COURSE OF SERIOUS READING.
When General Grant had perused the “Morning Post,” containing the
paragraph with which the last chapter concluded, he left the remainder
of his breakfast untasted, and hastening to the library, wrote the
following letter:--
“My Lord,--On learning from my daughter the uncourteous, had almost
written ungentlemanly, manner in which you neglected her safety on
Saturday evening, I was naturally much incensed. A paragraph referring
to you in the ‘Post’ of this morning affords a sufficient clue to the
cause of your absence from the Opera-house, but unfortunately does so by
casting upon you an imputation which (unless you can explain the affair
to my entire satisfaction, which I confess appears to me improbable)
must necessarily break off all intercourse between us. I am aware that
your conduct may not have exceeded the limits which the world terms
honourable, but I do not regulate my opinions by the world’s standard,
and should consider that I was indeed neglecting my duty as a father
were I to entrust my daughter’s happiness to a gamester whose success
has involved the ruin and self-murder of a fellow-creature. These may
sound harsh terms, but unless you can disprove that they are true ones,
I for the last time sign myself, yours faithfully,
“Archibald Grant.”
Having relieved his mind by penning the above epistle, he despatched
a mounted groom to convey it to its destination, and having seen him
depart, shut himself up, in solitary dignity, to await an answer. In
less time than could have been imagined the groom returned bearing the
following missive:--
“Lord Bellefield presents his compliments to General Grant, and having
perused his strangely offensive letter, begs to decline affording any
explanation whatsoever of the conduct of which General Grant sees fit
to disapprove. Lord Bellefield agrees in thinking that under these
circumstances all intercourse between himself and General Grant’s family
had better cease.”
While the General sat in his library pondering over this agreeable
epistle with a rueful countenance, to which anger, vexation, and
outraged dignity imparted a singularly undesirable expression, an
eager and exciting conversation was being carried on in a pretty little
apartment opening into a miniature conservatory, dedicated to the use
of Annie Grant. Emily had arrived, all her own natural, fascinating,
impulsive, silly little self again, and had pooh-poohed any attempt at
coolness on Annie’s part by throwing her arms round her neck and kissing
her a very unnecessary number of times, under the plea of her being “a
dear, ill-used thing that _must_ be petted.” And having thus at one
and the same time expiated her offences and relieved her feelings, she
danced across the room, bolted the door, drew a heavy damask curtain
over it, and exclaiming, “Now we’re snug,” danced back again, and
flinging herself into an easy-chair, began--
“Oh, my dear Annie! I am so miserable, so utterly wretched, I must go
back to Italy; I’ve written to Alessandro to come and fetch me directly.
I shall never be happy again--at least not till I’ve quite forgotten it
all--and that will be never.” And here came out a little lace parody of
a pocket-handkerchief, which, although by no means a desirable article
wherewith to face a violent cold in the head, or at all calculated to
withstand so much as an average sneeze, yet sufficed to dry the ghost of
the tear which Emily’s deep wretchedness drew from her.
“My dear Emily, what _is_ the matter?” returned Annie, alarmed by a
thousand vague fears, though, not having seen _the_ paragraph, she
was as yet unconscious of the darkest cloud that obscured the family
horizon.
“Oh, my love, I suppose I ought not to tell you anything about it, but
I must, for I’ve no one else to confide in. That wretch Gus!--would you
believe it? he actually wanted me to leave poor dear Alessandro, and
to run away with him;” and then with many ejaculations, and much
flourishing of the homoeopathic sized handkerchief, she went on to
relate how, when she became separated from Annie at the Opera-house,
“which was all that creature Gus’s fault, and done on purpose,” she was
certain, the “creature” had availed himself of the opportunity he had
thus secured to urge his undying attachment to her, which affection,
despite its inherent principle of vitality, he declared would assuredly
bring him to an early grave in the event of her obduracy continuing;
but Emily, though positively a flirt, and negatively rather a goose than
otherwise, was not unprincipled, and so when she had overcome her first
impulse of surprise and mortification, all the virtuous wife arose
within her, and she gave Gus to understand, by dint of sundry short,
sharp, and decisive plain-spoken unpleasantnesses, that he had made a
false move and ruined his game. Thence lapsing abruptly into a fit of
sulky dignity, she ordered him, with the voice and gestures of a tragedy
queen, to lead her to her carriage, finally despatching the foiled
“_Lionne_” hunter to remedy one of his ill deeds by finding Annie, on
which mission he departed in a state of mind the reverse of seraphic.
