THE boat excursion mentioned in Calvert’s letter was not the only
pleasure-project of that day. It was settled that Mr. Stockwell should
come out and give Milly a lesson in photography, in which, under Loyd’s
former guidance, she had already made some progress. He was also to give
Miss Grainger some flower-seeds of a very rare kind, of which he was
carrying a store to the Pasha of Egypt, and which required some peculiar
skill in the sowing. They were to dine, too, at a little rustic house
beside the lake; and, in fact, the day was to be one of festivity and
enjoyment.
The morning broke splendidly; and though a few clouds lingered about the
Alpine valleys, the sky over the lake was cloudless, and the water was
streaked and marbled with those parti-coloured lines which Italian lakes
wear in the hot days of midsummer. It was one of those autumnal mornings
in which the mellow colouring of the mature season blends with the soft
air and gentle breath of spring, and all the features of landscape are
displayed in their fullest beauty. Calvert and Florence were to visit
the Isola de San Giulio, and bring back great clusters of the flowers of
the “San Guiseppe” trees, to deck the dinner-table. They were also to go
on as far as Pella for ice or snow to cool their wine, the voyage being,
as Calvert said, a blending of the picturesque with the profitable.
Before breakfast was over the sky grew slightly, overcast, and a large
mass of dark cloud stood motionless Over the summit of Monterone.
“What will the weather do, Carlo?” asked Calvert of the old boatman of
the villa, as he came to say that all was in readiness.
“Who knows, ‘cellenza?” said he, with a native shrug of the shoulders.
“Monterone is a big traitor of a mountain, and there’s no believing him.
If that cloud scatters, the day will be fine; if the wind brings down
fresh clouds from the Alps it will come on a ‘burrasca’.”
“Always a burrasca; how I am sick of your burrasca,” said he,
contemptuously. “If you were only once in your life to see a real storm,
how you’d despise those petty jobbles, in which rain and sleet play the
loudest part.”
“What does he say of the weather?” asked Florence, who saw that Calvert
had walked on to a little point with the old man, to take a freer view
of the lake.
“He says, that if it neither blows hard nor rains, it will probably be
fine. Just what he has told us every day since I came here.”
“What about this fine trout that you spoke of, Carlo?”
“It is at Gozzano, ‘cellenza; we can take it as we go by.”
“But we are going exactly in the opposite direction, my worthy friend;
we are going to the island, and to Pella.”
“That is different,” said the old man, with another shrug of the
shoulders.
“Didn’t you hear thunder? I’m sure I did,” cried Miss Grainger.
“Up yonder it’s always growling,” said Calvert, pointing towards the
Simplon. “It is the first welcome travellers get when they pass the
summit.”
“Have you spoken to him, Milly, about Mr. Stockwell? Will he take him up
at Orta, and land him here?” asked Miss Grainger, in a whisper.
“No, aunt; he hates Stockwell, he says. Carlo can take the blue boat and
fetch him. They don’t want Carlo, it seems.”
“And are you going without a boatman, Flurry?” Asked her aunt
“Of course we are. Two are quite cargo enough in that small skiff, and
I trust I am as skilful a pilot as any Ortese fisherman,” broke in
Calvert.
“Oh, I never disputed your skill, Mr. Calvert.”
“What, then, do you scruple to confide your niece to me?” said he, with
a low whisper, in which the tone was more menace than mere inquiry.
“Is this the first time we have ever gone out in a boat together?”
She muttered some assurance of her trustfulness, but so confusedly, and
with such embarrassment, as to be scarcely intelligible. “There! that
was certainly thunder!” she cried.
“There are not three days in three months in this place without thunder.
It is the Italian privilege, I take it, to make always more noise than
mischief.”
“But will you go if it threatens so much?” said Miss Grainger.
“Ask Florry. For _my_ part, I think the day will be a glorious one.”
“I’m certain it will,” said Florence, gaily; “and I quite agree with
what Harry said last night Disputing about the weather has the same’
effect as firing great guns: it always brings down the rain.”
Calvert smiled graciously at hearing himself quoted.
It was the one sort of flattery he liked the best, and it rallied him
out of his dark humour. “Are you ready?”--he had almost added “dearest,”
and only caught himself in time--perhaps, indeed, not completely in
time--for she blushed, as she said, “Eccomi.”
The sisters affectionately embraced each other. Emily even ran after
Florence to kiss her once again, after parting, and then Florry took
Calvert’s arm, and hastened away to the jetty. “I declare,” said she, as
she stepped into the boat, “this leave-taking habit, when one is going
out to ride, or to row, or to walk for an hour, is about the stupidest
thing I know of.”
