WORRIED.
About nine o’clock in the evening marked by the occurrence of the
events narrated in the last chapter, General Grant was informed that a
young man, who refused to give his name, requested five minutes’ private
conversation with him. Somewhat surprised at this demand, the General
followed the servant into an apartment used by Charles Leicester as a
study, and desired that the person might be shown in; in another moment
a tall, swarthy young fellow, dressed in the garb usually worn by the
lower classes in Venice, made his appearance. As soon as the servant had
quitted the room, the stranger presented a note to the General, saying,
“If you will read that, sir, you will perceive the object of my visit,
and learn the necessity which forces me to intrude upon you at such an
untimely hour.”
The note, which was written in a delicate but somewhat illegible female
hand, ran as follows:--
“A dying woman implores you, sir, to visit her; not for her own sake,
for her hope rests in God and not in man, but for the sake of one who
must be dearest to you in the world--your daughter. The writer has
information to impart to you which may save you and her from years of
deepest misery. The bearer of this note will conduct you safely to
one who again implores you by all you hold sacred not to neglect this
summons, or delay returning with the messenger, lest you should arrive
_too_ late. The writer pledges her word, the word of one about to enter
upon eternity, that you shall return safely.”
“This is a very strange note,” observed General Grant, suspiciously
eyeing the young man, who stood awaiting his decision; “how am I to know
that this is not some cunningly devised scheme, dangerous to my life or
liberty?”
“I swear to you that you may safely trust me,” replied the stranger
eagerly; “adopt what precautions you will, leave your money, or aught
that is of value, at home--take pistols with you, and if you see any
signs of treachery, shoot me through the head. I _could_ tell you
that which would render you as eager to accompany me as you now appear
unwilling to do so, but I have promised to leave _her_ to explain the
affair as seems to her best--she is my sister, and dying; if you delay
you will arrive too late.”
“You are an Englishman, I presume?” inquired the General, still
undecided.
“I am so,” was the reply, “and have served my country on board a
man-of-war.”
“A sailor! what was your captain’s name, and what ship did you belong
to?” demanded the General.
“‘The Prometheus’--Captain Manvers,” was the concise answer.
“Were you in her during the year 18----?” continued his questioner, and
receiving a reply in the affirmative, added, “Where were you stationed
then?”
“We accompanied a convoy of transports, taking the----th and----th foot
to Madras, and then proceeded to China,” was the answer.
The General nodded approvingly. “Quite true,” he said; “Captain Manvers
is a friend of my own, and I know his vessel to have been then employed
as you have stated. I will trust you; wait five minutes while I prepare
to accompany you.”
Within the time he had mentioned General Grant returned, wrapped in a
military cloak, beneath which he wore a belt supporting a sabre and a
brace of pistols.
“If I do not return in two hours, give this note to Mr. Leicester,” he
said to the servant who attended them to the door; then motioning to the
stranger to precede him, he quitted the Palazzo Grassini. Leaving the
square of St. Mark they advanced towards the Rialto; crossing this, and
passing the fruit and vegetable market beyond, they reached a spot where
a gondola was moored. Having stepped into it, the General, on a signal
from his guide, seated himself near the stern, while the young sailor
took an oar and assisted his companion in propelling the light vessel.
Having proceeded some short distance in this manner, the rowers paused
at a flight of steps. Here the stranger signified to General Grant that
they must disembark; then resuming his office of guide, he led the way
along the banks of the canal, and through courts and narrow alleys,
inhabited by the lower orders of Venice, till he stopped before a
rude door. At this he tapped twice in a peculiar manner. An old crone
appeared in obedience to his summons, and cautiously unclosing the door,
admitted them. Taking a lamp from her hand, the young man led the way up
a steep flight of stairs, closely followed by his companion.
“Wait one minute,” he said as they reached the top; returning almost
immediately, he continued in a low whisper--
“She is awake and perfectly collected, but appears sinking fast; she
is anxious to see you without delay; tread as lightly as possible, and
follow me.”