Having concluded this historical episode, _la Contessa_ proceeded to
append thereunto certain annotations and reflections, in the course of
which she contrived to fix much blame on society in general, and on Gus
and Alessandro in particular, but none whatsoever on her own flirting
manner and inordinate love of attention, which self-deluding analysis
was by no means an original feature in the case, but rather an
unconscious imitation of the proceedings of many a deeper thinker than
poor little Emily.
The conference between the girls was still at its height when a summons
for Annie from her father interrupted the proceedings; whereupon Emily,
declaring that neither her health nor spirits were then capable of
undergoing the pain _forte et dure_ of an interview with Aunt Martha,
drove home again, to fortify her principles and console her breaking
heart with a volume of George Sand’s last novel. The General was in a
great state of virtuous indignation. Lord Bellefield’s note had been as
gunpowder sprinkled over the smouldering embers of his wrath, and when
Annie arrived they (or, to translate the metaphor _slang-icè_, he)
“flared up” to an immense extent. He told her of all the enormities
which the newspapers attributed to her cousin, and signified his belief
that the case had been rather understated than otherwise; he informed
her of Lewis’s _rencontre_ with the delinquent at the door of a
gaming-house; he adduced the note which he had just received as a proof
that its writer must be lost to all better feeling--utterly wanting in a
proper respect for age and position; and, in short, he said a great many
severe and unwise things, after the fashion of angry men in general, for
which he was afterwards very sorry, finding such speeches easier to
say than to unsay--which result is also by no means uncommon in similar
cases.
Having relieved his feelings by this explosion, he proceeded to the more
serious business of the interview by informing her that the necessary
consequence of these uncomfortable revelations must be the dissolution
of all ties, present or prospective, between herself and Lord
Bellefield, which autocratic act he performed with outward austerity
and inward trepidation, as he fully expected Annie to receive the harsh
decree with a violent burst of tears, and, man-like, there was nothing
he dreaded so much--he would rather have faced a charge of cavalry any
day. But to his surprise Annie sustained the information with a degree
of stoical self-control that was perfectly marvellous. She neither wept,
sighed, nor attempted the hysteric line; she only said gravely, “It’s
all very sad and shocking; but of course, dear papa, I am ready to
agree to whatever you think best.” The General rubbed his hands--there
was a daughter for you! Not a word of opposition--to hear was to obey;
it actually restored him to good humour. He talked to her kindly and
sensibly for a quarter of an hour, and then went out and purchased
for her a valuable diamond bracelet, which was his idea of rewarding
self-sacrifice in woman. And so did Annie, involuntarily and
unconsciously, gain high praise and honour for submitting with
resignation to a decree which afforded her unmitigated satisfaction.
As she left the library she encountered poor Walter, who appeared in
unusually high spirits. Next to Lewis, Annie held the foremost place in
Walter’s affections, from the unvarying patience and kindness with which
she treated him. Moreover, having failed to inspire him with the degree
of respect not unmingled with awe with which he was accustomed to regard
his tutor, he looked upon her in the light of a companion and an equal,
to whom it might be safe to confide certain mischievous performances in
which, as his spirits acquired more elasticity, and his mental powers
began to develop, he saw fit from time to time to indulge. With some
such intention did he now approach her, whispering as he drew near, “I
want you, Annie; I want you to come with me and see Faust dressed like a
gentleman.”
“See what, you silly boy?” returned Annie, laughing.
“Come with me and you shall see,” was the rhythmical and oracular
response; and seizing her by the hand, he dragged her off in the
direction of the sitting-room appropriated to his own use and that of
his tutor.
