Richard Richard
_SOME RECENT NOVELS_
SALT. By CHARLES NORRIS.
BEAUTY AND BANDS. By ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER.
RAINBOW VALLEY. By L. M. MONTGOMERY.
THE BRANDING IRON. By KATHARINE BURT.
THE NORTH DOOR. By GREVILLE MACDONALD.
CONSTABLE & CO., LTD.
Sydney: Australasian
Publishing Company Ltd.
Richard Richard
By Hughes Mearns
Constable & Co.
Ltd. London
_Published 1921_
TO
LELIA CORA
OF
PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. STONY BROKE 1
II. EVEN 15
III. “SAW YUH!” 33
IV. ORRIS ROOT AND CARBOLIC ACID 47
V. THE CARD ON THE DOOR 62
VI. ASSISTANT WIDOW 77
VII. GETTING WARM! 87
VIII. “MAN OVERBOARD!” 97
IX. “WE SHALL SEE” 114
X. THE FAITH OF A TREE 127
XI. TSHOTI-NON-DA-WAGA 143
XII. SAINT PHŒBE 161
XIII. THE HOME FOR INDIGENT DRAKES 179
XIV. “JAWN” 195
XV. THE LADY DETECTIVE 213
XVI. TREMOR CORDIS 230
XVII. LOVE LIMERICKS OF A LEFT-TENANT 249
XVIII. HARDY PERENNIALS 267
XIX. MICHAELMAS DAISY AND ROSE-BUGS 282
XX. SETH’S WHIP 294
XXI. POET 311
XXII. THE COUNCIL FIRE 328
XXIII. THE RACE 345
XXIV. PROUD MISS PIDDIWIT 368
RICHARD RICHARD
CHAPTER I
STONY BROKE
EVER since the “first breakfast,” groups of passengers had been
trooping down the gang-plank, hurrying with guide-book and satchel to
“do” Naples, Vesuvius, Pompeii, etc., before the steamer should sail
again in the evening. An angular chap in proper steamer _négligé_
lounged contentedly on the starboard rail and watched them go. By eight
o’clock he seemed to have the starboard rail to himself.
At that hour he was leaning heavily forward, presumably watching the
ant-like stevedores loading and unloading the steamer, but he was quite
aware of another lone passenger, slowly moving towards him. He had
seen her come on at Genoa--anyone would have noticed the clean-cut,
tailor-made figure--and on the journey from Genoa to Naples he had
noted her once or twice striding the deck alone; but he did not know
even so much as her name. He did not know her, but, as she came up to
him and lingered at the starboard rail, he knew instinctively that he
would borrow money from her.
She stopped beside him for a moment and observed the Italian workers.
He did not once look up.
“Do you know how long we stay in Naples?” she asked.
Shipboard etiquette ignores introductions.
“We sail at nine to-night, the Captain says.” He turned his head
slightly and smiled as if he had really known her. She lounged over the
rail and helped him watch the workers. From the dock below this pair
looked like familiar companions.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it now?”
“Eight A.M.” He seem amused in a superior way.
“All day in this hot dirty place!” she exclaimed again.
“It _is_ warm,” he admitted, “but not unpleasantly so. Dirty? Ye-es,
on the wharf; but look back of you.” He hardly moved from his lounging
posture. “Behold! The Bay of Naples. ‘See Naples and die’; that phrase
is sure to be in your guide-book. There’s a lot of other poetry about
it, too: ‘The blue Bay of Naples, cerulean blue----’”
“But it isn’t blue,” she objected. “It’s dirty grey and,”--she looked
directly below for an instant--“and it’s oily--greasy, too.”
“Oh, yes, it is blue,” he contradicted firmly; “deep cerulean blue, the
blue of sapphire shading off to mother-of-pearl.” As he talked he half
turned towards her. He was tall--she was not; his face was bronzed, and
furrowed with lines--hers was not; so without offence he could assume a
schoolmasterly air of genial superiority.
