TALE.”
“What is the next move?” inquired Leicester, coming up with his arm
round his wife’s waist, and his hat crushed into the shape of a biffin.
“Wait here for a few minutes,” returned Lewis, “the crowd is already
dispersing in the direction of the Arsenal.”
“The Arsenal, what do they want there?” inquired Leicester.
“To waylay Marinovitch as he leaves the place, and murder him,” returned
Lewis in a stern whisper, “but he has been warned of their design, and
will of course take measures to ensure his safety.”
“Pleasant all this!” muttered Leicester, taking off his injured hat and
endeavouring in some degree to restore its original shape; “here’s a
case of wanton destruction--glad it is not my head all the same. Now the
coast seems pretty clear, suppose we move on.”
Coldly and silently Lewis resumed his office of guardian: the space
intervening between St. Mark’s Church and the Palazzo Grassini was
passed in safety, and they stood within the courtyard of Leicester’s
dwelling. Charley laid his hand on Lewis’s shoulder.
“You will come in?” he said; “you are hot and tired, and require
refreshment--a glass of wine?”
Lewis shook his head.
“It is impossible,” he replied coldly; then adding, “I am happy to
have been of use to--to Mrs. Leicester and yourself,” he raised his hat
slightly to Annie and turned to depart: recollecting however that
he still held in his hand the brooch which he had rescued from the
ruffian’s clutches, he paused with the intention of giving it to Laura;
but Laura had caught sight of “Tarley’s” curly head peeping out at her,
and actuated by a sudden impulse of maternal affection, or for some
other reason which we shall not attempt to fathom, she had tripped off
in the direction of her self-willed offspring. Leicester was slowly
following her, all his faculties apparently engrossed by a second
attempt to reform his outraged hat. Lewis and Annie were left therefore
virtually alone. Advancing towards her with an expression of countenance
so cold and immovable that every feature might have been carved in
marble, Lewis began--
“I beg pardon, I had forgotten to return your brooch.”
It was the first time that morning he had personally addressed her, and
his doing so appeared to break the spell which had kept her silent; she
took the brooch from him, murmuring some indistinct words of thanks,
then gaining courage as she proceeded, she glanced at him appealingly,
saying--
“Strange as this meeting is, I am sure I cannot be mistaken--Mr.
Arundel, have you quite forgotten me?”
As she uttered these words a kind of spasm passed across Lewis’s
face, and for a moment he appeared afraid to trust himself to speak;
recovering, however, he replied in the same cold, measured tone which he
had used throughout the adventure--
“No, Miss Grant, _I_ (and he laid an emphasis on the pronoun, so light
that a casual observer would not have detected it, and yet which shot
a pang through Annie’s heart that caused her colour to come and go, and
her limbs to tremble) do not forget so quickly.”
Unable to meet his glance, which she felt was fixed upon her, and
scarcely conscious, in her agitation, of what she was saying, Annie
faltered out--
“You will give my father an opportunity of thanking you, I hope;
he will, I cannot doubt--that is, we shall all be glad to renew our
intimacy with so old a friend.”
Lewis paused ere he could trust himself to reply. Her evident emotion,
the earnestness of her manner, half timid, half imploring, tended to
soothe his wounded spirit and disarm his wrath; but the vision of the
morning, in which he had seen her clinging to Lord Bellefield’s arm and
smiling upon him, was too fresh in his recollection, and the demon of
pride and jealousy still retained full dominion over him.
“You must pardon me,” he said, “I will reserve my visit to General Grant
till I can congratulate him on his daughter’s marriage.” Then raising
his hat ceremoniously, he bowed to her, and was gone!
No traces of the tumultuous assembly, which had so greatly alarmed Laura
and Annie, remained when Lord Bellefield and General Grant crossed the
square of St. Mark on their return from the morning’s sight-seeing.
As they drew near the Palazzo Grassini, a tall lad in squalid raiment,
leaning upon crutches, and with a patch over one eye, approached and
begged of them. The General at first refused to listen to him, but
becoming wearied by his pertinacity, felt in his pocket for something to
give him.
“I have no small change about me,” he remarked, after a minute’s
ineffectual search, “but you have, Bellefield; they gave you a handful
of their stupid little coins at the last shop we went into. Lend me two
or three, will you?”
As he mentioned his companion’s name the beggar fixed his piercing
eye on the features of the person addressed, scanning them eagerly,
as though he sought to fix them indelibly in his memory. Returning his
glance with a haughty stare, his lordship carelessly flung him a couple
of _Zwanzigers_ and passed on. The beggar watched his retreating figure
till it was no longer visible, then turning quickly, hobbled with his
crutches out of the square, continuing the same method of progression
till he reached the nearest canal, when, looking round to assure himself
that he was not observed, he coolly pitched his supporters into the
water, removed the patch from his eye, which by no means seemed to
require such a protection, walked briskly till he reached a spot where
a small skiff was moored, springing into which he commenced rowing
vigorously, and was soon hidden from sight by a bend of the canal.
When Lewis returned to his lodgings the following note awaited him:--
“My search is ended; I have found my sister in time to see her--die!
Her seducer, heartless in his villainy, brought his victim to a foreign
land, kept her in luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left
her--to starve. My curse has little power, or it would have withered him
long ago; but may the curse of that God who made him and her cleave to
him until-- _I_meet him. Sir, I know not how to thank you. She has told
me how you warned her, how you explained to her his real character.
