THE GATEHOUSE
It is within the bounds of imagination that death may make no greater
change in our inner selves than is wrought at times by a new mood or
another outlook. When Mary, an hour before the world was astir on the
morning after her arrival, let herself out of the Gatehouse, and from
its threshold as from a ledge saw the broad valley of the Trent
stretched before her in all the beauty of a May morning, her alarm of
the past night seemed incredible. At her feet a sharp slope, clothed in
gorse and shrub, fell away to meet the plain. It sank no more than a
couple of hundred feet, but this was enough to enable her to follow the
silver streak of the river winding afar between park and coppice and
under many a church tower. Away to the right she could see the three
graceful spires of Lichfield, and southward, where an opal haze closed
the prospect, she could imagine the fringe of the Black Country, made
beautiful by distance.
In sober fact few parts of England are less inviting than the low lands
of Staffordshire, when the spring floods cover them or the fogs of
autumn cling to the cold soil. But in spring, when larks soar above
them and tall, lop-sided elms outline the fields, they have their
beauty; and Mary gazed long at the fair prospect before she turned her
back on it and looked at the house that was fated to be her home.
It was what its name signified, a gatehouse; yet by turns it could be a
sombre and a charming thing. Some Audley of noble ideas, a man long
dead, had built it to be the entrance to his demesne. The park wall,
overhung by trees, still ran right and left from it, but the road which
had once passed through the archway now slid humbly aside and entered
the park by a field gate. A wide-latticed Tudor tower, rising two
stories above the arch and turreted at the four corners, formed the
middle. It was buttressed on either hand by a lower building, flush
with it and of about the same width. The tower was of yellowish stone,
the wings were faced with stained stucco. Right and left of the whole a
plot of shrubs masked on the one hand the stables, on the other the
kitchens—modern blocks set back to such a distance that each touched
the old part at a corner only.
He who had planned the building had set it cunningly on the brow of the
Great Chase, so that, viewed from the vale, it rose against the
skyline. On dark days it broke the fringe of woodland and stood up,
gloomy and forbidding, the portal of a Doubting Castle. On bright days,
with its hundred diamond panes a-glitter in the sunshine, it seemed to
be the porch of a fairy palace, the silent home of some Sleeping
Beauty. At all times it imposed itself upon men below and spoke of
something beyond, something unseen, greater, mysterious.
To Mary Audley, who saw it at its best, the very stains of the plaster
glorified by the morning light, it was a thing of joy. She fancied that
to live behind those ancient mullioned windows, to look out morning and
evening on that spacious landscape, to feel the bustle of the world so
remote, must in itself be happiness. For a time she could not turn from
it.
But presently the desire to explore her new surroundings seized her and
she re-entered the house. A glance at the groined roof of the hall—many
a gallant horseman had ridden under it in his time—proved that it was
merely the archway closed and fitted with a small door and window at
either end. She unlocked the farther door and passed into a paved
court, in which the grass grew between the worn flags. In the stables
on the left a dog whined. The kitchens were on the other hand, and
before her an opening flanked by tall heraldic beasts broke a low wall,
built of moss-grown brick. She ventured through it and uttered a cry of
delight.
Near at hand, under cover of a vast chestnut tree, were traces of
domestic labor: a grindstone, a saw-pit, a woodpile, coops with
clucking hens. But beyond these the sward, faintly lined at first with
ruts, stretched away into forest glades, bordered here by giant oaks
brown in bud, there by the yellowish-green of beech trees. In the
foreground lay patches of gorse, and in places an ancient thorn, riven
and half prostrate, crowned the russet of last year’s bracken with a
splash of cream. Heedless of the spectator, rabbits sat making their
toilet, and from every brake birds filled the air with a riot of song.
To one who had seen little but the streets of Paris, more sordid then
than now, the scene was charming. Mary’s eyes filled, her heart
swelled. Ah, what a home was here! She had espied on her journey many a
nook and sheltered dell, but nothing that could vie with this! Heedless
of her thin shoes, with no more than a handkerchief on her head, she
strayed on and on. By and by a track, faintly marked, led her to the
left. A little farther, and old trees fell into line on either hand, as
if in days long gone, before age thinned their ranks, they had formed
an avenue.
For a time she sat musing on a fallen trunk, then the hawthorn that a
few paces away perfumed the spring air moved her to gather an armful of
it. She forgot that time was passing, almost she forgot that she had
not breakfasted, and she might have been nearly a mile from the
Gatehouse when she was startled by a faint hail that seemed to come
from behind her. She looked back and saw Basset coming after her.
