THERE was an unusual depression at the villa each had his or her own load of anxiety, and each felt that an atmosphere of gloom was thickening around, and, without being able to say why or wherefore, that dark days were coming.
“Among your letters this morning was there none from the vicar, Mr. Calvert?” asked Miss Grainger, as he sat smoking his morning cigar under the porch of the cottage.
“No,” said he, carelessly. “The post brought me nothing of any interest A few reproaches from my friends about not writing, and relieving their anxieties about this unhappy business. They had it that I was killed—beyond that, nothing.”
“But we ought to have heard from old Mr. Loyd before this. Strange, too, Joseph has not written.”
“Stranger if he had! The very mention of my name as a referee in his affairs will make him very cautious with his pen.”
“She is so fretted,” sighed the old lady.
“I see she is, and I see she suspects, also, that you have taken me in your counsels. We are not as good friends as we were some time back.”
“She really likes you, though—I assure you she does, Mr. Calvert. It was but t’other day she said, ‘What would have become of us all this time back if Mad Harry—you know your nickname—if Mad Harry had not been here?’”
“That’s not liking! That is merely the expression of a weak gratitude towards the person who helps to tide over a dreary interval. You might feel it for the old priest who played piquet with you, or the Spitz terrier that accompanied you in your walks.
“Oh, it’s far more than that. She is constantly talking of your great abilities—how you might be this, that and t’other. That, with scarcely an effort, you can master any subject, and without any effort at all always make yourself more agreeable than anyone else.”
“Joseph excepted?”
“No, she didn’t even except him; on the contrary, she said, ‘It was unfortunate for him to be exposed to such a dazzling rivalry—that your animal spirits alone would always beat him out of the field.’”
“Stuff and nonsense! If I wasn’t as much his superior in talent as in temperament, I’d fling myself over that rock yonder, and make an end of it!” After a few seconds’ pause he went on: “She may think what she likes ofme, but one thing is plain enough—she does not lovehim. It is the sort of compassionating, commiserating estimate imaginative girls occasionally get up for dreary depressed fellows, constituting themselves discoverers of intellect that no one ever suspected—revealers of wealth that none had ever dreamed of. Don’t I know scores of such who have poetised the most commonplace of men into heroes, and never found out their mistake till they married them!”
“You always terrify me when you take to predicting, Mr. Calvert”
“Heaven knows, it’s not my ordinary mood. One who looks so little into the future for himself has few temptations to do so for his friends.”
“Why do you feel so depressed?”
“I’m not sure that I do feel depressed. I’m irritable, out of sorts, annoyed if you will; but not low or melancholy. Is it not enough to make one angry to see such a girl as Florry bestow her affections on that—Well, I’ll not abuse him, but youknowhe is a ‘cad’—that’s exactly the word that fits him.”
“It was no choice of mine,” she sighed.
“That may be; but you ought to have been more than passive in the matter. Your fears would have prevented you letting your niece stop for a night in an unhealthy locality. You’d not have suffered her to halt in the Pontine Marshes; but you can see no danger in linking her whole future life to influences five thousand times more depressing. I tell you, and I tell you deliberately, that she’d have a far better chance of happiness with a scamp like myself.”
“Ah, I need not tell you my own sentiments on that point,” said she, with a deep sigh.
Calvert apparently set little store by such sympathy, for he rose, and throwing away the end of his cigar, stood looking out over the lake. “Here comes Onofrio, flourishing some letters in his hand. The idiot fancies the post never brings any but pleasant tidings.”
“Let us go down and meet him,” said Miss Grainger; and he walked along at her side in silence.
“Three for the Signor Capitano,” said the boatman, “and one for the signorina,” handing the letters as he landed.
“Drayton,” muttered Calvert; “the others are strange to me.”
“This is from Joseph. How glad poor Florry will be to get it.”
“Don’t defer her happiness, then,” said he, half-sternly; “I’ll sit down on the rocks here and con over my less pleasant correspondence.” One was from his lawyer, to state that outlawry could no longer be resisted, and that if his friends would not come forward at once with some satisfactory promise of arrangement, the law must take its course. “My friends,” said he, with a bitter laugh, “which be they?” The next he opened was from the army agents, dryly setting forth that as he had left the service it was necessary he should take some immediate steps to liquidate some regimental claims against him, of which they begged to enclose the particulars. He laughed bitterly and scornfully as he tore the letter to fragments and threw the pieces into the water. “How well they know the man they threaten!” cried he defiantly. “I’d like to know how much a drowning man cares for his duns?” He laughed again. “Now for Drayton. I hope this will be pleasanter than its predecessors.” It was not very long, and it was as follows:
“The Rag, Tuesday.
