Lewis, having lighted a powerful lamp by the aid of which he was
accustomed to paint at night, was enabled to take a more particular
survey of his new acquaintance than circumstances had yet permitted.
He was a tall, powerfully-built stripling, with a dark complexion and
handsome features, but although he could scarcely have numbered twenty
years, his face wore a prematurely old expression, and there was a wild,
reckless look in his eyes which told of a spirit ill at ease. He wore a
sailor’s dress, though the materials of which it was composed were of
a finer quality than ordinary; he coldly refused the chair which Lewis
offered him, and folding his arms across his breast, waited to be
questioned. Lewis in the meantime took his seat at the table, placed the
pistols on the desk before him, and fixing his piercing glance on the
face of his captive, began--
“My knowledge of you is this: I find you an active and zealous member of
a conspiracy to overthrow the Austrian Government in this city--one of
a set of conspirators whose first act is to be the assassination of
Colonel Marinovich, commandant of the Arsenal. As far as I am concerned,
you first resolved to denounce me to your associates as a spy; foiled in
that attempt, you incite an accomplice to murder me, and on his failure,
use your best endeavours to stab me yourself; in the struggle I disarm
you, and you find yourself in the power of the man for whose blood you
have been thirsting. Even allowing, for the sake of argument, that
you were justified in seeking the life of one who might betray your
treasonous designs, you still remain a convicted conspirator, and my
natural course would be to hand you over to the police; for your threat
of never being taken alive is absurd, since you lost your stiletto I
could have captured you at any moment I pleased. However, the fact of
your being an Englishman interests me in your behalf, and if you will
answer my questions frankly and truly, I may be induced to let you off.
In the first place, tell me who you are, and enough of your former life
to enable me to understand how I find you thus plotting with foreigners
with whom you can have no feelings in common, for an evil purpose.”
“I can soon satisfy you, if that is all you require,” was the reply.
“My life has from its commencement been a curse to myself and to others.
Wrong has produced wrong; I was badly brought up, and I have turned out
badly; I am not the first that has done so, nor shall I be the last.
At the age when most children are carefully trained to good, I was as
sedulously instructed in evil. At twelve years old I could swear, game,
and drink, and my instructors laughed to see the boy aping the vices of
the man. My mother died in giving me birth; my father, I know not why,
never loved me: he used me cruelly, and I hated him for it; so I left my
home and worked for four years on board a man-of-war. At the end of
that time the ship was paid off. Seeking pleasure, I fell into vicious
company; squandered, and was robbed of my pay, and for some weeks I
wandered a houseless beggar through London streets. The chance kindness
of a stranger rescued me from that state of wretchedness”--a peculiar
expression flitted across the features of his auditor as he mentioned
the fact of his rescue from beggary; not observing it, he continued:
“I then entered the merchant-service, and speedily rose to the rank
of mate. The misery I had undergone rendered me more careful. I saved
money, studied my profession, and hoped in time to become a captain of a
merchantman. I embarked the whole of my savings in a trading speculation
which would more than have doubled them, when the ship containing my
property was wrecked. I was picked up by a vessel bound to this port,
and was landed here again a beggar; and after trying in vain to procure
any better situation, I have been forced to work in the arsenal as
a common labourer to save myself from starvation. But even there my
ill-fortune and the cruelty and injustice of men followed me. Peculation
to a great extent was discovered amongst the workmen; I was examined
before Colonel Marinovich; in vain I protested my innocence. God knows
I have committed sins enough; but thieving and lying were never among
them. However, I was condemned to receive forty lashes. Yes, sir; I,
an Englishman, innocent of the crime of which I was accused, was beaten
like a slave by the orders of a tyrannical foreigner; and now, perhaps,
you can tell what took me to the meeting to-night? It was the hope of
revenge, and there were others there with the same deadly purpose. The
man who proposed the assassination of Marinovich was innocent as myself,
and like me had smarted beneath the tyrant’s lash. You by revealing this
plot threatened to cheat us of our just revenge, and for that reason I
would have sacrificed your life. And now you know my history, what will
you do with me?”
