Three miles from the long white road that runs between sedate old
Shrewsbury and the town of Wellington, there stood a prominent object in
the landscape, high upon a wooded hill to the right. It was the ancient
castle of Wroxeter, one of the best preserved and most historic of the
Norman castles of England.
Seen through the trees, golden in their autumn tints, it was an imposing
grey pile, rich in turrets with narrow windows, whence, long ago,
archers had showered their shafts, but which were now half concealed by
an evergreen mantle. Closer inspection showed that it was a fortress no
longer. The old moat, once fed from the winding Severn close by, was
now a well-kept garden with gravelled walks and trees cut into fantastic
shapes, while around the building were level lawns sweeping away to the
great park beyond.
One wing of the fine old feudal castle was in decay. The shattered
state of the tower was due to a siege conducted by Cromwell, and the ivy
had overgrown the ruins. All the other parts were in good order, stern
and impressive in regard to the exterior, yet luxurious within. In the
great courtyard, that had through the Middle Ages so often rung with the
clank of sword and the tread of armed men, moss grew between the
pebbles, and the echoes were only nowadays awakened by the wheels of the
high dog-cart which conveyed its owner to and from the railway station
at Shrewsbury. The old drawbridge had been replaced by a gravel drive a
century ago; yet in the fine oak-panelled hall there still stood the
rust-stained armour of the departed Chisholms, together with the faded
and tattered banners carried by them in tournament and battle.
Built on the site of the Roman city called Vriconium, whilst in the park
and in neighbouring meadows traces of the city wall could still be seen,
the fosse and the basilica were still visible. The history of Wroxeter
began with the Norman survey, the account given of it in Domesday Book
being as follows:
"Chisholme holds a hide and three roodlands in Wroxeter in this manor,
which was always included in the district of Haughmond, where the castle
is situated. Roger had half a hide, and Ralph two roodlands. There is
one plough and a half in the demesne, and seven villeins with ten
bondmen have four ploughs and a half. The whole value in the time of
the Confessor was six pounds, it has since been estimated at six: but it
is now appreciated at nine pounds."
The portion now ruined was standing in those early days of England's
history, but it was not until the third year of Richard the Second's
reign that the other portion of the old fortress was completed by Sir
Robert Chisholm, who (together with Sir John Calveley of Chester and Sir
John Hawkwood of Haughmond Castle), was a celebrated captain of those
marauding bands that shared in the triumphs of Cressy and Poitiers. The
following distich, by a mediaeval poet, records his prowess:
"O Roberte Chisholme, per te fit Francia mollis,
Ense tuo tollis praedas, dans vulnera collis."
_O Robert Chisholm, the stubborn souls
Of Frenchmen well you check;
Your mighty blade has largely preyed,
And wounded many a neck_.
During those stormy days of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
Wroxeter withstood many a fierce assault and sheltered not a few of
England's kings and queens as guests of the Chisholms, many of whom had
been favourites at Court and held official positions of high importance.
Queen Elizabeth was the last monarch to visit the castle, and the
memory of that event was kept green by the name given to the old-world
garden over-looking the Severn, which was known as the Queen's Garden.
It was a grand old building, this feudal home to which Dudley Chisholm
returned on the night following the farewell scene which had taken place
between himself and the frivolous woman with whose name his own had been
linked. He had invited for three days' shooting two men--Colonel
Murray-Kerr, a retired military attache, and Henry Benthall, a man who
had been at college with him, and who had, after being called to the
bar, successfully contested East Glamorganshire. All three had
travelled down from Euston together; but Dudley, after a sleepless
night, had risen long before his guests and wandered through the vast
and lonely chambers, full of melancholy musings. He would have put the
men off, for he was in no mood to entertain, but there had been no time.
So he spent an idle hour alone before his guests appeared for breakfast.
