The Enchanted Palace.
Tottenham’s was about five miles from London on the Bayswater side. It
was a huge house, standing upon a little eminence, and surrounded by
acres of park and clouds of thick but leafless trees, which looked
ghostly enough in the Winter darkness. The fog had faded away from them
long before they got so far, and had been replaced by the starlight
clearness of a very cold evening; the sky was almost black, the points
of light in it dead white, and all the landscape, so far as it was
perceptible, an Indian ink landscape in faintly differing shades of
black and deepest grey. Nevertheless it was a relief to breathe the
fresh country air, after the damp fog which had clung to their throats
and blinded their eyes. The roads were still hard, though there were
signs of the breaking up of the frost, and the horses’ hoofs rang as
they dashed along.
“It’s a nice place,” Mr. Tottenham said, “though I, of course, only
bought it from the old people, who fortunately were not very venerable
nor very desirable. It had a fine name before, and it was Mary’s idea to
call it Tottenham’s. As we cannot ignore the shop, it is as well to take
the full advantage of it. The worst thing is,” he added lowering his
voice, “it hurts the servants’ feelings dreadfully. We have at last
managed to get a butler who sees the humour of it, and acknowledges the
shop with a condescending sense that the fact of _his_ serving a
shopkeeper is the best joke in the world. You will notice a
consciousness of this highly humorous position at once in his face; but
it is a bitter pill to the rest of the household. The housemaids and our
friend behind us, cannot bear any reference to the degradation. You will
respect their feelings, Earnshaw? I am sure you will take care to show a
seemly respect for their feelings.”
Edgar laughed, and Mr. Tottenham went on. He was a very easy man to talk
with; indeed he did most of the conversation himself, and was so
pleasantly full of his home and his wife and his evident happiness, that
no one, or at least no one so sympathetic as Edgar, could have
stigmatized with unkind names the lengthened monologue. There was this
excuse for it on the other hand, that he was thus making himself and his
belongings known to a stranger whom he had determined to make a friend
of. Few people dislike to talk about themselves when they can throw off
all fear of ridicule, and have a tolerable excuse for their fluency. We
all like it, dear reader; we know it sounds egotistical, and the wiser
we are the more we avoid exposing our weakness; but yet when we can feel
it is safe and believe that it is justified, how pleasant it is to tell
some fresh and sympathetic listener all about ourselves! Perhaps this is
one of the reasons why youth is so pleasant a companion to age, because
the revelations on each side can be full and lengthened without
unsuitability or fear of misconstruction. Edgar, too, possessed many of
the qualities which make a good listener. He was in a subdued state of
mind, and had no particular desire to talk in his own person; he had no
history for the moment that would bear telling; he was glad enough to be
carried lightly along upon the stream of this other man’s story, which
amused him, if nothing else. Edgar’s life had come to a pause; he lay
quiescent between two periods, not knowing where the next tide might
lift him, or what might be the following chapter. He was like a
traveller in the night, looking in through a hospitable open window at
some interior all bright with firelight and happiness, getting to
recognise which was which in the household party round the fire, and
listening with a gratitude more warm and effusive than had the service
been a greater one, to the hospitable invitation to enter. As well might
such a traveller have censured the openness which drew no curtains and
closed no shutters, and warmed his breast with the sight of comfort and
friendliness, as Edgar could have called Mr. Tottenham’s talk
egotistical. For had not he too been called in for rest and shelter out
of the night?
He felt as in a dream when he entered the house, and was led through the
great hall and staircase, and into the bright rooms to be presented to
Lady Mary, who came forward to meet her husband’s new friend with the
kindest welcome. She was a little light woman with quantities of fair
hair, lively, and gay, and kind, with nothing of the worn look which
distinguished her husband, but a fresh air, almost of girlhood, in her
slight figure and light movements. She was so like _some one else_, that
Edgar’s heart beat at sight of her, as it had not beat for years before.
