CHAPTER VII

AN ATTEMPT TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT

The day had been hot, though the summer was but young. A wealth of

steady sunlight bathed the western front of the house. All was notably

still, save for a droning of bees, a sound of wood-chopping, voices now

and again, and the squeak of a wheelbarrow away in the gardens.

Richard lay on his back upon the bed. He had drawn the blue embroidered

coverlet up about his waist; but his silk shirt was thrown open,

exposing his neck and chest. His arms were flung up and out across the

pillow on either side his gold-brown, close-curled head. As his mother

entered he turned his face towards the open window. There was vigour

and distinction in the profile--in the straight nose, full chin, and

strong line of the lower jaw, in the round, firm throat, and small ear

set close against the head. The muscles of his neck and arms were well

developed. Seen thus, lying in the quiet glow of the afternoon

sunshine, all possibility of physical disgrace seemed far enough from

Richard Calmady. He might indeed, not unfitly, have been compared to

one of those nobly graceful lads, who, upon the frieze of some Greek

temple, set forth forever the perfect pattern of temperance and high

courage, of youth and health.

As Katherine sat down beside the bed, Richard thrust out his left hand.

She took it in both hers, held and stroked the palm of it. But for a

time she could not trust herself to speak. For she saw that,

notwithstanding the resolute set of his lips, his breath caught in

short quick sobs and that his eyelashes were glued in points by late

shed tears. And seeing this, Katherine's motherhood arose and

confronted her with something of reproach. It seemed to her she had

been guilty of disloyalty in permitting her thought to be beguiled even

for the brief space of her conversation with Julius March. She felt

humbled, a little in Dickie's debt, since she had not realised to the

uttermost each separate moment of his trial as each of those moments

passed.

"My darling, I am afraid Dr. Knott has hurt you very much," she said at

last.

"Oh! I don't know. I suppose he did hurt. He pulled me about awfully,

but I didn't mind that. I told him to keep on till he made sure,"

Richard answered huskily, still turning his face from her. "But none of

those beastly legs and things fitted. He could not fix them so that I

could use them. It was horrid. They only made me more helpless than

before. You see--my--my feet are in the way."

The last words came to Katherine as a shock. The boy had never spoken

openly of his deformity, and in thus speaking he appeared to her to

rend asunder the last of those veils with which she had earnestly

striven to conceal the disgrace of it from him. She remained very

still, bracing herself to bear--the while slowly stroking his hand.

Suddenly the strong, young fingers closed hard on hers. Richard turned

his head.

"Mother," he said, "the doctor can't do anything for me. It's no use.

We've just got to let it be."

He set his teeth, choking a little, and drew the back of his right hand

across his eyes.

"It's awfully stupid; but somehow I never knew I should mind so much.

I--I never did mind much till just lately. It began--the minding, I

mean--the day Uncle Roger came home. It was the way he looked at me,

and hearing about things he'd done. And I had a beastly dream that

night. And it's all grown worse since."

He paused a minute, making a strong effort to speak steadily.

"I suppose it's silly to mind. I ought to be accustomed to it by this

time. I've never known anything else. But I never thought of all it

meant and--and--how it looked to other people till Helen was here and

wanted me to show her the house. I--I supposed every one would take it

for granted, as you all do here at home. And then I'd a hope Dr. Knott

might find a way to hide it and so help me. But--but he can't. That

hope's quite gone."

"My own darling," Katherine murmured.

"Yes, please say that!" he cried, looking up eagerly. "I am your

darling, mother, aren't I, just the same? Dr. Knott said something

about you just now. He's an awfully fine old chap. I like him. He

talked to me for a long time after we'd sent Winter away, and he was

ever so kind. And he told me it was bad for you too, you know--for both

of us. I'm afraid I had not thought much about that before. I've been

thinking about it since. And I began to be afraid that--that I might be

a nuisance,--that you might be ashamed of me, later, when I am grown

up, since I've always got to be like this, you see."

The boy's voice broke.

"Mother, mother, you'll never despise me, who ever does, will you?" he

sobbed.

And it seemed to Lady Calmady that now she must have touched bottom in

this tragedy. There could surely be no further to go? It was well that

her mood was soft; that for a little while she had ceased to be under

the dominion of her so sadly fixed idea. In talking with Julius March

she had been reminded how constant a quantity is sorrow; how real,

notwithstanding their silence, are many griefs; how strong is human

patience. And this indirectly had fortified her. Wrung with anguish for

the boy, she yet was calm. She knelt down by the bedside and put her

arms round him.

