A Rent In A Cloud

But he did enjoy them, and to the utmost Florence very soon threw off all trace of her late indisposition, and sought, in many ways, to make her lover forget all the pain she had cost him. The first week was one of almost unalloyed happiness; the second opened with the thought that the days were numbered. After Monday came Tuesday, then Wednesday, which preceded Thursday, when he was to leave.

How was it, they asked themselves, that a whole week had gone over? It was surely impossible! Impossible it must be, for now they remembered the mass of things they had to talk over together, not one of which had been touched on.

“Why, Joseph dearest, you have told me nothing about yourself. Whether you are to be in Calcutta, or up the country? Where, and how I am to write? When I am to hear from you? What of papa – I was going to say, our papa – would he like to hear from me, and may I write to him? Dare I speak to him as a daughter? Will he think me forward or indelicate for it? May I tell him of all our plans? Surely you ought to have told me some of these things! What could we have been saying to each other all this while?”

Joseph looked at her, and she turned away her head pettishly, and murmured something about his being too absurd. Perhaps he was; I certainly hold no brief to defend him in the case: convict or acquit him, dear reader, as you please.

And yet, notwithstanding this appeal, the next three days passed over just as forgetfully as their predecessors, and then came the sad Wednesday evening, and the sadder Thursday morning, when, wearied out and exhausted, for they had sat up all night – his last night – to say good-bye.

“I declare he will be late again; this is the third time he has come back from the boat,” exclaimed Miss Grainger, as Florence sank, half fainting, into Emily’s arms.

“Yes, yes, dear Joseph,” muttered Emily, “go now, go at once, before she recovers again.”

“If I do not, I never can,” cried he, as the tears coursed down his face, while he hurried away.

The monotonous beat of the oars suddenly startled the half-conscious girl; she looked up, and lifted her hand to wave an adieu, and then sank back into her sister’s arms, and fainted.

Three days after, a few hurried lines from Loyd told Florence that he had sailed for Malta – this time irrevocably off. They were as sad lines to read as to have written. He had begun by an attempt at jocularity; a sketch of his fellow-travellers coming on board; their national traits, and the strange babble of tongues about them; but, as the bell rang, he dropped this, and scrawled out, as best he could, his last and blotted good-byes. They were shaky, ill-written words, and might, who knows, have been blurred with a tear or two. One thing is certain, she who read, shed many over them, and kissed them, with her last waking breath, as she fell asleep.

About the same day that this letter reached Florence, came another, and very different epistle, to the hands of Algernon Drayton, from his friend Calvert It was not above a dozen lines, and dated from Alexandria:

“The Leander has just steamed in, crowded with snobs, civiland military, but no Loyd. The fellow must have given up hisappointment or gone ‘long sea.’ In any case, he has escapedme. I am frantic. A whole month’s plottings of vengeancescattered to the winds and lost! I’d return to England,if I were only certain to meet with him: but a Faquir, whomI have just consulted, says, ‘Go east, and the worst willcome of it!’ and so I start in two hours for Suez. Thereare two here who know me, but I mean to caution them howthey show it; they are old enough to take a hint.

“Yours, H. C.

“I hear my old regiment has mutinied, and sabred eight ofthe officers. I wish they’d have waited a little longer, andneither S. nor W. would have got off so easily. From all Ican learn, and from the infernal fright the fellows who aregoing back exhibit, I suspect that the work goes bravelyon.”

CHAPTER XVIII. TIDINGS FROM BENGAL

I am not about to chronicle how time now rolled over the characters of our story. As for the life of those at the villa, nothing could be less eventful All existences that have any claim to be called happy are of this type, and if there be nothing brilliant or triumphant in their joys, neither is there much poignancy in their sorrows.

Loyd wrote almost by every mail, and with a tameness that shadowed forth the uniform tenor of his own life. It was pretty nigh the same story, garnished by the same reflections. He had been named a district judge “up country,” and passed his days deciding the disputed claims of indigo planters against the ryots, and the ryots against the planters. Craft, subtlety, and a dash of perjury, ran through all these suits, and rendered them rather puzzles for a quick intelligence to resolve, than questions of right or legality. He told, too, how dreary and uncompanionable his life was; how unsolaced by friendship, or even companionship; that the climate was enervating, the scenery monotonous, and the thermometer at a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty degrees.

