“The Leander has just steamed in, crowded with snobs, civiland military, but no Loyd. The fellow must have given up hisappointment or gone ‘long sea.’ In any case, he has escapedme. I am frantic. A whole month’s plottings of vengeancescattered to the winds and lost! I’d return to England,if I were only certain to meet with him: but a Faquir, whomI have just consulted, says, ‘Go east, and the worst willcome of it!’ and so I start in two hours for Suez. Thereare two here who know me, but I mean to caution them howthey show it; they are old enough to take a hint.“Yours, H. C.“I hear my old regiment has mutinied, and sabred eight ofthe officers. I wish they’d have waited a little longer, andneither S. nor W. would have got off so easily. From all Ican learn, and from the infernal fright the fellows who aregoing back exhibit, I suspect that the work goes bravelyon.”
I am not about to chronicle how time now rolled over the characters of our story. As for the life of those at the villa, nothing could be less eventful All existences that have any claim to be called happy are of this type, and if there be nothing brilliant or triumphant in their joys, neither is there much poignancy in their sorrows.
Loyd wrote almost by every mail, and with a tameness that shadowed forth the uniform tenor of his own life. It was pretty nigh the same story, garnished by the same reflections. He had been named a district judge “up country,” and passed his days deciding the disputed claims of indigo planters against the ryots, and the ryots against the planters. Craft, subtlety, and a dash of perjury, ran through all these suits, and rendered them rather puzzles for a quick intelligence to resolve, than questions of right or legality. He told, too, how dreary and uncompanionable his life was; how unsolaced by friendship, or even companionship; that the climate was enervating, the scenery monotonous, and the thermometer at a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty degrees.
Yet Loyd could speak with some encouragement about his prospects. He was receiving eight hundred rupees a month, and hoped to be promoted to some place, ending in Ghar or Bad, with an advance of two hundred more. He darkly hinted that the mutinous spirit of certain regiments was said to be extending, but he wrote this with all the reserve of an official, and the fear that Aunt Grainger might misquote him. Of course there were other features in these letters—those hopes and fears, and prayers and wishes, which lovers like to write, almost as well as read, poetising to themselves their own existence, and throwing a rose-tint of romance over lives as lead-coloured as may be. Of these I am not going to say anything. It is a theme both too delicate and too dull to touch on. I respect and I dread it. I have less reserve with the correspondence of another character of our tale, though certainly, when written, it was not meant for publicity. The letter of which I am about to make an extract, and it can be but an extract, was written about ten months after the departure of Calvert for India, and, like his former ones, addressed to his friend Drayton:
“At the hazard of repeating myself, if by chance my formerletters have reached you, I state that I am in the serviceof the Meer Morad, of Ghurtpore, of whose doings theTimescorrespondent will have told you something. I have eightsquadrons of cavalry and a half battery of field-pieces—brass ten pounders—with an English crown on their breech.We are well armed, admirably mounted, and perfect devils tofight. You saw what we did with the detachment of the —th,and their sick convoy, coming out of Allenbad. The onlyfellow that escaped was the doctor, and I saved his life toattach him to my own staff. He is an Irish fellow, namedTobin, and comes from Tralee—if there be such a place—andbegs his friends there not to say masses for him, for he isalive, and drunk every evening. Do this, if not a bore.“By good luck the Meer, my chief quarrelled with the king’sparty in Delhi, and we came away in time to save beingcaught by Wilson, who would have recognised me at once.By-the-way, Baxter of the 30th was stupid enough to say,‘Eh, Calvert’ what the devil are you doing amongstthese niggers?’ He was a prisoner, at the time, and, ofcourse, I had to order him to be shot for his imprudence.How he knew me I cannot guess; my beard is down to mybreast, and I am turbaned and shawled in the most approvedfashion. We are now simply marauding, cutting offsupplies, falling on weak detachments, and doing a smallretail business in murder wherever we chance upon a stationof civil servants. I narrowly escaped being caught by atroop of the 9th Lancers, every man of whom knows me. Iwent over with six trusty fellows, to Astraghan, where Ilearned that a certain Loyd was stationed as Governmentreceiver. We got there by night, burned his bungalow, shothim, and then discovered he was not our man, but anotherLoyd. Bradshaw came up with his troop. He gave us aneight mile chase across country, and, knowing how the Ninthride, I took them over some sharp nullahs, and the croppersthey got you’ll scarcely see mentioned in the governmentdespatches. I fired three barrels of my Yankee six-shooter at Brad, and I heard the old beggar offer a thousandrupees for my head. When he found he could not overtakeus, and sounded a halt, I screamed out, ‘Threes about,Bradshaw, I’d give fifty pounds to hear him tell thestory at mess: ‘Yes, Sir, begad, Sir, in as good English,Sir, as yours or mine, Sir; a fellow who had served theQueen, I’ll swear.’“For the moment, it is a mere mutiny, but it will soon be arebellion, and I don’t conceal from myself the danger ofwhat I am doing, as you, in all likelihood, will suspect.Not dangers from the Queen’s fellows—for they shall nevertake me alive—but the dangers I run from my presentassociates, and who, of course, only half trust me.... Doyou remember old Commissary-General Yates—J.C.V.R. Yates,the old ass used to write himself? Well, amongst the otherevents of the time, was the sack and ‘loo’ of his house atCawnpore, and the capture of ais pretty wife, whom theybrought in here a prisoner. I expected to find the pooryoung creature terrified almost out of her reason. Not a bitof it! She was very angry with the fellows who robbed her,and rated, them roundly in choice Hindostanee, telling oneof the chiefs that his grandfather was a scorched pig. Likea woman, and a clever woman, too, though she recognised me—I can almost swear that she did—she never showed it, and wetalked away all the evening,-and smoked our hookahs togetherin Oriental guise. I gave her a pass next morning toCalcutta, and saw her safe to the great trunk road, givingher bearers as far as Behdarah. She expressed herself asvery grateful for my attentions, and hoped at some futuretime—this with a malicious twinkle of her gray eyes—toshow the ‘Bahadoor’ that she had not forgotten them. So yousee there are lights as well as shadows in the life of arebel.”
