The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
defilement."
The young man shifted his position slightly, resting his chin in the
hollow of his hands, speaking quietly and indifferently, as of some
matter foreign to himself and his personal interests.
"I have reason to believe I was as fairly and squarely wretched as it
is possible for an intelligent being to be. I had convinced myself,
experimentally, that human existence, human nature, was a bottomless
pit and an uncommonly filthy one at that. Reaction was inevitable. Then
I understood why men have invented gods, subscribed to irrational
systems of theology, hailed and accredited transparently ridiculous
miracles. Such lies are necessary to certain stages of development
simply for the preservation of sanity, just as, at another stage,
sanity, for its own preservation, is necessarily driven to declare
their falsehood. And so I, after the manner of my kind, was driven to
take refuge in a dream. The subjective, in some form or other, alone
makes life continuously possible. And all this, we now look at,
determined the special nature of my attempt at subjective support and
consolation."
Richard paused again, contemplating the view.
"All this--its splendour, its diversity, its caprices and seductions,
its suggestion of underlying danger--presented itself to me as the
embodiment of a personality that has had remarkable influence in the
shaping of my life."
So far Helen had listened intently and silently. Now she moved a
little, straightening up her charming figure, pulling down the wide
brim of her hat to shelter her eyes from the heat and brightness of the
sun.
"A woman?" she asked briefly.
Richard turned to her, that same flickering of mockery in his still
face.
"Oh! you mustn't require too much of me!" he said. "Remember the
simpleton was not wholly eradicated then.--Yes, very much a woman. Of
course. How should it be otherwise? It gave me great pleasure to look
at that which looked like her. It gives me pleasure even yet. So I
wrote and asked de Vallorbes to be kind enough to let me rent the
villa. You remember it was not particularly well cared for. There was
an air of fallen greatness about the poor place. Inside it was
something of a barrack."
"I remember," Helen said.
"Well, I restored and refurnished it--specially the rooms you now
occupy, in accordance with what I imagined to be her taste. The whole
proceeding was not a little feeble-minded, since the probability of her
ever inhabiting those rooms was more than remote. But it amused, it
pacified me, as prayer to their self-invented deities pacifies the
devout. I never stay here for long together. If I did the spell might
be broken. I go away, I travel. I even experiment in things not usually
spoken of, but with a cooler judgment and less morbidly sensitive
conscience than of old. I amuse myself after more active and practical
fashions in other places. Here I amuse myself only with my idea."
The even flow of his speech ceased.--"What do you think of it, Helen?"
he demanded, almost harshly.
"I think it can't last. It is too intangible, too fantastic."
"I admit that to keep it intact needs an infinity of precautions. For
instance, I can make no near acquaintance with Naples. I cannot permit
myself to see the town at close quarters. I only look at it from here.
If I want to go to or from the yacht, I do so at night and in a closed
carriage. I took on de Vallorbes' box at the San Carlo. If any good
opera is given I go and hear it. Otherwise I remain exclusively in the
house and garden. I am not acquainted with a single soul in the place."
"And the woman," Helen exclaimed, a singular emotion at once of envy
and protest upon her. "Do you treat her with the same cold-blooded
calculation?"
"Of the woman I know just as much and just as little as I know of
Naples. It is conceivable there may be unlovely elements in her
character, as well as unlovely quarters of this beautiful city. I have
avoided knowledge of both. You see the whole arrangement is designed
not for her benefit, but for my own. It's an elaborate piece of
self-seeking on my part, but, so far, it has really worked rather
successfully."
"It is preposterous. It cannot in the nature of things continue
successful," Helen declared.
"I am not so sure of that," he replied calmly. "Even the most
preposterous of religious systems proves to have a remarkable power of
survival. Why not this one? In any case, neither the success nor the
failure depends on me. I shall be true, on my part. The rest depends on
her."
As Richard spoke he turned, leaning his back against the balustrade,
his face away from the sunlight and the wide view. Again the extent of
his deformity became arrestingly apparent to Madame de Vallorbes.
"Has this woman ever been here?" she asked.
"Yes--she has been here."
"And then? And then?" Helen cried.
The young man looked up at her, his face keen yet impassive, his
eyes--as windows opening on to endless perspective of empty
space--telling nothing. She recognised, once again, that he was very
strong. She also recognised that, notwithstanding his strength, he was
horribly sad.
"Ah! then," he said, "the last of the poor, little, subjective supports
and consolations seemed in danger of going overboard and joining their
fellows in the uneasy deeps of the sea.--But the history of that will
keep till a more convenient season, Cousin Helen. You have stood in the
midday sun, and I have talked about myself, quite long enough. However,
it was only fair to acquaint you with the limited resources in the way
of society and amusement offered by your present dwelling. There are
horses and carriages of course. Give what orders you please. Only
remember both the town and the surrounding country are pretty rough. It
is not fit for a lady to drive by herself. Always take your own man, or
one of mine, with you if you go out. I hope you won't be quite
intolerably bored. Ask for whatever you want.--You let me dine with
you? Thanks."
