The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
the demands of my all-consuming imagination. The reverence with which a
person, such as yourself, must regard commanding talent, the
concessions he must be willing to make to its necessities, are without
limit. This I cannot doubt that you will admit. The corollary is
obvious. Either, _monsieur_, you will immediately invite me to reside
with you at your villa--thereby securing for yourself daily intercourse
with a nature of distinguished merit--or you will restore Madame de
Vallorbes to me without hesitation or delay. Her devotion to me is
absolute. How could it fail to be so, since I have lavished upon her
the treasures of my extraordinary personality? But a fear of insular
prejudice on your part withholds her at this moment from full
expression of that devotion. She suffers as well as myself. It will be
your privilege to put a term to this suffering by requesting me to join
her, or by restoring her to me. To do otherwise will be to prolong the
eclipse of my genius, and thereby outrage the conscience of civilised
humanity which breathlessly awaits the next utterance of its chosen
poet. If you require the consolation of feminine society, marry--it
would be very simple--some white-souled, English miss. But restore to
me, to whom her presence is indispensable, this woman of regal
passions. I shall present myself at your house to-day to receive your
answer in person. The result of a refusal on your part to receive me
will be attended by calamitous consequences to yourself.--Accept,
_monsieur_, the expression of my highest consideration,
"PAUL AUGUSTE DESTOURNELLE."
For the moment Richard saw red, mad with rage at the insolence of the
writer. And then came the question, was it true, this which the letter
implied? Had Helen, indeed, lied to him? And, notwithstanding its
insane vanity, did this precious epistle give a more veracious account
of her relation to the young poet than that which she had herself
volunteered? He tried to put the thought from him. Who was he--to-day
of all days--to be nice about the conduct of another? Who was he to sit
in judgment? So he turned to his correspondence again, taking another
letter, at random, from the pile. And then, looking at the
superscription, he turned somewhat sick.
"MON CHER,"--wrote M. de Vallorbes,--"My steward informs me that he has
just received your draft for a quarter's rent of the villa. I thank you
a thousand times for your admirable punctuality. Decidedly you are of
those with whom it is a consolation to do business. Need I assure you
that the advent of this money is far from inopportune, since a grateful
country, while showering distinctions upon me with one hand, with the
other picks my pocket. I find it not a little expensive this famous
military service! But then, ever since I can remember, I have found all
that afforded me the slightest, active pleasure equally that! And this
sport of war, I promise you, is the most excellent sport in which I
have as yet participated. It satisfies the primitive instincts more
thoroughly than even your English fox-hunting. A _battue_ of
_Communards_ is obviously superior to a _battue_ of pheasants. To the
dignity of killing one's fellow-men is added the satisfaction of
ridding oneself of vermin. It becomes a matter of sanitation and
self-respect. And this, indirectly, recalls to me, that report declares
my wife to be with you at Naples. _Mon cher je vous en fais cadeau_.
With you, at least, I know that my honour is safe. You may even instil
into her mind some faint conception of the rudiments of morality. To be
frank with you, she needs that. A couple of months ago she did me the
honour to elope--temporarily, of course--with M. Paul Destournelle. You
may have glanced, one day, at his crapulous verses. I suppose honour
demanded that I should pursue the guilty pair and account for one, if
not both, of them. But I was too busily engaged with my little
_Communards_. We set these gentry up against a wall and dispose of them
in batches. I have had a good deal of this, but, as I say, it has not
yet become monotonous. Traits of individual character lend it vivacity.
And then, putting aside the exigencies of my profession, I do not know
that anything is to be gained by inviting public scandal. You have an
English proverb to the effect that one should wash one's dirty linen at
home. This I have tried to do, as you cannot but be aware, all along.
If one has had the misfortune to marry Messalina, one learns to be
philosophic. A few lovers more or less, in that connection, what, after
all, does it matter? Indeed, I begin to derive ironical consolation
from the fact of their multiplicity. The existence of one would have
constituted a reflection upon my charms. But a matter of ten, fifteen,
twenty, ceases to be in any degree personal to myself. Only I object to
Destournelle. He is too young, too _rococco_. He represents a descent
in the scale. I prefer _des hommes mures_, generals, ministers,
princes. The devil knows we have had our share of such! Your generosity
to her has saved us from Jews so far, and from _nouveaux riches_, by
relieving the business of commercial aspects. Give her some salutary
advice, therefore, _mon cher_, and if she becomes inconvenient forward
her to Paris. I forgive to seventy-times-seven, being still proud
enough to struggle after an appearance of social and conjugal decency.
_Enfin_ it is a relief to have unburdened myself for once, and you have
been the good genius of my unfortunate _menage_, for which heaven
reward you.--Yours, in true cousinly regard and supreme reliance on
your discretion,
"LUIGI ANGELO FRANCESCO DE VALLORBES."
