THE knowledge Calvert now possessed of the humble relations which had
subsisted between Miss Grainger and his uncle’s family, had rendered
him more confident in his manner, and given him even a sort of air of
protection towards them. Certain it is, each day made him less and less
a favourite at the villa, while Loyd, on the other hand, grew in esteem
and liking with everyone of them. A preference which, with whatever tact
shrouded, showed itself in various shapes.
“I perceive,” said Calvert one morning, as they sat at breakfast
together, “my application for an extension of leave is rejected. I
am ordered to hold myself in readiness to sail with drafts for some
regiments in Upper India!” he paused for a few seconds, and then
continued. “I’d like anyone to tell me what great difference there is
in real condition between an Indian officer and a transported felon. In
point of daily drudgery there is little, and as for climate the felon
has the best of it.”
“I think you take too dreary a view of your fortune. It is not the sort
of career I would choose, nor would it suit me, but if my lot had fallen
that way, I suspect I’d not have found it so unendurable.”
“No. It would not suit you. There’s no scope in a soldier’s life for
those little sly practices, those small artifices of tact and ingenuity,
by which subtlety does its work in this world. In such a career, all
this adroitness would be clean thrown away.”
“I hope,” said Loyd, with a faint smile, “that you do not imagine that
these are the gifts to achieve success in any calling.”
“I don’t know--I am not sure, but I rather suspect they find their place
at the Bar.”
“Take my word for it, then, you are totally mistaken. It is an error
just as unworthy of your good sense as it is of your good feeling!” And
he spoke with warmth and energy.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Calvert “For three months I have been exploring
to find one spot in your whole nature that would respond fiercely to
attack, and at last I have it.”
“You put the matter somewhat offensively to me, or I’d not have replied
in this fashion--but let us change the topic, it is an unpleasant one.”
“I don’t think so. When a man nurtures what his friend believes to be a
delusion, and a dangerous delusion, what better theme can there be than
its discussion?”
“I’ll not discuss it,” said Loyd, with determination.
“You’ll not discuss it?”
“No!”
“What if I force you? What if I place the question on grounds so direct
and so personal that you can’t help it?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You shall presently. For some time back I have been thinking of asking
an explanation from you--an explanation of your conduct at the villa.
Before you had established an intimacy there, _I_ stood well with
everyone. The old woman, with all her respect for my family and
connexions, was profuse in her attentions. Of the girls, as I somewhat
rashly confided to you, I had only to make my choice. I presented you
to them, never anticipating that I was doing anything very dangerous to
them or to myself, but I find I was wrong. I don’t want to descend to
details, nor inquire how and by what arts you gained your influence; my
case is simply with the fact that, since _you_ have been in favour, _I_
have been out of it My whole position with them is changed. I can only
suggest now what I used to order, and I have the pleasure, besides, of
seeing that even my suggestion must be submitted to you and await your
approval.”
“Have you finished?” said Loyd, calmly.
“No, far from it! I could make my charge extend over hours long. In
fact, I have only to review our lives here for the last six or seven
weeks, to establish all I have been saying, and show you that you owe me
an explanation, and something more than an explanation.”
“Have you done now?”
“If you mean, have I said all that I could say on this subject, no, far
from it. You have not heard a fiftieth part of what I might say about
it.”
“Well, I have heard quite enough. My answer is this, you are totally
mistaken; I never, directly or indirectly, prejudiced your position. I
seldom spoke of you, never slightingly. I have thought, it is true, that
you assumed towards these ladies a tone of superiority, which could not
fail to be felt by them, and that the habit grew on you, to an extent
you perhaps were not aware of; as, however, they neither complained of,
nor resented it, and as, besides, you were far more a man of the world
than myself, and consequently knew better what the usages of society
permitted, I refrained from any remark, nor, but for your present
charge, would I say one word now on the subject.”
“So, then, you have been suffering in secret all this time over my
domineering and insolent temper, pitying the damsels in distress, but
not able to get up enough of Quixotism to avenge them?”
“Do you want to quarrel with me, Calvert?” said the other calmly.
“If I knew what issue it would take, perhaps I could answer you.”
“I’ll tell you, then, at least so far as I am concerned, I have never
injured, never wronged you. I have therefore nothing to recall, nothing
to redress, upon any part of my conduct. In what you conceive you are
personally interested, I am ready to give a full explanation, and this
done, all is done between us.”
“I thought so, I suspected as much,” said Calvert, contemptuously. “I
was a fool to suppose you’d have taken the matter differently, and now
nothing remains for me but to treat my aunt’s nursery governess with
greater deference, and be more respectful in the presence--the august
presence--of a lawyer’s clerk.”
