[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 25.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
NATURE ON THE ROOF.
BY RICHARD JEFFERIES,
AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.
Increased activity on the housetop marks the approach of spring
and summer exactly as in the woods and hedges, for the roof has
its migrants, its semi-migrants, and its residents. When the first
dandelion is opening on a sheltered bank, and the pale-blue field
veronica flowers in the waste corner, the whistle of the starling comes
from his favourite ledge. Day by day it is heard more and more, till,
when the first green spray appears on the hawthorn, he visits the roof
continually. Besides the roof-tree and the chimney-top, he has his own
special place, sometimes under an eave, sometimes between two gables;
and as I sit writing, I can see a pair who have a ledge which slightly
projects from the wall between the eave and the highest window.
This was made by the builder for an ornament; but my two starlings
consider it their own particular possession. They alight with a sort of
half-scream half-whistle just over the window, flap their wings, and
whistle again, run along the ledge to a spot where there is a gable,
and with another note, rise up and enter an aperture between the slates
and the wall. There their nest will be in a little time, and busy
indeed they will be when the young require to be fed, to and fro the
fields and the gable the whole day through, the busiest and the most
useful of birds, for they destroy thousands upon thousands of insects,
and if farmers were wise, they would never have one shot, no matter how
the thatch was pulled about.
My pair of starlings were frequently at this ledge last autumn, very
late in autumn, and I suspect they had a winter brood there. The
starling does rear a brood sometimes in the midst of the winter,
contrary as that may seem to our general ideas of natural history. They
may be called roof-residents, as they visit it all the year round;
they nest in the roof, rearing two and sometimes three broods; and
use it as their club and place of meeting. Towards July, the young
starlings and those that have for the time at least finished nesting,
flock together, and pass the day in the fields, returning now and then
to their old home. These flocks gradually increase; the starling is
so prolific that the flocks become immense, till in the latter part
of the autumn in southern fields it is common to see a great elm-tree
black with them, from the highest bough downwards, and the noise of
their chattering can be heard a long distance. They roost in firs or
in osier-beds. But in the blackest days of winter, when frost binds
the ground hard as iron, the starlings return to the roof almost every
day; they do not whistle much, but have a peculiar chuckling whistle at
the instant of alighting. In very hard weather, especially snow, the
starlings find it difficult to obtain a living, and at such times will
come to the premises at the rear, and at farmhouses where cattle are in
the yards, search about among them for insects.
The whole history of the starling is interesting, but I must here
only mention it as a roof-bird. They are very handsome in their full
plumage, which gleams bronze and green among the darker shades; quick
in their motions and full of spirit; loaded to the muzzle with energy,
and never still. I hope none of those who are so good as to read what
I have written will ever keep a starling in a cage; the cruelty is
extreme. As for shooting pigeons at a trap, it is mercy in comparison.
Even before the starling whistles much, the sparrows begin to chirp;
in the dead of winter they are silent; but so soon as the warmer winds
blow, if only for a day, they begin to chirp. In January this year I
used to listen to the sparrows chirping, the starlings whistling, and
the chaffinches’ ‘chink, chink’ about eight o’clock, or earlier, in
the morning; the first two on the roof, the latter, which is not a
roof-bird, in some garden shrubs. As the spring advances, the sparrows
sing—it is a short song, it is true, but still it is singing—perched at
the edge of a sunny wall. There is not a place about the house where
they will not build—under the eaves, on the roof, anywhere where there
is a projection or shelter, deep in the thatch, under the tiles, in
old eave-swallows’ nests. The last place I noticed as a favourite one
in towns is on the half-bricks left projecting in perpendicular rows
at the sides of unfinished houses. Half-a-dozen nests may be counted
at the side of a house on these bricks; and like the starlings, they
rear several broods, and some are nesting late in the autumn. By
degrees as the summer advances they leave the houses for the corn, and
gather in vast flocks, rivalling those of the starlings. At this time
they desert the roofs, except those who still have nesting duties. In
winter and in the beginning of the new year, they gradually return;
migration thus goes on under the eyes of those who care to notice it.