“Is Mr. Arundel there?” inquired Annie, pausing when she discovered
their destination.
“No, he’s not att home; there’s no other gentleman there except Mr.
Faust,” was the reply; and thus reassured, Annie complied with the boy’s
whim, and allowed him to carry her off unopposed. Now, since we have
had any especial intercourse with that worthy dog, Faust’s education
had progressed rapidly as well as Walter’s. Lewis, partly from want
of occupation during the many weary hours his attendance on Walter
necessitated, partly because by so doing he was enabled to excite and
interest the feeble intellect of his poor charge, had availed himself of
the unusual power of control he had acquired over the dog to teach
him sundry tricks somewhat more difficult to perform than the ordinary
routine of canine accomplishments; for instance, having perfected him in
sitting on his hind legs in the attitude popularly supposed to represent
the act of begging, he went on to teach him to sit thus perched up in
a corner for a space of time gradually increasing, as by practice the
animal’s muscles acquired more rigidity, until at length it was
no uncommon feat for him to remain in this attitude for an hour at
literally a “sitting.” Moreover, if a light book or pamphlet were placed
on his forepaws, he would support it, and remain gazing on the open page
before him with a solemn gravity of countenance, indicating, apparently,
the deepest interest in the work he seemed to be perusing. Of the
results of this educational course Walter had on the present occasion
availed himself; and accordingly, Annie, on her introduction to the
study, found the excellent dog seated on his hind legs in a corner, with
an extempore mantle formed of a red scarf drooping gracefully from his
shoulders, and an old cap of Walter’s on his head. Thus attired, he
appeared to be conning, with an expression of puzzled diligence, a tract
against profane swearing by Mrs. Hannah More, presented to Walter by
Miss Livingstone on the occasion of his inadvertently making use in her
presence of the scandalous expression, “Bless my heart!” Annie, duly
impressed by this spectacle, laughed even more than Walter had hoped
for, and told Faust that he was much the best dog in the world, in which
assertion she was not, as we think, guilty of any great exaggeration.
And Faust, taking the compliment to himself only when the occurrence
of his name rendered the allusion unmistakably personal, slobbered
affectionately with his great comic mouth, and winked with his foolish,
loving eyes, and made abortive attempts to wag his ridiculous friendly
tail, which was crumpled up un-wag-ably in the corner, and in the
plenitude of his excellence sat more erect than ever, and studied his
profane swearing still more diligently.
As soon as Walter’s delight at Annie’s amusement had in some degree
subsided, he turned to her, saying--
“But, Annie, you have not found out why! told you Faust looked like a
gentleman.”
“Oh! because he sits there reading his book with such an air ol
dignified composure, I suppose,” was the reply.
“No; I’d a better reason than that,” returned Walter, with a look of
unusual sagacity.
“Well, then, you must tell me what it was, for I can’t guess,” observed
Annie good-naturedly.
“Look again, and find out,” rejoined Walter.
Thus urged, Annie examined the dog more attentively than she had done
before, and discovered that round his neck was slung the identical gold
watch and chain which, at her suggestion, Charles Leicester and his wife
had given to Lewis.
“Why, you’ve hung Mr. Arundel’s watch round Faust’s neck! Oh, Walter,
how foolish of you; he might have thrown it down and broken it!”
exclaimed Annie, aghast at her discovery.
“Yes, that’s it,” returned Walter, chuckling with delight at the success
of his puerile attempt at a trick. “All gentlemen wear gold watches, you
know, and so does Mr. Faust.”
“You ought not to have put it on him; I’m sure Mr. Arundel will be
very angry,” resumed Annie; and kneeling down by the dog, she began
untwisting the chain from his neck. “Sit still, Faust; be quiet, sir,”
she continued, as Faust, in his affection, attempted to take an unfair
advantage of the situation to lick her hands and face, in which act of
impertinence Walter sedulously encouraged him; still Annie persevered,
and at length succeeded in disengaging the chain and rescuing the watch
from its dangerous position. “There,” she exclaimed, “I have remedied
the effects of your mischief, Master Walter; but I should never have
been able to accomplish it if Faust had not been the best behaved,
dearest old dog in the world;” and with an impulse of girlish
playfulness she threw her arms round the animal and pressed his rough
head against her shoulder, her soft auburn ringlets falling like a
shower of gold upon his shaggy coat.
