Frere, on the principle of striking whilst the iron is hot, had no
sooner obtained Lewis’s promise to place in his hands the arrangement
of the quarrel between Lord Bellefield and himself than he induced his
friend to write a carefully worded apology for having in the heat of
passion assaulted his lordship on the previous evening. Lewis took the
pen, and without a murmur wrote as Frere dictated, his compressed lips
and knitted brow alone telling of the martyrdom his proud spirit was
undergoing; but his strength of will was as powerful for good as for
evil; he had resolved on the sacrifice, and cost what it might, he
_would_ make it.
“And now, what is your intention?” he inquired, as Frere, having
signified his approbation of its contents, folded the note and deposited
it safely in his pocket-book. “Suppose Bellefield should refuse to
accept this apology?”
“Never fear,” was the confident reply, “he _must_ accept it; and to tell
you the truth, although he may bluster and give himself airs when he
perceives you are not forthcoming, I expect he will only be too glad to
be quit of such an awkward customer. I don’t wish to be personal, but
depend upon it you are by no means pleasant as an enemy; there is ‘a
lurking devil in your eye,’ as Byron says (and he ought to know about
devils, for, adopting the fallen angel hypothesis, he was very like
one himself), that would try a man’s nerve rather when he found himself
standing opposite your loaded pistol at eighteen paces.”
Lewis smiled faintly.
“The devil has been pretty well taken out of me this time,” he said;
“henceforth I shall be essentially a man of peace.”
He paused, pressed his hand to his brow, and a slight shiver passed
through his frame. Frere regarded him anxiously.
“What are you shivering about?” he inquired. “You don’t feel ill, do
you?”
“No, it is nothing,” was the reply. “I have, as you may easily imagine,
gone through a good deal, both mentally and bodily, of late, and I am a
little overworn; but a couple of hours’ sleep will set me right again.”
“Then the sooner you take it the better,” rejoined Frere. “Never mind
me; I shall ensconce myself in this arm-chair till the man of war,
your second, makes his appearance, and sleep or read as the Fates may
incline. What time do you expect your accomplice?”
“He will be here at half-past four,” was the reply.
“And it is now just two; so turn in, and pleasant dreams to you.” Thus
saying, Frere threw himself back in the chair, and drawing a volume of
Dante out of his pocket, set to work to polish up his Italian, as he
termed it. Lewis rose to follow his friend’s advice, but a mist seemed
to swim before his eyes, his brain reeled, his trembling knees refused
to support him, and staggering forward he sank heavily to the ground
in a fainting fit. Frere, much alarmed, raised him in his arms, and
carrying him with some difficulty into the inner room, laid him on his
bed, and began, with more energy than skill, to apply every conceivable
or inconceivable remedy to recover him, but with only partial success,
for although after the lapse of a few moments colour returned to his
lips and pulsation to his heart, he neither spoke nor appeared to
recognise his friend’s voice, and after a few inarticulate murmurs sank
into a dull, heavy sleep. Frere covered him with the bedclothes as well
as he was able, then drawing a chair to the bedside, seated himself
thereupon to watch his slumbers. Half-past four arrived, and with it
Major Ehrenburg, the Austrian officer who had promised to act as Lewis’s
second. Before he came a new idea had entered Frere’s head--it might not
be necessary to make use of the apology at all, Lewis’s sudden illness
would be a sufficient reason for his not meeting his adversary.
“The amusement you have promised yourself in seeing my friend shoot or
be shot you will be disappointed of, _Mein lieber Herr?_” he said with a
quiet smile, as the Austrian stared at him in surprise and twisted his
moustaches fiercely. “Lord Bellefield in his angry moods is no doubt a
very terrible fellow, but Lewis is about to wrestle with a more deadly
foe yet, or I am much mistaken.”
“Excuse me, sir, I have no time for badinage,” returned the other,
bowing with haughty politeness; “_nothing_ can prevent this duel. I must
speak with the Signore Luigi himself immediately. Permit me to pass.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Frere, holding open the door of the bedroom;
“but in regard to nothing being able to prevent the duel, ‘there are
more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your
philosophy.’ You will find my words to be true. See, his adversary has
laid him on his back already.”
The young soldier advanced to the bedside; Lewis still slept, but his
slumbers were disturbed and feverish. As the other bent over him he
turned uneasily and murmured some inarticulate sounds. Laying his hand
on his shoulder, Ehrenburg attempted to rouse him.
“Luigi,” he said, “it is late; they will be on the ground before us.”
