OLD THINGS
The Gatehouse, placed on the verge of the upland, was very solitary.
Cut off from the vale by an ascent which the coachmen of the great
deemed too rough for their horses, it was isolated on the other three
sides by Beaudelays Park and by the Great Chase, which flung its barren
moors over many miles of table-land. In the course of the famous suit
John Audley had added to the solitude of the house by a smiling
aloofness which gave no quarter to those who agreed with his rival. The
result was that when Mary came to live there, few young people would
have found the Gatehouse a lively abode.
But to Mary during the quiet weeks that followed her arrival it seemed
a paradise. She spent long hours in the open air, now seated on a
fallen trunk in some glade of the park, now watching the squirrels in
the clear gloom of the beech-wood, or again, lying at length on the
carpet of thyme and heather that clothed the moor. She came to know by
heart every path through the park—except that which led to the Great
House; she discovered where the foxgloves clustered, where the
meadow-sweet fringed the runlet, where the rare bog-bean warned the
traveller to look to his footing. Even the Great Chase she came to
know, and almost daily she walked to a point beyond the park whence she
could see the distant smoke of a mining village. That was the one sign
of life on the Chase; elsewhere it stretched vast and unpeopled, sombre
under a livid sky, smiling in sunshine, here purple with ling, there
scarred by fire—always wide under a wide heaven, raised high above the
common world. Now and again she met a shepherd or saw a gig, lessened
by distance, making its slow way along a moorland track. But for days
together she might wander there without seeing a human being.
The wide horizon became as dear to her as the greenwood. Pent as she
had been in cities, straitened in mean rooms where sight and smell had
alike been outraged, she revelled in this sweet and open life. The hum
of bees, the scent of pines, the flight of the ousel down the water,
the whistle of the curlew, all were to her pleasures as vivid as they
were new.
Meantime Basset made no attempt to share her excursions. He was
fighting a battle with himself, and he knew better than to go out of
his way to aid the enemy. And for her part she did not miss him. She
did not dislike him, but the interest he excited in her was feeble. The
thought of comparing him with Lord Audley, with the man to whose
intervention she owed this home, this peace, this content, never
occurred to her. Of Audley she did think as much perhaps as was
prudent, sometimes with pensive gratitude, more rarely with a smile and
a blush at her folly in dwelling on him. For always she thought of him
as one, high and remote, whom it was not probable that she would ever
see again, one whose course through life lay far from hers.
Presently, it is not to be denied, Basset began to grow upon her. He
was there. He was part of her life. Morning and evening she had to do
with him. Often she read or sewed in the same room with him, and in
many small ways he added to her comfort. Sometimes he suggested things
which would please her uncle; sometimes he warned her of things which
she would do well to avoid. Once or twice he diverted to himself a
spirt of John Audley’s uncertain temper; and though Mary did not always
detect the manœuvre, though she was far from suspecting the extent of
his vigilance or the care which he cast about her, it would have been
odd if she had not come to think more kindly of him, and to see merits
in him which had escaped her at first.
Meanwhile he thought of her with mingled feelings. At first with
doubt—it was never out of his mind that she had made much of Lord
Audley and little of him. Then with admiration which he withstood more
feebly as time went on, and the cloven hoof failed to appear. Later,
with tenderness, which, hating the scheme John Audley had formed, he
masked even from himself, and which he was sure that he would never
have the courage to express in her presence.
For Basset was conscious that, aspire as he might, he was not a hero.
The clash of life, the shock of battle, had no attraction for him. The
library at the Gatehouse was, he owned it frankly, his true sphere.
She, on the other hand, had had experiences. She had sailed through
unknown seas, she had led a life strange to him. She had seen much,
done much, suffered much, had held her own among strangers. Before her
calmness and self-possession he humbled himself. He veiled his head.
He did not attempt, therefore, to accompany her abroad, but at home he
had no choice save to see much of her. There was only one living room
for all, and she glided with surprising ease into the current of the
men’s occupations. At first she was astray on the sea of books. Her
knowledge was not sufficient to supply chart or compass, and it fell to
Basset to point the way, to choose her reading, to set in a proper
light John Audley’s vivid pictures of the past, to teach her the
elements of heraldry and genealogy. She proved, however, an apt
scholar, and very soon she dropped into the position of her uncle’s
secretary. Sometimes she copied his notes, at other times he set her on
the track of a fact, a relationship, a quotation, and she would spend
hours in a corner, embedded in huge tomes of the county histories.
Dugdale, Leland, Hall, even Polydore Vergil, became her friends. She
pored over the Paston Letters, probed the false pedigrees of Banks, and
could soon work out for herself the famous discovery respecting the
last Lovel.