“I always said so. It’s like making one’s will every day before going
down to dinner. It is quite true you may chance to die before the
dessert, but the mere possibility should not interfere with your asking
for soup. No, no, Florry, you are to steer; the tiller is yours for
to-day; my post is here;” and he stretched himself at the bottom of the
boat, and took out his cigar. The light breeze was just enough to move
the little lateen sail, and gradually it filled out, and the skiff stole
quietly away from shore, without even a ripple on the water.
“What’s the line, Florry?’ Hope at the helm, pleasure at the prow,’ or
is it love at the helm?”
“A bad steersman, I should say; far too capricious,” cried she,
laughing.
“I don’t know. I think he has one wonderful attribute; he has got wings
to fly away with whenever the boat is in danger, and I believe it is
pretty much what love does always.”
“Can’t say,” said she, carelessly. “Isn’t that a net yonder? Oughtn’t we
to steer clear of it?”
“Yes. Let her fall off--so--that’s enough. What a nice light hand you
have.”
“On a horse they tell me my hand is very light.”
“How I’d like to see you on my Arab ‘Said.’ Such a creature! so
large-eyed, and with such a full nostril, the face so concave in front,
the true Arab type, and the jaw a complete semicircle. How proud he’d
look under you, with that haughty snort he gives, as he bends his knee.
He was the present of a great Rajah to me--one of those native fellows
we are graciously pleased to call rebels, because they don’t fancy to be
slaves. Two years ago he owned a territory about the size of half
Spain, and he is now something like a brigand chief, with a few hundred
followers.”
“Dear Harry, do not talk of India--at least not of the mutiny.”
“Mutiny! Why call it mutiny, Florry? Well, love, I have done,” he
muttered, for the word escaped him, and he feared how she might resent
it.
“Come back to my lightness of hand.”
“Or of heart, for I sorely suspect, Florence, the quality is not merely
a manual one.”
“Am I steering well?”
“Perfectly. Would that I could sail on and on for ever thus:
Over an ocean just like this,
A life of such untroubled bliss.”
Calvert threw in a sentimental glance with this quotation.
“In other words, an existence of nothing to do,” said she, laughing,
“with an excellent cigar to beguile it.”
“Well, but ‘ladye faire,’ remember that I have earned some repose. I
have not been altogether a carpet knight I have had my share of lance
and spear, and amongst fellows who handle their weapons neatly.”
“You are dying to get back to Ghoorkas and Sikhs, but I won’t have it
I’d rather hear Metastasio or Petrarch, just now.”
“What if I were to quote something apposite, though it were only
prose--something out of the Promessi Sposi?”
She made no answer, and turned away her head.
“Put up your helm a little: let the sails draw freely. This is very
enjoyable; it is a right royal luxury. I’m not sure Antony ever had his
galley steered by Cleopatra; had he?”
“I don’t know; but I do know that I am not Cleopatra nor you Antony.”
“How readily you take one up for a foolish speech, as if these rambling
indiscretions were not the soul of such converse as ours. They are like
the squalls, that only serve to increase our speed and never risk our
safety, and, somehow, I feel to-day as if my temper was all of that
fitful and capricious kind. I suppose it is the over-happiness. Are you
happy, Florry?” asked he, after a pause.
“If you mean, do I enjoy this glorious day and our sail, yes, intensely.
Now, what am I to do? The sail is flapping in spite of me.”
“Because the wind has chopped round, and is coming from the eastward.
Down your helm, and let her find her own way. We have the noble
privilege of not caring whither. How she spins through it now.”
“It is immensely exciting,” said she, and her colour heightened as she
spoke.
“Have you superstitions about dates?” he asked after another pause.
“No; I don’t think so. My life has been so uneventful. Few days record
anything memorable. But why did you ask?”
“I am--I am a devout believer in lucky and unlucky days, and had I
only bethought me this was a Friday, I’d have put off our sail till
to-morrow.”
“It is strange to see a man like you attach importance to these things.”
“And yet it is exactly men like me who do so. Superstitions belong
to hardy, stern, rugged races, like the northmen, even more than the’
natives of southern climes. Too haughty and too self-dependent to ask
counsel from others like themselves, they seek advice in the occult
signs and faint whispers of the natural world. Would you believe it,
that I cast a horoscope last night to know if I should succeed in the
next project I undertook?”
“And what was the answer?”
“An enigma to this purpose: that if what I undertook corresponded with
the entrance of Orion into the seventh house--Why are you laughing?”
“Is it not too absurd to hear such nonsense from you?”
“Was it not the grotesque homage of the witch made Macbeth a murderer?
What are you doing, child? Luff--luff up; the wind is freshening.”
“I begin to think there should be a more skilful hand on the tiller. It
blows freshly now.”
“In three days more, Florence,” said he gravely, “it will be exactly two
years since we sailed here all alone. Those two years have been to me
like a long, long life, so much of danger and trouble and suffering have
been compassed in them. Were I to tell you all, you’d own that few men
could have borne my burden without being crushed by it. It was not death
in any common shape that I confronted; but I must not speak of this.
