CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN THE READER IS COURTEOUSLY INVITED TO IMPROVE HIS ACQUAINTANCE

WITH CERTAIN PERSONS OF QUALITY

But Richard might have spared himself the trouble of erecting barriers

against too intimate intercourse with his cousin. Providence, awaking

suddenly as it would seem, to the perils of his position, had already

seen to all that. For since he went forth, hot-eyed and hot-headed,

into the blank chill of the fog, the company at Brockhurst--as Powell

announced to him--had suffered large and unlooked-for increase. Ludovic

Quayle was the first of the self-invited guests to appear when Richard

was settled in the dining-room. He sauntered up to the head of the

table with his accustomed air of slightly supercilious inquiry, as of

one who expects to meet little save fools and foolishness, yet suffers

these gladly, being quite secure of his own wisdom.

"How are you, Dickie?" he said. "Fairly robust I hope, for the

Philistines are upon you. Still it might have been worse. I have done

what I could. My father, who has never grasped that there is an element

of comedy in the numerical strength of his family, wished to bring us

over a party of eight. But I stopped that. Four, as I tried to make him

comprehend, touched the limits of social decency. He didn't comprehend.

He rarely does. But he yielded, which was more to the point perhaps.

Understand though, we didn't propose to add surprise to the other

doubtful blessings of our descent on you. I wrote to you yesterday, but

it appears you went out at some unearthly hour this morning superior

alike to the state of the weather and arrival of your letters."

"Fine thing going out early---excellent thing going out early. Very

glad to see you, Calmady, and very kind indeed of you and Lady Calmady

to take us in in this friendly way and show us hospitality at such

short notice----"

This from Lord Fallowfeild--a remarkably tall, large, and handsome

person. He affected a slightly antiquated style of dress, with a

sporting turn to it,--coats of dust colour or gray, notably long as to

the skirts, well fitted at the waist, the surface of them traversed by

heavy seams. His double chin rested within the points of a high, white

collar, and was further supported by voluminous, black, satin stock.

His face, set in soft, gray hair and gray whisker, brushed well

forward, suggested that of a benign and healthy infant--an infant, it

may be added, possessed of a small and particularly pretty mouth. Save

in actual stature, indeed, his lordship had never quite succeeded in

growing up. Very full of the milk of human kindness, he earnestly

wished his fellow-creatures--gentle and simple alike--to be as

contented and happy as he, almost invariably, himself was. When he had

reason to believe them otherwise, it perplexed and worried him greatly.

It followed that he was embarrassed, apologetic even, in Richard

Calmady's presence. He felt vaguely responsible as for some neglected

duty, as though there was something somehow which he ought to set

right. And this feeling harassed him, increasing the natural

discursiveness and inconsequence of his speech. He was so terribly

nervous of forgetting and of hurting the young man's feelings by saying

the wrong thing, that all possible wrong things got upon his brain,

with the disastrous result that of course he ended by saying them. In

face of a person so sadly stationary as poor Dick, moreover, his own

perfect ability to move freely about appeared to him as little short of

discourteous, not to say coarse. He, therefore, tried to keep very

still, with the consequence that he developed an inordinate tendency to

fidget. Altogether Lord Fallowfeild did not show to advantage in

Richard Calmady's company.

"Ah, yes! fine thing going out early," he repeated. "Always made a

practice of it myself at your age, Calmady. Can't stand doctor's stuff,

don't believe in it, never did. Though I like Knott, good fellow

Knott--always have liked Knott. But never was a believer in drugs.

Nothing better than a good sharp walk, now, early, really early before

the frost's out of the grass. Excellent for the liver walking----"

Here, perceiving that his son Ludovic looked very hard at him, eyebrows

raised to most admonitory height, he added hastily--

"Eh?--yes, of course, or riding. Riding, nothing like that for

health--better exercise still----"

"Is it?" Richard put in. He was too busy with his own thoughts to be

greatly affected by Lord Fallowfeild's blunders just then. "I'm glad to

know you think so. You see it's a matter in which I'm not very much of

a judge."

