The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance

conversation, then." But Lord Fallowfeild only grasped the head of his walking-stick the tighter, congratulating himself the while on the unshakable firmness both of his mental and physical attitude. "Oh! ah! yes," he said, rising to heights of quite reckless defiance. "I know there is a great deal of prejudice against Shotover, just now, among you. He alluded to it this morning with a great deal of feeling. He was not bitter, but he is very much hurt, is Shotover. You are hard on him, Alicia. It is a painful thing to observe upon, but you are hard, and so is Winterbotham. I regret to be obliged to put it so plainly, but I was displeased by Winterbotham's tone about your brother, last time you and he were down at Whitney from Saturday to Monday." "At all events, papa, George has never cost his parents a single penny since he left Balliol," Lady Alicia replied, with some spirit and a very high colour. But Lord Fallowfeild was not to be beguiled into discussion of side issues, though his amiable face was crumpled and puckered by the effort to present an uncompromising front to the enemy. "Some of you ought to have written and informed me as soon as you had any suspicion of what was likely to happen. Not to do so was underhand. I do not wish to employ strong language, but I do consider it underhand. Shotover tells me he would have written if he had only known. But, of course, in the present state of feeling, he was shut out from it all. Ludovic did know, I presume. And, I am sorry to say it, but I consider it very unhandsome of Ludovic not to have communicated with me." At this juncture Mr. Quayle desisted from contemplation of the family portraits and approached the belligerents, threading his way carefully between the many tables and chairs. There was much furniture, yet but few ornaments, in Lady Louisa's boudoir. The young man's long neck was directed slightly forward and his expression was one of polite inquiry. "It is very warm this morning," he remarked parenthetically, "and as a family we appear to feel it. You did me the honour to refer to me just now, I believe, my dear father? Since my two younger sisters have been banished it has happily become possible to hear both you, and myself, speak. You were saying?" "That you might very properly have written and told me about this business, and given me an opportunity of expressing my opinion before things reached a head." Mr. Quayle drew forward a chair and seated himself with mild deliberation. Lord Fallowfeild began to fidget. "Very clever fellow, Ludovic," he said to himself. "Wonderfully cool head"--and he became suspicious of his own wisdom in having made direct appeal to a person thus distinguished. "I might have written, my dear father. I admit that I might. But there were difficulties. To begin with, I--in this particular--shared Shotover's position. Louisa had not seen fit to honour me with her confidence.--I beg your pardon, Louisa, you were saying?--And so, you see, I really hadn't anything to write about." "But--but--this young man"--Lord Fallowfeild was sensible of a singular reluctance to mention the name of his proposed son-in-law--"this young Calmady, you know, he's an intimate friend of yours----" "Difficulty number two. For I doubted how you would take the matter----" "Did you, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild, with an appreciable smoothing of crumples and puckers. "I'm extremely attached to Dickie Calmady. And I did not want to put a spoke in his wheel." "Of course not, my dear boy, of course not. Nasty unpleasant business putting spokes in other men's wheels, specially when they're your friends. I acknowledge that." "I am sure you do," Mr. Quayle replied, indulgently. "You are always on the side of doing the generous thing, my dear father,--when you see it." Here his lordship's grasp upon the head of his walking-stick relaxed sensibly. "Thank you, Ludovic. Very pleasant thing to have one's son say to one, I must say, uncommonly pleasant."--Alas! he felt himself to be slipping, slipping. "Deuced shrewd, diplomatic fellow, Ludovic," he remarked to himself somewhat ruefully. All the same, the little compliment warmed him through. He knew it made for defeat, yet for the life of him he could not but relish it.--"Very pleasant," he repeated. "But that's not the point, my dear boy. Now, about this young fellow Calmady's proposal for your sister Constance?" Mr. Quayle looked full at the speaker, and for once his expression held no hint of impertinence or raillery. "Dickie Calmady is as fine a fellow as ever fought, or won, an almost hopeless battle," he said. "He is somewhat heroic, in my opinion. And he is very lovable." "Is he, though?" Lord Fallowfeild commented, quite gently. "A woman who understood him, and had some idea of all he must have gone through, could not well help being very proud of him." Yet, even while speaking, the young man knew his advocacy to be but half-hearted. He praised his friend rather than his friend's contemplated marriage.