I omit a portion here, and come to the conclusion, which was evidently added in haste.
“‘Up and away!’ is the order. We are off to Bithoor. TheNana there—a staunch friend, as it was thought, of Britishrule—has declared for independence, and as there is plentyof go in him, look out for something ‘sensational.’ Youwouldn’t believe how, amidst all these stirring scenes, Ilong for news—from what people call home—of Rocksley andUncle G., and the dear Soph; but more from that villabeside the Italian lake. I’d give a canvas bag that I carryat my girdle with a goodly stock of pearls, sapphires, andrubies, for one evening’s diary of that cottage!“If all go on as well and prosperously as I hope for, I havenot the least objection, but rather a wish that you wouldtell the world where I am, and what I am doing. Linked withfailure, I’d rather keep dark; but as a sharer in a greatsuccess, I burn to make it known through the length andbreadth of the land that I am alive and well, and ready toacquit a number of personal obligations, if not to the veryfellows who injured me, to their friends, relatives, andcousins, to the third generation. Tell them, Algy, ‘A duel’samang ye, cutting throats,’ and add, if you like, that hewrites himself your attached friend,“Harry Calvert?”
This letter, delivered in some mysterious manner to the bankers at Calcutta, was duly forwarded, and in time reached the hands of Alfred Drayton, who confided its contents to a few “friends” of Calvert’s—men who felt neither astonished nor shocked at the intelligence—shifty fellows, with costly tastes, who would live on society somehow, reputably, if they could—dishonourably if they must; and who all agreed that “Old Calvert,” as they called him—he was younger than most of them—had struck out a very clever line, and a far more remunerative one than “rooking young Griffins at billiards”—such being, in their estimation, the one other alternative which fete had to offer him. This was all the publicity, however, Drayton gave to his friend’s achievements. Somehow or other, paragraphs did appear, not naming Calvert, but intimating that an officer, who had formerly served her Majesty, had been seen in the ranks of the insurgents of Upper Bengal. Yet Calvert was not suspected, and he dropped out of people’s minds as thoroughly as if he had dropped out of life.
To this oblivion, for a while, we must leave him; for even if we had in our hands, which we have not, any records of his campaigning life, we might scruple to occupy our readers with details which have no direct bearing upon our story. That Loyd never heard of him is clear enough. The name of Calvert never occurred in any letter from his hand. It was one no more to be spoken of by Florence or himself. One letter from him, however, mentioned an incident which, to a suspicious mind, might have opened a strange vein of speculation, though it is right to add that neither the writer nor the reader ever hit upon a clue to the mystery indicated. It was during his second year of absence that he was sent to Mulnath, from which he writes:
“The mutiny has not touched this spot; but we hear everyday the low rumbling of the distant storm, and we are toldthat our servants, and the native battalion that are ourgarrison, are only waiting for the signal to rise. I doubtthis greatly. I have nothing to excite my distrust of thepeople, but much to recommend them to my favour. It is onlytwo days back that I received secret intelligence of anintended attack upon my bungalow by a party of Bithoorcavalry, whose doings have struck terror far and near. Twocompanies of the—th, that I sent for, arrived thismorning, and I now feel very easy about the reception theenemy will meet The strangest part of all is, however, tocome. Captain Rolt, who commands the detachment, said in alaughing jocular way, ‘I declare, judge, if I were you, Iwould change my name, at least till this row was over.’ Iasked him ‘Why?’ in some surprise; and he replied, ‘There’srather a run against judges of your name lately. They shotone at Astraghan last November. Six weeks back, they camedown near Agra, where Craven Loyd had just arrived, districtjudge and assessor; they burnt his bungalow, and massacredhimself and his household; and now, it seems, they areafteryou. I take it that some one of your name has beenrather sharp on these fellows, and that this is the pursuitof a long meditated vengeance. At all events I’d call myselfSmith or Brown till this prejudice blows over.’”
