LADIES WHO READ IT.
The incident related in the last chapter produced a strange and
alarming effect upon Miss Livingstone; in fact it may be said to have
laid the foundation of a species of monomania which haunted her to the
day of her death. From this time forth she laboured under the delusion
that a man trained from his youth up to rob and murder his sleeping
fellow-creatures was secreted at one and the same moment under every bed
and behind all the window curtains in the house. A singular and alarming
property belonging to this ambushed ruffian was the extraordinary shadow
cast by his legs and feet. Miss Livingstone was perpetually scared by
discovering it in the most unlikely places and positions; indeed the
statistics of these shadowy phenomena tended to show that it was this
villain’s ordinary custom to stand upon his rascally head. Then the
noises he made were most strange and unearthly, and a habit he possessed
of moaning whenever the wind was high really exceeded anything
with which human nature could be expected to put up. The trouble he
occasioned everybody was inconceivable; for at least a month after
Annie’s adventure the butler almost lived in Minerva’s bedroom, so
constantly was he summoned to unearth this lurking traitor; and yet,
although Miss Livingstone was quite certain the monster was there, for
she had seen the shadow of his boots, with the soles upwards, upon the
tester of the bed, by some dreadful fatality he always contrived to
evade the strictest search. Once Miss Livingstone thought she _had_
got him, for, having summoned assistance on the strength of hearing him
snore, she actually enjoyed the satisfaction of being sworn at by him,
when she looked under the bed and poked for him with a large umbrella;
but this time he turned out to be the cat. The servants became so
harassed by these repeated alarums that at length the butler gave _bona
fide_ warning, while the footmen, when there was nobody to hear them,
vehemently protested they were not hired as thief-catchers, and that
Miss Livingstone had better set up a private policeman of her own, if
she chose to be so subject to house-breakers.
Lewis was not at all pleased with this adventure: in the first place,
it interrupted the German lessons, for poor Annie had been so seriously
frightened--not without cause--that it made her really ill, and for some
days she remained on a sofa in her own room. In the second place, Lewis
had been so deeply affected when he first heard of the danger to which
she had been exposed, that for a moment a doubt crossed his mind
whether such a degree of emotion was exactly consistent with that mild
imposition yclept platonic friendship. In the third place, he had used
his best endeavours to catch Hardy once again, and had been thoroughly
and completely baffled. Time, however, that wonder-working individual,
passed on, and by his assistance Annie’s nerves recovered their tone,
and the German lessons were recommenced; Miss Livingstone saw fewer
visions of reversed legs, and confined her researches after the
concealed one to a good peep under the bed night and morning. The
General made a great fuss about the whole affair, and severely
reprimanded several individuals for permitting Hardy to escape who never
had it in their power to prevent his doing so. Having relieved his mind
by this judicious exercise of authority, he applied himself to other
pursuits, and speedily forgot the whole transaction.
About two months after the occurrence of the robbery Lord Belle-field
wrote to announce his return, and General Grant went to London alone
in order to meet him. Before his departure, Annie, whose dislike to the
interrupted engagement appeared to increase rather than to diminish,
determined to make a great effort, and to acquaint her father with her
disinclination to the proposed alliance, and to entreat him to take
no steps which might lead to a renewal of the matrimonial project. The
General heard her attentively, and then observed--
“I perfectly understand and appreciate your feelings, my dear Annie;
they are such as, under the peculiar circumstances, become _my_
daughter. Remember, my dear, that the matter is in wiser and more
experienced hands than yours; and rest assured that nothing shall be
done of which even your punctilious delicacy and true sense of honour
can disapprove.” Then, seeing Annie was about to speak, he continued,
“Any further discussion is not only unnecessary, but as the matter now
stands, would appear to imply a doubt of my capability of acting for
you; which I should consider, to say the least, disrespectful. You will
oblige me by withdrawing, my dear Annie.” Thus saying, he rose, and
opening the door with all the frigid courtesy of the Grandisonian
school, ushered her out. And so poor Annie’s attempt proved a signal
failure.
On the following morning the General left Broadhurst, having given Annie
a very unnecessary caution against riding out with merely a servant, and
made it his especial request that Lewis and Walter should accompany her
by way of escort; a proceeding of which neither tutor nor pupil appeared
to disapprove.
General Grant was absent for more than a fortnight; and as the
weather was unusually fine during the whole of the time, Annie and
her attendants rode out every day. Oh, those rides! what delightful
expeditions were they! By a tacit consent between Lewis and Annie, all
allusion to the future was avoided, in word or thought; they lived in
the present--those loving hearts; they were together, and that sufficed
them; and the trees appeared greener, and the flowers more brilliant,
and the sunshine brighter, than they had ever seemed before; all was
happy as a fairy dream, and dream-like did it pass away.