He, too, was hatless—he had set off in haste—and he was out of breath.
She turned with concern to meet him. “Am I very late, Mr. Basset?” she
asked, her conscience pricking her. What if this first morning she had
broken the rules?
“Oh no,” he said. And then, “You’ve not been farther than this?”
“No. I am afraid my uncle is waiting?”
“Oh no. He breakfasts in his own room. But Etruria told me that you had
gone this way, and I followed. I see that you are not empty-handed.”
“No.” And she thrust the great bunch of may under his nose—who would
not have been gay, who would not have lost her reserve in such a scene,
on such a morning? “Isn’t it fresh? Isn’t it delicious?”
As he stooped to the flowers his eyes met hers smiling through the
hawthorn sprays, and he saw her as he had not seen her before. Her
gravity had left her. Spring laughed in her eyes, youth fluttered in
the tendrils of her hair, she was the soul of May. And what she had
found of beauty in the woodland, of music in the larks’ songs, of
perfume in the blossoms, of freshness in the morning, the man found in
her; and a shock, never to be forgotten, ran through him. He did not
speak. He smelled the hawthorn in silence.
But a few seconds later—as men reckon time—he took note of his
feelings, and he was startled. He had not been prepared to like her, we
know; many things had armed him against her. But before the witchery of
her morning face, the challenge of her laughing eyes, he awoke to the
fact that he was in danger. He had to own that if he must live beside
her day by day and would maintain his indifference, he must steel
himself. He must keep his first impressions of her always before him,
and be careful. And be very careful—if even that might avail.
For a hundred paces he walked at her side, listening without knowing
what she said. Then his coolness returned, and when she asked him why
he had come after her without his hat he was ready.
“I had better tell you,” he answered, “this path is little used. It
leads to the Great House, and your uncle, owing to his quarrel with
Lord Audley, does not like any one to go farther in that direction than
the Yew Tree Walk. You can see the Walk from here—the yews mark the
entrance to the gardens. I thought that it would be unfortunate if you
began by displeasing him, and I came after you.”
“It was very good of you,” she said. Her face was not gay now. “Does
Lord Audley live there—when he is at home?”
“No one lives there,” he explained soberly. “No one has lived there for
three generations. It’s a ruin—I was going to say, a nightmare. The
greater part of the house was burnt down in a carouse held to celebrate
the accession of George the Third. The Audley of that day rebuilt it on
a great scale, but before it was finished he gave a housewarming, at
which his only son quarrelled with a guest. The two fought at daybreak,
and the son was killed beside the old Butterfly in the Yew Walk—you
will see the spot some day. The father sent away the builders and never
looked up again. He diverted much of his property, and a cousin came
into the remainder and the title, but the house was never finished, the
windows in the new part were never glazed. In the old part some
furniture and tapestry decay; in the new are only bats and dust and
owls. So it has stood for eighty years, vacant in the midst of
neglected gardens. In the sunlight it is one of the most dreary things
you can imagine. By moonlight it is better, but unspeakably
melancholy.”
“How dreadful,” she said in a low voice. “I almost wish, Mr. Basset,
that you had not told me. They say in France that if you see the dead
without touching them, you dream of them. I feel like that about the
house.”
It crossed his mind that she was talking for effect. “It is only a
house after all,” he said.
“But our house,” with a touch of pride. Then, “What are those?” she
asked, pointing to the gray shapeless beasts, time-worn and
weather-stained, that flanked the entrance to the courtyard.
“They are, or once were, Butterflies, the badge of the Audleys. These
hold shields. You will see the Butterflies in many places in the
Gatehouse. You will find them with men’s faces and sometimes with a
fret on the wings. Your uncle says that they are not butterflies, but
moths, that have eaten the Audley fortunes.”
It was a thought that matched the picture he had drawn of the deserted
house, and Mary felt that the morning had lost its brightness. But not
for long. Basset led her into a room on the right of the hall, and the
sight drew from her a cry of pleasure. On three sides the dark wainscot
rose eight feet from the floor; above, the walls were whitewashed to
the ceiling and broken by dim portraits, on stretchers and without
frames. On the fourth side where the panelling divided the room from a
serving-room, once part of it, it rose to the ceiling. The stone
hearth, the iron dogs, the matted floor, the heavy chairs and oak
table, all were dark and plain and increased the austerity of the room.