She was infatuated, but it is not for me to judge her. We seem a doomed
race, fatal alike to ourselves, to those we love, and _to those we
hate_. Oh, that she could live! she is soft and gentle, and--ay! though
a scoundrel has debased her, still I say it--she is good and pure, and
she would have calmed my angry spirit; she would have taught me to love
something human. But it was not to be: each hour that I sit by her I
expect to be her last. She sends you her blessing; may God’s go with it.
“Miles H---------.”
Lewis could not peruse this letter without deep emotion. In the just,
though, alas! ill-governed indignation which gave a rude eloquence even
to the expression of this poor youth’s outraged feeling, he traced a
likeness to his former self. “Heartless in his villainy, he kept her in
luxury till his fancy wearied of her, and then left her--to starve.”
This was the man Annie Grant loved and was about to marry! Oh, how his
heart bled for her! He pictured to himself her future life--how she
would gradually, by slow and painful steps, discover her husband’s true
character, each advance in knowledge a new and separate misfortune,
until love should become indifference, and indifference end in hatred.
Even yet he might prevent it. His London agent had forwarded to him that
morning an English newspaper containing an unmistakable allusion to
the events of the Derby day, and openly declaring Lord Bellefield a
defaulter. This shown to General Grant, and his tale of Hardy’s daughter
verified by the evidence now in his possession, the old soldier would
sooner see his daughter lying dead at his feet than sanction her union
with a man devoid alike of honour and of principle. But then came in
pride. Had he known that Annie loved him, or had General Grant never
mistrusted him, Lewis would have come forward without a moment’s
hesitation; but his motives had been once doubted, his affections
betrayed, and his pride could neither forget nor forgive it. Besides,
Lord Bellefield would attribute his interference to a feeling of petty
malice; such was not the revenge for which, despite his principles and
his reason, his soul still thirsted. So pride gained the day, though,
tyrant-like, in the very midst of his triumph he made his victim
miserable.
Unable to apply his mind to anything, he strolled out, trusting the
evening air would allay the fever of his blood. After wandering about
restlessly for some time he remembered that he had eaten nothing for
many hours, and turning into the nearest casino he called for wine and
biscuits. Having finished his frugal repast, he was about to leave
the house when three persons entered, and crossing through the
refreshment-room, passed into a salon which he knew to be devoted
to play. One of the three, a short, insignificant-looking man, was a
stranger to him, but the two others he recognised instantly--they were
Walter and Lord Bellefield. A sudden impulse prompted him to follow
them; at that time in the evening the salon was certain to be pretty
well filled, and Lewis trusted to avoid observation by mixing with
the crowd, relying on the alteration in his appearance to escape
recognition, even if he were perceived either by Walter or Lord
Bellefield. Accordingly, waiting his opportunity, he joined a group of
Italians, who, eagerly talking over the attempt upon the life of Colonel
Marinovitch (which had been frustrated by his escaping on board the
corvette which guarded the harbour), scarcely perceived this addition to
their party. Entering with them, and still keeping in the background, he
took up a position whence he could observe the proceedings of those
for both of whom he felt an interest equally deep, though so utterly
distinct in character.
Lord Bellefield, who appeared unusually listless and indifferent,
lounged up to the table and staked a few Napoleons on the chances of
the game; then, drawing forward a chair he seated himself, and continued
carelessly to watch the proceedings of the other players. But despite
the presence of the man he hated, Lewis’s attention soon became wholly
absorbed in observing Walter. From his entire conduct it was evident
that this was by no means his first visit to the salon; on the contrary,
it was only too plain that a taste for gambling had been implanted in
the poor boy’s feeble yet obstinate mind. That he clearly understood
the nature of the game Lewis could not believe, but that he had acquired
sufficient insight into the rules to enable him to adhere to them,
and that he was keenly alive to the results of the deal, or the throw,
elated when he won and depressed when he lost, was most certain.
The third person of the party, whom Lewis rightly conjectured to be his
successor in the office of tutor, did not play himself, but appeared
to take great interest in Walter’s game, looking over his cards and
advising him what to do. Lewis also noticed that whenever Walter won he
always received gold, but that his losses were paid in paper money, and
the truth immediately occurred to him--viz., that, child-like, the poor
boy only attached value to the glittering coin, and that the worth of
the bank-notes had been completely misrepresented to him, so that he
believed himself winning when in fact he was losing considerable sums.
Moreover, from certain glances which passed between Mr. Spooner and the
proprietor of the salon, who held the bank, Lewis became convinced
that some secret understanding existed by which the tutor shared in the
profits.
That Lord Bellefield was entirely ignorant of all that was passing
before his eyes Lewis could not conceive, while at the same time the
trifling nature of the stakes rendered it most unlikely that he could
have any personal interest in the affair; the probability therefore was
that he saw what was going on but felt totally indifferent as to the
matter. This view was confirmed when, as Walter grew more excited, began
playing higher, and at last staked ten Napoleons upon one cast, Mr.
Spooner approached Lord Bellefield and whispered something in his ear,
to which his friend replied carelessly, “Oh, let him have his fling
while he’s in the humour;” then in a lower tone he added, “_not blind!_
but the money is, I dare say, of more use in your pocket than in his, so
you’ll be the greater fool of the two if you attempt to prevent him.”
