THERE was an unusual depression at the villa each had his or her
own load of anxiety, and each felt that an atmosphere of gloom was
thickening around, and, without being able to say why or wherefore, that
dark days were coming.
“Among your letters this morning was there none from the vicar, Mr.
Calvert?” asked Miss Grainger, as he sat smoking his morning cigar under
the porch of the cottage.
“No,” said he, carelessly. “The post brought me nothing of any interest
A few reproaches from my friends about not writing, and relieving
their anxieties about this unhappy business. They had it that I was
killed--beyond that, nothing.”
“But we ought to have heard from old Mr. Loyd before this. Strange, too,
Joseph has not written.”
“Stranger if he had! The very mention of my name as a referee in his
affairs will make him very cautious with his pen.”
“She is so fretted,” sighed the old lady.
“I see she is, and I see she suspects, also, that you have taken me in
your counsels. We are not as good friends as we were some time back.”
“She really likes you, though--I assure you she does, Mr. Calvert. It
was but t’other day she said, ‘What would have become of us all this
time back if Mad Harry--you know your nickname--if Mad Harry had not
been here?’”
“That’s not liking! That is merely the expression of a weak gratitude
towards the person who helps to tide over a dreary interval. You might
feel it for the old priest who played piquet with you, or the Spitz
terrier that accompanied you in your walks.
“Oh, it’s far more than that. She is constantly talking of your great
abilities--how you might be this, that and t’other. That, with scarcely
an effort, you can master any subject, and without any effort at all
always make yourself more agreeable than anyone else.”
“Joseph excepted?”
“No, she didn’t even except him; on the contrary, she said, ‘It was
unfortunate for him to be exposed to such a dazzling rivalry--that your
animal spirits alone would always beat him out of the field.’”
“Stuff and nonsense! If I wasn’t as much his superior in talent as in
temperament, I’d fling myself over that rock yonder, and make an end
of it!” After a few seconds’ pause he went on: “She may think what she
likes of _me_, but one thing is plain enough--she does not love _him_.
It is the sort of compassionating, commiserating estimate imaginative
girls occasionally get up for dreary depressed fellows,
constituting themselves discoverers of intellect that no one ever
suspected--revealers of wealth that none had ever dreamed of. Don’t I
know scores of such who have poetised the most commonplace of men into
heroes, and never found out their mistake till they married them!”
“You always terrify me when you take to predicting, Mr. Calvert”
“Heaven knows, it’s not my ordinary mood. One who looks so little into
the future for himself has few temptations to do so for his friends.”
“Why do you feel so depressed?”
“I’m not sure that I do feel depressed. I’m irritable, out of sorts,
annoyed if you will; but not low or melancholy. Is it not enough to
make one angry to see such a girl as Florry bestow her affections on
that--Well, I’ll not abuse him, but you _know_ he is a ‘cad’--that’s
exactly the word that fits him.”
“It was no choice of mine,” she sighed.
“That may be; but you ought to have been more than passive in the
matter. Your fears would have prevented you letting your niece stop for
a night in an unhealthy locality. You’d not have suffered her to halt
in the Pontine Marshes; but you can see no danger in linking her whole
future life to influences five thousand times more depressing. I tell
you, and I tell you deliberately, that she’d have a far better chance of
happiness with a scamp like myself.”
“Ah, I need not tell you my own sentiments on that point,” said she,
with a deep sigh.
Calvert apparently set little store by such sympathy, for he rose, and
throwing away the end of his cigar, stood looking out over the lake.
“Here comes Onofrio, flourishing some letters in his hand. The idiot
fancies the post never brings any but pleasant tidings.”
“Let us go down and meet him,” said Miss Grainger; and he walked along
at her side in silence.
“Three for the Signor Capitano,” said the boatman, “and one for the
signorina,” handing the letters as he landed.
“Drayton,” muttered Calvert; “the others are strange to me.”
“This is from Joseph. How glad poor Florry will be to get it.”