Yet Loyd could speak with some encouragement about his prospects. He was receiving eight hundred rupees a month, and hoped to be promoted to some place, ending in Ghar or Bad, with an advance of two hundred more. He darkly hinted that the mutinous spirit of certain regiments was said to be extending, but he wrote this with all the reserve of an official, and the fear that Aunt Grainger might misquote him. Of course there were other features in these letters – those hopes and fears, and prayers and wishes, which lovers like to write, almost as well as read, poetising to themselves their own existence, and throwing a rose-tint of romance over lives as lead-coloured as may be. Of these I am not going to say anything. It is a theme both too delicate and too dull to touch on. I respect and I dread it. I have less reserve with the correspondence of another character of our tale, though certainly, when written, it was not meant for publicity. The letter of which I am about to make an extract, and it can be but an extract, was written about ten months after the departure of Calvert for India, and, like his former ones, addressed to his friend Drayton:

“At the hazard of repeating myself, if by chance my formerletters have reached you, I state that I am in the serviceof the Meer Morad, of Ghurtpore, of whose doings the Timescorrespondent will have told you something. I have eightsquadrons of cavalry and a half battery of field-pieces – brass ten pounders – with an English crown on their breech.We are well armed, admirably mounted, and perfect devils tofight. You saw what we did with the detachment of the – th, and their sick convoy, coming out of Allenbad. The onlyfellow that escaped was the doctor, and I saved his life toattach him to my own staff. He is an Irish fellow, namedTobin, and comes from Tralee – if there be such a place – andbegs his friends there not to say masses for him, for he isalive, and drunk every evening. Do this, if not a bore.“By good luck the Meer, my chief quarrelled with the king’sparty in Delhi, and we came away in time to save beingcaught by Wilson, who would have recognised me at once.By-the-way, Baxter of the 30th was stupid enough to say,‘Eh, Calvert’ what the devil are you doing amongstthese niggers?’ He was a prisoner, at the time, and, ofcourse, I had to order him to be shot for his imprudence.How he knew me I cannot guess; my beard is down to mybreast, and I am turbaned and shawled in the most approvedfashion. We are now simply marauding, cutting offsupplies, falling on weak detachments, and doing a smallretail business in murder wherever we chance upon a stationof civil servants. I narrowly escaped being caught by atroop of the 9th Lancers, every man of whom knows me. Iwent over with six trusty fellows, to Astraghan, where Ilearned that a certain Loyd was stationed as Governmentreceiver. We got there by night, burned his bungalow, shothim, and then discovered he was not our man, but anotherLoyd. Bradshaw came up with his troop. He gave us aneight mile chase across country, and, knowing how the Ninthride, I took them over some sharp nullahs, and the croppersthey got you’ll scarcely see mentioned in the governmentdespatches. I fired three barrels of my Yankee six-shooter at Brad, and I heard the old beggar offer a thousandrupees for my head. When he found he could not overtakeus, and sounded a halt, I screamed out, ‘Threes about,Bradshaw, I’d give fifty pounds to hear him tell thestory at mess: ‘Yes, Sir, begad, Sir, in as good English,Sir, as yours or mine, Sir; a fellow who had served theQueen, I’ll swear.’“For the moment, it is a mere mutiny, but it will soon be arebellion, and I don’t conceal from myself the danger ofwhat I am doing, as you, in all likelihood, will suspect.Not dangers from the Queen’s fellows – for they shall nevertake me alive – but the dangers I run from my presentassociates, and who, of course, only half trust me… Doyou remember old Commissary-General Yates – J.C.V.R. Yates, the old ass used to write himself? Well, amongst the otherevents of the time, was the sack and ‘loo’ of his house atCawnpore, and the capture of ais pretty wife, whom theybrought in here a prisoner. I expected to find the pooryoung creature terrified almost out of her reason. Not a bitof it! She was very angry with the fellows who robbed her, and rated, them roundly in choice Hindostanee, telling oneof the chiefs that his grandfather was a scorched pig. Likea woman, and a clever woman, too, though she recognised me – I can almost swear that she did – she never showed it, and wetalked away all the evening, – and smoked our hookahs togetherin Oriental guise. I gave her a pass next morning toCalcutta, and saw her safe to the great trunk road, givingher bearers as far as Behdarah. She expressed herself asvery grateful for my attentions, and hoped at some futuretime – this with a malicious twinkle of her gray eyes – toshow the ‘Bahadoor’ that she had not forgotten them. So yousee there are lights as well as shadows in the life of arebel.”

I omit a portion here, and come to the conclusion, which was evidently added in haste.

“‘Up and away!’ is the order. We are off to Bithoor. TheNana there – a staunch friend, as it was thought, of Britishrule – has declared for independence, and as there is plentyof go in him, look out for something ‘sensational.’ Youwouldn’t believe how, amidst all these stirring scenes, Ilong for news – from what people call home – of Rocksley andUncle G., and the dear Soph; but more from that villabeside the Italian lake. I’d give a canvas bag that I carryat my girdle with a goodly stock of pearls, sapphires, andrubies, for one evening’s diary of that cottage!“If all go on as well and prosperously as I hope for, I havenot the least objection, but rather a wish that you wouldtell the world where I am, and what I am doing. Linked withfailure, I’d rather keep dark; but as a sharer in a greatsuccess, I burn to make it known through the length andbreadth of the land that I am alive and well, and ready toacquit a number of personal obligations, if not to the veryfellows who injured me, to their friends, relatives, andcousins, to the third generation. Tell them, Algy, ‘A duel’samang ye, cutting throats,’ and add, if you like, that hewrites himself your attached friend,

“Harry Calvert?”

