Buch lesen: «A Rent In A Cloud», Seite 9

CHAPTER XII. DARKER AND DARKER

THERE was an unusual depression at the villa each had his or her own load of anxiety, and each felt that an atmosphere of gloom was thickening around, and, without being able to say why or wherefore, that dark days were coming.

“Among your letters this morning was there none from the vicar, Mr. Calvert?” asked Miss Grainger, as he sat smoking his morning cigar under the porch of the cottage.

“No,” said he, carelessly. “The post brought me nothing of any interest A few reproaches from my friends about not writing, and relieving their anxieties about this unhappy business. They had it that I was killed – beyond that, nothing.”

“But we ought to have heard from old Mr. Loyd before this. Strange, too, Joseph has not written.”

“Stranger if he had! The very mention of my name as a referee in his affairs will make him very cautious with his pen.”

“She is so fretted,” sighed the old lady.

“I see she is, and I see she suspects, also, that you have taken me in your counsels. We are not as good friends as we were some time back.”

“She really likes you, though – I assure you she does, Mr. Calvert. It was but t’other day she said, ‘What would have become of us all this time back if Mad Harry – you know your nickname – if Mad Harry had not been here?’”

“That’s not liking! That is merely the expression of a weak gratitude towards the person who helps to tide over a dreary interval. You might feel it for the old priest who played piquet with you, or the Spitz terrier that accompanied you in your walks.

“Oh, it’s far more than that. She is constantly talking of your great abilities – how you might be this, that and t’other. That, with scarcely an effort, you can master any subject, and without any effort at all always make yourself more agreeable than anyone else.”

“Joseph excepted?”

“No, she didn’t even except him; on the contrary, she said, ‘It was unfortunate for him to be exposed to such a dazzling rivalry – that your animal spirits alone would always beat him out of the field.’”

“Stuff and nonsense! If I wasn’t as much his superior in talent as in temperament, I’d fling myself over that rock yonder, and make an end of it!” After a few seconds’ pause he went on: “She may think what she likes of me, but one thing is plain enough – she does not love him. It is the sort of compassionating, commiserating estimate imaginative girls occasionally get up for dreary depressed fellows, constituting themselves discoverers of intellect that no one ever suspected – revealers of wealth that none had ever dreamed of. Don’t I know scores of such who have poetised the most commonplace of men into heroes, and never found out their mistake till they married them!”

“You always terrify me when you take to predicting, Mr. Calvert”

“Heaven knows, it’s not my ordinary mood. One who looks so little into the future for himself has few temptations to do so for his friends.”

“Why do you feel so depressed?”

“I’m not sure that I do feel depressed. I’m irritable, out of sorts, annoyed if you will; but not low or melancholy. Is it not enough to make one angry to see such a girl as Florry bestow her affections on that – Well, I’ll not abuse him, but you know he is a ‘cad’ – that’s exactly the word that fits him.”

“It was no choice of mine,” she sighed.

“That may be; but you ought to have been more than passive in the matter. Your fears would have prevented you letting your niece stop for a night in an unhealthy locality. You’d not have suffered her to halt in the Pontine Marshes; but you can see no danger in linking her whole future life to influences five thousand times more depressing. I tell you, and I tell you deliberately, that she’d have a far better chance of happiness with a scamp like myself.”

“Ah, I need not tell you my own sentiments on that point,” said she, with a deep sigh.

Calvert apparently set little store by such sympathy, for he rose, and throwing away the end of his cigar, stood looking out over the lake. “Here comes Onofrio, flourishing some letters in his hand. The idiot fancies the post never brings any but pleasant tidings.”

“Let us go down and meet him,” said Miss Grainger; and he walked along at her side in silence.

“Three for the Signor Capitano,” said the boatman, “and one for the signorina,” handing the letters as he landed.

“Drayton,” muttered Calvert; “the others are strange to me.”

“This is from Joseph. How glad poor Florry will be to get it.”