Spooner appeared again to urge some difficulty, to which Lord Bellefield
rejoined with a sneering laugh, “Yes, it suits _you_ charmingly to
assume the _rôle_ of the innocent! Can’t you get him to sign another
bond payable when he comes of age? Tortoni will no more refuse to cash
it than he did on a former occasion;” then smiling again, he added, “I
tell you I am not blind, _mon ami_, but ’tis no concern of mine; I am
not the lout’s guardian, Heaven be thanked.” Although from the position
in which he stood Lewis only caught a word or two here and there of
this conversation, yet his quick apprehension supplied the blanks with
sufficient correctness, and the whole villainy of the thing burst
upon him. Here was a man engaged to educate and watch over the poor,
feeble-minded being before him abusing the power thus entrusted to him
to lead him to evil, and availing himself of the imbecility he was bound
to protect to swindle his helpless charge; while Lord Bellefield, whose
duty it was to denounce such practices to General Grant the instant he
suspected them, had evidently not only no intention of doing so, but sat
coolly looking on, smiling with a fiend-like satisfaction at each fresh
development of human wickedness.
As Lewis watched Walter’s flushed cheeks, eager eyes, and hands which
trembled as they were stretched out to receive the gold which this time
he had been allowed to win; as he marked the lines which excitement and
the permitted indulgence of a capricious, obstinate temper had traced
upon his smooth brow and round the corners of his mouth, all his old
affection for the poor boy rushed back upon him, and his just anger
grew to such a pitch that he could scarcely repress it. At this moment a
fresh deal had begun.
“I will win more,” exclaimed Walter eagerly; “Mr. Spooner, tell him I
want to double my stake.”
“But that has been done already,” was the reply; “the dealer has doubled
every one’s stake this time.”
“Then I will double that,” returned Walter, carried away by the
excitement of the game; “tell him so, I say.”
Spooner appeared for a moment undecided; the stake, thus quadrupled,
amounted to forty Napoleons, and alarmed at its magnitude, he glanced in
irresolution towards Lord Bellefield. A look of undisguised contempt for
his pusillanimity was the only reply his lordship vouchsafed; goaded on
by which, Spooner turned to comply with his pupil’s direction.
But Lewis could bear it no longer; regardless of consequences, he strode
across the room and laid his hand upon Walter’s shoulder, saying as he
did so, in a gentle though determined voice, “Walter, you must not play
for such high stakes.”
With a cry of mingled joy and surprise Walter sprang from his seat,
gazed earnestly at Lewis’s features, then exclaiming, “Oh, you have come
back at last!” threw himself upon his friend’s breast with a burst
of tears. Much affected, Lewis returned his embrace, and leading him
carefully to a seat, waited till he should recover from his surprise
and emotion. In the meantime the game had come to a standstill, the
bystanders, consisting chiefly of foreigners, being as much charmed by
such a scene as an Englishman would have been annoyed at it. The moment
quiet was in some degree restored, the proprietor, mindful of his own
interest, resumed his deal, inquiring with a glance at Spooner what sum
his young friend had staked. Spooner paused, but Lord Bellefield,
who had risen and with lowering brow approached the scene of action,
prompted him, and he replied, “Forty Napoleons.”
Lewis’s eye flashed. “It is at your peril you do this,” he said; “my
first act on quitting this place shall be to inform General Grant of the
manner in which you betray the trust he has reposed in you.”
Spooner turned pale; but relying on Lord Bellefield’s support, managed
to stammer out, “And pray, sir, who the deuce may you be?”
“I will tell you, and this worshipful company also,” exclaimed Lord
Bellefield, stepping forward. “This fellow is, or rather was, a menial
in General Grant’s household, discarded for insolent behaviour, and
as such unfit for the society of gentlemen, into which as he has now
ventured to intrude himself, I, for one, vote he be ignominiously
expelled.”
This speech caused, as might be expected, a sensation throughout the
room, and the bystanders congregated round Lewis and Lord Bellefield,
glancing from one to the other, to discover from their bearing and
appearance which was the true man, and which the false. Up to this
moment Lewis had been wrapped in a large Spanish cloak; he now allowed
it to glide from his shoulders, as, advancing a step, he boldly
confronted his adversary.
“Your lordship has been pleased to speak explicitly,” he said; “were
I inclined to follow your example, I might, with some shadow of truth,
denounce you as a ruined blackleg and an outlawed defaulter; but I
prefer simply declaring that in the statement you have just made you
have maliciously and unequivocally--_lied!_”
As he spoke he raised his head proudly, and folding his arms across
his breast, waited the effect of his words. He was not kept long in
suspense. However numerous might be Lord Bellefield’s faults, a want of
personal courage was not one of them. As Lewis referred to the cause of
his ignominious exile his face grew pale with rage, but when he gave him
the lie his fury became uncontrollable. Springing forward with a leap
like that of a maddened tiger, he struck Lewis a violent blow on the
cheek, which, firmly as his feet were planted, staggered him, exclaiming
as he did so--
“Take that, beggar!” Instead of rushing on his adversary, as those
amongst the spectators who knew him (and there were several who did so)
expected, Lewis, recovering himself, stood for an instant regarding Lord
Bellefield with a smile of triumph, though to those who remarked
him closely there was an expression in his eyes which, in spite of
themselves, caused them to shudder, while, strange to say, he was
drawing a soiled _white kid glove_ on his right hand; having done so, he
advanced a step, saying in a stern, deep voice--
“Your Lordship is too generous--the beggar returns your
almsgiving--thus!”