Advancing a few steps, he opened the door of a bedroom, and the General,
stooping his head to avoid striking it against the top of the doorway,
entered. The apartment, though small, was clean and more comfortably
fitted up than from the external appearance of the house he had been led
to expect. On a low truckle bed, in one corner of the room, lay the form
of the dying girl; at a sign from her brother, General Grant approached,
and seating himself on a chair by the bedside, waited till she should
address him. For a few minutes she appeared quite unable to do so,
and her visitor feared, as he gazed on her emaciated form and sunken
features, that she had indeed delayed her communication till the
paralysis of coming death had sealed her lips, never again to unclose
in this life. In his earlier days General Grant had been familiar with
death in some of its most appalling shapes; he had seen men fall by his
side, mutilated by ghastly sabre wounds, to be trampled under the hoofs
of maddened, plunging horses; he had stood immovable when the deadly
artillery ploughed up the ground around him and mowed down whole ranks
as the scythe of the reaper prostrates the nodding corn; and when the
word of command had gone forth, he had led on the stern remnant that
were left, till the bayonet avenged the losses they had sustained; and
when the fight was won, he had sat by the couch of some wounded comrade,
and watched the strong man battle as it were with death, and yield his
last sigh in a fruitless struggle with the inexorable enemy. But he had
never before seen any one worn to the brink of the grave by sorrow
and disease, and despite his utmost efforts to the contrary, the sight
shocked and distressed him deeply. The picturesque stage of decline
had long since passed away, and in the appearance of his victim the
destroyer stood revealed in his true colours. The features of the poor
sufferer were characterised by an expression of fatigue and distress,
that told of long days and weary nights of patient endurance; she was so
emaciated that the form of the skull and the outline of the bones of the
cheek and jaw were distinctly visible through the parchment-like skin,
giving a strange, unearthly appearance to the face, while the parched
lips, the dark fever spot burning in the centre of each cheek, and at
intervals the low, husky cough, which once heard can never be mistaken,
evinced only too surely the presence of that fell disease, which seems,
as its peculiar attribute, to select its victims amongst the young and
fair. Her whole appearance was so worn and corpse-like, that when, after
a paroxysm of coughing, she raised her drooping eyelids and fixed her
earnest, appealing glance upon her visitor, he started as though he had
seen one raised from the dead by the agency of some special miracle.
“I thank God that you are come, sir,” she said in a low, sweet voice,
“that I may yet do some good before I die. I have been the cause of much
evil in my short life, and I felt it was a duty to tell you the truth of
my sad history, and do the little that is possible to save another from
enduring the same misery that has brought me to the condition in which
you see me.” She paused, and the silent, inward cough--the voice of
death--again shook her fragile frame. “You do not know me,” she resumed;
“I am Jane Hardy.” As she mentioned her name the General started, and
bending his head, drank in her every word with deep attention. “About
three years ago,” she continued, “or perhaps rather less, a gentleman
who was staying at Broadhurst was thrown from his horse while hunting.
He was stunned by the fall, and some of his companions brought him to
our cottage. There was no one but myself at home, and I fetched water
and bathed his temples. As soon as he began to revive, the friends who
had brought him said laughingly that they could not leave him in better
hands, and quitted us to follow the hunt. As the gentleman began to
recover he entered into conversation with me. He was very witty and
clever, and told me of the fine sights he had seen in foreign lands, and
many other beautiful and wonderful things which I had never heard of,
and before he went away he drew me to his side and kissed me, and said
he should come again to see his kind little nurse, and I--God help me--I
was young and simple, and I believed all he said, and from that hour I
loved him. Well, sir, he came not only once, but often, and I listened
to his soft words and specious promises until I ceased to think of or
care for anything but him. I had no mother to warn me; my poor father
had become stem and morose, and I feared him and sought only to conceal
my attachment from him. With some of the facts you, sir, are already
acquainted. My father was captured on one of his poaching expeditions
and sent to gaol. I sat up the whole night waiting for his return, and
in the early morning came, not he whom I was expecting, but my tempter.
He told me what had occurred, revealed to me for the first time his real
rank, promised to obtain my father’s pardon by means of his wealth and
influence, and, as the price of his assistance, implored me to fly with
him. He could not make me his bride in England, he said; his position
forbade it; but he vowed he would carry me to some bright land in the
sunny south, and that we should be united and live happily there. Weak
fool that I was! I believed him, and consented.
