THE TWO MARQUISES.
Dinner over, lady Margaret led Dorothy back to her parlour, and there
proceeded to discover what accomplishments and capabilities she might
possess. Finding she could embroider, play a little on the spinnet, sing
a song, and read aloud both intelligibly and pleasantly, she came to the
conclusion that the country-bred girl was an acquisition destined to
grow greatly in value, should the day ever arrive--which heaven
forbid!--when they would have to settle down to the monotony of a
protracted siege. Remarking, at length, that she looked weary, she sent
her away to be mistress of her time till supper, at half-past five.
Weary in truth with her journey, but still more weary from the multitude
and variety of objects, the talk, and the constant demand of the general
strangeness upon her attention and one form or other of suitable
response, Dorothy sought her chamber. But she scarcely remembered how to
reach it. She knew it lay a floor higher, and easily found the stair up
which she had followed her attendant, for it rose from the landing of
the straight ascent by which she had entered the house. She could hardly
go wrong either as to the passage at the top of it, leading back over
the room she had just left below, but she could not tell which was her
own door. Fearing to open the wrong one, she passed it and went on to
the end of the corridor, which was very dimly lighted. There she came to
an open door, through which she saw a small chamber, evidently not meant
for habitation. She entered. A little light came in through a crossed
loophole, sufficient to show her the bare walls, with the plaster
sticking out between the stones, the huge beams above, and in the middle
of the floor, opposite the loop-hole, a great arblast or cross-bow, with
its strange machinery. She had never seen one before, but she knew
enough to guess at once what it was. Through the loophole came a sweet
breath of spring air, and she saw trees bending in the wind, heard their
faint far-off rustle, and saw the green fields shining in the sun.
Partly from having been so much with Richard, her only playmate, who was
of an ingenious and practical turn, a certain degree of interest in
mechanical forms and modes had been developed in Dorothy, sufficient at
least to render her unable to encounter such an implement without
feeling a strong impulse to satisfy herself concerning its mechanism,
its motion, and its action. Approaching it cautiously and curiously, as
if it were a live thing, which might start up and fly from, or perhaps
at her, for what she knew, she gazed at it for a few moments with eyes
full of unuttered questions, then ventured to lay gentle hold upon what
looked like a handle. To her dismay, a wheezy bang followed, which
seemed to shake the tower. Whether she had discharged an arrow, or an
iron bolt, or a stone, or indeed anything at all, she could not tell,
for she had not got so far in her observations as to perceive even that
the bow was bent. Her heart gave a scared flutter, and she started back,
not merely terrified, but ashamed also that she should initiate her life
in the castle with meddling and mischief, when a low gentle laugh behind
her startled her yet more, and looking round with her heart in her
throat, she perceived in the half-light of the place a man by the wall
behind the arblast watching her. Her first impulse was to run, and the
door was open; but she thought she owed an apology ere she retreated.
What sort of person he was she could not tell, for there was not light
enough to show a feature of his face.
'I ask your pardon,' she said; 'I fear I have done mischief.'
'Not the least,' returned the man, in a gentle voice, with a tone of
amusement in it.
'I had never seen a great cross-bow,' Dorothy went on, anxious to excuse
her meddling. 'I thought this must be one, but I was so stupid as not to
perceive it was bent, and that that was the--the handle--or do you call
it the trigger?--by which you let it go.'
The man, who had at first taken her for one of the maids, had by this
time discovered from her tone and speech that she was a lady.
'It is a clumsy old-fashioned thing,' he returned, 'but I shall not
remove it until I can put something better in its place; and it would be
a troublesome affair to get even a demiculverin up here, not to mention
the bad neighbour it would be to the ladies'chambers. I was just making
a small experiment with it on the force of springs. I believe I shall
yet prove that much may be done with springs--more perhaps, and
certainly at far less expense, than with gunpowder, which costs greatly,
is very troublesome to make, occupies much space, and is always like an
unstable, half-treacherous friend within the gates--to say nothing of
the expense of cannon--ten times that of an engine of timber and
springs. See what a strong chain your shot has broken! Shall I show you
how the thing works?'
