The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
near garden-hall; reappeared upon the terrace, bearing down, but at
sobering pace, upon the occupants of the chairs set at the end of it.
One man rose to his feet, a tall, narrow, black figure. The other
remained seated. The light shining forth from the great bay-window of
the hall touched the little group, conferring a certain grandeur upon
the graceful, white-clad Honoria. Her satin dress shimmered as she
moved. There was, as of old, a triumph of high purity, of freedom of
soul, in her aspect. Her voice came, with a fine gladness yet soft
richness of tone, across that intervening triangular space of sloping
turf upon which terrace and troco-ground alike looked down. The
nightingale, who had fallen silent during the skirmish, took up his
passionate singing again, and was answered delicately, a song not of
the flesh but of the spirit, by the bird from across the valley.
Katherine Calmady stood solitary, watching, listening, her hands folded
rather high on her bosom. The caressing suavity of the summer night
enfolded her. And remembrance came to her of another night, nearly
four-and-thirty years ago, when, standing in this same spot, she,
young, untried, ambitious of unlimited delight, had felt the first
mysterious pangs of motherhood, and told her husband of that new,
unseen life which was at once his and her own. And of yet another
night, when, after long experience of sorrow, solitude, and revolt, her
husband had come to her once again--but come even as the bird's song
came from across the valley, etherealised, spiritualised, the same yet
endowed with qualities of unearthly beauty--and how that strange and
exquisite communion with the dead had fortified her to endure an
anguish even greater than any she had yet known.--She had prayed that
night that she might behold the face of her well-beloved, and her
prayer had been granted. She had prayed that, without reservation, she
might be absorbed by, and conformed to, the Divine Will. And that
prayer had, as she humbly trusted, been in great measure granted also.
But then the Divine Will had proved so very merciful, the Divine
Intention so wholly beneficent, there was small credit in being
conformed to either!--Katherine bowed her head in thanksgiving. The
goodness of the Almighty towards her had been abundant beyond asking or
fondest hope.
She was aroused from her gracious meditation by the sound of
footsteps--measured, a little weary perhaps--approaching her. She
looked up to see Julius March. And a point of gentle anxiety pricked
Katherine. For it occurred to her that Julius had failed somewhat in
health and energy of late. She reproached herself lest, in the interest
of watching those vigorous, young lives so dear to her, participating
in their schemes, basking in the sunshine of their love, she had
neglected Julius and failed to care for his comfort as she might. To
those that have shall be given even of sympathy, even of strength. In
that there is an ironical as well as an equitable truth; and she was to
blame perhaps in the ironical application of it. It followed therefore,
that she greeted him now with a quickening both of solicitude and of
affection.
"Come and pace, dear Julius, come and pace," she said, "as in times
past. Yet not wholly as in the past, for then often I must have
distressed and troubled you, since my pacings were too often the
outcome of restlessness and of unruly passion, while now----"
Katherine broke off, gazing at the little company gathered upon the
terrace.
"Surely they are very happy?" she said, almost involuntarily.
And he, smiling at his dear lady's incapacity of escape from her fixed
idea, replied:--
"Yes, very surely."
Katherine tied the white, lace coif she wore a little tighter beneath
her chin.
"In their happiness I renew that of my own youth," she said gently, "as
it is granted to few women, I imagine, to renew it. But I renew it with
a reverence for them; since my own happiness was plain sailing enough,
obvious, incontestable, whilst theirs is nobler, and rises to a higher
plane. For its roots, after all, are planted in very mournful fact, to
which it has risen superior, and over which it has triumphed."
But he answered, jealous of his dear lady's self-depreciation:--
"I can hardly admit that. To begin in unclouded promise of happiness,
to decline to searching and unusual experience of sorrow, and then, by
self-discipline and obedience, to attain your present altitude of
tranquillity and assurance of faith, is surely a greater trial, a
greater triumph, than to begin with difficulties, with much, I admit,
to overcome and resist, but to succeed as they are succeeding and be
granted the high land of happiness which they even now possess? They
are young, fortune smiles on them. Above all, they have one
another----"
"Ah, yes!" she said, "they have one another. Long may that last. It is
a very perfect marriage of true minds, as well as true hearts. I had,
and they have, all that love can give,"--Lady Calmady turned at the end
of the walk. "But it troubles me, as a sort of emptiness and waste,
dear Julius, that you have never had that. It pains me that you, who
possess so noble a power of disinterested and untiring friendship,
should never have enjoyed that other, and nearer relation, which
transcends friendship even as to-morrow's dawn will transcend in
loveliness the chastened restfulness of this evening's dusk."
