard, with whom Mrs. Arundel and Rose were spending a few days for the avowed purpose of assisting to prepare her wedding paraphernalia, though (as the most skilful dressmaker and the most expensive tradesmen in London were at work in the good cause) their duties were merely nominal. Mrs. Arundel having explained to her hostess the nature of the engagement between Frere and her daughter, that excellent bear was allowed to run tame about the house. Lady Lombard, who was at first impressed by a vague sense of his awful amount of learning, and decidedly alarmed at his snapping and growling, had become reconciled to his presence on perceiving that Rose could tame him by a word or a smile, and committing him to her care and management, troubled herself no further about him.

“Rose, who do you think has gone to Venice?” inquired Frere, after having disburdened his pockets of a little library of heavy books, two cold, uncomfortable fossils, and the very hard handle of a Roman sword, all highly prized and newly acquired treasures, which he had brought that Rose might appreciate them and sympathise with him in his delight at having obtained them.

“To Venice,” returned Rose--“oh! who? do tell me.”

“Why, lots of people, it seems,” replied Frere. “I called upon my uncle, Lord Ashford, this morning, and found him in what is vulgarly termed a regular stew. Bellefield it seems had a horse which everybody fancied was to win the Derby, but what everybody fancied did not come to pass, for the said horse was beaten, consequently his owner has lost no end of money, for which same I for one do not pity him: I have no sympathy with your ruined gamester--and ruined he is, by the way, horse, foot, and artillery, as the military De Grandeville would say. Well, poor uncle Ashford showed me a note he had just received from his dutiful first-born, telling him that he had not a farthing of ready money in the world, except £50 to pay for his journey; that he was quite unable to meet his engagements, and that before the settling day for the Derby he must put the British Channel between him and those to whom he owed sums so large that he neither desired nor expected his father to pay them; that he would feel obliged if his lordship would increase his yearly allowance, and that he wished letters of credit to be forwarded to him at Venice, to which place he proposed immediately to follow General Grant and his daughter, who it appears left England only three weeks ago; that it was his intention to marry the young lady forthwith, and live abroad upon her fortune, until something to his advantage should turn up; and he adds in a postscript, that if his father should attempt to prevent his marriage by informing General Grant of what he is pleased to call his misfortunes, that minute he will blow his brains out. Well, poor uncle, who is a high-minded, honourable man, though he is rather proud and cold in his manner, could not bear the idea of his son marrying Annie Grant without informing the General of his loss of fortune, and at length he resolved to meet the difficulty by selling the H----shire estate, and by that means increasing Lord Bellefield’s allowance till it would amount to £3000 a year, in which case General Grant might be informed of the truth without the match being broken off, or Bellefield driven to desperation. Whereupon I observed innocently enough that the success of the scheme would in great measure depend on the tact of the person sent out to manage the negotiation: Lord Ashford agreed in this most cordially, and then saying how grateful he should feel to any one who would assist him in this strait, looked hard at me----”

“And you instantly undertook the commission; I know it as well as if I had been present and had heard all that passed,” interposed Rose with a smile, in which, though affection predominated, a slight shade of regret might have been traced.

“Why, you see, Rose, as I am one of the family, there seemed a kind of obligation upon me to do something to help them; and poor uncle Ashford did look so pitiful; and really if I had not undertaken it, I don’t know who could have been found to do so, for Bellefield quarrelled with their family solicitor because he refused to allow him to make ducks and drakes of some of the entailed property three years ago; and I shall not be gone long. Besides, I did not quite forget you, Rosey, for, do you comprehend, I shall be able to see Lewis without his fancying that I have been sent out expressly to look after him, and perhaps I may be able to persuade him to come home and live in England like a reasonable being and a Christian; at all events, I shall find out how he is going on there; and I’ve another thing to talk to Lewis about--I don’t mean to remain for ever without a wife, Miss Rose--you need not turn your head away--that’s sheer silliness--you know we are to be married some day, we expect matrimony will increase our happiness, and we have sounder grounds for our expectations than most of the fools who yoke themselves together for life; those who do so, for instance, in order to obtain rank or riches--our next-door neighbours to wit,” and he pointed with his thumb in the direction of the drawing-room, wherein were seated the mighty De Grandeville and his lady-love. “As, therefore, my reasoning is good, sound reasoning, and matrimony proved to be a desirable thing, why the sooner we get the ceremony over the better; so, as I said before, don’t turn away your head like a little goose, seeing that you’re nothing of the kind!”

“Poor Lewis,” murmured Rose; “he will scarcely rejoice to see you when he learns that the object of your mission is to hasten the marriage of Annie Grant with Lord Bellefield. Oh, Richard,” she continued eagerly, clasping her hands, “it will make him hate you--do not go!”

“Well, now, I never thought of that,” muttered Frere, thoroughly perplexed. “Why will people go and fall in love with one another that didn’t ought to?” He paused, rubbed his hair back from his forehead till it stood on end like the crest of a cockatoo, played with Rose’s workbox till he overturned it, and in his abstraction committed so many gaucheries that his companion was on the point of calling him to order when he suddenly returned to his senses, and taking Rose’s hand in his, began, “Now listen to me, my child: in the first place, as this matter nearly concerns Lewis, and therefore you, I will do nothing in it of which you do not approve; premising this, I will give you my own ideas on the subject. Touching Lewis’s interest in the affair, the question seems to hinge upon this point: does Annie Grant care for him or not? If she does not, it can’t signify to him who she marries; and as in that case she is probably attached to her cousin (women don’t always love wisely, you know), I should feel able to carry out uncle Ashford’s wishes with a clear conscience, and trust to Lewis’s good sense and kind heart not to incur his displeasure by so doing. If, on the other hand, Annie by any chance loves him, and has been bullied or persuaded into this engagement, I for one will have nothing to do with promoting the match, but, on the contrary, will exert myself to the utmost to prevent it; and now what say you?”

“That by doing as you propose you will act rightly, kindly, and judiciously, and that come what may of it, your interference must be for good,” returned Rose, gazing with looks of proud affection upon the simple-hearted, high-principled “honest man” (indeed “the noblest work of God”) who sat beside her. “But,” she continued after a moment’s thought, “there is one difficulty which I scarcely see how you will get over--how are you to find out whom Annie Grant really loves?”

“Ask her myself,” was the straightforward reply. Rose looked at him to see if he were joking, but his face was earnest and resolved.

“Oh, Richard, you will never be able to do that,” she remonstrated; “remember how such a question must distress her.”

“Which do you think will distress her most--to be asked abruptly to give her confidence to a person who is anxious to befriend her, or to spend her life with one man, when all the time she loves another?” inquired Frere almost sternly. Then laying his hand on Rose’s head and stroking her glossy hair, he continued, “No! no! Rosey, away with all such sophistries; they are the devil’s emissaries to render people first miserable, and then reckless and wicked. Marriages, properly so termed, may be made in Heaven, but depend upon it, the spurious articles too often foisted upon the public under that name--alliances in which this world’s goods are everything, and the treasures of the next world nothing--come from quite another manufactory.”

Then there was a pause, and then Rose inquired when he proposed to set out.

“Why, there is no good in procrastinating,” was the reply; “the sooner I start the sooner I shall be back again, so to-morrow the lawyer gets the necessary papers ready; the next day good Lady Goosecap here is to be married, and I mean to attend the ceremony in order to learn how to behave on such an occasion; and the day after that, if nothing unforeseen occurs to prevent me, I’m off!”

“You will write very often--every----” (Frere raised his eyebrows) “well then, every other day, will you not?” urged Rose appealingly.

“What queer things women are!” soliloquised Frere. “Now, if you had been going to the North Pole,” he continued, addressing Rose, “it would never have occurred to me to ask you to write--I should have taken it for granted that if you had discovered the northwest passage, or done anything else worth mentioning, you would have let one know; and why people write if they have nothing to say I can’t think.”

“At all events, it is a satisfaction when we are parted from those who are dear to us to be assured that they are well,” suggested Rose.

“Oh, nothing ever ails me,” replied Frere, quietly appropriating the remark; “there is not a doctor in the country who has ever received one farthing of my money; and as to physic--throw physic to the dogs, always supposing you to have any such abomination to dispose of, and any dogs at hand to throw it to: it’s a thing I don’t know the taste of, and where ignorance is bliss--well, never mind, I’ll write to you all the same, if you have a weakness that way, whenever I can find pens, paper, and a post-office; only if my letters should happen to be rather prosy, somewhat in the much-ado-about-nothing style, small blame to me, that’s all.” Thus the expedition was agreed upon, and Rose having told Frere some hundred things which he was to say to and inquire of Lewis, sat down to write a few more “notes and queries,” winding up with a pathetic appeal to her brother to bring his self-imposed exile to a conclusion.

So the silver-footed hours turned round the treadmill of time, till the dewy morn appeared which was to witness the celebration of the nuptials of Lady Lombard and the mighty Marmaduke De Grande-ville. Oh, the ardour and bustle of that devoted household! As for the servants, so late did they sit up and so early did they rise, that going to bed at all became rather a superstitious observance than a beneficial practice. Then everybody had to dress, first themselves and then somebody else; and the amount of white muslin concentrated in that happy family rendered space crisp, and gave a look of pastoral simplicity to the most iniquitously gorgeous arrangements of modern upholstery.

The bride’s dress was wonderful--words are powerless to describe it--happy those women who, favoured beyond all other daughters of Eve, were permitted to behold it. One very young lady, rash in her ignorance, ventured to ask how much the lace cost a yard. The French artiste, Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine Celestine Seraphine Belledentelles, piously invoked six authorised female saints, besides the deceased Madame Tournour, at whose flounces she had sat to acquire her art, and whom, on her lamented removal to Père la Chaise, she had privately canonised for her own especial use and behoof, and thus supported did not faint. The “mistress of the robes,” a black-eyed, brown-cheeked grisette, turned as pale as her complexion permitted her and sank upon a chair, but being unprovided with a smelling-bottle, thought it advisable not to proceed to extremities, and the mother of the culprit hurried forward, and with great presence of mind led her from the room--such mysteries are not for the profane.

Then occurred a tremendous episode--the dress was disposed in graceful folds over the ample person of its fortunate possessor, and fitted seraphically; only the bottom hook and eye, situated in the region round about the waist, would by no means permit themselves to be united, and a lucid interval, hiatus valde lachrymabilis, was the fearful consequence. The grisette did her very utmost, but her strength was inadequate to command the success her zeal deserved, and with flushed cheeks and tearful eyes she glanced appealingly to Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine, etc., etc.

That ardent foreigner stepped forward to the rescue, all the noble self-confidence of her nation flashing in her coal-black eyes, and gallantly assumed the post of danger--she was a small woman, but her frame was compact and wiry, and Tydeus-like--

“Her little body held a mighty mind.”

Setting to work with spirit, she devoted all her energies to the task before her, aged Lady Lombard winced palpably, unconsciously echoing Hamlet’s well-known aspiration--but that good lady’s melting moods were unfortunately mental, not bodily, and in this attempt “to take her in” even the French dressmaker was foiled; the “too solid” substance was not compressible beyond a certain point, and with a sigh which had a marvellous resemblance to the word sacr-r-r-e, Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine, etc., etc., desisted.

“Ah! qu’ils sont difficiles ces agraffes!” she exclaimed, rubbing her little hands with a theatrical gesture. “I have not to myself force in les poignets, vot you call oncles.”

“Wrists,” mildly suggested Mrs. Arundel, who was assisting to attire the bride--“mine are very strong, let me try”--and suiting the action to the word, she, Curtius-like, endeavoured to close the yawning gulf, but in vain.

“Ah non! c’est impossible--you shall only hurt your hands too motch, chère Madame Hirondelle,” resumed Mademoiselle--“permit me to ring zie bell, we shall make approach le maître d’hôtel, vot you call zie coachman of zie chambaire, who shall have much of force, et ce sera un fait accompli.”

“Stop, Madurmoysel,” exclaimed Lady Lombard aghast, as the energetic Frenchwoman laid her hand upon the bell-rope--“Stop, if you please, I should not like--that is, it is not exactly the custom to admit the male domestics into one’s bedroom.”

For a moment the Frenchwoman appeared utterly puzzled as to the reason of the objection, then a light broke in upon her, and she began, “Ah, je comprends! it ees not etiquette; que je suis bête! how I am stupide! mais qu’ils sont drôles ces petits scandales Anglais! Vraiment c’est comme la comédie. A Paris nous ne remarquons pas ces petits riens; et en Allemagne, zie schneider, vat you call tailor, ils font toutes les robes--mais comment faire donc?”

“Why really, Madurmoysel, je nur par--I mean, I don’t think I could bear it, if it was got to,” remonstrated Lady Lombard; “don’t you think the hook and eye might be moved a little? it’s unfortunate I am so stout--mais je nur--can’t help it.”

“Oh, mille pardons, miladi. Your lady sheep shall not be too stout; après la première jeunesse l’embonpoint is a great beauty; but zie hook and ee, à est dommage; cependant, nous verrons, ve shall see vot vill be done.” And so saying, Mademoiselle Melanie etc.’s nimble fingers went to work, and a quarter of an inch was graciously accorded; by which means the impossible became possible, and the crisis was safely got over.

As to breakfast (not the wedding-breakfast, but the breakfast before the wedding, two very different matters), that was a regular, or rather an irregular scramble: people ate and drank standing, like horses, but in a general way feelings were stronger than appetites, and with the exception of one middle-aged lady, blessed with a powerful intellect and a weak digestion, who having medical authority never to allow herself to feel hungry, breakfasted three times that morning with three different divisions of the party, little justice was done to the viands.

Rose made herself generally useful, helping all the neglected ones, and bringing comforts to the uncomfortable, until she scarcely left herself time to dress, and yet appearing the most charming little bridesmaid of the lot, although her five companions did not disgrace their uniform of white muslin with pink embellishments (the white symbolising their maiden innocence, and the pink suggesting the cheerfulness with which they would be willing to exchange it for the honourable estate of matrimony).

Then the carriages came to take up, and Mrs. Arundel and the fair Susannah, relict of Col. Brahmin, H.E.I.C.S., had the greatest difficulty in sustaining the weak nerves and fluttered spirits of the bride elect, who, as she herself expressed it, “borne down by two such agitating sets of recollections,” might well be overcome. However, by the assistance of a rich male Lombard relation (whose wealth gilded his vulgarity till Mammon worshippers believed this calf a deity) she was safely conveyed to the church, where De Grandeville awaited her, accompanied by a splendid old ancestor, who might by a very slight stretch of imagination have been taken for the identical De Grandeville who had come over with the Conqueror, and been carefully preserved (in port wine) ever since. Bracy was there, looking preternaturally solemn, all but his eyes, in which, for the time being, the whole mischief of his nature appeared concentrated, and Frere with him, serving his apprenticeship, as Bracy phrased it.

In solemn procession they approached the altar, where the priest awaited them, and opening his book, read to them an account of the true nature of the ceremony they were about to celebrate--how it was “instituted by God in the time of man’s innocency,” and was symbolical of high and holy things, and being ordained to assist us in fulfilling the various duties for which we are placed in this world, and on the due performance of which will greatly depend our weal or woe for everlasting, it should not be undertaken lightly or unadvisedly; then De Grandeville, having learned the theory of the matter, proceeded to afford a practical commentary on the text by solemnly promising to love and honour Lady Lombard till death them should part, while she, in return, pledged herself (with less chance of perjury) to serve, obey, and keep him during the term of her natural life; then he, Marmaduke, took her, Sarah, from the hands of the wealthy Lombard relation, and declared that he did so “for richer, for poorer,” though we much fear, if he had foreseen the smallest probability of the realisation of this latter proviso, the ceremony would have been then and there interrupted, instead of proceeding as it did, sweetly and edifyingly, till it wound up with “any amazement.” And everybody being much pleased and thoroughly satisfied, there was, of course, a great deal of crying, though why they cried, unless it was to see so solemn an institution thus wantonly profaned, and to hear people use words of prayer and praise, and worship God with their lips, while in their hearts they were sacrificing all the bitter feelings of their nature before the altar of Mammon, we cannot tell.

Amongst the rest Mrs. Arundel wept most meritoriously, until catching sight of Bracy sobbing aloud into a very large pocket-handkerchief, her weeping became somewhat hysterical, and ended in a sound suspiciously like laughter. Then people crowded into the vestry, which was about the size of a good four-post bedstead, and names were signed, and fees paid, and small jokes made, and then the whole party took coach and returned to the house, where the wedding-breakfast awaited them. The humours of a wedding-breakfast have been described so often and so well, that we shall merely give a very faint outline of the leading idiosyncrasies of the affair in question.

In the first place, people were very hungry, Nature having asserted her rights and promoted Appetite, vice Feeling sold (or rather starved) out. Even the lady with the weak digestion (which made up by increased velocity for want of stamina) adding a very substantial fourth to her three previous breakfasts. Then, as mouths grew disengaged, tongues found room to wag, healths were drunk, and the speechifying began. First uprose the De Grandeville ancestor, who was a tall, thin, not to say shadowy old gentleman, with a hooked nose and a weak voice, who whispered to the company that “he rose to”--here his face twitched violently and he paused, in evident distress,--“he rose to”--here a tremendous sneeze accounted for the previous spasm, and the patient, evidently relieved, proceeded, “he rose to”--once again he paused, struggling furiously with the tails of his coat--“he begged to call the attention of the company to--he had”--still the struggles with the coat-tail continued--“he had a toast to propose;” here, amidst breathless attention, he whispered to his nephew in an aside, audible throughout the whole room, “Marmaduke, I’ve left it in my great-coat--the left-hand pocket, you know;” “the toast was this”--“Thank you, Jenkins,” to the butler, who brought the missing handkerchief on a silver waiter, sticky with the overflowings of champagne--“this was his toast--he hoped that the company would do it justice--Health and happiness to the bride and bridegroom.”

And the company did it justice; so much so, that if the health and happiness of the newly-married pair depended on the amount of champagne their friends appeared willing to drink at their expense, sickness and sorrow were evils against which they might consider themselves amply secured. Silence being restored, the bridegoom rose to return thanks, his inborn greatness manifesting itself in every look and gesture, and dignified condescension adding a new grace to his sonorous voice and grandiloquent delivery. Having glanced round the table with the air of a monarch (in a fairy extravaganza) about to address his parliament, he cleared his noble throat and began--

“In rising to--ar--return thanks for the honour you have done us, in so cordially assenting to the toast proposed by a man whose presence might confer a favour upon the most aristocratic assembly in the land--a man whom--ar--even at this moment, which I have no hesitation--ar--in--ar”--(hear, hear, and question from Bracy)--“I repeat, no hesitation in--in--no hesitation in--ar--declaring to be at once the proudest and happiest moment of my life--a man who, even in this season of felicity, I yet distinctly--ar--yes, distinctly say, I envy; for he has the honour to represent the elder branch of that ancient and illustrious house of which I am a comparatively insignificant” (a groan of indignant denial from Bracy, which procured him a gracious smile from the speaker), “yes, I--ar--repeat it, a comparatively insignificant, but I hope not an entirely unworthy descendant.” Here Bracy, after a slight struggle with Frere, who sought to prevent him, rose, and speaking apparently under feelings of the greatest excitement, said, “He was sorry to interrupt the flow of eloquence which was so much delighting the company, but he was certain every one would agree with him in saying that Mr. de Grandeville’s last observation, however creditable it might be to him, as evincing his unparalleled and super-Christian (if he might be allowed the term) humility, could not be allowed to pass unchallenged. He put it to them collectively, as intellectual beings; he put it to them individually, as gallant men and lovely women (immense sensation)--if his noble friend, the illustrious man to whose burning eloquence they had just been listening, were allowed to set himself forth to the world as ‘comparatively insignificant’ and ‘not entirely unworthy,’--he asked them if such terms as these were allowed to be applied to such a character as that, where was society to seek its true ‘monarchs of mind’? where should it look for those heaven-gifted soul-heroes--those giants of thought, those ‘Noblers’ and ‘that Noblest,’ to quote the glowing words of one of the leading writers of the age, by whom its evils were to be remedied, its abuses reformed, and its whole nature purified and regenerated?--he put it to them to declare whether Mr. de Grandeville must not be entreated to recall his words?”