In London, some who fed sparrows on the roof found that rooks also
came for the crumbs placed out. I sometimes see a sparrow chasing a
rook, as if angry, and trying to drive it away over the roofs where I
live. The thief does not retaliate, but, like a thief, flees from the
scene of his guilt. This is not only in the breeding season, when the
rook steals eggs, but in winter. Town residents are apt to despise
the sparrow, seeing him always black; but in the country the sparrows
are as clean as a pink; and in themselves they are the most animated,
clever little creatures. They are easily tamed. The Parisians are fond
of taming them. At a certain hour in the Tuileries Gardens, you may see
a man perfectly surrounded with a crowd of sparrows—some perching on
his shoulder; some fluttering in the air immediately before his face;
some on the ground like a tribe of followers; and others on the marble
seats. He jerks a crumb of bread into the air—a sparrow dexterously
seizes it as he would a flying insect; he puts a crumb between his
lips—a sparrow takes it out and feeds from his mouth. Meantime they
keep up a constant chirping; those that are satisfied still stay by
and adjust their feathers. He walks on, giving a little chirp with his
mouth, and they follow him along the path—a cloud about his shoulders,
and the rest flying from shrub to shrub, perching, and then following
again. They are all perfectly clean—a contrast to the London sparrow. I
came across one of these sparrow-tamers by chance, and was much amused
at the scene, which, to any one not acquainted with birds, appears
marvellous; but it is really as simple as possible, and you can repeat
it for yourself if you have patience, for they are so sharp they soon
understand you. They seem to play at nest-making before they really
begin; taking up straws in their beaks, and carrying them half-way to
the roof, then letting the straws float away; and the same with stray
feathers. Neither of these, starlings nor sparrows, seem to like the
dark. Under the roof, between it and the first ceiling, there is a
large open space; if the slates or tiles are kept in good order, very
little light enters, and this space is nearly dark in daylight. Even if
chinks admit a beam of light, they do not like it; they seldom enter or
fly about there, though quite accessible to them. But if the roof is in
bad order, and this space light, they enter freely. Though nesting in
holes, yet they like light. The swallows could easily go in and make
nests upon the beams, but they will not, unless the place is well lit.
They do not like darkness in the daytime.
The swallows bring us the sunbeams on their wings from Africa to fill
the fields with flowers. From the time of the arrival of the first
swallow the flowers take heart; the few and scanty plants that had
braved the earlier cold are succeeded by a constantly enlarging list,
till the banks and lanes are full of them. The chimney-swallow is
usually the forerunner of the three house-swallows; and perhaps no fact
in natural history has been so much studied as the migration of these
tender birds. The commonest things are always the most interesting.
In summer there is no bird so common everywhere as the swallow, and
for that reason, many overlook it, though they rush to see a ‘white’
elephant. But the deepest thinkers have spent hours and hours in
considering the problem of the swallow—its migrations, its flight,
its habits; great poets have loved it; great artists and art-writers
have curiously studied it. The idea that it is necessary to seek
the wilderness or the thickest woods for nature is a total mistake;
nature is at home, on the roof, close to every one. Eave-swallows,
or house-martins (easily distinguished by the white bar across the
tail), build sometimes in the shelter of the porches of old houses. As
you go in or out, the swallows visiting or leaving their nests fly so
closely as almost to brush the face. Swallow means porch-bird, and for
centuries and centuries their nests have been placed in the closest
proximity to man. They might be called man’s birds, so attached are
they to the human race. I think the greatest ornament a house can
have is the nest of an eave-swallow under the eaves—far superior to
the most elaborate carving, colouring, or arrangement the architect
can devise. There is no ornament like the swallow’s nest; the home
of a messenger between man and the blue heavens, between us and the
sunlight, and all the promise of the sky. The joy of life, the highest
and tenderest feelings, thoughts that soar on the swallow’s wings, come
to the round nest under the roof. Not only to-day, not only the hopes
of future years, but all the past dwells there. Year after year the
generations and descent of the swallow have been associated with our
homes, and all the events of successive lives have taken place under
their guardianship. The swallow is the genius of good to a house. Let
its nest, then, stay; to me it seems the extremity of barbarism, or
rather stupidity, to knock it down. I wish I could induce them to build
under the eaves of this house; I would if I could discover some means
of communicating with them. It is a peculiarity of the swallow that
you cannot make it afraid of you; just the reverse of other birds. The
swallow does not understand being repulsed, but comes back again. Even
knocking the nest down will not drive it away, until the stupid process
has been repeated several years. The robin must be coaxed; the sparrow
is suspicious, and though easy to tame, quick to notice the least
alarming movement. The swallow will not be driven away. He has not the
slightest fear of man; he flies to his nest close to the window, under
the low eave, or on the beams in the outhouses, no matter if you are
looking on or not. Bold as the starlings are, they will seldom do this.