For a young girl it was an odd pursuit. But the past was in the
atmosphere of the house, it went with the fortunes of a race whose
importance lay in days long gone. Then all was new to her, enthusiasm
is easily caught, and Mary, eager to please her uncle, was glad to be
of use. She found the work restful after the suspense of the past year.
It sufficed for the present, and she asked no more.
She never forgot the lamplit evenings of that summer; the spacious
room, the fluttering of the moths that entered by the open windows, the
flop of the old dog as it sought a cooler spot, the whisper of leaves
turned ceaselessly in the pursuit of a fact or a fancy. In the
retrospect all became less a picture than a frame containing a past
world, a fifteenth-century world of color and movement, of rooms
stifled in hangings and tapestries, of lines of spear-points and rows
of knights in surcoats, of tolling bells and praying monks, of
travellers kneeling before wayside shrines, of strange changes of
fortune. For says the chronicler:
“I saw one of them, who was Duke of Exeter (but he concealed his name)
following the Duke of Burgundy’s train barefoot and bare-legged,
begging his bread from door to door—this person was the next of the
House of Lancaster and had married King Edward’s sister.”
And of dark sayings:
“Thys sayde Edward, Duke of Somerset, had herde a fantastyk prophecy
that he sholde dy under a Castelle, wherefore he, as meche as in him
was, he lete the King that he sholde not come in the Castelle of
Wynsore, dredynge the sayde prophecy; but at Seint Albonys there was an
hostelry havyng the sygne of a Castelle, and before that hostelry he
was slayne.”
“His badge was a Portcullis,” her uncle said, when she read this to
him, “so it was natural that he should fall before a castle. He used
the Beanstalk, too, and if his name had been John, a pretty thing might
have been raised upon it. But you’re divagating, my dear,” he
continued, smiling—and seldom had Mary seen him in a better
humor—“you’re divagating, whereas I—I believe that I have solved the
problem of the Feathers.”
“The Prince of Wales’s? No!”
“I believe so. Of course there is no truth in the story which traces
them to the blind King of Bohemia, killed at Crécy. His crest was two
vulture wings.”
“But what of Arderne, who was the Prince’s surgeon?” Basset objected.
“He says clearly that the Prince gained it from the King of Bohemia.”
“Not at all!” John Audley replied arrogantly—at this moment he was an
antiquary and nothing more. “Where is the Arderne extract? Listen.
‘Edward, son of Edward the King, used to wear such a feather, and
gained that feather from the King of Bohemia, whom he slew at Crécy,
and so assumed to himself that feather which is called an ostrich
feather which the first-named most illustrious King, used to wear on
his crest.’ Now who was the first-named most illustrious King, who
before that used to wear it?”
“The King of Bohemia.”
“Rubbish! Arderne means his own King, ‘Edward the King.’ He means that
the Black Prince, after winning his spurs by his victory over the
Bohemian, took his father’s insignia. He had only been knighted six
weeks and waited to wear his father’s crest until he had earned it.”
“By Jove, sir!” Basset exclaimed, “I believe you are right!”
“Of course I am! The evidence is all that way. The Black Prince’s
brothers wore it; surely not because their brother had done something,
but because it was their father’s crest, probably derived from their
mother, Philippa of Hainault? If you will look in the inventory of
jewels made on the usurpation of Henry the Fourth you will see this
item, ‘A collar of the livery of the Queen, on whom God have mercy,
with an ostrich.’”
“But that,” Basset interposed, “was Queen Anne of Bohemia—she died
seven years before. There you get Bohemia again!”
“Compare this other entry,” replied the antiquary, unmoved: “‘A collar
of the livery of Queen Anne, of branches of rosemary.’ Now either Queen
Anne of Bohemia had two liveries—which is unlikely—or the inventory
made by order of Henry IV. quotes verbatim from lists made during the
lifetime of Queen Anne; if this be the case, the last deceased Queen,
on whom God have mercy, would be Philippa of Hainault; and we have here
a clear statement that her livery was an ostrich, of which ostrich her
husband wore a feather on his crest.”
Basset clapped his hands. Mary beat applause on the table. “Hurrah!”
she cried. “Audley for ever!”
“Miss Audley,” Basset said, “Toft shall bring in hot water, and we will
have punch!”
“Miss Audley!” her uncle exclaimed, with a wrinkling nose. “Why don’t
you call her Mary? And why, child, don’t you call him Peter?”
Mary curtseyed. “Why not, my lord?” she said. “Peter it shall be—Peter
who keeps the keys that you discover!”
