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 shore.

As he gained his room, he found a letter for him in Loyd’s hand. It ran thus:

“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:

“The style is better than yours, Master Loyd, just because it means something. The man is in an honest passion 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 massive 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?”

“Nobody; 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.”

“Not a bit of it; we got our leave on the same day, passed the Board the same day, and for exactly the same time. My leave expired on the tenth of August. I’ll show you the paper; I have it here.”

“Do so. Let me see it.”

Barnard opened his desk, and quickly found the paper he sought for. It was precisely as Barnard said. The Board of Calcutta had confirmed the regimental recommendation, and granted a two-years’ leave, which ended on the tenth of August.

“Never mind, man,” said Barnard; “get back to London as hard as you can, furbish up some sick certificate to say that you were unable to quit your bed—”

“That is not so easy as you imagine; I have a little affair in hand, which may end in more publicity than I have any fancy for.” And he told him of his approaching meeting with Graham, and asked him to be his friend.

“What was the quarrel about?” asked Barnard.

“A jealousy; he was going to marry a little cousin I used to flirt with, and we got to words about it. In fact, it is what Sir Lucius would call a very pretty quarrel, and there’s nothing to be done but finish it. You’ll stand by me, won’t you?”

“I don’t see how I can. Old Rep, our governor, never leaves me. I’m obliged to report myself about four times a day.”

“But you know that can never go on. You needn’t be told by me that no man can continue such a system of slavery, nor is there anything could recompense it. You’ll have to teach her better one of these days; begin at once. My being here gives you a pretext to begin. Start at once—to-day. Just say, ‘I’ll have to show Calvert the lions; he’ll want to hunt up galleries,’ and such-like.”

“Hush! here comes my wife. Fanny, let me present to you one of my oldest friends, Calvert It’s a name you have often heard from me.”

The young lady—she was not more than twenty—was pleasing-looking and well mannered. Indeed, Calvert was amazed to see her so unlike what he expected; she was neither pretentious nor shy; and, had his friend not gone into the question of pedigree, was there anything to mark a class in life other than his own. While they talked together they were joined by her father, who, however, more than realised the sketch drawn by Barnard.

He was a morose, down-looking old fellow, with a furtive expression, and a manner of distrust about him that showed itself in various ways. From the first, though Calvert set vigorously to work to win his favour, he looked with a sort of misgiving at him. He spoke very little, but in that little there were no courtesies wasted; and when Barnard whispered, “You had better ask him to dine with us, the invitation will come better from you!” the reply was, “I won’t; do you hear that? I won’t.”

“But he’s an old brother-officer of mine, Sir; we served several years together.”

“The worse company yours, then.”

“I say, Calvert,” cried Barnard, aloud, “I must give you a peep at our gay doings here. I’ll take you a drive round the town, and out of the Porta Orientale, and if we should not be back at dinner-time, Fanny—”

“We’ll dine without you, that’s all!” said the old man; while, taking his daughter’s hand, he led her out of the room.

“I say, Bob, I’d not change with you, even for the difference,” said Calvert.

“I never saw him so bad before,” said the other, sheepishly.

“Because you never tried him! Hitherto you have been a spaniel, getting kicked and cuffed, and rather liking it; but, now that the sight of an old friend has rallied you to a faint semblance of your former self, you are shocked and horrified. You made a bad start, Bob; that was the mistake. You ought to have begun by making him feel the immeasurable distance there lay between him and a gentleman; not only in dress, language, and behaviour, but in every sentiment and feeling. Having done this, he would have tacitly submitted to ways that were not his own, by conceding that they might be those of a class he had never belonged to. You might, in short, have ruled him quietly and constitutionally. Now you have nothing for it but one thing.”

“Which is—”

“A revolution! Yes, you must overthrow the whole government, and build up another out of the smash. Begin to-day. We’ll dine together wherever you like. We’ll go to the Scala if it’s open. We’ll sup—”

“But Fanny?”