--"But his dear, old lordship's not very quick. He'll never spot that," he added mentally. And then he reflected that little Lady Constance was not very quick either. She might marry obediently, even gladly. But was it probable she would develop sufficient imagination ever to understand, and therefore be proud of, Richard Calmady? "He is brilliant too," Ludovic continued. "He is as well read as any man of his standing whom I know, and he can think for himself. And, when he is in the vein he is unusually good company." "Everybody says he is extraordinarily agreeable," broke in Lady Alicia. "Old Lady Combmartin was saying only yesterday--George and I met her at the Aldhams', Louisa, you know, at dinner--that she had not heard better conversation for years. And she was brought up among Macaulay and Rogers and all the Holland House set, so her opinion really is worth having." But Lord Fallowfeild's grasp had tightened again upon his walking-stick. "Was she, though?" he said rather incoherently. "Pray, from all this, don't run away with the notion Calmady is a prig," Ludovic interposed. "He is as keen a sportsman as you are--in as far, of course, as sport is possible for him." Here Lord Fallowfeild, finding himself somewhat hard pressed, sought relief in movement. He turned sideways, throwing one shapely leg across the other, grasping the supporting walking-stick in his right hand, while with the left he laid hold of the back of the white-and-gold chair. "Oh! ah! yes," he said valiantly, directing his gaze upon the tree-tops in the Park. "I quite accept all you tell me. I don't want to detract from your friend's merits--poor, mean sort of thing to detract from any man's friend's merits. Gentlemanlike young fellow, Calmady, the little I have seen of him--reminds me of my poor friend his father. I liked his father. But, you see, my dear boy, there is--well, there's no denying it, there is--and Shotover quite----" "Of course, papa, we all know what you mean," Lady Louisa interposed, with a certain loftiness and, it must be owned, asperity. "I have never pretended there was not something one had to get accustomed to. But really you forget all about it almost immediately--every one does--one can see that--don't they, Alicia? If you had met Sir Richard everywhere, as we have this season, you would realise how very very soon that is quite forgotten." "Is it, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild somewhat incredulously. His face had returned to a sadly puckered condition. "Yes, I assure you, nobody thinks of it, after just the first little shock, don't you know,"--this from Lady Louisa. "I think one feels it is not quite nice to dwell on a thing of that kind," her sister chimed in, reddening again. "It ought to be ignored."--From a girl, the speaker had enjoyed a reputation for great refinement of mind. "I think it amounts to being more than not nice," echoed Lady Louisa. "I think it is positively wrong, for nobody can tell what accident may not happen to any of us at any moment. And so I am not at all sure that it is not actually unchristian to make a thing like that into a serious objection." "You know, papa, there must be deformed people in some families, just as there is consumption or insanity." "Or under-breeding, or attenuated salaries," Mr. Quayle softly murmured. "It becomes evident, my dear father, you must not expect too much of sons, or I of brothers-in-law." "Think of old Lord Sokeington--I mean the great uncle of the present man, of course--of his temper," Lady Louisa proceeded, regardless of ironical comment. "It amounted almost to mania. And yet Lady Dorothy Hellard would certainly have married him. There never was any question about it." "Would she, though? Bad, old man, Sokeington. Never did approve of Sokeington." "Of course she would. Mrs. Crookenden, who always has been devoted to her, told me so." "Did she, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. "But the marriage was broken off, my dear." He made this remark triumphantly, feeling it showed great acuteness. "Oh, dear no! indeed it wasn't," his daughter replied. "Lord Sokeington behaved in the most outrageous manner. At the last moment he never proposed to her at all. And then it came out that for years he had been living with one of the still-room maids." "Louisa!" cried Lady Alicia, turning scarlet. "Had he, though? The old scoundrel!" "Papa," cried Lady Alicia. "So he was, my dear. Very bad old man, Sokeington. Very amusing old man too, though." And, overcome by certain reminiscences, Lord Fallowfeild chuckled a little, shamefacedly. His second daughter thereupon arranged the folds of her mauve cashmere, with bent head.--"It is very clear papa and Shotover have been together to-day," she thought. "Shotover's influence over papa is always demoralising. It's too extraordinary the subjects men joke about and call amusing when they get together." A pause followed, a brief cessation of hostilities, during which Mr. Quayle looked inquiringly at his three companions. "Alicia fancies herself shocked," he said to himself, "and my father fancies himself wicked, and Louisa fancies herself a chosen vessel. Strong delusion is upon them all. The only question is whose delusion is the strongest, and who, consequently, will first renew the fray? Ah! the chosen vessel! I thought as much." "You see, papa, one really must be practical," Lady Louisa began in clear, emphatic tones. "We all know how you have spoiled Constance. She and Shotover have always been your favourites. But even you must admit that Shotover's wretched extravagance has impoverished you, and helped to impoverish all your other children. And you must also admit, notwithstanding your partiality for Constance, that----" "I want to see Connie. I want to hear from herself that she"--broke out Lord Fallowfeild. His kindly heart yearned over this ewe-lamb of his large flock. But the eldest of the said flock interposed sternly. "No, no," she cried, "pray, papa, not yet. Connie is quite contented and reasonable--I believe she is out shopping just now, too. And while you are in this state of indecision yourself, it would be the greatest mistake for you to see her. It would only disturb and upset her--wouldn't it, Alicia?" And the lady thus appealed to assented. It is true that when she arrived at the great house in Albert Gate that morning she had found little Lady Constance with her pretty, baby face sadly marred by tears. But she had put that down to the exigencies of the situation. All young ladies of refined mind cried under kindred circumstances. Had she not herself wept copiously, for the better part of a week, before finally