“Dear Harry,—Your grateful compliments on the dexterity ofmy correspondence in the Meteor arrived at an unluckymoment, for some fellow had just written to the editor areal statement of the whole affair, and the next day came aprotest, part French, part English, signed by EdwardRochefort, Lieutenant-Colonel; Gustavus Brooke, D.L.;George Law, M.D.; Albericde Raymond, Vicomte, and Jules deLassagnac. They sent for me to the office to see thedocument, and I threw all imaginable discredit on itsauthenticity, but without success. The upshot is,Ihavelost my place as ‘own correspondent,’ and you are in a verybad way. The whole will appear in print to-morrow, and beread from Hudson’s Bay to the alaya. I have done my best toget the other papers to disparage the statement, and havewritten all the usual bosh about condemning a man in hisabsence, and entreating the public to withhold its judgment,&c. &c; but they all seem to feel that the tide of popularsentiment is too strong to resist, and you must bepilloried; prepare yourself, then, for a pitiless pelting,which, as parliament is not sitting, will probably have arun of three or four weeks.“In any other sort of scrape, the fellows at the club herewould have stood by you, but they shrink from the danger ofthis business, which I now see was worse than you told me.Many, too, are more angry with you for deserting B. than forshooting the other fellow; and though B. was an arrant snob,now that he is no more you wouldn’t believe what shoals ofgood qualities they have discovered he possessed, and he is‘poor Bob’ in the mouth of twenty fellows who would not havebeen seen in his company a month ago. There is, however,worse than all this: a certain Reppingham, or Reppengham,the father of B.‘s wife, has either already instituted, oris about to institute, proceedings against you criminally.He uses ugly words, calls it a murder, and has demanded awarrant for your extradition and arrest at once. There is astory of some note you are said to have written to B., butwhich arrived when he was insensible, and was read by thepeople about him, who were shocked by its heartless levity.What is the truth as to this? At all events, Rep has got avendetta fit on him, and raves like a Corsican forvengeance. Your present place of concealment, safe enoughfor duns, will offer no security against detectives. Thebland blackguards with black whiskers know the geography ofEurope as well as they know the blind alleys aboutHoundsditch. You must decamp, therefore; get across theAdriatic into Dalmatia, or into Greece. Don’t delay,whatever you do, for I see plainly, that in the presentstate of public opinion, the fellow who captures you willcome back here with a fame like that of Gérard the lion-killer. Be sure of one thing, if you were just as cleanhanded in this business as I know you are not, there is notime now for a vindication. Youmustget out of the way,and wait. The clubs, the press, the swells at the HorseGuards, and the snobs at the War-office, are all againstyou, and there’s no squaring your book against such longodds. I am well aware that no one gets either into or out ofa scrape more easily than yourself; but don’t treat this asa light one: don’t fancy, above all, that I am giving youthe darkest side of it, for, with all our frankness and freespeech together, I couldn’t tell you the language peoplehold here about it There’s not a man you ever bullied atmess, or beat at billiards, that is not paying off hisscores to you now! And though you may take all this easily,don’t undervalue its importance.“I haven’t got—and I don’t suppose you care much now toget—any information about Loyd, beyond his being appointedsomething, Attorney-General’s ‘devil,’ I believe, atCalcutta. I’d not have heard even so much, but he was tryingto get a loan, to make out his outfit, from Joel, and oldIsaac told me who he was, and what he wanted. Joel thinks,from the state of the fellow’s health, that no one will liketo advance the cash, and if so, he’ll be obliged torelinquish the place. You have not told me whether you wishthis, or the opposite.“I wish I could book up to you at such a moment as this, butI haven’t got it I send you all that I can scrapetogether, seventy odd; it is a post bill, and easily cashedanywhere. In case I hear of anything that may beimminently needed for your guidance, I’ll telegraph to youthe morrow after your receipt of this, addressing themessage to the name Grainger, to prevent accidents. You musttry and keep your friends from seeing the London papers solong as you stay with them. I suppose, when you leave,you’ll not fret about the reputation that follows you. Forthe last time, let me warn you to get away to some place ofsafety, for if they can push matters to an arrest, thingsmay take an ugly turn.“They are getting really frightened here about India at lastHarris has brought some awful news home with him, and they’dgive their right hands to have those regiments they sent offto China to despatch now to Calcutta. I know this will beall ‘nuts’ to you, and it is the only bit of pleasanttidings I have for you. Your old prediction about Englandbeing a third-rate power, like Holland, may not be so farfrom fulfilment as I used to think it I wonder shall we everhave a fireside gossip over all these things again? Atpresent, all looks too dark to get a peep into the future.Write to me at once, say what you mean to do, and believe meas ever, yours,“A. Drayton.“I have just heard that the lawyers are in doubt as to thelegality of extradition, and Braddon declares dead againstit. In the case they relied on, the man had come to Englandafter being tried in France, thinking himself safe, as‘autrefois acquit;’ but they found him guilty at the OldBailey, and——him. There’s delicacy for you, afteryour own heart”
Calvert smiled grimly at his friend’s pleasantry. “Here is enough trouble for any man to deal with. Duns, outlawry, and a criminal prosecution!” said he, as he replaced his letter in its envelope, and lighted his cigar. He had not been many minutes in the enjoyment of his weed, when he saw Miss Grainger coming hastily towards him. “I wish that old woman would let me alone, just now!” muttered he. “I have need of all my brains for my own misfortunes.”