What I would say is, that through all the perils I passed, one image
floated before me--one voice was in my ear. It was yours.”
“Dear Harry, let me implore you not to go back to these things.”
“I must, Florence--I must,” said he, still more sadly. “If I pain you,
it is only your fair share of suffering.”
“My fair share! And why?”
“For this reason. When I knew you first, I was a worn-out, weary,
heart-sick man of the world. Young as I was, I was weary of it all; I
thought I had tasted of whatever it had of sweet or bitter. I had no
wish to renew my experiences. I felt there was a road to go, and I began
my life-journey without interest, or anxiety or hope. You taught me
otherwise, Florence; you revived the heart that was all but cold, and
brought it back to life and energy; you inspired me with high ambitions
and noble desires; you gave confidence where there had been distrust,
and hope where there had been indifference.”
“There, there!” cried she, eagerly; “there comes another squall. You
must take the helm; I am getting frightened.”
“You are calmer than I am, Florence dearest. Hear me out. Why, I
ask you--why call me back to an existence which you intended to make
valueless to me? Why ask me to go a road where you refuse to journey?”
“Do come here! I know not what I am doing. And see, it grows darker and
darker over yonder!”
“You steered me into stormier waters, and had few compunctions for it.
Hear me out, Florence. For you I came back to a life that I ceased to
care for; for you I took on me cares, and dangers, and crosses, and
conquered them all; for you I won honours, high rewards, and riches, and
now I come to lay them at your feet, and say, ‘Weigh all these against
the proofs of that other man’s affection. Put into one scale these
successes, won alone for _you_; these trials, these wounds--and into the
other some humdrum letters of that good-enough creature, who is no more
worthy of _you_ than he has the courage to declare it.’”
As he spoke a clap of thunder, sharp as a cannon-shot broke above their
heads, and a squall struck the boat aloft, bending her over till she
half filled with water, throwing at the same time the young girl from
her place to the lee-side of the boat.
Lifting her up, Calvert placed her on the seat, while he supported her
with one arm, and with the other hand grasped the tiller.
“Is there danger?” whispered she faintly.
“No, dearest, none. I’ll bale out the water when the wind lulls a
little. Sit close up here, and all will be well.”
The boat, however, deeply laden, no longer rose over the waves, but
dipped her bow and took in more water at every plunge.
“Tell me this hand is mine, my own dearest Florence--mine for ever, and
see how it will nerve my arm. I am powerless if I am hopeless. Tell me
that I have something to live for, and I live.”
“Oh, Harry, is it when my heart is dying with fear that you ask me this?
Is it generous--is it fair? There! the sail is gone! the ropes are torn
across.”
“It is only the jib, darling, and we shall be better without it. Speak,
Florence! say it is my own wife I am saving--not the bride of that
man, who, if he were here, would be at your feet in craven terror this
instant.”
“There goes the mast!”
At the word the spar snapped close to the thwart and fell over the side,
carrying the sail with it. The boat now lay with one gunwale completely
under water, helpless and water-logged. A wild shriek burst from the
girl, who thought all was lost.
“Courage, dearest--courage! she’ll float still. Hold close to me and
fear nothing. It is not Loyd’s arm that you have to trust to, but that
of one who never knew terror!”
The waves surged up now with every heaving of the boat, so as to reach
their breasts, and, sometimes striking on the weather-side, broke in
great sheets of water over them.
“Oh, can you save us, Harry--can you save us?” cried she.
“Yes, if there’s aught worth saving,” said he, sternly. “It is not
safety that I am thinking of; it is what is to come after. Have I your
promise? Are you mine?”
“Oh! do not ask me this; have pity on me.”
“Where is your pity for me? Be quick, or it will be too late. Answer
me--mine or his?”
“His to the last!” cried she, with a wild shriek; and clasping both her
hands above her head, she would have fallen had he not held her.
“One chance more. Refuse me, and I leave you to your fate!” cried he,
sternly.
She could not speak, but in the agony of her terror she threw her arms
around and clasped him wildly. The dark dense cloud that rested on the
lake was rent asunder by a flash of lightning at the instant, and a
sound like a thousand great guns shook the air. The wind skimming the
sea, carried sheets of water along and almost submerged the boat as they
passed.
“Yes or no!” shouted Calvert, madly, as he struggled to disengage
himself from her grasp.
“No!” she cried, with a wild yell that rung above all the din of the
storm, and as she said it he threw her arms wide and flung her from him.
Then, tearing off his coat, plunged into the lake.
[Illustration: Flung her into the lake]
The thick clouds as they rolled down from the Alps to meet the wind,
settled over the lake, making a blackness almost like night, and only
broken by the white flashes of the lightning. The thunder rolled out
as it alone does in these mountain regions, where the echoes keep on
repeating till they fill the very air with their deafening clamour.
