The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard lay all
deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill. Through this
Nance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the swellings of the moor
with a heart that somewhat fluttered in her bosom. She was not afraid,
but in the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer
had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal him.
The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this cold night walk was
the first romantic incident in her experience.
It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after dinner, yet
Nance was both surprised and amused when her companion, who had spoken so
soberly, began to stumble and waver by her side with the most airy
divagations. Sometimes he would get so close to her that she must edge
away; and at others lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep
heather. His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered. He
asked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon the
moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood expressed his
pleasure. ‘For,’ said he, ‘I am passionately fond of trees. Trees and
fair lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature,
as palaces and fine approaches—’ And here he stumbled into a patch of
slough and nearly fell. The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at
heart she was lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly.
They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the ‘Green Dragon,’ and
were near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels arrested
them. Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, now much
declined in brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous
bright dots of my Lord Windermoor’s chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer followed
these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into points and
disappeared.
‘There goes my only friend,’ he said. ‘Death has cut off those that
loved me, and change of fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you,
poor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as this moor.’
The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood there on the
side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void waste of
the night, without a feature for the eye, and except for the fainting
whisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for the ear. And
instantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and
jolly, the note of the mail-guard’s horn. ‘Over the hills’ was his air.
It rose to the two watchers on the moor with the most cheerful sentiment
of human company and travel, and at the same time in and around the
‘Green Dragon’ it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and fro and
clattering hoofs. Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the
mail grew near with a growing rumble. Its lamps were very large and
bright, and threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four
cantering horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like
a great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of ineffectual
swiftness over the black field of night, and was eclipsed by the
buildings of the ‘Green Dragon.’
Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that he was
now more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, and had
fallen into a silence broken by sighs. Nance waxed very pitiful over his
fate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and great society, and
perhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she
was now conducting him.
‘You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,’ said she. ‘To be sure this
is a great change for one like you; but who knows the future?’
Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could clearly
perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. ‘There spoke a sweet
nature,’ said he, ‘and I must thank you for these words. But I would not
have you fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or
that I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country. I am a man that
has been much tossed about in life; now up, now down; and do you think
that I shall not be able to support what you support—you who are kind,
and therefore know how to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore
hope; who are young, and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?)
discontented?’
‘Nay, sir, not that, at least,’ said Nance; ‘not discontented. If I were
to be discontented, how should I look those that have real sorrows in the
face? I have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits
too, for I have a good opinion of myself. But for beauty, I am not so
simple but that I can tell a banter from a compliment.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I had half forgotten; grief is selfish, and
I was thinking of myself and not of you, or I had never blurted out so
bold a piece of praise. ’Tis the best proof of my sincerity. But come,
now, I would lay a wager you are no coward?’
‘Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,’ said Nance. ‘None of
my blood are given to fear.’
‘And you are honest?’ he returned.
‘I will answer for that,’ said she.
‘Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be contented,
since you say you are so—is not that to fill up a great part of virtue?’
‘I fear you are but a flatterer,’ said Nance, but she did not say it
clearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her heart was quite
oppressed.
There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but yet
they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for reasons however
obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and most unfortunate young
gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost an apotheosis, for a country
maid.
But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming any
thought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her all
through the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of perfect
sincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of interest. Had
open flattery continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good
sense; but the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less avoid.
It was the first time she had ever taken part in a conversation
illuminated by any ideas. All was then true that she had heard and
dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race apart, like deities knowing good
and evil. And then there burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope’s
glorious sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she
too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn?
or was she not learning? Would not her soul awake and put forth wings?
Was she not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to
become royal? She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the
most exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint
etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking like a
book.
Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the river
dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed on the night,
covering with its broken battlements a bold projection of the bank, and
showing at the extreme end, where were the habitable tower and wing, some
crevices of candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and he
was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, where the
ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the swarded courtyard,
avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of fallen masonry.
The arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked by two tottering
bastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of
the bridge, bent somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow
of his own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the old
man was in no humour of compliance. He guided the newcomer across the
court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in his face, and grumbling all
the time about the cold, and the discomfort and dilapidation of the
castle. He was sure he hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth
he could not think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good
reason—this with a look of cunning scrutiny—but, indeed, the place was
quite unfit for any person of repute; he himself was eaten up with the
rheumatics. It was the most rheumaticky place in England, and some fine
day the whole habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away
bodily and go down the slope into the river. He had seen the cracks
widening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought a spring
was mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were
all sure of a come-down sooner or later. ‘And that is a poor death,’
said he, ‘for any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin
dumped upon his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar
vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide ’em. Well,
sir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and wishing you well away.’
And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, and down
three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common room of the
castle. It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, occupying the
whole width of the habitable wing, with six barred windows looking on the
court, and two into the river valley. A dresser, a table, and a few
chairs stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. Under the
great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a high old
settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, flanked it on
either side; there was a hinge table and a stone bench in the chimney
corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great sheaves
of rusty keys.
Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his
shoulders, with a pitying grimace. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘See the damp
on the floor, look at the moss; where there’s moss you may be sure that
it’s rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to warm yourself; it’ll
blow the coat off your back. And with a young gentleman with a face like
yours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I’d be afeard of a churchyard cough
and a galloping decline,’ says Jonathan, naming the maladies with gloomy
gusto, ‘or the cold might strike and turn your blood,’ he added.
Mr. Archer fairly laughed. ‘My good Mr. Holdaway,’ said he, ‘I was born
with that same tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me
with is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private hours. But
I think I can promise you that I am very little troublesome, and I am
inclined to hope that the terms which I can offer may still pay you the
derangement.’
‘Yes, the terms,’ said Jonathan, ‘I was thinking of that. As you say,
they are very small,’ and he shook his head.
‘Unhappily, I can afford no more,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘But this we have
arranged already,’ he added with a certain stiffness; ‘and as I am aware
that Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit,
retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk is to follow
from the “Dragon.” So if you will show me to my room I shall wish you a
good slumber and a better awakening.’
Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and
curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the broad
winding staircase of the tower. He followed with a very brooding face.
‘Alas!’ cried Nance, as she entered the room, ‘your fire black out,’ and,
setting down the lantern, she clapped upon her knees before the chimney
and began to rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains. Mr.
Archer looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of shudder. The
great height, the bare stone, the shattered windows, the aspect of the
uncurtained bed, with one of its four fluted columns broken short, all
struck a chill upon his fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned
to Nance crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully
puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon the
soft outline of her cheek—she was alive and young, coloured with the
bright hues of life, and a woman. He looked upon her, softening; and
then sat down and continued to admire the picture.
‘There, sir,’ said she, getting upon her feet, ‘your fire is doing
bravely now. Good-night.’
He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you are my only friend
in these parts, and you must shake hands.’
She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing.
‘God bless you, my dear,’ said he.
And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and stared
down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the river among stones
ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank stood very black
against the sky; farther away an owl was hooting. It was dreary and
cold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the fine glow of fire,
‘Heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what an unfortunate destiny is mine!’
He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches.
Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones
of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and
the bed complained under his tossings. Lastly, far on into the morning,
he awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and
breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down mail was
drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’ He sat up in bed; the sound was
tragical by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human
speech. It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence—to call him
far away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed
to seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry
woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on the Great
North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber.