The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
Their pacing had just brought them to the arched doorway of the chapel.
Katherine stopped, and raising her arm leaned her hand against the
stone jamb of it above her head.
"See," she went on, "I want to be truly unselfish. I know how generous
you are. Perhaps you remain here out of all too great kindness towards
my poor Dick and me. You mustn't do that, Julius. You say she is still
living. Consider--is it too late?"
Was it indeed too late? All the frustrated manhood cried aloud in
Julius March. He covered his face with his hands. His carefully
restrained imagination ran riot, presenting enchantments.
And Katherine, watching him, found herself strangely moved. For it was
very startling to see this so familiar figure under so unfamiliar an
aspect--to see Julius March, her everyday companion and assistant, his
reticence, his priestly aloofness, his mild and courtly calm, swept
under by a tide of personal emotion. Lady Calmady was drawn to him by
deepened sympathy. Yet regret arose in her that this man proved to be,
after all, but as other men. She was vaguely disappointed, having
derived more security than she had quite realised from his apparent
detachment and impassibility. And, as an indirect consequence, her
revolt against God suffered access of bitterness. For not only was
He--to her seeing--callous regarding the fate of the many, but He
failed to support those few most devoted to His cause. In the hour of
their trial He was careless even of His own elect.
"Ah! I think it is indeed by no means too late!" she exclaimed.
Julius March let his hands drop at his sides. He gazed at her and her
expression was of wistful mockery--compassionate rather than ironical.
Then he looked away down the length of the chapel. In the warm
afternoon light, the solid and rich brown of the arcaded stalls on
either hand, emphasised the harmonious radiance of the great east
window, a radiance as of clear jewels.--Ranks of kneeling saints, the
gold of whose orioles rose in an upward curve to the majestic image of
the Christ in the central light--a Christ risen and glorified,
enthroned, His feet shining forever upon heaven's sapphire floor.
Before the altar hung three silver-gilt lamps of Italian workmanship,
in the crimson cup of each of which it had so long been Julius's
pleasure to keep the tongue of flame constantly alive. The habits of a
lifetime are not hastily set aside. Gazing on these things, his normal
attitude returned to him. Not that which he essentially was but that
which, by long and careful training of every thought, every faculty, he
had become, authoritatively claimed him. His eyes fell from
contemplation of the glories of the window to that of the long,
straight folds of the cassock which clothed him. It was hardly the garb
in which a man goes forth to woo! Then he looked at Lady Calmady--she
altogether seductive in her innocence and in her wistful mockery as she
leaned against the jamb of the door.
"You are mistaken, dear Katherine," he said. "It has always been too
late."
"But why--why--if she is free to listen?"
"Because I am not free to speak."
Julius smiled at her. His suavity had returned, and along with it a
dignity of bearing not observable before.
"Let us walk," he said. And then:--"After all I have given you a very
mutilated account of this matter. Soon after I took orders, before I
had ever seen the very noble, to me perfect, woman who unconsciously
revealed to me the glory of human love, I had dedicated my life, and
all my powers--poor enough, I fear--of mind and body to the service of
the Church. I was ambitious in those days. Ambition is dead, killed by
the knowledge of my own shortcomings. I have proved an unprofitable
servant--for which may God in His great mercy forgive me. But, while my
faith in myself has withered, my faith in Him has come to maturity. I
have learned to think very differently on many subjects, and to
perceive that our Heavenly Father's purposes regarding us are more
generous, more far-reaching, more august, than in my youthful ignorance
I had ever dreamed. All things are lawful in His sight. Nothing is
common or unclean--if we have once rightly apprehended Him, and He
dwells in us. And yet--yet, a vow once made is binding. We may not do
evil to gain however great a good."
Katherine listened in silence. The words came with the power of
immutable conviction. She could not believe, yet she was glad to have
him believe.
"And that vow precludes marriage?" she said at last.
"It does," Julius answered.
For a time they paced again in silence. Then Lady Calmady spoke, a
delicate intimacy and affection in her manner, while once more, for a
moment, she let her hand rest on his arm.
"So Brockhurst keeps you--I keep you, dear Julius, to the last?"
"Yes, if you will, to the very last."
"I am thankful for that," she said. "You must forgive me if in the past
I have been inconsiderate at times. I am afraid the constant struggle,
which certain circumstances of necessity create, tends to make me harsh
and imperious. I carry a trouble, which calls aloud for redress,
forever in my arms. They ache with the burden of it. And there is no
redress. And the trouble grows stronger alas. Its voice--so dear, yet
so dreaded--grows louder, till it deafens me to all other sounds. The
music of this once beautiful world becomes faint. Only angry discord
remains. And I become selfish. I am the victim of a fixed idea. I
become heedless of the suffering of those about me. And you, my poor
Julius, must have suffered very much!"
"Now, less than ever before," he answered. But even as he spoke,
Katherine was struck by his pallor, by the drawn look of his features
and languor of his bearing.
"Ah, you have fasted all day!" she cried.
"What matter?" he said, smiling. "The body surely can sustain a trifle
of hunger, if the soul and spirit are fed. I have feasted royally
to-day in that respect. I am strangely at ease. As to baser sort of
food, what wonder if I forgot?"