“It has turned out just as I predicted, Mr. Calvert,” said she, pettishly. “Young Loyd is furious at having his pretensions referred to you, and will not hear of it. His letter to Florence is all but reproachful, and she has gone home with her eyes full of tears. This note for you came as an enclosure.”
Calvert took the note from her hands, and laying it beside him on the rock, smoked on without speaking.
“I knew everything that would happen!” said Miss Grainger. “The old man gave the letter you wrote to his son, who immediately sat down and wrote to Florry. I have not seen the letter myself, but Milly declares that it goes so far as to say, that if Florry admits of any advice or interference on your part, it is tantamount to a desire to break off the engagement. He declares, however, that he neither can nor will believe such a thing to be possible. That he knows she is ignorant of the whole intrigue. Milly assures me that was the word, intrigue; and she read it twice over to be certain. He also says something, which I do not quite understand, about my being led beyond the bounds of judgment by what he calls a traditional reverence for the name you bear—but one thing is plain enough, he utterly rejects the reference to you, or, indeed, to anyone now but Florence herself, and says, ‘This is certainly a case for your own decision, and I will accept of none other than yours.’”
“Is there anything more about me than you have said?” asked Calvert, calmly.
“No, I believe not He begs, in the postscript, that the enclosed note may be given to you, that’s all.”
Calvert took a long breath; he felt as if a weight had been removed from his heart, and he smoked on in silence.
“Won’t you read it?” cried she, eagerly. “I am burning to hear what he says.”
“I can tell you just as well without breaking the seal,” said he, with a half scornful smile. “I know the very tone and style of it, and I recognise the pluck with which such a man, when a thousand miles off, dares to address one like myself.”
“Read it, though; let me hear his own words!” cried she.
“I’m not impatient for it,” said he; “I have had a sufficient dose of bitters this morning, and I’d just as soon spare myself the acrid petulance of this poor creature.”
“You are very provoking, I must say,” said she, angrily, and turned away towards the house. Calvert watched her till she disappeared behind a copse, and then hastily broke open the letter.
“Middle Temple, Saturday.“Sir—My father has forwarded to me a letter which, withvery questionable good taste, you addressed to him. The veryrelations which subsisted between us when we parted, mighthave suggested a more delicate course on your part. Whateverobjections I might then, however, have made to yourinterference in matters personal to myself, have now becomesomething more than mere objections, and I flatly declarethat I will not listen to one word from a man whose name isnow a shame and a disgrace throughout Europe. That youmay quit the roof which has sheltered you hitherto withoutthe misery of exposure, I have forborne in my letter tonarrate the story which is on every tongue here; but, asthe price of this forbearance, I desire and I exact that youleave the villa on the day you receive this, and cease fromthat day forth to hold any intercourse with the family whoreside in it. If I do not, therefore, receive a despatch bytelegraph, informing me that you accede to these conditions,I will forward by the next post the full details which thepress of England is now giving of your infamous conduct andof the legal steps which are to be instituted against you.“Remember distinctly, Sir, that I am only in this pledgingmyself for that short interval of time which will suffer youto leave the house of those who offered you a refuge againstcalamity—not crime—and whose shame would be overwhelmingif they but knew the character of him they sheltered. Youare to leave before night-fall of the day this reaches, andnever to return. You are to abstain from all correspondence.I make no conditions as to future acquaintanceship, becauseI know that were I even so minded, no efforts of mine couldsave you from that notoriety which a few days more willattach to you, never to leave you.“I am, your obedient servant,“Joseph Loyd.”
