When Fortune showed him his room before dinner he was silent and
inclined to scoff. He had been shown the other rooms by Nutley when he
first arrived, and had gazed at them, accepting them without surprise,
much as he would have gazed at rooms in some show-place or princely
palace that he had paid a shilling to visit. The hall, the dining-room,
the library, the long gallery—he had looked at them all, and had nodded
in reply to the solicitor’s comments, but not for a moment had it
entered his head to regard the rooms as his own. To be left, however, in
this room that resembled all the others, and to be told that it was his
bedroom; to realize that he was to sleep inside that brocaded
four-poster with the ostrich plumes nodding on the top; to envisage the
trivial and vulgar functions of his daily dressing and undressing as
taking place within this room that although so small was yet so
stately—this was a shock that made him draw in his breath. Left alone,
his hand raised to give a tug at his tie, he stared round and emitted a
soft whistle. The walls were hung with tapestry, a grey-green landscape
of tapestry, the borders formed by two fat twisted columns, looped
across with garlands of flowers and fruits, and cherubs with distended
cheeks blew zephyrs across this woven Arcady. High-backed Stuart chairs
of black and gold.... Chase wanted to take off his boots, but did not
venture to sit down on the tawny cane-work. He moved about gingerly,
afraid of spoiling something. Then he remembered that everything was his
to spoil if he so chose. Everything waited on his good pleasure; the
whole house, all those rooms, the garden; all those unknown farms and
acres that Nutley and Stanforth had discussed. The thought produced no
exhilaration in him, but, rather, an extreme embarrassment and alarm. He
was more than ever dismayed to think that someone, sooner or later, was
certain to come to him for orders....
He hesitated for an appreciable time before making up his mind to go
down to dinner; in fact, even after he had resolutely pushed open his
bedroom door, he still wavered upon its threshold. The landing, lit by
the yellow flame of a solitary candle stuck into a silver sconce, was
full of shadows: the well of the staircase gaped black; and across the
great window red velvet curtains had been drawn, and now hung from floor
to ceiling. Down the passage, behind one of those mysterious closed
doors, lay the old woman dead in her pompous bed. So the house must have
drowsed, evening after evening, before Chase ever came near it, with the
only difference that from one of those doors had emerged an old lady
dressed in black silk, leaning on a stick, an arbitrary old lady, who
had slowly descended the polished stairs, carefully placing the rubber
ferule of her stick from step to step, and helping herself on the
banisters with the other hand, instead of the alien clerk from
Wolverhampton, who hesitated to go downstairs to dinner because he
feared there would be a servant in the room to wait upon him.
There was. Chase dined miserably, and was relieved only when he was left
alone, port and madeira set before him, and the four candles reflected
in the shining oak table. A greyhound, which had joined him at the foot
of the stairs, now sat gravely beside him, and he gave him bits of
biscuit as he had not dared to do in the presence of the servant. More
at his ease at last, he sat thinking what he would do with the few
hundreds a year Nutley predicted for him. Not such an unprofitable
business after all, perhaps! He would be able to move from his lodgings
in Wolverhampton; perhaps he could take a small villa with a little bit
of garden in front. His imagination did not extend beyond Wolverhampton.
Perhaps he could keep back one or two pieces of plate from the sale; he
would like to have something to remind him of his connection with
Blackboys and with his family. He cautiously picked up a porringer that
was the only ornament on the table, and examined it. It gave him a
little shock of familiarity to see that the coat-of-arms engraved on it
was the same as the coat on his own signet ring, inherited from his
father, and the motto was the same too: _Intabescantque Relictâ_, and
the tiny peregrine falcon as the crest. Absurd to be surprised! He ought
to remember that he wasn’t a stranger here; he was Chase, no less than
the old lady had been Chase, no less than all the portraits upstairs
were Chase. He had already seen that coat-of-arms to-day, in the
heraldic window, but without taking in its meaning. It gave him a new
sense of confidence now, reassuring him that he wasn’t the interloper he
felt himself to be.
It was pleasant enough to linger here, with silence and shadows all
round the pool of candlelight, that lit the polish of the table, the
curves of the silver, and the dark wine in the round-bellied decanters;
pleasant to dream of that villa which might now be attainable; but he
had better go, or the servant would be coming to clear away.
Rising, he went out into the hall, followed by the dog, who seemed to
have adopted him unquestioningly. As Chase didn’t know his name, he bent
down to read the inscription on the collar, but found only the address:
CHASE, BLACKBOYS. That had been the old lady’s address, of course, but
it would do for him too; he needn’t have the collar altered. CHASE,
BLACKBOYS. It was simply handed on; no change. It gave him a queer
sensation; this coming to Blackboys was certainly a queer experience,
interrupting his life. He scarcely knew where he was as yet, or what he
was doing; he had to keep reminding himself with an effort.
In the hall he hesitated, uncertain as to which was the door of the
library, afraid that if he opened the wrong door he would find himself
in the servants’ quarters, perhaps even open it on them as they sat at
supper. The dog stood in front of one door, wagging his tail and looking
up at Chase, so he tried the handle; it was the wrong door, but instead
of leading to the servants’ quarters it opened straight on to the
moonlit garden. The greyhound bounded out and ran about in the
moonlight, a wraith of a dog in the ghostly garden. Ghostly.... Chase
wandered out, up the walk to the top of the garden, where he turned to
look down upon the house, folded black in the hollow, the moonlight
gleaming along the moat and winking on a window. Not a breath ruffled
that milky stillness; the great cloths of light lay spread out over the
grass, the blocks of shadow were profound; above the low-lying park
trailed a faint white mist, and in a vaporous sky the moon rode calm and
sovereign. Chase felt that on a scene so perfectly set something ought
to happen. A pity that it should all be wasted.... How many such nights
must have been wasted! the prodigal loveliness of summer nights, lying
illusory under the moon, shamelessly soliciting romance! But nothing
happened; there was nothing but Chase looking down on the silent house,
looking for a long time down on the silent house, and thinking that, on
that night so set for a lovers’ meeting, no lovers had met.