“Don’t defer her happiness, then,” said he, half-sternly; “I’ll sit down
on the rocks here and con over my less pleasant correspondence.” One was
from his lawyer, to state that outlawry could no longer be resisted,
and that if his friends would not come forward at once with some
satisfactory promise of arrangement, the law must take its course. “My
friends,” said he, with a bitter laugh, “which be they?” The next he
opened was from the army agents, dryly setting forth that as he had
left the service it was necessary he should take some immediate steps
to liquidate some regimental claims against him, of which they begged to
enclose the particulars. He laughed bitterly and scornfully as he tore
the letter to fragments and threw the pieces into the water. “How well
they know the man they threaten!” cried he defiantly. “I’d like to know
how much a drowning man cares for his duns?” He laughed again. “Now for
Drayton. I hope this will be pleasanter than its predecessors.” It was
not very long, and it was as follows:
“The Rag, Tuesday.
“Dear Harry,--Your grateful compliments on the dexterity of
my correspondence in the Meteor arrived at an unlucky
moment, for some fellow had just written to the editor a
real statement of the whole affair, and the next day came a
protest, part French, part English, signed by Edward
Rochefort, Lieutenant-Colonel; Gustavus Brooke, D.L.;
George Law, M.D.; Albericde Raymond, Vicomte, and Jules de
Lassagnac. They sent for me to the office to see the
document, and I threw all imaginable discredit on its
authenticity, but without success. The upshot is, _I_ have
lost my place as ‘own correspondent,’ and you are in a very
bad way. The whole will appear in print to-morrow, and be
read from Hudson’s Bay to the alaya. I have done my best to
get the other papers to disparage the statement, and have
written all the usual bosh about condemning a man in his
absence, and entreating the public to withhold its judgment,
&c. &c; but they all seem to feel that the tide of popular
sentiment is too strong to resist, and you must be
pilloried; prepare yourself, then, for a pitiless pelting,
which, as parliament is not sitting, will probably have a
run of three or four weeks.
“In any other sort of scrape, the fellows at the club here
would have stood by you, but they shrink from the danger of
this business, which I now see was worse than you told me.
Many, too, are more angry with you for deserting B. than for
shooting the other fellow; and though B. was an arrant snob,
now that he is no more you wouldn’t believe what shoals of
good qualities they have discovered he possessed, and he is
‘poor Bob’ in the mouth of twenty fellows who would not have
been seen in his company a month ago. There is, however,
worse than all this: a certain Reppingham, or Reppengham,
the father of B.’s wife, has either already instituted, or
is about to institute, proceedings against you criminally.
He uses ugly words, calls it a murder, and has demanded a
warrant for your extradition and arrest at once. There is a
story of some note you are said to have written to B., but
which arrived when he was insensible, and was read by the
people about him, who were shocked by its heartless levity.
What is the truth as to this? At all events, Rep has got a
vendetta fit on him, and raves like a Corsican for
vengeance. Your present place of concealment, safe enough
for duns, will offer no security against detectives. The
bland blackguards with black whiskers know the geography of
Europe as well as they know the blind alleys about
Houndsditch. You must decamp, therefore; get across the
Adriatic into Dalmatia, or into Greece. Don’t delay,
whatever you do, for I see plainly, that in the present
state of public opinion, the fellow who captures you will
come back here with a fame like that of Gérard the lion-
killer. Be sure of one thing, if you were just as clean
handed in this business as I know you are not, there is no
time now for a vindication. You _must_ get out of the way,
and wait. The clubs, the press, the swells at the Horse
Guards, and the snobs at the War-office, are all against
you, and there’s no squaring your book against such long
odds. I am well aware that no one gets either into or out of
a scrape more easily than yourself; but don’t treat this as
a light one: don’t fancy, above all, that I am giving you
the darkest side of it, for, with all our frankness and free
speech together, I couldn’t tell you the language people
hold here about it There’s not a man you ever bullied at
mess, or beat at billiards, that is not paying off his
scores to you now! And though you may take all this easily,
don’t undervalue its importance.
“I haven’t got--and I don’t suppose you care much now to
get--any information about Loyd, beyond his being appointed
something, Attorney-General’s ‘devil,’ I believe, at
Calcutta. I’d not have heard even so much, but he was trying
to get a loan, to make out his outfit, from Joel, and old
Isaac told me who he was, and what he wanted. Joel thinks,
from the state of the fellow’s health, that no one will like
to advance the cash, and if so, he’ll be obliged to
relinquish the place. You have not told me whether you wish
this, or the opposite.