Gussy Thornleigh had gone out of his life, for ever, as he thought. He
had given her up completely, hopelessly--and he had not felt at the time
of this renunciation that his love for her had ever reached the length
of passion, or that this was one of the partings which crush all
thoughts of possible happiness out of the heart. But, notwithstanding,
her idea had somehow lingered about him, as ideas passionately cherished
do not always do. When he had been still and musing, the light little
figure, the pretty head with its curls, the half laughing, half wise
look with which this little girl would discourse to him upon everything
in earth and heaven, had got into a way of coming up before him with the
most astonishing reality and vividness. “I was not so very much in love
with Gussy,” he had said to himself very often at such moments, with a
whimsical mixture of surprise and complaint. No, he had not been so very
much in love with her; yet she had haunted him all these three years.
Lady Mary was only her aunt, which is not always an attractive
relationship; generally, indeed, the likeness between a pretty girl and
a middle-aged woman is rather discouraging to a lover, as showing to
what plump and prosaic good condition his ethereal darling may come,
than delightful; but Edgar had no sham sentiment about him, and was not
apt to be assailed by any such unreal disgusts, even had there been
anything to call them forth. Lady Mary, however, was still as
lightfooted and light-hearted as Gussy herself. She had the same
abundant fair hair, the same lively sweet eyes, never without the
possibility of a laugh in them, and never anything but kind. She came up
to Edgar holding out both her hands.
“You are not a stranger to me,” she said, “don’t introduce him, Tom. The
only difficulty I have about you, is how to address you as Mr.
Earnshaw--but that is only for the first moment. Sit down and thaw, both
of you, and I will give you some tea--that is if you want tea. We have
nobody with us for a day or two fortunately, and you will just have time
to get acquainted with us, Mr. Earnshaw, and know all our ways before
any one else comes.”
“But a day or two ought to be the limit--” Edgar began, hesitating.
“What! you have said nothing?” said Lady Mary, hastily turning to her
husband. He put his finger on his lip.
“You are a most impetuous little person, Mary,” he said, “you don’t know
the kind of bird we have got into the net. You think he will let you
openly and without any illusion put salt upon his tail. No greater
mistake could be. Earnshaw,” he added calmly, “come and let me show you
your room. We dine directly, as we are alone and above ceremony. You can
talk to my wife as much as you like after dinner--I shall go to sleep.
What a blessing it is to be allowed to go to sleep after dinner,” he
went on as he led the way upstairs, “especially on Saturday night--when
one is tired and has Sunday to look forward to.”
“Why should it be especially blessed on Saturday night?”
“My dear fellow,” said the host solemnly, ushering his guest into a
large and pleasant room, brilliant with firelight, “it is very clear
that you have never kept a shop.”
And with these words he disappeared, leaving Edgar, it must be allowed,
somewhat disturbed in his mind as to what it could all mean, why he had
been thus selected as a visitor and conducted to this fairy palace; what
it was that the wife wondered her husband had not said--and indeed what
the whole incident meant? As he looked round upon his luxurious
quarters, and felt himself restored as it were to the life he had so
long abandoned, curious dreams and fancies came fluttering about Edgar
without any will of his own. It was like the adventure (often enough
repeated) in the Arabian nights, in which the hero is met by some
mysterious mute and blindfolded, and led into a mysterious hall, all
cool with plashing fountains and sweet with flowers. These images were
not exactly suited to the wintry drive he had just taken, though that
was pleasant enough in its way, and no bed of roses could have been so
agreeable as the delightful glimpse of the fire, and all the warm and
soft comfort about him. But had he been blindfolded--had he been brought
unawares into some beneficent snare? Edgar’s heart began to beat a
little quicker than usual. He did not know and dared not have whispered
to himself what the fancies were that beset him. He tried to frown them
down, to represent to himself that he was mad, that the curious freak of
his new friend, and his own long fasting from all social intercourse had
made this first taste of it too much for his brain. But all that he
could do was not enough to free him from the wild fancies which buzzed
about him like gnats in Summer, each with its own particular hum and
sting. He dressed hurriedly and took a book by way of escaping from
them, a dry book which he compelled himself to read, rather than go
crazy altogether. Good heavens, was he mad already? In that mysterious
palace where the hero is brought blindfold, where he is waited on by
unseen hands, and finds glorious garments and wonderful feasts magically
prepared for him, is there not always in reserve a princess more
wonderful still, who takes possession of the wayfarer? “Retro, Satanas!”
