IT was late at night when Calvert left the villa, but, instead of rowing
directly back to the little inn, he left his boat to drift slowly in
the scarce perceptible current of the lake, and wrapping himself in his
cloak, lay down to muse or to sleep.
It was just as day broke that he awoke, and saw that he had drifted
within a few yards of his quarters, and in a moment after he was on
shore.
As he gained his room, he found a letter for him in Loyd’s hand. It ran
thus:
“I waited up all night to see you before I started, for I
have been suddenly summoned home by family circumstances. I
was loth to part in an angry spirit, or even in coldness,
with one in whose companionship I have passed so many happy
hours, and for whom I feel, notwithstanding what has passed
between us, a sincere interest. I wanted to speak to you of
much which I cannot write--that is to say, I would have
endeavoured to gain a hearing for what I dare not venture to
set down in the deliberate calm of a letter. When I own that
it was of yourself, your temper, your habits, your nature,
in short, that I wished to have spoken, you will, perhaps,
say that it was as well time was not given me for such
temerity. But bear in mind, Calvert, that though I am free
to admit all your superiority over myself, and never would
presume to compare my faculties or my abilities with yours--
though I know well there is not a single gift or grace in
which you are not my master, there is one point in which I
have an advantage over you--I had a mother! You, you have
often told me, never remember to have seen yours. To that
mother’s trainings I owe anything of good, however humble it
be, in my nature, and, though the soil in which the seed has
fallen be poor and barren, so much of fruit has it borne
that I at least respect the good which I do not practise,
and I reverence that virtue to which I am a rebel. The
lesson, above all others, that she instilled into we, was to
avoid the tone of a scoffer, to rescue myself from the cheap
distinction which is open to everyone who sets himself to
see only ridicule in what others respect, and to mock the
themes that others regard with reverence. I stop, for I am
afraid to weary you--I dread that, in your impatience, you
will throw this down and read no more--I will only say, and
I say it in all the sincerity of truth, that if you would
endeavour to be morally as great as what your faculties can
make you intellectually, there is no eminence you might not
attain, nor any you would not adorn.
“If our intimacy had not cooled down of late, from what
causes I am unable to tell, to a point in which the first
disagreement must be a breach between us, I would have told
you that I had formed an attachment to Florence Walter, and
obtained her aunt’s consent to our marriage; I mean, of
course, at some future which I cannot define, for I have my
way to make in the world, and, up to the present, have only
been a burden on others. We are engaged, however, and we
live on hope. Perhaps I presume too far on any interest you
could feel for me when I make you this communication. It
may be that you will say, ‘What is all this to me?’ At all
events, I have told you what, had I kept back, would have
seemed to myself an uncandid reservation. Deal with it how
you may.
“There is, however, another reason why I should tell you
this. If you were unaware of the relations which exist
between our friends and myself, you might unconsciously
speak of me in terms which this knowledge would, perhaps,
modify--at least, you would speak without the consciousness
that you were addressing unwilling hearers. You now know the
ties that bind us, and your words will have that
significance which you intend they should bear.
“Remember, and remember distinctly, I disclaim all
pretension, as I do all wish, to conciliate your favour as
regards this matter; first, because I believe I do not need
it; and secondly, that if I asked for, I should be unworthy
of it. I scarcely know how, after our last meeting, I stand
in your estimation, but I am ready to own that if you would
only suffer yourself to be half as good as your nature had
intended you and your faculties might make you, you would be
conferring a great honour on being the friend of yours
truly,
“Joseph Loyd.”
“What a cant these fellows acquire!” said Calvert as he read the letter
and threw it from him. “What mock humility! what downright and palpable
pretension to superiority through every line of it! The sum of it all
being, I can’t deny that you are cleverer, stronger, more active, and
more manly than me; but, somehow, I don’t exactly see why or, how, but
I’m your better! Well, I’ll write an answer to this one of these days,
and such an answer as I flatter myself he’ll not read aloud to the
company who sit round the fire at the vicarage. And so, Mademoiselle
Florence, this was your anxiety, and this the reason for all that
interest about our quarrel which I was silly enough to ascribe to a
feeling for myself. How invariably it is so! How certain it is that a
woman, the weakest, the least experienced, the most commonplace, is more
than a match in astuteness for a man, in a question where her affections
are concerned. The feminine nature has strange contradictions. They can
summon the courage of a tigress to defend their young, and the spirit
of a Machiavelli to protect a lover. She must have had some misgiving,
however, that, to prefer a fellow like this to me would be felt by me as
an outrage. And then the cunning stroke of implying that her sister was
not indisposed to listen to me. The perfidy of that!”