There was a moment’s pause ere Lewis, fixing his eyes on him with a
clear, penetrating glance, said slowly and impressively, “There are a
few minor particulars which appear to have escaped your memory;
I will try to supply the deficiency. You were born in the village
of B--------, in H----shire. Your early instructors in evil were
the worthless characters who accompanied your father on his poaching
expeditions. You left home because in a drunken mood your father struck
you, and would not confess afterwards that he was sorry for so doing.
You would have run away sooner but for your affection for your sister
Jane. The stranger who rescued you from beggary was a young man who met
you by chance at the door of a house in -------- Street, Russell Square;
you begged of him in Italian; the merchant-ship in which you served,
to whose commander he gave you an introduction, was the ‘Beauty,’ of
Southsea, Captain Singleton, and your own name is Miles Hardy. Am I not
correct in these particulars?”
When Lewis began speaking his companion’s attention became riveted. As
he proceeded his surprise grew deeper and deeper; but when he mentioned
his name he sprang forward, and regarding him with wildly gleaming eyes,
exclaimed, “Tell me, what are you? man or devil? who thus know every
secret of my life.”
“I am no devil,” returned Lewis, smiling, “but a mortal like yourself;
you have seen me before; look well at me; do you not recognise me?”
Thus appealed to, the young man carefully scanned his features, and
then, in a low, hesitating voice, rejoined, “You are, or I am much
mistaken, the gentleman who rescued me from beggary.”
“You are right,” was the reply; “we are both much changed since that
night, but I knew you at the moment you seized me by the throat.”
“Thank God, I did not succeed in taking your life!” exclaimed Miles
Hardy earnestly; “you are almost the only person who has ever shown me
disinterested kindness; and how have I sought to repay it! Oh, sir, can
you forgive me?”
“The simple fact that you did not recognise me exonerates you from the
charge of ingratitude, my poor fellow,” returned Lewis kindly; “but now
sit down. Ere I can explain to you how I gained the knowledge which has
so much surprised you, you have a long tale to listen to, and one which
will cause you much sorrow. You turn pale; wait, I will get you a glass
of wine.”
“It is nothing,” was the reply; “I have fasted long; it will pass away
in a moment;” but as he spoke he sank heavily into a chair which stood
beside him.
Lewis produced from a cupboard food and wine, and placing them before
him, induced him to partake of some refreshment, and soon had the
satisfaction of seeing the light return to his eye and the colour to his
cheek. Lewis then filled for himself a glass of wine, replenished that
of his companion, and seating himself, hastened to relate to Miles Hardy
the strange train of events by means of which he had become acquainted
with so large a portion of the young man’s history. The feelings with
which Miles Hardy listened to the account of his unhappy father’s
career, and the mingled grief and anger with which he heard how the
heritage of his mother’s shame had descended to his unfortunate sister,
may easily be imagined. Lewis strove with an amount of patient kindness,
for which those who knew only the fiery side of his character would
scarcely have given him credit, to soothe the passionate emotions which
his tale excited in an auditor so deeply interested in the fortunes of
those to whom it related. After long perseverance his efforts were in
some degree crowned with success--Miles became more calm, and agreed
with Lewis that his first duty was to seek for, and endeavour to
reclaim, his sister. His share of the legacy would furnish him with
funds sufficient to enable him to live without the necessity of daily
labour, and until his right to the money should be established, Lewis
insisted on becoming his banker. The next question was not so easily
arranged: Lewis informed Miles that in regard to the events of the
evening he had arrived at the following determination--viz., to call on
Colonel Marinovich, make him acquainted with the plot against his life,
beg him to inform his superiors that such a conspiracy was on foot, and
explain the manner in which he had become aware of its existence; but as
far as Miles was concerned in the affair, he would promise to preserve a
total silence, on one condition--namely, that he, Miles, should withdraw
from the conspiracy and engage to keep the peace in regard to the
commandant of the Arsenal. To this proposition the young man demurred.
