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CHAPTER XXI. THE RETURN

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.

CHAPTER XXII. A LETTER OF CONFESSIONS

THE following letter from Calvert to Drayton was written about three weeks after the event of our last chapter.

“The Villa.

“My dear Algernon, – I knew my black fellow would run you toearth, though he had not a word of English in hisvocabulary, nor any clue to you except your name and a mapof England. It must have, however, been his near kinsman – the other ‘black gentleman’ – suggested Scarborough to him; and, to this hour, I cannot conceive how he found you. I amoverjoyed to hear that you could muster enough Hindostaneeto talk with him, and hear some of those adventures which mynatural modesty might have scrupled to tell you. It wouldseem from your note, that he has been candour itself, andconfessed much that a man of a paler and thinner skin mightprefer to have shrouded or evaded. All true, D.; we havedone our brigandage on a grand scale, and divided our prizemoney without the aid of a prize-court.“Keep those trinkets with an easy conscience, and if theyleave your own hands for any less worthy still, remember theadage, ‘Ill got, ill gone,’ and be comforted. I suppose youare right – you are generally right on a question ofworldly craft and prudence – it is better not to attempt thesale of the larger gems in England. St Petersburg and Viennaare as good markets, and safer.“El. J. has already told you of our escape into Cashmere: make him narrate the capture of Mansergh, and how he foundthe Keyserbagh necklace under his saddle. A Queen’s officerlooting! Only think of the enormity! Did it not justifythose proceedings in which Instinct anticipated the findingof a court-martial? The East, and its adventures – a verybulky roll, I assure you – must wait till we meet; and in mynext I shall say where, and how, and when: for there is muchthat I shall tell that I could not write even to you,Algernon. Respect my delicacy, and be patient.“I know you are impatient to hear why I am not nearerEngland – even at Paris – and I am just as impatient to tellyou. The address of this will show you where I am. All thewriting in the world could not tell you why. No, Drayton; Ilie awake at night, questioning, questioning, and in vain. Ihave gone to the nicest anatomy of my motives, dissectingfibre by fibre, and may I be – a Queen’s officer – if I canhit upon an explanation of the mystery. The nearest I cancome is, that I feel the place dangerous to me, and, therefore, I cling to it. I know well the feeling that woulddraw a man back to the spot where he had committed a greatcrime. Blood is a very glutinous fluid, and has mostcohesive properties; but here, in this place, I have doneno enormities, and why I hug this coast, except that it be alee-shore, where shipwreck is very possible, I really cannotmake out Not a bit in love? No, Algy. It is not easy for aman like me to fall in love. Love demands a variety ofqualities, which have long left me, if I ever had them. Ihave little trustfulness, no credulity; I very seldom lookback, never look forward; I neither believe in another, norask belief in myself. I have seen too much of life to be adreamer – reality with me denies all place to mere romance.Last of all I cannot argue from the existence of certainqualities in a woman to the certainty of her possessingfifty others that I wish her to have. I only believe what Isee, and my moral eyes are affected with cataract; and yet, with all this, there’s a girl here – the same, ay, the same,I told you of long ago – that I’d rather marry than I’d beKing of Agra, with a British governor-general for my water-carrier! The most maddening of all jealousy is for a womanthat one is not in love with! I am not mad, most nobleDrayton, though I am occasionally as near it as is safe forthe surrounders. With the same determination that this girlsays she’ll not have me, have I sworn to myself she shall bemine. It is a fair open game, and I leave you, who love awager, to name the winner. I have seen many prettier women – scores ol cleverer ones. I am not quite sure that in thematter of those social captivarions into which mannerenters, she has any especial gifts. She is not a horsewoman,in the real sense of the word, which, once on a time, was asine quâ non of mine; nor, in fact, has she a peculiarexcellence in anything, and yet she gives you the impressionof being able to be anything she likes. She has greatquickness and great adaptiveness, but she possesses onetrait of attraction above all; she utterly rejects me,and sets all my arts at defiance. I saw, very soon after Icame back here, that she was prepared for a regular siege, and expected a fierce love-suit on my part I accordinglyspiked my heavy artillery, and assumed an attitude of peace-like indolence. I lounged about, chiefly alone; neitheravoided nor sought her, and, if I did nothing more, I sorelypuzzled her as to what I could mean by my conduct. Thiswas so far a success that it excited her interest, and I sawthat she watched and was studying me. She even made faintattempts at little confidences: ‘Saw I was unhappy – hadsomething on my mind;’ and, for the matter of that, I hadplenty – plenty on my conscience, too, if nature had beencruel enough to have inflicted me with one. I, of course, said ‘No’ to all these insinuations. I was not happy norunhappy. If I sat at the table of life, and did noteat, it was because I had no great appetite. Theentertainment did not amuse me much, but I had nowhereparticularly to go to. She went one day so far as to hintwhether I was not crossed in love? But I assured hernot, and I saw her grow very pale as I said it. Ieven suggested, that though one might have two attacks ofthe malady, like the measles, the second one was alwaysmild, and never hurt the constitution. Having thuspiqued her a little about myself, I gradually unsettled heropinion on other things, frightened her by how thegeologists contradict Genesis, and gave her to choosebetween Monsieur Cuvier and Moses. As for India, I madeher believe that we were all heartily ashamed of what wewere doing there, spoke of the Hindoo as the model native, and said that if the story of our atrocities were written,Europe would rise up and exterminate us. Hence I hadnot taken the C.B., nor the V.C., nor any other alphabeticalglories. In a word, Drayton, I got her into that frame ofresdessness and fever in which all belief smacks of foolishcredulity, and the commonest exercise of trust seems likethe indulgence of a superstition.