As he spoke there was a sudden movement in the crowd--a frightful blow
was struck, and Lord Bellefield lay insensible on the ground, the blood
flowing from a cut on his forehead, whilst over him stood Lewis, his
mouth set, and his eyes burning with the fire of hatred. Several of the
bystanders sprang forward to assist the fallen man, but Lewis sternly
motioned them back.
“Wait,” he said,--his voice sounded deep and hollow, and there was
something in the expression of his face which quelled the stoutest heart
amongst those who stood around him,--drawing the glove from the hand
which had struck the blow, he dipped it in the blood that still trickled
from the forehead of the fallen man, muttering to himself as he did
so, “_That_, then, has come to pass--is _the rest_ to follow?” He next
examined the countenance of his prostrate foe--“He is merely stunned,”
he said; “raise him, and bring water to bathe his temples.” As he spoke
he assisted those who stepped forward to lift the injured man and
place him on a chair; having done so, he left him to the care of the
bystanders, and again folding his arms, stood coolly awaiting the issue.
The event justified his predictions: on the first application of the
cold water Lord Bellefield revived, and in less time than could have
been expected, the bleeding, which was very slight, was arrested. As
soon as he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said, addressing a
young Italian of rank, with whom he was acquainted, and who had been
bathing his temples with the cold water--
“Rastelli, you may inform that scoundrel that he has succeeded; rather
than allow him to escape with impunity, I will undergo the degradation
of meeting him.” He spoke in a low, faint voice, but the expression with
which he glanced towards Lewis as he pronounced the word “scoundrel” was
one of undying hatred.
“If your Lordship intended to apply that observation to the Signore
Luigi, I shall have the felicity to explain that your Excellency labours
under a mistake; that gentleman is the son of a gallant officer, with
whom I have had the honour to serve in more than one campaign. It is no
condescension in any one under the rank of a Royal Prince to meet the
son of the brave Captain Arundel.”
The speaker was an old General Officer in the Austrian service, who
possessed a European reputation, and whose dictum on all points of
honour was conclusive. Lord Bellefield bit his under-lip in anger and
vexation, cursing his own hastiness which had elicited this vindication
of his enemy: perceiving, however, that he should only place himself
still more completely in the wrong by any attempt to impugn the old
Austrian’s statement, he merely bowed haughtily in reply, then desiring
to be shown into a private room, he took Rastelli’s arm and quitted the
salon.
Lewis stood gazing after his late opponent with a dark and troubled
countenance; it was not remorse that he experienced, for were the
deed to have been done over again, he would not have shrunk from its
performance; and yet the feeling which engrossed him partook of a
remorseful character--it seemed to him as though he had now lost all
power of free will--he had taken the first step, and _the rest_ must
follow; there was no longer any possibility of turning back. Like
one walking in his sleep, he permitted himself to be led into another
room--he heard, as in a dream, Rastelli enter and make arrangements with
a young Austrian officer who had volunteered to act as his second for
his meeting Lord Bellefield at daybreak. As the person challenged, he
had the choice of weapons, but he waived his right, and allowed his
opponent to select pistols. Ehrenburg (his second) whispered to him
that Lord Bellefield was reported to be a dead shot, but an indifferent
swordsman.
“The more reason to allow him to choose pistols,” was Lewis’s careless
reply.
Ehrenburg still urged the madness of throwing away a chance. “It will
be no boy’s play,” he said; “mark my words, Luigi, this duel will be one
for life or death.”
“Do you think I do not know it?” returned Lewis sternly, “ay, as well
as if I now saw him lying dead before my feet,” and as he spoke an
involuntary shudder passed through his powerful frame.
“May not another contingency be possible, _buon’ amico?_ especially if
you allow him to secure the advantage of pistols?” suggested Ehrenburg.
“Would to Heaven it might so occur,” was Lewis’s eager reply; “I hope
no better fate than to die by his hand, believe me; but it will not
be so--I know--I feel it? Ehrenburg, that man has stood like some evil
spirit across my path; time after time he has heaped insult upon me;
once, coward-like, the assassin sought my life; but till tonight I have
never opposed him. Why? because it is written here” (and he touched
his forehead) “that when the final struggle shall come, my destiny is
stronger than his, and he must perish. You may smile and deem my
words the mere ravings of superstition, but you will see, _if_ we meet
to-morrow morning, Bellefield will never leave the ground alive, and I
shall quit it with the brand of Cain upon my brow.”
He spoke so gravely and with such an evident belief in the reality of
his convictions, that for a moment Ehrenburg himself felt impressed. But
a duel was no very uncommon event with the young Austrian: he had been
principal on two occasions, when no serious result had followed, and
second on half-a-dozen more; besides, he was essentially a practical
man. So he merely shrugged his shoulders, hinted that Lewis’s nerves
might be excited, which would produce these little fancies, advised him
to take a cup of coffee, and then repair to the shooting-gallery and
practise steadily for an hour or so to get his hand in, promised to
be with him in good time on the following morning, inquired whether
he could be of any further assistance, and then strolling back to the
gaming-table, relieved Lewis of his presence.