“What,” he said, “give up my just revenge!--submit to undeserved
chastisement like a beaten hound, and leave it to less tame and slavish
spirits to punish the tyrant for his cruelty!--allow them to meet the
danger and divide the glory while I stand by inactive! Never!”
“Believe me, Miles,” returned Lewis earnestly, “revenge, even just
revenge, partakes of the nature of sin, and brings upon him who obtains
it the curse of an upbraiding conscience. But yours is not a just
revenge; you have suffered wrong, and the sense of this blinds your
judgment. I know by report the character of this Marinovich; I know him
to be a just and honourable man, though a stern disciplinarian. Great
abuses had existed at the Arsenal, and it was in order to reform them
that the command was bestowed on him. In your individual case he has
acted unjustly, but in all probability appearances were strongly against
you, and he had not sufficient personal acquaintance with you to know
that amongst such inveterate liars as are the majority of the lower
order of Venetians, your word might be relied on. His only fault is,
therefore, that he committed an error in judgment, and would you on
this account take a man’s life? Besides, conniving at assassination is
a cowardly proceeding, unworthy any Englishman, and especially a brave
young fellow like yourself.”
It was evident that Lewis’s reasoning was not without its effect on
him whom he addressed, for his brow contracted, his fingers closed and
relaxed, his mouth quivered convulsively, and his whole demeanour was
that of a person struggling against some powerful temptation. At length
he exclaimed abruptly--
“I know not how it is, you sway me like a child. I had resolved not to
rest till that man was dead, but I never before saw the matter in the
light in which you have now placed it. I believed that his death would
be an act of justice, and considered that, in order to obtain justice,
we must take the law into our own hands--but I feel the truth of what
you say, that assassination is cowardly; I felt it when Jacopo was
dogging your footsteps, and but for the cause that was at stake, could
have found in my heart to warn you.”
“Then you will agree to my proposal?” inquired Lewis.
“Yes, I will agree to withdraw from the conspiracy, but it is at the
risk of my life that I do so; if I am found in Venice after my desertion
is known, I am a dead man. Moreover, I will promise you to abstain from
secretly attempting Marinovich’s life; but if I should ever meet him
face to face and hand to hand, I will teach him to remember having
flogged an Englishman.”
Lewis felt that in his new character of Mentor he ought to combat this
openly declared resolution, but he abstained from doing so, partly
because he felt it would be useless, and partly because he sympathised
so completely in the sentiment, that he could not muster sufficient
hypocrisy to reprove it. Accordingly he remained satisfied with the
concession he had gained, and furnishing Miles with all the information
he possessed in regard to his sister, which was but vague and
unsatisfactory (a rumour that she had passed some time in Rome on her
first arrival in that country being the only trace he had yet been able
to discover of her proceedings), Lewis gave him an introduction to an
agent whom he had employed to gain further tidings, and forcing a sum of
money upon him more than sufficient to defray his expenses, hastened his
departure ere the brilliant rays of an Italian sun had spread the
lustre of the coming day throughout the picturesque old streets and
palace-crowned squares of Venice.
On the following morning Lewis fulfilled his intention of calling on
Colonel Marinovich, who heard his recital in silence, and when he had
concluded, thanked him for his information, said he was aware great
disaffection existed amongst the men employed at the Arsenal, and that
energetic measures must be taken to prevent its spreading further,
promised to report the discovery of the secret meeting to the Governor,
took down Lewis’s address, and politely bowed him out.
