With Illustrations By “Phiz”

The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd.

London And Newcastle-On-Tyne.

1852

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.—IN WHICH THE TRAIN STARTS, AND THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO THREE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGERS.

CHAPTER II.—SHOWING HOW LEWIS LOSES HIS TEMPER, AND LEAVES HIS HOME.

CHAPTER III.—IN WHICH RICHARD FRERE MENDS THE BACK OF ST. THOMAS AQUINAS, AND THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO CHARLEY LEICESTER.

CHAPTER IV.—LEWIS ENLISTS UNDER A “CONQUERING HERO,” AND STARTS ON A DANGEROUS EXPEDITION.

CHAPTER V.—IS OF A DECIDEDLY WARLIKE CHARACTER.

CHAPTER VI.—IN WHICH LEWIS ARUNDEL SKETCHES A COW, AND THE AUTHOR DRAWS A YOUNG LADY.

CHAPTER VII.—WHEREIN THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO MISS LIVINGSTONE, AND INFORMED WHO IS THE GREATEST MAN OF THE AGE.

CHAPTER VIII.—LEWIS RECEIVES A LECTURE AND A COLD BATH.

CHAPTER IX.—WHEREIN RICHARD FRERE AND LEWIS TURN MAHOMETANS.

CHAPTER X.—CONTAINS A PRACTICAL COMMENTARY ON THE PROVERB, “ALL IS NOT GOLD WHICH GLITTERS.”

CHAPTER XI.—TOM BRACY MEETS HIS MATCH.

CHAPTER XII.—LEWIS FORFEITS THE RESPECT OF ALL POOR-LAW GUARDIANS.

CHAPTER XIII.—IS CHIEFLY HORTICULTURAL, SHOWING THE EFFECTS PRODUCED BY TRAINING UPON A SWEET AND DELICATE ROSE.

CHAPTER XIV.—PRESENTS TOM BRACY IN A NEW AND INTERESTING ASPECT.

CHAPTER XV.—CONTAINS A DISQUISITION ON MODERN POETRY, AND AFFORDS THE READER A PEEP BEHIND THE EDITORIAL CURTAIN.

CHAPTER XVI.—MISS LIVINGSTONE SPEAKS A BIT OF HER MIND.

CHAPTER XVII.—CONTAINS MUCH FOLLY AND A LITTLE COMMON SENSE.

CHAPTER XVIII.—LEWIS RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION, AND IS RUN AWAY WITH BY TWO YOUTHFUL BEAUTIES.

CHAPTER XIX.—CHARLEY LEICESTER BEWAILS HIS CRUEL MISFORTUNE.

CHAPTER XX.—SOME OF THE CHARACTERS FALL OUT AND OTHERS FALL IN.

CHAPTER XXI.—FAUST GETS ON SWIMMINGLY, AND THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A DIVING BELLE “WRINGING” WET.

CHAPTER XXII.—THE TRAIN ARRIVES AT AN IMPORTANT STATION.

CHAPTER XXIII.—DE GRANDEVILLE THREATENS A CONFIDENCE AND ELICITS CHARLEY LEICESTER’S IDEAS ON MATRIMONY.

CHAPTER XXIV.—RELATES HOW CHARLEY LEICESTER WAS FIRST “SPRIGHTED BY A FOOL,” THEN BESET BY AN AMAZON.

CHAPTER XXV.—CONTAINS A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT, AND SHOWS HOW THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH.

CHAPTER XXVI.—SUNSHINE AFTER SHOWERS.

CHAPTER XXVII.—BROTHERLY LOVE “À LA MODE.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.—BEGINS ABRUPTLY AND ENDS UNCOMFORTABLY.

CHAPTER XXIX.—DE GRANDEVILLE MEETS HIS MATCH.

CHAPTER XXX.—THE GENERAL TAKES THE FIELD.

CHAPTER XXXI.—IS CHIEFLY CULINARY, CONTAINING RECIPES FOR A “GOOD PRESERVE” AND A “PRETTY PICKLE.”

