CHAPTER III

CONCERNING A SPIRIT IN PRISON

Upon those moments of rapture followed days of trembling, during which

the sands of Richard Calmady's life ran very low, and his brain

wandered in delirium, and he spoke unwittingly of many matters of which

it was unprofitable to hear. Periods of unconsciousness, when he lay as

one dead; periods of incessant utterance--now violent in unavailing

repudiation, now harsh with unavailing remorse--alternated. And, at

this juncture, much of Lady Calmady's former very valiant pride

asserted itself. In tender jealousy for the honour of her beloved one

she shut the door of that sick-room, of sinister aspect, against

brother and friend, and even against the faithful Clara. None should

see or hear Richard in his present alienation and abjection, save

herself and those who had hitherto ministered to him. He should regain

a measure, at least, of his old distinction and beauty before any,

beyond these, looked on his face. And so his own men-servants--Captain

Vanstone, capable, humorous, and alert--and Price, the red-headed,

Welsh first-mate, of varied and voluminous gift of invective--continued

to nurse him. These men loved him. They would be loyal in silence,

since, whatever his lapses, Dickie was and always had been--as

Katherine reflected--among the number of those happily-endowed persons

who triumphantly give the lie to the cynical saying that "no man is a

hero to his _valet de chambre_."

To herself Katherine reserved the right to enter that sinister

sick-room whenever she pleased, and to sit by the bedside, waiting for

the moment--should it ever come--when Richard would again recognise

her, and give himself to her again. And those vigils proved a searching

enough experience, notwithstanding her long apprenticeship to service

of sorrow--which was also the service of her son. For, in the mental

and moral nudity of delirium, he made strange revelation, not only of

acts committed, but of inherent tendencies of character and of thought.

He spoke, with bewildering inconsequence and intimacy, of incidents and

of persons with whom she was unacquainted, causing her to follow him--a

rather brutal pilgrimage--into regions where the feet of women, bred

and nurtured like herself, but seldom tread. He spoke of persons with

whom she was well acquainted also, and whose names arrested her

attention with pathetic significance, offering, for the moment, secure

standing ground amid the shifting quicksand of his but half-comprehended

words. He spoke of Morabita, the famous _prima donna_, and of gentle

Mrs. Chifney down at the Brockhurst racing-stables. He grew heated in

discussion with Lord Fallowfeild. He petted little Lady Constance

Quayle. He called Camp, coaxed and chaffed the dog merrily--whereat

Lady Calmady rose from her place by the bedside and stood at one of the

dim, shuttered windows for a while. He spoke of places, too, and of

happenings in them, from Westchurch to Constantinople, from a nautch at

Singapore to a country fair at Farley Row. But, recurrent through all

his wanderings, were allusions, unsparing in revolt and in self-abasement,

to a woman whom he had loved and who had dealt very vilely with him,

putting some unpardonable shame upon him, and to a man whom he himself

had very basely wronged. The name, neither of man nor woman, did

Katherine learn.--Madame de Vallorbes' name, for which she could not

but listen, he never mentioned, nor did he mention her own.--And

recurrent, also, running as a black thread through all his speech, was

lament, not unmanly but very terrible to hear--the lament of a creature,

captive, maimed, imprisoned, perpetually striving, perpetually

frustrated in the effort, to escape. And, noting all this, Katherine

not only divined very dark and evil pages in the history of her beloved

one, but a struggle so continuous and a sorrow so abiding that, in her

estimation at all events, they cancelled and expiated the darkness and

evil of those same pages. While the mystery, both of wrong done and

sorrow suffered, so wrought upon her that, having, in the first ecstasy

of recovered human love, deserted and depreciated the godward love a

little, she now ran back imploring assurance and renewal of that last,

in all penitence and humility, lest, deprived of the counsel and sure

support of it, she should fail to read the present and deal with the

future aright--if, indeed, any future still remained for that beloved

one other than the yawning void of death and inscrutable silence of the

grave!

The better part of a week passed thus, and then, one fair morning,

Winter, bringing her breakfast to the anteroom of that same sea-blue,

sea-green bedchamber--sometime tenanted by Helen de Vallorbes--disclosed

a beaming countenance.

"Mr. Powell wishes me to inform your ladyship that Sir Richard has

passed a very good night. He has come to himself, my lady, and has

asked for you."

The butler's hands shook as he set down the tray.

"I hope your ladyship will take something to eat before you go

down-stairs," he added. "Mr. Powell told Sir Richard that it was still

early, and he desired that on no consideration should you be hurried."