Having despatched a note to Charles Leicester telling him he wished to
see him, Lewis debated with himself how much of the previous night’s
adventure he should reveal to him, and at length decided that it would
be more prudent to avoid mentioning his encounter with and recognition
of Miles Hardy, as although he had refused to reveal to him the name of
the seducer of his sister, yet any reference to an affair in which Lord
Bellefield had so singularly misconducted himself must necessarily be
painful to Leicester. Moreover, although in his dealings with Miles
Hardy Lewis had acted justly, according to the best of his judgment,
he was by no means clear that the law might take the same view of the
matter. Charley came--listened to his friend’s account--yawned--wondered
why he had such a strange predilection for putting his life in danger,
prophesying that he would do it once too often and be sorry for
it afterwards--expected there would be a shindy in Venice before
long--wished Laura and the brat were safe in England, and that the other
people were not coming--voted it all an awful bore--asked Lewis whether
he liked foreign tailoring, into the merits and demerits whereof he
entered at some length--yawned again, and patting him affectionately on
the back, told him to take better care of himself for the future, and
lounged carelessly out of the studio.
A week passed away. The Grant party had arrived; Annie, although she
made a great effort to appear in her former spirits, was evidently
labouring under some ailment, mental or bodily, or both combined, which
was wearing away her youth, and, as it appeared, changing her whole
nature. Laura, who watched her closely, observed that she was unusually
silent and abstracted, falling into long reveries, from which she would
awake with a start, and glancing round with a half-frightened air, would
immediately begin talking in an unnaturally excited manner, as if to do
away with any suspicion to which her silence might have given rise. Her
temper also, which had been remarkable for its sweetness, had now become
uncertain, and she occasionally answered even the General with a
wayward captiousness which surprised Laura only one degree less than the
preternatural meekness with which that gallant officer submitted to her
caprices and indulged her every whim; but the fact was, General Grant
had sufficient acuteness to perceive that for some cause, utterly beyond
the scope of his philosophy to account for, his daughter was not
the quiet, gentle, _will-less_ creature she had been, and that if he
required her to yield to him in great matters he must allow her to rule
in small. Moreover, he had lately become seriously alarmed about her
health; a London physician whom he had consulted on the subject having
plainly told him unless great caution was observed she would go into a
decline, and warned him that the seat of the disease appeared to be
in the mind, and that anything like harshness or opposition must be
avoided. Walter also was much changed during the two years which had
elapsed. In appearance he was now a young man, tall, and slightly but
gracefully formed, with well-cut, regular features, though a want of
intellectual expression marred what might otherwise have been considered
a handsome countenance. But considerable as was the alteration in his
personal appearance, the change in his mental capacity was equally
perceivable, his powers of mind had developed to a greater degree than
had been anticipated, but alas! deprived of Lewis’s firm yet gentle
rule, the improvement in his disposition had by no means kept pace with
the extension of his faculties. For some weeks after Lewis had quitted
Broadhurst, poor Walter could not be persuaded that he would not come
back again, nor was it till the arrival of a tutor, recommended by Lord
Bellefield, that he fully realised the fact of his friend having left
him never to return. The first effect this conviction produced upon him
was a fit of deep dejection; he refused all attempts at consolation,
could scarcely be persuaded to take nourishment, and sat hour after
hour playing listlessly with the wavy curls of Faust’s shaggy coat. At
length, in order to rouse him, General Grant desired the dog to be taken
away from him; the remedy proved only too effectual. The new tutor, a
certain Mr. Spooner, who appeared as if he had been selected because he
was in every respect the exact reverse of Lewis, was the person to whom
the General entrusted this commission.
Absorbed in his own sad thoughts, Walter allowed him to coax the dog
from his side by the attraction of a plate of meat, but when he laid
his hand on the animal to buckle a collar and chain round his neck, he
started up, exclaiming--
“What are you going to do with Faust? he is never tied up; let him
alone.” Finding that his remonstrance was not attended to, he continued,
“Faust! Faust! come here, sir, directly.”
The dog struggled to obey, but Mr. Spooner, having fastened the chain
round his neck, endeavoured to force him out of the room, and in doing
so stepped accidentally on Faust’s toes, who uttered a shrill yelp of
pain. Walter’s eyes flashed.
“You are hurting him,” he cried; “how dare you!” and without waiting for
a reply, he darted across the room, seized the astonished Mr. Spooner,
who, unfortunately for himself, happened to be a small, slightly-framed
man, by the throat, and shook him till his teeth chattered; then
suddenly releasing him, he snatched the chain from his grasp, and
leading the dog away, muttered in a threatening tone--
“Never you touch Faust again; if you do, I’ll strangle you.”