“Don’t defer her happiness, then,” said he, half-sternly; “I’ll sit down on the rocks here and con over my less pleasant correspondence.” One was from his lawyer, to state that outlawry could no longer be resisted, and that if his friends would not come forward at once with some satisfactory promise of arrangement, the law must take its course. “My friends,” said he, with a bitter laugh, “which be they?” The next he opened was from the army agents, dryly setting forth that as he had left the service it was necessary he should take some immediate steps to liquidate some regimental claims against him, of which they begged to enclose the particulars. He laughed bitterly and scornfully as he tore the letter to fragments and threw the pieces into the water. “How well they know the man they threaten!” cried he defiantly. “I’d like to know how much a drowning man cares for his duns?” He laughed again. “Now for Drayton. I hope this will be pleasanter than its predecessors.” It was not very long, and it was as follows:

“The Rag, Tuesday.

“Dear Harry, – Your grateful compliments on the dexterity ofmy correspondence in the Meteor arrived at an unluckymoment, for some fellow had just written to the editor areal statement of the whole affair, and the next day came aprotest, part French, part English, signed by EdwardRochefort, Lieutenant-Colonel; Gustavus Brooke, D.L.;George Law, M.D.; Albericde Raymond, Vicomte, and Jules deLassagnac. They sent for me to the office to see thedocument, and I threw all imaginable discredit on itsauthenticity, but without success. The upshot is, I havelost my place as ‘own correspondent,’ and you are in a verybad way. The whole will appear in print to-morrow, and beread from Hudson’s Bay to the alaya. I have done my best toget the other papers to disparage the statement, and havewritten all the usual bosh about condemning a man in hisabsence, and entreating the public to withhold its judgment,&c. &c; but they all seem to feel that the tide of popularsentiment is too strong to resist, and you must bepilloried; prepare yourself, then, for a pitiless pelting, which, as parliament is not sitting, will probably have arun of three or four weeks.“In any other sort of scrape, the fellows at the club herewould have stood by you, but they shrink from the danger ofthis business, which I now see was worse than you told me.Many, too, are more angry with you for deserting B. than forshooting the other fellow; and though B. was an arrant snob, now that he is no more you wouldn’t believe what shoals ofgood qualities they have discovered he possessed, and he is‘poor Bob’ in the mouth of twenty fellows who would not havebeen seen in his company a month ago. There is, however, worse than all this: a certain Reppingham, or Reppengham, the father of B.‘s wife, has either already instituted, oris about to institute, proceedings against you criminally.He uses ugly words, calls it a murder, and has demanded awarrant for your extradition and arrest at once. There is astory of some note you are said to have written to B., butwhich arrived when he was insensible, and was read by thepeople about him, who were shocked by its heartless levity.What is the truth as to this? At all events, Rep has got avendetta fit on him, and raves like a Corsican forvengeance. Your present place of concealment, safe enoughfor duns, will offer no security against detectives. Thebland blackguards with black whiskers know the geography ofEurope as well as they know the blind alleys aboutHoundsditch. You must decamp, therefore; get across theAdriatic into Dalmatia, or into Greece. Don’t delay, whatever you do, for I see plainly, that in the presentstate of public opinion, the fellow who captures you willcome back here with a fame like that of Gérard the lion-killer. Be sure of one thing, if you were just as cleanhanded in this business as I know you are not, there is notime now for a vindication. You must get out of the way, and wait. The clubs, the press, the swells at the HorseGuards, and the snobs at the War-office, are all againstyou, and there’s no squaring your book against such longodds. I am well aware that no one gets either into or out ofa scrape more easily than yourself; but don’t treat this asa light one: don’t fancy, above all, that I am giving youthe darkest side of it, for, with all our frankness and freespeech together, I couldn’t tell you the language peoplehold here about it There’s not a man you ever bullied atmess, or beat at billiards, that is not paying off hisscores to you now! And though you may take all this easily, don’t undervalue its importance.“I haven’t got – and I don’t suppose you care much now toget – any information about Loyd, beyond his being appointedsomething, Attorney-General’s ‘devil,’ I believe, atCalcutta. I’d not have heard even so much, but he was tryingto get a loan, to make out his outfit, from Joel, and oldIsaac told me who he was, and what he wanted. Joel thinks, from the state of the fellow’s health, that no one will liketo advance the cash, and if so, he’ll be obliged torelinquish the place. You have not told me whether you wishthis, or the opposite.“I wish I could book up to you at such a moment as this, butI haven’t got it I send you all that I can scrapetogether, seventy odd; it is a post bill, and easily cashedanywhere. In case I hear of anything that may beimminently needed for your guidance, I’ll telegraph to youthe morrow after your receipt of this, addressing themessage to the name Grainger, to prevent accidents. You musttry and keep your friends from seeing the London papers solong as you stay with them. I suppose, when you leave, you’ll not fret about the reputation that follows you. Forthe last time, let me warn you to get away to some place ofsafety, for if they can push matters to an arrest, thingsmay take an ugly turn.“They are getting really frightened here about India at lastHarris has brought some awful news home with him, and they’dgive their right hands to have those regiments they sent offto China to despatch now to Calcutta. I know this will beall ‘nuts’ to you, and it is the only bit of pleasanttidings I have for you. Your old prediction about Englandbeing a third-rate power, like Holland, may not be so farfrom fulfilment as I used to think it I wonder shall we everhave a fireside gossip over all these things again? Atpresent, all looks too dark to get a peep into the future.Write to me at once, say what you mean to do, and believe meas ever, yours,

