IN course of time Loyd arrived at the villa. He came tired and worn out by a fatiguing journey. There had been floods, broken bridges, and bad roads in Savoy, and the St. Gothard was almost impassable from a heavy snow-storm. The difficulties of the road had lost him a day, one of the very few he was to have with them, and he came, wearied and somewhat irritated, to his journey’s end.

Lovers ought, perhaps, to be more thoughtful about “effect” than they are in real life. They might take a lesson in this respect with good profit from the drama, where they enter with all the aids that situation and costume can give them. At all events, Calvert would scarcely have presented himself in the jaded and disordered condition in which Loyd now appeared.

“How ill he looks, poor fellow,” said Emily, as the two sisters left him to dress for dinner.

“I should think he may look ill. Fancy his travelling on, night and day, through rain and sleet and snow, and always feeling that his few hours here were to be short ened by all these disasters. And, besides all this, he is sorry now for the step he has taken; he begins to suspect he ought not to have left England; that this separation—it must be for at least two years—bodes ill to us. That it need not have been longer had he stayed at the home bar, and had, besides, the opportunity of coming out to see us in Vacation. That it was his friends who over-persuaded him; and now that he has had a little time for calm reflection, away from them, he really sees no obstacles to his success at Westminster that he will not have to encounter at Calcutta.”

“And will he persist, in face of this conviction?”

“Of course he will! He cannot exhibit himself to the world as a creature who does not know his own mind for two days together.”

“Is that of more consequence than what would really serve his interests, Florry?”

“I am no casuist, Milly, but I think that the impression a man makes by his character for resolution is always of consequence.”

Emily very soon saw that her sister spoke with an unusual degree of irritation. The arrival of her lover had not overjoyed her; it had scarcely cheered her. He came, too, not full of high hopes and animated by the prospect of a bright future, speculating on the happy days that were before them, and even fixing the time they were to meet again, but depressed and dispirited, darkly hinting at all the dangers of absence, and gloomily telling over the long miles of ocean that were so soon to roll between them.

Now Florence was scarcely prepared for all this. She had expected to be comforted, and supported, and encouraged; and yet from herself now, all the encouragement and all the support was to be derived! She was to infuse hope, to supply courage, and inspire determination. He was only there to be sustained and supported. It is true she knew nothing of the trials and difficulties which were before him, and she could neither discuss nor lighten them; but she could talk of India as a mere neighbouring country, the “overland” a rather pleasant tour, and two years—what signified two years, when it was to be their first and last separation? For, if he could not obtain the leave he was all but promised, it was arranged that she should go out to Calcutta, and their marriage take place there.

He rallied at last under all these cheering suggestions, and gradually dropped into that talk so fascinating to Promessi Sposi in which affection and worldliness are blended together, and where the feelings of the heart and the furniture of the drawing-room divide the interest between them. There was a dash of romance, too, in the notion of life in the far East—some far-away home in the Neilgherries, some lone bungalow on the Sutlej—that helped them to paint their distant landscape with more effect, and they sat, in imagination, under a spreading plantain on the Himalaya, and watched the blood-red sunsets over the plains of Hindostan. “Time passed very rapidly in this fashion. Love is the very sublime of egotism, and people never weary of themselves. The last evening—sad things these last evenings—came, and they strolled out to take a last look on the lake and the snow-white Alps beyond it. The painful feeling of having so short a time to say so much was over each of them, and made them more silent than usual. As they thus loitered along, they reached a spot where a large evergreen oak stood alone, spreading its gigantic arms over the water, and from which the view of the lake extended for miles in each direction.

“This is the spot to have a summer-house, Florry,” said Loyd; “and when I come back I’ll build one here.”

“You see there is a rustic bench here already. Harry made it.”

Scarcely were the words uttered than she felt het cheek burning, and the tingling rush of her blood to her temples.

“Harry means Mr. Calvert, I conclude?” said he, coldly.

“Yes,” said she, faintly.

“It was a name I have never uttered since I passed this threshold, Florry, and I vowed to myself that I would not be the first to allude to it My pledge, however, went no further, and I am now released from its obligation. Let us talk of him freely.”

“No, Joseph, I had rather not. When he was leaving this, it was his last wish that his name was not to be uttered here. We gave him our solemn promise, and I feel sure you will not ask me to forget it.”

“I have no means of knowing by what right he could pretend to exact such a promise, which, to say the least, is a very unusual one.”