“I wish I could book up to you at such a moment as this, but
I haven’t got it I send you all that I can scrape
together, seventy odd; it is a post bill, and easily cashed
anywhere. In case I hear of anything that may be
imminently needed for your guidance, I’ll telegraph to you
the morrow after your receipt of this, addressing the
message to the name Grainger, to prevent accidents. You must
try and keep your friends from seeing the London papers so
long as you stay with them. I suppose, when you leave,
you’ll not fret about the reputation that follows you. For
the last time, let me warn you to get away to some place of
safety, for if they can push matters to an arrest, things
may take an ugly turn.
“They are getting really frightened here about India at last
Harris has brought some awful news home with him, and they’d
give their right hands to have those regiments they sent off
to China to despatch now to Calcutta. I know this will be
all ‘nuts’ to you, and it is the only bit of pleasant
tidings I have for you. Your old prediction about England
being a third-rate power, like Holland, may not be so far
from fulfilment as I used to think it I wonder shall we ever
have a fireside gossip over all these things again? At
present, all looks too dark to get a peep into the future.
Write to me at once, say what you mean to do, and believe me
as ever, yours,
“A. Drayton.
“I have just heard that the lawyers are in doubt as to the
legality of extradition, and Braddon declares dead against
it. In the case they relied on, the man had come to England
after being tried in France, thinking himself safe, as
‘autrefois acquit;’ but they found him guilty at the Old
Bailey, and----him. There’s delicacy for you, after
your own heart”
Calvert smiled grimly at his friend’s pleasantry. “Here is enough
trouble for any man to deal with. Duns, outlawry, and a criminal
prosecution!” said he, as he replaced his letter in its envelope, and
lighted his cigar. He had not been many minutes in the enjoyment of his
weed, when he saw Miss Grainger coming hastily towards him. “I wish that
old woman would let me alone, just now!” muttered he. “I have need of
all my brains for my own misfortunes.”
“It has turned out just as I predicted, Mr. Calvert,” said she,
pettishly. “Young Loyd is furious at having his pretensions referred
to you, and will not hear of it. His letter to Florence is all but
reproachful, and she has gone home with her eyes full of tears. This
note for you came as an enclosure.”
Calvert took the note from her hands, and laying it beside him on the
rock, smoked on without speaking.
“I knew everything that would happen!” said Miss Grainger. “The old man
gave the letter you wrote to his son, who immediately sat down and wrote
to Florry. I have not seen the letter myself, but Milly declares that
it goes so far as to say, that if Florry admits of any advice or
interference on your part, it is tantamount to a desire to break off the
engagement. He declares, however, that he neither can nor will believe
such a thing to be possible. That he knows she is ignorant of the whole
intrigue. Milly assures me that was the word, intrigue; and she read it
twice over to be certain. He also says something, which I do not quite
understand, about my being led beyond the bounds of judgment by what he
calls a traditional reverence for the name you bear--but one thing is
plain enough, he utterly rejects the reference to you, or, indeed, to
anyone now but Florence herself, and says, ‘This is certainly a case for
your own decision, and I will accept of none other than yours.’”
“Is there anything more about me than you have said?” asked Calvert,
calmly.
“No, I believe not He begs, in the postscript, that the enclosed note
may be given to you, that’s all.”
Calvert took a long breath; he felt as if a weight had been removed from
his heart, and he smoked on in silence.
“Won’t you read it?” cried she, eagerly. “I am burning to hear what he
says.”
“I can tell you just as well without breaking the seal,” said he, with
a half scornful smile. “I know the very tone and style of it, and I
recognise the pluck with which such a man, when a thousand miles off,
dares to address one like myself.”
“Read it, though; let me hear his own words!” cried she.
“I’m not impatient for it,” said he; “I have had a sufficient dose
of bitters this morning, and I’d just as soon spare myself the acrid
petulance of this poor creature.”
“You are very provoking, I must say,” said she, angrily, and turned away
towards the house. Calvert watched her till she disappeared behind a
copse, and then hastily broke open the letter.