CHAPTER III
HELEN DE VALLORBES APPREHENDS VEXATIOUS COMPLICATIONS
Four gowns lay outspread upon the indigo-purple, embroidered coverlet
of the bed. The afterglow of an orange and crimson sunset touched the
folds of them, ranged upward to the vaultings of the frescoed ceiling,
and stained the lofty walls as with the glare of a furnace. Sea-greens,
sea-blues, died in the heat of it, abashed and vanquished. But so did
not Madame de Vallorbes' white lawn and lace _peignoir_, or her
abundant hair, which Zelie Forestier--trim of figure, and sour of
countenance--was in the act of dressing. These caught the fiery light
and held it, so that from head to foot Helen appeared as an image of
living gold. Sitting before the toilet-table, her reflection in the
great, oval mirror pleased her.
"Which shall I wear?"
"That depends upon the length of time madame proposes to stay here. The
black dress might be worn on several occasions with impunity. The
peacock brocade, the _eau de Nil_, the crocus yellow, but once--twice
at the uttermost. They are ravishing costumes, but wanting in repose.
They are unsuited for frequent repetition."
Zelie's lean fingers twisted, puffed, pinned, the shining hair very
skilfully.
"I will put on the black dress."
"Relieved by madame's _parure_ of pink topaz?"
"Yes, I will wear the pink topazes."
"Then it will be necessary to modify the style of madame's _coiffure_."
"There is plenty of time."
Helen took a hand-glass from the table and leaned forward in the low,
round-backed chair--faithful copy of a fine classic model. She wanted
to see the full glory of the afterglow upon her profile, upon her neck,
and bosom. Thus might Cassiopeia, glass in hand, in her golden chair
sit in high heaven!--Helen smiled at the pretty conceit. But the glory
was already departing. Sea-blues, sea-greens, sad by contrast, began to
reassert their presence on walls and carpet and hangings.
"The black dress? madame decides to remain then?"
As she spoke the lady's-maid laid out the jewels,--chains, bracelets,
brooches,--each stone set in a rim of tiny rose-knots of delicate
workmanship. As she fingered them little, yellow-pink flames seemed to
dance in their many facets. Then the afterglow died suddenly. The
flames ceased to dance. Helen's white garments turned livid, her neck
and bosom gray--and that, somehow, was extremely unpleasing to Madame
de Vallorbes.
"Light the candles," she said, almost sharply. "Yes, I remain. Do
hurry, Zelie. It is impossible to see. I detest darkness. Hurry. Do you
suppose I want to stay here all night? And look--you must bring that
chain further forward. It is not graceful. Make it droop. Let it follow
the line of my hair so that the pendant may fall there, in the centre.
You have it too much to the right. The centre--the centre--I tell you.
There, let the drop just clear my forehead."
Thus admonished the French woman wound the jewels in her mistress'
hair. But Madame de Vallorbes remained dissatisfied. The day had been
one of uncertainty, of conflicting emotions, and Helen's love of
unqualified purposes was great. Confusion in others was highly
diverting. But in herself--no thank you! She hated it. It touched her
self-confidence. It endangered the absoluteness of her self-belief and
self-worship. And these once shaken, small superstitions assaulted her.
In trivial happenings she detected indication of ill-luck. Now Zelie's
long, narrow face, divided into two unequal portions by a straight bar
of black eyebrow, and her lean hands, as reflected in the mirror, awoke
unreasoning distrust. They appeared to be detached from the woman's
dark-clothed person, the outlines of which were absorbed in the
increasing dimness of the room. The sallow face moved, peered, the
hands clutched and hovered, independent and unrelated, about Helen's
graceful head.
"For pity's sake, more candles, Zelie!" she repeated. "You look
absolutely diabolic in this uncertain light."
"In an instant, madame. I am compelled first to fix this curl in
place."
She accomplished the operation with most admired deliberation, and
moved away more than once, to observe the effect, before finally
adjusting the hairpin.
"I cannot but regret that madame is unable to wear her hair turned back
from the face. Such an arrangement confers height and an air of
spirituality, which, in madame's case, would be not only becoming but
advantageous."
Helen skidded the hand-glass down upon the dressing-table, causing
confusion amid silver-topped pots and bottles, endangering a jar of
hyacinths, upsetting a tray of hairpins.
"Have I not repeatedly given you orders never to allude to that
subject," she cried.
The maid was on her knees calmly collecting the scattered contents of
the tray.
"A thousand pardons, madame," she said, with a certain sour impudence.
"Still, it must ever be a matter of regret to any one truly
appreciating madame's style of beauty, that she should be always
constrained to wear her hair shading her forehead."
Modern civilisation imposes restrictions even upon the most
high-spirited. At that moment Madame de Vallorbes was ripe for the
commission of atrocities. Had she been--as she coveted to be--a lady of
the Roman decadence it would have gone hard with her waiting-woman, who
might have found herself ordered for instant execution or summarily
deprived of the organs of speech. But, latter-day sentiment happily
forbidding such active expressions of ill-feeling on the part of the
employer towards the employed, Helen was forced to swallow her wrath,
reminding herself, meanwhile, that a confidential servant is either
most invaluable of friends or most dangerous of enemies. There is no
_via media_ in the relation. And Zelie as an enemy was not to be