He wandered through the great and gloomy hall, the vaulted ceiling of
which had so often echoed to the laughter of the banquets held there in
bygone days. It was now tenanted only by the many suits of armour that
had belonged to his illustrious forefathers. His steps sounded in a
grim fashion upon the floor of polished oak, and as he passed the huge
fireplace, where once the oxen had been roasted whole to satisfy the
Gargantuan appetites of mediaeval warriors, a servant threw open the
door leading into the long picture gallery.
What an array of fine pictures was there! For each member of this
ancient family his or her arms had been painted in the right-hand corner
of the canvas. The Chisholms were a handsome, stalwart race, the men
strong and the women beautiful. In the features of nearly all, however,
there was the same predominant characteristic, the stern gravity, which
in Dudley was so often mistaken for actual asperity. Before the last
portrait at the farther end of the gallery--the picture of a young and
eminently beautiful woman--the young man paused. It was his mother.
Deep in contemplation, he stood before it for a long time. His lips
moved, but no sound escaped them. At last, with a deep sigh, he passed
on, still walking at the same slow pace, plunged in his melancholy
thoughts.
He passed round the big quadrangle, through one great room after the
other: the blue drawingroom, Anne Boleyn's sitting-room, the grand
drawing-room, the library, each an apartment of fine dimensions, mostly
panelled in oak dark with age and containing antique furniture, curios
connected with the family history through eight unbroken centuries, with
many other priceless works of art.
Two or three of the smaller rooms, such as the breakfast-room, the
dining-room, and his dead mother's boudoir, were alone furnished in
modern style. In all the others there seemed to linger an atmosphere of
bygone centuries. This was the fine old home which so many mothers
coveted for their daughters. Indeed, there were a hundred pretty and
well-born girls in London, each of whom was at that moment ready to
become chatelaine of Wroxeter.
But Dudley strolled on slowly, almost like a man in a dream. He was
seldom at Wroxeter out of the shooting season. The place was to him
something of a white elephant. He had spent his boyhood there, but
recollections of the rather unhappy life and early death of that
grave-faced woman, his mother, caused him to dislike the old place. One
or two memories he would fain forget--memories of his mother's sorrow
regarding her husband's mode of life and eccentricities. Truth to tell,
husband and wife did not live happily together, and Dudley, knowing
this, had been his mother's sympathiser and champion.
These handsome rooms, with their ancient tapestries, wonderful carpets,
exquisite carvings, old Venetian mirrors and time-darkened gilt, even in
the gay light of morning seemed to him sombre and full of ghosts of the
past. He only used the library and half a dozen of the smaller and more
modern rooms in the eastern wing. The splendid state apartments which
he had just passed through he seldom visited. No one entered them,
except the servants to clean and open the windows, and the upholsterer
who at fixed intervals came from Shrewsbury to examine the tapestries
worked centuries ago by the fair hands of the Chisholm women.
From the great drawing-room, a huge apartment with a rather low ceiling
curiously carved, he passed on, and traversing one of the ante rooms,
found himself in the long corridor which ran the whole length of the
quadrangle. The stone flooring was worn hollow in the centre by the
tramp of generations of armed men, and the quaint arched doors were
heavy and studded with monstrous nails. He stood there for a few
minutes, glancing through the diamond panes out into the ancient
courtyard. His abstracted mood was suddenly disturbed by the sound of
the breakfast gong. As his guests would be awaiting him, he must throw
care to the dogs for a few hours and try to amuse them.
Turning, he walked down the long corridor. As he did so he recollected
the strange tradition which he had heard in his youth--namely, that in
this passage had been seen at certain intervals a strange old lady,
humpbacked and small, dressed in rusty black, who "walked" the corridor
even in the middle of the day, and then suddenly disappeared through a
door which for a full century past had been walled up. This legendary
apparition was known to the family as Lady Margaret, and whenever she
showed herself in the corridor it was a presage of evil to the
Chisholms.