But in the swallow, the instinct of suspicion is reversed; an instinct
of confidence occupies its place. In addition to the eave-swallow, to
which I have chiefly alluded, and the chimney-swallow, there is the
swift, also a roof-bird, and making its nest in the slates of houses in
the midst of towns. These three are migrants, in the fullest sense, and
come to our houses over thousands of miles of land and sea.
Robins frequently visit the roof for insects, especially when it is
thatched; so do wrens; and the latter, after they have peered along,
have a habit of perching at the extreme angle of a gable, or the
extreme edge of a corner, and uttering their song. Finches occasionally
fly up to the roofs of country-houses if shrubberies are near, also in
pursuit of insects; but they are not truly roof-birds. Wagtails perch
on roofs; they often have their nests in the ivy, or creepers trained
against walls; they are quite at home, and are frequently seen on the
ridges of farmhouses. Tits of several species, particularly the great
titmouse and the blue tit, come to thatch for insects both in summer
and winter. In some districts where they are common, it is not unusual
to see a goatsucker or fern-owl hawk along close to the eaves in the
dusk of the evening for moths. The white owl is a roof-bird (though not
often of the house), building inside the roof, and sitting there all
day in some shaded corner. They do sometimes take up their residence in
the roofs of outhouses attached to dwellings, but not often nowadays,
though still residing in the roofs of old castles. Jackdaws, again,
are roof-birds, building in the roofs of towers. Bats live in roofs,
and hang there wrapped up in their membraneous wings till the evening
calls them forth. They are residents in the full sense, remaining all
the year round, though principally seen in the warmer months; but they
are there in the colder, hidden away, and if the temperature rises,
will venture out and hawk to and fro in the midst of the winter. Tame
pigeons and doves hardly come into this paper, but still it is their
habit to use roofs as tree-tops. Rats and mice creep through the
crevices of roofs, and in old country-houses hold a sort of nightly
carnival, racing to and fro under the roof. Weasels sometimes follow
them indoors and up to their roof strongholds.
When the first warm rays of spring sunshine strike against the southern
side of the chimney, sparrows perch there and enjoy it; and again in
autumn, when the general warmth of the atmosphere is declining, they
still find a little pleasant heat there. They make use of the radiation
of heat, as the gardener does who trains his fruit-trees to a wall.
Before the autumn has thinned the leaves, the swallows gather on the
highest ridge of the roof in a row and twitter to each other; they know
the time is approaching when they must depart for another climate. In
winter, many birds seek the thatched roofs to roost. Wrens, tits, and
even blackbirds roost in the holes left by sparrows or starlings.
Every crevice is the home of insects, or used by them for the deposit
of their eggs—under the tiles or slates, where mortar has dropped out
between the bricks, in the holes of thatch, and on the straws. The
number of insects that frequent a large roof must be very great—all
the robins, wrens, bats, and so on, can scarcely affect them; nor the
spiders, though these, too, are numerous. Then there are the moths,
and those creeping creatures that work out of sight, boring their way
through the rafters and beams. Sometimes a sparrow may be seen clinging
to the bare wall of the house; tits do the same thing—it is surprising
how they manage to hold on—they are taking insects from the apertures
of the mortar. Where the slates slope to the south, the sunshine
soon heats them, and passing butterflies alight on the warm surface,
and spread out their wings, as if hovering over the heat. Flies are
attracted in crowds sometimes to heated slates and tiles, and wasps
will occasionally pause there. Wasps are addicted to haunting houses,
and in the autumn, feed on the flies. Floating germs carried by the
air must necessarily lodge in numbers against roofs; so do dust and
invisible particles; and together, these make the rain-water collected
in water-butts after a storm turbid and dark; and it soon becomes full
of living organisms.
Lichen and moss grow on the mortar wherever it has become slightly
disintegrated; and if any mould, however minute, by any means
accumulates between the slates, there, too, they spring up, and
even on the slates themselves. Tiles are often coloured yellow by
such growths. On some old roofs, which have decayed, and upon which
detritus has accumulated, wallflowers may be found; and the house-leek
takes capricious root where it fancies. The stonecrop is the finest
of roof-plants, sometimes forming a broad patch of brilliant yellow.