The letter soon turned to a pleasanter theme—his application for a leave had been favourably entertained. By October—it was then July—he might hope to take his passage for England. Not that he was, he said, at all sick of India. He had now adapted himself to its ways and habits, his health was good, and the solitude—the one sole cause of complaint—he trusted would ere long give way to the happiest and most blissful of all companionship. “Indeed, I must try to make you all emigrate with me. Aunt Grainger can have her flowers and her vegetables here in all seasons, one of my retainers is an excellent gardener, and Milly’s passion for riding can be indulged upon the prettiest Arab horses I ever saw.”
Though the dangers which this letter spoke of as impending were enough to make Florence anxious and eager for the next mail from India, his letter never again alluded to them. He wrote full of the delight of having got his leave, and overjoyed at all the happiness that he conjetured as before him.
So in the same strain and spirit was the next, and then came September, and he wrote: “This day month, dearest—this day month, I am to sail. Already when these lines are before you, the interval, which to me now seems an age, will have gone over, and you can think of me as hastening towards you.”
“Oh, aunt dearest, listen to this. Is not this happy news?” cried Florence, as she pressed the loved letter to her lips. “Joseph says that on the 18th—to-day is—what day is to-day? But you are not minding me, aunt What can there be in that letter of yours so interesting as this?”
This remonstrance was not very unreasonable, seeing that Miss Grainger was standing with her eyes fixed steadfastly at a letter, whose few lines could not have taken a moment to read, and which must have had some other claim thus to arrest her attention.
“This is wonderful!” cried she, at last. “What is wonderful, aunt? Do pray gratify our curiosity!”
But the old lady hurried away without a word, and the door of her room, as it sharply banged, showed that she desired to be alone.
NO sooner did Mrs. Grainger find herself safely locked in her room, than she re-opened the letter the post had just brought her. It was exceedingly brief, and seemed hastily written:
“Strictly and imperatively private.“Trieste, Tuesday morning.“My dear Miss Grainger,—I have just arrived here fromIndia, with important despatches for the government. Thefatigues of a long journey have re-opened an old wound, andlaid me up for a day; but as my papers are of such a natureas will require my presence to explain, there is no use inmy forwarding them by another; I wait, therefore, and writethis hurried note, to say that I will make you a flyingvisit on Saturday next I sayyou, because I wish to seeyourself and alone. Manage this in the best way you can. Ihope to arrive by the morning train, and be at the villa byeleven or twelve at latest. Whether you receive me or not,say nothing of this note to your nieces; but I trust andpray you will not refuse half an hour to your attached andfaithful friend,“Harry Calvert.”
It was a name to bring up many memories, and Miss Grainger sat gazing at the lines before her in a state of wonderment blended with terror. Once only, had she read of him since his departure; it was, when agitated and distressed to know what had become of him, she ventured on a step of, for her, daring boldness, and to whose temerity she would not make her nieces the witnesses. She wrote a letter to Miss Sophia Calvert, begging to have some tidings of her cousin, and some clue to his whereabouts. The answer came by return of post; it ran thus:
“Miss Calvert has to acknowledge the receipt of MissGrainger’s note of the 8th inst.“Miss Calvert is not aware of any claim Miss Grainger canprefer to address her by letter, still less, of any right tobring under her notice the name of the person she has daredto inquire after. Any further correspondence from MissGrainger will be sent back unopened.”
The reading of this epistle made the old lady keep her bed for three days, her sufferings being all the more aggravated, since they imposed secrecy. From that day forth she had never heard Calvert’s name; and though for hours long she would think and ponder over him, the mention of him was so strictly interdicted, that the very faintest allusion to him was even avoided.
And now, like one risen from the grave, he was come back again! Come back to renew, Heaven could tell what sorrows of the past, and refresh the memory of days that had always been dashed with troubles.
It was already Friday. Where and how could a message reach him? She dreaded him, it is true: but why she dreaded him she knew not. It was a sort of vague terror, such as some persons feel at the sound of the sea, or the deep-voiced moaning of the wind through trees. It conveyed a sense of peril through a sense of sadness—no more. She had grown to dislike him from the impertinent rebuke Miss Calvert had administered to her on his account. The mention of Calvert was coupled with a darkened room, leeches, and ice on the head, and worse than all, a torturing dread that her mind might wander, and the whole secret history of the correspondence leak out in her ramblings.
Were not these reasons enough to make her tremble at the return of the man who had occasioned so much misery? Yet, if she could even find a pretext, could she be sure that she could summon courage to say, “I’ll not see you?” There are men to whom a cruelly cold reply is a repulse; but Calvert was not one of these, and this she knew well. Besides, were she to decline to receive him, might it not drive him to come and ask to see the girls, who now, by acceding to his request, need never hear or know of his visit?