cried poor Edgar, throwing the book from him, feeling his cheeks flush
and burn like a girl’s, and his heart leap into his throat. No greater
madness, no greater folly could be. It was no doing of his, he protested
to himself with indignation and dismay. Some evil spirit had got hold of
him; he refused to think, and yet these dreamy mocking fancies would get
into his head. It was a relief beyond description to him when the dinner
bell rang and he could hurry downstairs. When he went into the
drawing-room, however, all the buzzing brood of thoughts which fluttered
within him, grew still and departed in a moment; his heart ceased to
thump, and an utter quiet and stillness took the place of the former
commotion. Why? Simply because he found Lady Mary and Mr. Tottenham
awaiting him calmly, without a vestige of any other _convive_, except a
boy of twelve and a girl two years younger, who came up to him with a
pretty demure frankness and put out their hands in welcome.
“My boy and my girl,” said Mr. Tottenham; “and Molly, as your mother is
going in with Mr. Earnshaw, you must try to look very grown up for the
nonce, and take my arm and walk with me.”
“And poor Phil must come alone!” said the little girl with mingled
regret and triumph. No, it was very clear to Edgar that he himself was
not only a fool of the first water, but a presumptuous ass, a coxcomb
fool, everything that was worst and vainest. And yet it had not been his
doing; it was not he who had originated these foolish thoughts, which
had assailed, and swarmed, and buzzed about him like a crowd of gnats or
wasps--wasps was the better word; for there was spitefulness in the way
they had persisted and held their own; but now, thank heaven, they were
done with! He came to himself with a little shudder, and gave Lady Mary
his arm, and walked through the ordinary passage of an ordinary house,
into a room which was a handsome dining-room, but not a mystic hall; and
then they all sat down at table, the two children opposite to him, in
the most prosaic and ordinary way.
“You think it wrong to have the children, Mr. Earnshaw?” said Lady Mary,
“and so do I--though I like it. It is only when we are alone, and it is
all their father’s doing. I tell him it will spoil their digestion and
their manners--”
“If it spoils Molly’s manners to associate with her mother the more’s
the pity,” said Mr. Tottenham, “we shall try the experiment anyhow. What
we call the lower classes don’t treat their children as we do; they
accept the responsibility and go in for the disagreeables; therefore,
though we hate having those brats here, we go in for them on principle.
Earnshaw, have you considered the matter of education? Have you any
ideas on the subject? Not like your friend Lord Newmarch, who has the
correct ideas on everything, cut and dry, delivered by the last post. I
don’t want that. Have you any notions of your own?”
“About education?” said Edgar, “I don’t think it. I fear I have few
ideas on any abstract subject. The chances are that I will easily agree
with you whatever may be your opinions; heaven has preserved me from
having any of my own.”
“Then you will just suit each other,” said Lady Mary, “which he and
I--forgive me for letting you into our domestic miseries, Mr.
Earnshaw--don’t do at all, on this point; for we have both ideas, and
flourish them about us unmercifully. How happy he will be as long as he
can have you to listen to him! not that I believe you will be half as
good as your word.”
“Ideas are the salt of life,” said Mr. Tottenham; “that of course is
what has made you look so languid for some time past.”
Edgar looked up in surprise. “Have I been looking languid? Have you been
observing me?” he cried. “This is after all a fairy palace where I have
been brought blindfolded, and where every action of my life is known.”
Upon this, Mr. Philip Tottenham, aged twelve, pricked up his ears. “Were
you brought here blindfolded?” he said. “What fun! like the Arabian
Nights. I wish somebody would take me like that into a fairy palace,
where there would be a beautiful lady--”
“Phil, you are talking nonsense,” said his mother.
“Where the dinner would come when you clapped your hands, and sherbets
and ices and black servants, who would cross their arms on their breasts
and nod their heads like images--It was he began it,” cried Philip,
breathless, getting it all out in a burst before anyone could interpose.
“You see how these poor children are spoilt,” said Lady Mary; “yes, he
has been observing you, Mr. Earnshaw. I sent him into town three days in
succession, on purpose.”
“You have looked as languid as a young lady after the season,” said Mr.
