The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
It was Roger--Roger worn with watching, grown curiously older. But a
certain exhilaration, born of that strange ride, remained by Richard
Calmady. Both ache of body and distress of mind had abated. He felt a
lightness of spirit; an eagerness, as of one setting forth on a
promised journey, who--not unlovingly, yet with something of
haste--makes his dispositions before he starts.
"Look here, darling," he said, "you'll let the stables go on just as
usual. Chifney will take over the whole management of them. You can
trust him implicitly. And--that is you, Roger, isn't it?--you'll keep
an eye on things, won't you, so that Kitty shall have no bother? I
should like to know nothing was changed at the stables. They've been a
great hobby of mine, and if--if the baby is a boy, he may take after me
and care for them. Make him ride straight, Roger. And teach him to care
for sport for its own sake, dear old man, as a gentleman should, not
for the money that may come out of it."
He waited, struggling for breath, then his hand closed on Katherine's.
"I must go," he said. "You'll call the boy after me, Kitty, won't you?
I want there to be another Richard Calmady. My life has been very
happy, so, please God, the name will bring luck."
A spasm took him, and he tried convulsively to push off the sheet.
Katherine was down on her knees, her right arm under his head, while
with her left hand she stripped the bedclothes away from his chest and
bared his throat.
"Denny, Denny!" she cried, "come--tell me--is this death?"
And Ormiston, impelled by an impulse he could hardly have explained,
crossed the room, dragged back the heavy curtains, and flung one of the
casements wide open.
The soft light of autumn dawn flowed in through the great mullioned
window, quenching the redness of fire and candles, spreading, dim and
ghostly, over the white dress and bowed head of the woman, over the
narrow bed and the form of the maimed and dying man. The freshness of
the morning air, laden with the soothing murmur of the fir forest
swaying in the breath of a mild westerly breeze, laden too with the
moist fragrance of the moorland, of dewy grass, of withered bracken and
fallen leaves, flowed in also, cleansing the tainted atmosphere of the
room. While, from the springy turf of the green ride--which runs
eastward, parallel to the lime avenue--came the thud and suck of hoofs
and the voices of the stable boys, as they rode the long string of
dancing, snorting race-horses out to the training ground for their
morning exercise.
Richard Calmady opened his eyes wide.
"Ah, it's daylight!" he cried, in accents of joyfulness. "I am glad.
Kiss me, my beloved, kiss me.--You dear--yes, once more. I have had
such a queer night. I dreamt I had been fearfully knocked about
somehow, and was crippled, and in pain. It is good to wake, and find
you, and know I'm all right after all. God keep you, my dearest, you
and the boy. I am longing to see him--but not just now--let Denny bring
him later. And tell them to send Chifney word I shall not be out to see
the gallops this morning. I really believe those dreams half frightened
me. I feel so absurdly used up. And then--Kitty, where are you?--put
your arms round me and I'll go to sleep again."
He smiled at her quite naturally and stroked her cheek.
"My sweet, your face is all wet and cold!" he said. "Make Richard a
good boy. After all that is what matters most--Julius will help you----
Ah! look at the sunrise--why--why----"
An extraordinary change passed over him. To Katherine it seemed like
the upward leap of a livid flame. Then his head fell back and his jaw
dropped.
CHAPTER VII
MRS. WILLIAM ORMISTON SACRIFICES A WINE-GLASS TO FATE
Mrs. St. Quentin's health became increasingly fragile that autumn; and
the weight of the sorrow which had fallen upon Brockhurst bowed her to
the earth. Her desire was to go to Lady Calmady, wrap her about with
tenderness and strengthen her in patience. But, though the spirit was
willing, the flesh was weak. Daily she assured Mademoiselle de
Mirancourt that she was better, that she would be able to start for
England in the course of the next week. Yet day after day, week after
week passed by, and still the two ladies lingered in the pretty
apartment of the rue de Rennes. Day by day, and week by week, moreover,
the elder lady grew more feeble, left her bed later in the morning,
sought it earlier at night, finally resigned the attempt to leave it at
all. The keepers of Lucia St. Quentin's house of life trembled,
desire--even of gentle ministries--began to fail, the sound of the
grinding was low. Yet neither she, nor her lifelong friend, nor her
doctor, nor the few intimate acquaintances who were still privileged to
visit her, admitted that she would never go forth on that journey to
England at all; but only on that quite other journey,--upon which
Richard Calmady had already set forth in the fulness of his
manhood,--and upon which, the manifold uncertainties of human existence
notwithstanding, we are, each one of us, so perfectly certain to set
forth at last. Silently they agreed with her to treat her increasing
weakness with delicate stoicism, to speak of it--if at all--merely as a
passing indisposition, so allowing no dreary, lamentable element to
obtrude itself. Sad Mrs. St. Quentin might be, bitterly sad at heart,
perplexed by the rather incomprehensible dealings of God with man. Yet,
to the end, she would remain charming, gently gay even, both out of
consideration for others and a fine self-respect, since she held it the
mark of a cowardly and ignoble nature to let anything squalid appear in
her attitude towards grief, old age, or death.
