THE only letter Calvert found at the post-office for the villa was
one in the vicar’s hand, addressed to Miss Grainger. Nothing from Loyd
himself, nor any newspaper. So far, then, Loyd had kept his pledge. He
awaited to see if Calvert would obey his injunctions before he proceeded
to unmask him to his friends.
Calvert did not regard this reserve as anything generous--he set it down
simply to fear. He said to himself, “The fellow dreads me; he knows that
it is never safe to push men of my stamp to the wall; and he is wise
enough to apply the old adage, about leaving a bridge to the retreating
enemy. I shall have more difficulty in silencing the women, however. It
will be a hard task to muzzle their curiosity; but I must try some
plan to effect it. Is that telegram for me?” cried he, as a messenger
hastened hither and thither in search for some one.
“II Signor Grainger?”
“Yes, all right,” said he, taking it. It was in these few words.
“They find it can be done--make tracks.
“Drayton”
“They find it can be done,” muttered he. “Which means it is legal to
apprehend me. Well, I supposed as much. I never reckoned on immunity;
and as to getting away, I’m readier for it, and better provided too,
than you think for, Master Algernon. Indeed, I can’t well say what
infatuation binds me to this spot, apart from the peril that attends it.
I don’t know that I am very much what is called in love with Florence,
though I’d certainly marry her if she’d have me; but for that there are,
what the lady novelists call, ‘mixed motives,’ and I rather suspect it
is not with any especial or exclusive regard for her happiness that
I’d enter into the holy bonds. I should like to consult some competent
authority on the physiology of hatred--why it is that, though scores of
fellows have injured me deeply in life, I never bore any, no, nor the
whole of them collectively, the ill will that I feel for that man.
He has taken towards me a tone that none have ever dared to take. He
menaces me! Fifty have wronged, none have ever threatened me. He who
threatens, assumes to be your master, to dictate the terms of his
forbearance, and to declare under what conditions he will spare you.
Now, Master Loyd, I can’t say if this be a part to suit _your_ powers,
but I know well, the other is one which in no way is adapted to _mine_.
Nature has endowed me with a variety of excellent qualities, but,
somehow, in the hurry of her benevolence, she forgot patience! I suppose
one can’t have everything!”
While he thus mused and speculated, the boat swept smoothly over the
lake, and Onofrio, not remarking the little attention Calvert vouchsafed
to him, went on talking of “I Grangeri” as the most interesting subject
he could think of. At last Calvert’s notice was drawn to his words by
hearing how the old lady had agreed to take the villa for a year, with
the power of continuing to reside there longer if she were so minded.
The compact had been made only the day before, after Calvert had started
for Milan, evidently--to his thinking--showing that it had been done
with reference to something in Loyd’s last letter. “Strange that she
did not consult me upon it,” thought he; “I who have been her chief
counsellor on everything. Perhaps the lease of my confidence has
expired. But how does it matter? A few hours more, and all these people
shall be no more to me than the lazy cloud that is hanging about the
mountain-top. They may live or die, or marry or mourn, and all be as
nothing to me--as if I had never met them. And what shall _I_ be to
_them_, I wonder?” cried he, with a bitter laugh; “a very dreadful
dream, I suppose; something like the memory of a shipwreck, or a fire
from which they escaped without any consciousness of the means that
rescued them! A horrid nightmare whose terrors always come back in days
of depression and illness. At all events, I shall not be ‘poor Calvert,’
‘that much to be pitied creature, who really had some good in him.’ No,
I shall certainly be spared all commiseration of that kind, and
they’ll no more recur willingly to my memory than they’ll celebrate the
anniversary of some day that brought them shame and misfortune.
“Now then, for my positively last appearance in my present line of
character! And yonder I see the old dame on the look-out for me; she
certainly has some object in meeting me before her nieces shall know
it--Land me in that nook there, Onofrio, and wait for me.”
“I have been very impatient for your coming,” said she, as he stepped on
shore; “I have so much to say to you; but, first of all, read this. It
is from the vicar.”
The letter was not more than a few lines, and to this purport: he was
about to quit the home he had lived in for more than thirty years, and
was so overwhelmed with sorrow and distress, that he really could not
address his thoughts to any case but the sad one before him. “‘All these
calamities have fallen upon us together; for although,’ he wrote, ‘Joe’s
departure is the first step on the road to future fortune, it is still
separation, and at our age who is to say if we shall ever see him
again?’”
