The catastrophe related at the end of the last chapter attracted the
attention of a couple of labourers who had been engaged in mending the
road, and they immediately hastened to the spot to render any assistance
which might be required. By their aid the poor woman was extricated from
her perilous situation, and fortunately proved to be less injured than
could have been expected, a dislocated shoulder being the most serious
hurt she had sustained. Committing the phaeton and horses to the care
of one of the working men, Lewis and the other labourer carried the poor
woman to a cottage by the roadside, and deposited her on a bed till
such time as the surgeon (for whom General Grant had, by his daughter’s
suggestion, despatched the groom on the horse which Lewis had ridden)
should arrive. Luckily, they had not long to wait, as the boy met the
person he was in search of returning from his round of professional
visits. The dislocated shoulder was soon set to rights and bandaged up,
and the sight of Annie’s well-filled purse rendered easy an arrangement
with the tenants of the cottage to allow the invalid to continue their
inmate till the next day, when she could be removed without detriment.
In the meantime the General had drawn Lewis on one side, and was
expatiating to him upon the cause of the accident. “You perceive, Mr.
Arundel, that my wrist is slightly swollen? Well, sir, that is from an
old strain received in the little affair at Sticumlÿkphun. I was only
a captain then. The company to which I belonged got separated from the
regiment in crossing a jungle, and a party of the Rajah’s irregular
horse tried to cut us off; they were upon us so suddenly, we hadn’t
time to form a hollow square, and for a minute our fate appeared
sealed;--they rode the men down like sheep. In the _mêlée_ a gigantic
trooper cut down the colour-sergeant and was about to possess himself
of the flag, when I seized the staff with my left hand and struck at him
with my sabre, but, unfortunately, it broke on his cuirass; his sword
had also snapped with the blow which had caused the sergeant’s death,
and a struggle ensued between us for the possession of the colours.
His strength was in proportion to his height, but although I felt as if
every muscle in my arms was about to snap, I held on till one of my
men shot him through the head. At the same moment a troop of the 14th
Lancers rode up and rescued us--but my wrists-have never recovered the
strain. However, I found little difficulty in holding in these horses,
till, just now, when we had turned to come home, some boys overthrew a
barrow full of stones by the roadside, which startled the animals;
they broke into a gallop, and despite all my efforts to prevent it, the
accident to which you were witness occurred.”
“Had I known of your intention, sir, I should have cautioned you not to
trust them too implicitly,” replied Lewis. “Before your return,--by Miss
Livingstone’s wish,--I went over the stables to ascertain whether there
were any carriage horses she could use. I drove these greys the second
or third time they had ever been in harness, and they ran away with me
in Broadhurst Park; but I have taken them out several times since, when
Walter wished for an airing, and I believed they had become quiet.”
“Indeed,” returned the General, more graciously than was his wont, “I
was not aware you were so good a whip; that relieves me from a great
difficulty; you will be so obliging as to drive the phaeton home, and I
can ride your horse. With my wrists in their present condition it would
be a great risk for me to attempt to hold in those animals, and the
groom is a mere boy. Annie, my dear,” he continued, as his daughter
approached them from the cottage, “our difficulties are at an end.
Mr. Arundel, it appears, has been in the habit of driving these horses
lately, and will be so good as to take my place and see you safely
home.”
“But, papa----” began Annie in a tone of remonstrance, while a slight
accession of colour replaced the roses which fear had banished from her
cheeks.
“My dear, the arrangement is the only one which appears feasible under
present circumstances. I shall ride Mr. Arundel’s horse and will keep
near, so you need be under no alarm,” returned her father majestically.
Annie by no means approved of the plan. In the first place, she was
a good deal afraid of the horses, and having no experience of Lewis’s
skill as a driver, was naturally alarmed at trusting herself again
behind them. In the second place, she had a vague idea that it was
scarcely etiquette to take a _tête-à-tête_ drive with the handsome young
tutor. But she saw that her father was quite determined, so, like a
sensible girl, she refrained from offering opposition which she foresaw
would be useless.