The results of this scene were twofold: Walter had rebelled and gained
his point, and the person whom he had thus conquered had lost all
chance of obtaining that degree of ascendency over him without which his
control must become merely nominal. This produced, as might be expected,
the worst possible effect upon poor Walter’s disposition. He became
positive and wilful in the extreme, and his tutor, partly to save
himself trouble, partly to avoid any outbreak of temper, gave way to
him on every occasion; unless, indeed, he had any particular personal
interest at stake, when he sought to gain his point by cajolery and
manoeuvring, and being rather an adept in those ingenious arts, was
usually successful.
One new and inconvenient caprice of Walter’s was a dislike which he
appeared suddenly to have taken to Annie Grant, which displayed itself
in various ways: sometimes he would avoid all intercourse with her, even
sulkily refusing to answer her when she spoke to him; at others he would
seek her out and endeavour to annoy her by saying what he deemed sharp
things. Occasionally, however, he would fall into his old habits, and
confide in her as his playmate, from whom he was sure of sympathy
and assistance; when suddenly, perhaps, even in the midst of some
conversation with her, he would appear to recollect his new-born
animosity, and his manner would entirely alter. One thing invariably
excited his extreme indignation, and this was any attempt on her part
to caress or notice Faust. The pain this altered demeanour caused Annie
(perhaps in consequence of some theory which she had formed as to its
origin) was known but to her own heart, and could be guessed at merely
by her unwearying efforts to conciliate poor Walter. Laura, upon whose
quick-sightedness nothing was lost, carefully noted these changes, and
made her own private comments upon them. In pursuance of her design of
befriending Lewis, she made several attempts to penetrate the veil of
reserve which hung around Annie Grant; but in vain: with her lightness
of heart seemed also to have departed her openness of disposition, and
Laura had too much good taste, as well as too much sympathy with her
grief, to endeavour to force her confidence. At length one day, as Laura
and Annie were sitting together, Laura working zealously at some article
of juvenile finery, destined unconsciously to foster the seeds of
incipient dandyism already apparent in that embryo man-about-town
“Tarley,” and Annie listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, from
which her thoughts were far away, the elder lady suddenly broke silence
by observing--
“‘Tarley’ will be two years old to-morrow; how the time slips away, it
really seems impossible!”
Annie’s only reply was a deep sigh, and Laura continued--
“Why, Annie, you’ll be of age in a month--four short weeks more, and you
will actually have arrived at years of discretion. How wise you ought to
be!”
Finding Annie still remained silent, Laura only waited till she had
passed some interesting crisis in her stitching, and then looked up. To
her alarm and surprise she beheld the “big tears” silently coursing each
other down her friend’s pale cheeks: in an instant she was by her side.
“Annie, dearest,” she said, “you are weeping; what is it? Have I said or
done anything to pain you?”
Annie slightly shook her head in token of dissent, and made an effort to
check her tears, which proving ineffectual, eventuated in a bitter sob.
Laura could not stand the sight of her grief; throwing her arms round
her, she said--
“Annie, you are miserable; I see, I know you are; and your unhappiness
is wearing you to death. Why will you not confide in me? Perhaps I might
help you. What is it, darling? will you not tell me?” She paused for
a reply, but obtaining none, continued: “This marriage with Lord
Bellefield, it is distasteful to you, I am afraid?”
A shudder which passed through poor Annie’s frame as Laura mentioned the
name of her intended husband proved that on this point her suspicions
had not erred. Fancying she now saw her way more clearly--
“Dearest,” she resumed, “do not afflict yourself thus; you must not,
shall not marry him. I will speak to the General myself. Charles shall
write to his brother; you shall not be sacrificed.”
“Hush! hush!” interrupted Annie, struggling to recover composure; “you
do not know what you say. I _must_ marry him; there is no alternative.”
