WHEN Calvert found himself alone in the drawing-room, he felt as if he
had never been away. Everything was so exactly as he left it There was
the sofa drawn close to the window of the flower-garden where Florence
used to recline; there the little work-table with the tall glass that
held her hyacinths, the flowers she was so fond of; there the rug for
her terrier to lie on. Yonder, under the fig-tree, hung the cage with
her favourite canary; and here were the very books she used to read
long ago--Petrarch and Tennyson and Uhland. There was a flower to mark
a place in the volume of Uhland, and it was at a little poem they had
once read together. How full of memories are these old rooms, where we
have dreamed away some weeks of life, if not in love, in something
akin to it, and thus more alive to the influences of externals than if
further gone in the passion! There was not a spot, not a chair, nor a
window-seat that did not remind Calvert of some incident of the past.
He missed his favourite song, “A place in thy memory, dearest,” from the
piano, and he sought for it and put it back where it used to be; and he
then went over to her table to arrange the books as they were wont to be
long ago, and came suddenly upon a small morocco case. He opened it It
was a miniature of Loyd, the man he hated the most on earth. It was an
ill done portrait, and gave an affected thoughtfulness and elevation
to his calm features which imparted insufferable pretension to them;
Calvert held out the picture at arm’s length, and laughed scornfully as
he looked at it. He had but time to lay it down on the table when Emily
entered the room. She approached him hurriedly, and with an agitated
manner. “Oh, Colonel Calvert--” she began.
“Why not Harry, brother Harry, as I used to be, Milly dearest,” said he,
as he caught her hand in both his own. “What has happened to forfeit for
me my old place _in_ your esteem?”
“Nothing, nothing, but all is so changed; you have grown to be such a
great man, and we have become lost to all that goes on in the world.”
“And where is your sister, will she not come to see me?”
“You startled her, you gave her such a shock, when you stood up in the
boat and returned her salute, that she was quite overcome, and has gone
to her room. Aunt Grainger is with her, and told me to say--that is, she
hoped, if you would not take it ill, or deem it unkind--”
“Go on, dearest; nothing that comes from your lips can possibly seem
unkind; go on.”
“But I cannot go on,” she cried, and burst into tears and covered her
face with her hands.
“I never thought--so little forethought has selfishness--that I was to
bring sorrow and trouble under this roof. Go back, and tell your aunt
that I hope she will favour me with five minutes of her company; that I
see what I greatly blame myself for not seeing before, how full of sad
memories my presence here must prove. Go, darling, say this, and bid me
good-bye before you go.”
“Oh, Harry, do not say this. I see you are angry with us. I see you
think us all unkind; but it was the suddenness of your coming; and
Florence has grown so nervous of late, so disposed to give way to all
manner of fancies.”
“She imagines, in fact,” said he, haughtily, “that I have come back to
persecute her with attentions which she has already rejected. Isn’t that
so?”
“No. I don’t think--I mean Florence could never think that when you knew
of her engagement--knew that within a few months at furthest--”
“Pardon me, if I stop you. Tell your sister from me that she has nothing
to apprehend from any pretensions of mine. I can see that you think me
changed, Milly; grown very old and very worn. Well, go back, and tell
her that the inward change is far greater than the outward one. Mad
Harry has become as tame and quiet and commonplace as that gentleman in
the morocco case yonder; and if she will condescend to see me, she may
satisfy herself that neither of us in future need be deemed dangerous to
the other.”
There was an insolent pride in the manner of his delivery of these words
that made Emily’s cheek burn as she listened, and all that her aunt had
often told her of “Calvert insolence” now came fully to her mind.
“I will go and speak to my aunt,” she said at last
“Do so,” said he, carelessly, as he threw himself into a chair, and
took up the book that lay nearest to him. He had not turned over many
pages--he had read none--when Miss Grainger entered. She was flushed and
flurried in manner; but tried to conceal it.
“We are giving you a very strange welcome, Colonel--Mr. Calvert; but you
know us all of old, and you know that dear Florry is so easily agitated
and overcome. She is better now, and if you will come up stairs to the
little drawing-room, she’ll see you.”
“I am all gratitude,” said he, with a low bow: “but I think it is,
perhaps, better not to inconvenience her. A visit of constraint would
be, to me at least, very painful. I’d rather leave the old memories of
my happiness here undashed by such a shadow. Go back, therefore, and say
that I think I understand the reason of her reserve; that I am sincerely
grateful for the thoughtful kindness she has been minded to observe
towards me. You need not add,” said he with a faint smile, “that
the consideration in the present case was unnecessary. I am not so
impressionable as I used to be; but assure her that I am very sorry for
it, and that Colonel Calvert, with all his successes, is not half so
happy a fellow as mad Harry used to be without a guinea.”
“But you’ll not leave us? You’ll stay here to-night?”
“Pray excuse me. One of my objects--my chief one--in coming over here,
was to ask your nieces’ acceptance of some trinkets I had brought for
them. Perhaps this would not be a happy moment to ask a favour at their
hands, so pray keep them over and make birthday presents of them in my
name. This is for Florence--this, I hope Emily will not refuse.”