Lewis, however, reading in that “book of beauty,” her expressive face,
the secret of her fears, took an opportunity, while the General was
altering the stirrups to suit himself, to reassure her by saying, “You
need not be in the least afraid, Miss Grant. Believe me, I would
not undertake so great a trust as that of your safety did I not feel
perfectly sure that I could drive you home without the slightest
danger.”
As Lewis spoke Annie raised her eyes and glanced at him for a moment. It
has been already remarked, in the course of this veracious history, that
when Lewis smiled, the nameless charm which in Rose Arundel’s face won
the love of all who knew her shed its lustre over his handsome features.
To analyse such an expression of countenance is scarcely possible, but
perhaps the nearest approach to a correct description of it would be
to say that it was a bright, sunshiny look which inspired others with a
conviction of its wearer’s kindliness of heart and honest truthfulness
of purpose. Such was its effect in the present instance, and when her
father handed her to her seat in the phaeton the uneasiness which had
arisen from a want of confidence in her driver had in great measure
disappeared. Lewis waited, with the reins in his hand, till the General
had mounted and ridden off with Walter, who acquiesced silently in the
change of companion, then springing lightly to his place, he desired the
man at the horses’ heads to stand aside, and drove off. The iron-greys
soon found out the difference between their late conductor and their
present one, and after one or two slight attempts to gain their own way
gave up the point and settled down into a quiet, steady trot. Annie,
whose alarm had quickened her perceptions on the subject, was not long
in remarking the change, and turning to her companion, observed, “How
do you contrive to make the horses go so quietly, Mr. Arundel? When papa
was driving them they did nothing but dance and caper the whole way, and
at last, as you are aware, ran away with us.”
Lewis, who considered that the present was a favourable opportunity,
which might never occur again, to unburden his mind in regard to
the skating affair, and was debating with himself how he might best
introduce the subject, heard her question mechanically, as it were,
without its reaching the ears of his understanding, and it was not until
he observed her look of surprise at receiving no answer to her query
that he hastened to reply, “I beg your pardon, Miss Grant, I was
thinking on quite a different subject. I have lived such a hermit’s life
of late with poor Walter that I fear I have become dreadfully absent.”
“I merely asked by what charm you had contrived to tame these fiery
steeds,” returned Annie, smiling at his evident bewilderment.
“The charm of a steady hand and a strong arm,” replied Lewis. “But
these horses and I are old acquaintances; we had a struggle once for the
mastery, and I conquered, which they have not forgotten.” He then gave
her a short account of the runaway scene in Broad-hurst Park, to which
she listened with much interest. When he had concluded, Annie remarked,
“How dreadful it must have been when they were rushing towards the lake,
and you felt uncertain whether you might be able to check their wild
career! That lake seems destined to become the scene of dangerous
adventures. I must take this opportunity,” she continued with a faint
blush, “of thanking you for saving my life. In the few hurried lines
I wrote you, I am afraid I scarcely made you understand how much I--in
fact, that I am not ungrateful.”
It was now Lewis’s turn to feel embarrassed. The moment he had sought
for was arrived. He must confess that which would turn his companion’s
gratitude into aversion; he must forfeit her good opinion irretrievably,
and probably for this very reason (so perverse is human nature), he, for
the first time, discovered that he valued it highly. Annie was the only
member of the family (with the exception, perhaps, of Charles Leicester)
who had never caused him to feel painfully his dependent situation;
and it had not escaped his notice how on several occasions she had
interfered to save him from some trifling annoyance, which her woman’s
tact led her to feel would be doubly mortifying to his proud and
sensitive nature. Still he had resolved to make the confession, and with
him to resolve and to do were one and the same thing. Another difficulty
which rendered his task more embarrassing was that, in order to make his
explanation intelligible, he must revert to Lord Bellefield’s insult,
and though at that moment nothing would have given him greater
satisfaction than to bestow on that unworthy scion of nobility a sound
horse-whipping, he shrank from the idea of being supposed capable of the
littleness of revenging himself by injuring his enemy in the affections
of his betrothed. Thinking, however, was useless; the more he reflected
the more embarrassed did he become, so he plunged at once _in media res_
by exclaiming, “You cannot be aware, Miss Grant, of the pain your words
give me. Far from deserving your gratitude, I must implore your pardon
for having nearly sacrificed your life to my unfortunately warm temper
and revengeful feelings; nor shall I again enjoy peace of mind till I
have obtained your forgiveness, should I indeed be fortunate enough to
succeed in doing so.”
