The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
paused, steadying his voice which faltered again.--"I only want, since
it seems I've got to go on living, to slink away somewhere out of
sight, and hide myself and my wretchedness and shame from every one I
know.--Can you bear with me, soured and invalided as I am, mother? Can
you put up with my temper, and my silence, and my grumbling, useless
log as I must continue to be?"
"Yes--everlastingly yes," Katherine answered.
Richard threw himself flat on his back again.
"Ah! how I hate myself--my God, how I hate myself!" he exclaimed.
"And how beyond all worlds I love you," Katherine put in quietly.
He felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. There
were footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar,
Ludovic Quayle's voice in question, Honoria St. Quentin's in answer,
both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. General Ormiston
joined them. Miss St. Quentin laughed gently. The sound was musical and
sweet. Footsteps and voices died away. A clang of bells and the hooting
of an outward-bound liner came up from the city and the port.
Richard's calm had returned. His expression had softened.
"Will those two marry?" he asked presently.
Lady Calmady paused before speaking.
"I hope so--for Ludovic's sake," she said. "He has served, if not quite
Jacob's seven years, yet a full five for his love."
"If for Ludovic's sake, why not for hers?" Dickie asked.
"Because two halves don't always make a whole in marriage," Katherine
said.
"You are as great an idealist as ever!"--He paused, then raised
himself, sitting upright, speaking with a certain passion.
"Mother, will you take me away, away from every one, at once, just as
soon as possible? I never want to see this room, or this house, or
Naples again. The climax was reached here of disillusion, and of
iniquity, and of degradation. Don't ask what it was. I couldn't tell
you. And, mercifully, only one person, whose lips are sealed in
self-defense, knows exactly what took place besides myself. But I want
to get away, away alone with you, who are perfectly unsullied and
compassionate, and who have forgiven me, and who still can love. Will
you come? Will you take me? The yacht is all ready for sea."
"Yes," Katherine said.
"I asked this morning who was here with you, and Powell told me. I
can't see them, mother, simply I can't! I haven't the nerve. I haven't
the face. Can you send them away?"
"Yes," Katherine said.
Richard's eyes had grown dangerously bright. A spot of colour burned on
either cheek. Katherine leaned over him.
"My dearest," she declared, "you have talked enough."
"Yes, they're beginning to play again, I can hear the rattle of the
dice.--Mother take me away, take me out to sea, away from this dreadful
place.--Ah! you poor darling, how horribly selfish I am!--But let me
get out to sea, and then later, take me home--to Brockhurst. The house
is big. Nobody need see me."
"No, no," Katherine said, laying him back with tender force upon the
pillows.--"No one has seen you, no one shall see you. We will be alone,
you and I, just as long as you wish. With me, my beloved, you are very
safe."
CHAPTER IV
DEALING WITH MATTERS OF HEARSAY AND MATTERS OF SPORT
One raw, foggy evening, early in the following December, the house at
Newlands presented an unusually animated scene. On the gravel of the
carriage-sweep, without, grooms walked breathed and sweating
horses--the steam from whose bodies and nostrils showed white in the
chill dusk--slowly up and down. In the hall, within, a number of
gentlemen, more or less mud-bespattered, regaled themselves with
cheerful conversation, with strong waters of unexceptionable quality,
and with their host, Mr. Cathcart's very excellent cigars. They moved
stiffly and stood in attitudes more professional than elegant. The
long, clear-coloured drawing-room beyond offered a perspective of much
amiable comfort. The glazed surfaces of its flowery-patterned chintzes
gave back the brightness of candles and shaded lamps, while drawn
curtains shut out the somewhat mournful prospect of sodden garden, bare
trees, and gray, enshrouding mist. At the tea-table, large, mild,
reposeful, clothed in wealth of black silk and black lace, was Mrs.
Cathcart. Lord Fallowfeild, his handsome, infantile countenance beaming
with good-nature and good-health above his blue-and-white, bird's-eye
stock and scarlet hunting-coat, sat by her discoursing with great
affability and at great length. Mary Ormiston stood near them, an
expression of kindly diversion upon her face. Her figure had grown
somewhat matronly in these days, and there were lines in her forehead
and about the corners of her rather large mouth, but her crisp hair was
still untouched by gray, her bright, gipsy-like complexion had retained
its freshness, she possessed the same effect of wholesomeness and good
sense as of old, while her honest, brown eyes were soft with satisfied
mother-love as they met those of the slender, black-headed boy at her
side.--Godfrey Ormiston was in his second term at Eton, and had come to
Newlands to-day for his exeat.--The little party was completed by Lord
Shotover, who stood before the fire warming that part of his person
which by the lay mind, unversed in such mysteries, might have been
judged to be already more than sufficiently warmed by the saddle, his
feet planted far apart and a long glass of brandy and soda in his hand.
For this last he had offered good-tempered apology.
"I know I've no business to bring it in here, Mrs. Cathcart," he said,
"and make your drawing-room smell like a pot-house. But, you see, there
was a positive stampede for the hearth-rug in the hall. A modest man,
such as myself, hadn't a chance. There's a regular rampart, half the
county in fact, before that fire. So I thought I'd just slope in here,
don't you know? It looked awfully warm and inviting. And then I wanted
to pay my respects to Mrs. Ormiston too, and talk to this young chap
about Eton in peace."
