The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
the bridge, this found reflection in the water, overlaying it as with
the blond of the stubble and warmer tones of the sheaves. Honoria sat
down sideways on the coping of the parapet. She watched the moor-hens,
dark of plumage, a splash of fiery orange on their jaunty, little
heads, swim out with restless, jerky motion from the edge of the
reed-beds and break up the shining surface with diverging lines of
rippling, brown shadow. In the shade cast by the bridge, trout rose at
the dancing gnats and flies. She could see them rush upward through the
brown water. Sometimes they leapt clear of it, exposing their silver
bellies, pink-spotted sides, and the olive-green of their backs. They
dropped again with a flop, and rings circled outward from the place of
their disappearing.
All this Honoria saw, but dreamily, pensively. She realised, as never
before, that, much as she might love this place and the life of it, she
was a guest only, a pilgrim and sojourner. The completeness of her own
independence ceased to please.--"Me this unchartered freedom tires." As
she quoted the line, Honoria smiled. These were, indeed, new aspects of
herself! Where would they carry her, both in thought and in action? It
was a little alarming to contemplate that. And then her pensiveness
increased, a strange nostalgia taking her--amounting almost to physical
pain--for that same but-half-disclosed glory, that same new and very
exquisite fulness of life, apprehension of which had lately been
vouchsafed to her. If she could remain very still and undisturbed, if
she could empty her consciousness of all else, bend her whole will to
an act at once of determination and of reception, perhaps, it would be
given her clearly to see and understand. The idealist, the mystic, were
very present in Honoria just then. She fixed her eyes upon the shining
surface of the water. A conviction grew upon her that, could she
maintain a certain mental and emotional equilibrium, something of
permanent and very vital importance must take place.
Suddenly she heard footsteps upon the gravel of the roadway. She
started, turned deliberately, holding in check the agitation which
possessed her, to find herself confronted by the tall, preeminently
modern and mundane, figure of Ludovic Quayle. Honoria gave herself a
little shake of uncontrollable impatience. For less than
twopence-halfpenny she could have given the very gentlemanlike intruder
a shake too! He let her down with a bump, so to speak, from regions
mysterious and supernal, to regions altogether social and of this world
worldly. And yet she knew that such feelings were not a little hard and
unjust as entertained towards poor Mr. Quayle.
The young man, in any case, was happily ignorant of having offended. He
sauntered out on to the bridge, hat in hand, his head a trifle on one
side, his long neck directed slightly forward, his expression that of
polite and intimate amusement--but whether amusement at his own, or his
fellow-creatures' expense, it would have been difficult to declare.
"At last, I find you, my dear Miss St. Quentin," he said. "And I have
sought for you as for lost treasure. Forgive a biblical form of
address--a reminiscence merely of my father's morning ministrations to
my unmarried sisters, the footmen, and the maids. He reads them the
most surprising little histories at times, which make me positively
blush--but that's a detail. To account for my invasion of your idyllic
solitude--I learned incidentally you proposed coming here from Ormiston
this week. I thought I would venture on an early attempt to find you.
But I drew the house blank, though assisted by Winter--the terrace also
blank. Then from the troco-ground I beheld that which looked promising,
coquetting with Dickie's yearlings. So I followed on to know--my father
and the maids again--followed on to--to my reward."
Mr. Quayle stood directly in front of her. He spoke with admirable
urbanity, yet with even greater rapidity than usual. His beautifully
formed mouth pursed itself up between the sentences, with that effect
of indulgent superiority which was at once so attractive and so
excessively provoking. But, for all that, Honoria perceived that, for
once in his life, the young man was distinctly, not to say acutely,
nervous.
"The reward will be limited I'm afraid," she replied, "for my temper is
unaccountably out of sorts this afternoon."
"And, if one may make bold to inquire, why out of sorts, dear Miss St.
Quentin?"
He sat down on the parapet near her, crossed his legs, and fell to
nursing his left knee. The woman of the black bodice went up across the
pale stubble to her companions. She talked to them, nodding her head in
the direction of the bridge.
"I have promised to do a certain thing, and having promised, of course
I must do it."
Honoria looked away towards the harvesters up there among the gold of
the corn.
"And yet, now I have committed myself, thinking it over I find I
dislike doing it warmly."
"The statement of the case is just a trifle vague," Mr. Quayle
remarked. "But--if one may brave a suggestion--supersede a first duty
by a second and, of course, a greater. With a little exercise of
imagination, a little good-will, a little assistance from a true friend
thrown in perhaps, it is generally quite possible to manage that, I
think."
"And you are prepared to play the part of the true friend?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Then go to Cairo for the winter with Evelyn Tobermory. You must take
no low gowns--ah! poor little soul, it is pathetic, though--she's
forbidden to wear them. And--let me stay here!" Honoria said.
Ludovic gazed at his hands as they clasped his knee, then he looked
sideways at his companion.
"Here, meaning--meaning Brockhurst, dear Miss St. Quentin?" he asked
very sweetly.
"Meaning England," she declared.