“A. Drayton.

“I have just heard that the lawyers are in doubt as to thelegality of extradition, and Braddon declares dead againstit. In the case they relied on, the man had come to Englandafter being tried in France, thinking himself safe, as‘autrefois acquit;’ but they found him guilty at the OldBailey, and – him. There’s delicacy for you, afteryour own heart”

Calvert smiled grimly at his friend’s pleasantry. “Here is enough trouble for any man to deal with. Duns, outlawry, and a criminal prosecution!” said he, as he replaced his letter in its envelope, and lighted his cigar. He had not been many minutes in the enjoyment of his weed, when he saw Miss Grainger coming hastily towards him. “I wish that old woman would let me alone, just now!” muttered he. “I have need of all my brains for my own misfortunes.”

“It has turned out just as I predicted, Mr. Calvert,” said she, pettishly. “Young Loyd is furious at having his pretensions referred to you, and will not hear of it. His letter to Florence is all but reproachful, and she has gone home with her eyes full of tears. This note for you came as an enclosure.”

Calvert took the note from her hands, and laying it beside him on the rock, smoked on without speaking.

“I knew everything that would happen!” said Miss Grainger. “The old man gave the letter you wrote to his son, who immediately sat down and wrote to Florry. I have not seen the letter myself, but Milly declares that it goes so far as to say, that if Florry admits of any advice or interference on your part, it is tantamount to a desire to break off the engagement. He declares, however, that he neither can nor will believe such a thing to be possible. That he knows she is ignorant of the whole intrigue. Milly assures me that was the word, intrigue; and she read it twice over to be certain. He also says something, which I do not quite understand, about my being led beyond the bounds of judgment by what he calls a traditional reverence for the name you bear – but one thing is plain enough, he utterly rejects the reference to you, or, indeed, to anyone now but Florence herself, and says, ‘This is certainly a case for your own decision, and I will accept of none other than yours.’”

“Is there anything more about me than you have said?” asked Calvert, calmly.

“No, I believe not He begs, in the postscript, that the enclosed note may be given to you, that’s all.”

Calvert took a long breath; he felt as if a weight had been removed from his heart, and he smoked on in silence.

“Won’t you read it?” cried she, eagerly. “I am burning to hear what he says.”

“I can tell you just as well without breaking the seal,” said he, with a half scornful smile. “I know the very tone and style of it, and I recognise the pluck with which such a man, when a thousand miles off, dares to address one like myself.”