At this moment, Lewis, who had been to talk over his Saturday evening’s
adventures with Frere (or, at least, such portion of them as he chose
to reveal, for on some subjects he was strangely reserved, even with
Frere), returned, and finding the door ajar, entered noiselessly,
and stood transfixed by the sight of the _tableau vivant_ we have
endeavoured to describe. He thought that he had never beheld anything
so lovely in his life before, nor was he far wrong. The time that had
elapsed since we first introduced Annie Grant to the reader had altered
only to improve her beauty; her figure had gained a certain roundness of
outline, and her face acquired a depth of expression, which had been the
only finishing touches wanting to complete one of those rare specimens
of loveliness on which we gaze with a speculative wonder as to why so
much beauty should be, as it were, wasted on this world of change, and
sin, and sorrow, and not reserved for that “Petter Land,”
“Where all lovely things and fair
Pass not away.”
Whether ideas at all analogous to these presented themselves to the mind
of Lewis, we are unable to say; certain it is, however, that (his
artist eye attracted by the picture before him) he stood gazing as one
entranced, while his colour went and came, and his broad chest heaved
with the intensity of his emotion. How long affairs might have remained
in this position it is impossible to decide, had not Faust, becoming
aware of his master’s presence by some mysterious canine instinct, made
an unceremonious attempt to free himself from Annie’s caresses; and that
young lady, raising her eyes, encountered those of Lewis fixed upon her
with an expression which changed in an instant from ardent admiration to
one of grave courtesy as he found that he was observed. Annie’s manner,
as she rose and came forward, afforded but little clue whether or not
she had noticed this change, and though her colour appeared somewhat
heightened, no want of self-possession was discernible as she said,
holding up the watch--
“See what I have been rescuing from the mischievous devices of Master
Walter! He had actually hung my cousin Charles’ present to you round
Faust’s neck in order to make him look like a gentleman, as he declared.
Walter, come and answer for your misdeeds; I intend Mr. Arundel to be
very angry with you--where are you, sir?” and as she spoke she looked
round for her companion, but whether really alarmed at the possibility
of being reproved for his mischief, or whether actuated by some
reasonless caprice of his half-developed intellect, Walter was nowhere
to be found; so Lewis, having thanked Annie for her care of his watch,
politely held open the door for her to depart. But when kidnapped by
Walter, Annie had been carrying am armful of books, and Lewis, becoming
aware of this fact, could do no less than offer to take them up to the
drawing-room for her. Having accomplished this feat, he was about to
retire, when it occurred to him that he was bound in common civility to
inquire whether she had sustained any ill effects from her alarm.
“Oh, no,” replied Annie; “thanks to your kindness and consideration, I
am literally _quitte pour la peur?_
“I suppose,” she added hesitatingly, “you have ere this learned the
sad cause of Lord Bellefield’s absence on Saturday night?” and on Lewis
replying in the affirmative, she continued, “And do you believe all
that the newspapers insinuate? Can my cousin have really behaved so very
wickedly?”
“I called on my friend Richard Frere this morning,” returned Lewis,
“and I hear from him that the main facts of the case are matters of
notoriety; for instance, racing men are well aware that Lord Bellefield
won a large sum of money from this unfortunate young man; nor would your
cousin attempt to deny that it is so. I am not sufficiently acquainted
with the fashionable London world to hazard an opinion on the subject;
but Frere, who knows everybody, says the story has gained universal
credence; and though by no means disposed to judge human nature
severely, believes in it himself.”
“It is very, very shocking,” murmured Annie; “and I had hoped it could
not be true, but papa is much incensed, and believes it fully; and
I fancy you do also, although, having such just cause to dislike my
cousin, you are too generous to blame him.”