Calvert tried to laugh as he finished the reading of this note, but the attempt was a failure, and a sickly pallor spread over his face, and his lips trembled. “Let me only meet you, I don’t care in what presence, or in what place,” muttered he, “and you shall pay dearly for this. But now to think of myself. This is just the sort of fellow to put his threat into execution, the more since he will naturally be anxious to get me away from this. What is to be done? With one week more I could almost answer for my success. Ay, Mademoiselle Florry, you were deeper in the toils than you suspected. The dread of me that once inspired a painful feeling had grown into a sort of self-pride that elevated her in her own esteem, She was so proud of her familiarity with a wild animal, and so vain of her influence over him! So pleasant to say, ‘See, savage as he is, he’ll not turn uponme!’ And now to rise from the table, when the game is all but won! Confound the fellow, how he has wrecked my fortunes! As if I had not enough, too, on my hands without this!” And he walked impatiently to and fro, like a caged animal in fretfulness. “I wanted to think over Drayton’s letter calmly and deliberately, and here comes this order, this command, to be up and away—away from the only spot in which I can say I enjoyed an hour’s peace for years and years, and from the two or three left to me, of all the world, who think it no shame to bestow on me a word or a look of kindness. The fellow is peremptory—he declares I must leave to-day.” For some time he continued to walk, muttering to himself, or moodily silent At last he cried out, “Yes; I have it! I’ll go up to Milan, and cash this bill of Drayton’s. When there I’ll telegraph to Loyd, which will show I have left the villa. That done, I’ll return here, if it be but for a day; and who knows what a day will bring forth?”
“Who has commands for Milan?” said he, gaily entering the drawing-room, where Miss Grainger sat, holding a half-whispering conversation with Emily.
“Milan! are you going to Milan?”
“Yes; only for a day. A friend has charged me with a commission that does not admit of delay, and I mean to run up this afternoon and be down by dinnertime to-morrow.”
“I’ll go and see if Florry wants anything from the city,” said Miss Grainger, as she arose and left the room.
“Poor Florry! she is so distressed by that letter she received this morning. Joseph has taken it in such ill part that you should have been consulted by Aunt Grainger, and reproaches her for having permitted what she really never heard of. Not that, as she herself says, she admits of any right on his part to limit her source of advice. She thinks that it is somewhat despotic in him to say, ‘You shall not take counsel except with leave fromme.’ She knows that this is the old vicar’s doing, and that Joseph never would have assumed that tone without being put up to it.”
“That is clear enough; but I am surprised that your sister saw it.”
“Oh, she is not so deplorably in love as to be blinded.”
“POOR Bob! You were standing on that balcony with a very jaunty air, smoking your cuba the last time I passed here,” said Calvert, as he looked up at the windows of the Hôtel Royale at Milan, while he drove on to another and less distinguished hotel. He would have liked greatly to put up at the Royale, and had a chat with its gorgeous landlord over the Reppinghams, how long they stayed and whither they went, and how the young widow bore up under the blow, and what shape old Rep’s grief assumed.
No squeamishness as to the terms that might have been used towards himself would have prevented his gratifying this wish. The obstacle was purely financial He had told the host, on leaving, to pay a thousand francs for him that he had lost at play, and it was by no means convenient now to reimburse him. The bank had just closed as he arrived, so there was nothing for it but to await its opening the next morning. His steps were then turned to the Telegraph-office. The message to Loyd was in these words: “Your letter received. I am here, and leave to-morrow.”
“Of course the fellow will understand that I have obeyed his high behest, and I shall be back at Orta in time to catch the post on its arrival, and see whether he has kept faith with me or not. If there be no newspapers there for the villa I may conclude it is all right.” This brief matter of business over, he felt like one who had no further occasion for care. When he laid down his burden he could straighten his back, no sense of the late pressure remaining to remind him of the load that had pressed so heavily. He knew this quality in himself, and prized it highly. It formed part of what he used boastfully to call his “Philosophy,” and he contrasted it proudly with the condition of those fellows, who instead of rebounding under pressure, collapsed, and sunk never to rise more. The vanity with which he regarded himself supplied him with a vindictive dislike to the world, who could suffer a fellow endowed and gifted as he was to be always in straits and difficulties. He mistook—a very common mistake by-the-way—a capacity to enjoy, for a nature deservant of enjoyment, and he thought it the greatest injustice to see scores of well-off people who possessed neither his own good constitution nor his capacity to endure dissipation uninjured. “Wretches not fit to live,” as he said, and assuredly most unfit to live the life which he alone prized or cared for. He dined somewhat sumptuously at one of the great restaurants. “He owed it to himself,” he said, after all that dreary cookery of the villa, to refresh his memory of the pleasures of the table, and he ordered a flask of Marco-brunner that cost a Napoleon. He was the caressed of the waiters, and escorted to the door by the host There is no supremacy so soon recognised as that of wealth, and Calvert, for a few hours, gave himself up to the illusion that he was rich. As the opera was closed, he went to one of the smaller theatres, and sat out for a while one of those dreariest of all dreary things, a comedy by the “immortal Goidoni!”
Immortal indeed, so long as sleep remains an endowment of humanity! He tried to interest himself in a plot wherein the indecency was only veiled by the dulness, and where the language of the drawing-room never rose above the tone of the servants’-hall, and left the place in disgust, to seek anywhere, or anyhow, something more, amusing than this.
Without well knowing how, he found himself at the door of the Gettone, the hell he had visited when he was last at Milan.