After long and mature deliberation, she determined on her line of action. She would pretend to the girls that her letter was from her lawyer, who, accidentally finding himself in her neighbourhood, begged an interview as he passed through Orta on his way to Milan, and for this purpose she could go over in the boat alone, and meet Calvert on his arrival. In this way she could see him without the risk of her nieces’ knowledge, and avoid the unpleasantness of not asking him to remain when he had once passed her threshold.
“I can at least show him,” she thought, “that our old relations are not to be revived, though I do not altogether break off all acquaintanceship. No man has a finer sense of tact,-and he will understand the distinction I intend, and respect it” She also bethought her it smacked somewhat of a vengeance—though she knew not precisely how or why—that she’d take Sophia Calvert’s note along with her, and show him how her inquiry for him was treated by his family. She had a copy of her own, a most polite and respectful epistle it was, and in no way calculated to evoke the rebuke it met with. “He’ll be perhaps able to explain the mystery,” thought she, “and whatever Miss Calvert’s misconception, he can eradicate it when he sees her.”
“How fussy and important aunt is this morning!” said Florence, as the old lady stepped into the boat. “If the interview were to be with the Lord Chancellor instead of a London solicitor, she could not look more profoundly impressed with its solemnity.”
“She’ll be dreadful when she comes back,” said Emily, laughing; “so full of all the law jargon that she couldn’t understand, but will feel a right to repeat, because she has paid for it.”
It was thus they criticised her. Just as many aunts and uncles, and some papas and mammas, too, are occasionally criticised by those younger members of the family who are prone to be very caustic as to the mode certain burdens are borne, the weight of which has never distressed their own shoulders. And this, not from any deficiency of affection, but simply through a habit which, in the levity of our day, has become popular, and taught us to think little of the ties of parentage, and call a father a Governor.
“THERE is a stranger arrived, Signora, who has been asking for you,” said the landlord of the little inn at Orta, as Miss Grainger reached the door. “He has ordered a boat, but feeling poorly, has lain down on a bed till it is ready. This is his servant,” and he pointed as he spoke to a dark-visaged and very handsome man, who wore a turban of white and gold, and who made a deep gesture of obeisance as she turned towards him. Ere she had time to question him as to his knowledge of English, a bell rung sharply, and the man hurried away to return very speedily, and, at the same instant, a door opened and Calvert came towards her, and, with an air of deep emotion, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“This is too kind, far too kind and considerate of you,” said he, as he led her forward to a room.
“When I got your note,” she began, in a voice a good deal shaken, for there was much in the aspect of the man before her to move her, “I really did not know what to do. If you desired to see me alone, it would be impossible to do this at the villa, and so I bethought me that the best way was to come over here at once.”
“Do you find me much changed?” he asked, in a low, sad voice.
“Yes, I think you are a good deal changed. You are browner, and you look larger, even taller, than you did, and perhaps the beard makes you seem older.”
This was all true, but not the whole truth, which, had she spoken it, would have said, that he was far handsomer than before. The features had gained an expression of dignity and elevation from habits of command, and there was a lofty pride in his look which became him well, the more as it was now tempered with a gentle courtesy of manner which showed itself in every word and every gesture towards her. A slight, scarcely perceptible baldness, at the very top of the forehead, served to give height to his head, and add to the thoughtful character of his look. His dress, too, was peculiar, and probably set off to advantage his striking features and handsome figure. He wore a richly embroidered pelisse, fastened by a shawl at the waist, and on his head, rather jauntily set, a scarlet fez stitched in gold, and ornamented with a star of diamonds and emeralds.
“You are right,” said he, with a winning but very melancholy smile. “These last two years have aged me greatly. I have gone through a great deal in them. Come,” added he, as he seated himself at her side, and took her hand in his, “come, tell me what have you heard of me? Be frank; tell me everything.”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” said she.
“Do you mean that no one mentioned me?”
“We saw no one. Our life has been one of complete unbroken solitude.”
“Well, but your letters; people surely wrote about me?”
“No,” said she in some awkwardness, for she felt as though there was something offensive in this oblivion, and was eager to lay it to the charge of their isolation.
“Remember what I have told you about our mode of life.”
“You read the newspapers, though! You might have come upon my name in them!”
“We read none. We ceased to take them. We gave ourselves up to the little cares and occupations of our home, and we really grew to forget that there was a world outside us.”
Had she been a shrewd reader of expression, she could not fail to have noticed the intense relief her words gave him. He looked like one who hears the blessed words Not Guilty! after hours of dread anxiety for his fate. “And am I to believe,” asked he, in a voice tremulous with joy, “that from the hour I said farewell, to this day, that I have been to you as one dead and buried and forgotten?”
“I don’t think we forgot you; but we rigidly observed our pledge to you, and never spoke of you.”