“Do not say so, Annie,” returned Laura gravely; “marriage is a sacred
thing, not lightly to be entered into; and in marriage one requisite
alone is indispensable--love! Tastes may differ, faults of temper or
disposition may exist; yet if man and wife truly love each other, they
will be very happy; but to marry without love is a grievous sin, and it
entails its own punishment--wretchedness.”
Laura spoke solemnly and with feeling, and her companion, as she
listened, trembled and turned pale. When she had concluded, however,
Annie merely shook her head, repeating hopelessly--
“It _must_ be--it _must_ be!”
“And, pray, why must it be?” asked Laura quickly, for she was becoming
slightly provoked at that which she deemed Annie’s childish weakness,
the only fault, perhaps, with which her clear head, warm heart, and
earnest, zealous nature unfitted her to sympathise. “Why, if the thing
is wrong in itself, and is to render you miserable, _must_ it be? At
all events let us make some efforts to prevent it; suffer Charles and
me----”
“Dearest Laura,” interrupted Annie mournfully, “I assure you nothing can
be done; any attempt to break off the match now would be unavailing and
only end in making me still more wretched than I am at present.”
Annoyed alike at her perseverance in that which Laura could not but
consider a culpable want of moral courage, and at the way in which she
still withheld her confidence, while at the same time the idea occurred
to her, though she was vexed with herself for admitting it, that one so
feeble-minded was no fitting bride for the high-souled, brave-hearted
Lewis, the spirited little matron was about to utter a somewhat sharp
reply, when, glancing at Annie’s pale, beautifully-formed features,
the expression of deep anguish she read there disarmed her, and merely
saying, “We take different views of this matter, Annie dear, and must
talk of it again when we are both more composed,” she rose and left the
apartment.
Annie waited until the sound of the closing door assured her that she
was alone, and then murmuring, “She too is angry with me and despises
me--nobody loves me. Oh, that I were dead!” »he hid her face in the sofa
cushion and gave way to a passionate burst of grief.
Now there is one of our _dramatis personæ_ for whom we have reason to
believe many of our readers entertain a warm regard--a regard in which
we confess ourselves fully to participate--of whom we have lately heard
but little; of course we refer to that most “meritorious individual,”
that dog of dogs, dear, honest old Faust. Since Lewis had quitted
Broadhurst Faust’s character, like those of his betters (if mortals
_are_ better than dogs), had in a degree altered. The blind,
unhesitating obedience he had been accustomed to pay to his master’s
slightest signal he accorded to no other person; if Walter called him
he would come, it is true, but he would do so in the calm, leisurely,
dignified manner in which one gentleman would comply with the request
of another. Towards the General he conducted himself with a degree of
respectful hauteur which seemed to say, “We are not friends; there is no
sympathy between us, but as long as I continue to reside in a family of
which you are the head, I owe it to myself to render you the amount of
courtesy due to your position.” For Mr. Spooner, the usurper who had
dared to succeed his beloved master, he showed a most unmitigated
contempt, totally ignoring all his commands, and resenting any attempt
on his part to enforce his authority by the utterance of a low, deep
growl, accompanied by a formidable display of sharp white teeth. Towards
Annie alone did he evince any great affection, which he showed chiefly
by attending her in her walks and taking up his position under the
sofa, or close to the chair on which she was sitting--demonstrations of
attachment which, as we have already hinted, were for some unexplained
reason a source of considerable annoyance to Walter. During the
conversation between Laura and Annie, Faust had been lying unnoticed
under the sofa, and now finding his young mistress alone, and for some
cause or other unhappy (he knew _that_ quite well), it occurred to him
that the correct thing would be to come out and comfort her, which he
attempted to do by laying his great rough head in her lap, wagging his
tail encouragingly, and licking her hand. In her loneliness of heart
even the poor dog’s sympathy (endeared to her as he was by a thousand
cherished recollections) was a relief to Annie, and stooping down she
imprinted a kiss on his shaggy head, whispering as she did so, “Good
Faust--you have never forsaken me!” At this moment the door opened,
and Walter entered hastily. As his eye fell upon Annie and the dog his
cheeks flushed, and he exclaimed hastily--
“Annie, I wish you’d let Faust alone; how often have I told you that I
won’t have him meddled with?”