“She’ll stand by her husband. Though, probably, she’ll have you ‘up’ for a little private discipline afterwards. Come, don’t lose time. I want to do my cathedral, and my gallery, and my other curiosities in one day, for I have some matters to settle at Orto before I start for Basle. Have they a club, a casino, or anything of the sort here, where they play?”

“There is a place they call the Gettone, but I’ve never been there but once.”

“Well, we’ll finish there this evening; for I want to win a little money, to pay my journey.”

“If I can help you—”

“No, no. Not to be thought of. I’ve got some fifty Naps by me—tame elephants—that are sure to entrap others. You must come with me to Basle, Bob. You can’t desert me in such a crisis,” said Calvert, as they left the inn together.

“We’ll see. I’ll think over it. The difficulty will be—”

“The impossibility is worse than a difficulty; and that is what I shall have to face if you abandon me. Why, only think of it for a moment Here I am, jilted, out of the army—for I know I shall lose my commission—without a guinea; you’d not surely wish me to say, without a friend! If it were not that it would be so selfish, I’d say the step will be the making of you. You’ll have that old bear so civilised on your return, you’ll not know him.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know it. He’ll see at once that you’ll not stand this sort of bullying. That if you did, your friends would not stand it. We shan’t be away above four days, and those four days will give him a fright he’ll never forget.”

“I’ll think over it”

“No. You’ll do it—that’s better; and I’ll promise you—if Mr. Graham does not enter a fatal objection—to come back with you and stand to you through your troubles.”

Calvert had that about him in his strong will, his resolution, and his readiness at reply, which exercised no mean despotism over the fellows of his own age. And it was only they who disliked and avoided him who ever resisted him. Barnard was an easy victim, and before the day drew to its close., he had got to believe that it was by a rare stroke of fortune Calvert had come to Milan-come to rescue him from the “most degrading sort of bondage a good fellow could possibly fall into.”

They dined splendidly, and sent to engage a box at the Opera; but the hours passed so pleasantly over their dinner, that they forgot all about it, and only reached the theatre a few minutes before it closed.

“Now for the—what do you call the place?” cried Calvert.

“The Gettone.”

“That’s it. I’m eager to measure my luck against these Milanais. They say, besides, no fellow has such a vein as when his life is threatened; and I remember myself, when I had the yellow fever at Galle, I passed twenty-one times at Écarte’, all because I was given over!”

“What a fellow you are, Calvert!” said the other, with a weak man’s admiration for whatever was great, even in infamy.

“You’ll see how I’ll clear them out But what have I done with my purse? Left it on my dressing table, I suppose they are honest in the hotel?”

“Of course they are. It’s all safe; and I’ve more money about me than you want Old Rep handed me three thousand francs this morning to pay the bill, and when I saw you, I forgot all about it.”

“Another element of luck,” cried Calvert, joyously. “The money that does not belong to a man always wins. Why, there’s five thousand francs here,” said Calvert, as he counted over the notes.

“Two of them are Fanny’s, She got her quarter’s allowance yesterday. Stingy, isn’t it? Only three hundred a year.”

“It’s downright disgraceful. She ought to have eight at the very least; but wait till we come back from Basle. You’ll not believe what a change I’ll work in that old fellow, when I take him in hand.”

By this time they had reached the Gettone, and, after a brief colloquy, were suffered to pass up stairs and enter the rooms.

“Oh, it’s faro they play; my own game,” whispered Calvert, “I was afraid the fellows might have indulged in some of their own confounded things, which no foreigner can compete in. At faro I fear none.”

While Barnard joined a group of persons round a roulette-table, where fashionably-dressed women adventured their franc pieces along with men clad in the most humble mode, Calvert took his place among the faro players. The boldness of his play, and the reckless way he adventured his money, could not conceal from their practised acuteness that he was master of the game, and they watched him attentively.

“I think I have nearly cleaned them out, Bob,” cried he to his friend, as he pointed to a heap of gold and silver, which lay promiscuously piled up before him.