Deafening applause followed Bracy’s harangue, and the amendment was carried nem. con. Thus fooled to the top of his bent, De Grandeville resumed his speech, and after making a very absurd display of egotistic nonsense, family pride, and personal pretensions, gave the health of the company generally, and of his ancient ancestor and the vulgar Lombard relation in particular. Then more healths were drunk and more speeches made, and a great amount of stupidity elicited, interspersed with some drollery, when Bracy was called upon to return thanks for the bridesmaids, which he did in an affected falsetto, smiling, blushing, coquetting, and screwing up imaginary ringlets, much after the fashion of the inimitable John Parry, when it pleases him to enact one of the young ladies of England in the nineteenth century. Then the female portion of the company retired to relieve their feelings by a little amateur crying and kissing, champagne and susceptibility being mysteriously united in the tender bosoms of the softer sex; then the miraculous robe was taken off and the bride re-attired for travelling; then the gentlemen came upstairs, all more or less “peculiar” from drinking wine at that unaccustomed hour in the morning, and some little business was transacted; one spirited bridesmaid, who had had a shy young man nibbling for some time, actually harpooning her fish, and landing him skilfully beyond all chance of floundering out of an engagement, by referring him on the spot to mamma. Mrs. Arundel, who by this time had learned to entertain a most lady-like and unchristian hatred against the fair Susannah, maliciously laid herself out to captivate the limp and unstable affections of Mr. Dackerell Dace, and succeeded so well, that she actually began to deliberate whether opulence and triumph over her rival might not render Dace endurable as a permanency. Then the travelling carriage with Newman’s four greys drew up to the door, and the stereotyped adieus were spoken, the stereotyped smiles smiled, and tears shed, and all the necessary nonsense rehearsed with most painstaking diligence, the only original feature in the whole affair being Frere’s remark to Bracy as the happy pair drove off--

“You were about right, old fellow, when you compared marrying to hanging. I tell you what it is--sooner than undergo all this parade of folly, absurdity, and bad taste, I’ll be spliced at the pier-head at Dover, and set sail for Calais as soon as the ring is on the bride’s finger; better be sea-sick than sick at heart with such rubbish as we’ve been witness to.”

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LXI. “WE MET, ’TWAS IN A CROWD!”

Lord Bellefield safely accomplished his journey to Venice, reaching that city of palaces without let or hindrance. Despite his imperturbable assurance, a close observer might have discovered from external signs that his lordship was ill at ease, and in no particular was it more apparent than in the marked change in his manner towards General Grant and his daughter. The cold nonchalance with which he formerly tolerated the General’s stateliness, and the easy, almost impertinent confidence with which he had been accustomed to prosecute his suit to Annie, had given place to an affectation of studiously courteous deference when he addressed the father, and to respectful yet tender devotion in his intercourse with the daughter, which proved that to secure the good opinion of the former, and, if possible, the affections of the latter, had now become a matter of importance to him. With General Grant he was in great measure successful, that gallant officer believing, in his simplicity, that his intended son-in-law had at length finished sowing his wild oats; a species of seed which, being universally acknowledged to contain, besides every small vice extant, the germs of the seven deadly sins, has this remarkable peculiarity, that being once sown, it is popularly supposed to bring forth a plentiful crop of all the domestic virtues. Deluded by this fallacy, the General fondly trusted that the coming event of matrimony had cast its shadow before, and extinguished all the wild-fire which had hitherto flung its baleful glare over his Lordship’s comet-like course; or, to drop metaphor and condescend to that much better thing, plain English, the gallant officer taught himself to believe that Lord Bellefield had at length seen the error of his ways and intended to marry and live virtuously ever after. With the lady, however, his lordship did not succeed so easily; and skilful tactician as he not unjustly considered himself, never had he felt more completely bewildered or more thoroughly perplexed how to act. Annie’s whole nature appeared to him so completely altered that he could hardly recognise her as the same person. Instead of the simple, amiable, child-like character which he had despised but fancied would do very well for a wife, he now found a proud, capricious beauty, whose mood seemed to vary between cold indifference and a teasing, sarcastic humour, which he could neither fathom nor control. If he tried to interest or amuse her, she listened with a careless, distrait manner, which proved his efforts to be completely unavailing; if he attempted the tender or sentimental, she laughed at him, turning all he said into ridicule by two or three words of quiet but bitter irony. She appeared tacitly to acquiesce in their engagement, but any attempt to fix a time for its fulfilment served only to estrange her still more. Does the reader think this change unnatural? may he never witness the alteration which a grief such as Annie’s makes, even in the gentlest natures--may he never experience the bitterness of that nascent despair, which can sour the sweetest temper and force cold looks and cutting words from eyes accustomed to beam with tenderness, and lips from which accents of affection alone were wont to flow!

One morning, rather more than a week after Lord Bellefield’s arrival, an expedition was proposed to visit one of the architectural lions of the picturesque old city, and as the General seemed inclined to accede to the scheme, and Annie urged no objection, it was agreed that they should go.

“I make one proviso,” observed Charles Leicester, “and that is, that you come home in good time. I don’t wrant to frighten you, in fact there is nothing to be frightened about, only I know that there has been for some time past a spirit of disaffection abroad among the workmen at the Arsenal, and if they should attempt to make a demonstration by congregating in the squares and few open spaces in this amphibious city, it might be disagreeable for you.”

“But is such an event at all probable?” inquired Laura.

“Why, yes,” was the reply; “I had a note this morning from Arundel”--catching a reproachful look from his wife, Charley stopped in momentary embarrassment, then continued--“a--that is, from a friend of mine, telling me such a thing was possible--however, I’ll go with you myself, and keep you in proper order.”

As Charley in his forgetfulness blundered out the name of Arundel, Laura did not dare to look at Annie; when, however, she ventured a moment afterwards to steal a glance towards her, her features wore the cold, listless look which had now, alas! become habitual to them, and exhibited no sign of emotion by which her friend could decide whether she had remarked the name, or whether it had passed without striking her ear. Almost immediately afterwards she rose, and saying she supposed she had better get ready, quitted the room. Lord Belle-field had not been present at this little scene. With faltering steps Annie sought her own apartment, closed and locked the door; then, instead of preparing to dress, flung herself into an easy-chair, and pressing her hands upon her throbbing temples, tried to collect her thoughts. She had heard the name only too clearly, and combining it with Walter’s tale of the ghost, had guessed the truth. He was then in Venice, and not only that, but he had evidently established some communication with the Leicesters, and must therefore be aware of the presence of her father and herself; nay, by what she had gathered from Charles’s speech, he must be actually engaged in watching over their safety; and as the idea struck her, a soft, bright light came into her eyes, and a faint blush restored the roses to her cheeks, so that any one who had seen her five minutes before would scarcely have recognised her for the same person. “But with what purpose could he be there? why, if the Leicesters knew it, had they so studiously concealed it from her?--from her!” and as she repeated the words the recollection of Walter’s speech, “He went away because he loved you, and you did not love him,” flashed across her. “What if it were true? what if he had really loved her, and had left them because his feelings were becoming too strong for his control?” and then a thousand remembered circumstances (trifling in themselves, but confirmatory of that which she now almost believed to be the truth) occurred to her. But if this were indeed the case--if, instead of resigning his situation because, as her fears had urged, he had guessed at the nature of her sentiments towards him, he had loved her, and his honourable feelings had driven him into a self-imposed exile--what must he not have suffered! and oh! knowing as much as he did of her feelings towards Lord Bellefield, what must he not have thought of her, when he learned that in less than four-and-twenty hours after his departure she had renewed her engagement to a man he was aware she both disliked and mistrusted! above all, what a false view must it have given him of her feelings towards himself! Oh, how she hoped, how she prayed this blow might have been spared him! Then the present, what did it mean? the future, how would it turn out? On one point she was determined: only let her ascertain beyond a doubt that Lewis loved her, and she would die rather than marry Lord Bellefield. The evils that befall us in this world are not without even their temporal benefit. Two years of hopeless sorrow had given a species of desperate courage to a mind naturally prone to a want of self-dependence. Anything was preferable to the anguish she had gone through; and Annie Grant’s decision now was very different to the “lady’s yea” or nay she would have uttered ere the storm of passion had swept over her maiden spirit.

The effect produced on Annie by the new light which had broken in upon her did not immediately pass away, and although her remarks were chiefly addressed to her cousin Charles, Lord Bellefield was equally surprised and puzzled by the change in her manner. In order to reach the building they were about to visit, they were forced to disembark from their gondola, and after proceeding along a species of cloister, to cross one of the foot-bridges which so constantly in Venice intersect the canals. Under the shade of an arch of this cloister stood the tall figure of a man; as the party approached he drew back further into the shadow, and, himself unseen, observed them attentively as they passed. The excitement of the morning had left its traces in the flushed cheek and sparkling eye of Annie Grant. At the moment she quitted the boat, Charley Leicester had made her laugh by some quaint remark on the personal appearance of a fat little individual who was one of the gondoliers, but whose figure by no means coincided with the romantic associations his avocation recalled. As, leaning on Lord Bellefield’s arm, she passed the arch behind which the stranger was concealed, her companion addressed to her some observation which necessitated a reply. Turning to him with the smile Leicester’s observation had provoked still upon her lips, the light fell strongly on her features, revealing them fully to the eager gaze of (for we intend no mystification as to his identity) Lewis Arundel. He looked after them with straining eyeballs, till a corner of the building hid them from his view. Then dark lines spread across his forehead, the proud nostril arched, the stern mouth set, the flashing eye grew cold and stony, and a spirit of evil seemed to take possession of him.

“So,” he muttered, “it has come to this; with my own eyes have I beheld her perfidy. It is well that it should be so, the cure will be the more complete, and yet”--he pressed his hand to his throbbing brow--“yet how beautiful she is! She is changed; her face has acquired expression, soul, power, all it wanted to render it perfect, and--to madden me.”

He paused, then appearing to have collected strength, continued more calmly, “Yes, I have seen it; she clung to his arm, she smiled on him, she loves and will marry him. It is over; for me there must be no past; I must sweep it from my memory. Happiness I can never know; as far as the affections are concerned, the game of life is played. Well, be it so, my art still is left me, and the dark, the unknown future.”

Again he paused. Ere the arrival of the party, the sight of which had so deeply affected him, he had been sketching an antique gable opposite. He resumed his work, and by a few hasty but graphic strokes transferred to his sketch-book the object which had attracted him to the spot. Replacing his drawing materials, he continued, “ ’Tis strange how the sight of that man affected me: I fancied I had taught myself the evil and folly of nourishing sentiments of hatred against him, and yet the moment I beheld him, all the old feelings rushed back upon me with redoubled vigour. I must avoid his presence, or my wise resolutions will go for nothing.” He sighed deeply. “This, then, is all the fruit of two years of mental discipline, to find, at the end of the time, that I love her as deeply and hate him as bitterly as I did at the beginning. Oh, it is humiliating thus to be the slave of passion!”

Communing with himself after this fashion, Lewis quitted the spot and proceeded in the direction of his own lodgings. On reaching the square of St. Mark he found it partially occupied by an excited crowd, composed of the very lowest order of the people, its numbers being constantly swelled by fresh parties pouring in from various parts of the city. It instantly occurred to Lewis that in order to reach the Palazzo Grassini, Leicester and his companions would be forced to cross the square, and consequently obliged to make their way through the crowd; and a feeling which he did not attempt to analyse, but which was, in truth, anxiety for Annie’s safety, determined him to remain there till he had seen them return. Accordingly, turning up his coat collar, and slouching his hat over his eyes in order to conceal his features, he mingled with the crowd. In the meantime the Grant party, ignorant of the difficulties that awaited them, were quietly examining statues and criticising pictures.

“Laura, you look tired, and Annie seems as if she were becoming somewhat ‘used-up,’” observed Leicester, glancing from his wife towards his cousin. “No wonder either, for we’ve been on our feet for more than two hours, and as for my share in the matter, I tell you plainly, if you keep me here much longer, you’ll have to carry me home on your back, Mrs. Leicester, for walk I won’t.”

Thus urged the ladies confessed their fatigue, and their willingness to return; but there was still another gallery of paintings unseen, which the General evidently wished to visit. He had commissioned an artist to copy two or three of them, and he required Lord Bellefield’s opinion as to the propriety of his choice. This occasioned a difficulty, which Laura met by proposing the following scheme--viz., that she, Annie, and Charley should leave the General and Lord Bellefield to their own devices, and taking a gondola, row to a point at which they would be within two minutes’ walk of St. Mark’s. Lord Bellefield made some slight remonstrance, and it was clear he disapproved of the scheme, but the General was peremptory, so he had no resource but to submit with the best grace he was able.

“Famous things gondolas are, to be sure,” observed Charley, as, placing a cushion beneath his head, he stretched himself at full length under the awning; “they afford almost the only instance that has come under my notice in which the intensely romantic and the very decidedly comfortable go hand in hand--they cut out cabs, and beat ’busses into fits. Now, we only want a little melody to make the thing perfect--Laura, sing us a song!”

“Sing you asleep, you mean, you incorrigible----”

“There, that will do; don’t become vituperative, you termagant,” interrupted her husband. “Annie, dear, gentle cousin Annie, warble forth something romantic with your angel-voice, do, and I’ll say you’re----”

“What?” inquired Annie.

“A regular stunner!” was the reply.

“And if the epithet be at all appropriate, it clearly proves me unqualified for the office,” returned Annie, smiling, “so you really must hold me excused.”

“Then the long and short of the matter is that the duty devolves upon me,” rejoined Charley, and slowly raising himself into a half sitting, half kneeling attitude, he placed himself at his wife’s feet, after the fashion of those very interesting cavaliers who do the romantic on the covers of sentimental songs; then having played an inaudible prelude upon a supposititious guitar, he placed one hand upon his heart, and extending the other in a theatrical attitude towards the boatman, begun--

“Gondolier, row--O!”

when, having extemporarily parodied the first verse of that popular melody, he was beginning the second with--

“Ain’t this here go--

Glorious--oh--o-”

when the prow of the gondola struck against the steps where they were to land with so sharp a jerk as to pitch the singer on his hands and knees, and effectually check his vocalising. After discharging the boatman, they proceeded a short distance along the bank of the canal, and then turned down a narrow lane, or alley, leading to the square of St. Mark. In this Leicester was annoyed to perceive knots of disreputable-looking men talking rapidly, or hurrying along with eager gestures towards the square. Finding, as they advanced, that the crowd became thicker, Leicester paused, irresolute whether or not to proceed.

“Surely we had better turn back,” urged Laura. “I should not be afraid if we were alone, for I know you could take care of me, but----,” and she glanced towards Annie, who, although she said nothing, had turned very pale, and clung with convulsive energy to her cousin’s arm. Charles looked back, and to his utter dismay perceived that the crowd behind had been increased by a fresh accession of numbers, and that their retreat was effectually cut off.

“There is nothing remaining for us but to keep on,” he said; “the stream of people appears, fortunately, to be going our way, and all we can do is to go with it: I dare say they are too much engrossed by their own affairs to trouble their heads about us. Whatever occurs, don’t let go my arm, either of you; it is rather disagreeable, certainly, but there is nothing to be really afraid of, and we shall reach home in five minutes.”

Hoping these assertions, in regard to the truth of which he was himself somewhat sceptical, might suffice to reassure his companions, Leicester continued his course, occasionally annoyed by the pressure of the crowd, but not otherwise molested till they reached the square of Saint Mark. Here the sight that awaited them was by no means encouraging: the whole space was filled with a dense crowd of the lowest rabble of Venice, who, many of them the worse for liquor, appeared in a state of considerable excitement, and filled the air with mingled shouts, cries, and curses. To pass safely through such an assembly, with his attention divided between his two charges, appeared next to impossible, and thoroughly perplexed, Charles Leicester paused, unable to decide whether it were better to advance or attempt to retrace their steps. As he thus pondered a rush of people forced them forward, and they found themselves completely hemmed in by the crowd, while from the pressure of those around them Laura and Annie experienced the greatest difficulty in retaining their grasp of Charley’s arm. Still no personal incivility was offered them, and Leicester began to hope they might gradually make their way across the square without actual danger, when a cry from Annie convinced him of his error. The cause of her alarm was as follows:--

One of that industrious fraternity (some members of which are to be met with in every large city) whose principles in regard to the rights of property are reprehensibly lax, attracted by the sparkling of a valuable brooch in Annie’s shawl, conceived the opportunity too good to be lost; accordingly, pressing close to her, he made a snatch at the ornament, seizing it so rudely as to tear open the shawl and partially drag it from her shoulders. As, alarmed by her cry, Charles turned to discover its cause, a tall figure sprang forward and wrested his spoil from the robber, flinging him off at the same time with such force that he staggered and fell; then addressing Leicester, the stranger said in a deep, stern voice, each accent of which thrilled through Annie’s very soul--

“Make for the church steps--think only of protecting Mrs. Leicester. I will be answerable for this lady’s safety.”

Then Annie was conscious that her shawl was replaced and carefully wrapped round her, and she felt herself half-led, half-carried forward by one before whose resistless strength all obstacles seemed, as it were, to melt away. How they passed through that yelling, maddened crowd she never knew, but ere she had well recovered from her first alarm at the ruffian’s attack, she found herself placed on the steps of St. Mark’s Church, her back leaning against a column, and the tall, dark figure of her preserver standing statue-like beside her, in such a position as to screen her from the pressure of the crowd. Involuntarily she glanced up at his features; hidden by the coat collar and slouched hat, the only portion of his face that remained visible was the tip of a black moustache, the proud, arched nostril, and the cold, stony gaze of two fierce black eyes, fixed upon her as though they would pierce her very soul. It was a look to haunt her to her dying day, and worse than all, she understood it! In a moment the idea flashed upon her. He had loved her! he knew she was about to marry his bitterest enemy, and now he hated her. Poor Annie, if mental agony could kill, that instant she had died. Lewis, thou art bitterly avenged!

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LXII. “POINTS A MORAL,” AND SO IT IS TO BE HOPED “ADORNS A TALE.”

“What is the next move?” inquired Leicester, coming up with his arm round his wife’s waist, and his hat crushed into the shape of a biffin.

“Wait here for a few minutes,” returned Lewis, “the crowd is already dispersing in the direction of the Arsenal.”

“The Arsenal, what do they want there?” inquired Leicester.

“To waylay Marinovitch as he leaves the place, and murder him,” returned Lewis in a stern whisper, “but he has been warned of their design, and will of course take measures to ensure his safety.”

“Pleasant all this!” muttered Leicester, taking off his injured hat and endeavouring in some degree to restore its original shape; “here’s a case of wanton destruction--glad it is not my head all the same. Now the coast seems pretty clear, suppose we move on.”

Coldly and silently Lewis resumed his office of guardian: the space intervening between St. Mark’s Church and the Palazzo Grassini was passed in safety, and they stood within the courtyard of Leicester’s dwelling. Charley laid his hand on Lewis’s shoulder.

“You will come in?” he said; “you are hot and tired, and require refreshment--a glass of wine?”

Lewis shook his head.