This letter, delivered in some mysterious manner to the bankers at Calcutta, was duly forwarded, and in time reached the hands of Alfred Drayton, who confided its contents to a few “friends” of Calvert’s – men who felt neither astonished nor shocked at the intelligence – shifty fellows, with costly tastes, who would live on society somehow, reputably, if they could – dishonourably if they must; and who all agreed that “Old Calvert,” as they called him – he was younger than most of them – had struck out a very clever line, and a far more remunerative one than “rooking young Griffins at billiards” – such being, in their estimation, the one other alternative which fete had to offer him. This was all the publicity, however, Drayton gave to his friend’s achievements. Somehow or other, paragraphs did appear, not naming Calvert, but intimating that an officer, who had formerly served her Majesty, had been seen in the ranks of the insurgents of Upper Bengal. Yet Calvert was not suspected, and he dropped out of people’s minds as thoroughly as if he had dropped out of life.

To this oblivion, for a while, we must leave him; for even if we had in our hands, which we have not, any records of his campaigning life, we might scruple to occupy our readers with details which have no direct bearing upon our story. That Loyd never heard of him is clear enough. The name of Calvert never occurred in any letter from his hand. It was one no more to be spoken of by Florence or himself. One letter from him, however, mentioned an incident which, to a suspicious mind, might have opened a strange vein of speculation, though it is right to add that neither the writer nor the reader ever hit upon a clue to the mystery indicated. It was during his second year of absence that he was sent to Mulnath, from which he writes:

“The mutiny has not touched this spot; but we hear everyday the low rumbling of the distant storm, and we are toldthat our servants, and the native battalion that are ourgarrison, are only waiting for the signal to rise. I doubtthis greatly. I have nothing to excite my distrust of thepeople, but much to recommend them to my favour. It is onlytwo days back that I received secret intelligence of anintended attack upon my bungalow by a party of Bithoorcavalry, whose doings have struck terror far and near. Twocompanies of the – th, that I sent for, arrived thismorning, and I now feel very easy about the reception theenemy will meet The strangest part of all is, however, tocome. Captain Rolt, who commands the detachment, said in alaughing jocular way, ‘I declare, judge, if I were you, Iwould change my name, at least till this row was over.’ Iasked him ‘Why?’ in some surprise; and he replied, ‘There’srather a run against judges of your name lately. They shotone at Astraghan last November. Six weeks back, they camedown near Agra, where Craven Loyd had just arrived, districtjudge and assessor; they burnt his bungalow, and massacredhimself and his household; and now, it seems, they areafter you. I take it that some one of your name has beenrather sharp on these fellows, and that this is the pursuitof a long meditated vengeance. At all events I’d call myselfSmith or Brown till this prejudice blows over.’”

The letter soon turned to a pleasanter theme – his application for a leave had been favourably entertained. By October – it was then July – he might hope to take his passage for England. Not that he was, he said, at all sick of India. He had now adapted himself to its ways and habits, his health was good, and the solitude – the one sole cause of complaint – he trusted would ere long give way to the happiest and most blissful of all companionship. “Indeed, I must try to make you all emigrate with me. Aunt Grainger can have her flowers and her vegetables here in all seasons, one of my retainers is an excellent gardener, and Milly’s passion for riding can be indulged upon the prettiest Arab horses I ever saw.”

Though the dangers which this letter spoke of as impending were enough to make Florence anxious and eager for the next mail from India, his letter never again alluded to them. He wrote full of the delight of having got his leave, and overjoyed at all the happiness that he conjetured as before him.

So in the same strain and spirit was the next, and then came September, and he wrote: “This day month, dearest – this day month, I am to sail. Already when these lines are before you, the interval, which to me now seems an age, will have gone over, and you can think of me as hastening towards you.”

“Oh, aunt dearest, listen to this. Is not this happy news?” cried Florence, as she pressed the loved letter to her lips. “Joseph says that on the 18th – to-day is – what day is to-day? But you are not minding me, aunt What can there be in that letter of yours so interesting as this?”

This remonstrance was not very unreasonable, seeing that Miss Grainger was standing with her eyes fixed steadfastly at a letter, whose few lines could not have taken a moment to read, and which must have had some other claim thus to arrest her attention.

“This is wonderful!” cried she, at last. “What is wonderful, aunt? Do pray gratify our curiosity!”

But the old lady hurried away without a word, and the door of her room, as it sharply banged, showed that she desired to be alone.