CHAPTER XXXII—LEWIS MAKES A DISCOVERY AND GETS INTO A “STATE OF MIND.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.—CONTAINS SUNDRY DEFINITIONS OF WOMAN “AS SHE SHOULD BE,” AND DISCLOSES MRS. ARUNDEL’S OPINION OF RICHARD FRERE.

CHAPTER XXXIV.—ROSE AND FRERE GO TO VISIT MR. NONPAREIL THE PUBLISHER.

CHAPTER XXXV.—HOW RICHARD FRERE OBTAINED A SPECIMEN OF THE “PODICEPS CORNUTUS.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.—RECOUNTS “YE PLEASAUNTE PASTYMES AND CUNNYNGE DEVYCES” OF ONE THOMAS BRACY.

CHAPTER XXXVII.—WHEREIN IS FAITHFULLY DEPICTED THE CONSTANCY OF THE TURTLE-DOVE.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.—DESCRIBES THE HUMOURS OF A LONDON DINNER-PARTY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

CHAPTER XXXIX.—IS IN TWO FYTTES—VIZ., FYTTE THE FIRST, A SULKY FIT—FYTTE THE SECOND, A FIT OF HYSTERICS.

CHAPTER XL.—SHOWS, AMONGST OTHER MATTERS, HOW RICHARD FRERE PASSED A RESTLESS NIGHT.

CHAPTER XLI.—ANNIE GRANT FALLS INTO DIFFICULTIES.

CHAPTER XLII.—A TÊTE-À-TÊTE, AND A TRAGEDY.

CHAPTER XLIII.—WHEREIN FAUST “SETS UP” FOR A GENTLEMAN, AND TAKES A COURSE OF SERIOUS READING.

CHAPTER XLIV.—LEWIS PRACTICALLY TESTS THE ASSERTION THAT VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD, AND OBTAINS AN UNSATISFACTORY RESULT.

CHAPTER XLV.—ANNIE GRANT TAKES TO STUDYING GERMAN, AND MEETS WITH AN ALARMING ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER XLVI.—IS CALCULATED TO “MURDER SLEEP” FOR ALL NERVOUS YOUNG LADIES WHO READ IT.

CHAPTER XLVII.—CONTAINS A “MIDNIGHT STRUGGLE,” GARNISHED WITH A DUE AMOUNT OF BLOODSHED, AND OTHER NECESSARY HORRORS.

CHAPTER XLVIII.—WHEREIN THE READER DIVERGES INTO A NEW BRANCH OF “THE RAILROAD OF LIFE” IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.

CHAPTER XLIX.—CONTAINS A PARADOX—LEWIS, WHEN LEAST RESIGNED, DISPLAYS THE VIRTUE OF RESIGNATION.

CHAPTER L.—SHOWS HOW LEWIS CAME TO A “DOGGED” DETERMINATION, AND WAS MADE THE SHUTTLECOCK OF FATE.

CHAPTER LI.—CONTAINS MUCH SORROW, AND PREPARES THE WAY FOR MORE.

CHAPTER LII.—VINDICATES THE APHORISM THAT “’TIS AN ILL WIND WHICH BLOWS NO ONE ANY GOOD.”

CHAPTER LIII.—DEPICTS THE MARRIED LIFE OF CHARLEY LEICESTER.

CHAPTER LIV.—TREATS OF A METAMORPHOSIS NOT DESCRIBED BY OVID.

CHAPTER LV.—IS DECIDEDLY ORIGINAL, AS IT DISPLAYS MATRIMONY IN A MORE FAVOURABLE LIGHT THAN COURTSHIP.

CHAPTER LVI.—LEWIS ATTENDS AN EVENING PARTY, AND NARROWLY ESCAPES BEING “CUT” BY AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER LVII.—WALTER SEES A GHOST.

CHAPTER LVIII.—CONTAINS MUCH PLOTTING AND COUNTERPLOTTING.

CHAPTER LIX.—DESCRIBES THAT INDESCRIBABLE SCENE, “THE DERBY DAY.”

CHAPTER LX.—CONTAINS SOME “NOVEL” REMARKS UPON THE ROMANTIC CEREMONY OF MATRIMONY.

CHAPTER LXI.—“WE MET, ’TWAS IN A CROWD!”