“Indeed, you are mistaken,” returned Lewis kindly; for her manner
confirmed him in an impression which had arisen in his mind that the
distaste she had expressed to the engagement with Lord Bellefield would
vanish as her anger at his neglect cooled. “Indeed, I do not think so;
on the contrary, I have a strong conviction that the affair has been
misrepresented and exaggerated, and that your cousin will be able to
clear himself, not only to your satisfaction, but to that of General
Grant also.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Annie impetuously; and then, ere the words
were well spoken, she continued, “No, I do not mean that. How wicked of
me to say so! but, oh! it is such joy to feel that I am free--free
as air!” Then observing that Lewis’s eyes were fixed upon her with an
inquiring glance, though his lips framed no sound, she added with a
bright blush, “Yes, you were a true prophet, Mr. Arundel,” and turning
abruptly, she quitted the room.
And Lewis! Did he rejoice that the man he hated was thus crossed in his
dearest wishes--thus held up to public obloquy? Strange as many will
deem it, he did not. On the contrary--except on Annie’s account--he was
annoyed at the turn events had taken. In the first place, although the
facts were so strong that he could not reasonably discredit the reports
that were in circulation, he felt a sort of instinctive belief that
Lord Bellefield was not guilty of all the evil laid to his charge. He
recalled the expression of his face as he had seen it on the night of
the suicide; it had not been that of a man hardened in crime, who had
left the victim of his betting schemes unaided in his extremity to seek
refuge from dishonour in the madness of self-destruction, but rather that
of a being of mixed good and evil startled by some frightful reality of
life into a condition of temporary remorse. If Lewis could have realised
his exact wishes at this moment, he would have desired to clear Lord
Bellefield’s character by his own unassisted efforts, and as a reward,
to have called him out the next morning and fought with small swords
(pistols would have decided the matter too quickly to satisfy him) till
one or both should have furnished subjects for the undertaker. Then his
thoughts reverted to Annie--she was free, and rejoiced in her freedom,
therefore she was to be won. Watch his features as the idea strikes him:
first a flush of joy, crimsoning brow and cheek, fading to the pale hue
of despair; then the clenched hand and compressed lips, that tell of the
strong will battling with, ay, and conquering--for the will is as yet
the stronger--the germs of a consuming passion. Brave young heart,
tasting for the first time the full bitterness of life, angels might
have wept to view thy gallant striving!
The aphorism embodying the statement that a storm is usually followed by
a calm, although by no means original, is not on that account the less
true; nor in tracing the course of events in the household of General
Grant shall we discover an exception to this rule in the “Law of
Storms.” Immediately after the incident we have related. Lord Bellefield
(probably wishing to escape the disagreeable notoriety likely to be
obtained by his share in the catastrophe) escorted his sister to Italy,
without making any attempt to deprecate the anger of General Grant; and
although the Marquis of Ashford, who greatly desired that the proposed
matrimonial alliance should take place (hoping that marriage might
wean his son from various expensive pursuits, of the nature whereof the
reader may have gleaned some faint idea from the previous course of this
narrative), made sundry attempts to effect a reconciliation, the General
remained implacable. From his new position, as occasional secretary
to her father, Lewis was thrown into constant intercourse with Annie,
while, from the deservedly high opinion General Grant had formed of him,
he was treated more as a friend than a dependant. Before Mrs. Arundel
and Rose left London, Annie obtained her father’s permission to invite
the latter to spend a few days with them. Rose placed the invitation in
Lewis’s hand before showing it even to Mrs. Arundel. She divined that
her brother would feel strongly on the subject, and determined to be
guided by his wishes. He read Annie’s note in silence: it was like
herself--simple, frank, and warm-hearted; it was accompanied by a few
lines from the General--kind (for him) and courteous in the extreme.