“Good-bye, Sir,” said Loyd, as he left the room.
Calvert sat down and took up a book, but though he read three full
pages, he knew nothing of what they contained. He opened his desk, and
began a letter to Loyd, a farewell letter, a justification of himself,
but done more temperately than he had spoken; but he tore it up, and so
with a second and a third. As his passion mounted, he bethought him of
his cousin and her approaching marriage. “I can spoil some fun there,”
cried he, and wrote as follows:
“Lago d’Orta, August 12.
“Dear Sir,--In the prospect of the nearer relations which a
few days more will establish between us, I venture to
address you thus familiarly. My cousin, Miss Sophia Calvert,
has informed me by a letter I have just received that she
deemed it her duty to place before you a number of letters
written by me to her, at a time when there subsisted between
us a very close attachment. With my knowledge of my cousin’s
frankness, her candour, and her courage--for it would also
require some courage--I am fully persuaded that she has
informed you thoroughly on all that has passed. We were both
very young, very thoughtless, and, worse than either, left
totally to our own guidance, none to watch, none to look
after us. There is no indiscretion in my saying that we were
both very much in love, and with that sort of confidence in
each other that renders distrust a crime to one’s own
conscience. Although, therefore, she may have told you much,
her womanly dignity would not let her dwell on these
circumstances, explanatory of much, and palliative of all
that passed between us. To you, a man of the world, I owe
this part declaration, less, however, for your sake or for
mine, than for her, for whom either of us ought to make any
sacrifice in our power.
“The letters she wrote me are still in my possession. I own
they are very dear to me; they are all that remain of a
past, to which nothing in my future life can recall the
equal. I feel, however, that your right to them is greater
than my own, but I do not know how to part with them. I pray
you advise me in this. Say how you would act in a like
circumstance, knowing all that has occurred, and be assured
that your voice will be a command to your very devoted
servant,
“H.C.
“P.S.--When I began this letter, I was minded to say my
cousin should see it: on second thoughts, I incline to say
not, decidedly not.”
When this base writer had finished writing he flung down the pen, and
said to himself, half aloud, “I’d give something to see him read this!”
With a restless impatience to do something--anything, he left the house,
walking with hurried steps to the little jetty where the boats lay.
“Where’s my boat, Onofrio?” said he, asking for the skiff he generally
selected.
“The other signor has taken her across the lake.”
“This is too much,” muttered he. “The fellow fancies that because he
skulks a satisfaction, he is free to practise an impertinence. He knew I
preferred this boat, and therefore he took her.”
“Jump in, and row me across to La Rocca,” said he to the boatman. As
they skimmed across the lake, his mind dwelt only on vengeance, and
fifty different ways of exacting it passed and repassed before him. All,
however, concentrating on the one idea--that to pass some insult upon
Loyd in presence of the ladies would be the most fatal injury he could
inflict, but how to do this without a compromise of himself was the
difficulty.
“Though no woman will ever forgive a coward,” thought he, “I must take
care that the provocation I offer be such as will not exclude myself
from sympathy.” And, with all his craft and all his cunning, he could
not hit upon a way to this. He fancied, too, that Loyd had gone over to
prejudice the ladies against him by his own version of what had occurred
in the morning. He knew well how, of late, he himself had not occupied
the highest place in their esteem--it was not alone the insolent and
overbearing tone _he_ assumed, but a levity in talking of things
which others treated with deference, alike offensive to morals and
manners--these had greatly lowered him in their esteem, especially of
the girls, for old Miss Grainger, with a traditional respect for his
name and family, held to him far more than the others.
“What a fool I was ever to have brought the fellow here! What downright
folly it was in me to have let them ever know him. Is it too late,
however, to remedy this? Can I not yet undo some of this mischief?” This
was a new thought, and it filled his mind till he landed. As he drew
quite close to the shore he saw that the little awning-covered boat,
in which the ladies occasionally made excursions on the lake, was now
anchored under a large drooping ash, and that Loyd and the girls were on
board of her. Loyd was reading to them; at least so the continuous and
equable tone of his voice indicated, as it rose in the thin and silent
air. Miss Grainger was not there--and this was a fortunate thing--for
now he should have his opportunity to talk with her alone, and probably
ascertain to what extent Loyd’s representations had damaged him.
He walked up to the villa, and entered the drawing-room, as he was wont,
by one of the windows that opened on the green sward without. There
was no one in the room, but a half-written letter, on which the ink was
still fresh, showed that the writer had only left it at the instant. His
eye caught the words, “Dear and Reverend Sir,” and in the line beneath
the name Loyd. The temptation was too strong, and he read on:
“Dear and Reverend Sir,--I hasten to express my entire
satisfaction with the contents of your letter. Your son, Mr.