“What is there on earth so precious as the trustfulness of true friendship?” burst he in, with a marked enthusiasm. “I have had what the world calls great successes, and I swear to you I’d give them all, and all their rewards twice told, for this proof of affection; and the dear girls, and Florence—how is she?”
“Far better than when you saw her. Indeed, I should say perfectly restored to health. She walks long walks, and takes rides on a mountain pony, and looks like one who had never known illness.”
“Not married yet?” said he with a faint smile.
“No; he is coming back next month and they will probably be married before Christmas.”
“And as much in love as ever—he, I mean?”
“Fully; and she too.”
“Pshaw! She never cared for him; she never could care for him. She tried it—did her very utmost I saw the struggle, and I saw its failure, and I told her so?”
“You told her so!”
“Why not? It was well for the poor girl that one human being in all the world should understand and feel for her. And she is determined to marry him?”
“Yes; he is coming back solely with that object.”
“How was it that none of his letters spoke of me? Are you quite sure they did not?”
“I am perfectly sure, for she always gave them to me to read.”
“Well!” cried he, boldly, as he stood up, and threw his head haughtily back, “the fellow who led Calvert’s Horse—that was the name my irregulars were known by—might have won distinction enough to be quoted by a petty Bengal civil servant. The Queen will possibly make amends for this gentleman’s forgetfulness.”
“You were in all this dreadful campaign, then?” asked she eagerly.
“Through the whole of it. Held an independent command; got four times wounded: this was the last.” And he laid bare a fearful cicatrice that almost surrounded his right arm above the wrist.
“Refused the Bath.”
“Refused it?”
“Why not? What object is it to me to be Sir Harry? Besides, a man who holds opinions such as mine, should accept no court favours. Colonel Calvert is a sufficient title.”
“And you are a colonel already?”
“I was a major-general a month ago—local rank, of course. But why am I led to talk of these things? May I see the girls? Will they like to see me?”
“For that I can answer. But are your minutes not counted? These despatches?”
“I have thought of all that This sword-cut has left it terrible ‘tic’ behind it, and travelling disposes to it, so that I have telegraphed for leave to send my despatches forward by Hassan, my Persian fellow, and rest myself here for a day or two. I know you’ll not let me die un-watched, uncared for. I have not forgotten all the tender care you once bestowed upon me.”
She knew not what to reply. Was she to tell him that the old green chamber, with its little stair into the garden, was still at his service? Was she to say, “Your old welcome awaits you there,” or did she dread his presence amongst them, and even fear what reception the girls would extend to him?
“Not,” added he, hastily, “that I am to inflict you with a sick man’s company again. I only beg for leave to come out of a morning when I feel well enough. This inn here is very comfortable, and though I am glad to see Onofrio does not recognise me, he will soon learn my ways enough to suit me. Meanwhile, may I go back with you, or do you think you ought to prepare them for the visit of so formidable a personage?”
“Oh, I think you may come at once,” said she, laughingly, but very far from feeling assured at the same time.
“All the better. I have some baubles here that I want to deposit in more suitable hands than mine. You know that we irregulars had more looting than our comrades, and I believe that I was more fortunate in this way than many others.” As he spoke, he hastily opened and shut again several jewel-cases, but giving her time to glance-no more than glance—at the glittering objects they contained. “By-the-way,” said he, taking from one of them a costly brooch of pearls, “this is the sort of thing they fasten a shawl with,” and he gallantly placed it in her shawl as he spoke.
“Oh, my dear Colonel Calvert!”
“Pray do not call me colonel. I am Harry Calvert for you, just as I used to be. Besides, I wish for nothing that may remind me of my late life and all its terrible excitements. I am a soldier tired, very tired of war’s alarms, and very eager for peace in its best of all significations. Shall we go?”
“By all means. I was only thinking that you must reconcile yourself not to return to-night, and rough it how best you can at the villa.”
“Let me once see my portmanteau in the corner of my old green room, and my pipe where it used to hang beside my watch over the chimney, and I’ll not believe that I have passed the last two terrible years but in a dream. You could not fancy how I attach myself to that spot, but I’ll give you a proof. I have given orders to my agent to buy the villa. Yes; you’ll wake some fine morning and find me to be your landlord.”
It was thus they talked away, rambling from one theme to the other, till they had gone a considerable way across the lake, when once more Calvert recurred to the strange circumstance that his name should never have come before them in any shape since his departure.
“I ought to tell you,” said she, in some confusion, “that I once did make an effort to obtain tidings of you. I wrote to your cousin Miss Sophia.”
“You wrote to her!” burst he in, sternly; “and what answer did you get?”
“There it is,” said she, drawing forth the letter, and giving it to him.
“‘No claim! no right!’ murmured he, as he re-read the lines; “‘the name of the person she had dared to inquire after;’ and you never suspected the secret of all this indignant anger?”
“How could I? What was it?”