“Miss Arundel would confer an obligation on his daughter by allowing her
the opportunity of becoming acquainted with,” etc., etc. The General
had heard of Rose’s literary reputation, and looked upon her as a
second Madame de Staël. A woman who had written a book appeared to his
simplicity a thing as wonderful as, in these latter days, when, to speak
poetically, the sun of literature is obscured by the leafy greenness of
the softer sex, we are accustomed to regard a woman who has never done
so. Lewis read the two notes; there was not a shadow of patronage from
beginning to end at which the most rampant pride could take offence--the
invitation was unexceptionable; and then a crowd of conflicting ideas
rushed upon him, and he paced the apartment for once in a state of the
most complete indecision. This was not a mood of mind which could ever
continue long with Lewis, and pausing abruptly, he said, “I really do
not see how you can well refuse, after such a very kind note from--from
the General.”
“I shall be delighted to accept it, dear Lewis, since you wish it as
well as myself; I long to know more of that sweet Annie.”
“You will be disappointed if you expect to find Miss Grant unusually
clever,” returned Lewis moodily. “She has good natural abilities,
but nothing more, neither has she been accustomed to live amongst
intellectual people; she is by no means your equal in point of talent.”
Rose looked surprised at this depreciatory speech; she considered Annie
so fascinating that she did not imagine it in man’s nature to criticise
her unfavourably, and that Lewis, of all people, should do so was very
incomprehensible. She only replied, however, “Miss Grant is much more
accomplished than I am, at all events; she sketches like an artist,
plays with great taste and execution, and sings most sweetly. I do not
think it by any means an advantage to a woman to be unusually clever: it
tends to force her out of her proper sphere, and to urge her to a degree
of publicity repugnant to all the better instincts of her nature.”
“I quite agree with you,” rejoined Lewis cordially. “A woman should have
a quick, vigorous intellect, to enable her to perceive and appreciate
the good, the true, and the beautiful, but nothing beyond. With a single
exception, dear Rose, I consider literary women complete anomalies,
things to wonder at and to pity; depend upon it, few women who devote
their lives to literature are really happy.”
As Lewis ceased speaking Rose sat for some moments pondering the truth
of the opinions which he, in common with many of the best and wisest of
his sex, held on this subject. At length she said, “I agree, and yet I
differ with you. Surely a fine mind is one of the noblest gifts God can
bestow upon His creature, because,” she added reverently, “the higher
the intellect the nearer it must approach to His own perfect wisdom;
therefore talent ought to be a boon to woman as well as to man; but is
it not in the application of that talent that the mischief lies? If the
consciousness of mental superiority unfits a woman for the performance
of her natural duties, instead of enabling her to fulfil them more
thoroughly, the fault rests not in the gift, which is in itself a
privilege, but in the misapplication of it by the person on whom it is
bestowed. Retirement is a woman’s natural position, and anything which
leads her to forsake it tends to unsex and deteriorate her. I do not
say that it must necessarily do so; if, for instance, some pious motive,
such as a desire to assist her family, actuates her, she often appears
to be protected from the dangers which surround the path which she has
chosen, but that these dangers are great and many it is vain to deny.”
“My opinion is,” rejoined Lewis, “that amongst either men or women those
only should write books who, from some cause or other, are so thoroughly
imbued with their subject that utterance becomes as it were a necessity;
then, and then only, do they produce anything great and good. The
strongest argument I know against women writing is that they never
appear to exceed pleasing mediocrity. You have no female Shakespeare
or Milton--even Byron and Scott are unapproached by the bravest of your
literary Amazons. Certainly women should not write and having uttered
this opinion much as if he would have liked to alter the ‘should’ into
‘shall,’ and to be made autocrat of England till he had purged the
land from blue-stockings.” Lewis took his hat and departed, leaving that
“talented authoress,” his sister, to chew the cud of his encouraging
observations as best she might.
The practical result of this conversation was that Rose spent a week
in Park Crescent, and thus the occurrences thereof fell out. Miss
Livingstone first catechised, then patronised the young tutor’s sister.