The door of Dickie's bedchamber opened, letting in long shafts of
sunlight, and Dr. Knott came slowly forward. His aspect was savage.
Even his philosophy had been not wholly proof against the pathos of his
patient's case. It irritated him to fall from his usual relentlessness
of common sense into a melting mood. He took refuge in sarcasm,
desirous to detect weakness in others, since he was, unwillingly, so
disagreeably conscious of it in himself.
"Well, we're through with our business, Lady Calmady," he said. "Eh!
Mr. March, what's wrong with you? Putty-coloured skin and shortness of
breath. A little less prayer and a little more physical exercise is
what you want. Successful, Lady Calmady?--Umph--I'm afraid the less
said about that the better. Sir Richard will talk it out with you
himself. Upset? Yes, I don't deny he is a little upset--and, like a
fool, I'm upset too. You can go to him now, Lady Calmady. Keep him
cheerful, please, and give him his head as much as you can."
John Knott watched her as she moved away. He shrugged his shoulders and
thrust his hands into his breeches' pockets.
"She's going to hear what she won't much relish, poor thing," he said.
"But I can't help that. One man's meat is another man's poison; and my
affair is with the boy's meat, even if it should be of a kind to turn
his mother's stomach. He shall have just all the chance I can get him,
poor little chap. And now, Mr. March, I propose to prescribe for you,
for you look uncommonly like taking a short-cut to heaven, and, if I
know anything about this house, you've got your work cut out for you
here below for a long time to come. Through with this business? Pooh!
we've only taken a preliminary canter as yet. That boy's out of the
common in more ways than one, and, cripple or no cripple, he's bound to
lead you all a pretty lively dance before he's done."
CHAPTER VII
AN ATTEMPT TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT
The day had been hot, though the summer was but young. A wealth of
steady sunlight bathed the western front of the house. All was notably
still, save for a droning of bees, a sound of wood-chopping, voices now
and again, and the squeak of a wheelbarrow away in the gardens.
Richard lay on his back upon the bed. He had drawn the blue embroidered
coverlet up about his waist; but his silk shirt was thrown open,
exposing his neck and chest. His arms were flung up and out across the
pillow on either side his gold-brown, close-curled head. As his mother
entered he turned his face towards the open window. There was vigour
and distinction in the profile--in the straight nose, full chin, and
strong line of the lower jaw, in the round, firm throat, and small ear
set close against the head. The muscles of his neck and arms were well
developed. Seen thus, lying in the quiet glow of the afternoon
sunshine, all possibility of physical disgrace seemed far enough from
Richard Calmady. He might indeed, not unfitly, have been compared to
one of those nobly graceful lads, who, upon the frieze of some Greek
temple, set forth forever the perfect pattern of temperance and high
courage, of youth and health.
As Katherine sat down beside the bed, Richard thrust out his left hand.
She took it in both hers, held and stroked the palm of it. But for a
time she could not trust herself to speak. For she saw that,
notwithstanding the resolute set of his lips, his breath caught in
short quick sobs and that his eyelashes were glued in points by late
shed tears. And seeing this, Katherine's motherhood arose and
confronted her with something of reproach. It seemed to her she had
been guilty of disloyalty in permitting her thought to be beguiled even
for the brief space of her conversation with Julius March. She felt
humbled, a little in Dickie's debt, since she had not realised to the
uttermost each separate moment of his trial as each of those moments
passed.
"My darling, I am afraid Dr. Knott has hurt you very much," she said at
last.
"Oh! I don't know. I suppose he did hurt. He pulled me about awfully,
but I didn't mind that. I told him to keep on till he made sure,"
Richard answered huskily, still turning his face from her. "But none of
those beastly legs and things fitted. He could not fix them so that I
could use them. It was horrid. They only made me more helpless than
before. You see--my--my feet are in the way."
The last words came to Katherine as a shock. The boy had never spoken
openly of his deformity, and in thus speaking he appeared to her to
rend asunder the last of those veils with which she had earnestly
striven to conceal the disgrace of it from him. She remained very
still, bracing herself to bear--the while slowly stroking his hand.
Suddenly the strong, young fingers closed hard on hers. Richard turned
his head.
"Mother," he said, "the doctor can't do anything for me. It's no use.
We've just got to let it be."
He set his teeth, choking a little, and drew the back of his right hand
across his eyes.
"It's awfully stupid; but somehow I never knew I should mind so much.
I--I never did mind much till just lately. It began--the minding, I
mean--the day Uncle Roger came home. It was the way he looked at me,
and hearing about things he'd done. And I had a beastly dream that
night. And it's all grown worse since."
He paused a minute, making a strong effort to speak steadily.
"I suppose it's silly to mind. I ought to be accustomed to it by this
time. I've never known anything else. But I never thought of all it
meant and--and--how it looked to other people till Helen was here and
wanted me to show her the house. I--I supposed every one would take it
for granted, as you all do here at home. And then I'd a hope Dr. Knott
might find a way to hide it and so help me. But--but he can't. That
hope's quite gone."