"No--no--of course not.--Queer fellow Calmady," Lord Fallowfeild added

to himself. "Uncommonly sharp way he has of setting you down."

But just then, to his relief, Lady Calmady, Lady Louisa Barking, and

pretty, little Lady Constance Quayle entered the room together. Mr.

Ormiston and John Knott followed engaged in close conversation, the

rugged, rough-hewn aspect of the latter presenting a strong contrast to

the thin, tall figure and face, white and refined to the point of

emaciation, of the diplomatist. Julius March, accompanied by

Camp--still carrying his tail limp and his great head rather

sulkily--brought up the rear. And Dickie, while greeting his guests,

disposing their places at table, making civil speeches to his immediate

neighbour on the left,--Lady Louisa,--smiling a good-morning to his

mother down the length of the table, felt a wave of childish

disappointment sweep over him. For Helen came not, and with a great

desiring he desired her. Poor Dickie, so wise, so philosophic in fancy,

so enviably, disastrously young in fact!

"Oh! thanks, Lady Louisa--it's so extremely kind of you to care to

come. The fog was rather beastly this morning wasn't it? And I

shouldn't be surprised if it came down on us again about sunset. But

it's a charming day meanwhile.--There Ludovic please,--next Dr. Knott.

We'll leave this chair for Madame de Vallorbes. She's coming, I

suppose?"

And Richard glanced towards the door again, and, so doing, became aware

that little Lady Constance, sitting between Lord Fallowfeild and Julius

March, was staring at him. She had an innocent face, a small, feminine

copy of her father's save that her eyes were set noticeably far apart.

This gave her a slow, ruminant look, distinctly attractive. She

reminded Richard of a gentle, well-conditioned, sweet-breathed calf

staring over a bank among ox-eyed daisies and wild roses. As soon as

she perceived--but Lady Constance did not perceive anything very

rapidly--that he observed her, she gave her whole attention, to the

contents of her plate and her colour deepened perceptibly.

"Pretty country about you here, uncommonly pretty," Lord Fallowfeild

was saying in response to some remark of Lady Calmady's. "Always did

admire it. Always liked a meet on this side of the county when I had

the hounds. Very pleasant friendly spirit on this side too. Now

Cathcart, for instance--sensible fellow Cathcart, always have liked

Cathcart, remarkably sensible fellow. Plain man though--quite

astonishingly plain. Daughter very much like him, I remember.

Misfortune for a girl that. Always feel very much for a plain woman.

She married well though--can't recall who just now, but somebody we all

know. Who was it now, Lady Calmady?"

Between that haunting sense of embarrassment, and the kindly wish to

carry things off well, and promote geniality, Lord Fallowfeild spoke

loud. At this juncture Mr. Quayle folded his hands and raised his eyes

devoutly to heaven.

"Oh, my father! oh, my father!" he murmured. Then he leant a little

forward watching Lady Calmady.

"But, as you may remember, Mary Cathcart had a charming figure," she

was saying, very sweetly, essaying to soften the coming blow.

"Ah! had she though? Great thing a good figure. I knew she married

well."

"Naturally I agree with you there. I suppose one always thinks one's

own people the most delightful in the world. She married my brother."

"Did she though!" Lord Fallowfeild exclaimed, with much interest. Then

suddenly his tumbler stopped half-way to his mouth, while he gazed

horror-stricken across the table at Mr. Ormiston.

"Oh no, no! not that brother," Katherine added quickly. "The younger

one, the soldier. You wouldn't remember him. He's been on foreign

service almost ever since his marriage. They are at the Cape now."

"Oh! ah! yes--indeed, are they?" he exclaimed. He breathed more easily.

Those few thousand miles to the Cape were a great comfort to him. A man

could not overhear your strictures on his wife's personal appearance at

that distance anyhow.--"Very charming woman, uncommonly tactful woman,

Lady Calmady," he said to himself gratefully.