“There was no question of a right in the matter. Mr. Calvert was here as our friend, associating with us in close intimacy, enjoying our friendship and out confidence, and if he had reasons of his own for the request, they were enough for us.”

“That does not satisfy me, Florence,” said he, gravely.

“I am sorry for it I have no other explanation to give you.”

“Well; I mean to be more explicit. Has he told you of a correspondence that passed between us?”

“Once for all, Joseph, I will not be drawn into this discussion. Rightfully, or the reverse, I have given my word, and I will keep it.”

“Do you mean to say that to any mention of this man’s name, or to any incident in which it will occur, you will turn a deaf ear, and not reply?”

“I will not speak of him.”

“Be it so. But you will listen to me when I speak of him, and you will give my words the same credence you accord to them on other things. This is surely not asking too much?”

“It is more, however, than I am willing to grant.”

“This becomes serious, Florence, and cannot be dismissed lightly. Our relations towards each other are all but the closest that can bind two destinies. They are such as reject all secrecy—all mystery at all events. Now, if Mr. Calvert’s request were the merest caprice, the veriest whim, it matters not The moment it becomes a matter of peace of mind to me it is no longer a trifle.”

“You are making a very serious matter of very little,” said she, partly offended.

“The unlimited confidence I have placed, and desire still to place, in you, is not a little matter. I insist upon having a full explanation.”

“You insist?”

“Yes, I insist Remember, Florence, that what I claim is not more my due for my sake than for your own. No name in the world should stand between yours and mine, least of all that of one whom neither of us can look on with respect or esteem.”

“If this be the remains of some old jealousy—”

“Jealousy! Jealousy! Why, what do you mean?”

“Simply that there was a time when he thought you his rival, and it was just possible you might have reciprocated the sentiment.”

“This is intolerable,” cried he. Then hastily checking his angry outburst, he added: “Why should we grow warm, Florence dearest, over a matter which can have but one aspect for us both? It is of you, not of myself I have been thinking all this time. I simply begged you to let me know what sort of relations existed between you and Mr. Calvert that should prevent you speaking of him to me.”

“You said something about insisting. Now, insisting is an ugly word. There is an air of menace about it.”

“I am not disposed to recall it,” said he, sternly.

“So much the better; at least it will save us a world of very unpleasant recrimination, for I refuse to comply.”

“You refuse! Now let me understand you, for this is too vital a point for me at least to make any mistake about—what is it that you refuse?”

“Don’t you think the tone of our present discussion is the best possible reason for not prolonging it?”

“No! If we have each of us; lost temper, I think the wisest course would be to recover ourselves, and see if we cannot talk the matter over in a better spirit.”

“Begin then by unsaying that odious word.”

“What is the word?”

“Insist! You must not insist upon anything.”

“I’ll take back the word if you so earnestly desire it, Florence,” said he gravely; “but I hope request will be read in its place.”

“Now, then, what is it you request? for I frankly declare that all this time I don’t rightly understand what you ask of me.”

“This is worse than I suspected,” said he angrily, “for now I see that it is in the mere spirit of defiance that you rejected my demand.”

“Upon my word, Sir, I believe it will turn out that neither of us knew very much of the other.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; don’t you?”

He grew very pale, and made no answer, though he twice seemed as if about to speak.

“I declare,” cried she, and her heightened colour and flashing eye showed the temper that stirred her—“I declare I think we shall have employed all our lately displayed candour to very little advantage if it does not carry us a little further.”

“I scarcely catch your meaning,” said he, in a low voice.

“What I meant was, that by a little further effort of our frankness we might come to convey to each other that scenes like these are not pleasant, nor need they ever occur again.”

“I believe at last I apprehend you,” said he, in a broken accent. “You desire that our engagement should be broken off.”

She made no answer, but averted her head.

“I will do my best to be calm, Florence,” continued he, “and I will ask as much of you. Let neither of us sacrifice the prospect of a whole life’s happiness for the sake of a petty victory in a very petty dispute. If, however, you are of opinion—” he stopped, he was about to say more than he had intended, more than he knew how to say, and he stopped, confused and embarrassed.

“Why don’t you continue?” said she, with a cold smile.

“Because I don’t know what I was about to say.”

“Then shall I say it for you?”

“Yes, do so.”

“It was this, then, or at least to this purport: If you, Miss Florence Walter, are of opinion that two people who have not succeeded in inspiring each other with that degree of confidence that rejects all distrust, are scarcely wise in entering into a contract of which truthfulness is the very soul and essence, and that, though not very gallant on my part, as the man to suggest it, yet in all candour, which here must take the place of courtesy, the sooner the persons so placed escape from such a false position the better.”

