“But these letters—the cause of the present meeting—don’t you intend that in case of—in the event of—”
“My being killed. Go on.”
“That they should be given up to your cousin?”
“Nothing of the kind ever occurred to me. In the first place, I don’t mean to be shot; and in the second, I have not the very remotest intention of releasing the dear Sophy from those regrets and sorrows which she ought to feel for my death. Nay, I mean her to mourn me with a degree of affliction to which anxiety will add the poignancy.”
“This is not generous, Calvert.”
“I’m sure it’s not. Why, my dear friend, were I to detect any such weakness in my character, I’d begin to fancy I might end by becoming a poltroon.”
“Is that your man—he in the cloak—or the tall one behind him?” said Barnard, as he pointed to a group who came slowly along through a vineyard.
“I cannot say. I never saw Mr. Graham to my knowledge. Don’t let them be long about the preliminaries, Bob; the morning is fresh and the ground here somewhat damp. Agree to all they ask, distance and everything, only secure that the word be given by you. Remember that, in the way I’ve told you.”
As Calvert strolled listlessly along towards the river, Barnard advanced to meet the others, who, to the number of five, came now forward. Colonel Rochefort, Mr. Graham’s friend, and Barnard were slightly acquainted, and turned aside to talk to each other in confidence.
“It is scarcely the moment to hope for it, Mr. Barnard,” said the other, “but I cannot go on without asking, at least, if there is any peaceful settlement possible?”