At the end of the table places were laid for three, and Toft, who had
set on the breakfast, was fixing the kettle amid the burning logs.
“Is Mr. Audley coming down?” Basset asked.
“He bade me lay for him,” Toft replied dryly. “I doubt if he will come.
You had better begin, sir. The young lady,” with a searching look at
her, “must want her breakfast.”
“I am afraid I do,” Mary confessed.
“Yes, we will begin,” Basset said. He invited her to make the tea.
When they were seated, “You like the room?”
“I love it,” she answered.
“So do I,” he rejoined, more soberly. “The panelling is linen—pattern
of the fifteenth century—you see the folds? It was saved from the old
house. I am glad you like it.”
“I love it,” she said again. But after that she grew thoughtful, and
during the rest of the meal she said little. She was thinking of what
was before her; of the unknown uncle, whose bread she was eating, and
upon whom she was going to be dependent. What would he be like? How
would he receive her? And why was every one so reticent about him—so
reticent that he was beginning to be something of an ogre to her? When
Toft presently appeared and said that Mr. Audley was in the library and
would see her when she was ready, she lost color. But she answered the
man with self-possession, asked quietly where the library was, and had
not Basset’s eyes been on her face he would have had no notion that she
was troubled.
As it was, he waited for her to avow her misgiving—he was prepared to
encourage her. But she said nothing.
None the less, at the last moment, with her hand on the door of the
library, she hesitated. It was not so much fear of the unknown relative
whom she was going to see that drove the blood from her cheek, as the
knowledge that for her everything depended upon him. Her new home, its
peace, its age, its woodland surroundings, fascinated her. It promised
her not only content, but happiness. But as her stay in it hung upon
John Audley’s will, so her pleasure in it, and her enjoyment of it,
depended upon the relations between them. What would they be? How would
he receive her? What would he be like? At last she called up her
courage, turned the handle, and entered the library.
For a moment she saw no one. The great room, with its distances and its
harmonious litter, appeared to be empty. Then, “Mary, my dear,” said a
pleasant voice, “welcome to the Gatehouse!” And John Audley rose from
his seat at a distant table and came towards her.
The notion which she had formed of him vanished in a twinkling, and
with it her fears. She saw before her an elderly gentleman, plump and
kindly, who walked with a short tripping step, and wore the
swallow-tailed coat with gilt buttons which the frock-coat had
displaced. He took her hand with a smile, kissed her on the forehead,
and led her to a chair placed beside his own. He sat for a moment
holding her hand and looking at her.
“Yes, I see the likeness,” he said, after a moment’s contemplation.
“But, my dear, how is this? There are tears in your eyes, and you
tremble.”
“I think,” she said, “I was a little afraid of you, sir.”
“Well, you are not afraid now,” he replied cheerfully. “And you won’t
be again. You won’t be again. My dear, welcome once more to the
Gatehouse. I hope that it may be your home until another is offered
you. Things came between your father and me—I shall never mention them
again, and don’t you, my dear!”—this a little hurriedly—“don’t you; all
that is buried now, and I must make it up to you. Your letters?” he
continued, patting her hand. “Yes, Peter told me that you wrote to me.
I need not say that I never had them. No, never had them—Toft, what is
it?”
The change in his voice struck her. The servant had come in quietly.
“Mr. Basset, sir, has lost——”
“Another time!” John Audley replied curtly. “Another time! I am engaged
now. Go!” Then when the door had closed behind the servant, “No, my
dear,” he continued, “I need not say that I never had them, so that I
first heard of your troubles through a channel upon which I will not
dwell. However, many good things come by bad ways, Mary. I hope you
like the Gatehouse?”
“It is charming!” she cried with enthusiasm.
“It has only one drawback,” he said.
She was clever enough to understand that he referred to its owner, and
to escape from the subject. “This room,” she said, “is perfection. I
have never seen anything like it, sir.”
“It is a pleasant room,” he said, looking round him. “There is our coat
over the mantel, gules, a fret or; like all old coats, very simple.
Some think it is the Lacy Knot; the Audley of Edward the First’s time
married a Lacy. But we bore our old coat of three Butterflies later
than that, for before the fall of Roger Mortimer, who was hung at
Tyburn, he married his daughter to an Audley, and the escheaters found
the wedding chamber in his house furnished with our Butterflies. Later
the Butterfly survived as our badge. You see it there!” he continued,
pointing it out among the mouldings of the ceiling. “There is the
Stafford Knot, the badge of the great Dukes of Buckingham, the noblest
of English families; it is said that the last of the line, a cobbler,
died at Newport, not twenty miles from here. We intermarried with them,
and through them with Peter’s people, the Bassets. That is the Lovel
Wolf, and there is the White Wolf of the Mortimers—all badges. But you
do not know, I suppose, what a badge is?”