Meanwhile Lady Louisa Barking, at the other end of the table, addressed

her discourse to Richard and Julius, on either side of her, in the

high, penetrating key affected by certain ladies of distinguished

social pretensions. Whether this manner of speech implies a fine

conviction of superiority on the part of the speaker, or a conviction

that all her utterances are replete with intrinsic interest, it is

difficult to determine. Certain it is that Lady Louisa practically

addressed the table, the attendant men-servants, all creation in point

of fact, as well as her two immediate neighbours. Like her father she

was large and handsome. But her expression lacked his amiability, her

attitude his pleasing self-distrust. In age she was about

six-and-thirty and decidedly mature for that. She possessed a

remarkable power of concentrating her mind upon her own affairs. She

also laboured under the impression that she was truly religious,

listening weekly to the sermons of fashionable preachers on the

convenient text that "worldliness is next to godliness" and

entertaining prejudices, finely unqualified by accurate knowledge,

against the abominable errors of Rome.

"I was getting so terribly fagged with canvassing that my doctor told

me I really must go to Whitney and recruit. Of course Mr. Barking is

perfectly secure of his seat. I am in no real anxiety, I am thankful to

say. He does not speak much in the House. But I always feel speaking is

quite a minor matter, don't you?"

"Doubtless," Julius said, the remark appearing to be delivered at him

in particular.

"The great point is that your party should be able to depend absolutely

upon your loyalty. Being rather behind the scenes, as I can't help

being, you know, I do feel that more and more. And the party depends

absolutely upon Mr. Barking. He has so much moral stamina, you know.

That is what they all feel. He is ready at any moment to sacrifice his

private convictions to party interests. And so few members of any real

position are willing to do that. And so, of course, the leaders do

depend on him. All the members of the Government consult him in

private."

"That is very flattering," Richard remarked.--Still Helen tarried,

while again, glancing in the direction of the door, he encountered Lady

Constance's mild, ruminant stare.

"Can one pronounce anything flattering when one sees it to be so

completely deserved?" Ludovic Quayle inquired in his most urbane

manner. "Prompt and perpetual sacrifice of private conviction to party

interest, for example--how can such devotion receive recognition beyond

its deserts?"

"Do have some more partridge, Lady Louisa," Richard put in hastily.

"In any case such recognition is very satisfactory.--No more, thank

you, Sir Richard," the lady replied, not without a touch of acerbity.

Ludovic was very clever no doubt; but his comments often struck her as

being in equivocal taste. He gave a turn to your words you did not

expect and so broke the thread of your conversation in a rather

exasperating fashion. "Very satisfactory," she repeated. "And, of

course, the constituency is fully informed of the attitude of the

Government towards Mr. Barking, so that serious opposition is out of

the question."

"Oh! of course," Richard echoed.

"Still I feel it a duty to canvass. One can point out many things to

the constituents in their own homes which might not come quite so well,

don't you know, from the platform. And of course they enjoy seeing one

so much."

"Of course, it makes a great change for them," Richard echoed

dutifully.

"Exactly, and so on their account, quite putting aside the chance of

securing a stray vote here or there, I feel it a duty not to spare

myself, but to go through with it just for their sakes, don't you

know."

"My sister is nothing if not altruistic, you'll find, Calmady," Mr.

Quayle here put in in his most exquisitely amiable manner.

But now encouraged thereto by Lady Calmady, Lord Fallowfeild had

recovered his accustomed serenity and discoursed with renewed

cheerfulness.

"Great loss to this side of the county, my poor friend Denier," he

remarked. "Good fellow Denier--always liked Denier. Stood by him from

the first--so did your son.--No, no, pardon me--yes, to be

sure--excellent claret this--never tasted a better luncheon

claret.--But there was a little prejudice, little narrowness of feeling

about Denier, when he first bought Grimshott and settled down here.

Self-made man, you see, Denier. Entirely self-made. Father was a

clergyman, I believe, and I'm told his grandfather kept an umbrella

shop in the Strand. But a very able, right-minded man Denier, and

wonderfully good-natured fellow, always willing to give you an opinion

on a point of law. Great advantage to have a first-rate authority like

that to turn to in a legal difficulty. Very useful in county business

Denier, and laid hold of country life wonderfully, understood the

obligations of a land-owner. Always found a fox in that Grimshott gorse

of his, eh, Knott?"