“I suppose you must give them their revenge?” whispered the other, “if they wish for it.”

“Nothing of the kind. At a public table, a winner rises when he pleases. If I continue to sit here now, it is because that old fellow yonder has got a rouleau in his pocket which he cannot persuade himself to break. See, he has taken it out: for the fourth time, this is. I wonder can he screw up his courage to risk it. Yes! he has! There go ten pieces on the queen. Go back to your flirtation with the blonde ringlets, and don’t disturb my game. I must have that fellow’s rouleau before I leave. Go back, and I’ll not tell your wife.”

It was in something less than an hour after this that Barnard felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and looking up, saw Calvert standing over him. “Well, it took you some time to finish that old fellow, Calvert!”

“He finished me which was worse. Have you got a cigar?”

“Do you mean that you lost all your winnings?”

“Yes, and your five thousand francs besides, not to speak of a borrowed thousand from someone I have given my card to. A bore, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than a bore—it’s a bad business. I don’t know how I’ll settle it with the landlord.”

“Give him a bill, he’ll never be troublesome: and, as to your wife’s money, tell her frankly you lost it at play. Isn’t that the best way, Madame?” said he, addressing a young and pretty woman at his side. “I am advising my friend to be honest with his wife, and confess that he spent his money in very pleasant company. Come along out of this stuffy place. Let us have a walk in the fresh cool air, and a cigar, if you have one. I often wonder,” said he, as they gained the street, “how the fellows who write books and want to get up sensation scenes, don’t come and do something of this sort There’s a marvellous degree of stimulant in being cleaned out, not only of one’s own cash, but of one’s credit; and by credit I mean it in the French sense, which says, ‘Le crÉdit est l’argent des autres.’”

“I wish you had not lost that money,” muttered the other.

“So do I. I have combativeness very strong, and I hate being beaten by anyone in anything.”

“I’m thinking of the money!” said the other, doggedly.

“Naturally, for it was yours. ‘‘Twas mine, ‘tis his,’ as Hamlet has it Great fellow, Hamlet! I don’t suppose that anyone ever drew a character wherein Gentleman was so distinctly painted as Hamlet. He combined all the grandest ideas of his class with a certain ‘disinvoltura’—a sort of high bred levity—that relieved his sternness, and made him much better company than such fellows as Laertes and Horatio.”

“When you saw luck turning, why didn’t you leave off?”

“Why not ask why the luck turned before I left off? That would be the really philosophic inquiry. Isn’t it chilly?”

“I’m not cold, but I’m greatly provoked.”

“So am I for you; for I haven’t got enough to repay you, but trust me to arrange the matter in the morning. The landlord will see the thing with the eyes of his calling: he’ll soon perceive that the son-in-law of a man who travels with two carriages, and can’t speak one word of French, is one to be trusted. I mean him to cash a bill for us before I leave. Old Rep’s white hat and brown spencer are guarantees for fifty thousand francs in any city of Europe. There is a solvent vulgarity in the very creak of his shoes.”

“Oh! he’s not a very distinguished-looking person, certainly,” said Barnard, who now resented the liberty he had himself led the way to.

“There I differ with you; I call him eminently distinguished, and I’d rather be able to ‘come’ that cravat tie, and have the pattern of the dark-green waistcoat with the red spots, than I’d have—what shall I say?—all the crisp bank paper I lost awhile ago. You are not going in, surely?” cried he, as the other rang violently at the hotel.

“Yes; I am very tired of this fooling. I wish you hadn’t lost that money.”

“Do you remember how it goes, Bob?

She is complaining that though the linnet is singing in the trees, and the trout leaping in the river, her tiresome husband could only liken them to the clink of the gold as it fell on the counter? Why, man, you’ll wake the dead if you ring in that fashion!”

“I want to get in.”

“Here comes the fellow at last; how disgusted he’ll be to find there’s not a five-franc piece between us.”

Scarcely was the door opened than Barnard passed in and left him without even a good-night.