Loyd, has most faithfully represented his position and his
prospects, and, although my niece might possibly have placed
her chances of happiness in the hands of a wealthier suitor,
I am fully assured she never could have met with one whose
tastes, pursuits, and general disposition--”
A sound of coming feet startled him, and he had but time to throw
himself on a sofa, when Miss Grainger entered. Her manner was
cordial--fully as cordial as usual--perhaps a little more so, since,
in the absence of her nieces, she was free to express the instinctive
regard she felt towards all that bore his name.
“How was it that you did not come with Loyd?” asked she.
“I was busy, writing letters I believe--congratulations on Sophy’s
approaching marriage; but what did Loyd say--was that the reason he
gave?”
“He gave none. He said he took a whim into his head to row himself
across the lake; and indeed I half suspect the exertion was too much for
him. He has been coughing again, and the pain in his side has returned.”
“He’s a wretched creature--I mean as regards health and strength. Of
course he always must have been so: but the lives these fellows lead in
London would breach the constitution of a really strong man.”
“Not Loyd, however; he never kept late hours, nor had habits of
dissipation.”
“I don’t suppose he ever told you that he had,” said he, laughing. “I
conclude that he has never shown you his diary of town life.”
“But do you tell me, seriously, that he is a man of dissipated habits?”
“Not more so than eight out of every ten, perhaps, in his class of life.
The student is everywhere more given to the excitements of vice than the
sportsman. It is the compensation for the wearisome monotony of brain
labour, and they give themselves up to excesses from which the healthier
nature of a man with country tastes would revolt at once. But what have
I to do with his habits? I am not his guardian nor his confessor.”
“But they have a very serious interest for _me_.”
“Then you must look for another counsellor. I am not so immaculate
that I can arraign others; and, if I were, I fancy I might find some
pleasanter occupation.”
“But if I tell you a secret, a great secret--”
“I’d not listen to a secret I detest secrets, just as I’d hate to have
the charge of another man’s money. So, I warn you, tell me nothing that
you don’t want to hear talked of at dinner, and before the servants.”
“Yes; but this is a case in which I really need your advice.”
“You can’t have it at the price you propose. Not to add, that I have a
stronger sentiment to sway me in this case, which you will understand
at once, when I you tell that he is a man of whom I would like to speak
with great reserve, for the simple reason that I don’t like him.”
“Don’t like him! You don’t like him!”
“It does seem very incredible to you; but I must repeat it, I don’t like
him.”
“But will you tell me why? What are the grounds of your dislike?”
“Is it not this very moment I have explained to you that my personal
feeling towards him inspires a degree of deference which forbids me to
discuss his character? He may be the best fellow in Europe, the bravest,
the boldest, the frankest, the fairest All I have to say is, that if I
had a sister, and he proposed to marry her I’d rather see her a corpse
than his wife; and now you have led me into a confession that I told you
I’d not enter upon. Say another word about it and I’ll go and ask Loyd
to come up here and listen to the discussion, for I detest secrets and
secrecy, and I’ll have nothing to say to either.”
“You’d not do anything so rash and inconsiderate?”
“Don’t provoke me, that’s all. You are always telling me you know the
Calverts, their hot-headedness, their passionate warmth, and so on. I
leave it to yourself, is it wise to push me further?”
“May I show you a letter I received yesterday morning, in reply to one
of mine?”
“Not if it refers to Loyd.”
“It does refer to him.”
“Then I’ll not read it. I tell you for the last time, I’ll not be
cheated into this discussion. I don’t desire to have it said of me some
fine morning, You talked of the man that you lived with on terms of
intimacy. You chummed with him, and yet you told stories of him.”
“If you but knew the difficulty of the position in which you have placed
me--”
“I know at least the difficulty in which you have placed _me_, and I am
resolved not to incur it. Have I given to you Sophy’s letter to read?”
said he with a changed voice. “I must fetch it out to you and let you
see all that she says of her future happiness.” And thus, by a sudden
turn, he artfully engaged her in recollections of Rocksley, and all the
persons and incidents of a remote long ago!
When Loyd returned with the girls to the house, Calvert soon saw that
he had not spoken to them on the altercation of the morning--a reserve
which he ungenerously attributed to the part Loyd himself filled in the
controversy. The two met with a certain reserve; but which, however felt
and understood by each, was not easily marked by a spectator. Florence,
however, saw it, with the traditional clearness of an invalid. She
read what healthier eyes never detect She saw that the men had either
quarrelled, or were on the brink of a quarrel, and she watched them
closely and narrowly. This was the easier for her, as at meal times she
never came to table, but lay on a sofa, and joined in the conversation
at intervals.