"Fox that sometimes wasn't very certain of his country," the doctor

rejoined. "Hailed from the neighbourhood of the umbrella shop perhaps,

and wanted to get home to it."

Lord Fallowfeild chuckled.

"Capital," he said, "very good--capital. Still, it's a great relief to

know of a sure find like that. Keeps the field in a good temper. Yes,

few men whose death I've regretted more than poor Denier's. I miss

Denier. Not an old man either. Shouldn't have let him slip through your

fingers so early, Knott, eh?"

"Oh! that's a question of forestry," John Knott answered grimly. "If

one kept the old wood standing, where would the saplings' chances come

in?"

"Oh! ah! yes--never thought of that before,"--and thinking of it now

the noble lord became slightly pensive. "Wonder if it's unfair my

keeping Shotover so long out of the property?" he said to himself.

"Amusing fellow Shotover, very fond of Shotover--but extravagant

fellow, monstrously extravagant."

"Lord Denier's death gave our host here a seat on the local bench just

at the right moment," the doctor went on. "One man's loss is another

man's opportunity. Rather rough, perhaps, on the outgoing man, but then

things usually are pretty rough on the outgoing man in my experience."

"I suppose they are," Lord Fallowfeild said, rather ruefully, his face

becoming preternaturally solemn.

"Not a doubt of it. The individual may get justice. I hope he does. But

mercy is kept for special occasions--few and far between. One must take

things on the large scale. Then you find they dovetail very neatly,"

Knott continued, with a somewhat sardonic mirthfulness. The simplicity

and perplexity of this handsome, kindly gentleman, amused him hugely.

"But to return to Lord Denier--let alone my skill, that of the whole

medical faculty put together couldn't have saved him."

"Couldn't it, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild.

"That's just the bother with your self-made man. He makes

himself--true. But he spends himself physically in the making. All his

vitality goes in climbing the ladder, and he's none left over by the

time he reaches the top. Lord Denier had worked too hard as a youngster

to make old bones. It's a long journey from the shop in the Strand to

the woolsack you see, and he took sick at two-and-thirty I believe. Oh

yes! early death, or premature decay, is the price most outsiders pay

for a great professional success. Isn't that so, Mr. Ormiston?"

But at this juncture the conversation suffered interruption by the

throwing open of the door and entrance of Madame de Vallorbes.

"Pray let no one move," she said, rather as issuing an order than

preferring a request--for her father, Lord Fallowfeild, all the

gentlemen, had risen on her appearance--save Richard.--Richard, his

blue eyes ablaze, the corners of his mouth a-tremble, his heart going

forth tumultuously to meet her, yet he alone of all present denied the

little obvious act of outward courtesy from man to woman.

"Pinned to his chair, like a specimen beetle to a collector's card,"

John Knott said grimly to himself. "Poor dear lad--and with that face

on him too. I hoped he might have been spared taking fire a little

longer. However, here's the conflagration. No question about that. Now

let's have a look at the lady."

And the lady, it must be conceded, manifested herself under a new and

somewhat agitating aspect, as she swept up the room and into the vacant

place at Richard's right hand with a rush of silken skirts. She

produced a singular effect at once of energy and self-concentration--her

lips thin and unsmiling, an ominous vertical furrow between the spring

of her arched eyebrows, her eyes narrow, unresponsive, severe with

thought under their delicate lids.

"I am sorry to be late, but it was unavoidable. I was kept by some

letters forwarded from Newlands," she said, without giving herself the

trouble of looking at Richard as she spoke.

"What does it matter? Luncheon's admittedly a movable feast, isn't it?"