Several days after Loyd’s departure, Calvert was lounging near the lake,
when he jumped up, exclaiming, “Here comes the postman! I see he makes
a sign to me. What can this be about? Surely, my attached friend has not
written to me again. No, this is a hand that I do not recognise. Let us
see what it contains.” He opened and read as follows:
“Sir,--I have received your letter. None but a scoundrel
could have written it! As all prospect of connexion with
your family is now over, you cannot have a pretext for not
affording me such a satisfaction as, had you been a
gentleman in feeling as you are in station, it would never
have been necessary for me to demand from you. I leave this,
to-morrow, for the continent, and will be at Basle by Monday
next. I will remain there for a week at your orders, and
hope that there may be no difficulty to their speedy
fulfilment.
“I am, your obedient and faithful servant,
“Wentworth Gordon GRAHAM.”
“The style is better than yours, Master Loyd, just because it means
something. The man is in an honest passion and wants a fight The other
fellow was angry, and begged me not to notice it. And so, Sophy, I have
spoiled the wedding favours, and scattered the bridesmaids! What a heavy
lesson for an impertinent note. Poor thing! why did she trust herself
with a pen? Why did she not know that the most fatal of all bottles is
the ink bottle? Precious rage old Uncle Geoffrey must be in. I’d like
to have one peep at the general discomfiture--the deserted dinner-table,
and the empty drawing-room. They deserve it all! they banished _me_,
and much good have they got of it Well, Mr. Wentworth Gordon Graham
must have his wicked way. The only difficulty will be to find what is
so absurdly misnamed as a friend. I must have a friend; I’ll run up to
Milan and search the hotels: I’ll surely find some one who will like the
cheap heroism of seeing another man shot at. This is the season when
all the fellows who have no money for Baden come across the Alps. I’m
certain to chance upon one to suit me.”
Having despatched a short note, very politely worded to Mr. Graham, to
the post office, Basle, he ordered a carriage, and set out for Milan.
The city was in full festivity when he arrived, overjoyed at its
new-born independence, and proud of the presence of its king. The
streets were crowded with a holiday population, and from all the
balconies and windows hung costly tapestries, or gay coloured carpets,
Military music resounded on all sides, and so dense was the throng of
people and carriages, that Calvert could only proceed at a walking pace,
none feeling any especial care to make way for a dusty traveller, seated
in one of the commonest of country conveyances.
As he moved slowly and with difficulty forwards, he suddenly heard his
name called; he looked up, and saw a well known face, that of a brother
officer, who had left India on a sick leave along with himself.
“I say, old fellow!” cried Barnard, “this is your ground; draw into that
large gate to your right, and come up here.”
In a few seconds, Calvert, escorted by a waiter, was shown to his
friend’s apartment.
“I never dreamed of meeting you here, Calvert.”
“Nor I of finding you lodged so sumptuously,” said Calvert, as his
eyes ranged over the splendid room, whose massive hangings of silk,
and richly gilt ceiling, gave that air of a palace one so often sees in
Italian hotels.
“Luck, Sir, luck. I’m married, and got a pot of money with my wife.”
He dropped his voice to a whisper, while, with a gesture of his thumb
towards an adjoining room, he motioned his friend to be cautious.
“Who was she?”
“Nobody; that is, not anyone you ever heard of Stockport people,
called Reppingham. The father, a great railway contractor, vulgar old
dog--begun as a navvy--with one daughter, who is to inherit, they say,
a quarter of a million; but, up to this, we’ve only an allowance--two
thousand a year. The old fellow, however, lives with us--a horrible
nuisance.” This speech, given in short, abrupt whispers, was uttered
with many signs to indicate that the respected father-in-law was in the
vicinity. “Now, of yourself, what’s your news? What have you done last,
eh?”