CHAPTER LXII.—“POINTS A MORAL,” AND SO IT IS TO BE HOPED “ADORNS A TALE.”

CHAPTER LXIII.—SHOWS HOW IT FARED WITH THE LAMB WHICH THE WOLF HAD WORRIED.

CHAPTER LXIV.—THE FATE OF THE WOLF!

CHAPTER LXV.—FAUST PAYS A MORNING VISIT.

CHAPTER LXVI.—URSA MAJOR SHOWS HIS TEETH.

CHAPTER LXVII.—RELATES HOW, THE ECLIPSE BEING OVER, THE SUN BEGAN TO SHINE AGAIN.

CHAPTER LXVIII.—LEWIS OUT-GENERALS THE GENERAL, AND THE TRAIN STOPS.

CHAPTER I.

“Surely he ought to be here by this time, Rose; it must be past nine o’clock!”

“Scarcely so much, mamma; indeed, it wants a quarter of nine yet. The coach does not arrive till half-past eight, and he has quite four miles to walk afterwards.”

“Oh! this waiting, it destroys me,” rejoined the first speaker, rising from her seat and pacing the room with agitated steps. “How you can contrive to sit there, drawing so quietly, I do not comprehend!”

“Does it annoy you, dear mamma? Why did you not tell me so before?” returned Rose gently, putting away her drawing-apparatus as she spoke. No one would have called Rose Arundel handsome, or even pretty, and yet her face had a charm about it—a charm that lurked in the depths of her dreamy grey eyes, and played about the corners of her mouth when she smiled, and sat like a glory upon her high, smooth forehead. Both she and her mother were clad in the deepest mourning, and the traces of some recent heartfelt sorrow might be discerned in either face. A stranger would have taken them for sisters, rather than for mother and daughter; for there were lines of thought on Rose’s brow which her twenty years scarcely warranted, while Mrs. Arundel, at eight-and-thirty, looked full six years younger, despite her widow’s cap.

“I have been thinking, Rose,” resumed the elder lady, after a short pause, during which she continued pacing the room most assiduously, “I have been thinking that if we were to settle near some large town, I could give lessons in music and singing: my voice is as good as ever it was—listen;” and, seating herself at a small cottage piano, she began to execute some difficult solfeggi in a rich, clear soprano, with a degree of ease and grace which proved her to be a finished singer; and, apparently carried away by the feeling the music had excited, she allowed her voice to flow, as it were unconsciously, into the words of an Italian song, which she continued for some moments, without noticing a look of pain which shot across her daughter’s pale features. At length, suddenly breaking off, she exclaimed in a voice broken with emotion, “Ah! what am I singing?” and, burying her face in her handkerchief, she burst into a flood of tears: it had been her husband’s favourite song.

Recovering herself more quickly than from the violence of her grief might have been expected, she was about to resume her walk, when, observing for the first time the expression of her daughter’s face, she sprang towards her, and placing her arm caressingly round her waist, kissed her tenderly, exclaiming in a tone of the fondest affection, “Rose, my own darling, I have distressed you by my heedlessness, but I forget everything now!” She paused; then added, in a calmer tone, “Really, love, I have been thinking seriously of what I said just now about teaching. If I could but get a sufficient number of pupils, it would be much better than allowing you to go out as governess, for we could live together then; and I know I shall never be able to part with you. Besides, you would be miserable, managing naughty children all day long—throwing away your talents on a set of stupid little wretches,—such drudgery would ennui you to death.”

“And do you think, mamma, that I could be content to live in idleness and allow you to work for my support?” replied Rose, while a faint smile played over her expressive features. “Oh, no! Lewis will try to obtain some appointment: you shall live with him and keep his house, while I go out as governess for a few years; and we must save all we can, until we are rich enough to live together again.”

“And perhaps some day we may be able to come back and take the dear old cottage, if Lewis is very lucky and should make a fortune,” returned Mrs. Arundel. “How shall we be able to bear to leave it!” she added, glancing round the room regretfully.

“How, indeed!” replied Rose, with a sigh; “but it must be done. Lewis will not feel it as we shall—he has been away so long.”