“Skip the pathetic bit, and come to this. What have we here about the P.
and O. steamers?” cried Calvert.
“‘Through the great kindness of the Secretary of State, Joe has obtained
a free passage out--a favour as I hear very rarely granted--and he means
to pay you a flying visit; leaving this on Tuesday, to be with you on
Saturday, and, by repairing to Leghorn on the following Wednesday, to
catch the packet at Malta. This will give him three entire days with
you, which, though they be stolen from us, neither his mother nor myself
have the heart to refuse him. Poor fellow, he tries to believe--perhaps
he does believe--that we are all to meet again in happiness and
comfort, and I do my best not to discourage him; but I am now verging on
seventy--’”
“How tiresome he is about his old age; is there any more about his son?”
asked Calvert impatiently.
“Yes, he says here: ‘Joe is, as you may imagine, full of business, and
what between his interviews with official people, and his personal cares
for his long journey, has not a moment to spare. He will, however, write
tomorrow, detailing all that he has done and means to do. Of that late
suggestion that came from you about referring us to a third party,
neither Joseph nor myself desire to go back; indeed, it is not at a
moment like the present we would open a question that could imperil the
affections that unite us It is enough to know that we trust each other,
and need neither guarantees nor guidance.’”
“The old knave!” cried Calvert “A priest is always a Jesuit, no matter
what church he belongs to.”
“Oh, Mr. Calvert.”
“But he’s quite right after all I am far too worldly-minded in my
notions to negotiate with men of such exalted ideas as he and his son
possess. Besides, I am suddenly called away. I shall have to leave this
immediately. They are making a fuss about that unfortunate affair at
Basle, and want to catch me as a witness; and as my evidence would
damage a fellow I really pity, though I condemn, I must keep out of the
way.”
“Well, you are certain to find us here whenever you feel disposed to
have your own room again. I have taken the villa for another year.”
Not paying the slightest attention to this speech he went on: “There is
one point on which I shall be absolute. No one speaks of me when I leave
this. Not alone that you abstain yourself from any allusion to my having
been here, and what you know of me, but that you will not suffer any
other to make me his topic. It is enough to say that a question of my
life is involved in this request. Barnard’s fate has involved me in a
web of calumny and libel, which I am resolved to bear too, to cover
the poor fellow’s memory. If, however, by any indiscretion of my
friends--and remember, it can only be of my friends under this roof--I
am driven to defend myself, there is no saying how much more blood will
have to flow in this quarrel. Do you understand me?”
“Partly,” said she, trembling all over.
“This much you cannot mistake,” said he, sternly; “that my name is
not to be uttered, nor written, mind that If, in his short visit, Loyd
should speak of me, stop him at once. Say, ‘Mr. Loyd, there are reasons
why I will not discuss that person; and I desire that my wish be
understood as a command.’ You will impress your nieces with the same
reserve. I suppose, if they hear that it is a matter which involves the
life of more than one, that they will not need to be twice cautioned.
Bear, in mind this is no caprice of mine; it is no caprice of that
Calvert eccentricity, to which, fairly enough sometimes, you ascribe
many of my actions. I am in a position of no common peril; I have
incurred it to save the fair fame of a fellow I have known and liked
for years. I mean, too, to go through with it; that is, I mean up to a
certain point to sacrifice myself. Up to a certain point, I say, for if
I am pushed beyond that, then I shall declare to the world: Upon you and
your slanderous tongues be the blame, not mine the fault for what is to
happen now.”
He uttered these words with a rapidity and vehemence that made her
tremble from head to foot This was not, besides, the first time she
had witnessed one of those passionate outbursts for which his race
was celebrated, and it needed no oath to confirm the menace his speech
shadowed forth.
“This is a pledge, then,” said he, grasping her hand. “And now to
talk of something pleasanter. That old uncle of mine has behaved very
handsomely; has sent me some kind messages, and, what is as much to
the purpose, some money;” and, as he spoke, he carelessly drew from his
pocket a roll of the bank-notes he had so lately won at play. “‘Before
making any attempt to re-enter the service,’ he says, ‘you must keep out
of the way for a while.’ And he is right there; the advice is excellent,
and I mean to follow it. In his postscript he adds: ‘Thank Grainger’--he
means Miss Grainger, but you know how blunderingly he writes--‘for all
her kindness to you, and say how glad we should all be to see her at
Rocksley, whenever she comes next to England.’”
