The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
thought of. She could not--displeasing reflection--afford to quarrel
with Zelie. The woman knew too much. Therefore Madame de Vallorbes took
refuge in lofty abstraction, while the tiresome uncertainties, the
conflicting inclinations of the past day, quick to seize their
opportunity, as is the habit of such discourteous gentry,--returned
upon her with redoubled importunity and force.
She had not seen Richard since parting with him at noon, the enigmatic
suggestions of his conversation still unresolved, the alternate
resentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strong
and somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her. Later
she had driven out to Pozzuoli. But neither stone-throwing urchins,
foul and disease-stricken beggars, the pale sulphur plains and
subterranean rumblings of the Solfaterra, nor stirring of nether fires
therein resident by a lanky, wild-eyed lad--clothed in leathern jerkin
and hairy, goatskin leggings--with the help of a birch broom and a few
local newspapers, served effectually to rouse her from inward debate
and questioning. The comfortable, cee-spring carriage might swing and
sway over the rough, deep-rutted roads behind the handsome, black,
long-tailed horses, the melodramatic-looking coachman might lash
stone-throwing urchins and anathematise them, their ancestors and
descendants, alike, to the third and fourth generation in the vilest,
Neapolitan argot, Charles might resort to physical force in the removal
of wailing, alms-demanding, vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity, but still
Helen asked herself only--should she go? Should she stay? Was the game
worth the candle? Was the risk, not only of social scandal, but of
possible _ennui_, worth the projected act of revenge? And worth
something more than that. For revenge, it must be owned, already took a
second place in her calculations. Worth, namely, the enjoyment of
possible conquest, the humiliation of possible defeat and rejection, by
that strangely coercive, strangely inscrutable, being, her cousin,
Dickie Calmady?
No man had ever impressed her thus. And she returned on her thought,
when first seeing him upon the terrace that morning, that she might
lose her head. Helen laughed a little bitterly. She, of all women, to
lose her head, to long and languish, to entreat affection, and to be
faithful--heaven help us, faithful!--could it ever come to that?--like
any sentimental schoolgirl, like--and the thought turned her not a
little wicked--like Katherine Calmady herself! And then, that other
woman of whom Richard had told her, with a cynical disregard of her own
claims to admiration, who on earth could she be? She reviewed those
ladies with whom gossip had coupled Richard's name. Morabita, the
famous _prima donna_, for instance. But surely, it was inconceivable
that mountain of fat and good nature, with the voice of a seraph,
granted, but also with the intellect of a frog, could ever inspire so
fantastic and sublimated a passion! And passing from these less
legitimate affairs of the heart--in which rumour accredited Richard
with being very much of a pluralist--her mind traveled back to the
young man's projected marriage with Lady Constance Decies, sometime
Lady Constance Quayle. Remembering the slow, sweet, baby-face and
gentle, heifer's eyes, as she had seen them that day at luncheon at
Brockhurst, nearly five years ago, she again laughed.--No, very
certainly there was no affinity between the glorious and naughty city
of Naples and that mild-natured, well-drilled, little, English girl!
Who was it then--who? But, whoever the fair unknown rival might be,
Helen hated her increasingly as the hours passed, regarding her as an
enemy, a creature to be exterminated, and swept off the board. Jealousy
pricked her desire of conquest. An intrigue with Richard Calmady
offered singular, unique attractions. But the force of such attractions
was immensely enhanced by the excitement of wresting his affections
away from another woman.
Suddenly, in the full swing of these meditations, as she reviewed them
for the hundredth time, Zelie's voice claimed her attention.
"I made the inquiries madame commanded."
"Well?" Helen said. She was standing fastening clusters of topaz in the
bosom of her dress.
"The servants in this house are very reserved. They are unwilling to
give information regarding their master's habits. I could only learn
that Sir Richard occupies the entresol. Communicating as it does with
the garden, no doubt it is convenient to a gentleman so afflicted as
himself."
Helen bowed herself together, while the black lace and China-crape
skirt slipped over her head. Emerging from which temporary eclipse, she
said:--
"But do people stay here much? Does my cousin entertain? That is what I
told you to find out."
"As I tell madame, the servants are difficult of approach. They are
very correct. They fear their master, but they also adore him. Charles
can obtain little more information than myself. But he infers that Sir
Richard, when at the villa, lives in retirement--that he is subject to
fits of melancholy. There will be little diversion for madame it is to
be feared! But what would you have? Even though one should be young and
rich _ce ne serait que peu amusant d'etre estropie, d'etre monstre
enfin_."
Helen drew in her breath with a little sigh of content, while taking a
final look at herself in the oval glass. The soft, floating draperies,
the many jewels, each with its heart of quick, yellow-pink light,
produced a combination at once sombre and vivid. It satisfied her sense
of artistic fitness. Decidedly she did well to begin with the black
dress, since it had in it a quality rather of romance than of
worldliness! Meanwhile Zelie, kneeling, straightened out the folds of
the long train.
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten also to inform madame that M.
Destournelle has arrived in Naples. Charles, thinking of nothing less
than such an encounter, met him this morning on the quay of the Santa
Lucia."
