THE day of Calvert’s departure was a very sad one at the villa; so was the next and the next! It is impossible to repeat the routine of a quiet life when we have lost one whose pleasant companionship imparted to the hours a something of his own identity, without feeling the dreary blank his absence leaves, and, together with this, comes the not very flattering conviction of how little of our enjoyment we owed to our own efforts, and how much to his.

“I never thought we should have missed him so much,” said Emily as she sat with her sister beside the lake, where the oars lay along the boats unused, and the fishing-net hung to dry from the branches of the mulberry-tree.

“Of course we miss him,” said Florence peevishly. “You don’t live in daily, hourly intercourse with a person without feeling his absence; but I almost think it is a relief,” said she, slightly flushing.

“A relief, Florry! And in what way?”

“I don’t know; that is, I’m not disposed to go into a nice analysis of Mr. Calvert’s mind, and the effect produced upon my own, by the mere iteration of things I never agreed with. Besides, I don’t want in the least to limit your regrets for him. He was one of your favourites.”

“I always thought him more a favourite of yours than mine, Florry.”

“Then I suspect you made a great mistake; but really, I think we might talk of something else. What about those hyacinths; didn’t you tell me they ought to be moved?”

“Yes, Harry said they had too much sun there, and were losing colour in consequence.”

“I can’t imagine him a great authority in gardening.”

“Well, but he really knew a great deal about it, and had an exquisite taste in the landscape part of it; witness that little plat under your window.”

“The fuchsias are pretty,” said she, with a saucy air. “Isn’t the post late to-day?”

“It came two hours ago. Don’t you remember my saying there were no letters, except two for Harry?”

“And where are you to forward them to him? Has he been confidential enough to tell you?”

“No; he said, if anything comes for me, keep it till you hear of me.”

“He affected mystery. I think he imagined it gave something of romance to him, though a more prosaic, worldly character, never existed.”

“I don’t agree with you, Florry. I think it was the worldliness was the affectation.”

Florence coloured deeply, but made no reply.

“And I’ll tell you why I am convinced of it. In the mention of anything heroic or daring, or in allusion to any trait of deep devotion or pathetic tenderness, his lip would tremble and his voice falter, and then catching himself, and evidently ashamed of his weakness, he would come out with some silly, or even heartless remark, as though to mask his confusion and give him time to recover himself!”

“I never noticed this,” said Florence, coldly. “Indeed, I must confess to a much less critical study of his character than you have bestowed on him.”

“You are unjust yourself. It was you first pointed out this trait in him to me.”

“I forget it, then, that’s all,” said she, captiously.

“Oh, I knew he was ashamed of being thought romantic.”

“I thought I had asked you to talk of something or somebody else, Milly. Let us, at least, select a topic we can think and speak on with some approach to agreement.”

Accustomed to bear with Florence’s impatience and her capricious humours as those of an invalid, Emily made no answer, but drew out her work from a basket and prepared to begin.

“You needn’t hope to make much progress with your embroidery, Milly. You’ll have no one to read out the Faust or the Winler Night’s Tale to-day.”

“Ah, that’s true, and Joseph won’t be here till Saturday,” said she sighing, “not to say that I don’t suspect he’ll have much time to bestow on reading aloud.”

“I thought you were going to say that he reads badly,” said Florry, with a forced laugh.

“Oh no, Florry, I like his reading very much indeed; particularly of Tennyson and Browning.”

“It is not so melodramatic as your friend Mr. Calvert’s; but, in my poor estimation, it is in much truer taste.”

“What a strange girl you are! Do you forget the evening you said, ‘I’ll not let Joseph read aloud any more; I detest to see him in any rivalry of which he has the worst?’”

“I must have said it in mockery, then, Milly, for I know of nothing in which Mr. Calvert could claim superiority over him. I am aware this is not your opinion, Milly; indeed, poor Joseph has not many allies in this house, for even Aunt Grainger was one of the fascinated by our captivating guest.”

“Well, but you know, dearest Florry, what a magic there is in the name Calvert to my aunt.”

“Yes, I know and deplore it I believe, too, from chance expressions she has let drop, that her relations with those very people suggest anything rather than proud or pleasant memories; but she is determined to think of them as friends, and is quite vain at having the permission to do so.”

“Even Harry used to smile at her reverence for ‘dear old Rocksley.’”

“The worse taste in him,” said Florence haughtily.

“How bitter you are to the poor fellow,” said the other, plaintively.

“I am not bitter to him. I think him a very accomplished, clever, amusing person, good-looking, manly, and so forth; and probably, if he hadn’t persecuted me with attentions that I did not like or encourage, I might have felt very cordially towards him.”

“Could he help being in love with you, Florry?”

“In love!” repeated she, in a voice of mockery and scorn.

“Ay, Florry, I never saw a man more thoroughly, devotedly in love. I could tell, as I entered the breakfast room, whether you had spoken to him in coldness or the reverse. His voice, as he read aloud, would betray whether you were listening with pleasure or indifference. You had not a mood of gay or grave that was not reflected in his face; and one day I remember, when I remarked on the capricious changes of his spirits, he said, ‘Don’t blame me; I am what she makes me: the happiest or the most miserable fellow breathing.’ ‘Well,’ replied I, ‘I fancied from your good spirits it was some pleasant tidings the post had brought you.’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘it was this;’ and he drew a violet from his pocket, and showed it to me. I suppose you had given it to him.”

“I dropped it, and he wouldn’t give it back. I remember the day.” And, as she spoke, she turned her head aside, but her sister saw that her cheek was crimson. Then suddenly she said, “How was it that you had such confidences together? I’m sure that, knowing my engagement, you must have seen how improper it was to listen to such nonsense on his part.”

“I couldn’t help it, Florry; the poor fellow would come to me with his heart almost breaking. I declare, there were times when his despair actually terrified me; and having heard from Aunt Grainger what dreadful passions these Calverts give way to—how reckless of consequences—”

“There, there, dear, spare me that physiology of the race of Calverts, of which I have gone through, I hope, every imaginable feature. To poor Aunt Grainger’s eyes the dragon of the Drachenfels is a mild domestic creature in comparison with one of them.” There was a jarring vibration in her sister’s tone, that told it were safer not to prolong the discussion, and little more was said as they walked towards the house. At last Florence stopped short, and, pointing to the window of the room lately occupied by Calvert, said, “Joseph will dislike all those climbing creepers there, Milly; he hates that sort of thing. Let them be cut away.”

“If you wish it, dearest; but is it not a pity? Only think of all the time and pains it cost to train that jessamine—”

“Oh, if they have such tender memories for you, let them remain by all means; but I think it will be quite as well not to tell Joseph the reasons for which they were spared.”

Though the speech was uttered in irritation, Emily affected to hear it without emotion, and said, “It was Harry’s own desire that we should not speak of him to Joseph, and I mean to obey it.”