“Nothing very remarkable. I have been vegetating on a lake in the north
of Italy, trying to live for five shillings a day, and spending three
more in brandy, to give me courage to do it.”
“But your leave is up; or perhaps you have got renewal?”
“No, my leave goes to the fifteenth of October.”
“Not a bit of it; we got our leave on the same day, passed the Board the
same day, and for exactly the same time. My leave expired on the tenth
of August. I’ll show you the paper; I have it here.”
“Do so. Let me see it.”
Barnard opened his desk, and quickly found the paper he sought for. It
was precisely as Barnard said. The Board of Calcutta had confirmed the
regimental recommendation, and granted a two-years’ leave, which ended
on the tenth of August.
“Never mind, man,” said Barnard; “get back to London as hard as you can,
furbish up some sick certificate to say that you were unable to quit
your bed--”
“That is not so easy as you imagine; I have a little affair in hand,
which may end in more publicity than I have any fancy for.” And he told
him of his approaching meeting with Graham, and asked him to be his
friend.
“What was the quarrel about?” asked Barnard.
“A jealousy; he was going to marry a little cousin I used to flirt with,
and we got to words about it. In fact, it is what Sir Lucius would call
a very pretty quarrel, and there’s nothing to be done but finish it.
You’ll stand by me, won’t you?”
“I don’t see how I can. Old Rep, our governor, never leaves me. I’m
obliged to report myself about four times a day.”
“But you know that can never go on. You needn’t be told by me that no
man can continue such a system of slavery, nor is there anything could
recompense it. You’ll have to teach her better one of these days;
begin at once. My being here gives you a pretext to begin. Start at
once--to-day. Just say, ‘I’ll have to show Calvert the lions; he’ll want
to hunt up galleries,’ and such-like.”
“Hush! here comes my wife. Fanny, let me present to you one of my oldest
friends, Calvert It’s a name you have often heard from me.”
The young lady--she was not more than twenty--was pleasing-looking and
well mannered. Indeed, Calvert was amazed to see her so unlike what he
expected; she was neither pretentious nor shy; and, had his friend not
gone into the question of pedigree, was there anything to mark a class
in life other than his own. While they talked together they were joined
by her father, who, however, more than realised the sketch drawn by
Barnard.
He was a morose, down-looking old fellow, with a furtive expression, and
a manner of distrust about him that showed itself in various ways. From
the first, though Calvert set vigorously to work to win his favour, he
looked with a sort of misgiving at him. He spoke very little, but in
that little there were no courtesies wasted; and when Barnard whispered,
“You had better ask him to dine with us, the invitation will come better
from you!” the reply was, “I won’t; do you hear that? I won’t.”
“But he’s an old brother-officer of mine, Sir; we served several years
together.”
“The worse company yours, then.”
“I say, Calvert,” cried Barnard, aloud, “I must give you a peep at our
gay doings here. I’ll take you a drive round the town, and out of the
Porta Orientale, and if we should not be back at dinner-time, Fanny--”
“We’ll dine without you, that’s all!” said the old man; while, taking
his daughter’s hand, he led her out of the room.
“I say, Bob, I’d not change with you, even for the difference,” said
Calvert.
“I never saw him so bad before,” said the other, sheepishly.
“Because you never tried him! Hitherto you have been a spaniel, getting
kicked and cuffed, and rather liking it; but, now that the sight of an
old friend has rallied you to a faint semblance of your former self,
you are shocked and horrified. You made a bad start, Bob; that was the
mistake. You ought to have begun by making him feel the immeasurable
distance there lay between him and a gentleman; not only in dress,
language, and behaviour, but in every sentiment and feeling. Having done
this, he would have tacitly submitted to ways that were not his own, by
conceding that they might be those of a class he had never belonged to.
You might, in short, have ruled him quietly and constitutionally. Now
you have nothing for it but one thing.”
“Which is--”
“A revolution! Yes, you must overthrow the whole government, and build
up another out of the smash. Begin to-day. We’ll dine together wherever
you like. We’ll go to the Scala if it’s open. We’ll sup--”
“But Fanny?”
