The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
necessity of going forward, that hunger and thirst for the absolute and
ultimate which drives every human creature whose heart and soul and
intellect are truly animate. And to him, just now, it spoke more
particularly of the natural instincts of his manhood--of ambition, of
passion, of headlong desire of sensation, excitement, adventure, of
just all that, in fact, which he had forsworn, had agreed with himself
to cast aside and forget. And, thinking of this, suspicion assailed him
that forswearing had been slightly insincere and perfunctory. He
accused himself of nourishing the belief that giving, he would also
receive,--and that in kind,--while that any sacrifice which he offered
would be returned to him doubled in value. Casting his bread upon the
waters, he accused himself of having expected to find it, not "after
many days," but immediately--a full baker's dozen ready to hand in his
pocket. His motives had not been wholly pure. Actually, though not at
the time consciously, he had assayed to strike a bargain with the
Almighty.
Just as he reached the top of the long, straight hill leading down into
Westchurch, Richard arrived at these unflattering conclusions. On
either side the road, upon the yellow surface of which the sunlight
played through the tossing leaves of the plane trees, were villas of
very varied and hybrid styles of architecture. They were, for the most
part, smothered in creepers, and set in gardens gay with blossom. Below
lay the sprawling, red-brick town blotted with purple shadow. A black
canal meandered through the heart of it, crossed by mean, humpbacked
bridges. The huge, amorphous buildings of its railway station--engine
sheds, goods warehouses, trailing of swiftly dispersed white smoke--the
grime and clamour of all that, its factory buildings and tall chimneys,
were very evident, as were the pale towers of its churches. And beyond
the ugly, pushing, industrial commonplace of it, striking a very
different note, the blue ribbon of the still youthful Thames, backed by
high-lying chalk-lands fringed with hanging woods, traversed a stretch
of flat, green meadows. Richard's eyes rested upon the scene absently,
since thought just now had more empire over him than any outward
seeing. For he perceived that he must cleanse himself yet further of
self-seeking. Those words, "if thou wilt be perfect sell that thou hast
and give to the poor, and follow thou Me," have not a material and
objective significance merely. They deal with each personal desire,
even the apparently most legitimate--with each indulgence of personal
feeling, even the apparently most innocent--with the inward attitude
and the atmosphere of the mind even more closely than with outward
action and conduct. And so Richard reached the conclusion that he must
strip himself yet nearer to the bone. He must digest the harsh truth
that virtue is its own reward in the sense that it is its only reward,
and must look for nothing beyond that. He had grown slack of late,
seduced by visions of pleasant things permitted most men but to him
forbidden, and wearied, too, by the length of the way and inevitable
monotony of it now first heat of enthusiasm had evaporated. Well--it
was all very simple. He must just re-dedicate himself. And in this
stern and chastened frame of mind he drove through the bustle of the
country town--Saturday, market day, its streets unusually
alive--nodding to an acquaintance here and there in passing, two or
three of his tenant farmers, Mr. Cathcart of Newlands in on county
business, Goodall the octogenarian miller from Parson's Holt, and
Lemuel Image, the brewer, bursting out of an obviously new suit of very
showy tweeds. Then, at the main door of the Infirmary, helped by the
stalwart, hospital porter, he got down from the dog-cart, and
subsequently--raked by curious eyes, saluted by hardly repressed
tittering from the out-patients waiting _en queue_ for admission to the
dispensary--he made his slow way along the bare, vault-like, stone
passage to the accident ward, in the far corner of which a bed was shut
off from the rest by an arrangement of screens and of curtains.
And it was in the same chastened frame of mind that, some four or five
hours later, Dickie entered the dining-room at Brockhurst. The two
ladies had nearly finished luncheon and were about to rise from the
table. Lady Calmady greeted him very gladly, but abstained from inquiry
as to his doings or from comment on the lateness of the hour, since
experience had long ago taught her that of all known animals man is the
one of whom it is least profitable for woman to ask questions. He was
here at home, alive, intact, her eyes were rejoiced by the sight of
him, that was sufficient. If he had anything to tell her, no doubt he
would tell it later. For the rest, she had something to tell him, but
that too must wait till time and circumstance were propitious, since
the conveying of it involved delicate diplomacies. It must be handled
lightly. For the life of her she must avoid all appearance of
eagerness, all appearance of attaching serious importance to the
communication. Lady Calmady had learned, this morning, that Honoria St.
Quentin did not propose to marry Ludovic Quayle. The young lady, whose
charming nonchalance was curiously in eclipse to-day, had given her to
understand so much, but very briefly, the subject evidently being
rather painful to her. She was silent and a little distrait; but she
was also very gentle, displaying a disposition to follow Katherine
about wherever she went and a pretty zeal in doing small, odd jobs for
her. Katherine was touched and tenderly amused by her manner, which was
as that of a charming child coveting assurance that it need not be
ashamed of itself, and that it has not really done anything naughty!
But Katherine sighed too, watching this strong, graceful, capable
creature; for, if things had been otherwise with Dickie, how thankfully
she would have given the keeping of his future into this woman's hands!