And Peter laughed. But he saw that she used his name without a blush or
a tremor, whereas he knew that if he could force his lips to frame her
name, the word would betray him. For by this time, from his seat at his
remote table, and from the ambush of his book, he had watched her too
often for his peace, and too closely not to know that she was
indifferent to him. He knew that at the best she felt a liking for him,
the growth of habit, and tinged, he feared, with contempt.
He was so far right that there were three persons in the house who had
a larger share of the girl’s thoughts than he had. The first was John
Audley. He puzzled her. There were times when she could not doubt his
affection, times when he seemed all that she could desire, kind,
good-humored, frank, engaged with the simplicity of a child in innocent
pursuits, and without one thought beyond them. But touch a certain
spot, approach with steps ever so delicate a certain subject—Lord
Audley and his title—and his manner changed, the very man changed, he
became secretive, suspicious, menacing. Nor, however quickly she might
withdraw from the danger-line, could the harm be undone at once. He
would remain for hours gloomy and thoughtful, would eye her covertly
and with suspicion, would sit silent through meals, and at times mutter
to himself. More rarely he would turn on her with a face which rage
made inhuman, a face that she did not know, and with a shaking hand he
would bid her go—go, and leave the room!
The first time that this happened she feared that he might follow up
his words by sending her away. But nothing ensued, then or later. For a
while after each outburst he would appear ill at ease. He would avoid
her eyes, and look away from her in a manner almost as unpleasant as
his violence; later, in a shamefaced way, he would tell her that she
must not excite him, she must not excite him, it was bad for him. And
the man-servant meeting her in the hall, would take the liberty of
giving her the same advice.
Toft, indeed, was the second who puzzled her. He was civil, with the
civility of the trained servant, but always there was in his manner a
reserve. And she fancied that he watched her. If she left the house and
glanced back she was certain to see his face at a window, or his figure
in a doorway. Within doors it was the same. He slept out, living with
his wife in the kitchen wing, which had a separate entrance from the
courtyard. But he was everywhere at all hours. Even his master appeared
uneasy in his presence, and either broke off what he was saying when
the man entered, or continued the talk on another note. More rarely he
turned on Toft and without rhyme or reason would ask him harshly what
he wanted.
The third person to share Mary’s thoughts, but after a more pleasant
fashion, was Toft’s daughter, Etruria. “I hope you will like her, my
dear,” John Audley had said. “She will give you such attendance as you
require, and will share the south wing with you at night. The two
bedrooms there are on a separate staircase. I sleep above the library
in this wing, and Peter in the tower room—we have our own staircase. I
have brought her into the house because I thought you might not like to
sleep alone in that wing.”
Mary had thanked him, and had said how much she liked the girl. And she
had liked her, but for a time she had not understood her. Etruria was
all that was good and almost all that was beautiful. She was simple,
kindly, helpful, having the wide low brow, the placid eyes, and perfect
complexion of a Quaker girl—and to add to these attractions she was
finely shaped, though rather plump than slender; and she was incredibly
neat. Nor could any Quaker girl have been more gentle or more demure.
But she might have had no tongue, she was so loth to use it; and a
hundred times Mary wondered what was behind that reticence. Sometimes
she thought that the girl was merely stupid. Sometimes she yoked her
with her father in the suspicions she entertained of him. More often,
moved by the girl’s meek eyes, she felt only a vague irritation. She
was herself calm by nature, and reserved by training, the last to
gossip with a servant, even with one whose refinement appeared innate.
But Etruria’s dumbness was beyond her.
One day in a research which she was making she fancied that she had hit
on a discovery. It happened that Etruria came into the room at the
moment, and in the fulness of her heart Mary told her of it. “Etruria,”
she said, “I’ve made a discovery all by myself.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Something that no one has known for hundreds of years! Think of that!”
“Indeed, Miss.”
Provoked, Mary took a new line. “Etruria,” she asked, “are you happy?”
The girl did not answer.
“Don’t you hear me? I asked if you were happy.”
“I am content, Miss.”
“I did not ask that. Are you happy?”
And then, moved on her side, perhaps, by an impulse towards confidence,
Etruria yielded. “I don’t think that we can any of us be happy, Miss,”
she said, “with so much sorrow about us.”
“You strange girl!” Mary cried, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
But Etruria was silent.
“Come,” Mary insisted. “You must tell me what you mean.”
“Well, Miss,” the girl answered reluctantly, “I’m sad and loth to think
of all the suffering in the world. It’s natural that you should not
think of it, but I’m of the people, and I’m sad for them.”