Which little word of thoughtfulness on Dickie's part brought a

roundness to Katherine's cheek and a soft shining into her sweet eyes,

so that Honoria St. Quentin, sauntering into the room just then with

her habitual lazy grace, stood still a moment in pleased surprise,

noting the change in her friend's appearance.

"Why, dear Cousin Katherine," she asked, "what's happened? All's right

with the world!"

"Yes," Katherine answered. "God's very much in His heaven, to-day, and

all's right with all the world, because things are a little more right

with one man in it.--That is the woman's creed--always has been, I

suppose, and I rather hope always will be. It is frankly personal and

individualistic, I know. Possibly it is contemptibly narrow-minded.

Still I doubt if she will readily find another one which makes for

greater happiness or fulness of life. You don't agree, dearest, I

know--nevertheless pour out my tea for me, will you? I want to dispose

of this necessary evil of breakfast with all possible despatch. Richard

has sent for me. He has slept and is awake."

And as Miss St. Quentin served her dear friend, she pondered this

speech curiously, saying to herself:--"Yes, I did right, though I never

liked Ludovic Quayle better than now, and never liked any other man as

well as I like Ludovic Quayle. But that's not enough. I'm getting hold

of the appearance of the thing, but I haven't got hold of the thing

itself. And so the woman in me must continue to be kept in the back

attic. She shall be denied all further development. She shall have

nothing unless she can have the whole of it, and repeat Cousin

Katherine's creed from her heart."

Richard did not speak when Lady Calmady crossed the room and sat down

at the bedside. He barely raised his eyelids. But he felt out for her

hand across the surface of the sheet. And she took the proffered hand

in both hers and fell to stroking the palm of it with her finger-tips.

And this silent greeting, and confiding contact of hand with hand, was

to her exquisitely healing. It gave an assurance of nearness and

acknowledged ownership, more satisfying and convincing than many

eloquent phrases of welcome. And so she, too, remained silent, only

indeed permitting herself, for a little while, to look at him, lest so

doing she should make further demand upon his poor quantity of

strength. A folding screen in stamped leather, of which age had

tempered the ruby and gold to a sober harmony of tone, had been placed

round the head of the bed, throwing this last into clear, quiet shadow.

The bed linen was fresh and smooth. Richard had made a little toilet.

His silk shirt, open at the throat, was also fresh and smooth. He was

clean shaven, his hair cropped into that closely-fitting, bright-brown

cap of curls. Katherine perceived that his beauty had begun to return

to him, though his face was distressingly worn and emaciated, and the

long, purplish line of that unexplained scar still disfigured his

cheek. His hands were little more than skin and bone. Indeed, he was

fragile, she feared, as any person could be who yet had life in him,

and she wondered, rather fearfully, if it was yet possible to build up

that life again into any joy of energy and of activity. But she put

such fears from her as unworthy. For were they not together, he and

she, actually and consciously reunited? That was sufficient. The rest

could wait.

And to-day, as though lending encouragement to gracious hopes, the

usually gloomy and cavernous room had taken to itself a quite generous

plenishing of air and light. The heavy curtains were drawn aside. The

casements of one of the square, squat windows were thrown widely open.

The slatted shutters without were partially opened likewise. A shaft of

strong sunshine slanted in and lay, like a bright highway, across the

rich colours of the Persian carpet. The air was hot but nimble, and of

a vivacious and stimulating quality. It fluttered some loose papers on

the writing-table near the open window. It fluttered the delicate laces

and fine muslin frills of Lady Calmady's morning-gown. There was a

sprightly mirthfulness in the touch of it, not unpleasing to her. For

it seemed to speak of the ever-obtaining youth, the incalculable power

of recuperation, the immense reconstructive energy resident in nature

and the physical domain. And there was comfort in that thought. She

turned her eyes from the bed and its somewhat sorrowful burden--the

handsome head, the broad, though angular, shoulders, the face, immobile

and mask-like, with closed eyelids and unsmiling lips, reposing upon

the whiteness of the pillows--and fixed them upon that radiant space of

outer world visible between the dark-framing of the half-open shutters.