To gain his lodgings and lock himself into his studio was scarcely the
work of five minutes; then flinging himself upon the first seat that
came in his way, he gave himself up to bitter thoughts. Two years ago he
had fled his country, had quitted all who were dear to him, because his
fiery passions were beyond his control--because he had loved too deeply
and hated too bitterly. He had plunged into a life of wild adventure to
dissipate his feelings; he had schooled his heart in solitude; he had
devoted all his energies to the acquirement of an art; nay, he had
devoted the first efforts of the skill he had thus gained to embody a
visible representation of the danger of ill-bestowed love and the curse
of gratified revenge; and _this_ was the result!
He remained for a few minutes with his head resting on his hands,
apparently stunned by his conflicting feelings; then rousing himself by
an effort, he heaved a deep sigh and drew out _the glove_. As his eye
fell upon the stain of blood, he shuddered, and hastily putting it from
him, began pacing up and down the apartment. An antique lamp hung by a
chain from the ceiling, throwing its light strongly on the two pictures
from the “Giaour.” Involuntarily Lewis paused before them, and remained
gazing from one to the other with an expression of remorse and horror.
“Am I indeed about to realise these creations of my gloomy fancy?” he
murmured; “shall I become that human tiger, that stony, soulless image
of impenitent despair! Revenge, how I have thirsted for it, how, when
writhing under that man’s insults, I have pictured to myself the day
of reckoning, and deemed life itself would be a cheap sacrifice for one
hour of unlimited vengeance; and now, when this coveted boon lies within
my grasp, I see it in its true light, and own this wished-for blessing
to be a dark, consuming curse. Seen through the distorted medium of
outraged feeling, retribution appeared an act of justice. The demon wore
an angel’s form. But viewed in its true aspect, the sentiment is
that which leads to murder, and the deed, with its sickening details,
revolting butchery. Yet, seeing this clearly, knowing to what it will
lead, I _must_ go on: I owe _him_ satisfaction. Satisfaction!” and he
smiled at the mocking term. “Yes,” he resumed, “I _must_ go on, even if
I wished to turn back. If I _could_ forego my revenge and forgive him,
it is now too late. Well, be it so; ’tis weakness to repine at the
inevitable. I will meet my fate boldly, be it what it may; and for him,
he has brought the punishment upon his own head, and must abide the
issue!” He resumed his walk up and down the apartment; then a new
idea struck him. “What a strange expression her features wore when she
ventured to address me,” he said; “and in the crowd she did not
shrink from me, but trusted herself to me with a gentle, child-like
confidence.” He paused, pressed his hand to his forehead, then
exclaimed, “O God, if I have wronged her--if”--and here his voice sank
almost to a whisper--“if, Heaven help me, she should have loved me after
all!”
Completely overwrought by these conflicting emotions, Lewis sank into
a chair, and burying his face in his hands, struggled in vain for
composure, a deep-drawn, choking sob from time to time attesting his
mental agony. How long he remained in this position he never knew. It
might have been minutes, for he took no note of things external; it
might have been hours, for a lifetime of heartfelt desolation appeared
crowded into that dark reverie. He was aroused at length by a tap at
the door, which, as at first he could scarcely collect his ideas
sufficiently to attend to such sublunary matters, soon grew into a
loud and impatient knocking with the handle of a stick or _umbrella_.
Imagining it to be one of his artist friends, come probably to bring him
information in regard to the late disturbances, he replied in Italian
that he was particularly engaged and could not see any one.
“Polite and encouraging, certainly,” muttered a deep-toned voice, at
the first sound of which Lewis sprang from his seat and listened with
an eager yet half incredulous expression of countenance. “A thousand and
one pardons, Signor,” continued the person on the outside, speaking
in Italian, with a peculiarity of accent which proved him to be
unaccustomed to pronounce the language, or probably even to hear it
spoken; “but you really must condescend to see me, even if Diabolus
himself is supping with you, and there is only macaroni enough for two.”
Without a moment’s hesitation Lewis flung open the door, and there _in
proprio persono_ stood Richard Frere _and_ the cotton umbrella!
“Frere, dear old fellow! is it, can it indeed be you?” exclaimed Lewis
joyfully, forgetting for the moment everything in the surprise of
welcoming such an unexpected visitant.
“Yes, it’s me,” returned Frere, squeezing and shaking his friend’s hand
as if he had a design of reducing it to a jelly. “Richard’s himself, and
no mistake. Lewis isn’t _him_self, though, it seems, but Signore
Luigi, forsooth. I had hard work to find you, I can tell you. But good
gracious! what has happened to the man?” he exclaimed, catching sight
of Lewis’s bearded face and pale, haggard features, “why, he has turned
into somebody else, bodily as well as in name. You look just like one
of these horrid Italian fellows, with the proper tragic expression of
countenance which they get up by way of advertising that they are ready
and willing to cut throats at half-a-crown a windpipe, country
orders punctually executed, and the business performed in a neat and
tradesman-like manner; but tell me seriously, you’re not ill?”
“Not in body, nor usually in mind either,” was the reply; “but today
events have occurred which have thoroughly unmanned me, still I shall
‘win through it,’ somehow; and now tell me of yourself, of Rose, of my
mother--they are well?”