That this, in any case, had a stamp of sincerity upon it, Richard could
not doubt. It must be admitted that he had long ceased to accept Madame
de Vallorbes' estimate of her husband with unqualified belief. But, be
that as it might, whether he were a consummate, or merely an average,
profligate, one thing was certain that this man trusted him--Richard
Calmady,--and that he--Richard Calmady--had very vilely betrayed that
trust. He stared at the letter, and certain sentences in it seemed to
sear him, even as the branding-iron used on a felon might. This was a
new shame, different to, and greater than, any his deformity had ever
induced in him, even as evil done is different to, and greater than,
evil suffered. Morality may be relative only and conventional. Honour,
for all persons of a certain standing and breeding, remains absolute.
And it was precisely of his own honour that he had deprived himself.
Not only in body, but in character, he was henceforth monstrous. For a
while Richard had remained very still, looking at this thing into which
he had made himself as though it were external and physically visible
to him.
Then, suddenly, he had reached out his hand for his mother's letter. A
decision of great moment was impending. He would know what she had to
say before finally making that decision. He wondered bitterly, grimly,
whether her words would plunge him yet deeper in this abyss of
self-hatred and self-contempt.
MY DARLING,"--she wrote,--"I am foolishly glad to learn that you are
back at Naples. It gives me comfort to know you are even thus much
nearer home and in a country where I too have traveled and of which I
retain many dear and delightful recollections. You may be surprised,
perhaps, to see the unaccustomed address upon my note-paper and may
wonder what has made me guilty of deserting my post. Now, since the
worst of it is certainly over, I may tell you that my health has failed
a good deal of late. Nothing of a really serious nature--you need not
be alarmed about me. But I had got into a rather weak and unworthy
state, from which it became very desirable I should rouse myself.
Selfishness is insidious, but none the less reprehensible because it
takes the apparently innocent form of sitting in a chair with one's
eyes shut! However, that best of men, John Knott, brought very bracing
influences to bear on me, convincing me of sin--in the gentlest way in
the world--by means of Honoria St. Quentin. And so I picked myself up,
dear Dickie,--picked the whole of myself up, as I hope, always saving
and excepting my self-indulgent inertia,--and came away here to
Ormiston. At first, I confess, I felt very much like a dog at a fair,
or the proverbial mummy at a feast. But they all bore with me in the
plenty of their kindness, and, in the last week, I have banished the
mummy and trained the scared dog to altogether polite and pretty
behaviour. Till I came back to it, I hardly realised how truly I loved
this place. How should it be otherwise? I met your father first here
after his third term at Eton. I remember he snubbed me roundly. I met
him again the year before our marriage. Without vanity I declare that
then he snubbed me not one little bit. These things are very far away.
But to me, though far away, they are very vivid and very lovely. I see
them as you, when you were small, so often pleaded to see a fairy
landscape by looking through the large end of the gold and
tortoise-shell spy-glass upon my writing-table. All of which may seem
to you somewhat childish and trivial, but I grow an old woman and have
a fancy for toys and tender make-believes--such as fairy landscapes
seen through the big end of a spy-glass. The actual landscape, at
times, is a trifle discouragingly rain-washed and cloudy!---Roger and
Mary are here. Their two boys are just gone back to school again. They
are fine, courteous, fearless, little fellows. Roger makes a rather
superb middle-aged man. He has much of my father--your grandfather's
reticence and dignity. Indeed, he might prove slightly alarming, was
one not so perfectly sure of him, dear creature. Mary remains, as of
old, the most wholesome and helpful of women. Yes, it is good to dwell,
for a time, among one's own people. And I cannot but rejoice that my
eldest brother has come to an arrangement by which, at his death, your
Uncle William will receive a considerable sum of money in lieu of the
property. This last will go direct to Roger, and eventually to his
boys. If your Uncle William had a son, the whole matter would be
different. But I own it would hurt me that in the event of his death
there would be no Ormiston at Ormiston after these many generations. In
all probability the place would be sold immediately, moreover, for it
is an open secret that, through no fault of his own, poor man, William
is sadly embarrassed in money matters. And he has other sorrows--of a
rather terrible nature, since they are touched with disgrace. But here
you will probably detect a point of prejudice, so I had better stop!--I
look out upon a gray, northern sea, where 'the white horses fume and
fret' under a cold, gray, northern sky. The oaks in the park are just
thickening with yellow-green buds. And there, close to my window,
perched on a topmost twig, a missel-thrush is singing, facing the wind
like a gentleman. You look out upon a purple sea, I suppose, beneath
clear skies and over orange trees and palms. I wonder if any brave bird
pipes to you as my storm-cock to me? It brings up one's courage to hear
his song, so strong and wild and sweet, in the very teeth of the gale
too! But now you will have had enough of my news and more than enough.
I write to you more freely, you see, than for a long time past, being
myself more free of spirit. And therefore I dare add this, in all and
every case, my darling, God keep you. And remember, should you weary of
wandering, that not only the doors of Brockhurst, but the doors of my
heart, stand forever wide open to welcome you home.--Yours always,
K. C."
Reading which gentle, yet in a sense daring, words, Richard's shame
took on another complexion, but one by no means calculated to mitigate