He spoke in a gentle, even rapid voice, a little hesitating now and
then, more, through the greater part of this long utterance, as if he
were thinking to himself than addressing another. Neither his tone nor
manner were those of an underling, but Dorothy's startled nerves had
communicated their tremor to her modesty, and with a gentle 'No, sir, I
thank you; I must be gone,' she hurried away.
Daring now a little more for fear of worse, the first door she tried
proved that of her own room, and it was with a considerable sense of
relief, as well as with weariness and tremor, that she nestled herself
into the high window-seat, and looked out into the quadrangle. The
shadow of the citadel had gone to pay its afternoon visit to the other
court, and that of the gateway was thrown upon the chapel, partly
shrouding the white horse, whose watery music was now silent, but
allowing one red ray, which entered by the iron grating above the solid
gates, to fall on his head, and warm its cold whiteness with a tinge of
delicate pink. The court was more still and silent than in the morning;
only now and then would a figure pass from one door to another, along
the side of the buildings, or by one of the tiled paths dividing the
turf. A large peacock was slowly crossing the shadowed grass with a
stately strut and rhythmic thrust of his green neck. The moment he came
out into the sunlight, he spread his wheeled fan aloft, and slowly
pirouetting, if the word can be allowed where two legs are needful, in
the very acme of vanity, turned on all sides the quivering splendour of
its hundred eyes, where blue and green burst in the ecstasy of their
union into a vapour of gold, that the circle of the universe might see.
And truly the bird's vanity had not misled his judgment: it was a sight
to make the hearts of the angels throb out a dainty phrase or two more
in the song of their thanksgiving. Some pigeons, white, and blue-grey,
with a lovely mingling and interplay of metallic lustres on their
feathery throats, but with none of that almost grotesque obtrusion of
over-driven individuality of kind, in which the graciousness of common
beauty is now sacrificed to the whim of the fashion the vulgar fancier
initiates, picked up the crumbs under the windows of lady Margaret's
nursery, or flew hither and thither among the roofs with wapping and
whiffling wing.
But still from the next court came many and various mingling noises. The
sounds of drill had long ceased, but those of clanking hammers were
heard the more clearly, now one, now two, now several together. The
smaller, clearer one was that of the armourer, the others those of the
great smithy, where the horse-shoes were made, the horses shod, the
smaller pieces of ordnance repaired, locks and chains mended, bolts
forged, and, in brief, every piece of metal about the castle, from the
cook's skillet to the winches and chains of the drawbridges, set right,
renewed, or replaced. The forges were far from where she sat, outside
the farthest of the two courts, across which, and the great hall
dividing them, the clink, clink, the clank, and the ringing clang,
softened by distance and interposition, came musical to her ear. The
armourer's hammer was the keener, the quicker, the less intermittent,
and yet had the most variations of time and note, as he shifted the
piece on his anvil, or changed breastplate for gorget, or greave for
pauldron--or it might be sword for pike-head or halbert. Mingled with it
came now and then the creak and squeak of the wooden wheel at the
draw-well near the hall-door in the farther court, and the muffled
splash of the bucket as it struck the water deep in the shaft. She even
thought she could hear the drops dripping back from it as it slowly
ascended, but that was fancy. Everywhere arose the auricular vapour, as
it were, of action, undefined and indefinable, the hum of the human
hive, compounded of all confluent noises--the chatter of the servants'
hall and the nursery, the stamping of horses, the ringing of harness,
the ripping of the chains of kenneled dogs, the hollow stamping of heavy
boots, the lowing of cattle, with sounds besides so strange to the ears
of Dorothy that they set her puzzling in vain to account for them; not
to mention the chaff of the guard-rooms by the gates, and the scolding
and clatter of the kitchen. This last, indeed, was audible only when the
doors were open, for the walls of the kitchen, whether it was that the
builders of it counted cookery second only to life, or that this had
been judged, from the nature of the ground outside, the corner of all
the enclosure most likely to be attacked, were far thicker than those of
any of the other towers, with the one exception of the keep itself.