“I am afraid not,” she said, smiling. “But I am as proud of our
Butterfly, and as proud to be an Audley, sir, as if I knew more.”
“Peter must give you some lessons in heraldry,” he answered. “We live
in the past here, my dear, and we must indoctrinate you with a love of
our pursuits or you will be dull.” He paused to consider. “I am afraid
that we cannot allot you a drawing-room, but you must make your room
upstairs as comfortable as you can. Etruria will see to that. And Peter
shall arrange a table for you in the south bay here, and it shall be
your table and your bay. That is his table; this is mine. We are
orderly, and so we do not get in one another’s way.”
She thanked him gratefully, and with tears in her eyes, she said
something to which he would not listen—he only patted her hand—as to
his kindness, his great kindness, in receiving her. She could not,
indeed, put her relief into words, so deep was it. Nowhere, she felt,
could life be more peaceful or more calm than in this room which no
sounds of the outer world except the songs of birds, no sights save the
swaying of branches disturbed; where the blazoned panes cast their
azure and argent on lines of russet books, where an aged hound sprawled
before the embers, and the measured tick of the clock alone vied with
the scratching of the pen. She saw herself seated there during drowsy
summer days, or when firelight cheered the winter evenings. She saw
herself sewing beside the hearth while her companions worked, each
within his circle of light.
Then, she also was an Audley. She also had her share in the race which
had lived long on this spot. Already she was fired with the desire to
know more of them, and that flame John Audley was well fitted to fan.
For he was not of the school of dry-as-dust antiquaries. He had the
knack of choosing the picturesque in story, he could make it stand out
for others, he could impart life to the actors in it. And, anxious to
captivate Mary, he bent himself for nearly an hour to the display of
his knowledge. Taking for his text one or other of the objects about
him, he told her of great castles, from which England had been ruled,
and through which the choicest life of the country had passed, that now
were piles of sherds clothed with nettles. He told her of that woodland
country on the borders of three counties, where the papists had long
lived undisturbed and where the Gunpowder Plot had had its centre. He
told her of the fashion which came in with Richard the Second, of
adorning the clothes with initials, reading and writing having become
for the first time courtly accomplishments; and to illustrate this he
showed her the Westminster portrait of Richard in a robe embroidered
with letters of R. He quoted Chaucer:
And thereon hung a broch of gold ful schene
On which was first i-written a crowned A
And after that, Amor vincit omnia.
Then, turning his back on her, he produced from some secret place a
key, and opening a masked cupboard in the wall, he held out for her
inspection a small bowl, bent and mis-shapen by use, and supported by
two fragile butterflies. The whole was of silver so thin that to modern
eyes it seemed trivial. Traces of gilding lingered about some parts of
it, and on each of the wings of the butterflies was a capital A.
She was charmed. “Of all your illustrations,” she cried, “I prefer this
one! It is very old, I suppose?”
“It is of the fifteenth century,” he said, turning it about. “We
believe that it was made for the Audley who fell early in the Wars of
the Roses. Pages and knights, maids and matrons, gloves of silk and
gloves of mail, wrinkled palms and babies’ fingers, the men, the women,
the children of twelve generations of our race, my dear, have handled
this. Once, according to an old inventory, there were six; this one
alone remains.”
“It must be very rare?” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“It is very rare,” he said, and he handled it as if he loved it. He had
not once allowed it to go out of his fingers. “Very rare. I doubt if,
apart from the City Companies, there is another in the hands of the
original owners.”
“And it came to you by descent, sir?”
He paused in the act of returning it to its hiding-place. “Yes, that is
how it came to me,” he said in a muffled tone. But he seemed to be a
long time putting it away; and when he turned with the key in his hand
his face was altered, and he looked at her—well, had she done anything
to anger him, she would have thought he was angry. “To whom besides me
could it descend!” he asked, his voice raised a tone. “But there, I
must not grow excited. I think—I think you had better go now. Go, my
dear, now. But come back presently.”
Mary went. But the change in tone and face had been such as to startle
her and to dash the happy mood of a few moments earlier. She wondered
what she had said to annoy him.