“They shall sup me, at all events,” said he, as he deposited his hat and cane in the ante-chamber. The rooms were crowded and it was some time before Calvert could approach the play-table, and gain a view of the company. He recognised many of the former visitors. There sat the pretty woman with the blonde ringlets, her diamond-studded fingers carelessly playing with the gold pieces before her; there was the pale student-like boy—he seemed a mere boy—with his dress-cravat disordered, and his hair dishevelled, just as he had seen him last; and there was the old man, whose rouleau had cost Calvert all his winnings. He looked fatigued and exhausted, and seemed as if dropping asleep over his game, and yet the noise was deafening—the clamour of the players, the cries of the croupier, the clink of glasses, and the clink of gold!
“Now to test the adage that says when a man is pelted by all other ill luck, that he’ll win at play,” said Calvert, as he threw, without counting them, several Napoleons on the table. His venture was successful, and so was another and another after it.
“This is yours, Sir,” said she of the blonde ringlets,’ handing him a hundred franc-piece that had rolled amongst her own.
“Was it not to suggest a partnership that it went there?” said he, smiling courteously.
“Who knows?” said she, half carelessly, half invitingly.
“Let us see what our united fortunes will do. This old man is dozing and does not care for the game. Would you favour me with your place, Sir, and take your rest with so much more comfort, on one of those luxurious sofas yonder?”
“No!” said the old man, sternly. “I have as much right to be here as you.”
“The legal right I am not going to dispute. It is simply a matter of expediency.”
“Do you mean to stake all that gold, Sir?” interrupted the croupier, addressing Calvert, who, during this brief discussion, had suffered his money to remain till it had been doubled twice over.
“Ay, let it stay there,” said he, carelessly.
“What have you done that makes you so lucky?” whispered the blonde ringlets. “See, you have broken the bank!”
“What have I done, do you mean in the way of wickedness?” said he, laughing as the croupiers gathered in a knot to count over the sum to be paid to him. “Nearly everything. I give you leave to question me—so far as your knowledge of the Decalogue goes—what have I not done?” And so they sauntered down the room side by side and sat down on a sofa, chatting and laughing pleasantly together, till the croupier came loaded with gold and notes to pay all Calvert’s winnings.
“What was it the old fellow muttered as he passed?” said Calvert; “he spoke in German, and I didn’t understand him.”
“It was something about a line in your forehead that will bring you bad luck yet.”
“I have heard that before,” cried he, springing hastily up. “I wish I could get him to tell me more;” and he hastened down the stairs after the old man, but when he gained the street he missed him; he hurried in vain on this side and that; no trace of him remained. “If I were given to the credulous, I’d say that was the fiend in person,” muttered Calvert, as he slowly turned towards his inn.
He tried in many ways to forget the speech that troubled him; he counted over his winnings; they were nigh fourteen thousand francs; he speculated on all he might do with them; he plotted and planned a dozen roads to take, but do what he might, the old man’s sinister look and dark words were before him, and he could only lie awake thinking over them till day broke.
Determined to return to Orta in time to meet the post, he drove to the bank, just as it was open for business, and presented his bill for payment.
“You have to sign your name here,” said a voice he thought he remembered, and, looking up, saw the old man of the play-table.
“Did we not meet last night?” whispered Calvert, in a low voice.
The other shook his head in dissent.
“Yes, I cannot be mistaken; you muttered a prediction in German as you passed me, and I know what it meant.”
Another shake of the head was all his reply.
“Come, come, be frank with me; your secret, if it be one to visit that place, is safe with me. What leads you to believe I am destined to evil fortune?”
“I know nothing of you! I wanttoknow nothing,” said the old man, rudely, and turned to his books.
“Well, if your skill in prophecy be not greater than in politeness, I need not fret about you,” said Calvert laughing; and he went his way.
With that superstitious terror that tyrannises over the minds of incredulous men weighing heavily on his heart, he drove back to Orta. All his winnings of the night before could not erase from lus memory the dark words of the old man’s prediction. He tried to forget, and then he tried to ridicule it “So easy,” thought he, “for that old withered mummy to cast a shadow on the path of a fellow full of life, vigour, and energy, like myself. He has but to stand one second in my sunshine! It is, besides, the compensation that age and decrepitude exact for being no longer available for the triumphs and pleasures of life.” Such were the sort of reasonings by which he sought to console himself, and then he set to plan out a future—all the things that he could, or might, or could not do.
Just as he drove into Orta the post arrived at the office, and he got out and entered, as was his wont, to obtain his letters before the public distribution had commenced.
THE only letter Calvert found at the post-office for the villa was one in the vicar’s hand, addressed to Miss Grainger. Nothing from Loyd himself, nor any newspaper. So far, then, Loyd had kept his pledge. He awaited to see if Calvert would obey his injunctions before he proceeded to unmask him to his friends.