At this singular address Annie opened her large eyes and regarded her
companion with unmixed astonishment, feeling by no means satisfied that
he had not suddenly taken leave of his senses; not heeding her surprise,
however, Lewis continued: “In order to make my tale intelligible, I must
revert to an occurrence which I would rather, for many reasons, have
left unmentioned; but you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe
that I am actuated by no unworthy motive in alluding to it. About a year
ago my favourite dog became entangled whilst swimming in the Serpentine
river, and would have been drowned if I had not jumped in and saved
him.”
“I know, I saw it all; we were driving in the park at the time,”
interrupted Annie eagerly.
“As I regained the bank,” resumed Lewis, “a gentleman, whom I have since
learned to be your cousin, Lord Bellefield, came up and offered me a sum
of money for the dog. I had not accomplished Faust’s rescue without some
risk, for though I am a good swimmer, my wet clothes kept dragging
me down, and I confess the offer of money for an animal I had just
imperilled my life to save irritated me, and I returned Lord Bellefield
an answer which perhaps he was justified in considering impertinent.
When Mr. Leicester introduced me to his brother, on the day of the
skating-party, it was evident he had not forgotten this transaction, and
he soon found an opportunity to address me in a style which could only
have been applied to a dependent with safety.”
As he spoke these words in a tone of bitter contempt, his eyes flashing
and his cheeks burning, his companion murmured as though she were
thinking aloud, “It was ungenerous of him, in the extreme.” Lewis
remained silent for a moment, and then continued in a calmer voice: “I
am by nature of a lamentably hasty temper, and my impulse would have
led me to resent Lord Bellefield’s insult on the spot; but many
considerations withheld me, and still possessed by angry feeling, I
joined the party on the lake. After the ice had given way, while I was
assisting those who clung to the edges to scramble out, I first became
aware that you were in the water, and I was about to jump in and swim
to your assistance when, by some ill luck, your cousin approached in
a state of great excitement and ordered me authoritatively to ‘save my
master’s daughter.’”
“Oh, how could he say such a thing!” exclaimed Annie indignantly.
“As he spoke,” resumed Lewis, “some evil spirit seemed to take
possession of me, and, to annoy him, I bowed and drew back, saying,
‘Your lordship must excuse me--I am no squire of dames;’ adding that of
course he would rescue you himself. From the irritation produced by
my reply I discovered that his lordship was unable to swim, and having
reason to suppose your safety was especially important to him, the
fiendish idea crossed my mind that by leaving you to perish I could
revenge myself on him more effectually than by any other means.”
“How could you be so unjust, so cruel, even in idea?” interrupted Annie
reproachfully,--“I, who have never injured you in thought, word, or
deed; but you were maddened at the time, and knew not what you did.”
“I must indeed have been mad,” exclaimed Lewis, completely overcome by
the kindness of these last words, “when I could even for a moment
forget the gentle courtesy with which you have always treated me--the
consideration--the----” He paused abruptly and pressed his hand to
his forehead as if to shut out some hateful vision, a relaxation of
vigilance of which the near-side horse took advantage to shy at its
own shadow and break into a canter, which manouvre restored Lewis’s
self-possession in an instant, the rein was again tightened, and the
culprit admonished, by a sharp stroke of the whip, that he was not to
indulge in such caprices for the future, ere his driver resumed: “I had
scarcely formed the idea you so justly stigmatise as cruel, when the
atrocity of the act flashed across me, and as Lord Bellefield ran off
to procure a boat, I sprang into the water and swam towards you. Imagine
then the agony of mind with which I perceived that you would sink before
I could reach you! At that moment I felt what it was to be a murderer!
