The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
distress her?--never to let her know how much deeper it had all gone
with him than with her?--never to insult her beautiful innocence by a
word or look suggesting an affection less frank and cousinly than her
own?
Only, since even our strongest purposes have moments of lapse and
weakness in execution, it would be safer, perhaps, not to be much alone
with her--since she didn't know--how should she? Yes, Richard agreed
with himself not to loaf, to allow no idle hours. He would ride, he
would see to business. There were a whole heap of estate matters
claiming attention. He had neglected them shamefully of late.
Unquestionably Helen counted for very much, would continue to do so. He
supposed he would carry the ache of certain memories about with him
henceforth and forever. She had become part of the very fibre of his
life. He never doubted that. And yet, he told himself--assuming a
second-hand garment of slightly cynical philosophy which suited
singularly ill with the love-light in his eyes, there radiantly
apparent for all the world to see--that woman, even the one who first
shows you you have a heart--and a body too, worse luck--even she is but
a drop in the vast ocean of things. There remains all The Rest. And
with praiseworthy diligence Dickie set himself to reckon how immensely
much all The Rest amounts to. There is plenty, exclusive of her, to
think about. More than enough, indeed, to keep one hard at work all
day, and send one to bed honestly tired, to sleeping-point, at night.
Politics for instance, science, literature, entertaining little
controversial rows of sorts--the simple, almost patriarchal duties of a
great land-owner; pleasant hobbies such as the collection of first
editions, or a pretty taste in the binding of favourite books--the
observation of this mysterious, ever young, ever fertile nature around
him now, immutable order underlaying ceaseless change, the ever new
wonder and beauty of all that, and:--"I say, Chifney, isn't the brown
Lady-Love filly going rather short on the off foreleg? Anything wrong
with her shoulder?"--and sport. Yes, thank God, in the name of
everything healthy and virile, sport and, above all, horses--yes,
horses.
Thus did Richard Calmady reason with and essay to solace himself for
the fact that some fruits are forbidden to him who holds honour dear.
Reasoned with and solaced himself to such good purpose, as he fondly
imagined, that when, an hour and a half later, he established himself
in the trainer's dining-room, a mighty breakfast outspread before him,
he felt quite another man. Racing cups adorned the chimneypiece and
sideboard, portraits of race-horses and jockeys adorned the walls. The
sun streamed in between the red rep curtains, causing the pot-plants in
the window to give off a pleasant scent, and the canary, in his
swinging blue and white painted cage above them, to sing. Mrs. Chifney,
her cheeks pink, her manner slightly fluttered,--as were her lilac cap
strings,--presided over the silver tea and coffee service, admonished
the staid and bulky tom-cat who, jumping on the arm of Dickie's chair,
extended a scooping tentative paw towards his plate, and issued gentle
though peremptory orders to her husband regarding the material needs of
her guest. To Mrs. Chifney such entertainings as the present marked the
red-letter days of her calendar. Temporarily she forgave Chifney the
doubtful nature of his calling and his occasional outbreaks of profane
swearing alike. She ceased to regret that snug might-have-been, little,
grocery business in a country town. She forgot even to hanker after
prayer meetings, anniversary teas, and other mild, soul-saving
dissipations unauthorised by the Church of England. She ruffled her
feathers, so to speak, and cooed to the young man half in feudal, half
in unsatisfied maternal affection--for Mrs. Chifney was childless. And
it followed that as he teased her a little, going back banteringly on
certain accepted subjects of difference between them, praised, and made
a hole, in her fresh-baked rolls, her nicely browned, fried potatoes,
her clear, crinkled rashers, assuring her it gave one an appetite
merely to sit down in a room so shiningly clean and spick and span, she
was supremely happy. And Dickie was happy too, and blessed the
exercise, the food, and the society of these simple persons, which,
after his evil night, seemed to have restored to him his wiser and
better self.
"He always was the noblest looking young gentleman I ever saw," Mrs.
Chifney remarked subsequently to her husband. "But here at breakfast
this morning, when he said, 'If you won't be shocked, Mrs. Chifney, I
believe I could manage a second helping of that game pie,' his face was
like a very angel's from heaven. Unearthly beautiful, Thomas, and yet a
sort of pain at the back of it. It gave me a regular turn. I had to
shed a few tears afterwards when I got alone by myself."
"You're one of those that see more than's there, half your time,
Maria," the trainer answered, with an unusual effort at sarcasm, for he
was not wholly easy about the young man himself.--"There's something up
with him, and danged if I know what it is." But these reflections he
kept to himself.
Dr. Knott, later that same day, made reflections of a similar nature.
For though Dickie adhered valiantly to his good resolutions--going out
with the second lot of horses between ten and eleven o'clock, riding on
to Banister's farm to inspect the new barn and cowsheds in course of
erection, then hurrying down to Sandyfield Street and listening to long
and heated arguments regarding a right-of-way reported to exist across
the meadows skirting the river just above the bridge, a right strongly
denied by the present occupier. Notwithstanding these improving and
public-spirited employments, the love-light grew in his eyes all
through the long morning, causing his appearance to have something, if
not actually angelic, yet singularly engaging, about it. For,
unquestionably, next to a fortunate attachment, an unfortunate one, if
honest, is among the most inspiring and grace-begetting of possessions
granted to mortals. Helen must never know--that was well understood.