“One of the oldest and vulgarest of all passions—jealousy! Sophy had heard that I was attached to your niece. Some good-natured gossip went so far as to say we were privately married. My old uncle, who only about once in a quarter of a century cares what his family are doing, wrote me a very insulting letter, reminding me of the year-long benefits he had bestowed upon me, and, at the close, categorically demanded ‘Are you married to her?’ I wrote back four words, ‘I wish I was,’ and there ended all our intercourse. Since I have won certain distinctions, however, I have heard that he wants to make submission, and has even hinted to my lawyer a hope that the name of Calvert is not to be severed from the old estate of Rocksley Manor; but there will be time enough to tell you about all these things. What did your nieces say to that note of Sophy’s?”
“Nothing. They never saw it Never knew I wrote to her.”
“Most discreetly done on your part I cannot say how much I value the judgment you exercised on this occasion.”
The old lady set much store by such praise, and grew rather prolix about all the considerations which led her to adopt the wise course she had taken.
He was glad to have launched her upon a sea where she could beat, and tack, and wear at will, and leave him to go back to his own thoughts.
“And so,” said he, at last, “they are to be married before Christmas?”
“Yes; that is the plan.”
“And then she will return with him to India, I take it”
She rodded.
“Poor girl! And has she not one friend in all the world to tell her what a life is before her as the wife of a third—no, but tenth-rate official—in that dreary land of splendour and misery, where nothing but immense wealth can serve to gloss over the dull uniformity of existence, and where the income of a year is often devoted to dispel the ennui of a single day? India, with poverty, is the direst of all penal settlements. In the bush, in the wilds of New Zealand, in the far-away islands of the Pacific, you have the free air and healthful breezes of heaven. You can bathe without having an alligator for your companion, and lie down on the grass without a cobra on your carotid; but, in India, life stands always face to face with death, and death in some hideous form.”
“How you terrify me!” cried she, in a voice of intense emotion.
“I don’t want to terrify, I want to warn. If it were ever my fate to have a marriageable daughter, and some petty magistrate—some small district judge of Bengal—asked her for a wife, I’d say to my girl, ‘Go and be a farm servant in New Caledonia. Milk cows, rear lambs, wash, scrub, toil for your daily bread in some land where poverty is not deemed the ‘plague;’ but don’t encounter life in a society where to be poor is to be despicable—where narrow means are a stigma of disgrace.’”
“Joseph says nothing of all this. He writes like one well contented with his lot, and very hopeful for the future.”
“Hasn’t your niece, some ten or twelve thousand pounds?”
“Fifteen.”
“Well, he presses the investment on which he asks a loan, just as any other roguish speculator would, that’s all.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Calvert Joseph is not a rogue.”
“Men are rogues according to their capacity. The clever fellows do not need roguery, and achieve success just because they are stronger and better than their neighbours; but I don’t want to talk of Loyd; every consideration of the present case can be entertained without him.”
“How can that be, if he is to be her husband?”
“Ah! If—if. My dear old friend, when and if comes into any question, the wisest way is not to debate it, for the simple reason that applying our logic to what is merely imaginary is very like putting a superstructure of masonry over a house of cards. Besides, if we roust talk with a hypothesis, I’ll put mine, ‘Must she of necessity marry this man, if he insists on it?’”
“Of course; and the more, that she loves him.”
“Loves him! Have I not told you that you are mistaken there? He entrapped her at first into a half admission of caring for him, and, partly from a sense of honour, and partly from obstinacy, she adheres to it But she does so just the way people cling to a religion, because nobody has ever taken the trouble to convert them to another faith.”
“I wish you would not say these things to me,” cried she with much emotion. “You have a way of throwing doubts upon everything and everybody, that always makes me miserable, and I ask myself afterwards, ‘Is there nothing to be believed?’ Is no one to to be trusted?”
“Not a great many, I am sorry to say,” sighed he. “It’s no bright testimony to the goodness of the world, that the longer a man lives the worse he thinks of it. I surely saw the flutter of white muslin through the trees yonder. Oh dear, how much softer my heart is than I knew of! I feel a sort of choking in the throat as I draw near this dear old place. Yes, there she is—Florence herself. I remember her way of waving a handkerchief. I’ll answer it as I used to do.” And he stood up in the boat and waved his handkerchief over his head with a wide and circling motion. “Look! She sees it, and she’s away to the house at speed. How she runs! She could not have mustered such speed as that when I last say her.”
“She has gone to tell Milly, I’m certain.”
He made no reply, but covered his face with his hands, and sat silent and motionless. Meanwhile the boat glided up to the landing-place, and they disembarked.
“I thought the girls would have been here to meet us,” said Miss Grainger, with a pique she could not repress; but Calvert walked along at her side, and made no answer.
“I think you know your way here,” said she with a smile, as she motioned him towards the drawing-room.