“It is impossible,” he replied coldly; then adding, “I am happy to have been of use to--to Mrs. Leicester and yourself,” he raised his hat slightly to Annie and turned to depart: recollecting however that he still held in his hand the brooch which he had rescued from the ruffian’s clutches, he paused with the intention of giving it to Laura; but Laura had caught sight of “Tarley’s” curly head peeping out at her, and actuated by a sudden impulse of maternal affection, or for some other reason which we shall not attempt to fathom, she had tripped off in the direction of her self-willed offspring. Leicester was slowly following her, all his faculties apparently engrossed by a second attempt to reform his outraged hat. Lewis and Annie were left therefore virtually alone. Advancing towards her with an expression of countenance so cold and immovable that every feature might have been carved in marble, Lewis began--

“I beg pardon, I had forgotten to return your brooch.”

It was the first time that morning he had personally addressed her, and his doing so appeared to break the spell which had kept her silent; she took the brooch from him, murmuring some indistinct words of thanks, then gaining courage as she proceeded, she glanced at him appealingly, saying--

“Strange as this meeting is, I am sure I cannot be mistaken--Mr. Arundel, have you quite forgotten me?”

As she uttered these words a kind of spasm passed across Lewis’s face, and for a moment he appeared afraid to trust himself to speak; recovering, however, he replied in the same cold, measured tone which he had used throughout the adventure--

“No, Miss Grant, I (and he laid an emphasis on the pronoun, so light that a casual observer would not have detected it, and yet which shot a pang through Annie’s heart that caused her colour to come and go, and her limbs to tremble) do not forget so quickly.”

Unable to meet his glance, which she felt was fixed upon her, and scarcely conscious, in her agitation, of what she was saying, Annie faltered out--

“You will give my father an opportunity of thanking you, I hope; he will, I cannot doubt--that is, we shall all be glad to renew our intimacy with so old a friend.”

Lewis paused ere he could trust himself to reply. Her evident emotion, the earnestness of her manner, half timid, half imploring, tended to soothe his wounded spirit and disarm his wrath; but the vision of the morning, in which he had seen her clinging to Lord Bellefield’s arm and smiling upon him, was too fresh in his recollection, and the demon of pride and jealousy still retained full dominion over him.

“You must pardon me,” he said, “I will reserve my visit to General Grant till I can congratulate him on his daughter’s marriage.” Then raising his hat ceremoniously, he bowed to her, and was gone!

No traces of the tumultuous assembly, which had so greatly alarmed Laura and Annie, remained when Lord Bellefield and General Grant crossed the square of St. Mark on their return from the morning’s sight-seeing. As they drew near the Palazzo Grassini, a tall lad in squalid raiment, leaning upon crutches, and with a patch over one eye, approached and begged of them. The General at first refused to listen to him, but becoming wearied by his pertinacity, felt in his pocket for something to give him.

“I have no small change about me,” he remarked, after a minute’s ineffectual search, “but you have, Bellefield; they gave you a handful of their stupid little coins at the last shop we went into. Lend me two or three, will you?”

As he mentioned his companion’s name the beggar fixed his piercing eye on the features of the person addressed, scanning them eagerly, as though he sought to fix them indelibly in his memory. Returning his glance with a haughty stare, his lordship carelessly flung him a couple of Zwanzigers and passed on. The beggar watched his retreating figure till it was no longer visible, then turning quickly, hobbled with his crutches out of the square, continuing the same method of progression till he reached the nearest canal, when, looking round to assure himself that he was not observed, he coolly pitched his supporters into the water, removed the patch from his eye, which by no means seemed to require such a protection, walked briskly till he reached a spot where a small skiff was moored, springing into which he commenced rowing vigorously, and was soon hidden from sight by a bend of the canal.

When Lewis returned to his lodgings the following note awaited him:--

“My search is ended; I have found my sister in time to see her--die! Her seducer, heartless in his villainy, brought his victim to a foreign land, kept her in luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left her--to starve. My curse has little power, or it would have withered him long ago; but may the curse of that God who made him and her cleave to him until-- _I_meet him. Sir, I know not how to thank you. She has told me how you warned her, how you explained to her his real character. She was infatuated, but it is not for me to judge her. We seem a doomed race, fatal alike to ourselves, to those we love, and to those we hate. Oh, that she could live! she is soft and gentle, and--ay! though a scoundrel has debased her, still I say it--she is good and pure, and she would have calmed my angry spirit; she would have taught me to love something human. But it was not to be: each hour that I sit by her I expect to be her last. She sends you her blessing; may God’s go with it.

“Miles H---------.”

Lewis could not peruse this letter without deep emotion. In the just, though, alas! ill-governed indignation which gave a rude eloquence even to the expression of this poor youth’s outraged feeling, he traced a likeness to his former self. “Heartless in his villainy, he kept her in luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left her--to starve.”

This was the man Annie Grant loved and was about to marry! Oh, how his heart bled for her! He pictured to himself her future life--how she would gradually, by slow and painful steps, discover her husband’s true character, each advance in knowledge a new and separate misfortune, until love should become indifference, and indifference end in hatred. Even yet he might prevent it. His London agent had forwarded to him that morning an English newspaper containing an unmistakable allusion to the events of the Derby day, and openly declaring Lord Bellefield a defaulter. This shown to General Grant, and his tale of Hardy’s daughter verified by the evidence now in his possession, the old soldier would sooner see his daughter lying dead at his feet than sanction her union with a man devoid alike of honour and of principle. But then came in pride. Had he known that Annie loved him, or had General Grant never mistrusted him, Lewis would have come forward without a moment’s hesitation; but his motives had been once doubted, his affections betrayed, and his pride could neither forget nor forgive it. Besides, Lord Bellefield would attribute his interference to a feeling of petty malice; such was not the revenge for which, despite his principles and his reason, his soul still thirsted. So pride gained the day, though, tyrant-like, in the very midst of his triumph he made his victim miserable.

Unable to apply his mind to anything, he strolled out, trusting the evening air would allay the fever of his blood. After wandering about restlessly for some time he remembered that he had eaten nothing for many hours, and turning into the nearest casino he called for wine and biscuits. Having finished his frugal repast, he was about to leave the house when three persons entered, and crossing through the refreshment-room, passed into a salon which he knew to be devoted to play. One of the three, a short, insignificant-looking man, was a stranger to him, but the two others he recognised instantly--they were Walter and Lord Bellefield. A sudden impulse prompted him to follow them; at that time in the evening the salon was certain to be pretty well filled, and Lewis trusted to avoid observation by mixing with the crowd, relying on the alteration in his appearance to escape recognition, even if he were perceived either by Walter or Lord Bellefield. Accordingly, waiting his opportunity, he joined a group of Italians, who, eagerly talking over the attempt upon the life of Colonel Marinovitch (which had been frustrated by his escaping on board the corvette which guarded the harbour), scarcely perceived this addition to their party. Entering with them, and still keeping in the background, he took up a position whence he could observe the proceedings of those for both of whom he felt an interest equally deep, though so utterly distinct in character.

Lord Bellefield, who appeared unusually listless and indifferent, lounged up to the table and staked a few Napoleons on the chances of the game; then, drawing forward a chair he seated himself, and continued carelessly to watch the proceedings of the other players. But despite the presence of the man he hated, Lewis’s attention soon became wholly absorbed in observing Walter. From his entire conduct it was evident that this was by no means his first visit to the salon; on the contrary, it was only too plain that a taste for gambling had been implanted in the poor boy’s feeble yet obstinate mind. That he clearly understood the nature of the game Lewis could not believe, but that he had acquired sufficient insight into the rules to enable him to adhere to them, and that he was keenly alive to the results of the deal, or the throw, elated when he won and depressed when he lost, was most certain.

The third person of the party, whom Lewis rightly conjectured to be his successor in the office of tutor, did not play himself, but appeared to take great interest in Walter’s game, looking over his cards and advising him what to do. Lewis also noticed that whenever Walter won he always received gold, but that his losses were paid in paper money, and the truth immediately occurred to him--viz., that, child-like, the poor boy only attached value to the glittering coin, and that the worth of the bank-notes had been completely misrepresented to him, so that he believed himself winning when in fact he was losing considerable sums. Moreover, from certain glances which passed between Mr. Spooner and the proprietor of the salon, who held the bank, Lewis became convinced that some secret understanding existed by which the tutor shared in the profits.

That Lord Bellefield was entirely ignorant of all that was passing before his eyes Lewis could not conceive, while at the same time the trifling nature of the stakes rendered it most unlikely that he could have any personal interest in the affair; the probability therefore was that he saw what was going on but felt totally indifferent as to the matter. This view was confirmed when, as Walter grew more excited, began playing higher, and at last staked ten Napoleons upon one cast, Mr. Spooner approached Lord Bellefield and whispered something in his ear, to which his friend replied carelessly, “Oh, let him have his fling while he’s in the humour;” then in a lower tone he added, “not blind! but the money is, I dare say, of more use in your pocket than in his, so you’ll be the greater fool of the two if you attempt to prevent him.”

Spooner appeared again to urge some difficulty, to which Lord Bellefield rejoined with a sneering laugh, “Yes, it suits you charmingly to assume the rôle of the innocent! Can’t you get him to sign another bond payable when he comes of age? Tortoni will no more refuse to cash it than he did on a former occasion;” then smiling again, he added, “I tell you I am not blind, mon ami, but ’tis no concern of mine; I am not the lout’s guardian, Heaven be thanked.” Although from the position in which he stood Lewis only caught a word or two here and there of this conversation, yet his quick apprehension supplied the blanks with sufficient correctness, and the whole villainy of the thing burst upon him. Here was a man engaged to educate and watch over the poor, feeble-minded being before him abusing the power thus entrusted to him to lead him to evil, and availing himself of the imbecility he was bound to protect to swindle his helpless charge; while Lord Bellefield, whose duty it was to denounce such practices to General Grant the instant he suspected them, had evidently not only no intention of doing so, but sat coolly looking on, smiling with a fiend-like satisfaction at each fresh development of human wickedness.

As Lewis watched Walter’s flushed cheeks, eager eyes, and hands which trembled as they were stretched out to receive the gold which this time he had been allowed to win; as he marked the lines which excitement and the permitted indulgence of a capricious, obstinate temper had traced upon his smooth brow and round the corners of his mouth, all his old affection for the poor boy rushed back upon him, and his just anger grew to such a pitch that he could scarcely repress it. At this moment a fresh deal had begun.

“I will win more,” exclaimed Walter eagerly; “Mr. Spooner, tell him I want to double my stake.”

“But that has been done already,” was the reply; “the dealer has doubled every one’s stake this time.”

“Then I will double that,” returned Walter, carried away by the excitement of the game; “tell him so, I say.”

Spooner appeared for a moment undecided; the stake, thus quadrupled, amounted to forty Napoleons, and alarmed at its magnitude, he glanced in irresolution towards Lord Bellefield. A look of undisguised contempt for his pusillanimity was the only reply his lordship vouchsafed; goaded on by which, Spooner turned to comply with his pupil’s direction.

But Lewis could bear it no longer; regardless of consequences, he strode across the room and laid his hand upon Walter’s shoulder, saying as he did so, in a gentle though determined voice, “Walter, you must not play for such high stakes.”

With a cry of mingled joy and surprise Walter sprang from his seat, gazed earnestly at Lewis’s features, then exclaiming, “Oh, you have come back at last!” threw himself upon his friend’s breast with a burst of tears. Much affected, Lewis returned his embrace, and leading him carefully to a seat, waited till he should recover from his surprise and emotion. In the meantime the game had come to a standstill, the bystanders, consisting chiefly of foreigners, being as much charmed by such a scene as an Englishman would have been annoyed at it. The moment quiet was in some degree restored, the proprietor, mindful of his own interest, resumed his deal, inquiring with a glance at Spooner what sum his young friend had staked. Spooner paused, but Lord Bellefield, who had risen and with lowering brow approached the scene of action, prompted him, and he replied, “Forty Napoleons.”

Lewis’s eye flashed. “It is at your peril you do this,” he said; “my first act on quitting this place shall be to inform General Grant of the manner in which you betray the trust he has reposed in you.”

Spooner turned pale; but relying on Lord Bellefield’s support, managed to stammer out, “And pray, sir, who the deuce may you be?”

“I will tell you, and this worshipful company also,” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, stepping forward. “This fellow is, or rather was, a menial in General Grant’s household, discarded for insolent behaviour, and as such unfit for the society of gentlemen, into which as he has now ventured to intrude himself, I, for one, vote he be ignominiously expelled.”

This speech caused, as might be expected, a sensation throughout the room, and the bystanders congregated round Lewis and Lord Bellefield, glancing from one to the other, to discover from their bearing and appearance which was the true man, and which the false. Up to this moment Lewis had been wrapped in a large Spanish cloak; he now allowed it to glide from his shoulders, as, advancing a step, he boldly confronted his adversary.

“Your lordship has been pleased to speak explicitly,” he said; “were I inclined to follow your example, I might, with some shadow of truth, denounce you as a ruined blackleg and an outlawed defaulter; but I prefer simply declaring that in the statement you have just made you have maliciously and unequivocally--lied!”

As he spoke he raised his head proudly, and folding his arms across his breast, waited the effect of his words. He was not kept long in suspense. However numerous might be Lord Bellefield’s faults, a want of personal courage was not one of them. As Lewis referred to the cause of his ignominious exile his face grew pale with rage, but when he gave him the lie his fury became uncontrollable. Springing forward with a leap like that of a maddened tiger, he struck Lewis a violent blow on the cheek, which, firmly as his feet were planted, staggered him, exclaiming as he did so--

“Take that, beggar!” Instead of rushing on his adversary, as those amongst the spectators who knew him (and there were several who did so) expected, Lewis, recovering himself, stood for an instant regarding Lord Bellefield with a smile of triumph, though to those who remarked him closely there was an expression in his eyes which, in spite of themselves, caused them to shudder, while, strange to say, he was drawing a soiled white kid glove on his right hand; having done so, he advanced a step, saying in a stern, deep voice--

“Your Lordship is too generous--the beggar returns your almsgiving--thus!”

As he spoke there was a sudden movement in the crowd--a frightful blow was struck, and Lord Bellefield lay insensible on the ground, the blood flowing from a cut on his forehead, whilst over him stood Lewis, his mouth set, and his eyes burning with the fire of hatred. Several of the bystanders sprang forward to assist the fallen man, but Lewis sternly motioned them back.

“Wait,” he said,--his voice sounded deep and hollow, and there was something in the expression of his face which quelled the stoutest heart amongst those who stood around him,--drawing the glove from the hand which had struck the blow, he dipped it in the blood that still trickled from the forehead of the fallen man, muttering to himself as he did so, “That, then, has come to pass--is the rest to follow?” He next examined the countenance of his prostrate foe--“He is merely stunned,” he said; “raise him, and bring water to bathe his temples.” As he spoke he assisted those who stepped forward to lift the injured man and place him on a chair; having done so, he left him to the care of the bystanders, and again folding his arms, stood coolly awaiting the issue.

The event justified his predictions: on the first application of the cold water Lord Bellefield revived, and in less time than could have been expected, the bleeding, which was very slight, was arrested. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said, addressing a young Italian of rank, with whom he was acquainted, and who had been bathing his temples with the cold water--

“Rastelli, you may inform that scoundrel that he has succeeded; rather than allow him to escape with impunity, I will undergo the degradation of meeting him.” He spoke in a low, faint voice, but the expression with which he glanced towards Lewis as he pronounced the word “scoundrel” was one of undying hatred.

“If your Lordship intended to apply that observation to the Signore Luigi, I shall have the felicity to explain that your Excellency labours under a mistake; that gentleman is the son of a gallant officer, with whom I have had the honour to serve in more than one campaign. It is no condescension in any one under the rank of a Royal Prince to meet the son of the brave Captain Arundel.”

The speaker was an old General Officer in the Austrian service, who possessed a European reputation, and whose dictum on all points of honour was conclusive. Lord Bellefield bit his under-lip in anger and vexation, cursing his own hastiness which had elicited this vindication of his enemy: perceiving, however, that he should only place himself still more completely in the wrong by any attempt to impugn the old Austrian’s statement, he merely bowed haughtily in reply, then desiring to be shown into a private room, he took Rastelli’s arm and quitted the salon.

Lewis stood gazing after his late opponent with a dark and troubled countenance; it was not remorse that he experienced, for were the deed to have been done over again, he would not have shrunk from its performance; and yet the feeling which engrossed him partook of a remorseful character--it seemed to him as though he had now lost all power of free will--he had taken the first step, and the rest must follow; there was no longer any possibility of turning back. Like one walking in his sleep, he permitted himself to be led into another room--he heard, as in a dream, Rastelli enter and make arrangements with a young Austrian officer who had volunteered to act as his second for his meeting Lord Bellefield at daybreak. As the person challenged, he had the choice of weapons, but he waived his right, and allowed his opponent to select pistols. Ehrenburg (his second) whispered to him that Lord Bellefield was reported to be a dead shot, but an indifferent swordsman.

“The more reason to allow him to choose pistols,” was Lewis’s careless reply.

Ehrenburg still urged the madness of throwing away a chance. “It will be no boy’s play,” he said; “mark my words, Luigi, this duel will be one for life or death.”

“Do you think I do not know it?” returned Lewis sternly, “ay, as well as if I now saw him lying dead before my feet,” and as he spoke an involuntary shudder passed through his powerful frame.

“May not another contingency be possible, buon’ amico? especially if you allow him to secure the advantage of pistols?” suggested Ehrenburg.

“Would to Heaven it might so occur,” was Lewis’s eager reply; “I hope no better fate than to die by his hand, believe me; but it will not be so--I know--I feel it? Ehrenburg, that man has stood like some evil spirit across my path; time after time he has heaped insult upon me; once, coward-like, the assassin sought my life; but till tonight I have never opposed him. Why? because it is written here” (and he touched his forehead) “that when the final struggle shall come, my destiny is stronger than his, and he must perish. You may smile and deem my words the mere ravings of superstition, but you will see, if we meet to-morrow morning, Bellefield will never leave the ground alive, and I shall quit it with the brand of Cain upon my brow.”

He spoke so gravely and with such an evident belief in the reality of his convictions, that for a moment Ehrenburg himself felt impressed. But a duel was no very uncommon event with the young Austrian: he had been principal on two occasions, when no serious result had followed, and second on half-a-dozen more; besides, he was essentially a practical man. So he merely shrugged his shoulders, hinted that Lewis’s nerves might be excited, which would produce these little fancies, advised him to take a cup of coffee, and then repair to the shooting-gallery and practise steadily for an hour or so to get his hand in, promised to be with him in good time on the following morning, inquired whether he could be of any further assistance, and then strolling back to the gaming-table, relieved Lewis of his presence.

To gain his lodgings and lock himself into his studio was scarcely the work of five minutes; then flinging himself upon the first seat that came in his way, he gave himself up to bitter thoughts. Two years ago he had fled his country, had quitted all who were dear to him, because his fiery passions were beyond his control--because he had loved too deeply and hated too bitterly. He had plunged into a life of wild adventure to dissipate his feelings; he had schooled his heart in solitude; he had devoted all his energies to the acquirement of an art; nay, he had devoted the first efforts of the skill he had thus gained to embody a visible representation of the danger of ill-bestowed love and the curse of gratified revenge; and this was the result!