"Most precious one--listen," she said. "You must never ask me such a

question again. I am your mother--you cannot measure all that implies,

and so you cannot measure the pain your question causes me. Only you

must believe, because I tell it you, that your mother's love will never

grow old or wear thin. It is always there, always fresh, always ready.

In utter security you can come back to it again and again. It is like

one of those clear springs in the secret places of the deep woods--you

know them--which bubble up forever. Drink, often as you may, however

heavy the drought or shrunken the streams elsewhere, those springs

remain full to the very lip."--Her tone changed, taking a tender

playfulness. "Why, my Dickie, you are the light of my eyes, my darling,

the one thing which makes me still care to live. You are your father's

gift to me. And so every kiss you give me, every pretty word you say to

me, is treasured up for his, as well as for your own, dear sake."

She leaned back, laid her head on the pillow beside his, cheek to

cheek. Katherine was a young woman still--young enough to have moments

of delicate shyness in the presence of her son. She could not look at

him now as she spoke.

"You know, dearest, if I could take your bodily misfortune upon me,

here, directly, and give you my wholeness, I would do it more readily,

with greater thankfulness and delight than I have ever done anything

in----"

But Richard raised his hand and laid it, almost violently, upon her

mouth.

"Oh stop, mother, stop!" he cried. "Don't--it's too dreadful to think

of."

He flung away, and lay at as far a distance as the width of the bed

would allow, gazing at her in angry protest.

"You can't do that. But you don't suppose I'd let you do it even if you

could," he said fiercely. Then he turned his face to the sunny western

window again. "I like to know that you're beautiful anyhow, mother,

all--all over," he said.

There followed a long silence between them. Lady Calmady still knelt by

the bedside. But she drew herself up, rested her elbows on the bed and

clasped her hands under her chin. And as she knelt there something of

proud comfort came to her. For so long she had sickened, fearing the

hour when Richard should begin clearly to gauge the extent of his own

ill-luck; yet, now the first shock of plain speech over, she

experienced relief. For the future they could be honest, she and

he,--so she thought,--and speak heart to heart. Moreover, in his so

bitter distress, it was to her--not to Mary, his good comrade, not to

Roger Ormiston, the Ulysses of his fancy--that the boy had turned. He

was given back to her, and she was greatly gladdened by that. She was

gladdened too by Richard's last speech, by his angry and immediate

repudiation of the bare mention of any personal gain which should touch

her with loss. Katherine's eyes kindled as she knelt there watching her

son. For it was very much to find him chivalrous, hotly sensitive of

her beauty and the claims of her womanhood. In instinct, in thought, in

word, he had shown himself a very gallant, high-bred gentleman--child

though he was. And this gave Katherine not only proud comfort in the

present, but cheered the future with hope.

"Look here, Dickie, darling," she said softly at last, "tell me a

little more about your talk with Dr. Knott."

"Oh! he was awfully kind," Richard answered, turning towards her again,

while his face brightened. "He said some awfully jolly things to me."

The boy put out his hand and began playing with the bracelets on

Katherine's wrists. He kept his eyes fixed on them as he fingered them.

"He told me I was very strong and well made--except, of course, for it.

And that I was not to imagine myself ill or invalidy, because I'm

really less ill than most people, you know. And--he said--you won't

think me foolish, mother, if I tell you?--he said I was a very handsome

fellow."

Richard glanced up quickly, while his colour deepened.

"Am I really handsome?" he asked.

Katherine smiled at him.

"Yes, you are very handsome, Dickie. You have always been that. You

were a beautiful baby, a beautiful little child. And now, every day you

grow more like your father. I can't quite talk about him, my dear--but

ask Uncle Roger, ask Marie de Mirancourt what he was when she knew him

first."

The boy's face flashed back her smile, as the sea does the sunlight.

"Oh! I say, but that's good news," he said. He lay quite still on his

back for a little while, thinking about it.

"That seems to give one a shove, you know," he remarked presently. Then

he fell to playing with her bracelets again. "After all, I've got a

good many shoves to-day, mother. Dr. Knott's a regular champion shover.