“Quite blue--from the top of that hill.”
He pointed above the tiers of grey-tiled roofs to a pleasant prospect
of trees. “The blue is there, but you must climb for it. You can’t
expect the most glorious panorama in the world to present itself to
you without some effort on your part.”
“What’s the name of that hill?” she asked aimlessly.
“I don’t know. There’s a charming inn there, I suspect.”
“You suspect? Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you been there yourself?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know about the ‘glorious panorama’?”
“You get a similar sensation from the hill over there,” he flourished a
hand; “a much smaller hill. So I drew the proper inference.”
“Have you ever been on _that_ hill?” she flourished a hand in imitation
of the man.
“No.”
“Well!”
“Well,” he smiled. “The view is there just the same--and the blue,
too. If you don’t believe me, go up and see. I’m willing to stake my
judgment to the extent of----”
He stopped so abruptly and smiled so mysteriously that she was
attracted to say:
“To the extent of how much? You wouldn’t risk a dollar on your
‘glorious view’! Now, would you?”
He speculated for a moment. “No,” he admitted finally. “I wouldn’t risk
a dollar on any of my views.”
“Ah!” she triumphed.
“A fog might come up,” he explained lamely.
“There!” said she. “Naples is over-advertised by sick poets. Look about
you. It’s incredibly ugly--and smelly.”
“What’s wrong about the smells?” he inquired mildly.
She laughed. “Garlic, mostly,” she took a delicate sniff, “and paint.”
“Garlic, I admit,” he sniffed in turn, “and paint, and even tar; but
they are merely the dominant notes. The overtones give this spot
distinction. I’m a connoisseur on smells. It’s a lost art.”
“Thank goodness!”
“Not at all. We have lost the knowledge of odours; therefore a great
part of life is lost. Do you notice now the smell of resin?”
“No.”
“They’re unloading resin in sacks from that schooner with the black
sails. Think hard for a moment and you’ll get it. It is a delicious
scent quite unlike anything else.”
“No,” she tried, “I don’t get it. But I smell oil, horribly.”
“That’s from the tanker,” he pointed. “It should strike your national
pride. It’s U.S.A.--Standard Oil.”
“Standard Oil?” she inquired eagerly and shaded her eyes to
spell out the name on the side. “So it is! U-m-m!” she sniffed,
“that smells good. I own Standard Oil Stock. U-m! Not much, of
course--but--u-m!--enough.”
Yes, he would borrow; but now he knew he would not pay back; perhaps
not. He let her chatter on while he listened gravely or added a word
or question to set her going again. In a short while he knew the main
points of her life and some of the details; and she believed--so
perfect is the illusion of a one-sided conversation--that he had given
as much in exchange. To the woman they seemed infinitely acquainted
after the first half-hour. She was very young, one could be sure; she
had the frankness, the unsuspicious frankness of twenty-five; which,
nevertheless, is very artful and quite conscious of itself. The man did
not misjudge her; he knew he was not dealing with a child, but with a
thoroughly independent and responsible young person.
And he knew also that he was stony broke.
The half-hours sped as they talked. Two bells followed closely by a
single stroke clanged suddenly from the fore part of the ship.
She made a brisk attempt to look at a watch.
“No use,” she put the watch back. “I have Paris time. Three bells is,
let me see--‘eight’ is eight and ‘one’ is half-past eight----”
“It is half-past nine,” he helped, as if it did not matter how the day
sped.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “Have we wasted an hour and a half just
talking?”
“So it seems.”
“I won’t stay here all day. I’ve just got to get on land. Why, man,
I’ve never seen Naples or Pompeii or--any of those places,” waving a
hand about. “If I had my dog here I’d go it alone. I’ve been in worse
places. Why, I believe there’s nobody on the ship but us!”
She looked around. It seemed so.
Smudgy-faced members of the crew appeared here and there, the sort
that the passengers ordinarily never see on voyage; cooks, vegetable
carriers and knife boys called across barriers to one another; and
off in the distance an officer could be observed coatless and heavily
suspendered.