Beyond the dazzling, black-and-white chequer of the terrace and

balustrade, they rested on the cool green of the formal garden, the

glistering dome and slender columns of the pavilion set in the angle of

the terminal wall.--And this last reminded her quaintly of that other

pavilion, embroidered, with industry of innumerable stitches, upon the

curtains of the state bed at home--that pavilion, set for rest and

refreshment in the midst of the tangled ways of the Forest of This

Life, where the Hart may breathe in security, fearless of Care, the

pursuing Leopard, which follows all too close behind.--Owing to her

position and the sharp drop of the hillside, Naples itself, the great

painted city, its fine buildings and crowded shipping, was unseen. But,

far away, the lofty promontory of Sorrento sketched itself in palest

lilac upon the azure of the sea and sky.

And, as Katherine reasoned, if this fair prospect, after so many ages

of tumultuous history and the shock of calamitous events, after battle,

famine, terror of earthquake and fire, devastation by foul disease,

could still recover and present such an effect of triumphant

youthfulness, such, at once august and mirthful, charm, might not her

beloved one, lying here broken in health and in spirit, likewise regain

the glory of his manhood and the delight of it, notwithstanding present

weakness and mournful eclipse?--Yes, it would come right--come

right--Katherine told herself, thereby making one of those magnificent

acts of faith which go so far to produce just that which they prophesy.

God could not have created so complex and beautiful a creature, and

permitted it so to suffer, save to the fulfilment of some clear purpose

which would very surely be made manifest at last. God Almighty should

be justified of His strange handiwork; and she of her love before the

whole of the story was told.--And, stirred by these thoughts, and by

the fervour of her own pious confidence, Katherine's finger-tips

traveled more rapidly over the palm of that outstretched and passive

hand. Then, on a sudden, she became aware that Richard was looking

fixedly at her. She turned her head proudly, the exaltation of a living

faith very present in her smile.

"You are the same," he said slowly. His voice was low, toneless, and

singularly devoid of emotion.--"Deliciously the same. You are just as

lovely. You still have your pretty colour. You are hardly a day

older----"

He paused, still regarding her fixedly.

"I'm glad you have got on one of those white, frilly things you used to

wear. I always liked them."

Katherine could not speak just then. This sudden and complete intimacy

unnerved her. It was so long since any one had spoken to her thus. It

was very dear to her, yet the toneless voice gave a strange unreality

to the tender words.

"It's a matter for congratulation that you are the same," Richard went

on, "since everything else, it appears, is destined to continue the

same. One should have one thing it is agreeable to contemplate in that

connection, considering the vast number of things altogether the

reverse of agreeable which one fondly hoped one was rid of forever, and

which intrude themselves."

He shifted himself feebly on the pillows, and the flicker of a smile

crossed his face.

"Poor, dear mother," he said, "you see again, without delay, the old

bad habit of grumbling!"

"Grumble on, grumble on, my best beloved," Katherine murmured, while

her finger-tips traveled softly over his palm.

"Verily and indeed, you are the same!" Richard rejoined. Once more he

lay looking full at her, until she became almost abashed by that

unswerving scrutiny. It came over her that the plane of their relation

had changed. Richard was, as never heretofore, her equal, a man grown.

Suddenly he spoke.

"Can you forgive me?"

And so far had Katherine's thought journeyed from the past, so absorbed

was it in the present, that she answered, surprised:--

"My dearest, forgive what?"

"Injustice, ingratitude, desertion," Richard said, "neglect, systematic

cruelty. There is plenty to swell the list. All I boasted I would do I

have done--and more."--His voice, until now so even and emotionless,

faltered a little. "I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and

am no more worthy to be called thy son."

Katherine's hand closed down on his firmly.

"All that, as far as I am concerned, is as though it was not and never

had been," she answered.--"So much for judgment on earth,

dearest.--While in heaven, thank God, we know there is more joy over

the one sinner who repents than over the ninety-and-nine just persons

who need no repentance."

"And you really believe that?" Richard said, speaking half indulgently,

half ironically, as if to a child.

"Assuredly, I believe it."

"But supposing the sinner is not repentant, but merely cowed?"--Richard

straightened his head on the pillows and closed his eyes. "You gave me

leave to grumble--well, then, I am so horribly disappointed. Here have

life and death been sitting on either side of me for the past month,

and throwing with dice for me. I saw them as plainly as I can see you.

The queer thing was they were exactly alike, yet I knew them apart from

the first. Day and night I heard the rattle of the dice--it became

hideously monotonous--and felt the mouth of the dice-box on my chest

when they threw. I backed death heavily. It seemed to me there were

ways of loading the dice. I loaded them. But it wasn't to be, mother.

Life always threw the highest numbers--and life had the last throw."

"I praise God for that," Katherine said, very softly.