“She’ll stand by her husband. Though, probably, she’ll have you ‘up’ for
a little private discipline afterwards. Come, don’t lose time. I want to
do my cathedral, and my gallery, and my other curiosities in one day,
for I have some matters to settle at Orto before I start for Basle. Have
they a club, a casino, or anything of the sort here, where they play?”
“There is a place they call the Gettone, but I’ve never been there but
once.”
“Well, we’ll finish there this evening; for I want to win a little
money, to pay my journey.”
“If I can help you--”
“No, no. Not to be thought of. I’ve got some fifty Naps by me--tame
elephants--that are sure to entrap others. You must come with me to
Basle, Bob. You can’t desert me in such a crisis,” said Calvert, as they
left the inn together.
“We’ll see. I’ll think over it. The difficulty will be--”
“The impossibility is worse than a difficulty; and that is what I shall
have to face if you abandon me. Why, only think of it for a moment
Here I am, jilted, out of the army--for I know I shall lose my
commission--without a guinea; you’d not surely wish me to say, without
a friend! If it were not that it would be so selfish, I’d say the step
will be the making of you. You’ll have that old bear so civilised on
your return, you’ll not know him.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know it. He’ll see at once that you’ll not stand this sort of
bullying. That if you did, your friends would not stand it. We shan’t be
away above four days, and those four days will give him a fright he’ll
never forget.”
“I’ll think over it”
“No. You’ll do it--that’s better; and I’ll promise you--if Mr. Graham
does not enter a fatal objection--to come back with you and stand to you
through your troubles.”
Calvert had that about him in his strong will, his resolution, and his
readiness at reply, which exercised no mean despotism over the fellows
of his own age. And it was only they who disliked and avoided him who
ever resisted him. Barnard was an easy victim, and before the day drew
to its close., he had got to believe that it was by a rare stroke of
fortune Calvert had come to Milan-come to rescue him from the “most
degrading sort of bondage a good fellow could possibly fall into.”
They dined splendidly, and sent to engage a box at the Opera; but the
hours passed so pleasantly over their dinner, that they forgot all about
it, and only reached the theatre a few minutes before it closed.
“Now for the--what do you call the place?” cried Calvert.
“The Gettone.”
“That’s it. I’m eager to measure my luck against these Milanais. They
say, besides, no fellow has such a vein as when his life is threatened;
and I remember myself, when I had the yellow fever at Galle, I passed
twenty-one times at écarte’, all because I was given over!”
“What a fellow you are, Calvert!” said the other, with a weak man’s
admiration for whatever was great, even in infamy.
“You’ll see how I’ll clear them out But what have I done with my purse?
Left it on my dressing table, I suppose they are honest in the hotel?”
“Of course they are. It’s all safe; and I’ve more money about me than
you want Old Rep handed me three thousand francs this morning to pay the
bill, and when I saw you, I forgot all about it.”
“Another element of luck,” cried Calvert, joyously. “The money that
does not belong to a man always wins. Why, there’s five thousand francs
here,” said Calvert, as he counted over the notes.
“Two of them are Fanny’s, She got her quarter’s allowance yesterday.
Stingy, isn’t it? Only three hundred a year.”
“It’s downright disgraceful. She ought to have eight at the very least;
but wait till we come back from Basle. You’ll not believe what a change
I’ll work in that old fellow, when I take him in hand.”
By this time they had reached the Gettone, and, after a brief colloquy,
were suffered to pass up stairs and enter the rooms.
“Oh, it’s faro they play; my own game,” whispered Calvert, “I was afraid
the fellows might have indulged in some of their own confounded things,
which no foreigner can compete in. At faro I fear none.”
While Barnard joined a group of persons round a roulette-table, where
fashionably-dressed women adventured their franc pieces along with men
clad in the most humble mode, Calvert took his place among the faro
players. The boldness of his play, and the reckless way he adventured
his money, could not conceal from their practised acuteness that he was
master of the game, and they watched him attentively.
“I think I have nearly cleaned them out, Bob,” cried he to his friend,
as he pointed to a heap of gold and silver, which lay promiscuously
piled up before him.
“I suppose you must give them their revenge?” whispered the other, “if
they wish for it.”