“Read it, though; let me hear his own words!” cried she.

“I’m not impatient for it,” said he; “I have had a sufficient dose of bitters this morning, and I’d just as soon spare myself the acrid petulance of this poor creature.”

“You are very provoking, I must say,” said she, angrily, and turned away towards the house. Calvert watched her till she disappeared behind a copse, and then hastily broke open the letter.

“Middle Temple, Saturday.

“Sir – My father has forwarded to me a letter which, withvery questionable good taste, you addressed to him. The veryrelations which subsisted between us when we parted, mighthave suggested a more delicate course on your part. Whateverobjections I might then, however, have made to yourinterference in matters personal to myself, have now becomesomething more than mere objections, and I flatly declarethat I will not listen to one word from a man whose name isnow a shame and a disgrace throughout Europe. That youmay quit the roof which has sheltered you hitherto withoutthe misery of exposure, I have forborne in my letter tonarrate the story which is on every tongue here; but, asthe price of this forbearance, I desire and I exact that youleave the villa on the day you receive this, and cease fromthat day forth to hold any intercourse with the family whoreside in it. If I do not, therefore, receive a despatch bytelegraph, informing me that you accede to these conditions,I will forward by the next post the full details which thepress of England is now giving of your infamous conduct andof the legal steps which are to be instituted against you.“Remember distinctly, Sir, that I am only in this pledgingmyself for that short interval of time which will suffer youto leave the house of those who offered you a refuge againstcalamity – not crime – and whose shame would be overwhelmingif they but knew the character of him they sheltered. Youare to leave before night-fall of the day this reaches, andnever to return. You are to abstain from all correspondence.I make no conditions as to future acquaintanceship, becauseI know that were I even so minded, no efforts of mine couldsave you from that notoriety which a few days more willattach to you, never to leave you.

“I am, your obedient servant,

“Joseph Loyd.”

Calvert tried to laugh as he finished the reading of this note, but the attempt was a failure, and a sickly pallor spread over his face, and his lips trembled. “Let me only meet you, I don’t care in what presence, or in what place,” muttered he, “and you shall pay dearly for this. But now to think of myself. This is just the sort of fellow to put his threat into execution, the more since he will naturally be anxious to get me away from this. What is to be done? With one week more I could almost answer for my success. Ay, Mademoiselle Florry, you were deeper in the toils than you suspected. The dread of me that once inspired a painful feeling had grown into a sort of self-pride that elevated her in her own esteem, She was so proud of her familiarity with a wild animal, and so vain of her influence over him! So pleasant to say, ‘See, savage as he is, he’ll not turn upon me!’ And now to rise from the table, when the game is all but won! Confound the fellow, how he has wrecked my fortunes! As if I had not enough, too, on my hands without this!” And he walked impatiently to and fro, like a caged animal in fretfulness. “I wanted to think over Drayton’s letter calmly and deliberately, and here comes this order, this command, to be up and away – away from the only spot in which I can say I enjoyed an hour’s peace for years and years, and from the two or three left to me, of all the world, who think it no shame to bestow on me a word or a look of kindness. The fellow is peremptory – he declares I must leave to-day.” For some time he continued to walk, muttering to himself, or moodily silent At last he cried out, “Yes; I have it! I’ll go up to Milan, and cash this bill of Drayton’s. When there I’ll telegraph to Loyd, which will show I have left the villa. That done, I’ll return here, if it be but for a day; and who knows what a day will bring forth?”

“Who has commands for Milan?” said he, gaily entering the drawing-room, where Miss Grainger sat, holding a half-whispering conversation with Emily.

“Milan! are you going to Milan?”

“Yes; only for a day. A friend has charged me with a commission that does not admit of delay, and I mean to run up this afternoon and be down by dinnertime to-morrow.”

“I’ll go and see if Florry wants anything from the city,” said Miss Grainger, as she arose and left the room.