“Why aren’t you going on shore?” she asked suddenly.
“I?” he parried. “Not interested.”
“Not interested in Naples and Pompeii?” she inquired incredulously.
“Oh, you’ve been there before, I see.”
“No; I’ve never been there. I--uh--just prefer to--uh--stay here.... I
like to be alone.”
“Thank you!” cheerily.
She looked at him expectantly.
He took some time before he said serenely, “I can’t say it.”
“What?” But she knew what.
“The obvious complimentary thing. A woman does that with amazing
skill,” he mused. “She directs a conversation into a position where
the man must make her a pretty speech. Oh, it’s all right; but it
interferes shockingly.”
“Interferes with what?” This time she did not know what.
“With any rational conversation,” he explained calmly. “I don’t mind
your company. In fact, I have enjoyed it. But I do like to be alone.
I’ve spent most of my life alone. On this trip abroad I’ve fought my
right to be my own travelling-companion. These are just facts, like the
boat’s sailing to-night at nine; but a man can’t tell them to a pretty
woman (“Thank you,” she slipped in) without her pretending to take
them personally. So she says ‘thank you!’--only in jest, I know--and
then I must say some foolish flattery, but the conversation is--well,
it cannot go on with the same directness with which a man talks to a
man.... You see I’m not complaining. This is just another fact. I’m
really interested in it.... Men are forced to treat women like pretty
children. Why do women stand it?”
“They don’t always like it,” she wrinkled her forehead and puzzled over
the matter, “but men are such ‘jolliers,’ you know.”
“Fancy a man flattering another man!” he went on. The idea interested
him. He seemed to be forgetting the woman beside him; certainly he
had completely forgotten the thought born of her first approach, that
she was just the sort of person to have plenty of money--somebody
else’s, a father’s or a husband’s--and to offer it, too. Of course he
had not intended to ask for anything. He knew enough to know that she
would lend. He had been in that precise predicament before. Money had
always come to him. You see, if he had looked the part of poor-man,
beggar-man, thief, the world would have turned coldly away; but he was
built on mighty prosperous lines. One felt, at the first glance, that
here was an athletic aristocrat. He was just that in reality; but he
was mortgaged to the last hedge-row.
So the thought of taking her predestined offer of money slipped from
him. He was not a scheming mind. The gods took care of such things. Let
them! The important matter just now was the consideration of the droll
picture of two males saying sweet things apropos of each other’s eyes
and noses.
He chuckled. “Fancy trying to have a discussion with a man on the
subject, say, of a possible life after death, and have him lean over,
stare at the top of your head, and with a tremendous assumption of
interest exclaim, ‘Jove, man, I do like the way you brushed your hair
this morning! With the sun striking the brown edges it is absolutely
stunning!’”
They discussed flattery and women. The man slowly forgot his reserve,
while the woman, with subtle native flattery, listened. Four bells rang
out sharply from forward, repeated far off in the engine-room below.
Ten o’clock.
“Well!” the lady exclaimed. “Perhaps I should prefer to see Naples and
Pompeii alone, but I haven’t the nerve. I’m willing to knock around in
Paris or London, but when it comes to Italy I’m scared. The men look at
me, especially the toughs, in a way that makes my flesh creep. Goodness
knows _I_ wish men would forget I’m a woman, but they don’t seem to
want to.... See here ... why can’t we take the trip together? Oh, I’d
let you be practically alone,” she answered his quick uplook. “You’d
just be there as a protection.... Will you?”
He turned his head and regarded her quizzically, like an amused elder
brother. He was older. His clean-shaven face had a medley of lines in
it which showed superior years.
“I should be delighted,” he remarked. His intonation carried precisely
the information that his phrase was absolutely polite and absolutely
non-committal.
“Oh, rot!” she laughed, but she showed impatience. “Don’t be so foolish
and conventional. You do want to see the place. You said you did. And I
want to go, too. It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s just the same as if I
asked you to play shuffle-board. Honest, you do want to go; don’t you?”