“Nothing of the kind. At a public table, a winner rises when he pleases.
If I continue to sit here now, it is because that old fellow yonder has
got a rouleau in his pocket which he cannot persuade himself to break.
See, he has taken it out: for the fourth time, this is. I wonder can he
screw up his courage to risk it. Yes! he has! There go ten pieces on the
queen. Go back to your flirtation with the blonde ringlets, and don’t
disturb my game. I must have that fellow’s rouleau before I leave. Go
back, and I’ll not tell your wife.”
It was in something less than an hour after this that Barnard felt a
hand laid on his shoulder, and looking up, saw Calvert standing over
him. “Well, it took you some time to finish that old fellow, Calvert!”
“He finished _me_ which was worse. Have you got a cigar?”
“Do you mean that you lost all your winnings?”
“Yes, and your five thousand francs besides, not to speak of a borrowed
thousand from someone I have given my card to. A bore, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than a bore--it’s a bad business. I don’t know how I’ll
settle it with the landlord.”
“Give him a bill, he’ll never be troublesome: and, as to your wife’s
money, tell her frankly you lost it at play. Isn’t that the best way,
Madame?” said he, addressing a young and pretty woman at his side. “I am
advising my friend to be honest with his wife, and confess that he spent
his money in very pleasant company. Come along out of this stuffy place.
Let us have a walk in the fresh cool air, and a cigar, if you have one.
I often wonder,” said he, as they gained the street, “how the fellows
who write books and want to get up sensation scenes, don’t come and do
something of this sort There’s a marvellous degree of stimulant in being
cleaned out, not only of one’s own cash, but of one’s credit; and
by credit I mean it in the French sense, which says, ‘Le crédit est
l’argent des autres.’”
“I wish you had not lost that money,” muttered the other.
“So do I. I have combativeness very strong, and I hate being beaten by
anyone in anything.”
“I’m thinking of the money!” said the other, doggedly.
“Naturally, for it was yours. ‘‘Twas mine, ‘tis his,’ as Hamlet has it
Great fellow, Hamlet! I don’t suppose that anyone ever drew a character
wherein Gentleman was so distinctly painted as Hamlet. He combined all
the grandest ideas of his class with a certain ‘disinvoltura’--a sort of
high bred levity--that relieved his sternness, and made him much better
company than such fellows as Laertes and Horatio.”
“When you saw luck turning, why didn’t you leave off?”
“Why not ask why the luck turned before I left off? That would be the
really philosophic inquiry. Isn’t it chilly?”
“I’m not cold, but I’m greatly provoked.”
“So am I for _you_; for I haven’t got enough to repay you, but trust me
to arrange the matter in the morning. The landlord will see the thing
with the eyes of his calling: he’ll soon perceive that the son-in-law
of a man who travels with two carriages, and can’t speak one word of
French, is one to be trusted. I mean him to cash a bill for us before
I leave. Old Rep’s white hat and brown spencer are guarantees for fifty
thousand francs in any city of Europe. There is a solvent vulgarity in
the very creak of his shoes.”
“Oh! he’s not a very distinguished-looking person, certainly,” said
Barnard, who now resented the liberty he had himself led the way to.
“There I differ with you; _I_ call him eminently distinguished, and I’d
rather be able to ‘come’ that cravat tie, and have the pattern of the
dark-green waistcoat with the red spots, than I’d have--what shall I
say?--all the crisp bank paper I lost awhile ago. You are not going in,
surely?” cried he, as the other rang violently at the hotel.
“Yes; I am very tired of this fooling. I wish you hadn’t lost that
money.”
“Do you remember how it goes, Bob?
‘His weary song,
The whole day long,
Was still l’argent, l’argent, l’argent’
She is complaining that though the linnet is singing in the trees, and
the trout leaping in the river, her tiresome husband could only liken
them to the clink of the gold as it fell on the counter? Why, man,
you’ll wake the dead if you ring in that fashion!”
“I want to get in.”
“Here comes the fellow at last; how disgusted he’ll be to find there’s
not a five-franc piece between us.”
Scarcely was the door opened than Barnard passed in and left him without
even a good-night.