Oppressed by the consciousness of what had occurred in the morning, and
far less able to conceal his emotions or master them than his companion,
Loyd was disconcerted and ill at ease: now answering at cross-purposes,
now totally absorbed in his own reflections. As Calvert saw this, it
encouraged him to greater efforts to be agreeable. He could, when he
pleased, be a most pleasing guest. He had that sort of knowledge of
people and life which seasons talk so well, and suits so many listeners.
He was curious to find out to which of the sisters Loyd was engaged,
but all his shrewdness could not fix the point decisively. He talked on
incessantly, referring occasionally to Loyd to confirm what he knew well
the other’s experience could never have embraced, and asking frankly,
as it were, for his opinion on people he was fully aware the other had
never met with.
Emily (or Milly, as she was familiarly called) Walter showed impatience
more than once at these sallies, which always made Loyd confused and
uncomfortable, so that Calvert leaned to the impression that it was
she herself was the chosen one. As for Florence, she rather enjoyed,
he thought, the awkward figure Loyd presented, and she even laughed
outright at his bashful embarrassment.
“Yes,” said Calvert to himself, “Florence is with me. She is my ally.
I’m sure of her.”
“What spirits he has,” said Miss Grainger, as she brought the sick girl
her coffee. “I never saw him in a gayer mood. He’s bent on tormenting
Loyd though, for he has just proposed a row on the lake, and that he
should take one boat and Loyd the other, and have a race. He well knows
who’ll win.”
“That would be delightful, aunt Let us have it by all means. Mr.
Calvert, I engage _you_. You are to take _me_. Emily will go with Mr.
Loyd.”
“And I’ll stand at the point and be the judge,” said Miss Grainger.
Calvert never waited for more, but springing up, hastened down to the
shore to prepare the boat He was soon followed by Miss Grainger, with
Florence leaning on her arm and looking brighter and fairer than he
thought he had ever seen her.
“Let us be off at once,” whispered Calvert, “for I’d like a few hundred
yards’ practice--a sort of trial gallop--before I begin;” and, placing
the sick girl tenderly in the stern, he pulled vigorously out into the
lake. “What a glorious evening!” said he. “Is there anything in the
world can equal one of these sunsets on an Italian lake, with all the
tints of the high Alps blending softly on the calm water?”
She made no answer; and he went on enthusiastically about the scene, the
hour, the stillness, and the noble sublimity of the gigantic mountains
which arose around them.
Scarcely, however, had Calvert placed her in the boat, and pulled out
vigorously from the shore, than he saw a marked change come over the
girl’s face. All the laughing gaiety of a moment back was gone, and an
expression of anxiety had taken its place.
“You are not ill?” asked he, eagerly.
“No. Why do you ask me?”
“I was afraid--I fancied you looked paler. You seem changed.”
“So I am,” said she, seriously. “Answer me what I shall ask, but tell me
frankly.”
“That I will; what is it?”
“You and Loyd have quarrelled--what was it about?”
“What a notion! Do you imagine that the silly quizzing that passes,
between young men implies a quarrel?”
“No matter what I fancy; tell me as candidly as you said you would. What
was the subject of your disagreement?”
“How peremptory you are,” said he laughing. “Are you aware that to give
your orders in this fashion implies one of two things--a strong interest
in me, or in my adversary?”
“Well, I accept the charge; now for the confession.”
“Am I right, then, dearest Florence?” said he, ceasing to row, and
leaning down to look the nearer at her. “Am I right, then, that your
claim to this knowledge is the best and most indisputable?”
“Tell me what it is!” said she, and her pale face suddenly glowed with a
deep flush.
“You guessed aright, Florence, we did quarrel; that is, we exchanged
very angry words, though it is not very easy to say how the difference
began, nor how far it went I was dissatisfied with him. I attributed to
his influence, in some shape or other, that I stood less well here--in
_your_ esteem, I mean--than formerly; and he somewhat cavalierly told
me if there were a change I owed it to myself, that I took airs upon me,
that I was haughty, presuming, and fifty other things of the same sort;
and so, with an interchange of such courtesies, we grew at last to feel
very warm, and finally reached that point where men--of the world, at
least--understand discussion ceases, and something else succeeds.”
“Well, go on,” cried she, eagerly.
“All is told; there is no more to say. The lawyer did not see the thing,
perhaps, in the same vulgar light that I did; he took his hat, and came
over here. I followed him, and there’s the whole of it.”
“I think he was wrong to comment upon your manner, if not done from a
sense of friendship, and led on to it by some admission on your part.”