He told me about a number of people he'd known who had got smashed up

somehow, or who'd always had something wrong, you know--and how they'd

put a good face on it and hadn't let it interfere, but had done things

just the same. And he told me I'd just got to be plucky--he knew I

could if I tried--and not let it interfere either. He told me I mustn't

be soft, or lazy, because doing things is more difficult for me than

for other people. But that I'd just got to put my back into it, and go

in and win. And I told him I would--and you'll help me, mummy, won't

you?"

"Yes, darling, yes," Lady Calmady said.

"I want to begin at once," he went on hurriedly, looking hard at the

bracelets. "I shouldn't like to be unkind to her, mother, but do you

think Clara would give me up? I don't need a nurse now. It's rather

silly. May one of the men-servants valet me? I should like Winter best,

because he's been here always, and I shouldn't feel shy with him. Would

it bore you awfully to speak about that now, so that he might begin

to-night?"

Lady Calmady's brave smile grew a trifle sad. The boy was less

completely given back to her than she had fondly supposed. This day was

after all to introduce a new order. And the woman always pays. She was

to pay for that advance, so was the devoted handmaiden, Clara. Still

the boy must have his way--were it even towards a merely imagined good.

"Very well, dearest, I will settle it," she answered.

"You won't mind, though, mother?"

Katherine stroked the short curly hair back from his forehead.

"I don't mind anything that promises to make you happier, Dickie," she

said. "What else did you and Dr. Knott settle--anything else?"

Richard waited, then he turned on his elbow and looked full and very

earnestly at her.

"Yes, mother, we did settle something more. And something that I'm

afraid you won't like. But it would make me happier than anything

else--it would make all the difference that--that can be made, you

know."

He paused, his expression very firm though his lips quivered.

"Dr. Knott wants me to ride."

Katherine drew back, stood up straight, threw out her hands as though

to keep off some actual and tangible object of offense.

"Not that, Richard," she cried. "Anything in the world rather than

that."

He looked at her imploringly, yet with a certain determination, for the

child was dying fast in him and the forceful desires and intentions of

youth growing.

"Don't say I mustn't, mother. Pray, pray don't, because----"

He left the sentence unfinished, overtaken by the old habit of

obedience, yet he did not lower his eyes.

But Lady Calmady made no response. For the moment she was outraged to

the point of standing apart, even from her child. For a moment, even

motherhood went down before purely personal feeling--and this, by the

irony of circumstance, immediately after motherhood had made supreme

confession of immutability. But remembering her husband's death,

remembering the source of all her child's misfortune, it appeared to

her indecent, a wanton insult to all her past suffering, that such a

proposition should be made to her. And, in a flash of cruelly vivid

perception, she knew how the boy would look on a horse, the grotesque,

to the vulgar, wholly absurd spectacle he must, notwithstanding his

beauty, necessarily present. For a moment the completeness of love

failed before pride touched to the very quick.

"But, how can you ride?" she said. "My poor child, think--how is it

possible?"

Richard sat upright, pressing his hands down on the bedclothes on

either side to steady himself. The colour rushed over his face and

throat.

"It is possible, mother," he answered resolutely, "or Dr. Knott would

never have talked about it. He couldn't have been so unkind. He drew me

the plan of a saddle. He said I was to show it to Uncle Roger to-night.

Of course it won't be easy at first, but I don't care about that. And

Chifney would teach me. I know he would. He said the other day he'd

make a sportsman of me yet."

"When did you talk with Chifney?" Lady Calmady spoke very quietly, but

there was that in her tone which came near frightening the boy. It

required all his daring to answer honestly and at once.

"I talked to him the day Aunt Ella and Helen were here. I--I went down

to the stables with him and saw all the horses."

"Then either you or he did very wrong," Lady Calmady remarked.

"It was my fault, mother, all my fault. Chifney would have ridden on,

but I stopped him. Chaplin tried to prevent me. I--I told him to mind

his own business. I meant to go. I--I saw all the horses, and they were

splendid," he added, enthusiasm gaining over fear. "I saw the stables,

and the weighing-room, and everything. I never enjoyed myself so much

before. I told Chaplin I would tell you, because he ought not to be

blamed, you know. I did mean to tell you directly I came in. But all

those people were here."--Richard's face darkened. "And you remember

what happened? That put everything else out of my head."

A pause. Then he said: "Are you very angry?"