With a start at this sudden interruption Annie hastily raised herself,
and pushing the dog gently from her, said--
“Dear Walter, do not be angry; Faust came and licked my hand, you would
not have me unkind to him?”
“Oh! it’s Faust’s fault, is it?” returned Walter crossly. “Faust, come
here! Take him to our room, Mr. Spooner, and keep him there till I come;
he shall not stay in the drawing-room if he does what I don’t like.
Faust, do you hear me, sir?”
“He will never follow me, Sir Walter; it’s no use calling him,”
remonstrated Mr. Spooner.
“He will do as I tell him, and so will you too,” returned Walter
imperiously, and twisting his handkerchief, he tied it round the dog’s
neck, led him to the door, gave the end of the leash thus formed to Mr.
Spooner, and then fairly turned the pair of them out of the room. Having
accomplished this feat, he strolled listlessly to the fireplace, and
amused himself by pulling about the ornaments on the chimney-piece for
some minutes. At length a new idea seemed to strike him, and turning to
his companion, he said--
“Do you know why I was so angry with Faust just now?”
“Because I was petting him, I suppose, as you don’t seem to like me to
do so,” returned Annie.
“Ah! that was not all, though,” rejoined Walter; “I wanted him
particularly to have been with me when I was out walking to-day, very
particularly.”
“Yes, and why was that?” inquired Annie, who always encouraged him to
talk to her, in the hope of overcoming the dislike which he had taken
to her, and which, for many reasons, pained her inexpressibly. Walter
remained for a minute or two silent, and then coming close to her, he
asked in a low whisper--
“Annie, do you believe in ghosts?”
“My dear Walter, what an odd question,” returned Annie in surprise; “why
do you ask it?”
Walter glanced carefully round the room, to assure himself that they
were alone ere he replied, in the same low, awe-stricken whisper,
“Because, if there are such things, I think I’ve seen one.”
“Silly boy,” rejoined Annie, anxious to reassure him, for she saw that
he was really frightened, “you have fancied it. What was your ghost
like, pray?”
“Promise you won’t tell anybody.”
Annie, half amused, half puzzled by the boy’s earnestness, gave the
required pledge. As soon as she had done so, Walter, stooping down so as
to bring his mouth on a level with her ear, replied--
“It was the ghost of Mr. Arundel!”
Overcome by so unexpected a reply, Annie was a moment or so before
she could find words to inquire, “My dear Walter, what could make you
imagine such a thing? Perhaps you were asleep, and dreamed it--when was
it?”
“No, I was not asleep; and it was not fancy,” returned Walter gravely.
“I was out walking this morning early with Mr. Spooner, and we lost
our way, and after trying for some time to find it, Mr. Spooner hired a
boat, and told the boatman to set us down near--near--well, I forget the
name, but he meant near here. When we got out, we had to go through some
narrow passages between the different streets, and in one of them, which
was very dark because of the high houses, we met a figure of a man, very
tall, and wrapped in a long black cloak; it drew back to let us pass,
and just as I got close to it it turned its head, and I saw the face; it
was stem and dark, and wore a black beard, but the beautiful eyes were
the same, and when I saw them I knew it was Mr. Arundel, or,” he added,
sinking his voice, “his ghost!”
As his companion remained silent, he continued, “When I saw who it was,
I stopped, and was just going to speak, but at that moment he stared
hard at me, gave a violent start, and before I could do anything to
prevent it, vanished through a dark archway.”
“Oh! you must have mistaken some one for him,” returned Annie,
struggling for composure--“Mr. Arundel is probably in England, and
ghosts are out of the question; besides, if there are such things, which
I much doubt, they only appear after people are dead.”