Yet the more Dickie thought the whole affair over, the more he
recognised the fine romance of thus cherishing a silent and secret
devotion. He was very young in this line as yet, it may be observed.
Meanwhile it was nearly two o'clock. He would need to ride home sharply
if he was to be in time for luncheon. And at luncheon he would meet
her. And remembering that, his heart--traitorous heart--beat quick, and
his lips--traitorous lips--began to repeat her name. Thus do the gods
of life and death love to play chuck-farthing with the wise purposes of
men, the theory of the eternal laughter having a root of truth in it,
as it would seem, after all! And there ahead of him, under the
shifting, dappled shadow of the overarching firs, Dr. Knott's broad,
cumbersome back, and high, two-wheeled trap blocked the road, while
Timothy, the old groom,--stiff-kneed now and none too active,--slowly
pushed open the heavy, white gate of the inner park.
As Richard rode up, the doctor turned in his seat and looked at him
from under his rough eyebrows, while his loose lips worked into a
half-ironical smile. He loved this lad of great fortune, and great
misfortune, more tenderly than he quite cared to own. Then, as Dick
checked his horse beside the cart, he growled out:--
"No need to make anxious inquiries regarding your health, young sir.
What have you been doing with yourself, eh? You look as fit as a fiddle
and as fresh as paint."
"If I look as I feel I must look ravenously hungry," Richard answered,
flushing up a little. "I've been out since six."
"Had some breakfast?"
"Oh dear, yes! Enough to teach one to know what a jolly thing a good
meal is, and make one wish for another."
"Hum!" Dr. Knott said. "That's a healthy state of affairs, anyhow.
Young horses going well?"
"Famously."
"Bless me, everything's beer and skittles with you just at present
then!"
Richard looked away down the smooth yellow road whereon the dappled
shadows kissed and mingled, mingled and kissed, and his heart cried
"Helen, Helen," once again.
"Oh! I don't know about that," he said. "I get my share as well as the
rest I suppose--at least--anyway the horses are doing capitally this
season."
"I should like to have a look at them."
"Oh, well you've only got to say when, you know. I shall be only too
delighted to show them you."
As he walked the trap through the gateway, Dr. Knott watched Richard
riding alongside.--"What's up with the boy," he thought. "His face is
as keen as a knife, and as soft as--God help us, I hope there's no
sweethearting on hand! It's bound to come sooner or later, but the
later the better, for it'll be a risky enough set out, come when it
may.--Ah, look out there now, you old fool,"--this to Timothy,--"don't
go missing the step and laying yourself up with broken ribs for another
three months, just when my work's at its heaviest. Be careful, can't
you?"
"But why not come in to luncheon now?" Richard said, wisdom whipping up
good resolutions once more, and bidding him check the gladness that
gained on him at thought of that approaching meeting. Oh yes! he would
be discreet, he would erect barriers, he would flee temptation. Knott's
presence offered a finely rugged barrier, surely. Therefore, he
repeated, "Come in now. My mother will be delighted to see you, and we
can have a look round the stables afterwards."
"I'll come fast enough if Lady Calmady will take me as I am. Workaday
clothes, and second best lot at that. You're alone, I suppose?"
He watched the young man as he spoke. Noted the lift of his chin, and
the slightly studied indifference of his manner.
"No, for once we're not. But that doesn't matter. My Uncle William
Ormiston is with us. You remember him?"
"I remember his wife."
"Oh! she's not here," Dickie said. "Only he and his daughter, Madame de
Vallorbes. You'll come?"
"Oh! dear yes, I'll come, if you'll be good enough to prepare your
ladies for a rough-looking customer. Don't let me keep you. Wonder what
the daughter's like?" he added to himself. "The mother was a bit of a
baggage."
CHAPTER VII
WHEREIN THE READER IS COURTEOUSLY INVITED TO IMPROVE HIS ACQUAINTANCE
WITH CERTAIN PERSONS OF QUALITY
But Richard might have spared himself the trouble of erecting barriers
against too intimate intercourse with his cousin. Providence, awaking
suddenly as it would seem, to the perils of his position, had already
seen to all that. For since he went forth, hot-eyed and hot-headed,
into the blank chill of the fog, the company at Brockhurst--as Powell
announced to him--had suffered large and unlooked-for increase. Ludovic
Quayle was the first of the self-invited guests to appear when Richard
was settled in the dining-room. He sauntered up to the head of the
table with his accustomed air of slightly supercilious inquiry, as of
one who expects to meet little save fools and foolishness, yet suffers
these gladly, being quite secure of his own wisdom.
"How are you, Dickie?" he said. "Fairly robust I hope, for the
Philistines are upon you. Still it might have been worse. I have done
what I could. My father, who has never grasped that there is an element
of comedy in the numerical strength of his family, wished to bring us
over a party of eight. But I stopped that. Four, as I tried to make him
comprehend, touched the limits of social decency. He didn't comprehend.
He rarely does. But he yielded, which was more to the point perhaps.
Understand though, we didn't propose to add surprise to the other
doubtful blessings of our descent on you. I wrote to you yesterday, but