WHEN Calvert found himself alone in the drawing-room, he felt as if he had never been away. Everything was so exactly as he left it There was the sofa drawn close to the window of the flower-garden where Florence used to recline; there the little work-table with the tall glass that held her hyacinths, the flowers she was so fond of; there the rug for her terrier to lie on. Yonder, under the fig-tree, hung the cage with her favourite canary; and here were the very books she used to read long ago—Petrarch and Tennyson and Uhland. There was a flower to mark a place in the volume of Uhland, and it was at a little poem they had once read together. How full of memories are these old rooms, where we have dreamed away some weeks of life, if not in love, in something akin to it, and thus more alive to the influences of externals than if further gone in the passion! There was not a spot, not a chair, nor a window-seat that did not remind Calvert of some incident of the past. He missed his favourite song, “A place in thy memory, dearest,” from the piano, and he sought for it and put it back where it used to be; and he then went over to her table to arrange the books as they were wont to be long ago, and came suddenly upon a small morocco case. He opened it It was a miniature of Loyd, the man he hated the most on earth. It was an ill done portrait, and gave an affected thoughtfulness and elevation to his calm features which imparted insufferable pretension to them; Calvert held out the picture at arm’s length, and laughed scornfully as he looked at it. He had but time to lay it down on the table when Emily entered the room. She approached him hurriedly, and with an agitated manner. “Oh, Colonel Calvert—” she began.
“Why not Harry, brother Harry, as I used to be, Milly dearest,” said he, as he caught her hand in both his own. “What has happened to forfeit for me my old placeinyour esteem?”
“Nothing, nothing, but all is so changed; you have grown to be such a great man, and we have become lost to all that goes on in the world.”
“And where is your sister, will she not come to see me?”
“You startled her, you gave her such a shock, when you stood up in the boat and returned her salute, that she was quite overcome, and has gone to her room. Aunt Grainger is with her, and told me to say—that is, she hoped, if you would not take it ill, or deem it unkind—”
“Go on, dearest; nothing that comes from your lips can possibly seem unkind; go on.”
“But I cannot go on,” she cried, and burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.
“I never thought—so little forethought has selfishness—that I was to bring sorrow and trouble under this roof. Go back, and tell your aunt that I hope she will favour me with five minutes of her company; that I see what I greatly blame myself for not seeing before, how full of sad memories my presence here must prove. Go, darling, say this, and bid me good-bye before you go.”
“Oh, Harry, do not say this. I see you are angry with us. I see you think us all unkind; but it was the suddenness of your coming; and Florence has grown so nervous of late, so disposed to give way to all manner of fancies.”
“She imagines, in fact,” said he, haughtily, “that I have come back to persecute her with attentions which she has already rejected. Isn’t that so?”
“No. I don’t think—I mean Florence could never think that when you knew of her engagement—knew that within a few months at furthest—”
“Pardon me, if I stop you. Tell your sister from me that she has nothing to apprehend from any pretensions of mine. I can see that you think me changed, Milly; grown very old and very worn. Well, go back, and tell her that the inward change is far greater than the outward one. Mad Harry has become as tame and quiet and commonplace as that gentleman in the morocco case yonder; and if she will condescend to see me, she may satisfy herself that neither of us in future need be deemed dangerous to the other.”
There was an insolent pride in the manner of his delivery of these words that made Emily’s cheek burn as she listened, and all that her aunt had often told her of “Calvert insolence” now came fully to her mind.
“I will go and speak to my aunt,” she said at last
“Do so,” said he, carelessly, as he threw himself into a chair, and took up the book that lay nearest to him. He had not turned over many pages—he had read none—when Miss Grainger entered. She was flushed and flurried in manner; but tried to conceal it.
“We are giving you a very strange welcome, Colonel—Mr. Calvert; but you know us all of old, and you know that dear Florry is so easily agitated and overcome. She is better now, and if you will come up stairs to the little drawing-room, she’ll see you.”
“I am all gratitude,” said he, with a low bow: “but I think it is, perhaps, better not to inconvenience her. A visit of constraint would be, to me at least, very painful. I’d rather leave the old memories of my happiness here undashed by such a shadow. Go back, therefore, and say that I think I understand the reason of her reserve; that I am sincerely grateful for the thoughtful kindness she has been minded to observe towards me. You need not add,” said he with a faint smile, “that the consideration in the present case was unnecessary. I am not so impressionable as I used to be; but assure her that I am very sorry for it, and that Colonel Calvert, with all his successes, is not half so happy a fellow as mad Harry used to be without a guinea.”
“But you’ll not leave us? You’ll stay here to-night?”
“Pray excuse me. One of my objects—my chief one—in coming over here, was to ask your nieces’ acceptance of some trinkets I had brought for them. Perhaps this would not be a happy moment to ask a favour at their hands, so pray keep them over and make birthday presents of them in my name. This is for Florence—this, I hope Emily will not refuse.”