Dudley laughed within himself as he remembered his childish terror when
his old nurse used to relate those dramatic stories about her deformed
ladyship and the evil influence she exerted upon his house. It is
strange how deeply rooted become many of the convictions of our
childhood, especially where a family superstition is concerned; and
Chisholm, even though he was a level-headed man of the world, had in his
more mature years found himself wondering whether, after all, there had
been any foundation for the legend.
Family ghosts do not, however, appear nowadays. They were all "laid"
last century. So he laughed again to himself and continued on his way
across the east wing to the bright breakfast-room, where his two guests
were already awaiting him.
"What a lazy beggar you are, Dudley!" cried Benthall, as his host
greeted them and took his seat at the head of the table.
"No, my dear fellow," protested the Under-Secretary. "I--oh, well, I've
been up quite a long time, and have already consulted Marston about our
sport to-day. He says there are some strong birds over in the Dean
Copse, so we'll work that this morning."
"Excellent! I recollect the splendid sport we got there last year!"
exclaimed the colonel, a tall, white-haired, soldierly old fellow with a
somewhat florid complexion and a well-trimmed moustache. He was a
first-class shot, and now that he had retired from the Diplomatic
Service, spent the whole of the shooting season at one house or another
in different parts of the country. He was a popular, all-round
sportsman, always welcome at any house-party, for he was full of droll
stories, a bachelor, and a great favourite among the ladies. The
announcement of a hostess to the effect that "Colonel Murray-Kerr will
be here," was always received with satisfaction by both sexes. As he
had graduated as military attache at the Embassies in Vienna, St.
Petersburg, and, finally, in Rome, he was a cosmopolitan of
cosmopolitans, though at the same time a thorough Englishman, and one of
Dudley's most intimate friends.
There were letters on the table for their host, two bulky ones marked
"On His Majesty's Service," from the Foreign Office, and another, the
handwriting on the envelope of which he saw at a glance to be Claudia's.
He glanced at this, then placed it in his pocket unopened.
"Oh, read it, my dear fellow," laughed the colonel, quickly divining
that it was from a woman. "Don't mind us in the least."
"Only tell us who's the lady," chimed in Benthall merrily.
"Oh, it's nothing," Dudley assured them, rather annoyed, nevertheless.
"From Lady Richard--eh?" suggested the old officer chaffingly. "By
Jove!" he went on; "she's really charming. I was staying last week down
at Fernhurst, the place old Meldrum has just bought in Sussex, and she
was there. Quite a host of smart women were staying there, but she, of
course, eclipsed them all. I fear she's a sad flirt, Dudley, my boy,
even though they say she's a bit fond of you."
"I know she's a flirt," Chisholm answered, rather thoughtfully. The
mention of the name of Meldrum brought to his mind what Claudia had
admitted, namely, that she had taken Lady Meldrum to his rooms.
The old colonel, who always maintained a diplomatic smartness in his
attire, was a terrible gossip. He was a living Debrett, and a guide to
knowledge affecting social affairs in half the courts of Europe. He
knew everybody, as well as everything worth knowing about them. This
was his hobby. Perhaps he rode it all the more perseveringly because a
natural talent for inquisitiveness had been steadily cultivated during
his long service as an attache; for, as all the world knows, an official
of this standing is little better than a spy. So, without any thought
of hurting his young host's feelings, he continued his reminiscences of
the house-party:
"We had splendid sport down at Fernhurst. The birds were very strong,
and there were several excellent shots. But Lady Richard was, of
course, the centre of all the attractions. Every man Jack among the
males was absolutely her slave, lock, stock and barrel! By Jove! I
don't think in all my diplomatic career I've ever seen a woman play them
off one against the other with such _finesse_. Meldrum seems to have
got into society wonderfully well of late. The young Grand-Duke
Stanislas was there, and he made desperate love to the pretty widow.
