LEAVING Loyd to compose his letter, we will follow Calvert, as, with
vigorous stroke, he rushed his light boat through the calm water,
leaving a long bright line of bubbles in his wake. Dressed in his blue
flannel shirt and white trousers, a gay bunch of roses stuck jauntily in
the side of his straw hat, there was an air of health, vigour, and dash
about him, to which his full bright eye and upturned moustache well
contributed. And, as from time to time he would rest on his oars, while
his thin skiff cleaved her way alone, his bronzed and manly face and
carelessly waving hair made up a picture of what we are proud to think
is eminently British in its character. That is to say, there was about
him much of what indicated abundance of courage, no small proportion
of personal strength, and a certain sort of recklessness, which in a
variety of situations in life is equivalent to power.
To any eye that watched him, as with scarce an effort he sent his boat
forward, while the lazy cirri of smoke that rose from his short pipe
indicated ease, there would have seemed one who was indulging in the
very fullest enjoyment of a scene second to none in Europe. You had
but to look along the shore itself to see the most gorgeous picture of
wooded islands and headlands glowing in every tint of colour from the
pure white of the oleander to the deep scarlet of the San Giuseppe,
with, in the distance, the snow-capped Alps of the St. Bernard, while
around and close to the very water’s edge peeped forth little villas,
half smothered in orange-blossoms. Far over the lake came their floating
perfumes, as though to lend enchantment to each sense, and steep the
very soul in a delicious luxury.
Now, as Calvert felt the refreshing breath of the gentle air that
stirred the water, he was conscious of a glorious morning, and of
something generally grand in the scene about him; but that was all. He
had little romance--less of the picturesque--in his nature. If his eyes
fell on the lake, it was to fancy the enjoyment of cleaving through
it as a swimmer; if he turned towards the Alps, it was to imagine how
toilsome would prove the ascent; how deeply lay the snow on the wheels
of the diligence; how many feet below the surface were buried the poles
that once marked out the road. But even these were but fleeting fancies.
His thoughts were seriously turned upon his own future, which opened no
bright or brilliant prospect before him. To go back again to India,
to return to the old regimental drudgery, or the still more wearisome
existence of life in a remote detachment; to waste what he felt the
best years of life in inglorious indolence, waiting for that routine
promotion that comes associated with the sense of growing old; and to
trace at last the dim vista of a return to England, when of an age
that all places and people and things have grown to be matters of
indifference. These were sad reflections. So sad, that not even the
bright scene around him could dispel. And then there were others, which
needed no speculation to suggest, and which came with the full force of
documents to sustain them. He was heavily in debt. He owed money to
the army agent, to the paymaster, to the Agra Bank, to the regimental
tailor, to the outfitter--to everyone, in short, who would suffer him to
be a debtor. Bonds, and I O’s, and promissory notes, renewed till they
had nigh doubled, pressed on his memory, and confused his powers of
calculation.
An old uncle, a brother of his mother’s, who was his guardian, would
once on a time have stood by him, but he had forfeited his good esteem
by an act of deception with regard to money, which the old man could not
forgive. “Be it so,” said he; “I deemed my friendship for you worth more
than three hundred pounds. You, it would seem, are differently minded;
keep the money and let us part.” And they did part, not to meet again.
Calvert’s affairs were managed by the regimental agent, and he thought
little more of an old relative, who ceased to hold a place in his memory
when unassociated with crisp inclosures “payable at sight.”
“I wonder what would come of it if I were to write to him; if I were to
put it to his humanity to rescue me from a climate where, after all, I
might die--scores of fellows die out there. At all events, I detest it.
I could say, ‘My leave expires in October, if you would like to see
me once more before I quit England for ever, for I am going to a
pestilential spot--the home of the ague and jungle fever, and Heaven
knows what else--your sister’s son--poor Sophy’s child.’ That ought to
touch him.” And then he went on to think of all the tender and moving
things he could write, and to picture to himself the agitation of him
who read them; and thus speculating, and thus plotting, he swept his
light boat along till she came close in to shore, and he saw the little
villa peeping through the spray-like branches of a weeping ash that
stood beside it “Higher up,” cried a voice, directing him. “Don’t you
know the landing-place yet?” And, startled by a voice not altogether
strange to him, he looked round and saw the old lady of the Rhine
steamer, the same who had snubbed him at Coblentz, the terrible Miss
Grainger of the lost writing-case. It was some minutes before he
remembered that he was performing the part of boatman, and not appearing
in his own character. Resolved to take all the benefit of his incognito,
he lifted his hat in what he fancied to be the true Italian style, and
taking a basket in each hand, followed the old lady to the house.