As she sat listening to these multitudinous exhalations of life around
her, yet with a feeling of loneliness and a dim sense of captivity, from
the consciousness that huge surrounding walls rose between her and the
green fields, of which, from earliest memory, she had been as free as
the birds and beetles, a white rabbit, escaped from the arms of its
owner, little Mary Somerset, lady Margaret's only child, a merry but
delicate girl not yet three years old, suddenly darted like a flash of
snow across the shadowy green, followed in hot haste a moment after by a
fine-looking boy of thirteen and two younger girls, after whom toddled
tiny Mary. Dorothy sat watching the pursuit, accompanied with sweet
outcry and frolic laughter, when in a moment the sounds of their
merriment changed to shrieks of terror, and she saw a huge mastiff come
bounding she knew not whence, and rush straight at the rabbit, fierce
and fast. When the little creature saw him, struck with terror it
stopped dead, cowered on the sward, and was stock still. But Henry
Somerset, who was but a few paces from it, reached it before the dog,
and caught it up in his arms. The rush of the dog threw him down, and
they rolled over and over, Henry holding fast the poor rabbit.
By this time Dorothy was half-way down the stair: the moment she caught
sight of the dog she had flown to the rescue. When she issued from the
porch at the foot of the grand staircase, Henry was up again, and
running for the house with the rabbit yet safe in his arms, pursued by
the mastiff. Evidently the dog had not harmed him--but he might get
angry. The next moment she saw, to her joy and dismay both at once, that
it was her own dog.
'Marquis! Marquis!' she cried, calling him by his name.
He abandoned the pursuit at once, and went bounding to her. She took him
by the back of the neck, and the displeasure manifest upon the
countenance of his mistress made him cower at her feet, and wince from
the open hand that threatened him. The same instant a lattice window
over the gateway was flung open, and a voice said--
'Here I am. Who called me?'
Dorothy looked up. The children had vanished with their rescued darling.
There was not a creature in the court but herself, and there was the
marquis, leaning half out of the window, and looking about.
'Who called me?' he repeated--angrily, Dorothy thought.
All at once the meaning of it flashed upon her, and she was
confounded--ready to sink with annoyance. But she was not one to
hesitate when a thing HAD to be done. Keeping her hold of the dog's
neck, for his collar was gone, she dragged him half-way towards the
gate, then turning up to the marquis a face like a peony, replied--
'I am the culprit, my lord.'
'By St. George! you are a brave damsel, and there is no culpa that I
know of, except on the part of that intruding cur.'
'And the cur's mistress, my lord. But, indeed, he is no cur, but a true
mastiff.'
'What! is the animal thy property, fair cousin? He is more than I
bargained for.'
'He is mine, my lord, but I left him chained when I set out from Wyfern
this morning. That he got loose I confess I am not astonished, neither
that he tracked me hither, for he has the eyes of a gaze-hound, and the
nose of a bloodhound; but it amazes me to find him in the castle.'
'That must be inquired into,' said the marquis.
'I am very sorry he has carried himself so ill, my lord. He has put me
to great shame. But he hath more in him than mere brute, and understands
when I beg you to pardon him. He misbehaved himself on purpose to be
taken to me, for at home no one ever dares punish him but myself.'
The marquis laughed.
'If you are so completely his mistress then, why did you call on me for
help?'
'Pardon me, my lord; I did not so.'
'Why, I heard thee call me two or three times!'
'Alas, my lord! I called him Marquis when he was a pup. Everybody about
Redware knows Marquis.'
The animal cocked his ears and started each time his name was uttered,
and yet seemed to understand well enough that ALL the talk was about him
and his misdeeds.
'Ah! ha!' said his lordship, with a twinkle in his eye, 'that begets
complications. Two marquises in Raglan? Two kings in England! The thing
cannot be. What is to be done?'
'I must take him back, my lord! I cannot send him, for he would not go.
I dread they will not be able to hold him chained; in which evil case I
fear me I shall have to go, my lord, and take the perils of the time as
they come.'
'Not of necessity so, cousin, while you can choose between us;--although
I freely grant that a marquis with four legs is to be preferred before a
marquis with only two.--But what if you changed his name?'
'I fear it could not be done, my lord. He has been Marquis all his
life.'
'And I have been marquis only six months! Clearly he hath the better
right--. But there would be constant mistakes between us, for I cannot
bring myself to lay aside the honour his majesty hath conferred upon me,
"which would be worn now in its newest gloss, not cast aside so soon,"
as master Shakspere says. Besides, it would be a slight to his majesty,
and that must not be thought of--not for all the dogs in parliament or
out of it. No--it would breed factions in the castle too. No; one of us
two must die.'