The only reply was again an inarticulate murmur; but on his repeating
his summons Lewis sat up and stared about him with a look of dull
unconsciousness, then a wild light came into his eyes, and glaring
furiously at the Austrian, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice--
“Villain, it is false! she loves you not--she never loved you!”
“Do you not know me Luigi?” inquired Ehrenburg in a more soothing tone
of voice.
“Know you, scoundrel, yes! On earth, or in the lowest hell, I should
know and hate you.” He paused, glanced wildly round the room, then
exclaimed in a voice scarcely audible through passion, “What I here in
my own house do you come to triumph over and to insult me? This is too
much.” And with a scream of fury he made a spring at the other’s throat,
which he would have succeeded in grasping, probably to his severe
injury, had not Frere, who had watched him closely during the foregoing
scene, thrown himself upon him, and with the assistance of the young
soldier, who at length began to perceive the true state of the case,
contrived to hold him down, till, exhausted by the violence of his
struggles, he ceased to resist any longer.
“He must have exposed himself to malaria, and the fever has attacked
the brain--is it not so?” inquired Ehrenburg as soon as he had recovered
breath enough to speak.
“So I fear,” was the reply. “Malaria, or macaroni, or some horrid
foreign thing or other, has brought on a violent fever, and, as you see,
he is now about as mad as a March hare (though perhaps a belief in
that popular zoological delusion may not extend to the Austrian
dominions)”--this last remark was made _sotto voce_. “And now, Mein
Herr, the sooner you’re off the better, for Lord Bellefield, unless he
is much belied, is not particularly famous for patience. You’ll explain
to him why Lewis can’t do himself the pleasure of shooting him this
morning; and you may add, with my compliments--Richard Frere’s, at
your service--that it’s better luck than he deserves. By the way,” he
continued, “if you could give one a hint how to come by such an article
as a doctor I should esteem it an additional favour.”
“I will call at the residence of an English physician as soon as I
leave this house,” was the reply; “fortunately, one who is reckoned very
skilful resides within a few doors.”
“That’s right,” returned Frere, “none of your foreign quacks for me.
Doctors are bad enough all the world over, I dare say; but an English
one is a degree better than any of your homoeopathic, mesmeric,
electro-biologic, clairvoyant humbugs--_Al piacer di revedervi_, Signore;
I mean, _Leben sie wohl, mein Herr_. A mustachioed, laced, and padded
young puppy!” he continued, as, with a haughty bow and a puzzled
expression of countenance, the young Austrian quitted the apartment;
“can’t he be content with cutting throats himself without encouraging
his neighbours to go and shoot at one another! I hate a fellow who will
be second in a duel as I hate a professional hangman. I’d half a mind
to let poor Lewis strangle him--a foreigner more or less is no great
matter.”
The physician’s opinion coincided with that of Richard Frere.
Overwrought both in mind and body, Lewis had been attacked by fever
of the most virulent nature, and every resource that the science of
medicine afforded appeared powerless to subdue it. Night and day Richard
Frere sat by the sick man’s bedside, listening with an aching heart to
his fevered ravings. Now, for the first time, did he become aware of the
depth and strength of that passion which, having destroyed its victim’s
peace of mind, seemed about to finish its work of devastation by sapping
the very springs of life itself. In his delirium the idea appeared to
have fixed itself in Lewis’s imagination that the duel had taken place,
and that Lord Bellefield had perished by his hand; and the agonised
self-reproaches which his remorse forced from him were painful to listen
to. Occasionally he would appear to forget even this, and imagining
himself in the presence of her he loved, would breathe forth expressions
of the deepest tenderness, when suddenly the recollection of his
supposed guilt would flash across him, and upbraiding himself in the
bitterest terms, he would exclaim that a bar existed between them, and
declare himself a murderer accursed before God and man. And so the weary
days wore on, and the sufferer grew paler and weaker, while still the
fire which was consuming his young life burned fiercely as at first.
