The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
infinite perspective, with spaces of clearest topaz and sapphire light
between, converged to the glowing glory of the sun, the rim of which
now touched the margin of the world. They were as ranks of worshippers,
of blessed souls redeemed and sainted, united by a common act of
adoration, every form clothed by reflection of His glory, every heart,
every thought centred upon God.--Richard looked at all that, but it
failed to speak to him. Then he saw Honoria resolutely turn her back
upon the glory. She came directly towards him. Her face was very thin,
her manner very calm. She laid her left hand on the peak of his saddle.
She looked him full in the eyes.
"Richard," she said, "be patient a minute and listen.--It comes to
this, that a woman--your equal in position, of your own age, and not
without money--does volunteer to share your work. It's no forlorn hope.
She is not disappointed. On the contrary she has, and can have, pretty
well all the world's got to give. Only--perhaps very foolishly, for she
doesn't know much about the matter, having been rather coldblooded as
yet--she has fallen in love."
There was a silence, save that the wind came out of the west, out of
the majesty of the sunset, and with it came the calling of the sea--not
only of the blue water, or of those green tides that sweep above
wandering mortals in the magic green-wood; but of the sea of faith, of
the sea of love--love human, love divine, love universal--which circles
not only this, but all possible states of being, all possible worlds.
Presently Richard spoke hoarsely, under his breath.
"With whom?" he said.
"With you----"
Dickie went white to the lips. He sat absolutely still for a little
space, his hands resting on his thighs.
"Tell her to think," he said, at last.--"She proposes to do that which
the world will condemn, and rightly, from its point of view. It will
misread her motives. It won't spare disagreeable comment. Tell her to
think.--Tell--tell her to look.--Cripple, dwarf, the last, as he ought
to be, of an unlucky race--a man who's carried up and down-stairs like
an infant, who's strapped to the saddle, strapped to the driving
seat--who is cut off from most forms of activity and of sport.--A man
who will never have any sort of career--who has given himself, in
expiation of past sins, to the service of human beings a degree more
unfortunate than himself.--No, no, stop--hear me out.--She must know it
all!--A man who has lived far from cleanly, who has evil memories and
evil knowledge of life--no--listen!--A man whom you,--yes, you
yourself, Honoria,--have condemned bitterly, from whom, notwithstanding
your splendid nerve and pluck, so repulsive is his deformity, you have
shrunk a hundred times."
"She has thought of all that," Honoria answered calmly. "But she has
thought of this too,--that, going up and down the world to find the
most excellent thing in it, she has found this thing, love. And so to
her, Richard, your crippling has come to be dearer than any other man's
wholeness. Your wrong-doings--may God forgive her--dearer than any
other man's virtue. Your virtues so wholly beautiful that--that----"
The tears came into her eyes, her lips quivered, she backed away a
little from rider and horse.
"Richard," she cried fiercely, "if you don't care for me, if you don't
want me, be honourable, tell me so straight out and let us have done
with it! I am strong enough, I am man enough, for that. For heaven's
sake don't take me out of pity. I would never forgive you. There's a
good deal of us both, one way and another, and we should give each
other a hell of a time if I was in love and you were not. But"--she put
her hand on the peak of that very ugly saddle again--"but, if you do
care, here I am. I have never failed any one yet. I will never fail
you. I am yours body and soul. Marry me," she said.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH RICHARD CALMADY BIDS THE LONG-SUFFERING READER FAREWELL
The midsummer dusk had fallen, drawing its soft, dim mantle over the
face of the land. The white light walked the northern sky from west to
east. A nightingale sang in the big, Portugal laurel at the corner of
the troco-ground, and was answered by another singer from the coppice,
across the valley, bordering the trout stream that feeds the Long
Water. A fox barked sharply out in the Warren. Beetles droned, flying
conspicuously upright, straight on end, through the warm air. The
churring of the night-jars, as they flitted hither and thither over the
beds of bracken and dog-roses, like gigantic moths, on quick, silent
wings, formed a continuous accompaniment, as of a spinning-wheel, to
the other sounds. And Dick Ormiston laughed consumedly, doubling
himself together now and again and holding his slim sides in effort to
moderate his explosive merriment. He was in uproarious spirits.--Back
from school to-day, and that nearly a month earlier than could by the
most favourable process of calculation have been anticipated, thanks to
development of measles on the part of some much-to-be-commended
school-fellows. How he blessed those praiseworthy young sufferers! And
how he laughed, watching the two heavy-headed, lolloping, half-grown,
bull-dog puppies describe crazy circles upon the smooth turf in the
deepening dusk. Seen thus in the half-light they appeared more than
ever gnome-like, humorously ugly and awkward. They trod on their own
ears, tumbled over one another, sprawled on the grass, panting and
grinning, until their ecstatic owner incited them to further gyrations.
To Dick this was a night of unbridled licence. Had he not dined late?
Had he not leave to sit up till half-past ten o'clock? Was he not going
out, bright and early, to-morrow morning to see the horses galloped?
Could life hold greater complement of good for a brave, little,
ten-year-old soul, and slender, serviceable, little, ten-year-old body
emulous of all manly virtues and manly pastimes?