“The rest of the tale is soon told. I accompanied him to London; he
was kind to me, and my dream continued. By his desire I followed him to
Rome, under the care of his valet. For a time I was treated with every
attention; servants obeyed me, luxuries surrounded me; but his promise
of marriage he never fulfilled. Then he began to grow tired of me, and
my punishment commenced. He soon proved to me the true nature of his
disposition; his temper was fearful, at once passionate, sulky, and
vindictive, and I was a safe object on which to vent it. Still I
could have borne this uncomplainingly if I could have believed that he
continued to love me. But his coldness and indifference became every
hour more apparent, till at length I awoke one morning to learn that he
had deserted me. I discovered his direction and wrote to him. I forbore
reproaches; I knew that I had lost his love--I knew, alas! too late,
that he had never really loved me, and all I sought was to return to
England, beg my father’s forgiveness, and then, if it pleased God, to
die. But I entreated him to send me money enough to take me home again.
He left my letter unanswered for a week, and then enclosed me a cheque
for five pounds, telling me that I had already cost him more than I was
worth, and that I need expect nothing further at his hands.”
“And the name of this diabolical scoundrel was---?” inquired
General Grant eagerly.
“Lord Bellefield,” was the reply, in a clear, distinct, though feeble
tone of voice.
“What proof can you give me of this?” was the cautious rejoinder.
“These letters,” returned the girl, producing a small packet from
beneath her pillow.
The General took them, examined the post-marks and the seals, compared
the signatures with that of a letter he took out of his pocket, read
two or three of them and then returned them, muttering in a voice that
trembled with suppressed rage, “They are genuine, and they are _his_.”
“The rest of my tale is soon told,” resumed Jane Hardy. “Lord Bellefield
had left debts behind him, and when it was known he had quitted Rome,
not meaning to return, those to whom he owed money seized the few
valuables that I possessed (chiefly dresses and trinkets which _he_ had
given me), and my last hope, that of returning to England, was taken
from me.” Here a fit of coughing, prolonged till it seemed as though it
must annihilate her feeble frame, effectually interrupted the speaker.
Her brother held a strengthening cordial to her parched lips, and after
a lapse of some minutes she was enabled to resume her narration, though
her voice was so weak and husky that it was with difficulty her auditor
could catch her words. “I have little more to tell,” she said. “I
suffered much, very much misery, but, thanks to the kindness of some
sisters of charity (rightly were they so called), I was saved from the
depths of degradation into which too many, deserted as I was, have been
forced.” Again she paused from weakness, and with the tenderness of
a woman Miles Hardy wiped the cold dews of approaching death from her
brow, and put back the rich masses of her (even yet) beautiful hair. The
General was visibly affected.
“Can nothing be done to save her?” he said; “I will ascertain who are
the most skilful physicians in Venice and send them to her. No money
shall be spared.”
A dark look flitted across Miles’s face, but the dying girl turned
towards the speaker, and a faint smile testified that she had heard and
understood him.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “that my last moments have not been spent in
vain. Your daughter--they say she is good and beautiful; he will take
her heart for the plaything of an hour and then crush it as he has
crushed mine. You will not let her marry him?”
“Sooner would I see her stretched on her death-bed before me,” was the
stern rejoinder.
The girl smiled again. “You have made me so happy,” she whispered; then
with difficulty, and pausing between each word, she continued, “Tell him
I forgive him and pray for him; I pray that he may repent.” Again she
paused, apparently struggling for breath: “Miles, it is very dark,” she
said; “come nearer, dear!” Her brother placed his arm round her, and
nestling her head in his bosom, an expression of child-like happiness
spread over her features. Having lain thus for some moments she suddenly
started up, exclaiming aloud, “Oh God! my chest!” In a moment the severe
pain seemed to pass away and the happy smile returned. “May He bless
you, dearest!” she murmured; then a solemn change came over her
countenance, there was a slight struggle, and then--the jaw relaxed, the
eyes glazed, and she fell back in her brother’s arms a corpse.