He remained for a few minutes with his head resting on his hands, apparently stunned by his conflicting feelings; then rousing himself by an effort, he heaved a deep sigh and drew out the glove. As his eye fell upon the stain of blood, he shuddered, and hastily putting it from him, began pacing up and down the apartment. An antique lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling, throwing its light strongly on the two pictures from the “Giaour.” Involuntarily Lewis paused before them, and remained gazing from one to the other with an expression of remorse and horror. “Am I indeed about to realise these creations of my gloomy fancy?” he murmured; “shall I become that human tiger, that stony, soulless image of impenitent despair! Revenge, how I have thirsted for it, how, when writhing under that man’s insults, I have pictured to myself the day of reckoning, and deemed life itself would be a cheap sacrifice for one hour of unlimited vengeance; and now, when this coveted boon lies within my grasp, I see it in its true light, and own this wished-for blessing to be a dark, consuming curse. Seen through the distorted medium of outraged feeling, retribution appeared an act of justice. The demon wore an angel’s form. But viewed in its true aspect, the sentiment is that which leads to murder, and the deed, with its sickening details, revolting butchery. Yet, seeing this clearly, knowing to what it will lead, I must go on: I owe him satisfaction. Satisfaction!” and he smiled at the mocking term. “Yes,” he resumed, “I must go on, even if I wished to turn back. If I could forego my revenge and forgive him, it is now too late. Well, be it so; ’tis weakness to repine at the inevitable. I will meet my fate boldly, be it what it may; and for him, he has brought the punishment upon his own head, and must abide the issue!” He resumed his walk up and down the apartment; then a new idea struck him. “What a strange expression her features wore when she ventured to address me,” he said; “and in the crowd she did not shrink from me, but trusted herself to me with a gentle, child-like confidence.” He paused, pressed his hand to his forehead, then exclaimed, “O God, if I have wronged her--if”--and here his voice sank almost to a whisper--“if, Heaven help me, she should have loved me after all!”

Completely overwrought by these conflicting emotions, Lewis sank into a chair, and burying his face in his hands, struggled in vain for composure, a deep-drawn, choking sob from time to time attesting his mental agony. How long he remained in this position he never knew. It might have been minutes, for he took no note of things external; it might have been hours, for a lifetime of heartfelt desolation appeared crowded into that dark reverie. He was aroused at length by a tap at the door, which, as at first he could scarcely collect his ideas sufficiently to attend to such sublunary matters, soon grew into a loud and impatient knocking with the handle of a stick or umbrella. Imagining it to be one of his artist friends, come probably to bring him information in regard to the late disturbances, he replied in Italian that he was particularly engaged and could not see any one.

“Polite and encouraging, certainly,” muttered a deep-toned voice, at the first sound of which Lewis sprang from his seat and listened with an eager yet half incredulous expression of countenance. “A thousand and one pardons, Signor,” continued the person on the outside, speaking in Italian, with a peculiarity of accent which proved him to be unaccustomed to pronounce the language, or probably even to hear it spoken; “but you really must condescend to see me, even if Diabolus himself is supping with you, and there is only macaroni enough for two.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Lewis flung open the door, and there in proprio persono stood Richard Frere and the cotton umbrella!

“Frere, dear old fellow! is it, can it indeed be you?” exclaimed Lewis joyfully, forgetting for the moment everything in the surprise of welcoming such an unexpected visitant.

“Yes, it’s me,” returned Frere, squeezing and shaking his friend’s hand as if he had a design of reducing it to a jelly. “Richard’s himself, and no mistake. Lewis isn’t _him_self, though, it seems, but Signore Luigi, forsooth. I had hard work to find you, I can tell you. But good gracious! what has happened to the man?” he exclaimed, catching sight of Lewis’s bearded face and pale, haggard features, “why, he has turned into somebody else, bodily as well as in name. You look just like one of these horrid Italian fellows, with the proper tragic expression of countenance which they get up by way of advertising that they are ready and willing to cut throats at half-a-crown a windpipe, country orders punctually executed, and the business performed in a neat and tradesman-like manner; but tell me seriously, you’re not ill?”

“Not in body, nor usually in mind either,” was the reply; “but today events have occurred which have thoroughly unmanned me, still I shall ‘win through it,’ somehow; and now tell me of yourself, of Rose, of my mother--they are well?”

“A good deal better than you seem to be,” growled Frere, who during this speech had been attentively observing his friend’s features; “however, I’ll soon satisfy your curiosity--and then you shall satisfy mine,” he added in an undertone, and removing a wonderful species of travelling cap, he followed Lewis, who led the way to his inner apartment, and then listened eagerly to Frere’s account of the various events which had taken place since he had quitted his native land. Rose, by Frere’s special desire, had, in writing to her brother, hitherto forborne to allude to her engagement; the worthy bear, with a characteristic mixture of deep-seated humility and surface vanity, fearing that Lewis might not think him a fitting match for his sister, and therefore feeling anxious that the matter should be disclosed to him in the wisest and most judicious manner possible--by himself viva voce. Thus, after having spoken of various less important matters, Frere was gradually working his way towards the interesting disclosure with a degree of nervous diffidence quite unusual to him, when Lewis, whose attention began to flag, brought him to the point by exclaiming, “And about Rose, what is she doing: she tells me in her letters she still writes for some magazine; but is she looking well? does she seem happy? though I suppose,” he continued, trying to hide his state of mind by falling in with his friend’s jesting mode of speech, “these are minor particulars into which it never occurs to your wisdom to inquire. I know your old habit of practically ignoring the existence of women as a sex, regarding them as a race of unscientific nonentities fitted only ‘to suckle fools and chronicle small beer.’”

Frere for a moment looked rather disconcerted; then veiling his discomfiture under an affectation of rough indifference, he replied, “I can tell you one ‘minor particular,’ as you call it, and that is the fact of the young lady in question being engaged to be married.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis, starting, “you are probably joking,” he continued seriously; “but you know not, dear old friend, how deeply such tidings might affect me at this moment; you know not--how should you?--the mood of mind in which you find me; but tell me in a word, is there any earnest in what you have said?”

“In a word,” muttered Frere, “hum! concise and epigrammatical that! but I’ll try to accommodate you, so here goes by way of answer. Yes!”

“And she has never even hinted at such a fact in her letters,” exclaimed Lewis; “out of sight, out of mind, indeed. I may have--Heaven help me!--I have neglected my trust, in my self-engrossment; but I did not think Rose would have been the person thus to visit my sins upon my head. Who is the man?” he continued sternly. In the whole course of his existence Frere had never felt more uncomfortable; all his old diffidence and humility rushed upon him, and for the moment he felt as if he had been suddenly detected in an act of petty larceny; however, his sturdiness of nature and common sense came to his rescue, and he replied, “It is no fault of Rose’s, for I made it an especial point that she should not tell you of her engagement by letter.”

“You did, and wherefore?” inquired Lewis in surprise.

“Because I chose to tell you myself,” returned Frere. “Your sister is not an angel, for angels live in heaven and not on earth, but she is the most lovable, the most pure-minded, decidedly the sweetest-looking woman (though that does not so much signify) in this world, and I should have added, the most sensible, only that she has, in her tenderness of heart, seen fit to promise to marry a rough, uncouth animal like me. Lewis, old fellow,” he continued in a faltering voice, “I know better than you can do how unworthy I am of such a blessing, but if loving her better than my own life gives me any title to possess her, Heaven knows that I do so.”

When Frere reached that point in his peroration at which he mentioned Rose’s promise to marry him, his auditor started, and raising his eyes, murmured an ejaculation of fervent thankfulness. As he concluded, Lewis clasped his hand eagerly in his own, saying, “My dear old Frere, you know not how happy you have made me; one great weight, which was crushing my soul to the dust ere you appeared, is removed by your words. Of all men living you are the one I would have selected for my dearest Rose’s husband; and now, if I--that is to say, whatever befalls me she will be happy.”

“Then you are not disappointed?” rejoined Frere, greatly relieved; “you know you used at one time to be just a very little bit ambitious, and I fancied you might have been cherishing some splendid scheme for marrying Rose to a duke--she’s good enough for the best of ’em, even if dukes were what they should be, instead of what they are too many of ’em. Well, I’m very glad!--but now about yourself--‘if anything befalls you,’ you say; pray what is likely to befall you more than any other people? and what do you mean by being crushed by a weight, and by looking so melodramatically miserable?”

Lewis heaved a deep sigh, and then replied, “You speak jestingly; but there are many melodramas less strange than my wayward fortune: such as it is, however, I have provoked and will go through with it. Frere, you love Rose for her own sake, be kind to and forbearing with my mother for mine--she has many faults, a giddy head, an impulsive disposition (than which there can be no greater temptation), but a warm heart--and--and I feel I have never done a son’s duty by her. Frere, you will take care of her?”

The events of the day and evening had well-nigh exhausted even Lewis’s untiring energy, and the sight of Frere arriving so unexpectedly had brought back to him so many home memories, recollections of earlier days, ere with the strength and freedom of manhood had come its trials and its sins, that as he thought of these old associations and remembered kindnesses slighted, affection cast away, duties neglected, for the sake of that one master-passion, he forgot for the time the wrongs he usually felt so keenly, and remorse for his selfish neglect overwhelmed him and caused his voice to falter and his eyes to grow dim with the mist of unshed tears. Frere perceived his emotion, and waited till it had in a degree subsided; then going up to him, he laid his hand on his shoulder caressingly, saying, “Come, Lewis, we have known each other from boyhood; we have long been brothers in affection, and are soon about to become so in name, associated by a still nearer tie--we never used to have secrets from each other, and should not do so now. I have learned from Rose the cause you have had for sorrow, and for two years have suffered you to try your own method of cure, without attempting to interfere with you, but I now see that the experiment has failed, and that you are miserable--is it not so?”

Lewis bowed his head in token of assent, he could not trust himself to speak.

“We are not placed in this world to be miserable,” continued Frere; “true, this life is a state of trial, and it would not be so if we had not many evils, temptations, and sorrows to endure; but by God’s help the evils may be borne, the temptations overcome, and the sorrow turned to joy, if we do not oppose our will to His; but if we do, sin lieth at the door, we league ourselves with the enemy of mankind, and misery must come of it. Do not misunderstand me,” he added kindly; “I do not seek to blame you, I can have no pleasure in so doing, but on the contrary deepest pain; still it is evident your mind is diseased, and if in probing the wound to discover the nature of the evil I hurt you, you must pardon me for the sake of the object I have in view. But! am talking at random, for want of a more clear insight into the cause of your present difficulty. Come, be frank and open with me; let us face the evil boldly, and between us devise some means of overcoming it.”

“What brought you here?” exclaimed Lewis, suddenly raising his head and fixing his piercing eyes full upon his friend’s countenance.

Frere smiled a melancholy smile. “Hot-headed, petulant, and jealous of interference yet!” he said. “My poor Lewis, I did not come to catechise you--affairs of quite another nature brought me here: I am trying to carry out an arrangement between my uncle Ashford and your ci-devant foe, Lord Bellefield.” As he mentioned Lord Bellefield’s name Lewis shuddered, and his eyes again sought the ground. “And now that I have cleared up this alarming doubt,” resumed Frere, “tell me what ails you, for that you are miserable, and that I mean to know wherefore, and do my best to render you otherwise, are two self-evident facts.”

“’Tis useless,” returned Lewis in a low voice; “the die is cast, and neither you nor any one else can help me. Would to Heaven you had come a day sooner and taken me away from this accursed place; as it is, my own mad passion has hurried me on, and my fate is fixed. Now,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which stood at a quarter to twelve, “I must ask you to leave me--we may meet to-morrow--or--if anything should prevent it--and if--if I have not an opportunity of telling you all you seek to know--my papers--that is, I will leave you a letter explaining everything--good-night.” Scarcely able to control his voice in this which Lewis felt might too probably be a last farewell, he hurried through the speech in a strange, almost incoherent manner.

Frere regarded him fixedly. “Unless you condescend to explain to me what you purpose doing within the next twenty-four hours,” he said, “I’ll not leave you till that time has expired. I tell you what it is, Lewis: I have not lived three-and-thirty years in the world without having learned to read men’s faces, and I read in yours that you are standing on the verge of some great folly, madness, or--crime; and now, what is it?”

Lewis paused for a moment in deep thought, and then said calmly, “Sit down, Frere; you are an Englishman, and a man of highly honourable feeling; moreover, you are my oldest, my most cherished friend. I am, as you say, maddened by circumstances and on the verge of a great crime; sit down, I will tell you all, and you shall judge between God and man, and me.”

Calmly, clearly, truthfully, in the deep silence of night, did Lewis recount to his friend the strange passages with which the reader is already acquainted; he related the simple facts, whether they told for or against him, just as they occurred; without entering into unnecessary detail he left nothing important unsaid, till Frere had conceived a clear idea of Lewis’s whole career from the hour he entered Broadhurst to the moment in which he was speaking.

“The upshot of all this is,” observed Lewis in conclusion, “that I am weary of life; littleness, brutality, and oppression in man, weakness and treachery in woman, and the tyranny of passion in oneself, render this world an incipient hell. To-morrow must end it one way or the other--either he will shoot me or I shall shoot him; the latter contingency I shall not long survive; such remorse as I should feel would be unendurable. To save myself from the guilt of suicide I shall volunteer into some fighting regiment engaged in these civil broils--Tyrian or Trojan, Austrian or Venetian, I care little; my sympathies side with one, my associations with the other, and with either I may obtain the only prize I covet--a soldier’s death.”

“Now listen to me, Lewis,” returned Frere gravely. “I once at your own request promised you that while we both lived I would never give you up, but would stand between you and your fiery passions, and I thank God who in his mercy has sent me here at this particular moment to enable me to fulfil my engagement. You have suffered, and are suffering deeply, and from my heart I pity you; but seeing, as I do only too clearly, the cause of all this misery, it would be no kindness in me to omit to point it out to you. Your two leading faults of character, pride and an overweaning degree of self-confidence, are at the bottom of it all. Pride made Lord Bellefield your enemy--when he offered money for the dog he never intended to insult you; your proud answer irritated his pride, and from that time forth he sought to injure you--evil produced evil, dislike grew to hatred, hatred begat revenge, revenge cherished only required opportunity to become developed into assault and murder; that opportunity has now arrived, you have been guilty of the first, you contemplate the second. So much for pride--now for self-confidence. You imagined nothing could tempt you to forget your dependent position in General Grant’s family (a position which your pride led you falsely to consider a degradation) so far as to forfeit your self-respect by loving Annie, so you permitted yourself to enjoy her society till your affections were beyond your own control--mistake number one. Then self-confidence whispered that it would be heroic to overcome this passion, so instead of avoiding the danger, you stayed to brave it till you had sacrificed your happiness, if not hers also--mistake number two. Still untaught by experience, in your own strength you endeavoured to crush out the memory of the past; still thinking only of self, you fled your country, recklessly severing ties and neglecting duties. Two years’ vain struggling have proved your boasted strength to be abject weakness, unable to save you from becoming the slave of your evil passions, and I arrive here to find you contemplating the sin of--well, if I call it murder you will deem that I exaggerate, so I will say the sin of gambling in a lottery of manslaughter, with every chance against you.” Lewis again raised his eyes to Frere’s face as he replied calmly, but in a cold, hard tone of voice--

“You have described my miserable career harshly indeed, but in the main truly. You profess yourself my friend--in making this painful recapitulation therefore I presume you to have some friendly object; what is it?”

“First to exhibit to you the disease, then to point out the remedy,” returned Frere.

“And if you can do this,” exclaimed Lewis--“if, remembering what I am, you can show me how I might have avoided my errors in the past, how I may do aught to retrieve them in the future, I will indeed reckon you my friend--nay, I will bless your coming as that of an angel sent from heaven to aid a desperate, well-nigh a despairing man.”

“Pray what religion do you profess?” asked Frere abruptly.

Lewis started, but recovering himself, replied coldly, “The same as you do yourself.”

“And do you believe in the truth of it?”

“Why ask such a question?” returned Lewis with a slight degree of annoyance perceivable in his tone; “whatever may have been my faults, I am no infidel.”

“I will tell you why I ask,” replied Frere; “because, though you confess with your lips the truths of Christianity, in your life you have practically denied them.”

Lewis made no answer, and Frere continued in an earnest, impressive voice, his manner becoming every moment more animated as he grew excited with his subject--

“If, as you say you do not doubt, Christianity be true, it amounts to this. The God who made and governs this world has been pleased to reveal to us His will--namely, that if we believe in Him and obey Him, He will save us from eternal misery and bestow upon us eternal happiness. To enable us to fulfil the second condition, that of obedience, He has given us a code, not so much of laws as of principles of action, by which we may become a law to ourselves. In order to demonstrate how these abstract principles are applicable to the exigencies of our mundane career, He sent His Son into the world, ‘a man subject to like passions as ourselves, only without sin,’ because he was a consistent embodiment of the doctrines he taught. Now had you taken these precepts, to which you accord an unpractical and therefore an equally senseless and useless belief, as the rule of your actions, how different a result would have followed; instead of provoking animosity by haughty looks and proud words, you would have remembered that ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath;’ instead of returning evil for evil, you would have considered the example of Him, who ‘when He was reviled, reviled not again,’ and called to mind His precepts, ‘resist not evil, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;’ instead of seeking to avenge your own quarrel by deeds of violence, which outrage nature, and bring their own punishment with them even here, in the pangs of conscience, you would have thought of His words who hath said, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ and left your cause in His hands. Instead of attempting to do everything in your own strength, and failing thus miserably, you would have recollected that ‘God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness,’ and prayed to Him for support and assistance. Even now, instead of having recklessly determined to expose yourself to the chance of committing what you own to be a crime of such frightful magnitude, that the remorse it must entail on you would be unbearable, the question would be, not, how at any sacrifice you must vindicate your honour in the eyes of men, but ‘how then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?”’ He paused, then asked abruptly, “Do you admit all this?”

Lewis’s features worked convulsively, as in a hollow, broken voice he replied, “Yes I do, God help me!”

“And He will help you,” returned Frere, “if your repentance is indeed sincere; but that must be proved by acts, not words--Will you give up your revenge, and agree not to meet Lord Bellefield tomorrow?”

“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Lewis fiercely, springing to his feet. “The sole possession my father bequeathed to me was his name and his spotless honour, and it shall never be said that he left them to one whom men had a right to call coward.”

“And yet a coward you are,” returned Frere sternly, “not in the particular of brute courage, shared with you by the tiger and the wolf, but in the far higher attribute of moral courage, the martyr spirit which enables the highest order of minds to endure the scorn of worldly men, rather than offend God and degrade themselves by the commission of evil. I will ask one more question, and then I have done with you: you say you believe in a future and eternal life--are you fitted to enter upon that life to-morrow through the dark portal of a sudden and violent death?”

As Frere uttered these awful words, in a tone of the deepest solemnity, Lewis, who had been impatiently pacing the room, stopped short as though arrested in his course by a thunderstroke. Placing his hand to his brow, he staggered as if about to fall, and Frere sprang up to support him. Recovering himself, he murmured--

“I must be alone, in half-an-hour you shall know my decision.”

Then opening the door, he motioned to Frere to await him in the painting-room, and closing it after him, locked it. What passed in that half-hour--how, prostrate before the Great White Throne, the proud man wrestled with his agony, can be known but to One, the Searcher of Hearts. When, at the expiration of the prescribed time, the door was gently unclosed and Frere entered, he found Lewis, pale indeed and trembling, but calm as a little child.

“Bless you, dear old friend!” he said, “Truth and you have conquered; I place myself in your hands--do with me as you will.”

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LXIII. SHOWS HOW IT FARED WITH THE LAMB WHICH THE WOLF HAD WORRIED

About nine o’clock in the evening marked by the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, General Grant was informed that a young man, who refused to give his name, requested five minutes’ private conversation with him. Somewhat surprised at this demand, the General followed the servant into an apartment used by Charles Leicester as a study, and desired that the person might be shown in; in another moment a tall, swarthy young fellow, dressed in the garb usually worn by the lower classes in Venice, made his appearance. As soon as the servant had quitted the room, the stranger presented a note to the General, saying, “If you will read that, sir, you will perceive the object of my visit, and learn the necessity which forces me to intrude upon you at such an untimely hour.”