Balaam when the ass spoke was scarcely more surprised than Mary. “Why?”
she asked.
The girl pointed to the open window. “We’ve all we could ask,
Miss—light and air and birds’ songs and sunshine. We’ve all we need,
and more. But I come of those who have neither light nor air, nor songs
nor sunshine, who’ve no milk for children nor food for mothers! Who, if
they’ve work, work every hour of the day in dust and noise and heat.
Who are half clemmed from year’s end to year’s end, and see no close to
it, no hope, no finish but the pauper’s deals! It’s for them I’m sad,
Miss.”
“Etruria!”
“They’ve no teachers and no time to care,” Etruria continued in
desperate earnest now that the floodgates were raised. “They’re just
tools to make money, and, like the tools, they wear out and are cast
aside! For there are always more to do their work, to begin where they
began, and to be worn out as they were worn out!”
“Don’t!” Mary cried.
Etruria was silent, but two large tears rolled down her face. And Mary
marvelled. So this mild, patient girl, going about her daily tasks,
could think, could feel, could speak, and upon a plane so high that the
listener was sensible of humiliation as well as surprise! For a moment
this was the only effect made upon her. Then reflection did its
part—and memory. She recalled that glimpse of the under-world which she
had had on her journey from London. She remembered the noisome alleys,
the cinder wastes, the men toiling half-naked at the furnaces, the
pinched faces of the women; and she remembered also the account which
Lord Audley had given her of the fierce contest between town and
country, plough and forge, land-lord and cotton-lord, which had struck
her so much at the time.
In the charms of her new life, in her new interests, these things had
faded from her mind. They recurred now, and she did not again ask
Etruria what she meant. “Is it as bad as that?” she asked.
“It is not as bad as it has been,” Etruria answered. “Three years ago
there were hundreds of thousands out of work. There are thousands,
scores of thousands, still; and thousands have no food but what’s given
them. And charity is bitter to many,” she added, “and the poorhouse is
bitter to all.”
“But what has caused things to be so bad?”
“Some say one thing and some another. But most that machines lower
wages, Miss, and the bread-tax raises food.”
“Ah!” Mary said. And she looked more closely at the girl who knew so
much that was at odds with her station.
“Others,” Etruria continued, a faint color in her cheeks, “think that
it is selfishness, that every one is for himself and no one for one
another, and——”
“Yes?” Mary said, seeing that she hesitated.
“And that if every one thought as much of his neighbor as of himself,
or even of his neighbor as well as of himself, it would not be machines
nor corn-taxes nor poorhouses would be strong enough to take the bread
out of the children’s mouths or the work out of men’s hands!”
Mary had an inspiration. “Etruria,” she cried, “some one has been
teaching you this.”
The girl blushed. “Well, Miss,” she said simply, “it was at church I
learned most of it.”
“At church? What church? Not Riddsley?” For it was to Riddsley, to a
service as dull as it was long, that they proceeded on Sundays in a
chaise as slow as the reader.
“No, Miss, not Riddsley,” Etruria answered. “It’s at Brown Heath on the
Chase. But it’s not a real church, Miss. It’s a room.”
“Oh!” Mary replied. “A meeting-house!”
For some reason Etruria’s eyes gleamed. “No, Miss,” she said. “It’s the
curate at Riddsley has a service in a room at Brown Heath on
Thursdays.”
“And you go?”
“When I can, Miss.”
The idea of attending church on a week-day was strange to Mary; as
strange as to that generation was the zeal that passed beyond the
common channel to refresh those whom migrations of population or
changes in industry had left high and dry. The Tractarian movement was
giving vigor not only to those who supported it, but to those who
withstood it.
“And you’ve a sermon?” Mary said. “What was the text last Thursday,
Etruria?”
The girl hesitated, considered, then looked with appeal at her
mistress. She clasped her hands. “‘Two are better than one,’” she
replied, “‘because they have good reward for their labor. For if they
fall, one will lift up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he
falleth, for he hath not another to lift him up.’”
“Gracious, Etruria!” Mary cried. “Is that in the Bible?”
Etruria nodded.
“And what did your preacher say about it?”
“That the employer and the workman were fellows, and if they worked
together and each thought for the other they would have a good reward
for their labor; that if one fell, it was the duty of the other to help
him up. And again, that the land and the mill were fellows—the town and
the country—and if they worked together in love they would have a good
return, and if trouble came to one the other should bear with him. But
all the same,” Etruria added timidly, “that the bread-taxes were
wrong.”
“Etruria,” Mary said. “To-morrow is Thursday. I shall go with you to
Brown Heath.”