“Middle Temple, Saturday.
“Sir--My father has forwarded to me a letter which, with
very questionable good taste, you addressed to him. The very
relations which subsisted between us when we parted, might
have suggested a more delicate course on your part. Whatever
objections I might then, however, have made to your
interference in matters personal to myself, have now become
something more than mere objections, and I flatly declare
that I will not listen to one word from a man whose name is
now a shame and a disgrace throughout Europe. That you
may quit the roof which has sheltered you hitherto without
the misery of exposure, I have forborne in my letter to
narrate the story which is on every tongue here; but, as
the price of this forbearance, I desire and I exact that you
leave the villa on the day you receive this, and cease from
that day forth to hold any intercourse with the family who
reside in it. If I do not, therefore, receive a despatch by
telegraph, informing me that you accede to these conditions,
I will forward by the next post the full details which the
press of England is now giving of your infamous conduct and
of the legal steps which are to be instituted against you.
“Remember distinctly, Sir, that I am only in this pledging
myself for that short interval of time which will suffer you
to leave the house of those who offered you a refuge against
calamity--not crime--and whose shame would be overwhelming
if they but knew the character of him they sheltered. You
are to leave before night-fall of the day this reaches, and
never to return. You are to abstain from all correspondence.
I make no conditions as to future acquaintanceship, because
I know that were I even so minded, no efforts of mine could
save you from that notoriety which a few days more will
attach to you, never to leave you.
“I am, your obedient servant,
“Joseph Loyd.”
Calvert tried to laugh as he finished the reading of this note, but the
attempt was a failure, and a sickly pallor spread over his face, and his
lips trembled. “Let me only meet you, I don’t care in what presence, or
in what place,” muttered he, “and you shall pay dearly for this. But now
to think of myself. This is just the sort of fellow to put his threat
into execution, the more since he will naturally be anxious to get me
away from this. What is to be done? With one week more I could almost
answer for my success. Ay, Mademoiselle Florry, you were deeper in the
toils than you suspected. The dread of me that once inspired a painful
feeling had grown into a sort of self-pride that elevated her in her own
esteem, She was so proud of her familiarity with a wild animal, and so
vain of her influence over him! So pleasant to say, ‘See, savage as he
is, he’ll not turn upon _me_!’ And now to rise from the table, when
the game is all but won! Confound the fellow, how he has wrecked my
fortunes! As if I had not enough, too, on my hands without this!” And
he walked impatiently to and fro, like a caged animal in fretfulness. “I
wanted to think over Drayton’s letter calmly and deliberately, and here
comes this order, this command, to be up and away--away from the only
spot in which I can say I enjoyed an hour’s peace for years and years,
and from the two or three left to me, of all the world, who think it
no shame to bestow on me a word or a look of kindness. The fellow is
peremptory--he declares I must leave to-day.” For some time he continued
to walk, muttering to himself, or moodily silent At last he cried out,
“Yes; I have it! I’ll go up to Milan, and cash this bill of Drayton’s.
When there I’ll telegraph to Loyd, which will show I have left the
villa. That done, I’ll return here, if it be but for a day; and who
knows what a day will bring forth?”
“Who has commands for Milan?” said he, gaily entering the drawing-room,
where Miss Grainger sat, holding a half-whispering conversation with
Emily.
“Milan! are you going to Milan?”
“Yes; only for a day. A friend has charged me with a commission that
does not admit of delay, and I mean to run up this afternoon and be down
by dinnertime to-morrow.”
“I’ll go and see if Florry wants anything from the city,” said Miss
Grainger, as she arose and left the room.
“Poor Florry! she is so distressed by that letter she received this
morning. Joseph has taken it in such ill part that you should have been
consulted by Aunt Grainger, and reproaches her for having permitted what
she really never heard of. Not that, as she herself says, she admits of
any right on his part to limit her source of advice. She thinks that it
is somewhat despotic in him to say, ‘You shall not take counsel except
with leave from _me_.’ She knows that this is the old vicar’s doing, and
that Joseph never would have assumed that tone without being put up to
it.”
“That is clear enough; but I am surprised that your sister saw it.”
“Oh, she is not so deplorably in love as to be blinded.”