Tottenham calmly, “till I saw there was nothing for you but the country,
and a sharp diet of talks and schemes, and the ideas you scorn. When a
man is happy and prosperous, it is all very well for him to do nothing;
but if you happen to be on the wrong side of the hill, my dear fellow,
you can’t afford to keep quiet. You must move on, as Policeman X would
say; or your friends must keep you moving on. To-morrow is Sunday,
unfortunately, when we shall be obliged to keep moderately quiet--”
“Is it wrong to talk on Sunday?” said the little girl, appealing gravely
to Edgar, whom for some time she had been gazing at.
“Not that I know of,” Edgar replied with a smile; but as he looked from
one to the other of the parent pair, he said to himself that there was
no telling what theory upon this subject these excellent people might
have. They might be desperate Sabbatarians for anything he could tell.
“Why do you ask Mr. Earnshaw, Molly?” said Lady Mary.
“Because,” said Molly, “I saw his picture once. I knew him whenever I
saw him, and when I asked who it was, they said it was a very good man.
So I knew it must be quite right to ask him. Papa talks more on Sunday
than on other days, though he always talks a great deal; and yet just
now he said because it is Sunday we must be quiet. Then I said to
myself, why must we be quiet on Sunday? is it wrong?”
“This child is too logical for our peace of mind,” said Mr. Tottenham;
“if it were Phil it would not matter so much, for school would soon
drive that out of him.”
“But he is not going to school,” said Lady Mary quickly.
“Not yet, perhaps--but some time or other, I hope; a boy has not half
lived who has not been to school. I suppose politics are your strong
point, Earnshaw? Foreign politics, to judge from what I heard Newmarch
saying. That fellow wants to pick your brains. I should not think it a
subject that would pay, unless you made it your _cheval de bataille_,
like Gordon Grant, who knows everything that happens abroad better than
the people themselves do--who never, he tells us, see half what is going
on.”
“Quite true,” said Lady Mary, “they never do; one doesn’t in one’s own
experience. One finds out all the little incidents afterwards, and
pieces them into their places.”
“Only it is Earnshaw who is to find out the little incidents, and
Newmarch who is to piece them into their places,” said her husband;
“hard work for the one, great fun, and great glory besides, for the
other. I don’t think I should care to be jackal to Newmarch; especially
as he means all this to be done, not by a Secretary of Legation, but by
a Queen’s Messenger. Do you know what kind of life that is?”
Edgar shook his head. He knew nothing about it, and at this moment he
did not care very much. The buzzing and persecution of those thoughts
which were none of his, which had a separate existence of their own, and
tortured him for admission into his mind, had recommenced. What had he
been brought here for? Why did they attempt to disgust him with the only
career open before him? What did they intend to do with him? The father
and his boy might be ordinary beings enough, with whom he could have
kept up an ordinary intercourse; but Lady Mary and her little daughter
had the strangest effect upon the young man. One of them was full grown,
motherly, on the border of middle age--the other was but a child; yet
the tone of their voices, the turn of their heads, all suggested to him
some one else who was not there. Even little Molly had the family
gestures, the throwing back of the light locks, the sweet brightness of
the eyes, which were so playful and soft, yet so full of vivacious
spirit and life. Poor Edgar was kept in a kind of confused rapture
between the mother and the child; both of them reflected another face,
and echoed another voice to him; between them they seemed to be stealing
all the strength out of him, the very heart from his bosom. He had been
absent three years and had it all come to this, that the soft strain of
enchantment which had charmed him so softly, so lightly, never to any
height of passion, had grown stronger with time, and moved him now more
deeply than at first? These persecuting thoughts made a swoop upon him
like a flight of birds, sweeping down through the air and surrounding
him, as he sat there helpless. Why had he been brought to this
magician’s palace? What did they mean to do with him now? The child had
seen his portrait, the father had been sent to watch him, the mother
asked had anything been said. What was about to be said? What were they
going to do with him? Poor Edgar looked out as from a mist, gradually
overwhelmed by his own excitement, and finally left the doors of his
helpless heart open, as it were, making it a highway through which any
kind of futile supposition might flit and dance. He sat helpless,
excited and wondering. What were they going to do with him? He did not
know.