“A good deal better than you seem to be,” growled Frere, who during this
speech had been attentively observing his friend’s features; “however,
I’ll soon satisfy your curiosity--and then you shall satisfy mine,” he
added in an undertone, and removing a wonderful species of travelling
cap, he followed Lewis, who led the way to his inner apartment, and
then listened eagerly to Frere’s account of the various events which
had taken place since he had quitted his native land. Rose, by Frere’s
special desire, had, in writing to her brother, hitherto forborne to
allude to her engagement; the worthy bear, with a characteristic mixture
of deep-seated humility and surface vanity, fearing that Lewis might not
think him a fitting match for his sister, and therefore feeling anxious
that the matter should be disclosed to him in the wisest and most
judicious manner possible--by himself _viva voce_. Thus, after having
spoken of various less important matters, Frere was gradually working
his way towards the interesting disclosure with a degree of nervous
diffidence quite unusual to him, when Lewis, whose attention began to
flag, brought him to the point by exclaiming, “And about Rose, what
is she doing: she tells me in her letters she still writes for some
magazine; but is she looking well? does she seem happy? though I
suppose,” he continued, trying to hide his state of mind by falling in
with his friend’s jesting mode of speech, “these are minor particulars
into which it never occurs to your wisdom to inquire. I know your old
habit of practically ignoring the existence of women as a sex, regarding
them as a race of unscientific nonentities fitted only ‘to suckle fools
and chronicle small beer.’”
Frere for a moment looked rather disconcerted; then veiling his
discomfiture under an affectation of rough indifference, he replied,
“I can tell you one ‘minor particular,’ as you call it, and that is the
fact of the young lady in question being engaged to be married.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis, starting, “you are probably joking,” he
continued seriously; “but you know not, dear old friend, how deeply
such tidings might affect me at this moment; you know not--how should
you?--the mood of mind in which you find me; but tell me in a word, is
there any earnest in what you have said?”
“In a word,” muttered Frere, “hum! concise and epigrammatical that! but
I’ll try to accommodate you, so here goes by way of answer. Yes!”
“And she has never even hinted at such a fact in her letters,” exclaimed
Lewis; “out of sight, out of mind, indeed. I may have--Heaven help
me!--I _have_ neglected my trust, in my self-engrossment; but I did
not think Rose would have been the person thus to visit my sins upon my
head. Who is the man?” he continued sternly. In the whole course of
his existence Frere had never felt more uncomfortable; all his old
diffidence and humility rushed upon him, and for the moment he felt as
if he had been suddenly detected in an act of petty larceny; however,
his sturdiness of nature and common sense came to his rescue, and he
replied, “It is no fault of Rose’s, for _I_ made it an especial point
that she should not tell you of her engagement by letter.”
“_You_ did, and wherefore?” inquired Lewis in surprise.
“Because I chose to tell you myself,” returned Frere. “Your sister is
not an angel, for angels live in heaven and not on earth, but she is the
most lovable, the most pure-minded, decidedly the sweetest-looking woman
(though that does not so much signify) in this world, and I should have
added, the most sensible, only that she has, in her tenderness of heart,
seen fit to promise to marry a rough, uncouth animal like me. Lewis, old
fellow,” he continued in a faltering voice, “I know better than you can
do how unworthy I am of such a blessing, but if loving her better than
my own life gives me any title to possess her, Heaven knows that I do
so.”
When Frere reached that point in his peroration at which he mentioned
Rose’s promise to marry him, his auditor started, and raising his eyes,
murmured an ejaculation of fervent thankfulness. As he concluded, Lewis
clasped his hand eagerly in his own, saying, “My dear old Frere,
you know not how happy you have made me; one great weight, which was
crushing my soul to the dust ere you appeared, is removed by your words.
Of all men living you are the one I would have selected for my dearest
Rose’s husband; and now, if I--that is to say, whatever befalls me she
will be happy.”
“Then you are not disappointed?” rejoined Frere, greatly relieved; “you
know you used at one time to be just a very little bit ambitious, and I
fancied you might have been cherishing some splendid scheme for marrying
Rose to a duke--she’s good enough for the best of ’em, even if dukes
were what they should be, instead of what they are too many of ’em.
Well, I’m very glad!--but now about yourself--‘if anything befalls you,’
you say; pray what is likely to befall you more than any other people?
and what do you mean by being crushed by a weight, and by looking so
melodramatically miserable?”
Lewis heaved a deep sigh, and then replied, “You speak jestingly; but
there are many melodramas less strange than my wayward fortune: such as
it is, however, I have provoked and will go through with it. Frere, you
love Rose for her own sake, be kind to and forbearing with my mother for
mine--she has many faults, a giddy head, an impulsive disposition (than
which there can be no greater temptation), but a warm heart--and--and I
feel I have never done a son’s duty by her. Frere, you will take care of
her?”
The events of the day and evening had well-nigh exhausted even Lewis’s
untiring energy, and the sight of Frere arriving so unexpectedly had
brought back to him so many home memories, recollections of earlier
days, ere with the strength and freedom of manhood had come its
trials and its sins, that as he thought of these old associations and
remembered kindnesses slighted, affection cast away, duties neglected,
for the sake of that one master-passion, he forgot for the time the
wrongs he usually felt so keenly, and remorse for his selfish neglect
overwhelmed him and caused his voice to falter and his eyes to grow dim
with the mist of unshed tears. Frere perceived his emotion, and waited
till it had in a degree subsided; then going up to him, he laid his hand
on his shoulder caressingly, saying, “Come, Lewis, we have known each
other from boyhood; we have long been brothers in affection, and are
soon about to become so in name, associated by a still nearer tie--we
never used to have secrets from each other, and should not do so now.
I have learned from Rose the cause you have had for sorrow, and for
two years have suffered you to try your own method of cure, without
attempting to interfere with you, but I now see that the experiment has
failed, and that you are miserable--is it not so?”