The old lady’s face grew crimson; shame at first, and pride afterwards,
overwhelming her. To be called Grainger was to bring her back at once to
the old days of servitude--that dreary life of nursery governess--which
had left its dark shadow on all her later years; while to be the guest
at Rocksley was a triumph she had never imagined in her vainest moments.
“Oh, will you tell him how proud I am of his kind remembrance of me, and
what an honour I should feel it to pay my respects to him?”
“They’ll make much of you, I promise you,” said Calvert, “when they
catch you at Rocksley, and you’ll not get away in a hurry. Now let us
go our separate ways, lest the girls suspect we have been plotting. I’ll
take the boat and row down to the steps. Don’t forget all I have been
saying,” were his last words as the boat moved away.
“I hope I have bound that old fool in heavy recognisances to keep her
tongue quiet; and now for the more difficult task of the young ones,”
said he, as he stretched himself full length in the boat, like one
wearied by some effort that taxed his strength. “I begin to believe
it will be a relief to me to get away from this place!” he muttered to
himself, “though I’d give my right hand to pass the next week here, and
spoil the happiness of those fond lovers. Could I not do it?” Here was a
problem that occupied him till he reached the landing at the villa,
but as he stepped on shore, he cried, “No, this must be the last time I
shall ever mount these steps!”
Calvert passed the day in his room; he had much to think over, and
several letters to write. Though the next step he was to take in life in
all probability involved his whole future career, his mind was diverted
from it by the thought that this was to be his last night at the
villa--the last time he should ever see Florence. “Ay,” thought he,
“Loyd will be the occupant of this room in a day or two more. I can
fancy the playful tap at this door, as Milly goes down to breakfast--I
can picture the lazy fool leaning out of that window, gazing at those
small snow-peaks, while Florence is waiting for him in the garden--I
know well all the little graceful attentions that will be prepared
for him, vulgar dog as he is, who will not even recognise the special
courtesies that have been designed for him; well, if I be not sorely
mistaken, I have dropped some poison in his cup. I have taught Florence
to feel that courage is the first of manly attributes, and what is more
to the purpose, to have a sort of half dread that it is not amongst her
lover’s gifts. I have left her as my last legacy that rankling doubt,
and I defy her to tear it out of her heart! What a sovereign antidote to
all romance it is, to have the conviction, or, if not the conviction the
impression, the mere suspicion, that he who spouts the fine sentiments
of the poet with such heartfelt ardour, is a poltroon, ready to run
from danger and hide himself at the approach of peril. I have made Milly
believe this; she has no doubt of it; so that if sisterly confidences
broach the theme, Florence will find all her worst fears confirmed. The
thought of this fellow as my rival maddens me!” cried he, as he started
up and paced the room impatiently. “Is not that Florence I see in the
garden? Alone, too! What a chance!” In a moment he hastened noiselessly
down the stairs, opened the drawing-room window and was beside her.
“I hope the bad news they tell me is not true,” she said as the walked
along side by side.
“What is the bad news?”
“That you are going to leave us.”
“And are you such a hypocrite, Florry, as to call this bad news, when
you and I both know how little I shall be needed here in a day or two?
We are not to have many more moments together; these are probably the
very last of them; let us be frank and honest I’m not surely asking too
much in that! For many a day you have sealed up my lips by the threat
of not speaking to me on the morrow. Your menace has been, if you repeat
this language, I will not walk with you again. Now, Florry, this threat
has lost its terror, for to-morrow I shall be gone, gone for ever, and
so to-day, here now, I say once more I love you! How useless to tell me
that it is all in vain; that you do not, cannot return my affection. I
tell you that I can no more despair that I can cease to love you! In the
force of that love I bear you is my confidence. I have the same trust in
it that I would have in my courage.”
“If you but knew the pain you gave me by such words as these--”
“If you knew the pain they cost me to utter them!” cried he. “It is
bringing a proud heart very low to sue as humbly as I do. And for what?
Simply for time--only time. All I ask is, do not utterly reject one who
only needs your love to be worthy of it When I think of what I was when
I met you first--you!--and feel the change you have wrought in my whole
nature; how you have planted truthfulness where there was once
but doubt; how you have made hope succeed a dark and listless
indifference--when I know and feel that in my struggle to be better
it is you, and you alone, are the prize before me, and that if that be
withdrawn life has no longer a bribe to my ambition--when I think of
these, Florry, can you wonder if I want to carry away with me some small
spark that may keep the embers alive in my heart?”