CHAPTER XIX. A SHOCK

NO sooner did Mrs. Grainger find herself safely locked in her room, than she re-opened the letter the post had just brought her. It was exceedingly brief, and seemed hastily written:

“Strictly and imperatively private.

“Trieste, Tuesday morning.

“My dear Miss Grainger, – I have just arrived here fromIndia, with important despatches for the government. Thefatigues of a long journey have re-opened an old wound, andlaid me up for a day; but as my papers are of such a natureas will require my presence to explain, there is no use inmy forwarding them by another; I wait, therefore, and writethis hurried note, to say that I will make you a flyingvisit on Saturday next I say you, because I wish to seeyourself and alone. Manage this in the best way you can. Ihope to arrive by the morning train, and be at the villa byeleven or twelve at latest. Whether you receive me or not, say nothing of this note to your nieces; but I trust andpray you will not refuse half an hour to your attached andfaithful friend,

“Harry Calvert.”

It was a name to bring up many memories, and Miss Grainger sat gazing at the lines before her in a state of wonderment blended with terror. Once only, had she read of him since his departure; it was, when agitated and distressed to know what had become of him, she ventured on a step of, for her, daring boldness, and to whose temerity she would not make her nieces the witnesses. She wrote a letter to Miss Sophia Calvert, begging to have some tidings of her cousin, and some clue to his whereabouts. The answer came by return of post; it ran thus:

“Miss Calvert has to acknowledge the receipt of MissGrainger’s note of the 8th inst.

“Miss Calvert is not aware of any claim Miss Grainger canprefer to address her by letter, still less, of any right tobring under her notice the name of the person she has daredto inquire after. Any further correspondence from MissGrainger will be sent back unopened.”

The reading of this epistle made the old lady keep her bed for three days, her sufferings being all the more aggravated, since they imposed secrecy. From that day forth she had never heard Calvert’s name; and though for hours long she would think and ponder over him, the mention of him was so strictly interdicted, that the very faintest allusion to him was even avoided.

And now, like one risen from the grave, he was come back again! Come back to renew, Heaven could tell what sorrows of the past, and refresh the memory of days that had always been dashed with troubles.

It was already Friday. Where and how could a message reach him? She dreaded him, it is true: but why she dreaded him she knew not. It was a sort of vague terror, such as some persons feel at the sound of the sea, or the deep-voiced moaning of the wind through trees. It conveyed a sense of peril through a sense of sadness – no more. She had grown to dislike him from the impertinent rebuke Miss Calvert had administered to her on his account. The mention of Calvert was coupled with a darkened room, leeches, and ice on the head, and worse than all, a torturing dread that her mind might wander, and the whole secret history of the correspondence leak out in her ramblings.

Were not these reasons enough to make her tremble at the return of the man who had occasioned so much misery? Yet, if she could even find a pretext, could she be sure that she could summon courage to say, “I’ll not see you?” There are men to whom a cruelly cold reply is a repulse; but Calvert was not one of these, and this she knew well. Besides, were she to decline to receive him, might it not drive him to come and ask to see the girls, who now, by acceding to his request, need never hear or know of his visit?

After long and mature deliberation, she determined on her line of action. She would pretend to the girls that her letter was from her lawyer, who, accidentally finding himself in her neighbourhood, begged an interview as he passed through Orta on his way to Milan, and for this purpose she could go over in the boat alone, and meet Calvert on his arrival. In this way she could see him without the risk of her nieces’ knowledge, and avoid the unpleasantness of not asking him to remain when he had once passed her threshold.

“I can at least show him,” she thought, “that our old relations are not to be revived, though I do not altogether break off all acquaintanceship. No man has a finer sense of tact, – and he will understand the distinction I intend, and respect it” She also bethought her it smacked somewhat of a vengeance – though she knew not precisely how or why – that she’d take Sophia Calvert’s note along with her, and show him how her inquiry for him was treated by his family. She had a copy of her own, a most polite and respectful epistle it was, and in no way calculated to evoke the rebuke it met with. “He’ll be perhaps able to explain the mystery,” thought she, “and whatever Miss Calvert’s misconception, he can eradicate it when he sees her.”

“How fussy and important aunt is this morning!” said Florence, as the old lady stepped into the boat. “If the interview were to be with the Lord Chancellor instead of a London solicitor, she could not look more profoundly impressed with its solemnity.”

“She’ll be dreadful when she comes back,” said Emily, laughing; “so full of all the law jargon that she couldn’t understand, but will feel a right to repeat, because she has paid for it.”

It was thus they criticised her. Just as many aunts and uncles, and some papas and mammas, too, are occasionally criticised by those younger members of the family who are prone to be very caustic as to the mode certain burdens are borne, the weight of which has never distressed their own shoulders. And this, not from any deficiency of affection, but simply through a habit which, in the levity of our day, has become popular, and taught us to think little of the ties of parentage, and call a father a Governor.