“It seems an age,” resumed Mrs. Arundel, musing. “How old was he when he left Westminster?”

“Sixteen, was he not?” replied Rose.

“And he has been at Bonn three years. Why, Rose, he must be a man by this time!”

“Mr. Frere wrote us word he was the taller of the two by half a head last year, if you recollect,” returned Rose.

“Hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Arundel, starting up and going to the window, which opened in the French fashion upon a small flower-garden. As she spoke, the gate-bell rang smartly, and in another moment the person outside, having apparently caught sight of the figure at the window, sprang lightly over the paling, crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds, and ere the slave of the bell had answered its impatient summons, Lewis was in his mother’s arms.

After the first greeting, in which smiles and tears had mingled in strange fellowship, Mrs. Arundel drew her son towards a table, on which a lamp was burning, saying as she did so, “Why, Rose, can this be our little Lewis? He is as tall as a grenadier! Heads up, sir!—Attention!—You are going to be inspected. Do you remember when the old sergeant used to drill us all, and wanted to teach Rose to fence?”

Smiling at his mother’s caprice, Lewis Arundel drew himself up to his full height, and, placing his back against the wall, stood in the attitude of a soldier on parade—his head just touching the frame of a picture which hung above him. The light of the lamp shone full upon the spot where he had stationed himself, displaying a face and figure on which a mother’s eye might well rest with pride and admiration. Considerably above the middle height, his figure was slender, but singularly graceful; his head small and intellectual looking. The features, exquisitely formed, were, if anything, too delicately cut and regular; which, together with a brilliant complexion and long silken eyelashes, tended to impart an almost feminine character to his beauty. The expression of his face, however, effectually counteracted any such tendency; no one could observe the flashing of the dark eyes, the sarcastic curl of the short upper lip, the curved nostril slightly drawn back, the stern resolution of the knitted brow, without tracing signs of pride unbroken, stormy feelings and passions unsubdued,

and an iron will, which, according as it might be directed, must prove all-powerful for good or evil. His hair, which he wore somewhat long, was, like his mother’s, of that jet black colour characteristic of the inhabitants of a southern clime rather than of the descendants of the fair-haired Saxons, while a soft down of the same dark hue as his clustering curls fringed the sides of his face, affording promise of a goodly crop of whiskers. Despite the differences of feature and expression,—and they were great,—there was a decided resemblance between the brother and sister, and the same indescribable charm, which made it next to impossible to watch Rose Arundel without loving her, shed its sunshine also over Lewis’s face when he smiled.

After surveying her son attentively, with eyes which sparkled with surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Arundel exclaimed, “Why, how the boy is altered! Is he not improved, Rose?” As she spoke, she involuntarily glanced from Lewis to the picture under which he stood. It was a half-length portrait of a young man, in what appeared to be some foreign uniform, the hand resting on the hilt of a cavalry sabre. The features, though scarcely so handsome, were strikingly like those of Lewis Arundel, the greatest difference being in the expression, which was more joyous, and that the hair in the portrait was of a rich brown instead of black. After comparing the two for a moment, Mrs Arundel attempted to speak, but her voice failing from emotion, she burst into tears, and hastily left the room.

“Why, Rose, what is it?” exclaimed Lewis in surprise; “is my mother ill?”

“No; it is your likeness to that picture, Lewis love, that has overcome her: you know it is a portrait of our dearest father” (her voice faltered as she pronounced his name), “taken just after they were married, I believe.”

Lewis regarded the picture attentively, then averting his head as if he could not bear that even Rose should witness his grief, he threw himself on a sofa and concealed his face with his hands. Recovering himself almost immediately, he drew his sister gently towards him, and placing her beside him, asked, as he stroked her glossy hair—

“Rose, dearest, how is it that I was not informed of our poor father’s illness? Surely a letter must have miscarried!”

“Did not mamma explain to you, then, how sudden it was?”

“Not a word: she only wrote a few hurried lines, leading me to prepare for a great shock; then told me that my father was dead; and entreating me to return immediately, broke off abruptly, saying she could write no more.”

