The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
"Not enough to carry us to Port Said."
"What will be the extent of the delay this time?" Richard asked. His
tone had an edge to it.
Again Captain Vanstone glanced at the valet.
"With luck we may get off to-morrow about midnight."
He stepped back, shook himself like a big dog, scattering the water off
his oilskins in a shower upon the slippery deck. Then he came inside
the cabin and stood near Richard. His expression was very kindly,
tender almost.
"You must excuse me, sir," he said. "I know it doesn't come within my
province to give you advice. But you do look pretty ill, Sir Richard.
Every one's remarking that. And you are ill, sir--you know it, and I
know it, and Mr. Powell here knows it. You ought to see a doctor,
sir--and if you'll pardon plain language, this beastly cess-pit of a
harbour is not a fit place for you to sleep in."
And poor Dickie, after an instant of sharp annoyance, touched by the
man's honest humanity smiled upon him--a smile of utter weariness,
utter homelessness.
"Perfectly true. Get me out to sea then, Vanstone. I shall be better
there than anywhere else," he said.
Whereupon the kindly sailor-man turned away, swearing gently into his
trim, black beard.
But the valet remained, impassive in manner, actively anxious at heart.
"Have you any orders for the carriage, sir?" he asked. "Garcia drove me
down. I told him to wait until I had inquired."
Richard was long in replying. His brain was all confused and clouded
again, while again he heard the voice of the famous soprano--"_Ernani,
Ernani, involami_."
"Yes," he said at last. "Tell Garcia to be here in good time to drive
me to the San Carlo. I have an appointment at the opera to-night."
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH DICKIE GOES TO THE END OF THE WORLD AND LOOKS OVER THE WALL
The opera box, which Richard Calmady had rented along with the Villa
Vallorbes, was fifth from the stage on the third tier, to the right of
the vast horseshoe. Thus situated, it commanded a very comprehensive
view of the interior of the house. The _parterre_--its somewhat
comfortless seats, rising as on iron stilts, as they recede, row by
row, from the proscenium--was packed. While, since the aristocratic
world had not yet left town, the boxes--piled, tier above tier, without
break of dress-circle or gallery, right up to the lofty roof--were
well-filled. And it was the effect of these last that affected Richard
oddly, displeasingly, as, helped by Powell and Andrews,--the first
footman, who acted as his table-steward on board the _Reprieve_,--he
made his way slowly down to the chair, placed on the left, at the front
of the box. For the accepted aspects and relations of things seen were
remote to him. He perceived effects, shapes, associations of colour,
divorced from their habitual significance. It was as though he looked
at the written characters of a language unknown to him, observing the
form of them, but attaching no intelligible meaning to that form. And
so it happened that those many superimposed tiers of boxes were to him
as the waxen cells of a gigantic honeycomb, against the angular
darknesses of which little figures, seen to the waist, took the
light--the blond face, neck and arms of some woman, the fair colours of
her dress--and showed up with perplexing insistence. For they were all
peopled, these cells of the honeycomb, and--so it seemed to him--with
larvae, bright-hued, unworking, indolent, full-fed. Down there upon the
_parterre_, in the close-packed ranks of students, of men and women of
the middle-class, soberly attired in walking costume, he recognised the
working bees of this giant hive. By their unremitting labour the dainty
waxen cells were actually built up, and those larvae were so amply, so
luxuriously, fed. And the working bees--there were so many, so very
many of them! What if they became mutinous, rebelled against labour,
plundered and destroyed the indolent, succulent larvae of which he--yes,
he, Richard Calmady--was unquestionably and conspicuously one?
He leaned back in his chair, pulled forward the velvet drapery so as to
shut out the view of the house, and fixed his eyes upon the heads of
the musicians in the orchestra. The overture was nearly over. The
curtain would very soon go up. Then he observed that Powell still stood
near him. The man was strangely officious to-day, he thought. Could
that be connected in any way with the fact he had had his hair cut? For
a moment the notion appeared to Dickie quite extravagantly amusing. But
he kept his amusement, as so much else, to himself. And again the
working bees, down in the _parterre_, attracted his attention. They
were buzzing, buzzing angrily, displeased with the full-fed larvae in
the boxes, because these last were altogether too social, talked too
loud and too continuously, drowning the softer passages of the
overture. Those dull-coloured insects had expended store of hard-earned
_lire_ upon the queer seats they occupied, mounted as upon iron stilts.
They meant to have the whole of that which they had paid for, and hear
every note. If they swarmed, now, swarmed upward, clung along the edges
of those many tiers of boxes, punished inconsiderate insolence with
stings?---It would hardly be unjust.--But there was Powell still, clad
in sober garments. He belonged to the working bees. And Richard became
aware of a singular diffidence and embarrassment in thinking of that.
If they should swarm, those workers, he would rather the valet did not
see it, somehow. He was a good fellow, a faithful servant, a man of
nice feeling, and such an incident would place him in an awkward
position. He ought to be spared that. Carefully Dickie reasoned it all
out.