Helen wheeled round violently, much to the discomfiture of those
carefully adjusted folds.
"Intolerable man!" she cried. "What on earth is he doing here?"
"That, Charles naturally could not inquire.--Will madame kindly remain
tranquil for a moment? She has torn a small piece of lace which must be
controlled by a pin. Probably _monsieur_ is still _en voyage_, is
visiting friends as is madame herself."
A sudden distrust that the black dress was too mature, that it
constituted an admission of departing youth, invaded Helen. The
reflection in the oval mirror once more caused her discomfort.
"Tell Charles that I am no longer acquainted with M. Destournelle. If
he presumes to call he is to be refused."
Helen set her teeth. But whether in anger towards her discarded lover,
or the black dress, she would have found it difficult to declare. Again
uncertainty held her, suspicion of circumstance, and, in a degree, of
herself. The lady's-maid, imperturbable, just conceivably impertinent,
in manner, had risen to her feet.
"There," she said, "it will be secure for to-night, if madame will
exercise a moderate degree of caution and avoid abrupt movements.
Charles says that _monsieur_ inquired very urgently after madame. He
appeared dejected and in weak health. He was agitated on meeting
Charles. He trembled. A little more and he would have wept. It would be
well, perhaps, that madame should give Charles her orders regarding
_monsieur_ herself."
"You should not have made me wear this gown," Helen broke out
inconsequently. "It is depressing, it is hideous. I want to change it."
"Impossible. Madame is already a little late, and there is nothing
wrong with the costume. Madame looks magnificent. Also her wardrobe is,
at present, limited. The evening dresses will barely suffice for a stay
of a week, and it is not possible for me to construct a new one under
ten days."
Thereupon an opening of doors and voice from the anteroom announcing:--
"Dinner is served, my lady. Sir Richard is in the dining-room."
And Helen swept forward, somewhat stormy and Cassandra-like in her
dusky garments. Passing out through the high, narrow doorway, she
turned her head.
"Charles, under no circumstance--none, understand--am I at home to
Monsieur Destournelle."
"Very good, my lady," and, as he closed the double-doors, the
man-servant looked at the lady's-maid his tongue in his cheek.
But, on the journey through the noble suite of rooms, Helen's spirits
revived somewhat. Her fair head, her warm glancing jewels, her graceful
and measured movements, as given back by many tall mirrors, renewed her
self-confidence. She too must be fond of her own image, by the way,
that unknown rival to the dream of whose approval Richard Calmady had
consecrated these splendid furnishings--witness the multiplicity of
looking-glasses!--And then the prospect of this _tete-a-tete_ dinner,
the interest of her host's powerful and enigmatic personality, provoked
her interest to the point not only of obliterating remembrance of the
ill-timed advent of her ex-lover, but of inducing something as closely
akin to self-forgetfulness as was possible to her self-centred nature.
She grew hotly anxious to obtain, to charm--if it might be, to usurp
the whole field of Richard's attention and imagination.
A small round table showed as an island of tender light in the dimness
of the vast room. And Richard, sitting at it awaiting her coming,
appeared more nearly related to the Richard of Brockhurst and of five
years ago than he had done during the interview of the morning. In any
case, she took him more for granted. While he, if still inscrutable and
unsmiling, proved an eminently agreeable companion, ready of
conversation, very much at his ease, very much a cultivated man of the
world, studious--a little excessively so, she thought--in his avoidance
of the personal note. And this at once piqued Helen, and incited her to
intellectual effort. If this was what he wanted, well, he should have
it! If he elected to talk of travel, of ancient and alien religions, of
modern literature and art, she could meet him more than half-way. Her
intelligence ran nimbly from subject to subject, point to point. She
struck out daring hypotheses, indulged in ingenious paradox, her mind
charmed by her own eloquence, her body comforted by costly wines and
delicate meats. Nor did she fail to listen also, knowing how very dear
to every man is the sound of his own voice, or omit to offer refined
flattery of quick agreement and seasonable laughter. It was late when
she rose from the table at last.
"I have had a delightful dinner," she said. "Absolutely delightful. And
now I will encroach no longer on your time or good nature, Richard. You
have your own occupations, no doubt. So, with thanks for shelter and
generous entertainment, we part for to-night."
She held out her hand smiling, but with an admirable effect of
discretion, all ardour, all intimacy, kept in check by self-respect and
well-bred dignity. Madame de Vallorbes was enchanted with the reserve
of her own demeanour. Let it be well understood that she was the least
importunate, the least exacting, the most adaptable, of guests!
Richard took her outstretched hand for the briefest period compatible
with courtesy. And a momentary spasm--so she fancied--contracted his
face.
"You are very welcome, Helen," he said. "If it is warm let us breakfast
in the pavilion to-morrow. Twelve--does that suit you? Good-night."
Upon the inlaid writing-table in the anteroom, Helen found a long and
impassioned epistle from Paul Destournelle. Perusal of it did not
minister to peaceful sleep. In the small hours she left her bed, threw
a silk dressing-gown about her, drew aside the heavy, blue-purple,