Lewis bowed his head in token of assent, he could not trust himself to
speak.
“We are not placed in this world to be miserable,” continued Frere;
“true, this life is a state of trial, and it would not be so if we had
not many evils, temptations, and sorrows to endure; but by God’s help
the evils may be borne, the temptations overcome, and the sorrow turned
to joy, if we do not oppose our will to His; but if we do, sin lieth at
the door, we league ourselves with the enemy of mankind, and misery must
come of it. Do not misunderstand me,” he added kindly; “I do not seek
to blame you, I can have no pleasure in so doing, but on the contrary
deepest pain; still it is evident your mind is diseased, and if in
probing the wound to discover the nature of the evil I hurt you, you
must pardon me for the sake of the object I have in view. But! am
talking at random, for want of a more clear insight into the cause of
your present difficulty. Come, be frank and open with me; let us face
the evil boldly, and between us devise some means of overcoming it.”
“What brought you here?” exclaimed Lewis, suddenly raising his head and
fixing his piercing eyes full upon his friend’s countenance.
Frere smiled a melancholy smile. “Hot-headed, petulant, and jealous of
interference yet!” he said. “My poor Lewis, I did not come to catechise
you--affairs of quite another nature brought me here: I am trying to
carry out an arrangement between my uncle Ashford and your _ci-devant_
foe, Lord Bellefield.” As he mentioned Lord Bellefield’s name Lewis
shuddered, and his eyes again sought the ground. “And now that I have
cleared up this alarming doubt,” resumed Frere, “tell me what ails you,
for that you are miserable, and that I mean to know wherefore, and do my
best to render you otherwise, are two self-evident facts.”
“’Tis useless,” returned Lewis in a low voice; “the die is cast, and
neither you nor any one else can help me. Would to Heaven you had come a
day sooner and taken me away from this accursed place; as it is, my own
mad passion has hurried me on, and my fate is fixed. Now,” he continued,
glancing at the clock, which stood at a quarter to twelve, “I must ask
you to leave me--we may meet to-morrow--or--if anything should prevent
it--and if--if I have not an opportunity of telling you all you seek
to know--my papers--that is, I will leave you a letter explaining
everything--good-night.” Scarcely able to control his voice in this
which Lewis felt might too probably be a last farewell, he hurried
through the speech in a strange, almost incoherent manner.
Frere regarded him fixedly. “Unless you condescend to explain to me what
you purpose doing within the next twenty-four hours,” he said, “I’ll not
leave you till that time has expired. I tell you what it is, Lewis:
I have not lived three-and-thirty years in the world without having
learned to read men’s faces, and I read in yours that you are standing
on the verge of some great folly, madness, or--crime; and now, what is
it?”
Lewis paused for a moment in deep thought, and then said calmly, “Sit
down, Frere; you are an Englishman, and a man of highly honourable
feeling; moreover, you are my oldest, my most cherished friend. I am,
as you say, maddened by circumstances and on the verge of a great crime;
sit down, I will tell you all, and you shall judge between God and man,
and me.”
Calmly, clearly, truthfully, in the deep silence of night, did Lewis
recount to his friend the strange passages with which the reader is
already acquainted; he related the simple facts, whether they told for
or against him, just as they occurred; without entering into unnecessary
detail he left nothing important unsaid, till Frere had conceived a
clear idea of Lewis’s whole career from the hour he entered Broadhurst
to the moment in which he was speaking.
“The upshot of all this is,” observed Lewis in conclusion, “that I am
weary of life; littleness, brutality, and oppression in man, weakness
and treachery in woman, and the tyranny of passion in oneself, render
this world an incipient hell. To-morrow must end it one way or the
other--either he will shoot me or I shall shoot him; the latter
contingency I shall not long survive; such remorse as I should feel
would be unendurable. To save myself from the guilt of suicide I
shall volunteer into some fighting regiment engaged in these civil
broils--Tyrian or Trojan, Austrian or Venetian, I care little; my
sympathies side with one, my associations with the other, and with
either I may obtain the only prize I covet--a soldier’s death.”
“Now listen to me, Lewis,” returned Frere gravely. “I once at your own
request promised you that _while we both lived I would never give you
up, but would stand between you and your fiery passions_, and I thank
God who in his mercy has sent me here at this particular moment to
enable me to fulfil my engagement. You have suffered, and are suffering
deeply, and from my heart I pity you; but seeing, as I do only too
clearly, the cause of all this misery, it would be no kindness in me to
omit to point it out to you. Your two leading faults of character, pride
and an overweaning degree of self-confidence, are at the bottom of it
all. Pride made Lord Bellefield your enemy--when he offered money for
the dog he never intended to insult you; your proud answer irritated his
pride, and from that time forth he sought to injure you--evil produced
evil, dislike grew to hatred, hatred begat revenge, revenge cherished
only required opportunity to become developed into assault and murder;
that opportunity has now arrived, you have been guilty of the first, you
contemplate the second. So much for pride--now for self-confidence. You
imagined nothing could tempt you to forget your dependent position in
General Grant’s family (a position which your pride led you falsely to
consider a degradation) so far as to forfeit your self-respect by
loving Annie, so you permitted yourself to enjoy her society till
your affections were beyond your own control--mistake number one. Then
self-confidence whispered that it would be heroic to overcome this
passion, so instead of avoiding the danger, you stayed to brave it till
you had sacrificed your happiness, if not hers also--mistake number two.