"You need not stay here any longer, Powell," he said.
"When shall I return, sir?"
The curtain went up. A roll of drums, a chorus of men's voices,
somewhat truculent, in the drinking song.
"At the end of the performance, of course."
But the valet hesitated.
"You might require to send some message, sir."
Richard stared at the chorus. The opera being performed but this once,
economy prevailed. Costumiers had ransacked their stock for discovery
of garments not unpardonably inappropriate. The result showed a fine
superiority to details of time and place. One Spanish bandit, a portly
_basso_, figured in a surprising variety of Highland dress designed,
and that locally, for a chieftain in the opera of _Lucia di
Lammermoor_. His acquaintance with the eccentricities of a kilt being
of the slightest, consequences ensued broadly humorous.--Again Dickie
experienced great amusement. But that message?--Had he really one to
send? Probably he had. He could not remember, and this annoyed him.
Possibly he might remember later. He turned to Powell, forgetting his
amusement, forgetting the too intimate personal revelations of the
unhappy _basso_.
"Yes--well--come back at the end of the second act, then," he said.
If the bees swarmed it would be over by that time, he supposed, so
Powell's return would not matter much one way or the other. A
persuasion of something momentous about to be accomplished deepened in
him. The madness of going, which had so pushed him earlier in the day,
fell dead before it. For this concourse of living creatures must be
gathered together to witness some event commensurate in importance with
the greatness of their number. He felt sure of that. Yes--before long
they would swarm. Incontestably they would swarm!--Again he drew aside
the velvet drapery and looked down curiously upon the arena and its
occupants. For a new idea had come to him regarding these last. They
still presented the effect of a throng of busy, angry insects. But
Richard knew better. He had penetrated their disguise, a disguise
assumed to insure their ultimate purpose with the greater certainty. He
knew them to be human. He knew their purpose to be a moral one. And,
looking upon them, recognising the spirit which animated them, he was
taken with a reverence and sympathy for average, toiling humanity
unfelt by him before. For he saw that by these, the workers, the final
issues are inevitably decided, by these the final verdict is
pronounced. Individually they may be contemptible, but in their
corporate intelligence, corporate strength, they are little short of
majestic. Of art, letters, practical civilisation, even religion, even,
in a degree, nature herself, they are alike architects and judges. It
must be so. It always has been so time out of mind in point of fact.
And then he wondered why they were so patient of constraint? Why had
they not risen long ago and obliterated the pretensions of those
arrogant, indolent larvae peopling the angular apertures of the honey
cells--those larvae of whom, by birth and wealth, sinfulness and
uselessness, he was himself so conspicuous an example?
But then still clearer understanding of this whole strange matter came
to him.--They, like all else,--mighty though they are in their
corporate intention,--are obedient to fate. They can only act when the
time is ripe. And then he understood yet more clearly. Their purpose in
congregating here, whether they were conscious of it or not, was
retributive. They were present to witness and to accomplish an act of
foreordained justice.--Richard paused a moment, struggling with his own
thought. And then he saw quite plainly that he himself was the object
of that act of foreordained justice, he himself was the centre of that
dimly-apprehended, approaching event. His punishment, his deliverance
by means of that punishment, was that which had brought this great
multitude together here to-night. He was awed. Yet with that awe came
thankfulness, gratitude, an immense sense of relief. He need not seek
self-obliteration, losing himself in far-away, tropic islands, or the
ice-bound regions of the uttermost South. He could stay here. Sit quite
still even--and that was well, for he was horribly tired and spent. He
need only wait. When the time was ripe, they would do all the rest--do
it for him by doing it to him.--How finely simple it all was!
Incidentally he wondered if it would hurt very much. Not that that
mattered, for beyond lay peace. Only he hoped they would get to work
pretty soon, so that it might be over before the end of the second act,
when Powell, the valet, would come back.
Richard's face had grown very youthful and eager. His eyes were
unnaturally bright. And still he gazed down at that great company. His
heart went out to it. He loved it, loved each and every member of it,
as he had never conceived of loving heretofore. He would like to have
gone down among them and become part of them, one with them in purpose,
a partaker of their corporate strength. But that was forbidden. They
were his preordained executioners. Yet in that capacity they were not
the less, but the more, lovable. They were welcome to exact full
justice. He longed after them, longed after the pain it was their
mission to inflict.--And they were getting ready, surely they were
getting ready! There was a sensible movement among them. They turned
pale faces away from the brilliantly lighted stage, and towards the
great horseshoe of waxen cells enclosing them. They were busy,
dull-coloured insects again, and they buzzed--resentfully, angrily,
they buzzed.
Yet even while Dickie noted all this, greatly moved by it, appreciating
its inner meaning, its profound relation to himself and the drama of
his own existence, he was not wholly unmindful of the progress of the
opera and the charm of the graceful and fluent music which saluted his
ears. He was aware of the entrance of the hero, of his greeting by his
motley-clad followers. He felt kindly, just off the surface of his
emotion so to speak, towards this impersonator of Ernani. The young