Walter considered for a minute, and then met the difficulty by
consolatorily suggesting, “Perhaps dear Mr. Arundel _is_ dead--perhaps
he grew so unhappy that he could not live without ever seeing Faust and
me, and--ah! Annie, how could you be so cruel as to send him away?”
“I send him away, Walter! what can have put such a strange notion into
your head?” exclaimed Annie, astonished at the accusation.
“Yes you did,” returned Walter vehemently; “he went away because he
loved you and you would not love him--it was very cruel of you, and
I hate you for it whenever I remember how unkind you have been,” and
overcome by his feelings, the poor boy burst into tears.
A thousand confused thoughts flashed like lightning across Annie’s
brain. What could he mean?--was she listening to the mere folly
of idiocy, or could he indeed have any possible foundation for his
assertion? Anxious to soothe him, she laid her hand caressingly
upon his, while, replying rather to her own heart than to his last
observation, she said--
“No, my poor Walter, he whom you so much regret never loved me.”
“Ah, but he did, though,” returned Walter positively, drying his
tears--“I _know_ it.” He spoke so decidedly that Annie, despite her
reason, could not but feel curious to hear more, and turning away her
head to hide her agitation, she asked in a low voice--
“How do you know?”
“If I tell you, you must never tell the General or anybody,” returned
Walter--“people think I’m a fool, and I know I am not clever, and can’t
learn like other boys, and sometimes I feel a weight just here,” and
he pressed his hand to his forehead, “and then all my sense goes out--I
wonder where it goes to, Annie--do you think it finds wings and flies up
to heaven among the white angels? I think so sometimes, and then I long
to be a bird and fly with it.” Too much interested to allow him to
fall into a new train of thought, Annie recalled his wandering ideas by
saying--
“You were talking about Mr. Arundel, Walter dear.”
“Oh yes, and about you, I remember,” resumed Walter. “I knew, at least
I thought, he was very fond of you a long time ago, but I was not quite
sure of it till one day when I dressed Faust up like a gentleman, with
Mr. Arundel’s watch, and you took it off the dog’s neck, and then you
threw your arms round him and kissed him as you did just now--that was
what made me angry when I remembered about the first time--well, while
you were hugging Faust, Mr. Arundel came to the door and saw you, though
you did not see him, and his eyes danced and sparkled, and his mouth
melted into such a sweet smile; he was so glad to see how fond you were
of Faust, and then I knew he loved you, for if he had not, he would not
have cared about it, you know. Then he went away and left me Faust, and
I thought because he had left Faust he was sure to come back, but I know
now that he left him to comfort me, and went away himself all alone.
Then that stupid Mr.. Spooner came; he’s a great friend of Lord
Bellefield’s, and one day they were talking together, and they fancied
I did not attend to them, but I did though, for I knew they were talking
about Mr. Arundel. Well, Mr. Spooner asked why he went away, and Lord
Bellefield replied, ‘Why, if the truth must be told, he had the audacity
(what does that mean?) to raise his eyes to my cousin Annie.’ Mr.
Spooner questioned him further, and he informed him that Mr. Arundel had
gone boldly to the General, and said he loved you.”
“Told my father so!” exclaimed Annie.
“Yes, so he said,” resumed Walter; “and the General told him you loved
Lord Bellefield instead, and meant to be his wife; and then poor Mr.
Arundel said he would go away, and so he did, but of course if you had
loved him he would have stayed, and we should all have been so happy
together. So you see, Annie, it _was_ you that sent him away, and since
I’ve known that I’ve hated you, and tried to keep Faust from loving you,
only he will, and I can’t hate you quite always; but I never meant to
tell you all this, and you must never tell Lord Bellefield, or he would
be ready to kill me.”
He paused, then regarding her with a sad, regretful look, he said,
“But, Annie, is it really true that you don’t love dear Mr. Arundel?”
Poor Annie! affected and excited as she had been by the foregoing scene,
this last speech was too much for her, and throwing her arms about
the boy’s neck, and hiding her burning cheek against his breast, she
whispered, “Dearest Walter, do not hate me! _you have no cause to do
so!_”