“Yes,” he half-drawled, but made no effort to move from a convenient
sprawl over the rail.
“Then let’s,” she begged. “This place is making me ill.... Oh, very
well,” she took his silence for obstinacy. “I’ll stay.... No, I won’t.
I’ll be hanged if I do. The heat is too much and the smells are worse.
I’ll risk it. I’ll go it alone.... _Why_ won’t you go with me?”
He searched in his pockets carefully and finally presented a flat
leather wallet.
“You force me to admit my very embarrassing position.” As he fumbled
with the strap on the wallet she understood. The word “embarrassing”
was in itself illuminating.
“Oh!” she gasped, shocked at her own stupidity. What an idiot! She had
been gabbling to this man when all the while he had been warning her to
keep off!
By this time he had opened the wallet and had drawn from its case a
single five-dollar bill.
“_That_ is why,” he remarked. “I am down to five dollars, which I must
not touch until I land in New York. That five dollars is my sole anchor
to windward. Fortunately meals and sleeping-apartment are paid for on
board; but my ticket says nothing about side-trips. Therefore I should
not dare step on that gang-plank. I consider myself lucky--mighty
lucky--to arrive on board so safe financially as this. Forgive me for
the confession; but you must admit that you forced it. Awfully sorry,
too; for, now that you understand, I don’t mind telling you that this
is the hottest, dirtiest, ill-smellingest spot imaginable. Would I
like to go to the top of that hill and look my fill and breathe!” He
straightened up suddenly. “_Lord!_”
“Then let’s go!” she cried. “Let’s! I’ve got money; heaps of it.”
She dived into a bag she carried with her. “Look here!” she flashed
a packet of various coloured bank-notes. In an inner compartment she
showed him a mixture of sovereigns and gold louis. “The purser will
give me Italian money. He said he would this morning. Wait! I’ll get a
hat.”
She sped across the deck and around the corner before he could protest.
To her stateroom she went first and added a veil about her hat,
selected a parasol and donned long thin gloves. Then to the purser’s.
“What time do we sail to-night?” she asked as the official made the
change of money.
“To-night?” he echoed. “We stay here until to-morrow morning. We sail
at six to-morrow. There is a notice posted.”
“Thank you,” she said, and sped to the bulletin-board. In three
languages the purser was verified. In a moment more she was back on the
promenade-deck.
“Here!” she gave him a small purse. “You’ll have to do the spending.
Come on! It’ll be a great lark. We still have time. There’s a _voiture_
or whatever they call it. He’s looking up. He’ll take us somewhere.
Come on! Oh, it’s all right! It’s on me. My treat. Come on! Don’t be
foolish.... Now, what’s the matter?”
He had accepted the purse; but otherwise he had not moved.
“Wait a bit,” he spoke with quiet authority. “I can’t do this as your
treat.”
“Let me hire you as a guide, then,” she ventured.
“No,” he laughed; “I----”
“Well, let’s Dutch it, then. We’ll divide expenses--you pay me in New
York.”
“I won’t have anything in New York but five dollars.”
“Pay it back whenever you get it.”
“All right,” he agreed quietly. “But----”
“But what?”
“That may be a long while.”
“I don’t care. I want to see Naples.”
“I’m not over-careful about paying debts. I’m likely to repudiate,” he
warned. “My memory is almost useless.”
“Well, leave it to me in your will and--hurry!”
Five bells tolled off smartly. The lady strode forward and tugged at
his arm. He laughed quietly and followed.
“Really,” he told her as they slid down the steep plank, “I’m awfully
keen for this trip.”
“Oh, yes, you are--not,” she looked him over with a meaning glance.
“But I don’t care. I couldn’t stay on that boat all day. There’s that
_cocher_. Quick, get him before he drives away. I love those old dinky
carriages, don’t you? Hey!” she called and waved a parasol. “_Ici!_
Come over here! We want to get in!”