"England?--ah! really. That pleases me better. Patriotism is an
excellent virtue. The remark is not a wholly original one, but it comes
in handy just now, all the same."
The young lady's head went up. Her face straightened. She was
displeased. Turning sideways, she leaned both hands on the stonework
and stared down into the water. But speedily she repented.
"See how the fish rise," she said. "It really is a pity one hasn't a
fly-rod."
"I was under the impression you once told me that you objected to
taking life, except in self-defense or for purposes of commissariat.
The trout would almost certainly be muddy. And I am quite unconscious
of being exposed to any danger--at least from the trout."
Miss St. Quentin kept her eyes fixed upon the water.
"I told you my temper was out of sorts," she said.
"Is that a warning?" Ludovic inquired, with the utmost mildness.
Honoria was busy feeling in her jacket pockets. At the bottom of them a
few crumbs remained. She emptied these on to the surface of the water,
by the simple expedient of turning the pockets inside out.
"I know nothing about warnings," she said. "I state a plain fact. You
can make of it what you please."
The young man rose leisurely from his place, sauntered across the
roadway, and stood with his back to her, looking down the valley. The
harvesters, their meal finished, moved away towards the further side of
the great corn-field. The women followed them slowly, gleaning as they
went. It was very quiet. And again there came to Honoria that ache of
longing for the but-half-disclosed glory and fulness of life. It was
there, an actuality--could she but find it, had she but the courage and
the wit. Then, from the open moorland beyond the park palings, came the
sound of horses trotting sharply. Ludovic Quayle turned and recrossed
the road. He smiled, but his superfine manner, his effect of slight
impertinence were, for the moment, in abeyance.
"Miss St. Quentin," he said, "what is the use of fencing any longer? I
have done that which I engaged to do, namely, displayed the patience of
innumerable asses. And--if I may be pardoned mentioning such a
thing--the years pass. Really they do. And I seem to get no forwarder!
My position becomes slightly ludicrous."
"I know it, I know it!" Honoria cried penitently.
"That I am ludicrous?"
"No, no," she protested, "that I have been unreasonable and traded on
your forbearance, that I have done wrong in allowing you to wait."
"That you could not very well help," he said, "since I chose to wait.
And, indeed, I greatly preferred waiting as long as there seemed to be
a hope there was something--anything, in short--to wait for."
"Ah! but that is precisely what I have never been sure about
myself--whether there really was anything to wait for or not."
She sat straight on the coping of the parapet again. Her face bore the
most engaging expression. There was a certain softness in her aspect
to-day. She was less of a youth, a comrade, so it seemed to Mr. Quayle,
more distinctly, more consciously a woman. But now, to the sound of
trotting horse-hoofs was added that of wheels. With a clang the park
gates were thrown open.
"And are you still uncertain? In the back of your mind is there still a
trifle of doubt?--If so, give me the benefit of it," the young man
pleaded, half laughingly, half brokenly.
A carriage passed under the gray archway of the red-brick and freestone
lodges. Rapidly it came on down the wide, smooth, string-coloured
road--a space of neatly kept turf on either side--under the shade of
the heavy-foliaged elm trees. Mr. Quayle glanced at it, and paused with
raised eyebrows.
"I call you to witness that I do not swear, dear Miss St. Quentin,
though men have been known to become blasphemous on slighter provocation
than this," he said. "However, the rather violently-approaching
interruption will be soon over, I hope and believe; since the driving
is that of Richard Calmady of Brockhurst when his temper--like your
own--being somewhat out of sorts, he, as Jehu the son of Nimshi of
old--my father's morning ministrations to the maids again--driveth
furiously."
Then, with an air of humorous resignation, his mouth working a little,
his long neck directed forward as in mildly-surprised inquiry, he stood
watching the approaching mail-phaeton. The wheels of it made a hollow
rumbling, the tramp of the horses was impetuous, the pole-chains
rattled, as it swung out on to the bridge and drew up. The grooms
whipped down and ran round to the horses' heads. And these stood, a
little extended, still and rigid as of bronze, the red of their open
nostrils and the silver mounting of their harness very noticeable. Lady
Calmady called to Mr. Quayle. The young man passed round at the back of
the carriage, and, standing on the far side of the roadway, talked with
her.
Honoria St. Quentin remained sitting on the parapet of the bridge.
A singular disinclination to risk any movement had come upon her. Not
the present situation in relation to Ludovic Quayle, but that other
situation of the but-half-disclosed glory, the new and exquisite
fulness of life oppressed her, penetrating her whole being to the point
of physical weakness. Questioningly, yet with entire unself-consciousness,
she looked up at Richard Calmady. And he, from the exalted height of
the driving-seat, looked down at her. A dark, cloth rug was wrapped
tight round him from the waist downward. It concealed the high
driving-iron against which his feet rested. It concealed the strap
which steadied him in his place. His person appeared finely proportioned.
His head and face were surprisingly handsome seen thus from below--though
it must be conceded the expression of the latter was very far from angelic.
"You were well advised to stay at home, Honoria," he said. There was a
grating tone in his voice.
"The function was even more distinguished for dulness than you
expected?"