Katherine moved onward with a certain sweet dignity of manner.
"Tell me--is she still alive, Julius, this lady whom you so loved?"
"Yes, thank God," he said.
"And you have never tried to elude that vow which--as you once told
me--you made long ago before you knew her?"
"Never," he replied. "Without it I could not have served her as I have
been able to serve her. I am wholly thankful for it. It made much
possible which must have otherwise been impossible."
"And have you never told her that you loved her--even yet?"
"No," he replied, "because, had I told her, I must have ceased to serve
her, I must have left her, Katherine, and I did not think God required
that of me."
Lady Calmady walked on in silence, her head a little bent. At the end
of the path she stood a moment, listening to the answering songs of the
two nightingales.
"Ah!" she said softly, "how greatly I have under-rated the beauty of
the dusk! To submit to dwell in the border-land, to stand on the dim
bridge, thus, between day and night, demands perhaps the very finest
courage conceivable. You have shown me, Julius, how exquisite and holy
a thing it is.--And, as to her whom you have so faithfully loved, I
think, could she know, she would thank you very deeply for never
telling her the truth. She would entreat you to keep your secret to the
end. But to remain near her, to let her seek counsel of you when in
perplexity or distress, to talk with her both of those you and she
love, and have loved, and of the promise of fair things beyond and
above our present seeing--pacing with her at times--even as you and I,
dear friend, pace together here to-night--amid the restrained and
solemn beauty of the dusk. Would she not do this?"
"It is enough that you have done it for her, Katherine," he answered.
"With your ruling I am wholly, unendingly content."
"Perhaps Dickie and Honoria's dear works of mercy and the noonday tide
of energy which flows through the house, have caused us to see less of
each other than of old," Lady Calmady continued with a charming
lightness. "That is a mistake needing correction. The young to the
young, dear Julius. You and I, who go at a quieter pace, will enjoy our
peaceful friendship to the full. I shall not tire of your company, I
promise you, if you do not of mine. Long may you be spared to me. God
keep you, most loyal friend. Goodnight."
Then Lady Calmady, deeply touched, yet unmoved from her altitude of
thankfulness and calm, musing of many matters and the working out of
them to a beneficent and noble end, slowly went the length of the
terrace to where, at the foot of the steps of the garden-hall, Richard
still sat. As she came near he held out his hand to her.
"Dear, sweet mother," he said, "how I like to see you walk in that
stately fashion, the whole of you--body, mind, and spirit, somehow
evident--gathered up within the delicious compass of yourself! As far
back as I can remember anything. I remember that. When I watched you it
always made me feel safe. It seemed more like music heard, somehow,
than something seen."
"Dickie, Dickie," she exclaimed, flushing a little, "don't make me vain
in my old age!"
"But it's true," he said. "And why shouldn't one tell the pretty truths
as well as the plain ones?--Isn't it a positively divine night? Look at
the moon just clearing the top of the firs there! It is good to be
alive. Mother--may I say it?--I am very grateful to you for having
brought me into the world."
"Ah! but, my poor darling----" Katherine cried.
"No, no," he said, "put that out of your dear head once and for all. I
am grateful, being as I am, grateful for everything, it being as it is.
I don't believe I would have anything--not anything save those four
years when I left you--altered, even if I could. I've found my work,
and it enlarges its borders in all manner of directions; and it
prospers. And I have money to put it through. And I have that boy. He's
a dear little chap, and it is wonderfully good of Uncle Roger and Mary
to give him to me. But he's getting a trifle too fond of horses. I
can't break poor, old Chifney's heart; but when his days are numbered,
those of the stables--as far as training racers goes--are numbered
likewise, I think. I'll keep on the stud farm. But I grow doubtful
about the rest. I wish it wasn't so, but so it is. Sport is changing
hands, passing from those of romance into those of commerce.--Well, the
stables served their turn. They helped to bring me through. But now
perhaps they're a little out of the picture."
Richard drew her hand nearer and kissed it, leaning back in his chair,
and looking up at her.
"And I have you--" he said, "you most perfect of mothers.--And--ah!
here comes Honoria!"