[Illustration: 0496]
When later on that night women came to perform the last sad offices to
the dead, an English Bible was found beneath the pillow, and a leaf was
turned down at the text, “Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for
she loved much;” words of mercy we should do well to bear in mind, and
humbly trust they may indicate the future of many a “broken and contrite
heart.”
While General Grant was thus occupied, Annie, little dreaming of the
various events that had occurred, and which so nearly concerned her
happiness, was thinking over the scenes of the morning, and afflicting
her spirit by the recollection of Lewis’s parting words. What would
she not give that he could know the truth; know _why_ she had allowed
herself to be engaged to a man whom Lewis had good reason to believe she
both disliked and feared; but it was impossible, situated as she was,
to enlighten him, and she must submit to bear that most bitter of all
trials, the knowledge that one we love thinks evil of us, and has just
and reasonable grounds for such misconception. Then her engagement to
Lord Bellefield, now more hateful to her than ever--what should she
do to avoid it? to whom should she turn for counsel and
assistance?--Laura?--she had great faith in her good sense, and, above
all, in her energy of character--could she, dare she, confide in her?
and she had just settled that she certainly could _not_ when a gentle
tap was heard at the door. Annie cried, “Come in,” and Laura entered.
“I hope I am not disturbing you, dear,” she said, “but I grew fidgety
about you, fearing the alarm and fatigue of the morning might have been
too much for your strength.”
Annie smiled mournfully and shook her head, at the same time making room
for her friend on the settee upon which she was reclining. Laura placed
herself by her side, and taking Annie’s hand in her own, stroked it
caressingly.
“Poor little hand,” she said; “how soft and white it is, but it’s
getting sadly thin; really, dear Annie, I must lecture you. You eat
nothing, and your spirits have quite deserted you--you who were such a
happy, merry little thing--it makes me miserable to see you.”
She paused for a reply, and at length it came, but in a form she did not
expect, and which tended not at all to remove her anxiety.
“Do you think I am very ill, Laura?” Annie asked; “so ill that I am at
all likely to die?”
“No, darling; I hope--I trust not,” returned Laura earnestly; “but why
do you ask, and in so strange a tone that one could almost fancy you
wished that it might be so?”
“Because I do wish it,” was the sad rejoinder; “if I live I must be very
unhappy--there is no help for it, and so I wish to die. Is that wrong? I
am afraid it is.”
Laura paused ere she replied--
“I don’t think you are likely to die--grief kills very slowly. I am
sure you need not die of grief, or seek to die to escape a life of
unhappiness, if you would only be reasonable. I love you as I should
have loved a sister, had I possessed one; my only desire is to render
you happier; I am a woman, as yourself, and as little likely as you
would be, were our situations reversed, to do or counsel anything which
could wound your feelings or compromise your delicacy; and yet you lock
your sorrow in your own breast, and refuse to give me sufficient
insight into your heart to enable me to be of the slightest comfort or
assistance to you. Is this wise or even kind?”
Such an appeal, coming at that particular moment, was irresistible.
Annie threw her arms round her friend, hid her face on Laura’s shoulder,
and sinking her voice almost to a whisper, inquired--
“What is it you wish to know?”
“You dislike Lord Bellefield, and are anxious not to marry him?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” was the unmistakable answer.
“You love----”
Annie drew back, but Laura’s arm, passed round her slender waist,
detained her.
“You love Lewis Arundel?”
This time Annie did not reply, but a convulsive pressure of the hand
answered Laura’s question better than words could have done.
“Then, if you love him as he deserves to be loved, how could you allow
yourself to be forced into an engagement with Lord Bellefield?”
“Must I, indeed, reveal to you all my folly and weakness?” murmured poor
Annie.