But Brockhurst she would never see again. The way was too great for
her. And so it came about that when Lady Calmady's child was born,
towards the end of the following March, no more staid and responsible
woman creature of her family was at hand to support her than that
lively, young lady, her brother, William Ormiston's wife.
Meanwhile, the parish of Sandyfield rejoiced. Thomas Caryll, the
rector, had caused the church bells to be rung immediately on receipt
of the good news; while he selected, as text for his Sunday morning
sermon, those words, usually reserved to another and somewhat greater
advent--"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given." Good Mr.
Caryll was innocent of the remotest intention of profanity. But his
outlook was circumscribed, his desire to please abnormally large, and
his sense of relative values slight. While that Lady Calmady should
give birth to a son and heir was, after all, a matter of no small
moment--locally considered at all events.
Brockhurst House rejoiced also, yet it did so not without a measure of
trembling. For there had been twenty-four hours of acute anxiety
regarding Katherine Calmady. And even now, on the evening of the second
day, although Dr. Knott declared himself satisfied both as to her
condition and that of the baby, an air of mystery surrounded the large
state-bedroom,--where she lay, white and languid, slowly feeling her
way back to the ordinary conditions of existence,--and the nursery next
door. Mrs. Denny, who had taken possession by right divine of long and
devoted service, not only did not encourage, but positively repulsed
visitors. Her ladyship must not be disturbed. She, the nurse, the baby,
in turn, were sleeping. According to Denny the god of sleep reigned
supreme in those stately, white-paneled chambers, looking away, across
the valley and the long lines of the elm avenue, to the faint blue of
the chalk downs rising against the southern sky.
John Knott had driven over, for the second time that day, in the windy
March sunset. He fell in very readily with Mrs. Ormiston's suggestion
that he should remain to dinner. That young lady's spirits were
sensibly on the rise. It is true that she had wept copiously at
intervals while her sister-in-law's life appeared to be in
danger--keeping at the same time as far from the sick room as the ample
limits of Brockhurst House allowed, and wishing herself a thousand and
one times safe back in Paris, where her devoted and obedient husband
occupied a subordinate post at the English Embassy. But Mrs. Ormiston's
tears were as easily staunched as set flowing. And now, in her capacity
of hostess, with three gentlemen--or rather "two and a half, for you
can't," as she remarked, "count a brother-in-law for a whole one"--as
audience, she felt remarkably cheerful. She had been over to Newlands
during the afternoon, and insisted on Mary Cathcart returning with
her--Mrs. Ormiston was a Desmolyns. The Cathcarts are distantly
connected with that family. And, when the girl had protested that this
was hardly a suitable moment for a visit to Brockhurst, Charlotte
Ormiston had replied, with that hint of a brogue which gave her ready
speech its almost rollicking character:--
"But, my dear child, propriety demands it. I depart myself to-morrow.
And now that we're recovering our tone I daren't be left with such a
houseful of men on my hands any longer. While we were tearing our hair
over poor Kitty's possible demise, and agonising as to the uncertain
sex of the baby, it did not matter. But now even that dear creature,
Saint Julius, is beginning to pick up, and looks less as if his diet
was mouldy peas and his favourite plaything a cat-o'-nine-tails.
Scourge?--Yes, of course, but it's all the same in the application of
the instrument, you know. And then in your secret soul, Mary dear," she
added, not unkindly, "there's no denying it's far from obnoxious to you
to spend a trifle of time in the society of Roger."
Mrs. Ormiston carried her point. It may be stated, in passing, that
this sprightly, young matron was brilliantly pretty, though her facial
angle might be deemed too acute, leaving somewhat to be desired in the
matter of forehead and of chin. She was plump, graceful, and neat
waisted. Her skin was exquisitely white and fine, and a charming colour
flushed her cheeks under excitement. Her hair was always untidy, her
hairpins displaying abnormal activity in respect of escape and
independent action. Her eyes were round and very prominent, suggestive
of highly-polished, brown agates. She was not the least shy or averse
to attracting attention. She laughed much, and practised, as prelude to
her laughter, an impudently, coquettish, little stare. And finally, as
he sat on her right at dinner, her rattling talk and lightness of
calibre generally struck John Knott as rather cynically inadequate to
the demands made by her present position. Not that he underrated her
good nature or was insensible to her personal attractions. But the
doctor was in search of an able coadjutor just then, blessed with a
steady brain and a tongue skilled in tender diplomacies. For there were
trying things to be said and done, and he needed a woman of a fine
spirit to do and say them aright.
"Head like an eft," he said to himself, as course followed course, and,
while bandying compliments with her, he watched and listened. "As soon
set a harlequin to lead a forlorn hope. Well it's to be trusted her
husband's some use for her--that's more than I have anyhow, so the
sooner we see her off the premises the better. Suppose I shall have to
fall back on Ormiston. Bit of a rake, I expect, though in looks he is
so curiously like that beautiful, innocent, young thing upstairs.
Wonder how he'll take it? No mistake, it's a facer!"
Dr. Knott settled himself back squarely in his chair and pushed his
cheese-plate away from him, while his shaggy eyebrows drew together as
he fixed his eyes on the young man at the head of the table.
"A facer!" he repeated to himself. "Yes, the ancients knew what they