The day following the night of Lord Bellefield’s death was a remarkable
one, for it witnessed the assassination of the unfortunate Marinovitch,
whose courage and strong sense of duty forbade him to desert his post,
even in order to preserve his life; this act of dastardly revenge
heralded the revolt in Venice. The Palazzo Grassini was, as may be
supposed, the scene of much alarm and anxiety. General Grant and
Leicester had been foiled in their attempt to trace the after
proceedings of the party who had kidnapped Lord Bellefield, nor was any
light thrown upon his mysterious disappearance until another night and
day had elapsed, when, in consequence of a high reward offered by the
family to any person who could afford information in regard to the
affair, an individual in the garb of a gondolier sought an interview
with General Grant. This worthy (who was none other than Jacopo,
the bravo whose stiletto had so nearly proved fatal to Lewis) having
bargained for the promised reward and for a free pardon for his
own share in the transaction, confessed that he and certain of his
associates had been engaged by an Englishman named Hardy, with whom he
had been for some months acquainted, to seize and carry off a gentleman,
against whom Hardy, for some reason, appeared to nourish a deep revenge;
that this gentleman had been staying at the Palazzo Grassini; and that
Hardy having pointed him out to him, he (Jacopo) had watched him the
whole evening, and finding he remained abroad so late, had arranged to
waylay him as he returned home, and succeeded in his design, though the
plan was nearly being frustrated by the unexpected absence of Hardy,
who however joined them at the last moment. He then communicated those
details of the enterprise with which the reader is already acquainted,
up to the time when he left Hardy and Lord Bellefield together in the
ruined convent, beyond which he either was, or affected to be, ignorant
in regard to the affair. The clue thus gained was, however, sufficient.
Led by Jacopo to the room in which the duel had taken place, the General
and Leicester soon found their worst fears realised. The body lay
covered with a cloak, on which was pinned a paper, written by Hardy
before the duel, stating his intention of forcing Lord Bellefield to a
mortal combat, adding that when that paper was found either one or
both of them would have gone to their long account; at the bottom was
scrawled in pencil--
“I have kept my word; he brought his fate upon his own head--no one had
any hand in his death but myself; he fell in fair fight, having wounded
me severely, but, as I think, not mortally.--(Signed) Miles Hardy.”
All Leicester’s early affection for his brother was brought back by his
dreadful fate, and he wept over his corpse like a woman. The General
shuddered slightly when his eye first perceived the expression of rage
and hatred stereotyped on the rigid features of the dead man’s face,
then his brow contracted and his mouth grew stern as he turned to issue
directions for the murderer’s apprehension. Whether, being Italians,
the police looked upon manslaughter with a favouring eye, or whether the
disturbed state of the city facilitated his escape, certain it is
that Miles Hardy contrived to evade the search made for him; and after
offering large rewards for his apprehension, and using every other means
in his power to stimulate the exertions of the police, General Grant was
fain to rest satisfied that he had done all which the strictest sense of
duty could command at his hands. Perhaps, as the memory of the scene he
had witnessed by Jane Hardy’s death-bed recurred to him, and he thought
of the cruel provocation her brother had received, even the stern old
soldier might be glad that he had not been called upon to condemn Miles
to an ignominious and painful death.
The feelings both of Laura and Annie, when they became acquainted with
this frightful catastrophe, may easily be imagined. From Laura it was
impossible to conceal it, for, unused to deep emotion of any kind, her
husband’s grief was for the time so overpowering that he completely lost
all self-control, and it was only by the judicious exercise of her good
sense and tenderness that she was enabled to restore him to anything
like composure. Nor had she a much easier task with Annie, for a
superstitious but not unnatural fancy seized her that (her earnest
desire to avoid a union with Lord Bellefield having been thus fearfully
accomplished) she was in some degree morally guilty. But Laura, tender,
kind, judicious Laura, with her man’s head and her woman’s heart (a rare
alliance, constituting human perfection), argued and soothed and coaxed
and reasoned, until Annie’s self-upbraiding horror yielded to her gentle
persuadings, as did of old the demon which tormented Saul to the melody
of David’s harp: and indeed there is on earth no music sweeter than a
loving woman’s voice.