“It is not generous to urge me thus,” said she in a faint voice.
“The grasp of the drowning man has little time for generosity. You may
not care to rescue me, but you may have pity for my fate.”
“Oh, if you but knew how sorry I am--”
“Go on, dearest. Sorry for what?”
“I don’t know what I was going to say; you have agitated and confused
me so, that I feel bewildered. I shrink from saying what would pain you,
and yet I want to be honest and straightforward.”
“If you mean that to be like the warning of the surgeon--I must cut deep
to cure you--I can’t say I have courage for it.”
For some minutes they walked on side by side without a word. At length
he said in a grave and serious tone, “I have asked your aunt, and she
has promised me that, except strictly amongst yourselves, my name is not
to be mentioned when I leave this. She will, if you care for them, give
you my reasons; and I only advert to it now amongst other last requests.
This is a promise, is it not?”
She pressed his hand and nodded.
“Will you now grant me one favour? Wear this ring for my sake; a token
of mere memory, no more! Nay, I mean to ask Milly to wear another. Don’t
refuse me.” He drew her hand towards him as he spoke, and slipped a
rich turquoise ring upon her finger. Although her hand trembled, and she
averted her head, she had not courage to say him no.
“You have not told us where you are going to, nor when we are to hear
from you!” said she, after a moment.
“I don’t think I know either!” said he in his usual reckless way. “I
have half a mind to join Schamyl--I know him--or take a turn with the
Arabs against the French. I suppose,” added he, with a bitter smile,
“it is my fate always to be on the beaten side, and I’d not know how to
comport myself as a winner.”
“There’s Milly making a signal to us. Is it dinnertime already?” said
she.
“Ay, my last dinner here!” he muttered. She turned her head away and did
not speak.
On that last evening at the villa nothing very eventful occurred. All
that need be recorded will be found in the following letter, which
Calvert wrote to his friend Drayton, after he had wished his hosts a
good-night, and gained his room, retiring, as he did, early, to be up
betimes in the morning and catch the first train for Milan.
“Dear Drayton,--I got your telegram, and though I suspect
you are astray in your ‘law,’ and don’t believe these
fellows can touch me, I don’t intend to open the question,
or reserve the point for the twelve judges, but mean to
evacuate Flanders at once; indeed, my chief difficulty was
to decide which way to turn, for having the whole world
before me where to choose, left me in that indecision which
the poet pronounces national when he says,
I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
Musing in my mind what raiment I shall wear!
Chance, however, has done for me what my judgment could not
I have been up to Milan and had a look through the
newspapers, and I see what I have often predicted has
happened The Rajahs of Bengal have got sick of their
benefactors, and are bent on getting rid of what we love to
call the blessings of the English rule in India. Next to a
society for the suppression of creditors, I know of no
movement which could more thoroughly secure my sympathy. The
brown skin is right. What has he to do with those covenanted
and uncovenanted Scotchmen who want to enrich themselves by
bullying him? What need has he of governors-general,
political residents, collectors and commanders-in-chief?
Could he not raise his indigo, water his rice-fields, and
burn his widow, without any help of ours? particularly as
our help takes the shape of taxation and vexatious
interference.
“I suppose all these are very unpatriotic sentiments; but
in the same proportion that Britons never will be slaves,
they certainly have no objection to make others such, and I
shudder in the very marrow of my morality to think that but
for the accident of an accident I might at this very moment
have been employed to assist in repressing the noble
aspirations of niggerhood, and helping to stifle the cry of
freedom that now resounds from the Sutlej to the Ganges. Is
not that a twang from your own lyre, Master D.? Could our
Own Correspondent have come it stronger?
“Happily, her Majesty has no further occasion for my
services, and I can take a brief on the other side. Expect
to hear, therefore, in some mysterious paragraph, That the
mode in which the cavalry were led, or the guns pointed,
plainly indicated that a European soldier held command on
this occasion; and, indeed, some assert that an English
officer was seen directing the movements on our flank.’