“Poor Florry! she is so distressed by that letter she received this morning. Joseph has taken it in such ill part that you should have been consulted by Aunt Grainger, and reproaches her for having permitted what she really never heard of. Not that, as she herself says, she admits of any right on his part to limit her source of advice. She thinks that it is somewhat despotic in him to say, ‘You shall not take counsel except with leave from me.’ She knows that this is the old vicar’s doing, and that Joseph never would have assumed that tone without being put up to it.”

“That is clear enough; but I am surprised that your sister saw it.”

“Oh, she is not so deplorably in love as to be blinded.”

CHAPTER XIII. AGAIN TO MILAN

“POOR Bob! You were standing on that balcony with a very jaunty air, smoking your cuba the last time I passed here,” said Calvert, as he looked up at the windows of the Hôtel Royale at Milan, while he drove on to another and less distinguished hotel. He would have liked greatly to put up at the Royale, and had a chat with its gorgeous landlord over the Reppinghams, how long they stayed and whither they went, and how the young widow bore up under the blow, and what shape old Rep’s grief assumed.

No squeamishness as to the terms that might have been used towards himself would have prevented his gratifying this wish. The obstacle was purely financial He had told the host, on leaving, to pay a thousand francs for him that he had lost at play, and it was by no means convenient now to reimburse him. The bank had just closed as he arrived, so there was nothing for it but to await its opening the next morning. His steps were then turned to the Telegraph-office. The message to Loyd was in these words: “Your letter received. I am here, and leave to-morrow.”

“Of course the fellow will understand that I have obeyed his high behest, and I shall be back at Orta in time to catch the post on its arrival, and see whether he has kept faith with me or not. If there be no newspapers there for the villa I may conclude it is all right.” This brief matter of business over, he felt like one who had no further occasion for care. When he laid down his burden he could straighten his back, no sense of the late pressure remaining to remind him of the load that had pressed so heavily. He knew this quality in himself, and prized it highly. It formed part of what he used boastfully to call his “Philosophy,” and he contrasted it proudly with the condition of those fellows, who instead of rebounding under pressure, collapsed, and sunk never to rise more. The vanity with which he regarded himself supplied him with a vindictive dislike to the world, who could suffer a fellow endowed and gifted as he was to be always in straits and difficulties. He mistook – a very common mistake by-the-way – a capacity to enjoy, for a nature deservant of enjoyment, and he thought it the greatest injustice to see scores of well-off people who possessed neither his own good constitution nor his capacity to endure dissipation uninjured. “Wretches not fit to live,” as he said, and assuredly most unfit to live the life which he alone prized or cared for. He dined somewhat sumptuously at one of the great restaurants. “He owed it to himself,” he said, after all that dreary cookery of the villa, to refresh his memory of the pleasures of the table, and he ordered a flask of Marco-brunner that cost a Napoleon. He was the caressed of the waiters, and escorted to the door by the host There is no supremacy so soon recognised as that of wealth, and Calvert, for a few hours, gave himself up to the illusion that he was rich. As the opera was closed, he went to one of the smaller theatres, and sat out for a while one of those dreariest of all dreary things, a comedy by the “immortal Goidoni!”

Immortal indeed, so long as sleep remains an endowment of humanity! He tried to interest himself in a plot wherein the indecency was only veiled by the dulness, and where the language of the drawing-room never rose above the tone of the servants’-hall, and left the place in disgust, to seek anywhere, or anyhow, something more, amusing than this.

Without well knowing how, he found himself at the door of the Gettone, the hell he had visited when he was last at Milan.

“They shall sup me, at all events,” said he, as he deposited his hat and cane in the ante-chamber. The rooms were crowded and it was some time before Calvert could approach the play-table, and gain a view of the company. He recognised many of the former visitors. There sat the pretty woman with the blonde ringlets, her diamond-studded fingers carelessly playing with the gold pieces before her; there was the pale student-like boy – he seemed a mere boy – with his dress-cravat disordered, and his hair dishevelled, just as he had seen him last; and there was the old man, whose rouleau had cost Calvert all his winnings. He looked fatigued and exhausted, and seemed as if dropping asleep over his game, and yet the noise was deafening – the clamour of the players, the cries of the croupier, the clink of glasses, and the clink of gold!