During all this time poor Walter found himself sadly neglected. After
the affair at the Casino, Mr. Spooner, ignorant of Lewis Arundel’s
illness, and fearful that he would keep his word and inform General
Grant of the shameful manner in which he had betrayed his trust, found
some plausible excuse for resigning his situation and returning to
England, at the General’s expense, before any exposure should take
place. So he wrote himself a letter announcing the death of his mother
(at that moment drinking brandy and water in the bar of a hotel in
Birmingham, whereof she was landlady), and leaving three orphan sisters
(invented for the occasion) solely dependent on him for _everything_;
which epistle answered his purpose nicely. After his departure Walter
was left pretty much to his own devices; and one of his chief amusements
was drilling and talking to Faust, for whom all his old fondness had
revived since the interview in which he had made up his quarrel with
Annie. He was therefore especially annoyed and perplexed by a habit
which the dog had lately acquired of absenting himself every day for
several hours. Various were the schemes Walter laid to discover what
became of the animal, but by some fatality they all failed to effect
their object; and the cause of the dog’s absence, as well as the mode
in which he contrived to effect his egress, still remained a mystery. At
length, one evening, as Walter was sitting at a window of the Grassini
palace which looked into a small courtyard or garden enclosed by a high
wall, his attention was attracted by observing something which in the
short glimpse he had of it appeared like an animal’s head pop up above
the wall and disappear again. Watching the spot carefully, Walter soon
witnessed a repetition of the phenomenon; but this time a rough,
hairy body and legs followed the head, and after a slight scramble the
delinquent Faust himself made his appearance at the top of the wall,
which was sufficiently broad to afford him a precarious footing: he then
deliberately, but with great caution, walked along the narrow causeway
thus afforded, until he reached a spot where the limb of an old tree
grew so as nearly to touch the wall; upon this he got, and contrived,
by a mode of progression half-slipping, half-clambering, to arrive at
a point whence he could easily jump to the ground. All these manouvres
Walter carefully noted, and formed his plan accordingly. The boy’s
curiosity--(we continue to use the term boy, for although in age and
appearance poor Walter was now almost a man, in mind he was still
far younger than his years, in spite of those occasional flashes
of intelligence so often to be observed in cases of partial mental
imbecility, which render a just estimate of the individual capacity so
difficult to arrive at)--Walter’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused by
this discovery, and he determined if possible to find out the nature
and object of Faust’s clandestine expeditions. That he had some definite
object Walter never for a moment doubted, for he had so completely made
a friend and companion of the dog, that he had learned to look upon
him much more as a reasonable being than as an animal guided only by an
enlightened instinct.
For the rest of that day, and from an early hour on the following
morning, Walter never lost sight of the dog, though he contrived to
effect his purpose without interfering with its liberty of action. At
length his patience was rewarded by seeing Faust enter the garden
and begin to scramble up the identical tree, by means of which he had
effected his descent on the previous day. Seizing his hat, Walter lost
no time in following him; the tree was easy to climb, and the same
branch which had afforded a passage for Faust enabled Walter to reach
the top of the wall in safety. On the other side the difficulties were
still less, for the ruins of some ancient building lay scattered in all
directions, and a pile of them actually came within a few feet of the
top of the wall, forming a rough but efficient flight of steps. By the
time Walter regained _terra firma_, however, Faust had proceeded some
distance, and had he chosen to run on might still have preserved his
secret inviolate. But when Walter called him, he stopped and waited
till his friend approached, though neither threats nor endearments could
prevail upon him to turn back, or to allow Walter to come near enough to
lay hold of him. And so the pair proceeded, Faust running on for a short
distance, waiting till Walter drew near, and then resuming his course.
The route the dog pursued avoided the more frequented ways, and Walter
began to think Faust was merely taking a stroll for the benefit of
his constitution, when the animal suddenly turned down an archway, and
looking back to see that his friend followed, proceeded along a narrow
alley which led into one of the smaller streets, and stopped at the door
of a house which projected beyond some of the others. The door stood
ajar, and Faust without ceremony pushed it further open and walked in.
Walter paused, debating as well as his mental capacity enabled him to
do, whether or not he should venture to follow. It was a knotty point
to decide. On the one hand his fears urged him to turn back and not
risk facing the possible dangers which might lie hidden within this
mysterious mansion; curiosity, on the other hand, prompted him to
enter and discover at once and for ever the aim and end of Faust’s
incomprehensible visits. Fear was very near gaining the day, when,
in thinking over every motive, probable or improbable, which might
influence the dog, the bright idea flashed across him that perhaps Faust
had discovered his former master, and the hope of again meeting his
“dear Mr. Arundel” outweighing every other consideration, he boldly
opened the door, and encountering Faust, who had returned to look for
him, followed that sagacious quadruped up a flight of stairs.
Now it so happened that the particular morning in question was that of
the fourteenth day from the commencement of Lewis’s illness, and the
physician had pronounced the crisis of the disease to be at hand. He had
seen his patient late on the previous evening, and administered to him
a powerful narcotic, from the effect of which he had not recovered when
Walter and Faust commenced their ramble. Frere, who had sat up with him
all night, had gone out to refresh himself with a short walk, leaving
Lewis under the care of Antonelli, his old attendant. This worthy man
had in his turn been called down to see a friend, who having heard
of the Signore Luigi’s illness, had come to prescribe some outrageous
remedy, in the infallibility whereof his faith was as unshakable as his
ignorance on all medical subjects was profound. Antonelli, whose grief
at his patron’s danger had been overpowering, was easily interested in
his friend’s account of the wonderful specific; and with the garrulity
of age, he remained discussing its merits for a much longer space of
time than he was at all aware of. Thus it came about that Walter, when
he had followed Faust upstairs, and after a second fit of hesitation
entered an apartment through the partially open door of which the dog
had disappeared, found himself in a room, in one corner of which stood
a small iron bedstead whereon lay some person, who from his deep,
regular breathing seemed to be in a sound sleep. Cautiously, and with
noiseless footsteps, the boy approached and gazed upon the sleeper, nor,
for a moment, could he recognise, in the pale, worn face which met
his view, the features of his “dear Mr. Arundel.” But this doubt was
speedily resolved when Lewis moved uneasily in his sleep and muttered
some indistinct words, amongst which Walter caught the name of Annie.