To which let me add the hope that the--Fusiliers may be
there to see; and if I do not give the major a lesson in
battalion drill, call me a Dutchman! There is every
reason why the revolt should succeed. I put aside all the
bosh about an enslaved race and a just cause, and come to
the fact of the numerical odds opposed. The climate
intolerable to one, and easily borne by the other; the
distance from which reinforcements must come; and, last of
all, the certainty that if the struggle only last long
enough to figure in two budgets, John Bull will vote it a
bore, and refuse to pay for it But here am I getting
political when I only meant to be personal; and now to come
back, I own that my resolve to go out to India has been
aided by hearing that Loyd, of whom I spoke in my last, is
to leave by the next mail, and will take passage on board
the P. and O. steamer Leander, due at Malta on the 22nd. My
intention is to be his fellow-traveller, and with this
resolve I shall take the Austrian steamer to Corfu, and come
up with my friend at Alexandria. You will perhaps bepuzzled
to know why the claims of friendship are so strong upon me
at such a moment, and I satisfy your most natural curiosity
by stating that this is a mission of torture. I travel with
this man to insult and to outrage him; to expose him in
public places, and to confront him at all times. I mean that
this overland journey should be to him for his life long the
reminiscence of a pilgrimage of such martyrdom as few have
passed through, and I have the vanity to believe that not
many men have higher or more varied gifts for such a mission
than myself. My first task on reaching Calcutta shall be to
report progress to you.
“I don’t mind exposing a weakness to an old friend, and so I
own to you I fell in love here. The girl had the obduracy
and wrong headedness not to yield to _my_ suit, and so I had
no choice left to me but to persist in it. I know, however,
that if I could only remain here a fortnight longer I should
secure the inestimable triumph of rendering both of us
miserable for life! Yes, Drayton, that pale girl and her
paltry fifteen thousand pounds might have spoiled one of the
grandest careers that ever adorned history! and lost the
world the marvellous origin, rise, progress, and completion
of the dynasty of the great English Begum Calvert in Bengal.
Count upon me for high office whenever penny-a-lining fails
you, and, if my realm be taxable, you shall be my Chancellor
of the Exchequer!
“You are right about that business at Basle; to keep up a
controversy would be to invest it with more interest for
public gossip. Drop it, therefore, and the world will drop
it; and take my word for it, I’ll give them something more
to say of me, one of these days, than that my hair trigger
was too sensitive! I’m writing this in the most romantic of
spots. The moonlight is sleeping--isn’t that the
conventional?--over the olive plain, and the small silvery
leaves are glittering in its pale light. Up the great Alps,
amongst the deep crevasses, a fitful flashing of lightning
promises heat for the morrow; a nightingale sings close to
my window; and through the muslin curtain of another
casement I can see a figure pass and repass and even
distinguish that her long hair has fallen down, and floats
loosely over neck and shoulders. How pleasantly I might
linger on here, ‘My duns forgetting, by my duns forgot.’ How
smoothly I might float down the stream of life, without even
having to pull an bar! How delightfully domestic and
innocent and inglorious the whole thing! Isn’t it tempting,
you dog? Does it not touch even _your_ temperament through
its thick hide of worldliness? And I believe in my heart it
is all feasible, all to be done.
“I have just tossed up for it Head for India, and head it
is! So that Loyd is booked for a pleasant journey, and
I start to-morrow, to ensure him all the happiness in my
power to confer. For the present, it would be as well to
tell all anxious and inquiring friends, into which category
come tailors, bootmakers, jewellers, &c., that it will be a
postal economy not to address Mr. Harry Calvert in any
European capital, and to let the ‘bills lie on the table,’
and be read this day six years, but add that if properly
treated by fortune, I mean to acquit my debts to them one of
these days.
“That I ‘wish they may get it’ is, therefore, no scornful
or derisive hope of your friend,
“H. Calvert.
“If--not a likely matter--anything occurs worth mention, you
shall have a line from me from Venice.”
“When he had concluded his letter, he extinguished his candles, and sat
down at the open window. The moon had gone down, and, though star-lit,
the night was dark. The window in the other wing of the villa, at which
he had seen the figure through the curtain, was now thrown open, and
he could see that Florence, with a shawl wrapped round her, was leaning
out, and talking to some one in the garden underneath.
“It is the first time,” said a voice he knew to Emily’s, “that I ever
made a bouquet in the dark.”
“Come up, Milly dearest; the dew is falling heavily. I feel it even
here.”
“I’ll just fasten this rose I have here in his hat; he saw it in my hair
to-night, and he’ll remember it.”
She left the garden, the window was closed. The light was put out, and
all was silent.