“Really I am afraid you must, dear, if you wish my advice to be of the
smallest use to you,” returned Laura with a kind, encouraging smile;
“but perhaps the follies may prove not to have been so very foolish, and
the weaknesses turn out amiable ones after all. Come, let us hear!” Thus
urged, Annie recounted with smiles, and tears, and words, now dropping
in broken sentences, now poured forth with all the eager vehemence with
which feelings long restrained at length find vent, that portion of this
veritable history which especially related to herself, and the rise
and progress of her unfortunate attachment; until she reached the
point whereat, overwhelmed by the belief that Lewis had departed from
Broadhurst, suspecting her love and not reciprocating it, she had
permitted herself to be hurried into an engagement with Lord Bellefield,
sacrificing herself to guard against the possibility of any imputation
being cast upon her maidenly reserve. Here Laura interrupted her by
exclaiming--
“My poor child! I see it all now; you are to be pitied, not blamed;
would to Heaven you had known the truth earlier! how much misery it
might have saved you. Lewis Arundel quitted Broadhurst because he loved
you with all the impassioned tenderness of his fiery nature, and found
even his iron will powerless to control or even longer to conceal his
feelings.”
“How do you know this?” exclaimed Annie, sweeping back her luxuriant
ringlets from her flushed cheeks, and fixing her large, eager eyes upon
her friend’s countenance.
“From his own lips when he first heard that you were coming here,” was
the reply. And Annie, pressing her hands to her eyes, hid her face in
the sofa cushion and burst into tears; but this time they were tears of
joy.
Then, when she had in some degree recovered from her agitation, Annie
learned the history of Lewis’s wanderings to cure his love, and how
signally the remedy had failed, and how he had turned painter, and was
cleverer than anybody else (a fact of which she felt convinced before
she heard it), and how Laura had discovered his secret through the
medium of his sketch of Annie and Faust--(she did not mention the
“Giaour” pictures, fearing to alarm her friend)--and how Charles and she
had seen a great deal of him and become very fond of him (oh how Annie
loved her for saying that!), and how at last one day she had gained his
confidence and he had told her all, and how she had resolved never to
breathe a syllable of it to Annie unless she could clear herself in the
matter of accepting Lord Bellefield, and thus prove herself not unworthy
to possess the knowledge that the priceless blessing of Lewis’s noble
and generous heart was hers, and hers only. And when Laura had finished,
Annie, like a true woman, contrived by a series of “cunning-simple”
questions to make her tell her tale all over again, particularly those
portions which related to Lewis’s nobleness of nature, and the depth,
strength, and permanent quality of his affection for herself; and when
all had been said and re-said that could by any possibility be found to
say, even on this interesting matter, Annie fixed her soft, imploring
eyes on her friend’s countenance, and asked in a tone of the most
innocent but complete helplessness--
“And now, dear Laura, tell me what _is_ to be done?”
Up to this moment Laura had considered the whole question to hinge on
one point--was Annie worthy of the love of such a man as Lewis, or not?
This satisfactorily decided, all other difficulties seemed by comparison
insignificant; but now, when the monster obstacle had disappeared, the
engagement to Lord Bellefield, the General’s obstinacy, Lewis’s pride,
Annie’s womanly reserve, and Charley’s indolence and dislike of saying
or doing anything which could by the most remote possibility irritate or
annoy any one, all flashed across her and bewildered her. Still she had
great faith in her own energy and in the goodness of her cause, and so
replied vaguely, but confidently--
“Why, my love! it’s perfectly absurd to give way to despair as you have
been doing; of course something must, and therefore can and shall
be done; but what it is to be will, I confess, require some little
consideration!”
And just when their deliberations had reached this point, Laura received
a summons from her husband to say that he desired to speak with her; so
she imprinted a kiss on Annie’s smooth brow, and they parted.
“I say, Laura, read this,” exclaimed Charley, looking worried and
perplexed, as he handed his wife the following note:--
“Dear Charles, I have desired your servant to give you this note in case
I should not return in the course of the next two hours. I am about
to accompany a young stranger, representing himself to be an English
sailor, to visit his sister, who is said to be on her death-bed, and has
some communication to make to me. I have examined the man, and believe
his tale; but if I should not return within the time specified, it is
probably a clever fabrication, and as no lie can be framed for other
than an evil purpose you had better apply at once to the police, and
look after me in whatever way they may advise.
“Yours faithfully,
“Archibald Grant.”