The note, which was written in a delicate but somewhat illegible female hand, ran as follows:--

“A dying woman implores you, sir, to visit her; not for her own sake, for her hope rests in God and not in man, but for the sake of one who must be dearest to you in the world--your daughter. The writer has information to impart to you which may save you and her from years of deepest misery. The bearer of this note will conduct you safely to one who again implores you by all you hold sacred not to neglect this summons, or delay returning with the messenger, lest you should arrive too late. The writer pledges her word, the word of one about to enter upon eternity, that you shall return safely.”

“This is a very strange note,” observed General Grant, suspiciously eyeing the young man, who stood awaiting his decision; “how am I to know that this is not some cunningly devised scheme, dangerous to my life or liberty?”

“I swear to you that you may safely trust me,” replied the stranger eagerly; “adopt what precautions you will, leave your money, or aught that is of value, at home--take pistols with you, and if you see any signs of treachery, shoot me through the head. I could tell you that which would render you as eager to accompany me as you now appear unwilling to do so, but I have promised to leave her to explain the affair as seems to her best--she is my sister, and dying; if you delay you will arrive too late.”

“You are an Englishman, I presume?” inquired the General, still undecided.

“I am so,” was the reply, “and have served my country on board a man-of-war.”

“A sailor! what was your captain’s name, and what ship did you belong to?” demanded the General.

“‘The Prometheus’--Captain Manvers,” was the concise answer.

“Were you in her during the year 18----?” continued his questioner, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, added, “Where were you stationed then?”

“We accompanied a convoy of transports, taking the----th and----th foot to Madras, and then proceeded to China,” was the answer.

The General nodded approvingly. “Quite true,” he said; “Captain Manvers is a friend of my own, and I know his vessel to have been then employed as you have stated. I will trust you; wait five minutes while I prepare to accompany you.”

Within the time he had mentioned General Grant returned, wrapped in a military cloak, beneath which he wore a belt supporting a sabre and a brace of pistols.

“If I do not return in two hours, give this note to Mr. Leicester,” he said to the servant who attended them to the door; then motioning to the stranger to precede him, he quitted the Palazzo Grassini. Leaving the square of St. Mark they advanced towards the Rialto; crossing this, and passing the fruit and vegetable market beyond, they reached a spot where a gondola was moored. Having stepped into it, the General, on a signal from his guide, seated himself near the stern, while the young sailor took an oar and assisted his companion in propelling the light vessel. Having proceeded some short distance in this manner, the rowers paused at a flight of steps. Here the stranger signified to General Grant that they must disembark; then resuming his office of guide, he led the way along the banks of the canal, and through courts and narrow alleys, inhabited by the lower orders of Venice, till he stopped before a rude door. At this he tapped twice in a peculiar manner. An old crone appeared in obedience to his summons, and cautiously unclosing the door, admitted them. Taking a lamp from her hand, the young man led the way up a steep flight of stairs, closely followed by his companion.

“Wait one minute,” he said as they reached the top; returning almost immediately, he continued in a low whisper--

“She is awake and perfectly collected, but appears sinking fast; she is anxious to see you without delay; tread as lightly as possible, and follow me.”

Advancing a few steps, he opened the door of a bedroom, and the General, stooping his head to avoid striking it against the top of the doorway, entered. The apartment, though small, was clean and more comfortably fitted up than from the external appearance of the house he had been led to expect. On a low truckle bed, in one corner of the room, lay the form of the dying girl; at a sign from her brother, General Grant approached, and seating himself on a chair by the bedside, waited till she should address him. For a few minutes she appeared quite unable to do so, and her visitor feared, as he gazed on her emaciated form and sunken features, that she had indeed delayed her communication till the paralysis of coming death had sealed her lips, never again to unclose in this life. In his earlier days General Grant had been familiar with death in some of its most appalling shapes; he had seen men fall by his side, mutilated by ghastly sabre wounds, to be trampled under the hoofs of maddened, plunging horses; he had stood immovable when the deadly artillery ploughed up the ground around him and mowed down whole ranks as the scythe of the reaper prostrates the nodding corn; and when the word of command had gone forth, he had led on the stern remnant that were left, till the bayonet avenged the losses they had sustained; and when the fight was won, he had sat by the couch of some wounded comrade, and watched the strong man battle as it were with death, and yield his last sigh in a fruitless struggle with the inexorable enemy. But he had never before seen any one worn to the brink of the grave by sorrow and disease, and despite his utmost efforts to the contrary, the sight shocked and distressed him deeply. The picturesque stage of decline had long since passed away, and in the appearance of his victim the destroyer stood revealed in his true colours. The features of the poor sufferer were characterised by an expression of fatigue and distress, that told of long days and weary nights of patient endurance; she was so emaciated that the form of the skull and the outline of the bones of the cheek and jaw were distinctly visible through the parchment-like skin, giving a strange, unearthly appearance to the face, while the parched lips, the dark fever spot burning in the centre of each cheek, and at intervals the low, husky cough, which once heard can never be mistaken, evinced only too surely the presence of that fell disease, which seems, as its peculiar attribute, to select its victims amongst the young and fair. Her whole appearance was so worn and corpse-like, that when, after a paroxysm of coughing, she raised her drooping eyelids and fixed her earnest, appealing glance upon her visitor, he started as though he had seen one raised from the dead by the agency of some special miracle.

“I thank God that you are come, sir,” she said in a low, sweet voice, “that I may yet do some good before I die. I have been the cause of much evil in my short life, and I felt it was a duty to tell you the truth of my sad history, and do the little that is possible to save another from enduring the same misery that has brought me to the condition in which you see me.” She paused, and the silent, inward cough--the voice of death--again shook her fragile frame. “You do not know me,” she resumed; “I am Jane Hardy.” As she mentioned her name the General started, and bending his head, drank in her every word with deep attention. “About three years ago,” she continued, “or perhaps rather less, a gentleman who was staying at Broadhurst was thrown from his horse while hunting. He was stunned by the fall, and some of his companions brought him to our cottage. There was no one but myself at home, and I fetched water and bathed his temples. As soon as he began to revive, the friends who had brought him said laughingly that they could not leave him in better hands, and quitted us to follow the hunt. As the gentleman began to recover he entered into conversation with me. He was very witty and clever, and told me of the fine sights he had seen in foreign lands, and many other beautiful and wonderful things which I had never heard of, and before he went away he drew me to his side and kissed me, and said he should come again to see his kind little nurse, and I--God help me--I was young and simple, and I believed all he said, and from that hour I loved him. Well, sir, he came not only once, but often, and I listened to his soft words and specious promises until I ceased to think of or care for anything but him. I had no mother to warn me; my poor father had become stem and morose, and I feared him and sought only to conceal my attachment from him. With some of the facts you, sir, are already acquainted. My father was captured on one of his poaching expeditions and sent to gaol. I sat up the whole night waiting for his return, and in the early morning came, not he whom I was expecting, but my tempter. He told me what had occurred, revealed to me for the first time his real rank, promised to obtain my father’s pardon by means of his wealth and influence, and, as the price of his assistance, implored me to fly with him. He could not make me his bride in England, he said; his position forbade it; but he vowed he would carry me to some bright land in the sunny south, and that we should be united and live happily there. Weak fool that I was! I believed him, and consented.

“The rest of the tale is soon told. I accompanied him to London; he was kind to me, and my dream continued. By his desire I followed him to Rome, under the care of his valet. For a time I was treated with every attention; servants obeyed me, luxuries surrounded me; but his promise of marriage he never fulfilled. Then he began to grow tired of me, and my punishment commenced. He soon proved to me the true nature of his disposition; his temper was fearful, at once passionate, sulky, and vindictive, and I was a safe object on which to vent it. Still I could have borne this uncomplainingly if I could have believed that he continued to love me. But his coldness and indifference became every hour more apparent, till at length I awoke one morning to learn that he had deserted me. I discovered his direction and wrote to him. I forbore reproaches; I knew that I had lost his love--I knew, alas! too late, that he had never really loved me, and all I sought was to return to England, beg my father’s forgiveness, and then, if it pleased God, to die. But I entreated him to send me money enough to take me home again. He left my letter unanswered for a week, and then enclosed me a cheque for five pounds, telling me that I had already cost him more than I was worth, and that I need expect nothing further at his hands.”

“And the name of this diabolical scoundrel was---?” inquired

General Grant eagerly.

“Lord Bellefield,” was the reply, in a clear, distinct, though feeble tone of voice.

“What proof can you give me of this?” was the cautious rejoinder.

“These letters,” returned the girl, producing a small packet from beneath her pillow.

The General took them, examined the post-marks and the seals, compared the signatures with that of a letter he took out of his pocket, read two or three of them and then returned them, muttering in a voice that trembled with suppressed rage, “They are genuine, and they are his.”

“The rest of my tale is soon told,” resumed Jane Hardy. “Lord Bellefield had left debts behind him, and when it was known he had quitted Rome, not meaning to return, those to whom he owed money seized the few valuables that I possessed (chiefly dresses and trinkets which he had given me), and my last hope, that of returning to England, was taken from me.” Here a fit of coughing, prolonged till it seemed as though it must annihilate her feeble frame, effectually interrupted the speaker. Her brother held a strengthening cordial to her parched lips, and after a lapse of some minutes she was enabled to resume her narration, though her voice was so weak and husky that it was with difficulty her auditor could catch her words. “I have little more to tell,” she said. “I suffered much, very much misery, but, thanks to the kindness of some sisters of charity (rightly were they so called), I was saved from the depths of degradation into which too many, deserted as I was, have been forced.” Again she paused from weakness, and with the tenderness of a woman Miles Hardy wiped the cold dews of approaching death from her brow, and put back the rich masses of her (even yet) beautiful hair. The General was visibly affected.

“Can nothing be done to save her?” he said; “I will ascertain who are the most skilful physicians in Venice and send them to her. No money shall be spared.”

A dark look flitted across Miles’s face, but the dying girl turned towards the speaker, and a faint smile testified that she had heard and understood him.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “that my last moments have not been spent in vain. Your daughter--they say she is good and beautiful; he will take her heart for the plaything of an hour and then crush it as he has crushed mine. You will not let her marry him?”

“Sooner would I see her stretched on her death-bed before me,” was the stern rejoinder.

The girl smiled again. “You have made me so happy,” she whispered; then with difficulty, and pausing between each word, she continued, “Tell him I forgive him and pray for him; I pray that he may repent.” Again she paused, apparently struggling for breath: “Miles, it is very dark,” she said; “come nearer, dear!” Her brother placed his arm round her, and nestling her head in his bosom, an expression of child-like happiness spread over her features. Having lain thus for some moments she suddenly started up, exclaiming aloud, “Oh God! my chest!” In a moment the severe pain seemed to pass away and the happy smile returned. “May He bless you, dearest!” she murmured; then a solemn change came over her countenance, there was a slight struggle, and then--the jaw relaxed, the eyes glazed, and she fell back in her brother’s arms a corpse.

When later on that night women came to perform the last sad offices to the dead, an English Bible was found beneath the pillow, and a leaf was turned down at the text, “Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much;” words of mercy we should do well to bear in mind, and humbly trust they may indicate the future of many a “broken and contrite heart.”

While General Grant was thus occupied, Annie, little dreaming of the various events that had occurred, and which so nearly concerned her happiness, was thinking over the scenes of the morning, and afflicting her spirit by the recollection of Lewis’s parting words. What would she not give that he could know the truth; know why she had allowed herself to be engaged to a man whom Lewis had good reason to believe she both disliked and feared; but it was impossible, situated as she was, to enlighten him, and she must submit to bear that most bitter of all trials, the knowledge that one we love thinks evil of us, and has just and reasonable grounds for such misconception. Then her engagement to Lord Bellefield, now more hateful to her than ever--what should she do to avoid it? to whom should she turn for counsel and assistance?--Laura?--she had great faith in her good sense, and, above all, in her energy of character--could she, dare she, confide in her? and she had just settled that she certainly could not when a gentle tap was heard at the door. Annie cried, “Come in,” and Laura entered.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, dear,” she said, “but I grew fidgety about you, fearing the alarm and fatigue of the morning might have been too much for your strength.”

Annie smiled mournfully and shook her head, at the same time making room for her friend on the settee upon which she was reclining. Laura placed herself by her side, and taking Annie’s hand in her own, stroked it caressingly.

“Poor little hand,” she said; “how soft and white it is, but it’s getting sadly thin; really, dear Annie, I must lecture you. You eat nothing, and your spirits have quite deserted you--you who were such a happy, merry little thing--it makes me miserable to see you.”

She paused for a reply, and at length it came, but in a form she did not expect, and which tended not at all to remove her anxiety.

“Do you think I am very ill, Laura?” Annie asked; “so ill that I am at all likely to die?”

“No, darling; I hope--I trust not,” returned Laura earnestly; “but why do you ask, and in so strange a tone that one could almost fancy you wished that it might be so?”

“Because I do wish it,” was the sad rejoinder; “if I live I must be very unhappy--there is no help for it, and so I wish to die. Is that wrong? I am afraid it is.”

Laura paused ere she replied--

“I don’t think you are likely to die--grief kills very slowly. I am sure you need not die of grief, or seek to die to escape a life of unhappiness, if you would only be reasonable. I love you as I should have loved a sister, had I possessed one; my only desire is to render you happier; I am a woman, as yourself, and as little likely as you would be, were our situations reversed, to do or counsel anything which could wound your feelings or compromise your delicacy; and yet you lock your sorrow in your own breast, and refuse to give me sufficient insight into your heart to enable me to be of the slightest comfort or assistance to you. Is this wise or even kind?”

Such an appeal, coming at that particular moment, was irresistible. Annie threw her arms round her friend, hid her face on Laura’s shoulder, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper, inquired--

“What is it you wish to know?”

“You dislike Lord Bellefield, and are anxious not to marry him?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” was the unmistakable answer.

“You love----”

Annie drew back, but Laura’s arm, passed round her slender waist, detained her.

“You love Lewis Arundel?”

This time Annie did not reply, but a convulsive pressure of the hand answered Laura’s question better than words could have done.

“Then, if you love him as he deserves to be loved, how could you allow yourself to be forced into an engagement with Lord Bellefield?”

“Must I, indeed, reveal to you all my folly and weakness?” murmured poor Annie.

“Really I am afraid you must, dear, if you wish my advice to be of the smallest use to you,” returned Laura with a kind, encouraging smile; “but perhaps the follies may prove not to have been so very foolish, and the weaknesses turn out amiable ones after all. Come, let us hear!” Thus urged, Annie recounted with smiles, and tears, and words, now dropping in broken sentences, now poured forth with all the eager vehemence with which feelings long restrained at length find vent, that portion of this veritable history which especially related to herself, and the rise and progress of her unfortunate attachment; until she reached the point whereat, overwhelmed by the belief that Lewis had departed from Broadhurst, suspecting her love and not reciprocating it, she had permitted herself to be hurried into an engagement with Lord Bellefield, sacrificing herself to guard against the possibility of any imputation being cast upon her maidenly reserve. Here Laura interrupted her by exclaiming--

“My poor child! I see it all now; you are to be pitied, not blamed; would to Heaven you had known the truth earlier! how much misery it might have saved you. Lewis Arundel quitted Broadhurst because he loved you with all the impassioned tenderness of his fiery nature, and found even his iron will powerless to control or even longer to conceal his feelings.”

“How do you know this?” exclaimed Annie, sweeping back her luxuriant ringlets from her flushed cheeks, and fixing her large, eager eyes upon her friend’s countenance.

“From his own lips when he first heard that you were coming here,” was the reply. And Annie, pressing her hands to her eyes, hid her face in the sofa cushion and burst into tears; but this time they were tears of joy.

Then, when she had in some degree recovered from her agitation, Annie learned the history of Lewis’s wanderings to cure his love, and how signally the remedy had failed, and how he had turned painter, and was cleverer than anybody else (a fact of which she felt convinced before she heard it), and how Laura had discovered his secret through the medium of his sketch of Annie and Faust--(she did not mention the “Giaour” pictures, fearing to alarm her friend)--and how Charles and she had seen a great deal of him and become very fond of him (oh how Annie loved her for saying that!), and how at last one day she had gained his confidence and he had told her all, and how she had resolved never to breathe a syllable of it to Annie unless she could clear herself in the matter of accepting Lord Bellefield, and thus prove herself not unworthy to possess the knowledge that the priceless blessing of Lewis’s noble and generous heart was hers, and hers only. And when Laura had finished, Annie, like a true woman, contrived by a series of “cunning-simple” questions to make her tell her tale all over again, particularly those portions which related to Lewis’s nobleness of nature, and the depth, strength, and permanent quality of his affection for herself; and when all had been said and re-said that could by any possibility be found to say, even on this interesting matter, Annie fixed her soft, imploring eyes on her friend’s countenance, and asked in a tone of the most innocent but complete helplessness--

“And now, dear Laura, tell me what is to be done?”

Up to this moment Laura had considered the whole question to hinge on one point--was Annie worthy of the love of such a man as Lewis, or not? This satisfactorily decided, all other difficulties seemed by comparison insignificant; but now, when the monster obstacle had disappeared, the engagement to Lord Bellefield, the General’s obstinacy, Lewis’s pride, Annie’s womanly reserve, and Charley’s indolence and dislike of saying or doing anything which could by the most remote possibility irritate or annoy any one, all flashed across her and bewildered her. Still she had great faith in her own energy and in the goodness of her cause, and so replied vaguely, but confidently--

“Why, my love! it’s perfectly absurd to give way to despair as you have been doing; of course something must, and therefore can and shall be done; but what it is to be will, I confess, require some little consideration!”

And just when their deliberations had reached this point, Laura received a summons from her husband to say that he desired to speak with her; so she imprinted a kiss on Annie’s smooth brow, and they parted.

“I say, Laura, read this,” exclaimed Charley, looking worried and perplexed, as he handed his wife the following note:--

“Dear Charles, I have desired your servant to give you this note in case I should not return in the course of the next two hours. I am about to accompany a young stranger, representing himself to be an English sailor, to visit his sister, who is said to be on her death-bed, and has some communication to make to me. I have examined the man, and believe his tale; but if I should not return within the time specified, it is probably a clever fabrication, and as no lie can be framed for other than an evil purpose you had better apply at once to the police, and look after me in whatever way they may advise.

“Yours faithfully,

“Archibald Grant.”

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LXIV. THE FATE OF THE WOLF!

“Pleasant that,” resumed Charley, as Laura, having finished reading the note, returned it with looks of alarm. “Evans declares it’s more than two hours since Governor Grant started, and there are no signs of him yet. Why people can’t stay quietly at home when they’ve got a good house over their heads, instead of rushing out to seek dangerous adventures, I can’t think. I should have supposed the General had arrived at a time of life when he would have sense enough not to be gulled by messages from girls, either living or dying. Perhaps the summons was meant for Bellefield after all, and the bearer delivered it to the wrong man; what a joke that would be, eh?”

“Really, Charles, I don’t think it is anything to laugh at,” returned Laura anxiously; “is your brother at home?”

“No, Belle’s out too; my family is becoming shockingly dissipated.”

“Had you not better apply to the police, as the note proposes?” urged Laura.

“Police, indeed!” muttered Charley: “the General can’t remember that he is out of London. I wonder he did not direct me to send a cab for him. These confounded sulky Austrian officials are rather different customers to deal with from our blue-bottles--Messrs. Al & Co. The only thing is to go down to the consul’s office, and that must be done, I suppose, but it’s an awful bore.”

So saying, Charley yawned, stretched himself, made Laura ring for his boots, and had just accomplished the labour of pulling them on, when rapid footsteps were heard--doors opened and shut, and the object of their anxiety stood before them, his face flushed with exercise, and his whole manner bearing traces of excitement and agitation. “Well, General,” began Charley, “we were just going to commence fishing for you in all the canals----” when his auditor interrupted him by inquiring in a quick, eager voice--

“Your brother is not in the house, is he?”

“No; he has been out all the evening, and is not yet returned,” was the reply.