She had ceased to be jealous even of her son's love. Gladly,
gratefully, would she have shared that love, accepting the second
place, if only--but all that was beyond possibility of hope. Still the
friendship of which he had spoken somewhat bitterly yesterday--poor
darling--remained. Ludovic Quayle's pretensions--she felt very
pitifully towards that accomplished gentleman, all his good qualities
had started into high relief!--but, his pretensions no longer barring
the way to that friendship, she pledged herself to work for the
promotion of it. Dickie was too severe in self-repression, was
over-strained in stoicism; and, ignoring the fact that in his fixity of
purpose, his exaggerations of self-abnegation, he proved himself very
much her own son, she determined secretly, cautiously, lovingly, to
combat all that.
It was, therefore, with warm satisfaction that, as Honoria was about to
rise from the table, she observed Richard emerge, in a degree, from his
abstraction, and heard him say:--
"You told me you'd like to ride over to Farley this afternoon and see
the home for my crippled people. Are you too tired after your headache,
or do you still care to go?"
"Oh! I'm not tired, thanks," Honoria answered. Then she hesitated, and
Richard, looking at her, was aware, as on the bridge yesterday, of a
sudden and singular thickening of her features, which, while marring
her beauty, rendered her aspect strangely pathetic, as of one who
sustains some mysterious hurt. And to him it seemed, for the moment, as
though both that hurt and the infliction of it bore subtle relation to
himself. Common sense discredited the notion as unpermissibly
fantastic, still it influenced and softened his manner.
"But you know you are looking frightfully done up yourself, Richard,"
she went on, with a charming air of half-reluctant protest. "Isn't he,
Cousin Katherine? Are you sure you want to ride this afternoon? Please
don't go out just on my account."
"Oh! I'm right enough," he answered. "I'd infinitely rather go out."
He pushed back his chair and reached down for his crutches. Still the
fantastic notion that, all unwittingly, he had been guilty of doing
Honoria some strange injury, clung to him. He was sensible of the
desire to offer reparation. This made him more communicative than he
would otherwise have been.
"I saw a man die this morning--that's all," he said. "I know it's
stupid, but one can't help it--it knocks one about a bit. You see he
didn't want to die, poor fellow, though, God knows, he'd little enough
to live for--or to live with, for that matter."
"Your factory hand?" Honoria asked.
Richard slipped out of his chair, and stood upright.
"Yes, my factory hand," he answered. "Dear, old Knott was fearfully
savage about it. He was so tremendously keen on the case, and made sure
of pulling him through. But the poor boy had been sliced up a little
too thoroughly."--Richard paused, smiling at Honoria. "So all one could
do was to go with him just as far as is permitted out into the great
silence, and then--then come home to luncheon. The home at Farley loses
its point, rather, now he is dead. Still there are others, plenty of
others, enough to satisfy even Knott's greed of riveting broken human
crockery.--Oh yes! I shall enjoy riding over, if you are still good to
come. Four o'clock--that'll suit you? I'll order the horses."
And so, in due time, the two rode forth together into the brightness of
the September afternoon. The sea still called, but Dickie's ears were
deaf to all dangerous allurements and excitations resident in that
calling. It had to him, just now, only the pensive charm of a far-away
melody, which, though no doubt of great and immediate import to others,
had ceased to be any concern of his. Beside the death-bed in the
hospital-ward he had renewed his vows, and the efficacy of that renewal
was very present with him. It made for repose. It laid the evil spirit
of defiance, of self-consciousness, of humiliation, so often obtaining
in his intercourse with women--a spirit begotten by the perpetual prick
of his deformity, and in part, too, by his determined adoption of the
ascetic attitude in regard to the affections. He was spent by the
emotions of the morning, but that also made for repose. For the time
being devils were cast out. He was tranquil, yet exalted. His eyes had
a smile in them, as though they looked beyond the limit of things
transitory and material into the regions of the Pure Idea, where the
eternal values are disclosed and Peace has her dwelling. And, precisely
because of all this, he could take Honoria's presence lightly, be
chivalrously solicitous of her entertainment and well-being, and talk
to her with greater freedom than ever heretofore. He ceased to be on
his guard with her because, in good truth, it seemed to him there
ceased to be anything to guard against. For the time being, at all
events, he had got to the other side of all that, and so she and his
relation to her, had become part of that charming but faraway melody
which was no concern of his--though mighty great and altogether worthy
concern of others, of Ludovic Quayle, for example.--And in his present
tranquil humour he could listen to the sweetness of that melody
ungrudgingly. It was pleasant. He could enjoy it without envy--though
it was none of his.
But to Honoria's seeing, it must be owned, matters shaped themselves
very differently. For the usually unperturbed, the chaste and gallant
soul of her endured violent assaults, violent commotions, the origin of
which she but partially understood. And these Richard's frankness, his
courteous, in some sort brotherly, good-fellowship, served to intensify
rather than allay. The feeling of the noble horse under her, the cool,