LOYD was married to Florence; and they went to India, and in due
time--even earlier than due time--he was promoted from rank to rank till
he reached the dignity of chief judge of a district, a position which he
filled with dignity and credit.
Few were more prosperous in all the relations of their lives. They were
fortunate in almost everything, even to their residence near Simlah, on
the slope of the Himalaya: they seemed to have all the goods of fortune
at their feet In India, where hospitality is less a virtue than a
custom, Loyd’s house was much frequented, his own agreeable manners,
and the charming qualities of his wife, had given them a wide-spread
notoriety, and few journeyed through their district without seeking
their acquaintance.
“You don’t know who is coming here to dinner, to-day, Florry,” said
Loyd, one morning at breakfast; “some one you will be glad to see, even
for a memory of Europe--Stockwell.”
“Stockwell? I don’t remember Stockwell.”
“Not remember him? And he so full of the charming reception you gave
him at Orta, where he photographed the villa, and you and Emily in the
porch, and Aunt Grainger washing her poodle in the flower-garden?”
“Oh, to be sure I do, but he would never let us have a copy of it, he
was so afraid Aunt Grainger would take it ill; and then he went away
very suddenly; if I mistake not, he was called off by telegram on the
very day he was to dine with us.”
“Perhaps he’ll have less compunctions now that your aunt is so unlikely
to see herself so immortalised. I’m to go over to Behasana to fetch him,
and I’ll ask if he has a copy.”
His day’s duties over, Loyd went across to the camp where his friend
Stockwell was staying. He brought him back, and the photographs were
soon produced.
“My wife,” said Loyd, “wishes to see some of her old Italian scenes.
Have you any of those you took in Italy?”
“Yes, I have some half-dozen yonder. There they are, with their names on
the back of them. This was the little inn you recommended me to stop
at, with the vine terrace at the back of it Here, you see the clump of
cypress-trees next the boat-house.”
“Ay, but she wants a little domestic scene at the villa, with her aunt
making the morning toilet of her poodle. Have you got that?”
“To be sure I have; and--not exactly as a pendant to it, for it is
terrific rather than droll--I have got a storm-scene that I took
the morning I came away. The horses were just being harnessed, for I
received a telegram informing me I must be at Ancona two days earlier
than I looked for to catch the Indian mail, and I was taking the last
view before I started. I was in a tremendous hurry, and the whole thing
is smudged and scarce distinguishable. It was the grandest storm I ever
witnessed. The whole sky grew black, and seemed to descend to meet the
lake, as it was lashed to fury by the wind. I had to get a peasant
to hold the instrument for me as I caught one effect--merely one. The
moment was happy, it was just when a great glare of lightning burst
through the black mass of cloud, and lit up the centre of the lake,
at the very moment that a dismasted boat was being drifted along to, I
suppose, certain destruction. Here it is, and here are, as well as I can
make out, two figures. They are certainly figures, blurred as they are,
and that is clearly a woman clinging to a man who is throwing her off:
the action is plainly that I have called it a ‘Rent in a Cloud’.”
“Don’t bring this to-day, Stockwell,” said Loyd, as the cold sweat burst
over his face and forehead; “and when you talk of Orta to my wife, say
nothing of the Rent in a Cloud.”
End of Project Gutenberg’s A Rent In A Cloud, by Charles James Lever