A letter from the General announcing his intended return was in Annie’s
hand, as, bending over a ponderous volume of crabbed characters, she
awaited her German lesson. The windows of the breakfast-room in which
she was seated opened on to an ample lawn, interspersed with groups of
shrubs and gay flower-beds. In crossing this lawn Walter had contrived
to intercept Lewis and inveigle him into a game at ball.
Flushed by the exercise, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and his
dark curls hanging in wild disorder about his brow, the young tutor
approached the window at which Annie was seated. Concealed by the
heavy folds of the window curtain, the girl watched him unperceived:
involuntarily she contrasted his frank and easy bearing, his free and
elastic step, and the smile, half proud, half playful, which parted his
curved lips and sparkled in his flashing eyes, with the cold reserve
which usually characterised his demeanour, and for the first time she
became aware what a bright and noble nature had been obscured and warped
by the false position into which circumstances had combined to force
him. Who could blame her, who rather would not love her the better, and
thank God that He has implanted such beautiful instincts in every true
woman’s heart, if she felt that she should wish no fairer destiny
than to devote her life to bring back the sunshine of his, and by her
affection restore to him the youth of soul which misfortune had wrested
from him!
Little guessing the thoughts that were passing through her mind, Lewis
advanced towards the window, exclaiming, “Miss Grant, I have a petition
to urge--the day is so lovely it is quite wicked to remain indoors: can
I persuade you to use your influence with Miss Livingstone to allow
us to transfer the site of our German lesson to the bench under the
lime-tree? I will promise to arrange a most seductive seat for her in
the very shadiest corner.”
“My aunt has departed on a charitable mission,” was the reply; “she
received a message to say that an unfortunate child whom she has been
doctoring out of that dreadful medicine chest of hers is much worse, and
she has rushed off armed with pills and powders.”
“To give it the _coup de grace_ I suppose,” interrupted Lewis.
Annie shook her head reprovingly, and continued, “In the excitement of
the occasion, she appears to have entirely forgotten our poor German
lesson.”
“In which case the decision as to place rests with you!” resumed Lewis
eagerly; “the matter is therefore settled--you _will_ come.” The accent
upon the “_will_” was intended to be one of entreaty, but somehow the
tone in which it was uttered partook largely of command, and Annie, as
she obeyed, said with a smile--
“Or rather, I _must_ come--that is clearly your meaning, Mr. Arundel;
however, I see Walter and Faust are already _en position_, and I will
not set them an example of disobedience, so if you can find the books, I
will join you immediately.”
[Illustration: 0338]
It was, as Lewis had declared, a lovely evening; the sky was of that
deep, clear blue which indicates a continuance of fine weather, a soft
breeze sighed through the blossoms of the lime-tree beneath which they
sat. Faust lay at Annie’s feet, gazing up into her face as though he
loved to look upon her beauty, which perhaps he did, for Faust was a
dog of taste, and particular in the selection of his favourites. Walter,
stretched at his length upon the turf, was idly turning over the
pages of a volume of coloured prints. Lewis opened the work they were
translating; it was that loveliest of historical tragedies, Schiller’s
“Piccolomini,” and Annie read of Max, the simple, the true, the
noble-hearted, and thought that the world contained but one parallel
character, and that he was beside her. They read on beneath the summer
sky, and tracing the workings of Schiller’s master mind, forgot all
sublunary things in the absorbing interest of the story. The scene they
were perusing was that in which Max Piccolomini describes the chilling
effect produced upon him when he for the first time beholds Thekla
surrounded by the splendours of her father’s court, and says (I quote
Coleridge’s beautiful translation for the benefit of my _un-German_
readers, and in consideration of the shallowness of my own acquaintance
with the language of the Fatherland)--
“Now, once again, I have courage to look on you,
To-day at noon I could not;
The dazzle of the jewels that play’d round you
Hid the belovèd from me.
This morning when I found you in the circle
Of all your kindred, in your father’s arms,
Beheld myself an alien in this circle,
Oh! what an impulse felt I in that moment
To fall upon his neck and call him father;
But his stern eye o’erpower’d the swelling passion,
I dared not but be silent--and those brilliants
That like a crown of stars enwreath’d your brows,
They scared me too--Oh! wherefore, wherefore should he
At the first meeting spread, as ’twere, the ban
Of excommunication round you?--wherefore
Dress up the angel for the sacrifice,
And cast upon the light and joyous heart
The mournful burden of _his_ station? Fitly
May love woo love, but such a splendour
Might none but monarchs venture to approach.”
As Lewis read this speech, the bright, happy look faded from his face,
and his voice grew deep and stern; there was in the whole scene a
strange likeness to his own position, which pained him in the extreme,
and brought back all his most bitter feelings. Engrossing as was this
idea when once aroused, he could not but observe the unusual degree of
taste and energy which Annie, who appeared carried away by the interest
of the drama, infused into her reading, and the tones of her sweet
voice did ample justice to the friendly, confiding tenderness with which
Thekla endeavours to console her lover. After her appeal to the Countess
Tertsky--
“He’s not in spirits, wherefore is he not?