So the boy laughed; and the sound of his laughter reached the ears both
of the elder and the younger Lady Calmady, as they slowly paced the
straight walk between the gray balustrade and the edge of the turf. On
their left the great outstretch of valley and wood lay drowned in the
suave uncertainties of the summer night. Before them was the whole
terrace-front of the house, its stacks of twisted chimneys clear cut
against the sky. Bright light shone out from the windows of the red
drawing-room, and from those of the hall, bringing flowers, sections of
gray pavement, and like details into sharp relief. There were passing
lights in the range of windows above, suggesting cheerful movement
within the great house. At the southern end of the terrace, just below
the arcade of the garden-hall--which showed pale against the shadow
within and brickwork above--two men were sitting. Their voices reached
the ladies now and then in quiet yet animated talk. A spirit of peace,
of security, of firmly-planted hope, seemed to pervade all the scene,
all the place. Waking or sleeping, fear was banished. All was strong to
work to-morrow, so to-night all could calmly yield itself to rest.
And it was a sense of just this, and a tender anxiety lest the fulness
of the gracious content of it should be in any degree marred to her
dear companion, which made Honoria Calmady say presently:--
"You don't mind little Dick's racketting with those ridiculous puppies,
do you, Cousin Katherine? If it bothers you I'll stop him like a shot."
But Katherine shook her head.
"My dearest child, why stop him?" she said. "The foolishnesses of young
creatures at play are delicious, and laughter, so long as it is not
cruel, I reckon among the good gifts of God."--She paused a moment.
"Dear Marie de Mirancourt tried to teach me that long ago, but I was
culpably dull of hearing in those days where spiritual truth was
concerned, and I failed to grasp her meaning. I believe we never really
love, either man or Almighty God, until we can both laugh ourselves and
let others laugh. Of all false doctrines that of the sour-faced,
joyless puritan is the falsest. His mere outward aspect is a sin
against the Holy Ghost."
And Honoria smiled, patting the hand which lay on her arm very
tenderly.
"How I love your heavenly rage!" she said. They moved on a few steps in
silence. Then, careless of all the rapture its notification of the
passing of time might cut short, the clock at the house-stables chimed
the half-hour. Honoria paused in her gentle walk.
"Bedtime, Dick," she cried.
"All right," the boy returned. He pursued, and laid hold of, the errant
puppies, stowing them, not without kickings and strugglings on their
part, one under either arm. They were large and heavy, just as much as
he could carry, and he staggered across the grass with them, presenting
the effect of a small, black donkey between a pair of very big, white
panniers.
"I say, they are awfully stunning though, you know, Honoria," he said
rather breathlessly as he came up to her.
"Very soul-satisfying, aren't they, Dick?" she replied. "Richard
foresaw as much. That is why he got them for you."
"If I put them down do you suppose they'll follow? Carrying them does
make my arms ache."
"Oh, they'll follow fast enough," Honoria said.
He lowered the puppies circumspectly on to the gravel.
"They'll be whoppers when they're grown," he remarked.
"What shall you call them?"
"Adam and Eve I think, because they're the first of my lot. They're
pedigree dogs--and later I may want to show, don't you see."
"Yes, I see," Honoria said.
He came close to her, putting his face up half shyly to be kissed. Then
as young Lady Calmady, somewhat ghostly in her trailing, white evening
dress, bent her charming head, the boy, suddenly overcome with the
manifold excitements of the day, flung his arms round her.
"Oh! oh!" he gasped, "how awfully ripping it is to be back here again
with you and Cousin Richard and Aunt Katherine! I wish number-four
dormitory would get measles the middle of every term!--Only I
forgot--perhaps I ought not to touch you, Honoria, after messing about
with the dogs. Do you mind?"
"Not a bit," she said.
"But, Honoria,"--he rubbed his cool cheek against her bare neck--"I
say, don't you think you might come and see me, just for a little weeny
while, after I'm in bed to-night?"
And young Lady Calmady, thus coaxed, held the slight figure close. She
had a very special place in her heart for this small Dick, who in face,
and as she hoped in nature also, bore such comfortable resemblance to
that elder, and altogether well-beloved, Dick who was the delight of
her life.
"Yes, dear, old chap, I'll come," she said. "Only it must really be for
a little, weeny while, because you must go to sleep. By the way, who's
going to valet you these holidays? Clara or Faulstich?"
"Oh, neither," the boy answered. "I think I'm rather old for women now,
don't you know, Honoria."--At which statement she laughed, his cheek
being again tucked tight into the turn of her neck. "I shall have
Andrews in future. I asked Cousin Richard about it. He's a very
civil-mannered fellow, and he knows about yachts and things, and he
says he likes being up before five o'clock."
"Does he? Excellently veracious young man!" Honoria remarked.
But thereupon, exuberance of joy demanding active expression, the boy
broke away with a whoop and set off running. The puppies lolloped away
at his heels. And young Lady Calmady--whom such giddy fancies still
took at times, notwithstanding nearly three years of marriage--flew
after the trio, the train of her dress floating out behind her to most
admired extravagance of length as she skimmed along the path. Fair
lady, boy, and dogs disappeared, with sounds of merriment, into the