Whereat Godfrey flushed up to the roots of his hair, being very
sensibly exalted. Since what young male creature who knew anything
really worth knowing--that was Godfrey's way of putting it at
least--did not know that Lord Shotover had been a mighty sportsman from
his youth up, and upon a certain famous occasion had won the Grand
National on his own horse?
"Only tea for me, Mrs. Cathcart," Lord Fallowfeild was saying. "Capital
thing tea. Never touch spirits in the daytime and never have. No
reflection upon other men's habits."--He turned an admiring, fatherly
glance upon the tall, well-made Shotover.--"Other men know their own
business best. Always have been a great advocate for believing every
man knows his own business best. Still stick to my own habits. Like to
be consistent. Very steadying, sobering thing to be consistent, very
strengthening to the character. Always have told all my children that.
As you begin, so you shall go on. Always have tried to begin as I was
going on. Haven't always succeeded, but have made an honest effort. And
it is something, you know, to make an honest effort. Try to bear that
in mind, you young gentleman,"--this, genially, to Godfrey Ormiston.
"Not half a bad rule to start in life with, to go on as you begin, you
know."
"Always provided you start right, you know, my dear fellow," Shotover
observed, patting the boy's shoulder with his disengaged hand, and
looking at the boy's mother with a humorous suggestion of
self-depreciation. Now, as formerly, he entertained the very
friendliest sentiments towards all good women, yet maintained an
expensively extensive acquaintance with women to whom that adjective is
not generically applicable.
But Lord Fallowfeild was fairly under weigh. Words flowed from him,
careless of comment or of interruption. He was innocently and
conspicuously happy. He had enjoyed a fine day's sport in company with
his favourite son, whose financial embarrassments were not, it may be
added, just now in a critical condition. And then, access of material
prosperity had recently come to Lord Fallowfeild in the shape of a
considerable coal-producing property in the North of Midlandshire. The
income derived from this--amounting to from ten to twelve thousand a
year--was payable to him during his lifetime, with remainder, on trust,
in equal shares to all his children. There were good horses in the
Whitney stables now, and no question of making shift to let the house
in Belgrave Square for the season, while the amiable nobleman's
banking-account showed a far from despicable balance. And consciousness
of this last fact formed an agreeable undercurrent to his every
thought. Therefore was he even more than usually garrulous according to
his own kindly and innocent fashion.
"Very hospitable and friendly of you and Cathcart, to be sure," he
continued, "to throw open your house in this way. Kindness alike to man
and beast, man and beast, for which my son and I are naturally very
grateful."
Lord Shotover looked at Mary again, smiling.--"Little mixed that
statement, isn't it," he said, "unless we take for granted that I'm the
beast?"
"I was a good deal perplexed, I own, Mrs. Cathcart, as to how we should
get home without giving the horses a rest and having them gruelled.
Fourteen miles----"
"A precious long fourteen too," put in Shotover.
"So it is," his father agreed, "a long fourteen. And my horse was
pumped, regularly pumped. I can't bear to see a horse as done as that.
It distresses me, downright distresses me. Hate to over-press a horse.
Hate to over-press anything that can't stand up to you and take its
revenge on you. Always feel ashamed of myself if I've over-pressed a
horse. But I hadn't reckoned on the distance."
"'The pace was too hot to inquire,'" quoted Shotover.
"So it was. Meeting at Grimshott, you see, we very rarely kill so far
on this side of the country."
"Breaking just where he did, I'd have bet on that fox doubling back
under Talepenny wood and making across the vale for the earths in the
big Brockhurst warren," Lord Shotover declared.
"Would you, though?" said his father. "Very reasonable forecast, very
reasonable, indeed. Quite the likeliest thing for him to do, only he
didn't do it. Don't believe that fox belonged to this side of the
country at all. Don't understand his tactics. If it had been in my poor
friend Denier's time, I might have suspected him of being a bagman."
Lord Fallowfeild chuckled a little.
"Ran too straight for a bagman," Shotover remarked. "Well, he gave us a
rattling good spin whose-ever fox he was."
"Didn't he, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild genially.--He turned
sideways in his chair, threw one shapely leg across the other, and
addressed himself more exclusively to his hostess. "Haven't had such a
day for years," he continued. "And a very pleasant thing to have such a
day just when my son's down with me--very pleasant, indeed. It reminds
me of my poor, dear friend Henniker's time. Good fellow, Henniker. I
liked Henniker. Never had a better master than Tom Henniker, very
tactful, nice-feeling man, and had such an excellent manner with the
farmers---- Ah! here's Cathcart--and Knott. How d'ye do, Knott? Always
glad to see you.--Very pleasant meeting such a number of friends. Very
pleasant ending to a pleasant day, eh, Shotover? Mrs. Cathcart and I
were just speaking of poor Tom Henniker. You used to hunt then,
Cathcart. Do you remember a run, just about this time of year?--It may
have been a little earlier. I tell you why. It was the second time the
hounds met after my poor friend Aldborough's funeral."
"Lord Aldborough died on the twenty-seventh of October," John Knott
said. The doctor limped in walking. He suffered a sharp twinge of