Indeed, so marked were their flirtations, that several of the feminine
contingent declared themselves scandalised, and left. But, of course,
the real truth was that they knew themselves to be entirely out of the
running. One thing, however, struck me as curious--very curious: the
hostess, a rather matronly _bourgeoise_ person, seemed to throw the pair
into one another's society as much as possible. At any rate, the
extravagant flirtation nearly resulted in an open scandal. To my mind,
Dudley, she's playing a decidedly dangerous game. Forgive me for saying
so, if she's more to you than a jolly acquaintance; but you know the
proverb about the pitcher going too often to the well."
"Angling after a Grand-Duke sounds bold," observed Benthall, attacking
his cutlet. "I always thought, Dudley, old chap, that she had set her
mind on becoming mistress of Wroxeter."
"Oh, I know," exclaimed their host impatiently, although trying to
conceal his annoyance, "a lot of rot has been talked! I'm quite well
aware of what you fellows mean. But I assure you that I'm a confirmed
bachelor--just as confirmed as you, colonel--and, hang it! if report
speaks correctly, you're one of the worst of the woman-haters in the
whole of the Albany."
"I've never had any necessity to marry," laughed the old officer, his
cheeks flushing with good humour.
"I've piloted some ripping ball-skirts and tailor-made gowns through
half the courts of Europe, but I'm still heart-whole."
"A fine record," observed Harry Benthall with his mouth full. At that
breakfast-table there was no ceremony, and words were certainly not
minced.
"Well, every one seems to be linking my name with Claudia Nevill's,"
Dudley remarked, after commencing his breakfast, "I really can't see
why."
"But I can," declared the colonel bluntly. "You're a fool--if you'll
forgive me for saying so."
"Why?"
"A fool for giving a second thought to a woman of her stamp," he
answered. "Good heavens! if you knew half the tales about her, you'd
cut her dead. I wonder why the Meldrums invited her? Suppose they
couldn't help it--or something."
"What tales?" asked Dudley, glancing inquiringly from one man to the
other.
"No. I'm not going to besmirch any woman's character, my dear fellow,"
replied the elder man. "Only, take my advice and have nothing more to
do with her--that's all. She's no good to you, or indeed to any honest
man."
"Some foul scandal about her, I suppose," cried Chisholm, his brow
darkening for an instant. As a matter of fact, he knew the scandal
quite well. It was the common talk in every club in town. But he
intended to champion her, even though he had escaped from her net. "Why
don't you tell me?"
"It is unnecessary--utterly unnecessary," the colonel answered, making
as if breakfast were more important than gossip.
"A pretty woman, smart and popular as she is, always gets talked about,
and her enemies are sure to invent some cruel story or other. Half the
women in London are envious of Claudia Nevill, hence all these absurd
and scandalous tales," Chisholm declared.
"Ah!" laughed the colonel, "as I said, you're gone on her, like the
others, Dudley. You are old friends, every one knows. It's a pity that
she's so reckless."
"In what manner has she been reckless?"
"Well, if you had been down at Fernhurst and seen her with the young
Grand-Duke, you wouldn't defend her actions as you are now doing--well,
by Jove! you couldn't. I'm a man of the world, you know, but I must say
that the flirtation was a regular blizzard."
"And is every woman who glances prettily at a man from behind her fan,
or chats to a fellow in a conservatory, to be condemned?" asked his
host. "If so, then society has suddenly become intensely puritanical.
Remember that the licence not allowed to an unmarried girl may
justifiably be employed by a widow."
"Widow!" laughed Murray-Kerr adjusting his monocle. "My dear boy, I'm
perfectly with you; but then the fair Claudia is one in ten millions.
She's more like a girl of eighteen, in face, figure, and the choice of
lovers, than the usual prim and stale relict with whom we are all more
or less familiar."
"Just because she's popular, all this confounded gossip buzzes here,
there, and everywhere. My name is coupled with hers, and all kinds of
ridiculous stories have been started about us. I know, for too many of
them have come to my ears."
"Then if you know, Dudley, why don't you take my advice and cut her?"
asked the old officer, fixing his host with his keen eyes.