“And part?” said he, in a hollow feeble voice.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, as though to say that, or any similar word, will convey my meaning.

“Oh, Florence, is it come to this? Is this to be a last evening in its saddest, bitterest sense?”

“When gentlemen declare that they ‘insist,’ I take it they mean to have their way,” said she, with a careless toss of her head.

“Good Heavens!” cried he in a passion, “have you never cared for me at all? or is your love so little rooted that you can tear it from your heart without a pang?”

“All this going back on the past is very unprofitable,” said she coldly.

He was stung by the contemptuous tone even more than by the words she used. It seemed as though she held his love so lightly she would not condescend to the slightest trouble to retain it, and this too at a moment of parting.

“Florence!” said he, in a tone of deep melancholy, “if I am to call you by that name for the last time—tell me, frankly, is this a sudden caprice of yours, or has it lain rankling in your mind, as a thing you would conquer if you could, or submit to, if you must?”

“I suspect it is neither one nor the other,” said she with a levity that almost seemed gaiety. “I don’t think I am capricious, and I know I never harbour a longstanding grievance. I really believe that it is to your own heart you must look for the reasons of what has occurred between us. I have often heard that men are so ashamed of being jealous, that they’ll never forgive anyone who sees them in the fit.”

“Enough, more than enough,” said he, trembling from head to foot. “Let us part.”

“Remember, the proposal comes from you.”

“Yes, yes, it comes from me. It matters little whence it comes.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, it matters a great deal, at least to me. I am not to bear the reproaches of my aunt and my sister for a supposed cruelty towards a man who has himself repudiated our engagement. It would be rather hard that I was to be deserted and condemned too.”

“Deserted, Florry!” cried he, as the tears stood in his eyes.

“Well, I don’t mean deserted. There is no desertion on either side. It is a perfectly amicable arrangement of two people who are not disposed to travel the same road. I don’t want to imply that any more blame attaches to you than to me.”

“How can any attach to me at all?” cried he.

“Oh, then, if you wish it, I take the whole of it.”

“Shall I speak to your aunt, Miss Walter, or will you?”

“It does not signify much which of us is the first to acquaint her. Perhaps, however, it would come with more propriety from you. I think I see her yonder near the cypress-trees, and I’m sure you’ll be glad to have it over. Wait one moment, this ring—” as she endeavoured to draw a small ruby ring from her finger, Loyd saw the turquoise which she wore on the other hand—“this ring,” said she, in some confusion, “is yours.”

“Not this one,” said he, sternly, as he pointed to the other.

“No, the ruby,” said she, with an easy smile. “It was getting to hurt my finger.”

“I hope you may wear the other more easily,” said he with a bitter laugh.

“Thank you,” said she, with a curtesy, and then turned away, and walked towards the house.

After Loyd had proceeded a few steps to overtake Miss Grainger, he stopped and hastened back to the villa. Such an explanation as he must make could, he felt, be only done by a letter. He could not, besides, face the questioning and cross-questioning the old lady would submit him to, nor endure the misery of recalling, at her bidding, each stage of their sad quarrel. A letter, therefore, he would write, and then leave the villa for ever, and without a farewell to any. He knew this was not a gracious way to treat those who had been uniformly affectionate and kind—who had been to him like dear sisters—but he dreaded a possible meeting. He could not answer for himself, either, as to what charges he might be led to make against Florence, or what weakness of character he might exhibit in the midst of his affliction. “I will simply narrate so much as will show that we have agreed to separate, and are never to meet more,” muttered he. “Florence may tell as much more as she likes, and give what version of me she pleases. It matters little now how or what they think of one whose heart is already in the grave.” And thus saying, he gained his room, and, locking the door, began to write. Deeply occupied in his task, which he found so difficult that several half-scrawled sheets already littered the table before him, he never felt the time as it passed. It was already midnight before he was aware of it, and still his letter was not finished. It was so hard to say though and not too much; so hard to justify himself in any degree and yet spare her, against whom he would not use one word of reproach; so hard to confess the misery that he felt, and yet not seem abject in the very, avowal.

Not one of his attempts had satisfied him. Some were too lengthy, some too curt and brief some read cold, stern, and forbidding; others seemed like half entreaties for a more merciful judgment; in fact he was but writing down each passing emotion of his mind, and recording the varying passions that swayed him.

