A Rent In A Cloud

“Yes, that may do – at least for the present. It will do at least with Emily, who bears me no ill will.”

“You wrong Florence if you imagine that she does. It was only the other day, when, in a letter from Loyd, she read that you had left the army, she said how sorry she was you had quitted the career so suited to your abilities.”

“Indeed! I scarce hoped for so much of interest in me.”

“Oh, she talks continually about you; and always as of one, who only needs the guidance of some true friend to be a man of mark and distinction yet.”

“It is very good, very kind of her,” he said; and, for an instant, seemed lost in thought.

“I’ll go back now,” said Miss Grainger, “and prepare them for your coming. They’ll wonder what has detained me all this while. Wait one moment for me here.”

Calvert, apparently, was too much engaged with his own thoughts to hear her, and suffered her to go without a word. She was quickly back again, and beckoning him to follow her, led the way to the drawing-room.

Scarcely had Calvert passed the doorway, when the two girls met him, and each taking a hand, conducted him without a word to a sofa. Indeed, his sickly look, and the air of downright misery in his countenance, called or all their sympathy and kindness.

“I have scarcely strength to thank you!” he said to them, in a faint voice. Though the words were addressed to both, the glance he gave towards Florence sent the blood to her pale cheeks, and made her turn away in some confusion.

“You’ll have some tea and rest yourself, and when you feel once quiet and undisturbed here you’ll soon regain your strength,” said Emily, as she turned towards the tea-table. While Florence, after a few moments’ hesitation, seated herself on the sofa beside him.

“Has she told you what has befallen me?” whispered he to her.

“In part – that is, something of it. As much as she could in a word or two; but do not speak of it now.”

“If I do not now, Florence, I can never have the courage again.”

“Then be it so,” she said eagerly. “I am more anxious to see you strong and well again, than to hear how you became wretched and unhappy.”

“But if you do not hear the story from myself, Florence, and if you should hear the tale that others may tell of me – if you never know how I have been tried and tempted – ”

“There, there – don’t agitate yourself, or I must leave you; and, sec, Milly is remarking our whispering together.”

“Does she grudge me this much of your kindness?”

“No; but – there – here she comes with your tea.” She drew a little table in front of him, and tried to persuade him to eat.

“Your sister has just made me a very generous promise, Emily,” said he. “She has pledged herself – even without hearing my exculpation – to believe me innocent; and although I have told her that the charges that others will make against me may need some refutation on my part, she says she’ll not listen to them. Is not that very noble – is it not truly generous?”

“It is what I should expect from Florence.”

“And what of Florence’s sister?” said he, with a half furtive glance towards her.

“I hope, nothing less generous.”

“Then I am content,” said he, with a faint sigh. “When a man is as thoroughly ruined as I am, it might be thought he would be indifferent to opinion in every shape – and so I am, beyond the four walls of this room; but here,” and he looked at each in turn, “are the arbiters of my fate; if you will but be to me dear sisters – kind, compassionate, forgiving sisters – you will do more for this crushed and wounded heart, than all the sympathy of the whole world beside.”

“We only ask to be such to you,” cried Florence, eagerly: “and we feel how proud we could be of such a brother; but, above all, do not distress yourself now, by a theme so painful to touch on. Let the unhappy events of the last few weeks lie, if not forgotten, at least unmentioned, till you are calm and quiet enough to talk of them as old memories.”

“Yes! but how can I bear the thought of what others may say of me – meanwhile?”

“Who are these others – we see no one, we go into no society?”

“Have you not scores of dear friends, writing by every post to ask if this atrocious duellist be ‘your’ Mr. Calvert, and giving such a narrative, besides, of his doings, that a galley-slave would shrink from contact with such a man? Do I not know well how tenderly people deal with the vices that are not their own? How severe the miser can be on the spendthrift, and how mercilessly the coward condemns the hot blood that resents an injury, and how gladly they would involve in shame the character that would not brook dishonour?”

“Believe me, we have very few ‘dear friends’ at all,” said Florence, smiling, “and not one, no, not a single one of the stamp you speak of.”

“If you were only to read our humdrum letters,” chimed in Emily, “you’d see how they never treat of anything but little domestic details of people who live as obscurely as ourselves. How Uncle Tom’s boy has got into the Charterhouse; or Mary’s baby taken the chicken-pox.”

“But Loyd writes to you – and not in this strain?”

“I suspect Joseph cares little to fill his pages with what is called news,” said Emily, with a laughing glance at her sister, who had turned away her head in some confusion.

“Nor would he be one likely to judge you harshly,” said Florence, recovering herself. “I believe you have few friends who rate you more highly than he does.”