“Of course he was; and I am charmed to hear you say so.”
She was silent for some time, leaning her head on her hand, and
appearing deep in thought.
“Now that I have made _my_ confession, will you let me have one of
_yours?_” said he, in a low, soft voice.
“I’m not sure; what’s it to be about?”
“It’s about myself I want to question you.”
“About yourself! Surely you could not have hit upon a sorrier adviser,
or a less experienced counsellor than I am.”
“I don’t want advice, Florence, I only want a fact; and from all I have
seen of you, I believe you will deal fairly with me.”
She nodded assent, and he went on:
“In a few weeks more I shall be obliged to return to India; to a land I
dislike, and a service I detest: to live amongst companions distasteful
to me, and amidst habits and associations that, however endurable when I
knew no better, are now become positively odious in my eyes. This is my
road to rank, station, and honour. There is, however, another path;
and if I relinquish this career, and give up all thought of ambition, I
might remain in Europe--here, perhaps, on this very lake side--and
lead a life of humble but unbroken happiness--one of those peaceful
existences which poets dream of, but never realise, because it is no
use in disparaging the cup of life till one has tasted and known its
bitterness; and these men have not reached such experience--_I_ have.”
He waited for her to speak--he looked eagerly at her for a word--but she
was silent.
“The confession I want from you, Florence, is this: could you agree to
share this life with me?”
She shook her head and muttered, but what he could not catch.
“It would be too dreary, too sad-coloured, you think?”
“No,” said she, “not that.”
“You fear, perhaps, that these schemes of isolation have never
succeeded: that weariness will come when there are no longer new objects
to suggest interest or employment?”
“Not that,” said she, more faintly.
“Then the objection must be myself. Florence, is it that you would, not,
that you could not, trust me with your happiness?”
“You ask for frankness, and you shall have it. I cannot except your
offer. My heart is no longer mine to give.”
“And this--this engagement, has been for some time back?” asked he,
almost sternly.
“Yes, for some time,” said she, faintly.
“Am I acquainted with the object of it? Perhaps I have no right to ask
this. But there is a question I have full and perfect right to ask. How,
consistently with such an engagement, have you encouraged the attentions
I have paid you?”
“Attentions! and to me! Why, your attentions have been directed rather
to my sister--at least, she always thought so--and even these we deemed
the mere passing flirtations of one who made no secret of saying that he
regarded marriage as an intolerable slavery, or rather, the heavy price
that one paid for the pleasure of courtship.”
“Are the mere levities with which I amused an hour to be recorded
against me as principles?”
“Only when such levities fitted into each other so accurately as to show
plan and contrivance.”
“It was Loyd said that. That speech was his. I’d lay my life on it.”
“I think not. At least, if the thought were his, he’d have expressed it
far better.”
“You admire him, then?” asked he, peering closely at her..
“I wonder why they are not here,” said she, turning her head away. “This
same race ought to come off by this time.”
“Why don’t you answer my question?”
“There he goes! Rowing away all alone, too, and my aunt is waving her
handkerchief in farewell. See how fast he sends the boat through the
water. I wonder why he gave up the race?”
“Shall I tell you? He dislikes whatever he is challenged to do. He is
one of those fellows who will never dare to measure himself against
another.”
“My aunt is beckoning to us to come back, Mr. Calvert.”
“And my taste is for going forward,” muttered he, while at the same time
he sent the boat’s head suddenly round, and pulled vigorously towards
the shore.
“May I trust that what has passed between us is a secret, and not to be
divulged to another--not even to your sister?”
“If you desire--if you exact.”
“I do, most decidedly. It is shame enough to be rejected. I don’t see
why my disgrace is to be paraded either for pity or ridicule.”
“Oh, Mr. Calvert--”
“Or triumphed over,” said he sternly, as he sent the boat up to the side
of the little jetty, where Miss Grainger and her niece awaited them.
“Poor Loyd has just got bad news from home,” said Miss Grainger, “and he
has hastened back to ask, by telegraph, if they wish him to return.”
“Anyone ill, or dying?” asked Calvert carelessly.
“No, it’s some question of law about his father’s vicarage. There would
seem to be a doubt as to his presentation--whether the appointment lay
with the patron of the bishop.”
Calvert turned to mark how the girls received these tidings, but they
had walked on, and with heads bent down, and close together, were deep
in conversation.
“I thought it was only in my profession,” said Calvert sneeringly,
“where corrupt patronage was practised. It is almost a comfort to think
how much the good people resemble the wicked ones.”
Miss Grainger, who usually smiled at his levities, looked grave at this
one, and no more was said, as they moved on towards the cottage.