Madame de Vallorbes made no response. A noticeable hush had descended

upon the whole company, while the men-servants moved to and fro serving

the newcomer. Even Lady Louisa Barking ceased to hold high discourse,

political or other, and looked disapprovingly across the table. An hour

earlier she had resented the younger woman's merry wit, now she

resented her sublime indifference. Both then and now she found her

perfect finish of appearance unpardonable. Lord Fallowfeild's disjointed

conversation also suffered check. He fidgeted, vaguely conscious that

the atmosphere had become somewhat electric.--"Monstrously pretty

woman--effective woman--very effective--rather dangerous though.

Changeable too. Made me laugh a little too much before luncheon. Louisa

didn't like it. Very correct views, my daughter Louisa. Now seems in a

very odd temper. Quite the grand air, but reminds me of somebody I've

seen on the stage somehow. Suppose all that comes of living so much in

France," he said to himself. But for the life of him he could not think

of anything to say aloud, though he felt it would be eminently tactful

to throw in a casual remark at this juncture. Little Lady Constance was

disquieted likewise. For she, girl-like, had fallen dumbly and

adoringly in love with this beautiful stranger but a few years her

senior. And now the stranger appeared as an embodiment of unknown

emotions and energies altogether beyond the scope of her small

imagination. Her innocent stare lost its ruminant quality, became

alarmed, tearful even, while she instinctively edged her chair closer

to her father's. There was a great bond of sympathy between the

simple-hearted gentleman and his youngest child. Mr. Quayle looked on

with lifted eyebrows and his air of amused forbearance. And Dr. Knott

looked on also, but that which he saw pleased him but moderately. The

grace of every movement, the distinction of face and figure, the charm

of that finely-poised, honey-coloured head showing up against the

background of gray-blue tapestried wall, were enough, he owned--having

a very pretty taste in women as well as in horses--to drive many a man

crazy.--"But if the mother's a baggage, the daughter's a vixen," he

said to himself. "And, upon my soul if I had to choose between 'em--which

God Almighty forbid--I'd take my chance with the baggage." As climax

Lady Calmady's expression was severe. She sat very upright, and made no

effort at conversation. Her nerves were a little on edge. There had

been awkward moments during this meal, and now her niece's entrance

struck her as unfortunately accentuated, while there was that in

Richard's aspect which startled the quick fears and jealousies of her

motherhood.

And to Richard himself, it must be owned, this meeting so hotly

desired, and against the dangers of which he had so wisely guarded,

came in fashion altogether different to that which he had pictured.

Helen's manner was cold to a point far from flattering to his

self-esteem. The subtle intimacies of the scene in the Long Gallery

became as though they had never been. Dickie thinking over his restless

night, his fierce efforts at self-conquest, those long hours in the

saddle designed for the reduction of a perfervid imagination, wrote

himself down an ass indeed. And yet--yet--the charm of Helen's presence

was great. And surely she wasn't quite herself just now, there was

something wrong with her? Anybody could see that. Everybody did see it

in fact, he feared, and commented upon it in no charitable spirit.

Hostility towards her declared itself on every side. He detected

that--or imagined he did so--in Lady Louisa's expression, in Ludovic

Quayle's extra-superfine smile, in the doctor's close and rather

cynical attitude of observation, and, last but not least, in the

reserve of his mother's bearing and manner. And this hostility, real or

imagined, begot in Richard a new sensation--one of tenderness, wholly

unselfish and protective, while the fighting blood stirred in him. He

grew slightly reckless.

"What has happened? We appear to have fallen most unaccountably

silent," he said, looking round the table, with an air of gallant

challenge pretty to see.

"So we have, though," exclaimed Lord Fallowfeild, half in relief, half

in apology. "Very true--was just thinking the same thing myself."

While Mr. Ouayle, leaning forward, inquired with much sweetness:--"To

whom shall I talk? Madame de Vallorbes is far more profitably engaged

in discussing her luncheon, than she could be in discussing any

conceivable topic of conversation with such as I. And Dr. Knott is so

evidently diagnosing an interesting case that I have not the effrontery

to interrupt him."

Disregarding these comments Richard turned to his neighbour on the

left.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Louisa," he said, "but before this singular

dumbness overtook us all, you were saying?"--

The lady addressed, electing to accept this as a tribute to the

knowledge, and the weight, and distinction, of her discourse, thawed,

became condescending and gracious again.

