"I think not. At least, if the thought were his, he"d have expressed it far better."
"You admire him, then?" asked he, peering closely at her..
"I wonder why they are not here," said she, turning her head away. "This same race ought to come off by this time."
"Why don"t you answer my question?"
"There he goes! Rowing away all alone, too, and my aunt is waving her handkerchief in farewell. See how fast he sends the boat through the water. I wonder why he gave up the race?"
"Shall I tell you? He dislikes whatever he is challenged to do. He is one of those fellows who will never dare to measure himself against another."
"My aunt is beckoning to us to come back, Mr. Calvert."
"And my taste is for going forward," muttered he, while at the same time he sent the boat"s head suddenly round, and pulled vigorously towards the sh.o.r.e.
"May I trust that what has pa.s.sed between us is a secret, and not to be divulged to another--not even to your sister?"
"If you desire--if you exact."
"I do, most decidedly. It is shame enough to be rejected. I don"t see why my disgrace is to be paraded either for pity or ridicule."
"Oh, Mr. Calvert--"
"Or triumphed over," said he sternly, as he sent the boat up to the side of the little jetty, where Miss Grainger and her niece awaited them.
"Poor Loyd has just got bad news from home," said Miss Grainger, "and he has hastened back to ask, by telegraph, if they wish him to return."
"Anyone ill, or dying?" asked Calvert carelessly.
"No, it"s some question of law about his father"s vicarage. There would seem to be a doubt as to his presentation--whether the appointment lay with the patron of the bishop."
Calvert turned to mark how the girls received these tidings, but they had walked on, and with heads bent down, and close together, were deep in conversation.
"I thought it was only in my profession," said Calvert sneeringly, "where corrupt patronage was practised. It is almost a comfort to think how much the good people resemble the wicked ones."
Miss Grainger, who usually smiled at his levities, looked grave at this one, and no more was said, as they moved on towards the cottage.
CHAPTER VIII. GROWING DARKER
IT was late at night when Calvert left the villa, but, instead of rowing directly back to the little inn, he left his boat to drift slowly in the scarce perceptible current of the lake, and wrapping himself in his cloak, lay down to muse or to sleep.
It was just as day broke that he awoke, and saw that he had drifted within a few yards of his quarters, and in a moment after he was on sh.o.r.e.
As he gained his room, he found a letter for him in Loyd"s hand. It ran thus:
"I waited up all night to see you before I started, for I have been suddenly summoned home by family circ.u.mstances. I was loth to part in an angry spirit, or even in coldness, with one in whose companionship I have pa.s.sed so many happy hours, and for whom I feel, notwithstanding what has pa.s.sed between us, a sincere interest. I wanted to speak to you of much which I cannot write--that is to say, I would have endeavoured to gain a hearing for what I dare not venture to set down in the deliberate calm of a letter. When I own that it was of yourself, your temper, your habits, your nature, in short, that I wished to have spoken, you will, perhaps, say that it was as well time was not given me for such temerity. But bear in mind, Calvert, that though I am free to admit all your superiority over myself, and never would presume to compare my faculties or my abilities with yours-- though I know well there is not a single gift or grace in which you are not my master, there is one point in which I have an advantage over you--I had a mother! You, you have often told me, never remember to have seen yours. To that mother"s trainings I owe anything of good, however humble it be, in my nature, and, though the soil in which the seed has fallen be poor and barren, so much of fruit has it borne that I at least respect the good which I do not practise, and I reverence that virtue to which I am a rebel. The lesson, above all others, that she instilled into we, was to avoid the tone of a scoffer, to rescue myself from the cheap distinction which is open to everyone who sets himself to see only ridicule in what others respect, and to mock the themes that others regard with reverence. I stop, for I am afraid to weary you--I dread that, in your impatience, you will throw this down and read no more--I will only say, and I say it in all the sincerity of truth, that if you would endeavour to be morally as great as what your faculties can make you intellectually, there is no eminence you might not attain, nor any you would not adorn.
"If our intimacy had not cooled down of late, from what causes I am unable to tell, to a point in which the first disagreement must be a breach between us, I would have told you that I had formed an attachment to Florence Walter, and obtained her aunt"s consent to our marriage; I mean, of course, at some future which I cannot define, for I have my way to make in the world, and, up to the present, have only been a burden on others. We are engaged, however, and we live on hope. Perhaps I presume too far on any interest you could feel for me when I make you this communication. It may be that you will say, "What is all this to me?" At all events, I have told you what, had I kept back, would have seemed to myself an uncandid reservation. Deal with it how you may.
"There is, however, another reason why I should tell you this. If you were unaware of the relations which exist between our friends and myself, you might unconsciously speak of me in terms which this knowledge would, perhaps, modify--at least, you would speak without the consciousness that you were addressing unwilling hearers. You now know the ties that bind us, and your words will have that significance which you intend they should bear.
"Remember, and remember distinctly, I disclaim all pretension, as I do all wish, to conciliate your favour as regards this matter; first, because I believe I do not need it; and secondly, that if I asked for, I should be unworthy of it. I scarcely know how, after our last meeting, I stand in your estimation, but I am ready to own that if you would only suffer yourself to be half as good as your nature had intended you and your faculties might make you, you would be conferring a great honour on being the friend of yours truly,
"Joseph Loyd."