“But do not go. I entreat you not to go. I feel so certain that if you
stay we shall all be so happy together. There is so much, besides, to
talk over; and as to those beautiful things, for I know they must be
beautiful--”
“They are curious in their way,” said he, carelessly opening the clasp
of one of the cases, and displaying before her amazed eyes a necklace of
pearls and brilliants that a queen might wear.
“Oh, Colonel Calvert, it would be impossible for my niece to accept such
a costly gift as this. I never beheld anything so splendid in my life.”
“These ear-drops,” he continued, “are considered fine. They were said to
belong to one of the wives of the King of Delhi, and were reputed the
largest pearls in India.”
“The girls must see them; though I protest and declare beforehand
nothing on earth should induce us to accept them.”
“Let them look well at them, then,” said he, “for when you place them in
my hands again, none shall ever behold them after.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ll throw them into the lake yonder A rejected gift is too
odious a memory to be clogged with.”
“You couldn’t be guilty of such rash folly?”
“Don’t you know well that I could? Is it to-day or yesterday that the
Calvert nature is known to you? If you wish me to swear it, I will do
so; and, what is more, I will make you stand by and see the water close
over them.”
“Oh, you are not changed--not in the least changed,” she cried, in a
voice of real emotion.
“Only in some things, perhaps,” said he, carelessly. “By-the-way, this
is a miniature of me--was taken in India. It is a locket on this side.
Ask Emily to wear it occasionally for my sake.”
“How like! and what a splendid costume!”
“That was my dress in full state! but I prefer my service uniform, and
think it became me better.”
“Nothing could become you better than this,” said she, admiringly;
and truly there was good warrant for the admiration; “but even this is
covered with diamonds!”
“Only a circlet and my initials. It is of small value. These are the
baubles. Do what you will with them; and now good-bye. Tanti saluû, as
we used to say long ago to the ladies--Tanti saluû de la parte mia. Tell
Milly she is very naughty not to have given me her hand to kiss before
we parted; but if she will condescend to wear this locket, now and then,
I’ll forgive her. Good-bye.”
And, before Miss Grainger could reply, he had opened the window and was
gone.
When Calvert reached the jetty the boatman was not there; but the boat,
with her oars, lay close to the steps; the chain that attached her to an
iron ring was, however, padlocked, and Calvert turned impatiently back
to seek the man. After he had gone, however, a few paces, he seemed
to change his mind, and turned once more towards the lake. Taking up
a heavy stone, he proceeded to smash the lock on the chain. It was
stronger than he looked for, and occupied some minutes; but he succeeded
at last. Just as he threw into the boat the loose end of the broken
chain, he heard steps behind him; he turned; it was Emily running
towards him at full speed. “Oh Harry, dear Harry!” she cried, “don’t
go; don’t leave us; Florence is quite well again, and as far as strength
will let her, trying to come and meet you. See, yonder she is, leaning
on aunt’s arm.” True enough, at some hundred yards off, the young girl
was seen slowly dragging her limbs forward in the direction where they
stood.
“I have come some thousand leagues to see her,” said he sternly,
“through greater fatigues, and, perhaps, as many perils as she is
encountering.”
“Go to her; go towards her,” cried Emily, reproachfilly.
“Not one step; not the breadth of a hair, Milly,” said he. “There is a
limit to the indignity a woman may put upon a man, and your sister has
passed it. If she likes to come and say farewell to me here, be it so;
if not, I must go without it.”
“Then I can tell you one thing, Colonel Calvert, if my sister Florence
only knew of the words you have just spoken, she’d not move one other
step towards you if, if--”
“If it were to save my life, you would say. _That_ is not so
unreasonable,” said he, with a saucy laugh.
“Here is Florence come, weak and tottering as she is, to ask you to
stay with us. You’ll not have the heart to say No to her,” said Miss
Grainger.
“I don’t think we--any of us--know much about Mr. Calvert’s heart, or
what it would prompt him to do,” said Emily, half indignantly, as she
turned away. And fortunate it was she did turn away, since, had she met
the fierce look of Calvert’s eyes at the moment, it would have chilled
her very blood with fear.
“But you’ll not refuse me,” said Florence, laying her hand on his arm.
“You know well how seldom I ask favours, and how unused I am to be
denied when I do ask.”
“I was always your slave--I ask nothing better than to be so still,” he
whispered in her ear.
“And you will stay?”
“Yes, till you bid me go,” he whispered again; “but remember, too, that,
when I ask a favour I can just as little brook refusal.”
“We’ll talk of that another time. Give me your arm now, and help me back
to the house, for I feel very weak and faint. Is Milly angry with you?”
she asked, as they walked along, side by side.
“I don’t know; perhaps so,” said he, carelessly.
“You used to be such good friends. I hope you have not fallen out?”
“I hope not,” said he, in his former easy tone; “or that if we have,
we may make it up again. Bear in mind, Florence,” added he with more
gravity of manner, “that I am a good deal changed from what you knew me.
I have less pride, cherish fewer resentments, scarcely any hopes, and
no affections--I mean, strong affections. The heart you refused is now
cold; the only sentiment left me, is a sense of gratitude, I can be very
grateful; I am already so.” She made no answer to this speech, and they
re-entered the house in silence.