Still untaught by experience, in your own strength you endeavoured to
crush out the memory of the past; still thinking only of self, you fled
your country, recklessly severing ties and neglecting duties. Two years’
vain struggling have proved your boasted strength to be abject weakness,
unable to save you from becoming the slave of your evil passions, and
I arrive here to find you contemplating the sin of--well, if I call
it murder you will deem that I exaggerate, so I will say the sin of
gambling in a lottery of manslaughter, with every chance against you.”
Lewis again raised his eyes to Frere’s face as he replied calmly, but in
a cold, hard tone of voice--
“You have described my miserable career harshly indeed, but in the
main truly. You profess yourself my friend--in making this painful
recapitulation therefore I presume you to have some friendly object;
what is it?”
“First to exhibit to you the disease, then to point out the remedy,”
returned Frere.
“And if you can do this,” exclaimed Lewis--“if, remembering what I am,
you can show me how I might have avoided my errors in the past, how I
may do aught to retrieve them in the future, I will indeed reckon you
my friend--nay, I will bless your coming as that of an angel sent from
heaven to aid a desperate, well-nigh a despairing man.”
“Pray what religion do you profess?” asked Frere abruptly.
Lewis started, but recovering himself, replied coldly, “The same as you
do yourself.”
“And do you believe in the truth of it?”
“Why ask such a question?” returned Lewis with a slight degree of
annoyance perceivable in his tone; “whatever may have been my faults, I
am no infidel.”
“I will tell you why I ask,” replied Frere; “because, though you
confess with your lips the truths of Christianity, in your life you have
practically denied them.”
Lewis made no answer, and Frere continued in an earnest, impressive
voice, his manner becoming every moment more animated as he grew excited
with his subject--
“If, as you say you do not doubt, Christianity be true, it amounts to
this. The God who made and governs this world has been pleased to reveal
to us His will--namely, that if we believe in Him and obey Him, He will
save us from eternal misery and bestow upon us eternal happiness. To
enable us to fulfil the second condition, that of obedience, He has
given us a code, not so much of laws as of principles of action, by
which we may become a law to ourselves. In order to demonstrate how
these abstract principles are applicable to the exigencies of our
mundane career, He sent His Son into the world, ‘a man subject to like
passions as ourselves, only without sin,’ _because_ he was a consistent
embodiment of the doctrines he taught. Now had you taken these precepts,
to which you accord an unpractical and therefore an equally senseless
and useless belief, as the rule of your actions, how different a result
would have followed; instead of provoking animosity by haughty looks and
proud words, you would have remembered that ‘a soft answer turneth away
wrath;’ instead of returning evil for evil, you would have considered
the example of Him, who ‘when He was reviled, reviled not again,’ and
called to mind His precepts, ‘resist not evil, do good to them that hate
you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;’
instead of seeking to avenge your own quarrel by deeds of violence,
which outrage nature, and bring their own punishment with them even
here, in the pangs of conscience, you would have thought of His words
who hath said, ‘Vengeance is _Mine_, I will repay,’ and left your
cause in His hands. Instead of attempting to do everything in your own
strength, and failing thus miserably, you would have recollected that
‘God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness,’ and prayed to Him
for support and assistance. Even now, instead of having recklessly
determined to expose yourself to the chance of committing what you own
to be a crime of such frightful magnitude, that the remorse it must
entail on you would be unbearable, the question would be, not, how at
any sacrifice you must vindicate your honour in the eyes of men, but
‘how then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?”’ He
paused, then asked abruptly, “Do you admit all this?”
Lewis’s features worked convulsively, as in a hollow, broken voice he
replied, “Yes I do, God help me!”
“And He will help you,” returned Frere, “if your repentance is indeed
sincere; but that must be proved by acts, not words--Will you give up
your revenge, and agree not to meet Lord Bellefield tomorrow?”
“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Lewis fiercely, springing to his feet. “The
sole possession my father bequeathed to me was his name and his spotless
honour, and it shall never be said that he left them to one whom men had
a right to call coward.”
“And yet a coward you are,” returned Frere sternly, “not in the
particular of brute courage, shared with you by the tiger and the wolf,
but in the far higher attribute of moral courage, the martyr spirit
which enables the highest order of minds to endure the scorn of worldly
men, rather than offend God and degrade themselves by the commission of
evil. I will ask one more question, and then I have done with you: you
say you believe in a future and eternal life--are you fitted to enter
upon that life to-morrow through the dark portal of a sudden and violent
death?”
As Frere uttered these awful words, in a tone of the deepest solemnity,
Lewis, who had been impatiently pacing the room, stopped short as though
arrested in his course by a thunderstroke. Placing his hand to his brow,
he staggered as if about to fall, and Frere sprang up to support him.
Recovering himself, he murmured--
“I must be alone, in half-an-hour you shall know my decision.”
Then opening the door, he motioned to Frere to await him in the
painting-room, and closing it after him, locked it. What passed in that
half-hour--how, prostrate before the Great White Throne, the proud
man wrestled with his agony, can be known but to One, the Searcher of
Hearts. When, at the expiration of the prescribed time, the door was
gently unclosed and Frere entered, he found Lewis, pale indeed and
trembling, but calm as a little child.
“Bless you, dear old friend!” he said, “_Truth and you have conquered_;
I place myself in your hands--do with me as you will.”