Two clear ideas now presented themselves to the boy’s mind: his friend
was asleep and must not be roused, and from the expression of his
features he must be either ill or unhappy. Having arrived at these
conclusions, he proceeded to act upon them by seating himself at the
bedside, to wait patiently till Lewis should awake, while he devoted all
the powers of his intellect to form some theory by which to account
for the change in his late tutor’s appearance. As he thus sat anxiously
watching, Lewis again turned restlessly, murmuring something, the
meaning of which Walter could not catch, then speaking more distinctly,
he said--
“She leaned upon his arm; she smiled on him; she loves him! I saw it
with my own eyes.”
He said this so plainly, that Walter, fancying he must be awake,
addressed him, and asked if he were ill. Lewis caught the sound of the
words, and replied--
“Ill in mind, Frere, nothing more.”
Walter, still believing him to be awake, continued--
“It is I--Walter; do you not know me?”
For a moment the sleeping man made no reply, then resuming the
conversation which he imagined himself holding with Frere, he exclaimed
eagerly--
“Love one man and engage herself to another! I tell you no! Annie Grant
never loved me!”
At this moment Faust (who had been lying quietly, and as if he were
quite at home, on a rug by the bedside), roused by the sound of his
master’s voice, placed his fore-paws on the bed, and finding himself
unnoticed, endeavoured to attract attention by licking first the sick
man’s hand and then his face. The effect of the opiate had by this time
in a great measure worn off, and roused by Faust’s intrusive affection,
Lewis awoke with a violent start, and attempting to raise himself in a
sitting posture, gazed around him in surprise, then fell back upon his
pillow from weakness. After lying some moments perfectly motionless, he
again unclosed his eyes and asked in a low, faint voice, “Am I dreaming
still, or did I see Walter?”
“No, you are awake now, dear Mr. Arundel; it is I, Walter. Faust found
you out, and brought me to see you.”
As Walter mentioned Faust, Lewis for the first time perceived his old
favourite, and stretched out his hand with the intention of patting him,
but the effort was beyond his strength, and his arm sank powerless by
his side. Faust, however, perceived the attention, and acknowledged it
by again licking his hand. Lewis turned his languid eyes from Walter
to the dog, and a tear stole down his wasted cheek, then his lips grew
compressed, and an expression of anguish overspread his countenance.
With consciousness had also returned bitter memories. In the meanwhile
Walter, delighted at recovering his long-lost friend, grew loquacious in
the fulness of his joy, and ran on in his usual disconnected manner.
“So you haven’t forgotten Faust, then, Mr. Arundel? He has never
forgotten you either, poor fellow! all the time you have been away; but
I have taken great care of him, you see; he’s nice and fat, isn’t he?
We’ve been very good friends too, only we used to quarrel sometimes when
he would follow Annie, and I did not like it because--because----”
Here he paused, having a kind of confused recollection that this was a
subject on which he wanted to say something particular. After waiting
for a minute or two his ideas grew in a degree clearer, and he
continued--
“You know I took a dislike to poor Annie, because I thought she made you
go away. I always thought so until she told me it was not the case, and
how fond she was of you.”
When Walter first mentioned Annie’s name Lewis started and made a
gesture to induce him to be silent, but the boy did not understand his
wishes, and his auditor soon became too much absorbed in the interest of
his disclosures to seek again to interrupt him.
“You were talking about Annie just now, you know, before you were quite
awake,” resumed Walter, “and you said she did not love you. I remember I
thought so too once, and that that was the reason why you went away, and
so I took a dislike to her, and would not let Faust follow her, only he
would. But we were both quite wrong, for Annie is just as fond of you
as Faust and I are, and now I’ll tell you how I came to find it out.”
He then in his rambling way gave a childish but perfectly intelligible
account of his conversation with Annie Grant, with which the reader is
already acquainted. Just as he had finished his recital, Richard Frere
returned from his walk in time to overhear the last few words of the
history, and to discover that Lewis had fainted from intense emotion.