“It is three days that we have been expecting you,” said she, tartly, as
she walked briskly on, turning at times to point a sarcasm with a fierce
look. “You were punctual enough on Tuesday last, when you came for your
rent. You were to the very minute then, because it suited yourself. But
you are like all your countrymen--mean, selfish, and greedy. As to those
pears you brought last, I have struck them off the account. You may
bring others if you please, but I’ll not pay for rotten fruit any more
than I will for three journeys to Como for nothing--do you hear me, Sir?
three journeys to look after my writing-desk, which I lost on the Rhine,
but which I know was forwarded here, though I can’t get it. Is it worth
your while to answer? Oh, of course, your old excuse--you are forgetting
your English--it is so long since you were a courier. You knew quite
enough, when I came here, to make me pay more than double the proper
rent for this miserable place, with out a carpet, or--” Just as she
readied thus tar, she was joined by one of the young girls, whose looks
had vastly changed for the better, and was now a strikingly fine and
handsome girl.
“Milly,” said the old lady, “take this man round by the kitchen garden,
and get some one to take the fruit from him, and be sure you count the
melons.”
Not sorry for the change of companionship, Calvert followed Milly, who,
not condescending to bestow a look on him, moved haughtily on in front.
“Leave your baskets yonder, my good man,” said she, pointing to a bench
under a spreading fig-tree; and Calvert, depositing his burden, drew
himself up and removed his hat. “My aunt will pay you,” said she,
turning to go away.
“I’d far rather it had been the niece,” said he, in English.
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“A stranger, who, rather than suffer you to incur the privation of a
breakfast without fruit, rowed across the lake this morning to bring
it.”
“Won’t he go, Milly? What is he bargaining about?” cried Miss Grainger,
coming up.
But the young girl ran hastily towards her, and for some minutes they
spoke in a low tone together.
“I think it an impertinence--yes, an impertinence, Milly--and I mean to
tell him so!” said the old lady, fuming with passion. “Such things are
not done in the world. They are unpardonable liberties. What is your
name, Sir?”
“Calvert, Madam.”
“Calvert? Calvert? Not Calvert of Rocksley?” said she, with a sneer.
“No, Ma’am, only his nephew.”
“Are you his nephew, really nis nephew?” said she, with a half
incredulity.
“Yes, Madam, I have that very unprofitable honour, if you axe acquainted
with the family, you will recognise their crest;” and he detached a seal
from his watch-chain and handed it to her.
“Quite true, the portcullis and the old motto, ‘Ferme en Tombant’ I
know, or rather I knew your relatives once, Mr. Calvert;” this was said
with a total change of manner, and a sort of simpering politeness that
sat very ill upon her.
Quick enough to mark this change of manner and profit by it, he said,
somewhat coldly, “Have I heard your name, Madam? Will you permit me to
know it?”
“Miss Grainger, Sir. Miss Adelaide Grainger”--reddening as she spoke.
“Never heard that name before. Will you present me to this young lady?”
And thus with an air of pretension, whose impertinence was partly
covered by an appearance of complete unconsciousness, he bowed and
smiled, and chatted away till the servant announced breakfast.
To the invitation to join them, he vouchsafed the gentlest bend of the
head, and a half smile of acceptance, which the young lady resented by
a stare that might have made a less accomplished master of impertinence
blush to the very forehead. Calvert was, however, a proficient in his
art.
As they entered the breakfast-room, Miss Grainger presented him to a
young and very delicate-looking girl who lay on a sofa propped up by
cushions, and shrouded with shawls, though the season was summer.
“Florence, Mr. Calvert Miss Florence Walter. An invalid come to benefit
by the mild air of Italy, Sir, but who feels even these breezes too
severe and too bracing for her.”
“Egypt is your place,” said Calvert; “one of those nice villas on the
sea slope of Alexandretta, with the palm-trees and the cedars to keep
off the sun;” and seating himself by her side in an easy familiar way,
devoid of all excess of freedom, talked to her about health and sickness
in a fashion that is very pleasant to the ears of suffering. And he
really talked pleasantly on the theme. It was one of which he had
already some experience. The young wife of a brother officer of his own
had gained, in such a sojourn as he pictured, health enough to go on to
India, and was then alive and well, up in the Hill country above Simlah.
“Only fancy, aunt, what Mr. Calvert is promising me--to be
rosy-cheeked,” said the poor sick girl, whose pale face caught a slight
pinkish tint as she spoke. “I am not romancing in the least,” said
Calvert, taking his place next Milly at the table. “The dryness of the
air, and the equitable temperature, work, positively, miracles;” and he
went on telling of cures and recoveries. When at last he arose to take
leave, it was amidst a shower of invitations to come back, and pledges
on his part to bring with him some sketches of the scenery of Lower
Egypt, and some notes he had made of his wanderings there.
“By-the-way,” said he, as he gained the door, “have I your permission
to present a friend who lives with me--a strange, bashful, shy creature,
very good in his way, though that way isn’t exactly my way; but really
clever and well read, I believe. May I bring him? Of course I hope to be
duly accredited to you myself, through my uncle.”
“You need not, Mr. Calvert I recognise you for one of the family in many
ways,” said Miss Grainger; “and when your friend accompanies you, he
will be most welcome.” So, truly cordially they parted.