The General also tried a pompously condescending system, but Rose’s
sweetness subdued the old soldier; and ere the week had passed he became
devoted to her, and in his stately fashion loved her only a little less
than his own daughter. And Annie--she first began by being afraid of her
new acquaintance because she was an authoress; then she discovered that
she was not so alarming-, after all; next it occurred to her that she
was very sensible; afterwards that she was very affectionate, which went
a great way with Annie; and finally, that she was quite perfect, and
exactly _the_ friend she had been all her life pining for. From the
moment she discovered this, which was once upon a time when Rose,
carried away by the heat of congenial conversation, began to talk about
her brother, she delighted to lay bare her pure, girlish heart to her
new-found friend. And what does the reader suppose it contained? Any
very mysterious secret, any dire and soul-harrowing episode, as became
the heart of a heroine? Alas, for poor, degenerate Annie! there were
no such interesting contents in her warm little bosom, only much
simplicity, sundry good resolutions containing the germs of future
self-discipline, great natural amiability, a ready appreciation of
all that was excellent in art or nature, and an open and unbounded
admiration of, and respect for, the character of Lewis; so open indeed
that Rose thankfully acknowledged to her secret soul that one alarming
possibility which had lately occurred to and haunted her--viz., that
Annie and Lewis were falling in love with each other--could have no
foundation in fact. The only drawback to Rose’s pleasure in her visit
was, strange to say, the behaviour of her brother. His manner when
alone with her--and the delicate tact of Annie Grant afforded them
many opportunities for a _tête-à-tête_--was wayward and fitful in the
extreme. Sometimes, but very seldom, he appeared low and out of spirits;
at others he was cold and sarcastic, or even perverse and unjust; and
though these fits were invariably followed by expressions of the most
affectionate regard towards Rose herself, yet the idea with which they
impressed her was that his mind was ill at ease, and that for some
reason which he studiously concealed, he was unhappy. The week passed
away like a dream, and Annie, as she parted from her new friend, felt
as if some being of a superior order, endowed with power to make and to
keep her good, were leaving her again to fight single-handed with the
trials and temptations of life.
Frere had been despatched by his scientific superiors to inspect certain
organic remains which had come to light during the formation of a
railroad cutting in the north of Ireland; which remains, assuming to
be the vertebræ and shin bone of an utter impossibility (the
comparative-anatomical sketch, which Frere designed on the _ex pede
Herculem_ principle, represented the lamented deceased as a species
of winged hippopotamus, with a bird’s head, a crocodile’s tail, and
something resembling an inverted umbrella round its camelopard-like
neck, forming a whole more picturesque than probable), excited the
deepest interest in the world of science, which lasted till, unluckily,
one of the workmen, striking his pick-axe against a partially imbedded
bone, found that the Rumpaddyostodon (for so had Frere’s _chef_ already
named it) was composed of Irish oak.
Ere Frere returned from this expedition Mrs. Arundel and Rose had
quitted London, a fact which annoyed that gentleman more than he could
reasonably account for. Having, however, recovered from his strange fit
of shyness, he wrote Rose a long account of his adventures, winding up
by originating a pressing invitation to himself to spend a fortnight
with them during the vacation, which invitation he not only accepted
most graciously, but with the utmost benevolence volunteered to prolong
to three weeks, if he could possibly manage it.
Lewis, shortly after the departure of his mother and sister, received
what Annie termed “marching orders”--viz., an intimation that on
a certain day and hour he and his pupil were to hold themselves in
readiness to start for Broadhurst, it being one of the General’s pet
idiosyncrasies to manage his family movements _saltatim_, by jerks, as
it were, which disagreeable habit he had acquired during his campaigning
days, when the exigencies of military service necessitated such abrupt
proceedings. The consequence of this particular exercise of discipline
was that Lewis received the following note on the evening before their
departure:--
“Dear Sir,--Learning this morning, accidentally, that you are about to
leave town to-morrow, and wishing much to see you on a matter of
some importance before you do so, shall I be putting you to any great
inconvenience if I ask you to do me the favour of breakfasting with me
to-morrow? Name your own hour, from six o’clock downwards. My boy is
waiting, or more properly (you know his mendacious propensities) _lying_
in wait for your answer. N.B.--I am aware of the utter vileness of that
pun, but my ink is so confoundedly thick that really I could not make a
better one.
“Yours faithfully,
“T. Bracy.”