The rest of the tale you have no doubt heard from others--how it pleased
the Almighty to permit the instinct of my noble dog to become the
instrument by which you were saved from death, and I from a life of
remorse, to which death itself would have been preferable. Of this you
are already aware; it only remains for me to add that if the deepest
self-abhorrence, the most sincere repentance for the past may weigh
with you, you will forgive me the wrong I meditated.” At this moment the
sound of horses’ feet cantering gave notice that General Grant was about
to effect a junction with the main body, and Annie replied hastily, “As
far as I have anything to forgive, Mr. Arundel, I do so most heartily.
If for a moment you thought of allowing my life to be sacrificed, you
risked your own to save it immediately afterwards, so that I remain your
debtor, even putting to-day’s adventure out of the account--for I fully
believe papa and I were in a fair way to break our necks, though he
would not allow it.”
“Well, Annie,” remarked the General, riding up to his daughter’s side,
“you don’t appear to be frightened now.”
“No, papa,” was the reply, “there is nothing to be alarmed at; the
horses go as quietly as possible.”
“Ah! I thought I had pretty well tamed them,” returned the General
triumphantly. “You scarcely find them at all difficult to restrain now,
Mr. Arundel, I presume.”
“They do pull a little strongly even yet, sir,” returned Lewis quietly;
“that glove was whole when I took the reins.” As he spoke he held up his
left hand and disclosed two large rents caused by the friction.
“Hum!” replied the General, slightly disconcerted. “Well, you have
driven them very steadily; don’t hurry them, take them in cool. Walter
and I will precede you and explain how this adventure came about.” So
saying he gave his horse the rein, and he and Walter cantered on.
“Lord Bellefield has behaved abominably,” observed Annie abruptly, after
they had proceeded for some distance in silence; “he ought to apologise
to you, and I have a great mind to make him do so.”
“Do not think of such a thing,” returned Lewis hastily. “If I can read
his character, Lord Bellefield is a very proud man, and to one whom he
considers his inferior he could not bring himself to apologise; nor, on
calmly reviewing my own conduct, can I entirely acquit myself of having
given him cause of offence. In my manner towards him I have shown too
plainly my forgetfulness of our difference of station. Feeling that the
son of one who was a soldier, a man of old family, and a gentleman in
the highest sense of the word, is any man’s equal, I overlooked the
distinction between the heir to a peerage and a poor tutor, and
I treated Lord Bellefield, as I would any other man whose manner
displeased me, cavalierly, without considering, or indeed caring, in
what light my conduct might appear to him. This error I am resolved to
avoid for the future, and if he will on his part forbear further insult,
it is all I desire. Believe me,” added Lewis in a tone which carried
conviction with it, “I do not undervalue your kindness in advocating my
cause, but I would not have you suffer further annoyance on my account;
so if you have really forgiven me, you will best show it by forgetting
the whole matter as speedily as possible.”
Annie shook her head as though she considered such a termination to the
affair highly improbable, merely replying, “Perhaps you are right in
thinking I should do more harm than good by my interference; at all
events, I will be guided in the matter by your wishes. And now, Mr.
Arundel,” she continued, “let me say what I have often wished, but have
never been able to find an opportunity to tell you before, and that is,
that as long as you are with us--not that I mean to limit it only to
that time--I hope you will regard me as a friend. I have heard from my
cousin Charles an outline of the circumstances through which my father
was fortunate enough to secure your valuable assistance for poor Walter,
and I can well conceive how greatly you must feel the loss of the
society of your mother and sister.”
“I know not how to thank you for such unexampled kindness; you are
indeed returning good for evil,” replied Lewis warmly. He paused for a
moment, as if he were considering how best he might express his meaning,
then added, “As far as may be, I shall most gladly avail myself of the
privilege of your friendship. I cannot tell you the weight you have
taken off my mind by this convincing proof of your forgiveness. You may
imagine how exquisitely painful, knowing how little I deserved them,
were all the civil speeches people considered it necessary to make me
on my ‘gallant conduct,’ as they termed it; as if there were anything
wonderful in swimming a few yards to save a life!--the wonder would be
for any man who could swim _not_ to do so.”
“And yet, thinking thus lightly of the peril, you tell me you were so
carried away by your angry feeling as to hesitate whether or not to
leave me to perish,” returned Annie reflectively. “How strange that
the mind can be engrossed by passion so completely as to banish all its
natural impulses!”