Scarcely was Calvert a few yards from the boat than he turned to swim
back to her, but already was she hid from his view. The waves ran high,
and the drift foam blinded him at every instant. He shouted out at the
top of his voice; he screamed “Florence! Florence!” but the din around
drowned his weak efforts, and he could not even hear his own words. With
his brain mad by excitement, he fancied every instant that he heard his
name called, and turned, now hither, now thither, in wild confusion.
Meanwhile, the storm deepened, and the wind smote the sea with frequent
claps, sharp and sudden as the rush of steam from some great steam-pipe.
Whether his head reeled with the terrible uproar around, or that his
mind gave way between agony and doubt, who can tell? He swam madly on
and on, breasting the waves with his strong chest, and lost to almost
all consciousness, save of the muscular effort he was making--none saw
him more!
The evening was approaching, the storm had subsided, and the tall Alps
shone out in all the varied colours of rock, or herbage, or snow-peak;
and the blue lake at the foot, in its waveless surface, repeated all
their grand outlines and all their glorious tints. The water was covered
with row-boats in every direction, sent out to seek for Florence and her
companion. They were soon perceived to cluster round one spot, where a
dismasted boat lay half-filled with water, and a figure, as of a girl
sleeping, lay in the stern, her head resting on the gunwale. It was
Florence, still breathing, still living, but terror-stricken, lost to
all consciousness, her limbs stiffened with cold. She was lifted into a
boat and carried on shore.
Happier for her the long death-like sleep--that lasted for days--than
the first vague dawn of consciousness, when her senses returning,
brought up the terrible memory of the storm, and the last scene with
Calvert. With a heart-rending cry for mercy she would start up in bed,
and, before her cry had well subsided, would come the consciousness that
the peril was past, and then, with a mournful sigh, would she sink back
again to try and regain sufficient self-control to betray nothing; not
even of him who had deserted her.
Week after week rolled by, and she made but slow progress towards
recovery. There was not, it is true, what the doctors could pronounce
to be malady--her heightened pulse alone was feverish--but a great
shock had shaken her, and its effects remained in an utter apathy and
indifference to everything around her.
She wished to be alone--to be left in complete solitude, and the room
darkened. The merest stir or movement in the house jarred on her nerves
and irritated her, and with this came back paroxysms of excitement that
recalled the storm and the wreck. Sad, therefore, and sorrowful to see
as were the long hours of her dreary apathy, they were less painful
than these intervals of acute sensibility; and between the two her mind
vibrated.
One evening about a month after the wreck, Emily came down to her aunt’s
room to say that she had been speaking about Joseph to Florry. “I was
telling her how he was detained at Calcutta, and could not be here
before the second mail from India; and her reply was, ‘It is quite as
well. He will be less shocked when he sees me.’”
“Has she never asked about Calvert?” asked the old lady.
“Never. Not once. I half suspect, however, that she overheard us that
evening when we were talking of him, and wondering that he had never
been seen again. For she said afterwards, ‘Do not say before me what you
desire me not to hear, for I hear frequently when I am unable to speak,
or even make a sign in reply.’”
“But it is strange that nothing should ever be known of him.”
“No, aunt Carlo says several have been drowned in this lake whose bodies
have never been found. He has some sort of explanation, about deep
currents that set in amongst the rocks at the bottom, which I could not
understand.”
The days dragged on as before. Miss Grainger, after some struggles
about how to accomplish the task, took courage, and wrote to Miss Sophia
Calvert, to inform her of the disastrous event which had occurred
and the loss of her cousin. The letter was, however, left without any
acknowledgment whatever, and save in some chance whisperings between
Emily and her aunt, the name of Calvert was never spoken of again.
Only a few days before Christmas a telegram told them that Loyd had
reached Trieste, and would be with them in a few days. By this time
Florence had recovered much of her strength and some of her looks. She
was glad, very glad to hear that Joseph was coming; but her joy was not
excessive. Her whole nature seemed to have been toned down by that
terrible incident to a state of calm resignation to accept whatever came
with little of joy or sorrow; to submit to rather than partake of, the
changeful fortunes of life. It was thus Loyd found her when he came,
and, to his thinking, she was more charming, more lovable than ever. The
sudden caprices, which so often had worried him, were gone, and in their
place there was a gentle tranquillity of character which suited every
trait of his own nature, and rendered her more than ever companionable
to him. Warned by her aunt and sister to avoid the topic of the storm,
he never alluded to it in any shape to Florence; but one evening, as,
after a long walk together, she lay down to rest before tea-time, he
took Milly’s arm and led her into the garden. “She has told me all,
Milly,” said he, with some emotion; “at least, all that she can remember
of that terrible day.”