'Then, indeed, I must go,' said Dorothy, her voice trembling as she
spoke; for although the words of the marquis were merry, she yet feared
for her friend.
'Tut! tut! let the older marquis die: he has enjoyed the title; I have
not. Give him to Tom Fool: he will drown him in the moat. He shall be
buried with honour--under his rival's favourite apple-tree in the
orchard. What more could dog desire?'
'No, my lord,' answered Dorothy. 'Will you allow me to take my leave? If
I only knew where to find my horse!'
'What! would you saddle him yourself, cousin Vaughan?'
'As well as e'er a knave in your lordship's stables. I am very sorry to
displease you, but to my dog's death I cannot and will not consent.
Pardon me, my lord.'
The last words brought with them a stifled sob, for she scarcely doubted
any more that he was in earnest.
'It is assuredly not gratifying to a marquis of the king's making to
have one of a damsel's dubbing take the precedence of him. I fear you
are a roundhead and hold by the parliament. But no--that cannot be, for
you are willing to forsake your new cousin for your old dog. Nay, alas!
it is your old cousin for your young dog. Puritan! puritan! Well, it
cannot be helped. But what! you would ride home alone! Evil men are
swarming, child. This sultry weather brings them out like flies.'
'I shall not be alone, my lord. Marquis will take good care of me.'
'Indeed, my lord marquis will pledge himself to nothing outside his own
walls.'
'I meant the dog, my lord.'
'Ah! you see how awkward it is. However, as you will not choose between
us--and to tell the truth, I am not yet quite prepared to die--we must
needs encounter what is inevitable. I will send for one of the keepers
to take him to the smithy, and get him a proper collar--one he can't
slip like that he left at home--and a chain.'
'I must go with him myself, my lord. They will never manage him else.'
'What a demon you have brought into my peaceable house! Go with him, by
all means. And mind you choose him a kennel yourself.--You do not desire
him in your chamber, do you, mistress?'
Dorothy secretly thought it would be the best place for him, but she was
only too glad to have his life spared.
'No, my lord, I thank you,' she said. '--I thank your lordship with all
my heart.'
The marquis disappeared from the window. Presently young Scudamore came
into the court from the staircase by the gate, and crossed to the
hall--in a few minutes returning with the keeper. The man would have
taken the dog by the neck to lead him away, but a certain form of canine
curse, not loud but deep, and a warning word from Dorothy, made him
withdraw his hand.
'Take care, Mr. Keeper,' she said, 'he is dangerous. I will go with him
myself, if thou wilt show me whither.'
'As it please you, mistress,' answered the keeper, and led the way
across the court.
'Have you not a word to throw at a poor cousin, mistress Dorothy?' said
Rowland, when the man was a pace or two in advance.
'No, Mr. Scudamore,' answered Dorothy; 'not until we have first spoken
in my lord Worcester's or my lady Margaret's presence.'
Scudamore fell behind, followed her a little way, and somewhere
vanished.
Dorothy followed the keeper across the hall, the size of which, its
height especially, and the splendour of its windows of stained glass,
almost awed her; then across the next court to the foot of the Library
Tower forming the south-east corner of it, near the two towers flanking
the main entrance. Here a stair led down, through the wall, to a lower
level outside, where were the carpenters' and all other workshops, the
forges, the stables, and the farmyard buildings.
As it happened, when Dorothy entered the smithy, there was her own
little horse being shod, and Marquis and he interchanged a whine and a
whinny of salutation, while the men stared at the bright apparition of a
young lady in their dingy regions. Having heard her business, the
head-smith abandoned everything else to alter an iron collar, of which
there were several lying about, to fit the mastiff, the presence of
whose mistress proved entirely necessary. Dorothy had indeed to put it
on him with her own hands, for at the sound of the chain attached to it
he began to grow furious, growling fiercely. When the chain had been
made fast with a staple driven into a strong kennel-post, and his
mistress proceeded to take her leave of him, his growling changed to the
most piteous whining; but when she actually left him there, he flew into
a rage of indignant affection. After trying the strength of his chain,
however, by three or four bounds, each so furious as to lay him
sprawling on his back, he yielded to the inevitable, and sullenly crept
into his kennel, while Dorothy walked back to the room which had already
begun to seem to her a cell.