“Leave us, Laura, there’s a good girl,” exclaimed the General; “stay,” he continued, as Laura was quitting the room, “do not say anything which can alarm Annie.”

Laura nodded her acquiescence and departed.

“I am very anxious about your brother,” resumed the General. “As I was returning from this most strange and painful interview, the young man who had summoned me still acting as my guide, some person followed us, and as we were crossing the Rialto approached, and tapping my companion on the shoulder, detained him. They conversed in Italian, but I made out enough of what they said to catch the following words spoken by the new-comer--

“‘I have watched him the evening through. He went from----’ (the names of the places I could not hear) ‘to----, which he has this moment quitted. Jacopo and the others are prepared; we only await your directions. Why have you not joined us sooner?’

“‘It was impossible,’ was the reply; ‘but all will yet go as it should.’

“Then, turning to me, my guide continued, ‘You have now only to walk straight on to reach the Square of St. Mark; no one will interrupt you. Farewell, sir; and remember her wishes.’

“This referred to his poor sister, about whom I will tell you another time. He and his companion then quitted me. Mechanically I walked forward, reflecting on the interview, which had harassed and distressed me greatly, till, recalling the words I had just overheard, a new idea struck me, and I turned and looked back; as I did so I perceived, at some distance off, a man carelessly advancing towards me--at the moment several others rushed out upon him; there was a short struggle, then, as it seemed to me, he was overpowered, a cloak was flung over his head, and he was hurried away. Instantly I ran to the spot, but it was some considerable distance from the place where I had been standing, and when I arrived there, no traces of them were visible. The whole affair from beginning to end was over in less than a minute, but from the glimpse I had, I feel convinced the man I saw carried off was your brother.”

“Nonsense,” exclaimed Charles, starting, “kidnap Bellefield! why, what possible motive could anybody have for doing that?”

“One only too powerful--revenge!” was the alarming reply. “My guide was young Hardy, whose sister Bellefield has cruelly betrayed and forsaken. Come, Charles, let us obtain aid to seek and save him: God grant we may not arrive too late.”

We must now return to Lord Bellefield. After the disturbance at the Casino, his lordship, accompanied by Rastelli, repaired to a shooting-gallery, where he practised with pistols for an hour. Having by repeated successes assured himself that his late fall had not shaken his nerves to a degree which could interfere with his skill as a duellist, he turned to his companion, observing, “Now, Rastelli, devise some method of killing time for the next hour or so; I am anxious not to return to the Palazzo Grassini till the family have retired for the night. I had rather avoid meeting any of them till this little affair is over. What can we contrive to do with ourselves?”

“Come home with me, and let us have a quiet game at écarté,” was the reply; “that will amuse without exciting you. I wish you to keep cool, in order that you may punish for his temerity the insolent Luigi.” As he spoke the dark eyes of the Italian flashed with the fire of revenge.

Lord Bellefield remarked his eagerness, and smiled contemptuously. “Calm yourself, my good Rastelli,” he said, quietly lighting a cigar; “justice shall be done, depend on it.”

“How cold and phlegmatic you English are!” exclaimed Rastelli, irritated at his companion’s apparent apathy; “had the brigand insulted me as he has insulted you, if I had not stabbed him on the spot, I should have known no peace till he lay bleeding at my feet.”

Lord Bellefield placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and approaching his lips to his ear, said in a low, impressive voice, “Listen! we Englishmen do not talk about these things, we do them.” There was a cold, grating bitterness in his tone, which told of such fiendish malice working at his heart that the Italian’s display of boyish passion shrank into insignificance beside it.

Together they repaired to Rastelli’s dwelling; cards were produced, and their game began. With the calculating prudence of an accomplished gamester, Lord Bellefield played cautiously and for moderate sums till he had tested his adversary’s calibre; then, confident in his own skill, he artfully led on the young Italian to propose higher stakes, until, at the expiration of an hour and a half, he had won above a couple of hundred pounds.

“You are becoming excited and beginning to play wildly, amico mio,” he said, pushing back his chair; “we will pause for tonight.”

“And when will you give me my revenge?” inquired the Italian with flushed cheeks and trembling lips.

“When you like--to-morrow evening, if it so please you--always supposing our peep-of-day amusement goes as it should do,” answered Lord Bellefield carelessly.

“And what if you should be hit?” questioned Rastelli with a grim smile, which involuntarily suggested to his auditor the idea that such a catastrophe would not deeply distress him.

“To provide against such a contingency I shall make my will tonight, and appoint you executor and residuary legatee; so that when you have satisfied the few claims against me, the remainder of my property will be yours, to compensate for this evening’s run of ill-luck,” was the jesting reply.

Rastelli, having by this time in a degree recovered his good humour, answered in the same light tone; then having made their final arrangements for the morrow’s meeting, they shook hands and parted.

As Lord Bellefield gained the street, the conventional smile faded from his lips, and a dark, sullen expression imparted a gloomy ferocity to his countenance. His look did not belie the nature of his thoughts, which ran somewhat after the following fashion:--

“A pretty thing I’m in for--to think of that accursed Arundel turning up in such an out-of-the-way place as this! my ill-luck follows me everywhere. That scoundrel is my evil genius. I shall be rid of him to-morrow though, for I’ll shoot him like a dog; that’s some comfort.” He paused, then a new idea seemed to strike him, and he muttered, “Curse him, he means to murder me; I read it in his fiendish eyes. I wonder whether he is anything of a shot? A nice way to lose one’s life, in a quarrel with a tutor! it’s next door to going out with one’s valet. Well, I’m in for it, and must chance it; a quick aim and a hair trigger may pick him off, as it has done many a better fellow, before he has time to be mischievous. I wonder whether Charles or old Grant know of his being here? If not, the thing can be easily hushed up.” A sound as of a man’s footstep caused him to start and look round, but seeing no one he resumed, “Assassination is said to be one of the fashions of this place; I wish I was a little more au fait as to the customs of the natives, or had longer time to act in. I might get my friend quietly disposed of without risk or trouble.” He reflected a moment on the feasibility of such a scheme; but the spirit of revenge and hate was strong within him, and muttering a fearful curse, he added, “No!------------him, I’d rather shoot him with my own hand; that blow sticks by me.”

At this moment a man started out from a dark archway so suddenly as nearly to run against Lord Bellefield, who, drawing himself up indignantly, was about to commence an angry remonstrance, when his elbows were pinioned from behind, some person tripped up his heels, a cloak was flung over his head, and despite his attempts to free himself, he was overpowered and hurried away by a party of several men. After proceeding some short distance they reached the bank of a canal; here they paused, and still holding the cloak over the captive’s head to prevent him from giving an alarm, they bound his hands. One who seemed to possess authority over the others superintended this operation in person.

“Not so tight,” he said to an over-zealous individual who was tying the cord as though it were never to be unfastened, “not so tight, it will numb his arms. Now,” he continued, “raise him carefully;” and in obedience to his command Lord Bellefield felt himself lifted from his feet and placed in a lying posture at the bottom of what he rightly imagined to be a gondola.

Having ascertained by listening that a portion of his captors were engaged in rowing the boat, Lord Bellefield made an effort to remove the cloak from his face, at the same time slightly raising himself; immediately a heavy hand pressed him down, and a deep, low voice uttered the following caution, “There is the point of a knife within an inch of your heart; if you again attempt to move or speak I plunge it in!”

Thus warned, nothing remained but to lie still and await his captor’s pleasure, which alternative, distracted by mingled rage and fear, Lord Bellefield was forced to adopt. From the time occupied by their transit it appeared that they must have proceeded some considerable distance ere the gondola again stopped. Carefully guarded as before, the prisoner was taken on shore, and half-led, half-carried over some uneven, stony ground, in traversing which his conductors were more than once forced to turn aside as if to avoid some obstacle that lay in their path; he was then told to ascend steps; doors were unbarred to afford them ingress, and the air struck cold and damp, as from a vault. At length, apparently, they reached their destination, and the prisoner was made to sit down on a stone bench; a light was procured, and then the order was given, “Untie his hands, remove the cloak, and leave us.”

The persons spoken to obeyed, and in another moment Lord Bellefield was able to look round him. The chamber in which he found himself was small, the roof was high and vaulted, and the walls appeared of an immense thickness; the door was of oak, thickly studded with iron nail-heads; there was no fireplace; a ship’s lantern, hanging by a cord from the roof, dimly lighted the apartment, and a grated window, sunk in the thickness of the wall, seemed to afford the only means of communication with the outward air. As Lord Bellefield became aware of these particulars the men who had released his hands and removed the cloak quitted the room, locking and barring the door on the outside; in another moment the sound of their retreating footsteps echoed along the stone passage and died away in the distance. A shudder passed over Lord Bellefield’s frame as he found himself thus strangely left alone with one whose purpose he could scarcely imagine other than hostile. As his companion--who wore one of those half-masks termed a domino, which effectually concealed his features--did not seem inclined to address him, Lord Bellefield had time to examine, with a beating heart, the preparations made for his reception. The only article of furniture the apartment contained, with the exception of the stone bench on which he was seated, was a heavy oak table. At the end nearest him lay a cutlass, the blade crossed by that of a stiletto, in front of which was placed a loaded pistol. A similar arrangement of weapons garnished the other end of the table, at which stood the motionless figure of the stranger. The whole thing was so strange, and so like some fancy of a horrible dream, that it was with difficulty Lord Bellefield could believe the evidence of his senses. At length the silence became unendurable to such a degree that, even at the risk of hurrying on his fate, he resolved to break it. Addressing his captor, he asked, in a voice which trembled in spite of his efforts to appear cool and indifferent, “What place is this to which you have brought me?”

The person addressed paused a moment, and then, without removing his mask, replied, “A vault in the ruins of a convent on an island in the lagunes, a mile from Venice.”

Up to this moment Lord Bellefield had been possessed with a secret belief that his captor was none other than Lewis Arundel; and having already had a convincing proof both of his enemy’s bodily strength and of the implacable nature of his feelings towards him, the idea that he had kidnapped him and carried him off to this desolate place in order to force upon him a combat à l’outrance, with weapons in the use of which his skill as a duellist would avail him little, was by no means an agreeable one. This fear his companion’s speech had dispelled, for the voice, though deep and stern, was not the voice of Lewis. Ignorant of the existence of any other person likely to nourish deep feelings of revenge against him, Lord Bellefield immediately conceived that he had fallen into the hands of some English ruffian connected with banditti, in which case their object would probably be plunder; and the solitary chamber, the naked weapons, etc., mere scenic arrangements got up for the sake of intimidating him, and so making a better bargain. Much relieved by this view of the affair, he began--

“Your object in bringing me here is of course plunder, all this absurd mummery is therefore utterly needless; you have only to name some reasonable sum for my ransom, and as I cannot get out of the scrape otherwise, I must pay it.”

“You will find it no mummery, and are wrong in supposing money will be of the slightest avail to you,” was the reply.

Lord Bellefield, however, still considering his idea a right one, and accounting for this speech as he had already accounted for the presence of the weapons--viz., as a means of intimidating him, in order to extort from his fears a higher ransom, continued--

“My good fellow, you have completely mistaken your man; all your tragedy nonsense is quite thrown away upon me. The affair is simply a matter of business: you require money, and knowing my rank, imagine me a Croesus. I am nothing of the kind, but I can make it well worth your while to set me free; conduct me safely to the Square of St. Mark, and I will give you a hundred Napoleons.”

“A million curses on your money!” exclaimed the other furiously; “may the bitter malediction of a desperate man cleave to the rank and riches which have served to add a false splendour to as mean and pitiful a scoundrel as ever disgraced God’s earth. Fool! let me undeceive you--I am Miles Hardy” (as he spoke he flung down his mask), “the brother of Jane--your victim--I have brought you here to die. Now do you think your money, that money which you refused to give to save her from a life of infamy, or a beggar’s death, is likely to bribe me to change my purpose?”

For a moment Lord Bellefield was utterly confounded by this declaration; he had never been aware that Jane possessed a brother, and the surprise added to his discomfiture; besides, hardened as he was, he knew that he had deeply wronged the girl, and a superstitious instinct of the justice of the retribution which had overtaken him helped still more effectually to terrify and crush him: for once both his haughty spirit and his presence of mind failed him, and mistaking the character of the man with whom he had to deal, he resolved first if possible to deceive, then to cajole and bribe him.

“Refuse money to Jane Hardy!” he began in a tone of feigned surprise; “you must have strangely deceived yourself: while she remained with me I lavished hundreds upon her, and when, with the caprice of her sex, she chose to leave me for some more favoured swain, as I imagine, ignorance of her abode alone prevented my settling a liberal allowance upon her. Even now I am ready to do so if she wishes it--where is she?”

A look of contemptuous anger, which had overspread Miles Hardy’s face as Lord Bellefield uttered these falsehoods, gave place to an expression of deep solemnity as he replied, “She is where you will be ere another hour has passed, wretched liar that you are--gone to answer for her sins before her God!”

“Dead!” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, involuntarily shocked into an expression of feeling. Miles regarded him attentively; had he discerned in him any symptoms of real grief for her loss, any signs of true penitence for the destruction he had wrought, there was that working in the brother’s heart which might even yet have saved him. But a doom was upon the seducer, and a fresh display of his evil, sordid nature hastened it. “Poor girl!” he said; “ ’pon my word, Hardy, I’m quite shocked at this sudden intelligence; I really was excessively fond of her at one time--a--I mean to say, before she chose to run away from me. However, you must not take the affair so deeply to heart: I can assure you these things are happening every day, and I always meant to make her a liberal settlement; but as that is now unfortunately impossible, we must see what can be done for you.” Having delivered himself of this heartless speech, which he considered a model of diplomacy, Lord Bellefield paused to observe its effects upon his auditor. Miles stood for a moment as if absorbed in grief, murmuring to himself, “My poor Jane, and was it for such a thing as this you sacrificed your young life? My poor, poor sister!” Then suddenly raising his head, he said, with a glance of the most withering scorn--

“Your mean lies will prove of as little use to you as your money; I loathe it, them, and you alike. I have told you I brought you here to die, and I have told you true; but I am no assassin, and if you have the courage of a man, you have one chance yet remaining. On that table lie six weapons, three for you and three for me; choose which you will, and come on; only if the first fails we must try the second, and if that does not end the matter there still remains the third. Come, make your choice.”

“Well, but hear me----” began Lord Bellefield, turning very pale.

“Not a word,” was the angry answer, “instantly defend yourself. If you refuse, I will shoot you where you stand;” so saying he advanced a step towards the table.

Lord Bellefield, who had risen during the last speech, slowly followed his example, casting, as he did so, a scrutinising look round the apartment, and especially towards the window; the action did not escape Hardy’s quick sight.

“Your search is useless,” he said, smiling contemptuously. “Were you here alone, with proper tools at hand, and knowing how to use them to the best advantage, it would take you two hours to break out of this place. If you call ever so loudly, there is no one to hear you--my companions are half-way back to Venice by this time. You have nothing left but to overcome me, or to die the dog’s death you deserve.”

“’Tis false!” exclaimed Lord Bellefield eagerly; “my friends have succeeded in tracing me, and even now I hear the tread of soldiers in the passage--hark!”

With a gesture of surprise Hardy turned towards the door. This was all Lord Bellefield required. Springing forward, he seized the pistol nearest to him, levelled it, and with the speed of thought, fired. Looking round, Hardy perceived too late the snare that had been laid for him. As he did so, a sharp, stinging pain, followed by a sensation like the burn of a red-hot iron, passed round his left side. The ball, aimed at his heart, had struck against the handle of a clasp-knife which, sailor-fashion, he wore slung round his neck by a string, and glancing off, entered the side and passed round one of the ribs under the skin, lodging among the muscular fibres of the shoulder-blade. Furious at the cowardly stratagem to which he had so nearly fallen a victim, and half-maddened with the pain of his wound, Hardy seized the other pistol, and shouting, “Die, you infernal, treacherous scoundrel!” snapped it at his adversary; but owing to the priming being damp, the pistol rusty, or from some other unexplained cause, the cap exploded without discharging the weapon. Flinging it down with an oath, he snatched up the sword that lay nearest to him, and exclaiming, “Come on, and be -------- to you!” scarcely gave his antagonist time to follow his example, ere he attacked him furiously.

For a minute or two cut and thrust followed each other so rapidly that all seemed confusion. Then as their first fury became expended, and they fought more cautiously, Lord Bellefield perceived, to his extreme satisfaction, that he was the better swordsman of the two, Hardy having merely picked up the use of the cutlass on board a man-o’-war, while his antagonist had learned fencing amongst the other military exercises of a cavalry regiment in which, till within the last two or three years, he had held a commission. If, therefore, he could contrive to defend himself till Hardy’s fury should have in some degree worn out his strength, he trusted either to disarm his adversary, or by a well-directed thrust to rid himself of him for ever. Nor was he disappointed in this expectation; for having with some difficulty parried a furious thrust, he caught Hardy’s sword with the blade of his own weapon, and by a sudden turn of the wrist sent it flying out of his hand, leaving his enemy defenceless and at his mercy. But mercy being a quality for which his lordship was never famous, more especially when, as in the present instance, its exercise might compromise his own safety, he drew back a step to get room for his thrust, with the intention of running his opponent through the body. With the speed of lightning, Hardy perceived the only chance remaining for him, and unhesitatingly adopted it. Snatching up one of the stilettos, he rushed upon Lord Bellefield, and receiving his thrust through the fleshy part of his left arm, closed with him and buried the dagger in his heart. Uttering a sound between a gasping sob and a groan, the young nobleman staggered, raised his arm as if in the act to strike, and fell back a corpse.

Thus did the vengeance of the great God whom he had insulted by a life of selfish crime overtake this wicked man in the pride of his youth and strength, and thus in the same night were the libertine and his victim called to appear before the Judge of all the earth to answer for their deeds, whether they had done good, or whether they had done evil. For the humble penitent we may indeed sorrow, yet not as without hope; but for the impenitent sinner, cut off in the midst of crime, dying with his selfish heart untouched, his evil nature unregenerated, “there remaineth no longer any hope, but a fearful looking-for of judgment to come.”

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LXV. FAUST PAYS A MORNING VISIT

Frere, on the principle of striking whilst the iron is hot, had no sooner obtained Lewis’s promise to place in his hands the arrangement of the quarrel between Lord Bellefield and himself than he induced his friend to write a carefully worded apology for having in the heat of passion assaulted his lordship on the previous evening. Lewis took the pen, and without a murmur wrote as Frere dictated, his compressed lips and knitted brow alone telling of the martyrdom his proud spirit was undergoing; but his strength of will was as powerful for good as for evil; he had resolved on the sacrifice, and cost what it might, he would make it.

“And now, what is your intention?” he inquired, as Frere, having signified his approbation of its contents, folded the note and deposited it safely in his pocket-book. “Suppose Bellefield should refuse to accept this apology?”

“Never fear,” was the confident reply, “he must accept it; and to tell you the truth, although he may bluster and give himself airs when he perceives you are not forthcoming, I expect he will only be too glad to be quit of such an awkward customer. I don’t wish to be personal, but depend upon it you are by no means pleasant as an enemy; there is ‘a lurking devil in your eye,’ as Byron says (and he ought to know about devils, for, adopting the fallen angel hypothesis, he was very like one himself), that would try a man’s nerve rather when he found himself standing opposite your loaded pistol at eighteen paces.”

Lewis smiled faintly.

“The devil has been pretty well taken out of me this time,” he said; “henceforth I shall be essentially a man of peace.”

He paused, pressed his hand to his brow, and a slight shiver passed through his frame. Frere regarded him anxiously.

“What are you shivering about?” he inquired. “You don’t feel ill, do you?”