"What a cant these fellows acquire!" said Calvert as he read the letter and threw it from him. "What mock humility! what downright and palpable pretension to superiority through every line of it! The sum of it all being, I can"t deny that you are cleverer, stronger, more active, and more manly than me; but, somehow, I don"t exactly see why or, how, but I"m your better! Well, I"ll write an answer to this one of these days, and such an answer as I flatter myself he"ll not read aloud to the company who sit round the fire at the vicarage. And so, Mademoiselle Florence, this was your anxiety, and this the reason for all that interest about our quarrel which I was silly enough to ascribe to a feeling for myself. How invariably it is so! How certain it is that a woman, the weakest, the least experienced, the most commonplace, is more than a match in astuteness for a man, in a question where her affections are concerned. The feminine nature has strange contradictions. They can summon the courage of a tigress to defend their young, and the spirit of a Machiavelli to protect a lover. She must have had some misgiving, however, that, to prefer a fellow like this to me would be felt by me as an outrage. And then the cunning stroke of implying that her sister was not indisposed to listen to me. The perfidy of that!"
Several days after Loyd"s departure, Calvert was lounging near the lake, when he jumped up, exclaiming, "Here comes the postman! I see he makes a sign to me. What can this be about? Surely, my attached friend has not written to me again. No, this is a hand that I do not recognise. Let us see what it contains." He opened and read as follows:
"Sir,--I have received your letter. None but a scoundrel could have written it! As all prospect of connexion with your family is now over, you cannot have a pretext for not affording me such a satisfaction as, had you been a gentleman in feeling as you are in station, it would never have been necessary for me to demand from you. I leave this, to-morrow, for the continent, and will be at Basle by Monday next. I will remain there for a week at your orders, and hope that there may be no difficulty to their speedy fulfilment.
"I am, your obedient and faithful servant,
"Wentworth Gordon GRAHAM."
"The style is better than yours, Master Loyd, just because it means something. The man is in an honest pa.s.sion and wants a fight The other fellow was angry, and begged me not to notice it. And so, Sophy, I have spoiled the wedding favours, and scattered the bridesmaids! What a heavy lesson for an impertinent note. Poor thing! why did she trust herself with a pen? Why did she not know that the most fatal of all bottles is the ink bottle? Precious rage old Uncle Geoffrey must be in. I"d like to have one peep at the general discomfiture--the deserted dinner-table, and the empty drawing-room. They deserve it all! they banished _me_, and much good have they got of it Well, Mr. Wentworth Gordon Graham must have his wicked way. The only difficulty will be to find what is so absurdly misnamed as a friend. I must have a friend; I"ll run up to Milan and search the hotels: I"ll surely find some one who will like the cheap heroism of seeing another man shot at. This is the season when all the fellows who have no money for Baden come across the Alps. I"m certain to chance upon one to suit me."
Having despatched a short note, very politely worded to Mr. Graham, to the post office, Basle, he ordered a carriage, and set out for Milan.
The city was in full festivity when he arrived, overjoyed at its new-born independence, and proud of the presence of its king. The streets were crowded with a holiday population, and from all the balconies and windows hung costly tapestries, or gay coloured carpets, Military music resounded on all sides, and so dense was the throng of people and carriages, that Calvert could only proceed at a walking pace, none feeling any especial care to make way for a dusty traveller, seated in one of the commonest of country conveyances.
As he moved slowly and with difficulty forwards, he suddenly heard his name called; he looked up, and saw a well known face, that of a brother officer, who had left India on a sick leave along with himself.
"I say, old fellow!" cried Barnard, "this is your ground; draw into that large gate to your right, and come up here."
In a few seconds, Calvert, escorted by a waiter, was shown to his friend"s apartment.
"I never dreamed of meeting you here, Calvert."
"Nor I of finding you lodged so sumptuously," said Calvert, as his eyes ranged over the splendid room, whose ma.s.sive hangings of silk, and richly gilt ceiling, gave that air of a palace one so often sees in Italian hotels.
"Luck, Sir, luck. I"m married, and got a pot of money with my wife."
He dropped his voice to a whisper, while, with a gesture of his thumb towards an adjoining room, he motioned his friend to be cautious.
"Who was she?"
"n.o.body; that is, not anyone you ever heard of Stockport people, called Reppingham. The father, a great railway contractor, vulgar old dog--begun as a navvy--with one daughter, who is to inherit, they say, a quarter of a million; but, up to this, we"ve only an allowance--two thousand a year. The old fellow, however, lives with us--a horrible nuisance." This speech, given in short, abrupt whispers, was uttered with many signs to indicate that the respected father-in-law was in the vicinity. "Now, of yourself, what"s your news? What have you done last, eh?"
"Nothing very remarkable. I have been vegetating on a lake in the north of Italy, trying to live for five shillings a day, and spending three more in brandy, to give me courage to do it."
"But your leave is up; or perhaps you have got renewal?"
"No, my leave goes to the fifteenth of October."