Calvert did not regard this reserve as anything generous—he set it down simply to fear. He said to himself, “The fellow dreads me; he knows that it is never safe to push men of my stamp to the wall; and he is wise enough to apply the old adage, about leaving a bridge to the retreating enemy. I shall have more difficulty in silencing the women, however. It will be a hard task to muzzle their curiosity; but I must try some plan to effect it. Is that telegram for me?” cried he, as a messenger hastened hither and thither in search for some one.
“II Signor Grainger?”
“Yes, all right,” said he, taking it. It was in these few words.
“They find it can be done—make tracks.“Drayton”
“They find it can be done,” muttered he. “Which means it is legal to apprehend me. Well, I supposed as much. I never reckoned on immunity; and as to getting away, I’m readier for it, and better provided too, than you think for, Master Algernon. Indeed, I can’t well say what infatuation binds me to this spot, apart from the peril that attends it. I don’t know that I am very much what is called in love with Florence, though I’d certainly marry her if she’d have me; but for that there are, what the lady novelists call, ‘mixed motives,’ and I rather suspect it is not with any especial or exclusive regard for her happiness that I’d enter into the holy bonds. I should like to consult some competent authority on the physiology of hatred—why it is that, though scores of fellows have injured me deeply in life, I never bore any, no, nor the whole of them collectively, the ill will that I feel for that man. He has taken towards me a tone that none have ever dared to take. He menaces me! Fifty have wronged, none have ever threatened me. He who threatens, assumes to be your master, to dictate the terms of his forbearance, and to declare under what conditions he will spare you. Now, Master Loyd, I can’t say if this be a part to suityourpowers, but I know well, the other is one which in no way is adapted tomine. Nature has endowed me with a variety of excellent qualities, but, somehow, in the hurry of her benevolence, she forgot patience! I suppose one can’t have everything!”
While he thus mused and speculated, the boat swept smoothly over the lake, and Onofrio, not remarking the little attention Calvert vouchsafed to him, went on talking of “I Grangeri” as the most interesting subject he could think of. At last Calvert’s notice was drawn to his words by hearing how the old lady had agreed to take the villa for a year, with the power of continuing to reside there longer if she were so minded.
The compact had been made only the day before, after Calvert had started for Milan, evidently—to his thinking—showing that it had been done with reference to something in Loyd’s last letter. “Strange that she did not consult me upon it,” thought he; “I who have been her chief counsellor on everything. Perhaps the lease of my confidence has expired. But how does it matter? A few hours more, and all these people shall be no more to me than the lazy cloud that is hanging about the mountain-top. They may live or die, or marry or mourn, and all be as nothing to me—as if I had never met them. And what shallIbe tothem, I wonder?” cried he, with a bitter laugh; “a very dreadful dream, I suppose; something like the memory of a shipwreck, or a fire from which they escaped without any consciousness of the means that rescued them! A horrid nightmare whose terrors always come back in days of depression and illness. At all events, I shall not be ‘poor Calvert,’ ‘that much to be pitied creature, who really had some good in him.’ No, I shall certainly be spared all commiseration of that kind, and they’ll no more recur willingly to my memory than they’ll celebrate the anniversary of some day that brought them shame and misfortune.
“Now then, for my positively last appearance in my present line of character! And yonder I see the old dame on the look-out for me; she certainly has some object in meeting me before her nieces shall know it—Land me in that nook there, Onofrio, and wait for me.”
“I have been very impatient for your coming,” said she, as he stepped on shore; “I have so much to say to you; but, first of all, read this. It is from the vicar.”
The letter was not more than a few lines, and to this purport: he was about to quit the home he had lived in for more than thirty years, and was so overwhelmed with sorrow and distress, that he really could not address his thoughts to any case but the sad one before him. “‘All these calamities have fallen upon us together; for although,’ he wrote, ‘Joe’s departure is the first step on the road to future fortune, it is still separation, and at our age who is to say if we shall ever see him again?’”
“Skip the pathetic bit, and come to this. What have we here about the P. and O. steamers?” cried Calvert.
“‘Through the great kindness of the Secretary of State, Joe has obtained a free passage out—a favour as I hear very rarely granted—and he means to pay you a flying visit; leaving this on Tuesday, to be with you on Saturday, and, by repairing to Leghorn on the following Wednesday, to catch the packet at Malta. This will give him three entire days with you, which, though they be stolen from us, neither his mother nor myself have the heart to refuse him. Poor fellow, he tries to believe—perhaps he does believe—that we are all to meet again in happiness and comfort, and I do my best not to discourage him; but I am now verging on seventy—‘”
“How tiresome he is about his old age; is there any more about his son?” asked Calvert impatiently.