“No, it is nothing,” was the reply. “I have, as you may easily imagine, gone through a good deal, both mentally and bodily, of late, and I am a little overworn; but a couple of hours’ sleep will set me right again.”

“Then the sooner you take it the better,” rejoined Frere. “Never mind me; I shall ensconce myself in this arm-chair till the man of war, your second, makes his appearance, and sleep or read as the Fates may incline. What time do you expect your accomplice?”

“He will be here at half-past four,” was the reply.

“And it is now just two; so turn in, and pleasant dreams to you.” Thus saying, Frere threw himself back in the chair, and drawing a volume of Dante out of his pocket, set to work to polish up his Italian, as he termed it. Lewis rose to follow his friend’s advice, but a mist seemed to swim before his eyes, his brain reeled, his trembling knees refused to support him, and staggering forward he sank heavily to the ground in a fainting fit. Frere, much alarmed, raised him in his arms, and carrying him with some difficulty into the inner room, laid him on his bed, and began, with more energy than skill, to apply every conceivable or inconceivable remedy to recover him, but with only partial success, for although after the lapse of a few moments colour returned to his lips and pulsation to his heart, he neither spoke nor appeared to recognise his friend’s voice, and after a few inarticulate murmurs sank into a dull, heavy sleep. Frere covered him with the bedclothes as well as he was able, then drawing a chair to the bedside, seated himself thereupon to watch his slumbers. Half-past four arrived, and with it Major Ehrenburg, the Austrian officer who had promised to act as Lewis’s second. Before he came a new idea had entered Frere’s head--it might not be necessary to make use of the apology at all, Lewis’s sudden illness would be a sufficient reason for his not meeting his adversary.

“The amusement you have promised yourself in seeing my friend shoot or be shot you will be disappointed of, Mein lieber Herr?” he said with a quiet smile, as the Austrian stared at him in surprise and twisted his moustaches fiercely. “Lord Bellefield in his angry moods is no doubt a very terrible fellow, but Lewis is about to wrestle with a more deadly foe yet, or I am much mistaken.”

“Excuse me, sir, I have no time for badinage,” returned the other, bowing with haughty politeness; “nothing can prevent this duel. I must speak with the Signore Luigi himself immediately. Permit me to pass.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Frere, holding open the door of the bedroom; “but in regard to nothing being able to prevent the duel, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ You will find my words to be true. See, his adversary has laid him on his back already.”

The young soldier advanced to the bedside; Lewis still slept, but his slumbers were disturbed and feverish. As the other bent over him he turned uneasily and murmured some inarticulate sounds. Laying his hand on his shoulder, Ehrenburg attempted to rouse him.

“Luigi,” he said, “it is late; they will be on the ground before us.” The only reply was again an inarticulate murmur; but on his repeating his summons Lewis sat up and stared about him with a look of dull unconsciousness, then a wild light came into his eyes, and glaring furiously at the Austrian, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice--

“Villain, it is false! she loves you not--she never loved you!”

“Do you not know me Luigi?” inquired Ehrenburg in a more soothing tone of voice.

“Know you, scoundrel, yes! On earth, or in the lowest hell, I should know and hate you.” He paused, glanced wildly round the room, then exclaimed in a voice scarcely audible through passion, “What I here in my own house do you come to triumph over and to insult me? This is too much.” And with a scream of fury he made a spring at the other’s throat, which he would have succeeded in grasping, probably to his severe injury, had not Frere, who had watched him closely during the foregoing scene, thrown himself upon him, and with the assistance of the young soldier, who at length began to perceive the true state of the case, contrived to hold him down, till, exhausted by the violence of his struggles, he ceased to resist any longer.

“He must have exposed himself to malaria, and the fever has attacked the brain--is it not so?” inquired Ehrenburg as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak.

“So I fear,” was the reply. “Malaria, or macaroni, or some horrid foreign thing or other, has brought on a violent fever, and, as you see, he is now about as mad as a March hare (though perhaps a belief in that popular zoological delusion may not extend to the Austrian dominions)”--this last remark was made sotto voce. “And now, Mein Herr, the sooner you’re off the better, for Lord Bellefield, unless he is much belied, is not particularly famous for patience. You’ll explain to him why Lewis can’t do himself the pleasure of shooting him this morning; and you may add, with my compliments--Richard Frere’s, at your service--that it’s better luck than he deserves. By the way,” he continued, “if you could give one a hint how to come by such an article as a doctor I should esteem it an additional favour.”

“I will call at the residence of an English physician as soon as I leave this house,” was the reply; “fortunately, one who is reckoned very skilful resides within a few doors.”

“That’s right,” returned Frere, “none of your foreign quacks for me. Doctors are bad enough all the world over, I dare say; but an English one is a degree better than any of your homoeopathic, mesmeric, electro-biologic, clairvoyant humbugs--Al piacer di revedervi, Signore; I mean, Leben sie wohl, mein Herr. A mustachioed, laced, and padded young puppy!” he continued, as, with a haughty bow and a puzzled expression of countenance, the young Austrian quitted the apartment; “can’t he be content with cutting throats himself without encouraging his neighbours to go and shoot at one another! I hate a fellow who will be second in a duel as I hate a professional hangman. I’d half a mind to let poor Lewis strangle him--a foreigner more or less is no great matter.”

The physician’s opinion coincided with that of Richard Frere. Overwrought both in mind and body, Lewis had been attacked by fever of the most virulent nature, and every resource that the science of medicine afforded appeared powerless to subdue it. Night and day Richard Frere sat by the sick man’s bedside, listening with an aching heart to his fevered ravings. Now, for the first time, did he become aware of the depth and strength of that passion which, having destroyed its victim’s peace of mind, seemed about to finish its work of devastation by sapping the very springs of life itself. In his delirium the idea appeared to have fixed itself in Lewis’s imagination that the duel had taken place, and that Lord Bellefield had perished by his hand; and the agonised self-reproaches which his remorse forced from him were painful to listen to. Occasionally he would appear to forget even this, and imagining himself in the presence of her he loved, would breathe forth expressions of the deepest tenderness, when suddenly the recollection of his supposed guilt would flash across him, and upbraiding himself in the bitterest terms, he would exclaim that a bar existed between them, and declare himself a murderer accursed before God and man. And so the weary days wore on, and the sufferer grew paler and weaker, while still the fire which was consuming his young life burned fiercely as at first.

The day following the night of Lord Bellefield’s death was a remarkable one, for it witnessed the assassination of the unfortunate Marinovitch, whose courage and strong sense of duty forbade him to desert his post, even in order to preserve his life; this act of dastardly revenge heralded the revolt in Venice. The Palazzo Grassini was, as may be supposed, the scene of much alarm and anxiety. General Grant and Leicester had been foiled in their attempt to trace the after proceedings of the party who had kidnapped Lord Bellefield, nor was any light thrown upon his mysterious disappearance until another night and day had elapsed, when, in consequence of a high reward offered by the family to any person who could afford information in regard to the affair, an individual in the garb of a gondolier sought an interview with General Grant. This worthy (who was none other than Jacopo, the bravo whose stiletto had so nearly proved fatal to Lewis) having bargained for the promised reward and for a free pardon for his own share in the transaction, confessed that he and certain of his associates had been engaged by an Englishman named Hardy, with whom he had been for some months acquainted, to seize and carry off a gentleman, against whom Hardy, for some reason, appeared to nourish a deep revenge; that this gentleman had been staying at the Palazzo Grassini; and that Hardy having pointed him out to him, he (Jacopo) had watched him the whole evening, and finding he remained abroad so late, had arranged to waylay him as he returned home, and succeeded in his design, though the plan was nearly being frustrated by the unexpected absence of Hardy, who however joined them at the last moment. He then communicated those details of the enterprise with which the reader is already acquainted, up to the time when he left Hardy and Lord Bellefield together in the ruined convent, beyond which he either was, or affected to be, ignorant in regard to the affair. The clue thus gained was, however, sufficient. Led by Jacopo to the room in which the duel had taken place, the General and Leicester soon found their worst fears realised. The body lay covered with a cloak, on which was pinned a paper, written by Hardy before the duel, stating his intention of forcing Lord Bellefield to a mortal combat, adding that when that paper was found either one or both of them would have gone to their long account; at the bottom was scrawled in pencil--

“I have kept my word; he brought his fate upon his own head--no one had any hand in his death but myself; he fell in fair fight, having wounded me severely, but, as I think, not mortally.--(Signed) Miles Hardy.”

All Leicester’s early affection for his brother was brought back by his dreadful fate, and he wept over his corpse like a woman. The General shuddered slightly when his eye first perceived the expression of rage and hatred stereotyped on the rigid features of the dead man’s face, then his brow contracted and his mouth grew stern as he turned to issue directions for the murderer’s apprehension. Whether, being Italians, the police looked upon manslaughter with a favouring eye, or whether the disturbed state of the city facilitated his escape, certain it is that Miles Hardy contrived to evade the search made for him; and after offering large rewards for his apprehension, and using every other means in his power to stimulate the exertions of the police, General Grant was fain to rest satisfied that he had done all which the strictest sense of duty could command at his hands. Perhaps, as the memory of the scene he had witnessed by Jane Hardy’s death-bed recurred to him, and he thought of the cruel provocation her brother had received, even the stern old soldier might be glad that he had not been called upon to condemn Miles to an ignominious and painful death.

The feelings both of Laura and Annie, when they became acquainted with this frightful catastrophe, may easily be imagined. From Laura it was impossible to conceal it, for, unused to deep emotion of any kind, her husband’s grief was for the time so overpowering that he completely lost all self-control, and it was only by the judicious exercise of her good sense and tenderness that she was enabled to restore him to anything like composure. Nor had she a much easier task with Annie, for a superstitious but not unnatural fancy seized her that (her earnest desire to avoid a union with Lord Bellefield having been thus fearfully accomplished) she was in some degree morally guilty. But Laura, tender, kind, judicious Laura, with her man’s head and her woman’s heart (a rare alliance, constituting human perfection), argued and soothed and coaxed and reasoned, until Annie’s self-upbraiding horror yielded to her gentle persuadings, as did of old the demon which tormented Saul to the melody of David’s harp: and indeed there is on earth no music sweeter than a loving woman’s voice.

During all this time poor Walter found himself sadly neglected. After the affair at the Casino, Mr. Spooner, ignorant of Lewis Arundel’s illness, and fearful that he would keep his word and inform General Grant of the shameful manner in which he had betrayed his trust, found some plausible excuse for resigning his situation and returning to England, at the General’s expense, before any exposure should take place. So he wrote himself a letter announcing the death of his mother (at that moment drinking brandy and water in the bar of a hotel in Birmingham, whereof she was landlady), and leaving three orphan sisters (invented for the occasion) solely dependent on him for everything; which epistle answered his purpose nicely. After his departure Walter was left pretty much to his own devices; and one of his chief amusements was drilling and talking to Faust, for whom all his old fondness had revived since the interview in which he had made up his quarrel with Annie. He was therefore especially annoyed and perplexed by a habit which the dog had lately acquired of absenting himself every day for several hours. Various were the schemes Walter laid to discover what became of the animal, but by some fatality they all failed to effect their object; and the cause of the dog’s absence, as well as the mode in which he contrived to effect his egress, still remained a mystery. At length, one evening, as Walter was sitting at a window of the Grassini palace which looked into a small courtyard or garden enclosed by a high wall, his attention was attracted by observing something which in the short glimpse he had of it appeared like an animal’s head pop up above the wall and disappear again. Watching the spot carefully, Walter soon witnessed a repetition of the phenomenon; but this time a rough, hairy body and legs followed the head, and after a slight scramble the delinquent Faust himself made his appearance at the top of the wall, which was sufficiently broad to afford him a precarious footing: he then deliberately, but with great caution, walked along the narrow causeway thus afforded, until he reached a spot where the limb of an old tree grew so as nearly to touch the wall; upon this he got, and contrived, by a mode of progression half-slipping, half-clambering, to arrive at a point whence he could easily jump to the ground. All these manouvres Walter carefully noted, and formed his plan accordingly. The boy’s curiosity--(we continue to use the term boy, for although in age and appearance poor Walter was now almost a man, in mind he was still far younger than his years, in spite of those occasional flashes of intelligence so often to be observed in cases of partial mental imbecility, which render a just estimate of the individual capacity so difficult to arrive at)--Walter’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused by this discovery, and he determined if possible to find out the nature and object of Faust’s clandestine expeditions. That he had some definite object Walter never for a moment doubted, for he had so completely made a friend and companion of the dog, that he had learned to look upon him much more as a reasonable being than as an animal guided only by an enlightened instinct.

For the rest of that day, and from an early hour on the following morning, Walter never lost sight of the dog, though he contrived to effect his purpose without interfering with its liberty of action. At length his patience was rewarded by seeing Faust enter the garden and begin to scramble up the identical tree, by means of which he had effected his descent on the previous day. Seizing his hat, Walter lost no time in following him; the tree was easy to climb, and the same branch which had afforded a passage for Faust enabled Walter to reach the top of the wall in safety. On the other side the difficulties were still less, for the ruins of some ancient building lay scattered in all directions, and a pile of them actually came within a few feet of the top of the wall, forming a rough but efficient flight of steps. By the time Walter regained terra firma, however, Faust had proceeded some distance, and had he chosen to run on might still have preserved his secret inviolate. But when Walter called him, he stopped and waited till his friend approached, though neither threats nor endearments could prevail upon him to turn back, or to allow Walter to come near enough to lay hold of him. And so the pair proceeded, Faust running on for a short distance, waiting till Walter drew near, and then resuming his course. The route the dog pursued avoided the more frequented ways, and Walter began to think Faust was merely taking a stroll for the benefit of his constitution, when the animal suddenly turned down an archway, and looking back to see that his friend followed, proceeded along a narrow alley which led into one of the smaller streets, and stopped at the door of a house which projected beyond some of the others. The door stood ajar, and Faust without ceremony pushed it further open and walked in. Walter paused, debating as well as his mental capacity enabled him to do, whether or not he should venture to follow. It was a knotty point to decide. On the one hand his fears urged him to turn back and not risk facing the possible dangers which might lie hidden within this mysterious mansion; curiosity, on the other hand, prompted him to enter and discover at once and for ever the aim and end of Faust’s incomprehensible visits. Fear was very near gaining the day, when, in thinking over every motive, probable or improbable, which might influence the dog, the bright idea flashed across him that perhaps Faust had discovered his former master, and the hope of again meeting his “dear Mr. Arundel” outweighing every other consideration, he boldly opened the door, and encountering Faust, who had returned to look for him, followed that sagacious quadruped up a flight of stairs.

Now it so happened that the particular morning in question was that of the fourteenth day from the commencement of Lewis’s illness, and the physician had pronounced the crisis of the disease to be at hand. He had seen his patient late on the previous evening, and administered to him a powerful narcotic, from the effect of which he had not recovered when Walter and Faust commenced their ramble. Frere, who had sat up with him all night, had gone out to refresh himself with a short walk, leaving Lewis under the care of Antonelli, his old attendant. This worthy man had in his turn been called down to see a friend, who having heard of the Signore Luigi’s illness, had come to prescribe some outrageous remedy, in the infallibility whereof his faith was as unshakable as his ignorance on all medical subjects was profound. Antonelli, whose grief at his patron’s danger had been overpowering, was easily interested in his friend’s account of the wonderful specific; and with the garrulity of age, he remained discussing its merits for a much longer space of time than he was at all aware of. Thus it came about that Walter, when he had followed Faust upstairs, and after a second fit of hesitation entered an apartment through the partially open door of which the dog had disappeared, found himself in a room, in one corner of which stood a small iron bedstead whereon lay some person, who from his deep, regular breathing seemed to be in a sound sleep. Cautiously, and with noiseless footsteps, the boy approached and gazed upon the sleeper, nor, for a moment, could he recognise, in the pale, worn face which met his view, the features of his “dear Mr. Arundel.” But this doubt was speedily resolved when Lewis moved uneasily in his sleep and muttered some indistinct words, amongst which Walter caught the name of Annie. Two clear ideas now presented themselves to the boy’s mind: his friend was asleep and must not be roused, and from the expression of his features he must be either ill or unhappy. Having arrived at these conclusions, he proceeded to act upon them by seating himself at the bedside, to wait patiently till Lewis should awake, while he devoted all the powers of his intellect to form some theory by which to account for the change in his late tutor’s appearance. As he thus sat anxiously watching, Lewis again turned restlessly, murmuring something, the meaning of which Walter could not catch, then speaking more distinctly, he said--

“She leaned upon his arm; she smiled on him; she loves him! I saw it with my own eyes.”

He said this so plainly, that Walter, fancying he must be awake, addressed him, and asked if he were ill. Lewis caught the sound of the words, and replied--

“Ill in mind, Frere, nothing more.”

Walter, still believing him to be awake, continued--

“It is I--Walter; do you not know me?”

For a moment the sleeping man made no reply, then resuming the conversation which he imagined himself holding with Frere, he exclaimed eagerly--

“Love one man and engage herself to another! I tell you no! Annie Grant never loved me!”

At this moment Faust (who had been lying quietly, and as if he were quite at home, on a rug by the bedside), roused by the sound of his master’s voice, placed his fore-paws on the bed, and finding himself unnoticed, endeavoured to attract attention by licking first the sick man’s hand and then his face. The effect of the opiate had by this time in a great measure worn off, and roused by Faust’s intrusive affection, Lewis awoke with a violent start, and attempting to raise himself in a sitting posture, gazed around him in surprise, then fell back upon his pillow from weakness. After lying some moments perfectly motionless, he again unclosed his eyes and asked in a low, faint voice, “Am I dreaming still, or did I see Walter?”

“No, you are awake now, dear Mr. Arundel; it is I, Walter. Faust found you out, and brought me to see you.”

As Walter mentioned Faust, Lewis for the first time perceived his old favourite, and stretched out his hand with the intention of patting him, but the effort was beyond his strength, and his arm sank powerless by his side. Faust, however, perceived the attention, and acknowledged it by again licking his hand. Lewis turned his languid eyes from Walter to the dog, and a tear stole down his wasted cheek, then his lips grew compressed, and an expression of anguish overspread his countenance. With consciousness had also returned bitter memories. In the meanwhile Walter, delighted at recovering his long-lost friend, grew loquacious in the fulness of his joy, and ran on in his usual disconnected manner.

“So you haven’t forgotten Faust, then, Mr. Arundel? He has never forgotten you either, poor fellow! all the time you have been away; but I have taken great care of him, you see; he’s nice and fat, isn’t he? We’ve been very good friends too, only we used to quarrel sometimes when he would follow Annie, and I did not like it because--because----” Here he paused, having a kind of confused recollection that this was a subject on which he wanted to say something particular. After waiting for a minute or two his ideas grew in a degree clearer, and he continued--

“You know I took a dislike to poor Annie, because I thought she made you go away. I always thought so until she told me it was not the case, and how fond she was of you.”

When Walter first mentioned Annie’s name Lewis started and made a gesture to induce him to be silent, but the boy did not understand his wishes, and his auditor soon became too much absorbed in the interest of his disclosures to seek again to interrupt him.

“You were talking about Annie just now, you know, before you were quite awake,” resumed Walter, “and you said she did not love you. I remember I thought so too once, and that that was the reason why you went away, and so I took a dislike to her, and would not let Faust follow her, only he would. But we were both quite wrong, for Annie is just as fond of you as Faust and I are, and now I’ll tell you how I came to find it out.” He then in his rambling way gave a childish but perfectly intelligible account of his conversation with Annie Grant, with which the reader is already acquainted. Just as he had finished his recital, Richard Frere returned from his walk in time to overhear the last few words of the history, and to discover that Lewis had fainted from intense emotion.