He had quite another nature on the journey,
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent”--
she turns to Max, saying--
“It was my wish to see you always so,
And never otherwise.”
Annie spoke the last words so earnestly that Lewis involuntarily glanced
at her, and their eyes met. It was one of those moments which occur
twice or thrice in a lifetime, when heart reads heart, as an open book,
and sympathetic thought reveals itself unaided by that weak interpreter
the tongue. Through weary years of sorrow and separation that look
was unforgotten by either of them; and when Annie bent her eyes on the
ground with a slight blush, confessing that the large amount of womanly
tenderness which she fain would show was not unmingled with a portion of
womanly love which she would as fain conceal, and Lewis dared not trust
himself to speak lest the burning thoughts which crowded on his brain
should force themselves an utterance, neither of them was sorry
to perceive the figure of Aunt Martha rustling crisply through the
stillness, as, burthened with boluses, Minerva appeared before them, to
give a triumphant account of her victory over Tommy Crudle’s catarrhal
affection, of which ailment she promised Annie a reversion for her
imprudence in sitting out of doors without a bonnet.
When Lewis retired to his room that night he sat down to think over
in solitude the occurrences of the day. Had he been deceiving himself,
then? was his unhappy attachment still unsubdued--nay, had it not
strengthened? under the delusive garb of friendship, had not Annie’s
society become necessary to his happiness? Again--and as this idea for
the first time occurred to him, the strong man trembled like a child
from the violence of his emotion--had he not more than this to answer
for? Selfishly engrossed by his own feelings, madly relying on his own
strength of will, which he now perceived he had but too good reason
to mistrust, he had never contemplated the effect his behaviour might
produce upon a warm-hearted and imaginative girl. Lewis was no coxcomb,
but he must have wilfully closed his eyes had he not read in Annie’s
manner that morning the fact that she was by no means indifferent to
him. True, it might be only friendship on her part--the natural impulse
of a woman’s heart to pity and console one who she perceived to need
such loving-kindness--and with this forlorn hope Lewis was fain to
content himself. Then he strove to form wise resolutions for the future:
he would avoid her society--the German lessons should be strictly
confined to business, and gradually discontinued; and even a vague
notion dimly presented itself of a time--say a year thence--when Walter
might be entrusted to other hands, and he should be able to extricate
himself from a situation so fraught with danger. And having thus
regarded the matter by the light of principle and duty, feeling began to
assert its claims, and he cursed his bitter fortune, which forced him
to avoid one whom he would have braved death itself to win. He sat
pondering these things deep into the night; the sound of the clock over
the stables striking two at length aroused him from his reverie, and he
was about to undress, when a slight growl from Faust, who always slept
on a mat in Lewis’s dressing-room, attracted his attention, and as he
paused to listen, a low whistle, which seemed to proceed from the shrubs
under his window, caught his ear. Closing the door of the dressing-room
to prevent Faust from giving any alarm, he walked lightly to the window,
which, according to his usual custom, he left open all night, and
silently holding back the curtain, looked out. As he did so a window on
the ground floor was cautiously opened and the whistle repeated. After
a moment’s reflection he became convinced that the room from which the
signal whistle had been replied to was occupied by the new butler,
who had replaced the individual harassed into the desperate step of
resigning by Minerva’s incessant crusades against the Under-the-bed One.
At the sound of the signal whistle the figures of four men appeared
from the shrubs, amongst which they had been hidden, and noiselessly
approached the window. The candle which Lewis had brought upstairs with
him had burned out; and although his window was open, the curtains were
drawn across it; he was therefore able, himself unperceived, to see and
hear all that was going on. As the burglars, for such he did not doubt
they were, drew near, the following conversation was carried on in a low
whisper between their leader, a man of unusual stature, and Simmonds the
butler.
“You are late; the plate has been packed and ready for the last two
hours.”
“There was a light in the--------d tutor’s room till half-an-hour ago,”
was the reply; “and we thought he might hear us and give the alarm if we
did not wait till he was in bed.”
“It would not have much signified if he had when you were once in,”
returned Simmonds: “the grooms don’t sleep in the house; the valet is
in London; so there’s only the tutor, the footman, and the idiot boy,
besides women.”
“Where is the old man?” inquired the other.
“Not returned,” was the answer.
A brutal curse was the rejoinder, and the robber continued, “The girl is
safe?”
“Yes.”
“And the tutor?”
“Yes. What do you want with them?”
“To knock out his --------d brains, and take her with us,” was the
alarming reply. Simmonds appeared to remonstrate, for the robber replied
in a louder tone than he had yet used--
“I tell you, _yes!_ Old Grant shall know what it is to lose a daughter
as well as other people.”
Afraid lest the loudness of his voice should give the alarm, the other
exclaimed in an anxious whisper--
“Hush! come in;” and one after the other the four men entered by the
open window.