“Yes, he says here: ‘Joe is, as you may imagine, full of business, and what between his interviews with official people, and his personal cares for his long journey, has not a moment to spare. He will, however, write tomorrow, detailing all that he has done and means to do. Of that late suggestion that came from you about referring us to a third party, neither Joseph nor myself desire to go back; indeed, it is not at a moment like the present we would open a question that could imperil the affections that unite us It is enough to know that we trust each other, and need neither guarantees nor guidance.’”
“The old knave!” cried Calvert “A priest is always a Jesuit, no matter what church he belongs to.”
“Oh, Mr. Calvert.”
“But he’s quite right after all I am far too worldly-minded in my notions to negotiate with men of such exalted ideas as he and his son possess. Besides, I am suddenly called away. I shall have to leave this immediately. They are making a fuss about that unfortunate affair at Basle, and want to catch me as a witness; and as my evidence would damage a fellow I really pity, though I condemn, I must keep out of the way.”
“Well, you are certain to find us here whenever you feel disposed to have your own room again. I have taken the villa for another year.”
Not paying the slightest attention to this speech he went on: “There is one point on which I shall be absolute. No one speaks of me when I leave this. Not alone that you abstain yourself from any allusion to my having been here, and what you know of me, but that you will not suffer any other to make me his topic. It is enough to say that a question of my life is involved in this request. Barnard’s fate has involved me in a web of calumny and libel, which I am resolved to bear too, to cover the poor fellow’s memory. If, however, by any indiscretion of my friends—and remember, it can only be of my friends under this roof—I am driven to defend myself, there is no saying how much more blood will have to flow in this quarrel. Do you understand me?”
“Partly,” said she, trembling all over.
“This much you cannot mistake,” said he, sternly; “that my name is not to be uttered, nor written, mind that If, in his short visit, Loyd should speak of me, stop him at once. Say, ‘Mr. Loyd, there are reasons why I will not discuss that person; and I desire that my wish be understood as a command.’ You will impress your nieces with the same reserve. I suppose, if they hear that it is a matter which involves the life of more than one, that they will not need to be twice cautioned. Bear, in mind this is no caprice of mine; it is no caprice of that Calvert eccentricity, to which, fairly enough sometimes, you ascribe many of my actions. I am in a position of no common peril; I have incurred it to save the fair fame of a fellow I have known and liked for years. I mean, too, to go through with it; that is, I mean up to a certain point to sacrifice myself. Up to a certain point, I say, for if I am pushed beyond that, then I shall declare to the world: Upon you and your slanderous tongues be the blame, not mine the fault for what is to happen now.”
He uttered these words with a rapidity and vehemence that made her tremble from head to foot This was not, besides, the first time she had witnessed one of those passionate outbursts for which his race was celebrated, and it needed no oath to confirm the menace his speech shadowed forth.
“This is a pledge, then,” said he, grasping her hand. “And now to talk of something pleasanter. That old uncle of mine has behaved very handsomely; has sent me some kind messages, and, what is as much to the purpose, some money;” and, as he spoke, he carelessly drew from his pocket a roll of the bank-notes he had so lately won at play. “‘Before making any attempt to re-enter the service,’ he says, ‘you must keep out of the way for a while.’ And he is right there; the advice is excellent, and I mean to follow it. In his postscript he adds: ‘Thank Grainger’—he means Miss Grainger, but you know how blunderingly he writes—‘for all her kindness to you, and say how glad we should all be to see her at Rocksley, whenever she comes next to England.’”
The old lady’s face grew crimson; shame at first, and pride afterwards, overwhelming her. To be called Grainger was to bring her back at once to the old days of servitude—that dreary life of nursery governess—which had left its dark shadow on all her later years; while to be the guest at Rocksley was a triumph she had never imagined in her vainest moments.
“Oh, will you tell him how proud I am of his kind remembrance of me, and what an honour I should feel it to pay my respects to him?”
“They’ll make much of you, I promise you,” said Calvert, “when they catch you at Rocksley, and you’ll not get away in a hurry. Now let us go our separate ways, lest the girls suspect we have been plotting. I’ll take the boat and row down to the steps. Don’t forget all I have been saying,” were his last words as the boat moved away.
“I hope I have bound that old fool in heavy recognisances to keep her tongue quiet; and now for the more difficult task of the young ones,” said he, as he stretched himself full length in the boat, like one wearied by some effort that taxed his strength. “I begin to believe it will be a relief to me to get away from this place!” he muttered to himself, “though I’d give my right hand to pass the next week here, and spoil the happiness of those fond lovers. Could I not do it?” Here was a problem that occupied him till he reached the landing at the villa, but as he stepped on shore, he cried, “No, this must be the last time I shall ever mount these steps!”