“It is very generous of him!” said Calvert, haughtily; and then, catching in the proud glance of Florry’s eyes a daring challenge of his words, he added, in a quieter tone, “I mean, it is generous of him to overlook how unjust I have been to him. It is not easy for men so different to measure each other, and I certainly formed an unfair estimate of him.”

“Oh! may I tell him that you said so?” cried she, taking his hand with warmth.

“I mean to do it for myself dearest sister. It is a debt I cannot permit another to acquit for me.”

“Don’t you think you are forgetting our guest’s late fatigues, and what need he has of rest and quietness, girls?” said Miss Grainger, coming over to where they sat.

“I was forgetting everything in my joy, aunt,” cried Florence. “He is going to write to Joseph like a dear, dear brother as he is, and we shall all be so happy, and so united.”

“A brother? Mr. Calvert a brother?” said the old lady, in consternation at such a liberty with one of that mighty house, in which she had once lived as an humble dependant.

“Yes,” cried he. “It is a favour I have begged, and they have not denied me.”

The old lady’s face flushed, and pride and shame glowed together on her cheeks.

“So we must say good-night,” said Calvert, rising; “but we shall have a long day’s talk together, to-morrow. Who is it that defines an aunt as a creature that always sends one to bed?” whispered he to Florence.

“What made you laugh, dear?” said her sister, after Calvert had left the room.

“I forget – I didn’t know I laughed – he is a strange incomprehensible fellow – sometimes I like him greatly, and sometimes I feel a sort of dread of him that amounts to terror.”

“If I were Joseph, I should not be quite unconcerned about that jumbled estimation.”

“He has no need to be. They are unlike in every way,” said she, gravely; and then, taking up her book, went on, or affected to go on reading.

“I wish Aunt Grainger would not make so much of him. It is a sort of adulation that makes our position regarding him perfectly false,” said Emily. “Don’t you think so, dear?”

Florence, however, made no reply, and no more passed that evening between them.

Few of us have not had occasion to remark the wondrous change produced in some quiet household, where the work of domesticity goes on in routine fashion, by the presence of an agreeable and accomplished guest. It is not alone that he contributes by qualities of his own to the common stock of amusement, but that he excites those around him to efforts, which develop resources they had not, perhaps, felt conscious of possessing. The necessity, too, of wearing one’s company face, which the presence of a stranger exacts, has more advantages than many wot of. The small details whose discussion forms the staple of daily talk – the little household cares and worries – have to be shelved. One can scarcely entertain their friends with stories of the cook’s impertinence, or the coachman’s neglect, and one has to see, as they do see, that the restraint of a guest does not in reality affect the discipline of a household, though it suppress the debates and arrest the discussion.

It has been often remarked that the custom of appearing in parliament – as it was once observed – in court-dress, imposed a degree of courtesy and deference in debate, of which men in wide-awake hats and paletots are not always observant; and, unquestionably, in the little ceremonial observances imposed by the stranger’s presence, may be seen the social benefits of a good breeding not marred by over-familiarity. It was thus Calvert made his presence felt at the villa. It was true he had many companionable qualities, and he had, or at least affected to have, very wide sympathies. He was ever ready to read aloud, to row, to walk, to work in the flower-garden, to sketch, or to copy music, as though each was an especial pleasure to him. If he was not as high spirited and light hearted as they once had seen him, it did not detract from, but rather added to the interest he excited. He was in misfortune – a calamity not the less to be compassionated that none could accurately define it; some dreadful event had occurred, some terrible consequence impended, and each felt the necessity of lighten ing the load of his sorrow, and helping him to bear his affliction. They were so glad when they could cheer him up, and so happy when they saw him take even a passing pleasure in the pursuits their own days were spent in.

They had now been long enough in Italy not to feel depressed by its dreamy and monotonous quietude, but to feel the inexpressible charm of that soft existence, begotten of air, and climate, and scenery. They had arrived at that stage – and it is a stage – in which the olive is not dusky, nor the mountain arid: when the dry course of the torrent suggests no wish for water. Life – mere life – has a sense of luxury about it, unfelt in northern lands. With an eager joy, therefore, did they perceive that Calvert seemed to have arrived at the same sentiment, and the same appreciation as themselves. He seemed to ask for nothing better than to stroll through orange groves, or lie under some spreading fig-tree, drowsily soothed by the song of the vine-dresser, or the unwearied chirp of the cicala. How much of good there must be surely in a nature pleased with such tranquil simple pleasures! thought they. See how he likes to watch the children at their play, and with what courtesy he talked to that old priest. It is clear dissipation may have damaged, but has not destroyed that fine temperament – his heart has not lost its power to feel. It was thus that each thought of him, though there was less of confidence between the sisters than heretofore.