“Poor mamma! she was quite overcome by her grief, and yet she was so excited and so anxious to save me, she would do everything herself. I wished her to let me write to you, but she objected, and I was afraid of annoying her.”

“It was most unfortunate,” returned Lewis; “in her hurry she misdirected the letter; and, as I told you when I wrote, I was from home at the time, and did not receive it till three weeks after it should have reached me. I was at a rifle-match got up by some of the students, and had just gained the prize, a pair of silver-mounted pistols, when her letter was put into my hand. Fancy receiving such news in a scene of gaiety!”

“How exquisitely painful! My poor brother!” said Rose, while the tears she could no longer repress dimmed her bright eyes. After a moment she continued, “But I was going to tell you,—it was more than a month ago,—poor papa had walked over to Warlington to negotiate about selling one of his paintings. Did you know that he had lately made his talent for painting serve as a means of adding to our income?”

“Richard Frere told me of it last year,” replied Lewis.

“Oh yes, Mr. Frere was kind enough to get introductions to several picture-dealers, and was of the greatest use,” continued Rose. “Well, when papa came in, he looked tired and harassed; and in answer to my questions, he said he had received intelligence which had excited him a good deal, and added something about being called upon to take a very important step. I left him to fetch a glass of wine, and when I returned, to my horror, his head was leaning forward on his breast, and he was both speechless and insensible. We instantly sent for the nearest medical man, but it was of no use; he pronounced it to be congestion of the brain, and gave us no hope: his opinion was but too correct; my dear father never spoke again, and in less than six hours all was over.”

“How dreadful!” murmured Lewis. “My poor Rose, how shocked you must have been!” After a few minutes’ silence he continued, “And what was this news which produced such an effect upon my father?”

“Strange to say,” replied Rose, “we have not the slightest notion. No letter or other paper has been found which could at all account for it, nor can we learn that papa met any one at Warlington likely to have brought him news. The only clue we have been able to gain is that Mr. Bowing, who keeps the library there, remarked that papa came in as usual to look at the daily papers, and as he was reading, suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise and put his hand to his brow. Mr. Bowing was about to inquire whether anything was the matter, when he was called away to attend to a customer; and when he was again at liberty papa had left the shop. Mr. Bowing sent us the paper afterwards, but neither mamma nor I could discover in it anything we could imagine at all likely to have affected papa so strongly.”

“How singular!” returned Lewis, musing. “What could it possibly have been? You say my father’s papers have been examined?”

“Yes, mamma wrote to Mr. Coke, papa’s man of business in London, and he came down directly, but nothing appeared to throw any light on the matter. Papa had not even made a will.” She paused to dry the tears which had flowed copiously during this narration, then continued: “But oh! Lewis, do you know we are so very, very poor?”

“I suspected as much, dear Rose; I knew my father’s was a life income. But why speak in such a melancholy tone? Surely my sister has not grown mercenary?”

“Scarcely that, I hope,” returned Rose, smiling; “but there is some difference between being mercenary and regretting that we are so poor that we shall be unable to live together: is there not, Lewis dear?”

“Unable to live together?” repeated Lewis slowly. “Yes, well, I may of course be obliged to leave you, but I shall not accept any employment which will necessitate my quitting England, so I shall often come and take a peep at you.”

“Oh! but, Lewis love, it is worse than that—we shall not be able to—— Hush! here comes mamma; we will talk about this another time.”

“Why, Lewis,” exclaimed Mrs. Arundel, entering the room with a light elastic step, without a trace of her late emotion visible on her animated countenance, “what is this? Here’s Rachel complaining that you have brought a wild beast with you, which has eaten up all the tea-cakes.”

“Let alone fright’ning the blessed cat so that she’s flowed up the chimley like a whirlpool, and me a’most in fits all the time, the brute! But I’ll not sleep in the house with it, to be devoured like a cannibal in my quiet bed, if there was not another sitivation in Sussex!” And here Rachel, a stout serving-woman, with a face which, sufficiently red by nature, had become the deepest crimson from fear and anger, burst into a flood of tears, which, mingling with a tolerably thick deposit of soot, acquired during the hurried rise and progress of the outraged cat, imparted to her the appearance of some piebald variety of female Ethiopian Serenader.