“But do not go. I entreat you not to go. I feel so certain that if you stay we shall all be so happy together. There is so much, besides, to talk over; and as to those beautiful things, for I know they must be beautiful—”
“They are curious in their way,” said he, carelessly opening the clasp of one of the cases, and displaying before her amazed eyes a necklace of pearls and brilliants that a queen might wear.
“Oh, Colonel Calvert, it would be impossible for my niece to accept such a costly gift as this. I never beheld anything so splendid in my life.”
“These ear-drops,” he continued, “are considered fine. They were said to belong to one of the wives of the King of Delhi, and were reputed the largest pearls in India.”
“The girls must see them; though I protest and declare beforehand nothing on earth should induce us to accept them.”
“Let them look well at them, then,” said he, “for when you place them in my hands again, none shall ever behold them after.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ll throw them into the lake yonder A rejected gift is too odious a memory to be clogged with.”
“You couldn’t be guilty of such rash folly?”
“Don’t you know well that I could? Is it to-day or yesterday that the Calvert nature is known to you? If you wish me to swear it, I will do so; and, what is more, I will make you stand by and see the water close over them.”
“Oh, you are not changed—not in the least changed,” she cried, in a voice of real emotion.
“Only in some things, perhaps,” said he, carelessly. “By-the-way, this is a miniature of me—was taken in India. It is a locket on this side. Ask Emily to wear it occasionally for my sake.”
“How like! and what a splendid costume!”
“That was my dress in full state! but I prefer my service uniform, and think it became me better.”
“Nothing could become you better than this,” said she, admiringly; and truly there was good warrant for the admiration; “but even this is covered with diamonds!”
“Only a circlet and my initials. It is of small value. These are the baubles. Do what you will with them; and now good-bye. Tanti saluû, as we used to say long ago to the ladies—Tanti saluû de la parte mia. Tell Milly she is very naughty not to have given me her hand to kiss before we parted; but if she will condescend to wear this locket, now and then, I’ll forgive her. Good-bye.”
And, before Miss Grainger could reply, he had opened the window and was gone.
When Calvert reached the jetty the boatman was not there; but the boat, with her oars, lay close to the steps; the chain that attached her to an iron ring was, however, padlocked, and Calvert turned impatiently back to seek the man. After he had gone, however, a few paces, he seemed to change his mind, and turned once more towards the lake. Taking up a heavy stone, he proceeded to smash the lock on the chain. It was stronger than he looked for, and occupied some minutes; but he succeeded at last. Just as he threw into the boat the loose end of the broken chain, he heard steps behind him; he turned; it was Emily running towards him at full speed. “Oh Harry, dear Harry!” she cried, “don’t go; don’t leave us; Florence is quite well again, and as far as strength will let her, trying to come and meet you. See, yonder she is, leaning on aunt’s arm.” True enough, at some hundred yards off, the young girl was seen slowly dragging her limbs forward in the direction where they stood.
“I have come some thousand leagues to see her,” said he sternly, “through greater fatigues, and, perhaps, as many perils as she is encountering.”
“Go to her; go towards her,” cried Emily, reproachfilly.
“Not one step; not the breadth of a hair, Milly,” said he. “There is a limit to the indignity a woman may put upon a man, and your sister has passed it. If she likes to come and say farewell to me here, be it so; if not, I must go without it.”
“Then I can tell you one thing, Colonel Calvert, if my sister Florence only knew of the words you have just spoken, she’d not move one other step towards you if, if—”
“If it were to save my life, you would say.Thatis not so unreasonable,” said he, with a saucy laugh.
“Here is Florence come, weak and tottering as she is, to ask you to stay with us. You’ll not have the heart to say No to her,” said Miss Grainger.
“I don’t think we—any of us—know much about Mr. Calvert’s heart, or what it would prompt him to do,” said Emily, half indignantly, as she turned away. And fortunate it was she did turn away, since, had she met the fierce look of Calvert’s eyes at the moment, it would have chilled her very blood with fear.
“But you’ll not refuse me,” said Florence, laying her hand on his arm. “You know well how seldom I ask favours, and how unused I am to be denied when I do ask.”
“I was always your slave—I ask nothing better than to be so still,” he whispered in her ear.
“And you will stay?”
“Yes, till you bid me go,” he whispered again; “but remember, too, that, when I ask a favour I can just as little brook refusal.”
“We’ll talk of that another time. Give me your arm now, and help me back to the house, for I feel very weak and faint. Is Milly angry with you?” she asked, as they walked along, side by side.
“I don’t know; perhaps so,” said he, carelessly.
“You used to be such good friends. I hope you have not fallen out?”
“I hope not,” said he, in his former easy tone; “or that if we have, we may make it up again. Bear in mind, Florence,” added he with more gravity of manner, “that I am a good deal changed from what you knew me. I have less pride, cherish fewer resentments, scarcely any hopes, and no affections—I mean, strong affections. The heart you refused is now cold; the only sentiment left me, is a sense of gratitude, I can be very grateful; I am already so.” She made no answer to this speech, and they re-entered the house in silence.