As he sat thus, puzzled and embarrassed, he sprung up from his chair with terror at a cry that seemed to fill the room, and make the very air vibrate around him. It was a shriek as of one in the maddest agony, and lasted for some seconds. He thought it came from the lake, and he flung open his window and listened, but all was calm and still, the very faintest night air was astir, and not even the leaves moved. He then opened his door, and crept stealthily out upon the corridor: but all was quiet within the house. Noiselessly he walked to the head of the stairs, and listened; but not a sound nor a stir was to be heard. He went back to his room, agitated and excited. He had read of those conditions of cerebral excitement when the nerves of sense present impressions which have no existence in fact, and the sufferers fancy that they have seen sights, or heard sounds, which had no reality.

He thought he could measure the agitation that distressed him by this disturbance of the brain, and he bathed his temples with cold water, and sat down at the open window to try to regain calm and self-possession. For a while the speculation on this strange problem occupied him, and he wandered on in thought to ask himself which of the events of life should be assumed as real, and which mere self delusions. “If, for instance,” thought he, “I could believe that this dreadful scene with Florence never occurred, that it was a mere vision conjured up by my own gloomy forebodings, and my sorrow at our approaching separation—what ecstasy would be mine. What is there,” asked he of himself aloud, “to show or prove that we have parted? What evidence have I of one word that may or may not have passed between us, that would not apply to that wild scream that so lately chilled my very blood, and which I now know was a mere trick of imagination?” As he spoke, he turned to the table, and there lay the proof that he challenged before him. There, beside his half-written letter, stood the ring he had given her, and which she had just given back to him. The revulsion was very painful, and the tears, which had not come before, now rolled heavily down his cheeks. He took up the ring and raised it to his lips, but laid it down without kissing it These sent-back gifts are very sad things; they do not bury the memory of the loved one who wore them. Like the flower that fell from her hair, they bear other memories. They tell of blighted hopes, of broken vows, of a whole life’s plan torn, scattered, and given to the winds. Their odour is not of love; they smell of the rank grave, whither our hearts are hastening. He sat gazing moodily at this ring—it was the story of his life. He remembered the hour and the place he gave it to her; the words he spoke, her blush, her trembling hand as he drew it on her finger, the pledge he uttered, and which he made her repeat to him again. He started. What was that noise? Was that his name he heard uttered? Yes, someone was calling him. He hastened to the door, and opened it, and there stood Emily. She was leaning against the architrave, like one unable for further effort; her face bloodless, and her hair in disorder. She staggered forward, and fell upon his shoulder. “What is it, Milly, my own dear sister?” cried he; “what is the matter?”

“Oh, Joseph,” cried she, in a voice of anguish, “what have you done? I could never have believed this of you!”

“What do you mean—what is it you charge me with?”

“You, who knew how she loved you—how her whole heart was your own!”

“But what do you impute to me, Milly dearest?”

“How cruel! How cruel!” cried she, wringing her hands.

“I swear to you I do not know of what you accuse me.”

“You have broken her heart,” cried she vehemently. “She will not survive this cruel desertion.”

“But who accuses me of this?” asked he, indignantly.

“She, herself, does—she did, at least, so long as reason remained to her; but now, poor darling, her mind is wandering, and she is not conscious of what she says, and yet her cry is, ‘Oh, Joseph, do not leave me.’ Go to him, Milly; on your knees beseech him not to desert me. That I am in fault I know, but I will never again offend him.’ I cannot, I will not, tell you all the dreadful—all the humiliating things she says; but through all we can read the terrible trials she must have sustained at your hands, and how severely you have used her. Come to her, at least,” cried she, taking his arm. “I do not ask or want to know what has led to this sad scene between you; but come to her before it be too late.”

“Let me first of all tell you, Milly—-” He stopped. He meant to have revealed the truth; but it seemed so ungenerous to be the accuser, that he stopped, and was silent.

“I don’t care to hear anything. You may be as blameless as you like. What I want is to save her. Come at once.”

Without a word he followed her down the stairs, and across the hall, and up another small stair. “Wait a moment,” said she, opening the door, and then as quickly she turned and beckoned him to enter.

Still dressed, but with her hair falling loose about her, and her dress disordered, Florence lay on her bed as in a trance—so light her breathing you could see no motion of the chest Her eyes were partly opened, and lips parted: but even these gave to her face a greater look of death.

“She is sleeping at last,” whispered Miss Grainger. “She has not spoken since you were here.”

Loyd knelt down; beside: the bed, and pressed his cheek against her cold hand; and the day dawn, as it streamed in between the shutters, saw him still there.