The Italian understood perfectly. And where would madame and m’sieu
wish to go? To the Italian all well-dressed foreigners are French.
“To the top of that hill first,” the madame commanded. M’sieu remarked,
“We must not get too far away. We sail at nine to-night; and clocks are
not very dependable in these parts.”
“Yes, we must be careful about the time,” she agreed, but offered no
word of the more recent information she had received from the purser.
“We can have one good glorious dinner somewhere and be back easily by
half-past eight,” she told him.
They had turned a corner of the creaking winding road which gave
suddenly a little glimpse of the Bay.
“Look!” she exclaimed. They turned their heads. “It is beginning to be
blue already! U-m!” she sniffed. “Did you get that delicious scent?
What is it? Lilac?... And look over there! Still bluer.”
“Cerulean blue, every yard of it guaranteed,” he remarked lazily; but
there was no doubt he was taking it in as eagerly as she. To the lady
this was one of many possible trips abroad. To the man it was a sight
of Italy, almost withheld like the Promised Land from Moses of old, now
made a reality; the promise fulfilled of seven years’ mean living.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed on one rise of ground; the assumption of
indifference was hard to keep up. “By Jove!” he stared and breathed in
the perfumed air. “This is paradise! And Italians come to America to
clean the streets and sell fruit! How can they leave it? How ever can
they leave it?”
The “dinky” carriage plodded slowly up the hill. The grey tile-topped
roofs began to huddle together below them. Old Vesuvius grew to look
less like a flat ash-heap. Far off in the background ranges of higher
hills began to push solemnly skyward. And the Bay of Naples slowly
expanded, and softened, and yielded up its velvet blue.
“Isn’t it great?” the lady said, gazing afar.
“Great!” the man replied. “Wonderful!”
So absorbed were they in their personal sensations of delight that it
was not until they had arrived at the top and were moving on the level
towards a “hotel with a view,” that the thoughts of luncheon coupled
themselves somehow with the thought of names.
From a dangling bag the lady had produced a “steamer-list.”
“Don’t tell me yet,” she warned. “This is tremendously exciting. I am
wondering if you could be, let me see--‘Abbott’--no,” she looked him
over carefully--“you never would be an ‘Abbott.’ ‘Bacon,’ ‘Baker,’
‘Boileau,’ ‘Crespi’--you might be that, especially when you spoke
Italian to the driver. ‘Dr.’--you’re not a doctor, are you?” She showed
some dismay.
“Guess on!” he played the game firmly.
“Well, there’s one thing you’re not,” she pointed to the “list.”
He leaned forward to read the name. The wagonette was stopping with a
lurch at the spacious beflowered front of a hotel.
“‘Sir Richard Helvyn,’” she laughed.
“Why not?” he inquired mildly.
“Don’t scare me,” she laughed inquiringly. “Are you?”
The happy driver was waiting at the open door, whip in hand, smiling
knowingly. A bride and groom, perhaps. The tip would betray them.
Beside him a flunkey or two were ready to escort the pair into the
hotel. A wizened beggar-woman raised silent-speaking eyes and extended
a hand. The m’sieu opened a thin deep purse, obviously a lady’s--and
extracted therefrom a gold coin and a smaller one of silver.
“That will be exactly right,” he nodded to the driver, who, after one
glance, was now certain--they were veritable bride and groom.
Deftly, almost without looking, he dropped the silver coin into the
palm of the beggar. It was done with skill; and it said, “Begone, my
good woman; the sight of you arouses my pity, but do not, pray, take it
to mean a soft heart; and whatever you do, breathe not my generosity to
your pestilential fellows.”
The woman understood, smiled gratefully, and slipped away.
The smoothness of the two transactions was not lost on the “bride.”
There had been no noisy, staccato expostulations from the driver, nor
any sickening whines from the beggar; the business was handled with the
dispatch of accustomed skill. Could he be Sir What’s-his-name, after
all? What a lark!