“You will laugh at me, and think my German education has filled my brain
with strange, wild fancies,” replied Lewis; “but I believe that we
are under a species of demoniacal possession at such moments--that by
indulging our evil feelings instead of resisting them we have given
Satan additional power over us. You know the legend of the Wild
Huntsman: I cannot but look upon the description of the spirit-riders
who accompanied the baron, one on a white, the other on a black steed,
and alternately plied him with good and evil counsel, less as an
allegory than a reality.”
“You believe, then, that we are constantly surrounded by spiritual
beings imperceptible to our bodily senses?” asked Annie. “It is rather a
fearful idea.”
“Believe,” returned Lewis, “is perhaps too strong a term to apply to
any theory not distinctly borne out by Holy Writ, but as far as I
have studied the subject, I think the existence of spiritual beings
of opposite natures, some good, some evil, is clearly indicated by
Scripture; and there are many passages which would lead one to suppose
that they are permitted, under certain restrictions, to interest
themselves in mundane affairs, and influence the thoughts which are the
springs of human actions--immaterial agents, in fact, for working out
the will of God. Nor do I see anything fearful in the idea; on the
contrary, as we cannot doubt that it is our own fault if the evil
spirits ever prevail against us, and that good angels witness our
struggles to do right, and are at hand to assist us, I consider the
theory a most consolatory one.”
“I never looked at the subject in this light before,” observed Annie
thoughtfully. “Of course, like most other people, I had a vague,
visionary kind of belief in the existence of good angels and evil
spirits, but I never applied the belief practically, never imagined they
had anything to do with me; and yet it seems reasonable that what
you have suggested should be the case. Oh! if we could but have our
spiritual eyes open so that we could see them, we then should love the
good angels so much, and hate and fear the evil ones to such a degree,
that it would be quite easy to act rightly, and impossible to do wrong.”
“I suppose, if our faith were as strong as it should be,” returned
Lewis, “we ought so to realise the truths of Christianity that we should
feel as you describe.”
His companion made no reply, but sat for some minutes apparently
pursuing the train of thought to which his words had given rise. At
length rousing herself, she turned to Lewis, saying, with a _naïve_
smile, “We shall be capital friends, I see. I did not know you could
talk so nicely about things of this kind. I delight in people who give
me new ideas--you must teach me German, too, when all this bustle is
over. I shall ask papa to let you do so. I want to learn German above
everything, and to read Schiller, and Goethe, and La Motte Fouqué,
and all sorts of people. Will you take compassion on my ignorance, and
accept me as a pupil? I shall not be quite as dull as poor Walter, I
hope.”
“I shall be delighted to play Master of the Ceremonies to introduce
you to those of the German authors who are best worth knowing, always
provided that the General approves of my so doing,” returned Lewis.
“Oh! papa will approve,” replied Annie. “He can care nothing about it
one way or another, and whenever that is the case he always lets me do
as I like; and as to Aunt Martha--well, there may be some difficulty
with her, I confess, but the most ferocious animals are tamed by
kindness, and it’s hard if I can’t coax her into submission to my will
and pleasure.”
“I flatter myself I have become rather a favourite with Miss Livingstone
since the affair of the horses,” observed Lewis. “I have heard her
describe me as ‘a young man of unusual abilities and irreproachable
moral character’ to three distinct sets of visitors during the last
week.”
“You’ve caught her tone exactly,” returned Annie, laughing; “but it’s
very abominable of you to deride my venerable aunt.”
And so they chatted on, Lewis forgetting alike his proud reserve and
his dependent position in his pleasure in once again meeting with the
kindness and sympathy to which he had been so long a stranger, and Annie
engrossed by the joy with which she perceived the ice that care and
sorrow had frozen round the heart of her young companion melt before the
fascination of her look and manner; and when the phaeton drew up before
the ample portals of Broadhurst, it would have been hard to decide which
of the two felt most sorry that pleasant drive had come so quickly to an
end.
Our train still runs along the _Railroad of Life_, but a most important
station has been passed when Lewis first arrived at the conclusion that
he had ceased to dislike Annie Grant.