"I don't, unfortunately," he answered. "I hoped for a neat little

execution--a little pain, perhaps, a little shedding of blood, without

which there is no remission of sins--but I suppose that would have been

letting me off too easy."

He drew away his hand and covered his eyes.

"When I had seen you I seemed to have made my final peace. I understood

why I had been kept waiting till then. Having seen you, I flattered

myself I might decently get free at last. But I am branded afresh,

that's all, and sent back to the galleys."

Lady Calmady's eyes sought the radiant prospect--the green of the

garden, the slender columns of the airy pavilion, the lilac land set in

the azure of sea and sky. No words of hers could give comfort as yet,

so she would remain silent. Her trust was in the amiable ministry of

time, which may bring solace to the tormented, human soul, even as it

reclothes the mountainside swept by the lava stream, or cleanses and

renders gladly habitable the plague devastated city.

But there was a movement upon the bed. Richard had turned on his side.

He had recovered his self-control, and once more looked fixedly at her.

"Mother," he said calmly, "is your love great enough to take me back,

and give yourself to me again, though I am not fit so much as to kiss

the hem of your garment?"

"There is neither giving nor taking, my beloved," she answered, smiling

upon him. "In the truth of things, you have never left me, neither have

I ever let you go."

"Ah! but consider these last four years and their record!" he rejoined.

"I am not the same man that I was. There's no getting away from fact,

from deeds actually done, or words actually said, for that matter. I

have kept my singularly repulsive infirmity of body, and to it I have

added a mind festering with foul memories. I have been a brute to you,

a traitor to a friend who trusted me. I have been a sensualist, an

adulterer. And I am hopelessly broken in pride and self-respect. The

conceit, the pluck even, has been licked right out of me."--Richard

paused, steadying his voice which faltered again.--"I only want, since

it seems I've got to go on living, to slink away somewhere out of

sight, and hide myself and my wretchedness and shame from every one I

know.--Can you bear with me, soured and invalided as I am, mother? Can

you put up with my temper, and my silence, and my grumbling, useless

log as I must continue to be?"

"Yes--everlastingly yes," Katherine answered.

Richard threw himself flat on his back again.

"Ah! how I hate myself--my God, how I hate myself!" he exclaimed.

"And how beyond all worlds I love you," Katherine put in quietly.

He felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. There

were footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar,

Ludovic Quayle's voice in question, Honoria St. Quentin's in answer,

both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. General Ormiston

joined them. Miss St. Quentin laughed gently. The sound was musical and

sweet. Footsteps and voices died away. A clang of bells and the hooting

of an outward-bound liner came up from the city and the port.

Richard's calm had returned. His expression had softened.

"Will those two marry?" he asked presently.

Lady Calmady paused before speaking.

"I hope so--for Ludovic's sake," she said. "He has served, if not quite

Jacob's seven years, yet a full five for his love."

"If for Ludovic's sake, why not for hers?" Dickie asked.

"Because two halves don't always make a whole in marriage," Katherine

said.

"You are as great an idealist as ever!"--He paused, then raised

himself, sitting upright, speaking with a certain passion.

"Mother, will you take me away, away from every one, at once, just as

soon as possible? I never want to see this room, or this house, or

Naples again. The climax was reached here of disillusion, and of

iniquity, and of degradation. Don't ask what it was. I couldn't tell

you. And, mercifully, only one person, whose lips are sealed in

self-defense, knows exactly what took place besides myself. But I want

to get away, away alone with you, who are perfectly unsullied and

compassionate, and who have forgiven me, and who still can love. Will

you come? Will you take me? The yacht is all ready for sea."

"Yes," Katherine said.

"I asked this morning who was here with you, and Powell told me. I

can't see them, mother, simply I can't! I haven't the nerve. I haven't

the face. Can you send them away?"

"Yes," Katherine said.

Richard's eyes had grown dangerously bright. A spot of colour burned on

either cheek. Katherine leaned over him.

"My dearest," she declared, "you have talked enough."

"Yes, they're beginning to play again, I can hear the rattle of the

dice.--Mother take me away, take me out to sea, away from this dreadful

place.--Ah! you poor darling, how horribly selfish I am!--But let me

get out to sea, and then later, take me home--to Brockhurst. The house

is big. Nobody need see me."

"No, no," Katherine said, laying him back with tender force upon the

pillows.--"No one has seen you, no one shall see you. We will be alone,

you and I, just as long as you wish. With me, my beloved, you are very

safe."