“All this time no mention of Loyd, not a hint of hisexistence. Yesterday, however, came a fellow here, a certainMr. Stockwell, with a note of introduction from Loyd, calling him ‘my intimate friend S., whom you have doubtlessheard of as a most successful, photographer. He is going toIndia with a commission from the Queen,’ &c. We had him todinner, and made him talk, as all such fellows are ready totalk, about themselves and the fine people who employ them.In the evening we had his portfolio and the peerage, and sodelighted was the vulgar dog to have got into the land ofcoronets and strawberry-leaves, that he would have ignoredLoyd if I had not artfully brought him to his recollection; but he came to the memory of ‘poor Joe,’ as he called him, with such a compassionating pity, that I actually grew tolike him. He had been at the vicarage, too, and saw itslittle homely ways and small economies; and I laughed soheartily at his stupid descriptions and vapid jokes, that Imade the ass think he was witty, and actually repeat them.All this time imagine Florry, pale as a corpse, or scarlet, either half fainting or in a fever, dying to burst in withan angry indignation, and yet restrained by maidenbashfulness. She could bear no more by eleven o’clock, andwent off to bed under pretence of a racking headache.“It is a great blow at any man’s favour in a woman’s esteemwhen you show up his particular friend, his near intimate; and certes, I did not spare Stockwell. You have seen me inthis part, and you can give me credit for some powers inplaying it.“‘Could that creature ever have been the dear friend ofJoseph’ said Milly, as he said good-night.“‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘They seem made for each other.’“Florry was to have come out for a sail this morning withme, but she is not well – I suspect sulky – and has notappeared. I therefore give you the morning that I meantfor her. Her excuses have amazed me; because, after my lastnight’s success, and the sorry figure I had succeeded inpresenting L. to her, I half hoped my own chances might belooking up. In fact, though I have been playing a waitinggame so patiently, to all appearance, I am driven half madby self restraint. Come what may, I must end this; besides,to day is the fourth: on the tenth the steamer fromAlexandria will touch at Malta; L. will therefore be atLeghorn by the fourteenth, and here two days after – that isto say, in twelve days more my siege must be raised. If Iwere heavily ironed in a felon’s cell with the day of myexecution fixed, I could not look to the time with one-halfthe heart-sinking I now feel.“I’d give – what would I not give? – to have you near me, though in my soul I know all that you’d say; how you’dpreach never minding, letting be, and the rest of it, justas if I could cut out some other work for myself tomorrow, and think no more of her. But I cannot. No Drayton, Icannot, Is it not too hard for the fellow who cut his waythrough Lahore with sixteen followers, and made a lanethrough her Majesty’s light cavalry, to be worsted, defeated, and disgraced by a young girl, who has neitherrank, riches, nor any remarkable beauty to her share, but issimply sustained by the resolve that she’ll not have me?Mind, D., I have given her no opportunity of saying thissince I came last here: on the contrary, she would, ifquestioned, be ready – I’d swear to it she would – to say,‘Calvert paid me no attentions, nor made any court to me.’She is very truthful in everything, but who is to say whather woman’s instinct may not have revealed to her of my love?Has not the woman a man loves always a private key to hisheart, and doesn’t she go and tumble its contents about, just out of curiosity, ten times a day? Not that she’d everfind a great deal either in or on mine. Neither theindictments for murder or manslaughter, nor that otherheavier charge for H. T., have left their traces within mypericardium, and I could stand to back myself not to rave ina compromising fashion if I had a fever to-morrow. But howhollow all this boasting, when that girl within the closedwindow-shutter yonder defies me – ay, defies me! Is she togo off to her wedding with the inner consciousness of thisvictory? There’s the thought that is driving me mad, andwill, I am certain, end by producing some dire mischief – what the doctors call a lesion – in this unhappy brain ofmine. And now, as I sit here in listless idleness, thatother fellow is hastening across Egypt, or ploughing his waythrough the Red Sea, to come and marry her! I ask you, D., what amount of philosophy is required to bear up under this?“I conclude I shall leave this some time next week – not tocome near England, though – for I foresee that it will soonbe out where, how, and with whom I have been spending myholidays. Fifty fellows must suspect, and some half-dozenmust know all about it America, I take it, must be myground – as well there as anywhere else – but I can’t endurea plan, so enough of this. Don’t write to me till you hearagain, for I shall leave this certainly, though where for, not so certain.“What a deal of trouble and uncertainty that girl mightspare me if she’d only consent to say ‘Yes.’ If I see heralone this evening, I half think I shall ask her.

“Farewell for a while, and believe me,

“Yours ever,

“HARRY C.

“P.S. Nine o’clock, evening. Came down to dinner lookingexceedingly pretty, and dressed to perfection. All spite andmalice, I’m certain. Asked me to take her out to sail to-morrow. We are to go off on an exploring expedition to anisland – ‘que sais je?’“The old Grainger looks on me with aunt-like eyes. She hasseen a bracelet of carbuncles in dull gold, the like ofwhich Loyd could not give her were he to sell justice fortwenty years to come. I have hinted that I mean them for mymother-in-law whenever I marry, and she understands that theparentage admits of a representative. All this is veryignoble on my part; but if I knew of anything meaner thatwould ensure me success, I’d do it also.“What a stunning vendetta on this girl, if she were at lastto consent, to find out whom she had married, and what.Think of the winter nights’ tales, of the charges that hangover me, and their penalties. Imagine the Hue and Cry aslight reading for the honeymoon!”

He added one line on the envelope, to say he would write again on the morrow; but his promise he did not keep.