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LXVI. URSA MAJOR SHOWS HIS TEETH

Walter’s visit to Lewis produced a more favourable effect upon the patient’s health than did all the pills and potions wherewith his doctor had sought to exorcise the fever-fiend. He had not then deceived himself--Annie had loved him; nay, from Walter’s recital, as well as from her manner on the occasion of his protecting her through the crowd in the square of St. Mark, was he not justified in believing that she loved him still? The idea was in itself happiness, for although the fact of her renewing her engagement with Lord Bellefield so immediately after Lewis had quitted Broadhurst still remained unaccounted for, the belief that she loved him seemed to impart a new aspect to the whole affair, and for the first time he allowed himself to hope that her conduct might admit of some satisfactory explanation. The emotions of a mind so impulsive as Lewis’s necessarily produce marked effects upon the body; agitation of spirits had mainly conduced to bring on the fever which had thus prostrated, him, and the hope to which Walter’s words had given rise seemed to infuse new life into him; at all events, it is certain that from the moment in which he became convinced that Annie had loved him he began to amend. As soon as Frere considered him strong enough to bear such an announcement, he informed him of the appalling fate which had overtaken his enemy. Lewis was at first strongly affected. But for events over which he had had no control he might now have been in the position of Miles Hardy, a wanderer on the face of the earth, bearing with him the harrowing consciousness that the blood of a fellow-creature was upon his hands. After remaining in silent thought for some minutes he suddenly raised his eyes to his friend’s countenance.

“Frere,” he said, “how can I ever be sufficiently grateful to God, who chose you as His instrument to set my sin before me, and bring me to a better frame of mind! Had this dreadful fate overtaken Bellefield without my having resolved not to fight him, I should have felt morally guilty of his death, considering that it was mere accident which had enabled Hardy to meet him sooner than myself.”

“You acted rightly, under circumstances which I must confess to have afforded about as severe a trial to a man of your impetuous nature as could well be conceived,” returned Frere; “so it is but fair that you should reap some advantage from your self-conquest. I pity poor young Hardy more than I blame him, for he has probably never been taught the truths of Christianity, and nothing else could have possessed sufficient power over him to induce him to forego his revenge. Ah! if such men as Bellefield could but be made to see the mental agony their vices cause to others, even their selfish hearts would be touched, and they would be unable to go on sinning with such callous indifference; but in their selfishness they look merely to the gratification of their own passions, and ignore all possible results which might tend to interfere with them. Such a career as Bellefield’s is a fearful and inexplicable mystery to reflect upon, and it is only by a high exercise of faith that we can believe even Omnipotence able to bring good out of such consistent and unmitigated wickedness.”

“And is such your belief?” inquired Lewis earnestly.

“Most assuredly it is,” was the reply. “I am not one of those who acknowledge God’s attributes with my tongue but in my heart practically deny; nor can I believe that a Being, the perfection of wisdom, of justice, and of mercy, could allow evil to exist, were He not able to overrule it to good. But if you ask me, ‘How can these things be?’ I tell you at once I do not know; I form no theory on the subject, for I have no power to do so; my mind is that of a weak, fallen man, and the secret things of God are so immeasurably above it that to speculate upon them is equally presumptuous and absurd. Still I feel as certain of the main fact as if each special detail of the Divine scheme lay spread out like a map before me, because, were it not so, God would falsify His attributes; the great Being we worship would be, not a merciful Father, but a stern, inexorable judge. Depend upon it, Lewis, the real fallacy in the religious teaching of the present day is that, practically if not theoretically, fear rather than love is inculcated as the actuating principle, and, as a natural consequence, men ignore and put aside thoughts of futurity as they put aside any other painful and alarming reflection.”

As Frere concluded Lewis paused in thought, then observed--

“All you have said sounds wise and true, and yet there appears a contradiction somewhere. Evil must always be hateful to God, and as such must deserve everlasting punishment. I cannot understand it.”

“Nor do I wish or expect you to do so,” replied Frere; “but cannot you wait patiently through a little space--the life of one man--trusting that when this mortal shall have put on immortality our enlarged faculties may enable us to see clearly that which we now believe as a matter of faith? The only difficulty arises from your attempting to measure things infinite with your finite intelligence; for instance, you talk of everlasting punishment--what do you mean by the term?”

“Mean, why, of course, punishment that shall endure throughout eternity,” replied Lewis.

“And eternity, which to be eternal can no more have had a beginning than it shall have an end, is an idea our minds cannot grasp; and in attempting to define and realise these things we only confuse and mislead ourselves. Take my word for it, Lewis, true religion, the religion Christ came down from heaven to teach men, consists in a sincere, earnest, and consistent belief in the goodness and benevolence of the Creator, carried out practically by an unceasing endeavour to reform our fallen natures after His image.”

“And how are we to gain the knowledge and the strength requisite to enable us to do this?” asked Lewis.

“By studying God’s written word with an honest intention of doing as we are there told to do, at the same time imploring His assistance to enable us to carry out our good intentions,” was the earnest reply.

So the conversation ended; but Lewis thought over the ideas thus presented to him, which, though not entirely new to him, or indeed to any other reflecting mind, had perhaps never before occurred in a light so clear and practical as that in which Frere had placed them; and as by slow degrees his strength began to return, and with Antonelli’s assistance he contrived to creep for an hour at a time to his painting-room, he arose from that couch of sickness a wiser and a better man.

As soon as Charles Leicester had recovered from the first shock of his brother’s death he determined to entrust his wife and child to the care of General Grant, while he started for England to break the distressing intelligence to his father. Lord Ashford was now becoming an old man, and although the profligate career of his eldest son had caused him the deepest anxiety and regret, he still regarded him with much affection; and Leicester had only too good reason to dread the effect which might be produced upon him if, by any accident, he were to become aware of the fatal event without sufficient preparation. Accordingly, on the second day after the discovery of the catastrophe, he quitted Venice, and travelled day and night till he reached England; but fast as he journeyed, the evil tidings journeyed still more swiftly: a rumour of the truth had somehow found its way to the London clubs; at one to which he belonged Lord Ashford had accidentally overheard the affair discussed, and while uttering a half-frantic inquiry in regard to the speaker’s authority, was seized with a fit, from which he recovered only to remain a heart-broken man, paralysed and childish. Charles finding him in this deplorable state, was of course unable to leave him, and wrote to Laura to beg that no unnecessary delay might occur to prevent her joining him as soon as possible. Under these circumstances, General Grant resolved to proceed to England at once, with the party under his charge.

When Frere’s anxiety for Lewis’s life had ended, and he felt satisfied that he was on the road towards recovery, and might safely be entrusted to the care of Antonelli, he had made his way to the Palazzo Grassini, and seeking an interview with General Grant, had explained to him the object which had brought him to Venice, together with the train of events which had hitherto prevented his announcing his arrival. He also gave an account of the fracas between Lord Belle-field and Lewis at the Casino, and his friend’s subsequent self-conquest, in resolving for conscience’ sake to forego his revenge; but he said nothing of Lewis’s attachment to Annie, feeling that he had no right to betray his confidence to the General without obtaining his consent to the measure.

General Grant was much interested by this recital, and highly extolled Lewis’s conduct throughout the whole affair, the shock of Lord Bellefield’s death having taken away any little prejudices in favour of duelling which might have lingered in the chivalrous mind of the old soldier. He thought, however, that considering the relative positions of the different parties, it would be better for him not to visit Lewis so soon after the awful catastrophe which had taken place, but he sent him a kind message by Frere, saying he should hope to see him on his return to England, and thanking him for his interference in Walter’s behalf.

On the morning previous to that fixed for the departure of Laura and her friends, Lewis, having over-exerted himself the day before by painting for several hours, and having paid the penalty by lying awake during great part of the night, had fallen into a deep sleep, which lasted so long, that Frere, having breakfasted and given orders that Lewis was on no account to be disturbed, went out. He had undertaken, with his usual good nature, innumerable commissions for the General; these he set to work diligently to execute, and after wandering up and down the lanes and squares of Venice, now trudging like an excited postman, now sitting bolt upright in the stern of a gondola, with the cotton umbrella spread like a gigantic mushroom over his head to keep off the sun, he arrived, hot and tired, at the Palazzo Grassini. General Grant was from home, so Frere left a card, saying he would call later in the afternoon; then, considering on second thoughts that it would not be kind, as he had been out so long, to leave Lewis again on the same day, he altered his determination, and desiring to be shown into the library, sent a message to ask to be allowed to speak to Mrs. Leicester, or to Miss Grant. Now the servant to whom this message was entrusted, being, like many of his betters, averse to needless trouble, and chancing to encounter Annie as he was proceeding from the library to the drawing-room, saw fit slightly to alter the tenor of his message, and leaving out all mention of Laura, informed Miss Grant that a gentleman of the name of Frere, having called to visit the General, had, on learning that he was from home, asked to be allowed to see her. This intelligence rather flurried Annie, Frere being always connected in her mind with the idea of Lewis, and it was not without a degree of trepidation, which mantled her cheek with a most becoming blush, that she hastened to comply with his summons.

When Frere perceived who it was that his message had produced, a scheme, which had suggested itself to him as a vague possibility, as he had sat by Lewis’s bedside listening to the ravings of his delirium, recurred to his mind, as a right and advisable step which it behoved him to take, now that chance had thrown the opportunity in his way; his first business, however, was to deliver himself of the commissions entrusted to him by the General. Having relieved his mind of the weight of this responsibility, he began--

“Well, Miss Grant, I’m glad to see you looking better than you were. I suppose it’s the”--(having got rid of your detestable engagement was his original sentence, but he checked himself, and substituted)--“idea of getting away from this horrid place, all puddles and palaces; the men every one of them either a tyrant or a slave, and such lazy rascals into the bargain; the women, not at all the style of female to talk to you about; and without any particular beauty to account for it either, as far as I’m a judge, though perhaps in my present position I’m a little bit over fastidious; but then Rose Arundel is as near perfection as anything on this earth can be--however, I’m forgetting you don’t know anything of the matter, and all that I’m saying must be high Dutch, or thereabouts, to you.”

And having by this time talked himself into a regular entanglement, the worthy bear came to a sudden and unexpected standstill. Annie hastened to relieve him.

“You have, indeed, let me into a secret, Mr. Frere,” she said, smiling; “but it is quite safe in my hands, and it is a secret, moreover, which I am delighted to hear: there is no one in whose happiness I take deeper interest than in that of dear Rose Arundel, and I quite approve of the step you hint at as being likely to secure it. You must allow me to offer you my warmest congratulations.”

“Thank ye, thank ye,” returned Frere, looking most comically bashful, and routing his hair about insanely in his embarrassment, “I certainly do hope to make her happy, God bless her; though I don’t think you can judge much about it one way or other, seeing that I may be a Bear in reality (she calls me one in fun, you know), meaning to eat her up bodily for aught you can tell. As to its being much of a secret, too many people know it, too many women in particular, to render that possible; so, though I don’t want it announced in the Times till the event actually comes off, you need not put any violent constraint upon your natural communicativeness, for I am not so ignorant of the idiosyncrasies of the fair sex as to forget the pain and grief constrained silence occasions them.”

Annie made a playful rejoinder, and then, after a minute’s pause, ventured timidly to ask, “I hope Mr. Arundel continues to gain strength. I--that is my father--and indeed all of us were so grieved to hear of his illness!”

Frere fixed his large eyes upon her as he replied gruffly, “Yes, he’s getting on well enough for anything I know to the contrary; but he’s as weak as a child. It will be months before he becomes anything like the man he was; he’s been unpleasantly near supplying a vacancy in some moist graveyard of this amphibious city; small thanks to those who helped to bring him to such a condition.”

Annie turned very pale at this somewhat unfeeling speech, but she managed to stammer out, “I thought, that is, we were told that it was a fever, produced by exposure to malaria, from which Mr. Arundel had suffered.”

“A fever it was, and no mistake,” was the reply; “such a fever as I should be very sorry to fall in the way of catching, I can tell you.”

“And yet you have nursed him through it with the most unceasing self-devotion. You see I know you better than you are aware of, Mr. Frere,” interrupted Annie with a beaming smile.

“Nurse him! why, of course I did; if I hadn’t, I should have deserved to be well kicked,” returned Frere in a tone of intense disgust. “I’ve known Lewis ever since he was a pretty black-eyed boy of ten years old, and though he is a little hot-headed and impetuous sometimes, that’s no reason why I should leave him to die of a fever in a foreign land, far away from those that care about him. A nice sort of friend I should be if I did, and a pretty figure I should cut the next time I came in Rose’s way! She is not one of those who love people by halves, I can tell you; why, she actually dotes on her brother.”

“Oh, I am sure she does; it was that which first made me love her,” exclaimed Annie with enthusiasm; then seeing all that her speech involved, she blushed “celestial rosy red” and cast down her eyes in confusion.

“Humph!” grunted Frere, “that sounds all very nice and amiable, but I prefer deeds to words! I’ll tell you what it is, Miss Grant,” he continued, turning suddenly upon Annie, “you talked about malaria being the exciting cause of Lewis’s illness, it was no such thing--the cause of his fever was anguish of mind--the poor boy’s been miserable for the last two years, almost crazy with grief, as I take it, for he has been doing all sorts of wild, unreasonable things; and if the truth must be told, it strikes me it’s more your fault than any one else’s.”

“My fault!” exclaimed Annie, her face and neck flushing crimson at this unexpected charge. “Oh, Mr. Frere, how can you speak such cruel words?”

“Because they happen to be true ones, young lady,” returned Frere sternly. “You are the daughter of a rich man, and a man in a high station, and for that reason it’s very seldom you have the plain, honest truth spoken to you; but you shall learn it to-day from my lips, if you never heard it before in your life, and if it is not palatable, the fault does not rest with me. I knew something of this same affair when Lewis quitted Broadhurst all in a hurry, two years ago, and I set it down as a foolish bit of boyish romance, which a few months’ absence would cure; but it was not till I watched by his bedside, and listened through the solemn hours of the night to his frenzied ravings, that I became aware the passion he felt for you was rooted in his very heart’s core, and saw that by his deep, his overpowering love for one who I fear was not worthy of him, he had shipwrecked the happiness of a lifetime. Silence!” he continued angrily, as Annie, half rising from her seat, seemed about to interrupt him, “silence! you have voluntarily, or involuntarily, been the cause of deep misery to the two persons (for Rose has suffered greatly on her brother’s account) for whom I care most in the world, and you shall learn before we part the evil consequences of your acts, and tell me whether you possess either the will or the power to repair them.”

Annie again attempted to speak, but finding her accuser would not listen to her, sunk back with a gesture of despair, while Frere continued--

“Very early in his residence at Broadhurst, Lewis, as I imagine, became attached to you, though for a long time he would not acknowledge the fact even to himself: at length, however, self-deception became impossible; then began the struggle between his pride and his affection; and from that period to the hour in which he quitted Broadhurst he lived in a state of mental torture. Well, you could not help his falling in love with you, you will say; and because a poor tutor was bold and foolish enough to forget the difference of position between you (which, by the way, he never did for one moment, though the recollection was agony to his proud spirit), and to raise his eyes to his employer’s daughter, you were not bound to forget it also--I grant you that--but shall I tell you what you could have helped? (which I should never have known anything about but for poor Lewis’s delirious ravings)--you could have helped saying and doing a hundred little nameless things, trifles in themselves perhaps (so are straws, but they show which way the wind blows!), things which gave the poor fellow the idea that you returned his affection, and that had he dared to declare his feelings, he might have obtained such a confession from you; an attempt which he was far too honourable to make, but rather, with an aching heart, tore himself away from Broadhurst, throwing up every prospect he then had in life: you might have helped this, Miss Annie Grant, and if you had been worthy of the love of such a noble nature you would have done so.”

As Frere, completely carried away by the excited feelings which his recapitulation of Lewis’s wrongs and sufferings had aroused, paused for breath, poor Annie, who during the latter portion of his harangue had been utterly unable to restrain her tears, replied in a voice scarcely audible through emotion--

“You cruelly misjudge me, Mr. Frere--most cruelly--and are making an unkind and ungenerous use of knowledge which, if your friend had retained his reason, would never have been in your possession.”

Frere felt the justice of this reproach, and moreover the sight of poor Annie’s tears appealed to his kindness of heart, and served to disarm his wrath.

“Well, that is certainly true,” he said, “and if I have indeed misjudged you, why I can only say I am very sorry for it; at all events I need not have spoken so harshly and rudely to you; but you see, Miss Grant, I feel very deeply about this matter, and the idea that all which Lewis has suffered had been the consequence of your love of admiration and idle coquetry made me angry with you.”

“Indeed, indeed, I am no coquette,” murmured poor Annie.

“Well, you seem to have behaved like one, at all events,” returned Frere; “unless, indeed,” he continued, as a new light suddenly broke in upon him--“unless, indeed, you really do by any chance care about Lewis as much as he cares about you--of course in that event you would be more to be pitied than blamed.” He paused, then after a moment’s reflection, continued, “But no, that cannot be either; if you had really loved Lewis, you would scarcely have engaged yourself to another man before he had been out of the house four-and-twenty hours. What do you say to that? eh, young lady!”

Poor Annie! heavily indeed did her fault press upon her; most bitterly did she repent the weakness of character which had prevented her from refusing to engage her hand when her heart went not with it. What could she say? Why, she could only sob like an unhappy child, and whisper in a broken voice--

“I will send Laura to you--ask her, she knows all--she can tell you.”

And so running out of the room, she threw herself upon her friend’s neck, and begged her, incoherently and vaguely, to “go immediately to him and explain everything;” with which request Laura, when she had provided the solitary pronoun with a chaperon in the shape of a concordant noun, and restricted the transcendental “everything” to mean the one thing needful in that particular case, hastened to comply.

The commission was rather a delicate one, and the excellent Bear did not render the execution thereof the less difficult by choosing to take a hard-headed, moral, and common-sense view of Annie’s conduct, which confused Laura to such a degree, that in her desire to be particularly lucid, she contrived to entangle the matter so thoroughly that a person with greater tact and more delicate perceptions than the rough and straightforward Frere might have found the affair puzzling.

“Well, I tell you what it is, Mrs. Leicester,” he at last exclaimed abruptly, “if you were to talk to me till midnight, which, seeing you’ve a long journey before you to-morrow, would be equally fatiguing and injudicious, you would never be able to convince me that your young friend acted wisely. The idea of accepting that unhappy man (whose death, between ourselves, was a gain to everybody but himself, though, of course, I shall not say so to poor Charles, who in his amiability contrived to keep up a sort of affection for his brother); but the notion of accepting him to prevent anybody guessing she was in love with Lewis seems to me about the most feeble-minded expedient that ever occurred to the imagination, even of a woman; it’s like cutting one’s throat to cure a sore finger. I don’t admire the principle of judging actions by their results, or I should say the result of this has been just what I should have expected--viz., to make everybody miserable. However, though she has done a foolish thing, that is very different from doing a deliberately wicked one. Well, I suppose we must not be too hard upon her, poor little thing; I dare say Lewis, at all events, will be magnanimous enough to overlook it, in consideration of her correct taste in properly appreciating his good qualities; however, I’ll do my best to explain the matter to him, and put it in as favourable a light as my conscience will allow me. And so wishing you a good journey, I’ll be off. I have a notion it won’t be very long before Lewis and I shall follow you; we shall not be many hours in England before we beat up your quarters, depend upon it. Lewis will have some strange revelations to make to Governor Grant that will cause his venerable locks to stand on end in amazement. Ah! it’s a queer world. Well, good-bye, Mrs. Leicester: I expect you and I should become good friends in time, though you’re quite mistaken if you fancy that young woman acted sensibly in accepting her scampish cousin, when all the time she was in love with another man.”

And thus Richard Frere fairly talked himself out of the house, leaving Laura especially astonished at his brusquerie, and decidedly of opinion that she had mismanaged the affair and done her friend’s cause irreparable injury.

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