“Now to test the adage that says when a man is pelted by all other ill luck, that he’ll win at play,” said Calvert, as he threw, without counting them, several Napoleons on the table. His venture was successful, and so was another and another after it.

“This is yours, Sir,” said she of the blonde ringlets,’ handing him a hundred franc-piece that had rolled amongst her own.

“Was it not to suggest a partnership that it went there?” said he, smiling courteously.

“Who knows?” said she, half carelessly, half invitingly.

“Let us see what our united fortunes will do. This old man is dozing and does not care for the game. Would you favour me with your place, Sir, and take your rest with so much more comfort, on one of those luxurious sofas yonder?”

“No!” said the old man, sternly. “I have as much right to be here as you.”

“The legal right I am not going to dispute. It is simply a matter of expediency.”

“Do you mean to stake all that gold, Sir?” interrupted the croupier, addressing Calvert, who, during this brief discussion, had suffered his money to remain till it had been doubled twice over.

“Ay, let it stay there,” said he, carelessly.

“What have you done that makes you so lucky?” whispered the blonde ringlets. “See, you have broken the bank!”

“What have I done, do you mean in the way of wickedness?” said he, laughing as the croupiers gathered in a knot to count over the sum to be paid to him. “Nearly everything. I give you leave to question me – so far as your knowledge of the Decalogue goes – what have I not done?” And so they sauntered down the room side by side and sat down on a sofa, chatting and laughing pleasantly together, till the croupier came loaded with gold and notes to pay all Calvert’s winnings.

“What was it the old fellow muttered as he passed?” said Calvert; “he spoke in German, and I didn’t understand him.”

“It was something about a line in your forehead that will bring you bad luck yet.”

“I have heard that before,” cried he, springing hastily up. “I wish I could get him to tell me more;” and he hastened down the stairs after the old man, but when he gained the street he missed him; he hurried in vain on this side and that; no trace of him remained. “If I were given to the credulous, I’d say that was the fiend in person,” muttered Calvert, as he slowly turned towards his inn.

He tried in many ways to forget the speech that troubled him; he counted over his winnings; they were nigh fourteen thousand francs; he speculated on all he might do with them; he plotted and planned a dozen roads to take, but do what he might, the old man’s sinister look and dark words were before him, and he could only lie awake thinking over them till day broke.

Determined to return to Orta in time to meet the post, he drove to the bank, just as it was open for business, and presented his bill for payment.

“You have to sign your name here,” said a voice he thought he remembered, and, looking up, saw the old man of the play-table.

“Did we not meet last night?” whispered Calvert, in a low voice.

The other shook his head in dissent.

“Yes, I cannot be mistaken; you muttered a prediction in German as you passed me, and I know what it meant.”

Another shake of the head was all his reply.

“Come, come, be frank with me; your secret, if it be one to visit that place, is safe with me. What leads you to believe I am destined to evil fortune?”

“I know nothing of you! I want to know nothing,” said the old man, rudely, and turned to his books.

“Well, if your skill in prophecy be not greater than in politeness, I need not fret about you,” said Calvert laughing; and he went his way.

With that superstitious terror that tyrannises over the minds of incredulous men weighing heavily on his heart, he drove back to Orta. All his winnings of the night before could not erase from lus memory the dark words of the old man’s prediction. He tried to forget, and then he tried to ridicule it “So easy,” thought he, “for that old withered mummy to cast a shadow on the path of a fellow full of life, vigour, and energy, like myself. He has but to stand one second in my sunshine! It is, besides, the compensation that age and decrepitude exact for being no longer available for the triumphs and pleasures of life.” Such were the sort of reasonings by which he sought to console himself, and then he set to plan out a future – all the things that he could, or might, or could not do.

Just as he drove into Orta the post arrived at the office, and he got out and entered, as was his wont, to obtain his letters before the public distribution had commenced.