"I believe we were discussing the prospects of the party," she replied.

"I was saying that, you know, of course there must be a large Liberal

majority."

"Yes, of course."

"You consider that assured?" Julius put in civilly.

"It is not a matter of personal opinion, I am thankful to say--because

of course every one must feel it is just everything for the country.

There is no doubt at all about the majority among those who really

know--Mr. Barking, for instance. Nobody can be in a better position to

judge than he is. And then I was speaking the other night to Augustus

Tremiloe at Lord Combmartin's--not William, you know, but Augustus

Tremiloe, the man in the Treasury, and he----"

"Uncommonly fine chrysanthemums those," Lord Fallowfeild had broken

forth cheerfully, finding sufficient, if tardy, inspiration in the

table decorations. "Remarkably perfect blossoms and charming colour.

Nothing nearly so good at Whitney this autumn. Excellent fellow my head

gardener, but rather past his work--no enterprise, can't make him go in

for new ideas."

Mr. Ormiston, leaning across Dr. Knott, addressed himself to Ludovic,

while casting occasional and rather anxious glances upon his daughter.

Thus did voices rise, mingle, and the talk get fairly upon its legs

again. Then Richard permitted himself to say quietly--

"You had no bad news, I hope, in those letters, Helen?"

"Why should you suppose I have had bad news?" she demanded, her teeth

meeting viciously in the morsel of kissing-crust she held in her

rosy-tipped fingers.

It was as pretty as a game to see her eat. Dickie laughed a little,

charmed even with her naughtiness, embarrassed too, by the directness

of her question.

"Oh! I don't exactly know why--I thought perhaps you seemed----"

"You do know quite exactly why," the young lady asserted, looking full

at him. "You saw that I was in a detestable, a diabolic temper."

"Well, perhaps I did think I saw something of the sort," Richard

answered audaciously, yet very gently.

Helen continued to look at him, and as she did so her cheek rounded,

her mouth grew soft, the vertical line faded out from her

forehead.--"You are very assuaging, Cousin Richard," she said, and she

too laughed softly.

"Understands the vineries very well though," Lord Fallowfeild was

saying; "and doesn't grow bad peaches, not at all bad peaches, but is

stupid about flowers. He ought to retire. Never shall have really

satisfactory gardens till he does retire. And yet I haven't the heart

to tell him to go. Good fellow, you know, good, honest, hard-working

fellow, and had a lot of trouble. Wife ailing for years, always ailing,

and youngest child got hip disease--nasty thing hip disease, very

nasty--quite a cripple, poor little creature, I am afraid a hopeless

cripple. Terrible anxiety and burden for parents in that rank of life,

you know."

"It can hardly be otherwise in any rank of life," Lady Calmady said

slowly, bitterly. An immense weariness was upon her--weariness of the

actual and present, weariness of the possible and the future. Her

courage ebbed. She longed to go away, to be alone for a while, to shut

eyes and ears, to deaden alike perception and memory, to have it all

cease. Then it was as though those two beautiful, and now laughing,

faces of man and woman in the glory of their youth, seen over the

perspective of fair, white damask, glittering glass and silver, rich

dishes, graceful profusion of flowers and fruit, at the far end of the

avenue of guests, mocked at her. Did they not mock at the essential

conditions of their own lives too? Katherine feared, consciously or

unconsciously they did that. Her weariness dragged upon her with almost

despairing weight.

"Do you get your papers the same day here, Sir Richard?" Lady Louisa

asked imperatively.

"Yes, they come with the second post letters, about five o'clock,"

Julius March answered.

But Lady Louisa Barking intended to be attended to by her host.

"Sir Richard," she paused, "I am asking whether your papers reach you

the same day?"

And Dickie replied he knew not what, for he had just registered the

discovery that barriers are quite useless against a certain sort of

intimacy. Be the crowd never so thick about you, in a sense at least,

you are always alone, exquisitely, delicately, alone with the person

you love.