Calvert passed the day in his room; he had much to think over, and several letters to write. Though the next step he was to take in life in all probability involved his whole future career, his mind was diverted from it by the thought that this was to be his last night at the villa—the last time he should ever see Florence. “Ay,” thought he, “Loyd will be the occupant of this room in a day or two more. I can fancy the playful tap at this door, as Milly goes down to breakfast—I can picture the lazy fool leaning out of that window, gazing at those small snow-peaks, while Florence is waiting for him in the garden—I know well all the little graceful attentions that will be prepared for him, vulgar dog as he is, who will not even recognise the special courtesies that have been designed for him; well, if I be not sorely mistaken, I have dropped some poison in his cup. I have taught Florence to feel that courage is the first of manly attributes, and what is more to the purpose, to have a sort of half dread that it is not amongst her lover’s gifts. I have left her as my last legacy that rankling doubt, and I defy her to tear it out of her heart! What a sovereign antidote to all romance it is, to have the conviction, or, if not the conviction the impression, the mere suspicion, that he who spouts the fine sentiments of the poet with such heartfelt ardour, is a poltroon, ready to run from danger and hide himself at the approach of peril. I have made Milly believe this; she has no doubt of it; so that if sisterly confidences broach the theme, Florence will find all her worst fears confirmed. The thought of this fellow as my rival maddens me!” cried he, as he started up and paced the room impatiently. “Is not that Florence I see in the garden? Alone, too! What a chance!” In a moment he hastened noiselessly down the stairs, opened the drawing-room window and was beside her.
“I hope the bad news they tell me is not true,” she said as the walked along side by side.
“What is the bad news?”
“That you are going to leave us.”
“And are you such a hypocrite, Florry, as to call this bad news, when you and I both know how little I shall be needed here in a day or two? We are not to have many more moments together; these are probably the very last of them; let us be frank and honest I’m not surely asking too much in that! For many a day you have sealed up my lips by the threat of not speaking to me on the morrow. Your menace has been, if you repeat this language, I will not walk with you again. Now, Florry, this threat has lost its terror, for to-morrow I shall be gone, gone for ever, and so to-day, here now, I say once more I love you! How useless to tell me that it is all in vain; that you do not, cannot return my affection. I tell you that I can no more despair that I can cease to love you! In the force of that love I bear you is my confidence. I have the same trust in it that I would have in my courage.”
“If you but knew the pain you gave me by such words as these—”
“If you knew the pain they cost me to utter them!” cried he. “It is bringing a proud heart very low to sue as humbly as I do. And for what? Simply for time—only time. All I ask is, do not utterly reject one who only needs your love to be worthy of it When I think of what I was when I met you first—you!—and feel the change you have wrought in my whole nature; how you have planted truthfulness where there was once but doubt; how you have made hope succeed a dark and listless indifference—when I know and feel that in my struggle to be better it is you, and you alone, are the prize before me, and that if that be withdrawn life has no longer a bribe to my ambition—when I think of these, Florry, can you wonder if I want to carry away with me some small spark that may keep the embers alive in my heart?”
“It is not generous to urge me thus,” said she in a faint voice.
“The grasp of the drowning man has little time for generosity. You may not care to rescue me, but you may have pity for my fate.”
“Oh, if you but knew how sorry I am—”
“Go on, dearest. Sorry for what?”
“I don’t know what I was going to say; you have agitated and confused me so, that I feel bewildered. I shrink from saying what would pain you, and yet I want to be honest and straightforward.”
“If you mean that to be like the warning of the surgeon—I must cut deep to cure you—I can’t say I have courage for it.”
For some minutes they walked on side by side without a word. At length he said in a grave and serious tone, “I have asked your aunt, and she has promised me that, except strictly amongst yourselves, my name is not to be mentioned when I leave this. She will, if you care for them, give you my reasons; and I only advert to it now amongst other last requests. This is a promise, is it not?”
She pressed his hand and nodded.
“Will you now grant me one favour? Wear this ring for my sake; a token of mere memory, no more! Nay, I mean to ask Milly to wear another. Don’t refuse me.” He drew her hand towards him as he spoke, and slipped a rich turquoise ring upon her finger. Although her hand trembled, and she averted her head, she had not courage to say him no.
“You have not told us where you are going to, nor when we are to hear from you!” said she, after a moment.
“I don’t think I know either!” said he in his usual reckless way. “I have half a mind to join Schamyl—I know him—or take a turn with the Arabs against the French. I suppose,” added he, with a bitter smile, “it is my fate always to be on the beaten side, and I’d not know how to comport myself as a winner.”
“There’s Milly making a signal to us. Is it dinnertime already?” said she.
“Ay, my last dinner here!” he muttered. She turned her head away and did not speak.
On that last evening at the villa nothing very eventful occurred. All that need be recorded will be found in the following letter, which Calvert wrote to his friend Drayton, after he had wished his hosts a good-night, and gained his room, retiring, as he did, early, to be up betimes in the morning and catch the first train for Milan.