Katherine made no reply. She moved away round the foot of the bed and

stood at the sunny window in silence. Bitterness of hot humiliation

possessed her. Heretofore, whatever her trial, she had been mistress of

the situation; she had reigned a queen-mother, her authority

undisputed. And now it appeared her kingdom was in revolt, conspiracy

was rife. Richard's will and hers were in conflict; and Richard's will

must eventually obtain, since he would eventually be master. Already

courtiers bowed to that will. All this was in her mind. And a wounding

of feeling, far deeper and more intimate than this,--since Katherine's

nobility of character was great and the worldly aspect, the greed of

personal power and undisputed rule, could not affect her for long. It

wounded her, as a slight upon the memory of the man she had so wholly

loved, that this first conflict between Richard and herself should turn

on the question of horses and the racing-stable. The irony of the

position appeared unpardonable. And then, the vision of poor

Richard--her darling, whom she had striven so jealously to shield ever

since the day, over thirteen years ago, when undressing her baby she

had first looked upon its malformed limbs--Richard riding forth for all

the staring, mocking world to see, again arose before her.

Thinking of all this, Katherine gazed out over the stately home

scene--grass plot and gardens, woodland and distant landscape, rich in

the golden splendour of steady sunshine--with smarting eyes and a sense

of impotent misery that wrapped her about as a burning garment. The boy

was beginning to go his own way. And his way was not hers. And those

she had trusted were disloyal, helping him to go it. Alone, in

retirement, she had borne her great trouble with tremendous courage.

But how should she bear it under changed conditions, amid publicity,

gossip, comment?

Dickie, meanwhile, had let himself drop back against the pillows. He

set his teeth and waited. It was hard. An opportunity of escape from

the galling restraints of his infirmity had been presented to him, and

his mother--his mother after promise given, after the sympathy of a

lifetime; his mother, in whom he trusted absolutely--was unwilling he

should accept it! As he lay there all the desperate longing for freedom

and activity that had developed in him of late--all the passion for

sport, for that primitive, half-savage manner of life, that intimate,

if somewhat brutal, relation to nature, to wild creatures and to the

beasts whom man by centuries of usage has broken to his service, which

is the special heritage of Englishmen of gentle blood--sprang up in

Richard, strong, all compelling. He must have his part in all this. He

would not be denied. He cried out to her imperiously:--

"Mother, speak to me! I haven't done anything really wrong. I've a

right to do what any other boy has--as far as I can get it. Don't you

see riding is just the one thing to--to make up--to make a man of me?

Don't you see that?"

He sat bolt upright, stretching out his arms to her in fierce appeal,

while the level sunshine touched his bright hair and wildly eager face.

"Mummy, mummy darling, don't you see? Try to see. You can't want to

take away my one chance!"

Katherine turned at that reiterated cry, and her heart melted within

her. The boy was her own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. From

her he had life. From her he had also lifelong disgrace and

deprivation. Was there anything then, which, he asking, she could

refuse to give? She cast herself on her knees beside the bed again and

buried her face in the sheet.

"My precious one," she sobbed, "forgive me. I am ashamed, for I have

been both harsh and weak. I said I would help you, and then directly I

fail you. Forgive me."

And the boy was amazed, speechless at first, seeing her broken thus;

shamed in his turn by the humility of her attitude. To his young

chivalry it was as an impiety to look upon her tears.

"Please don't cry, mother," he entreated tremulously, a childlike

simplicity of manner taking him. "Don't cry--it is dreadful. I never

saw you cry before."--Then, after a pause, he added: "And--never mind

about my riding. I don't so very much care about it--really, I don't

believe I do--after all."

At that dear lie Katherine raised her bowed head, a wonderful sweetness

in her tear-stained face, tender laughter upon her lips. She drew the

boy's hands on to her shoulders, clasped her hands across his extended

arms, and kissed him upon the mouth.

"No, no, my beloved, you shall ride," she said. "You shall have your

saddle--twenty thousand saddles if you want them. We will talk to Uncle

Roger and Chifney to-night. All shall be as you wish."

"But you're not angry, mother, any more?" he asked, a little bewildered

by her change of tone and by the passion of her lovely looks and

speech.

Katherine shook her head, and still that tender laughter curved her

lips.

"No, I am never going to be angry any more--with you at least, Dick. I

must learn to be plucky too. A pair of us, Dickie, trying to keep up

one another's pluck! Only let us go forward hand in hand, you and I,

and then, however desperate our doings, I at least shall be content."