Birds carry up seeds and grains, and these germinate in moist thatch.
Groundsel, for instance, and stray stalks of wheat, thin and drooping
for lack of soil, are sometimes seen there, besides grasses. Ivy is
familiar as a roof-creeper. Some ferns and the pennywort will grow
on the wall close to the roof. Where will not ferns grow? We saw one
attached to the under-side of a glass coal-hole cover; its green could
be seen through the thick glass on which people stepped daily.
Recently, much attention has been paid to the dust which is found on
roofs and ledges at great heights. This meteoric dust, as it is called,
consists of minute particles of iron, which are thought to fall from
the highest part of the atmosphere, or possibly to be attracted to the
earth from space. Lightning usually strikes the roof. The whole subject
of lightning-conductors has been re-opened of late years, there being
reason to think that mistakes have been made in the manner of their
erection. The reason English roofs are high-pitched is not only because
of the rain, that it may shoot off quickly, but on account of snow.
Once now and then there comes a snow-year, and those who live in houses
with flat surfaces anywhere on the roof soon discover how inconvenient
they are. The snow is sure to find its way through, damaging ceilings,
and doing other mischief. Sometimes, in fine summer weather, people
remark how pleasant it would be if the roof were flat, so that it could
be used as a terrace, as it is in warmer climates. But the fact is
the English roof, although now merely copied and repeated without a
thought of the reason of its shape, grew up from experience of severe
winters. Of old, great care and ingenuity—what we should now call
artistic skill—were employed in constructing the roof. It was not only
pleasant to the eye with its gables, but the woodwork was wonderfully
well done. Such roofs may still be seen on ancient mansions, having
endured for centuries. They are splendid pieces of workmanship, and
seen from afar among foliage, are admired by every one who has the
least taste. Draughtsmen and painters value them highly. No matter
whether reproduced on a large canvas or in a little woodcut, their
proportions please. The roof is much neglected in modern houses; it is
either conventional, or it is full indeed of gables, but gables that
do not agree, as it were, with each other—that are obviously put there
on purpose to look artistic, and fail altogether. Now, the ancient
roofs were true works of art, consistent, and yet each varied to its
particular circumstances, and each impressed with the individuality of
the place and of the designer. The finest old roofs were built of oak
or chestnut; the beams are black with age, and in that condition, oak
is scarcely distinguishable from chestnut.
So the roof has its natural history, its science, and art; it has
its seasons, its migrants and residents, of whom a housetop calendar
might be made. The fine old roofs which have just been mentioned are
often associated with historic events and the rise of families; and
the roof-tree, like the hearth, has a range of proverbs or sayings and
ancient lore to itself. More than one great monarch has been slain by
a tile thrown from the housetop, and numerous other incidents have
occurred in connection with it. The most interesting is the story of
the Grecian mother, who with her infant was on the roof, when, in a
moment of inattention, the child crept to the edge, and was balanced
on the very verge. To call to it, to touch it, would have insured its
destruction; but the mother, without a second’s thought, bared her
breast, and the child eagerly turning to it, was saved!
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXXIV.—JUDGE ME.
Mr Beecham had spoken the words, ‘You must know it all,’ as if they
contained a threat, but impulse directed tone and words. He became
instantly conscious of his excitement, when he saw the startled
expression with which Madge regarded him. His emotion was checked.
Mechanically, he gripped the bridle of his passion, and held it down as
a strong man restrains a restive horse.
‘Shall I go on?’ he said with almost perfect self-control, although his
voice had not yet quite regained its usual softness. ‘I know that you
will be pained. I do not like that, and so you see me hesitating, and
weakly trying to shift the responsibility from my own shoulders. Shall
I go on?’
‘I am not afraid of pain,’ she answered quietly, but with a distant
tremor in her voice; ‘and if you think that I should hear what you have
to say, say it.’
‘Then I will speak as gently as it is in my power to do; but this
subject always stirs the most evil passions that are in me. I want
to win your confidence, and that impels me to tell you why I doubt
Philip—it is because I know his father to be false.’
‘Oh, you are mistaken!’ she exclaimed, rising at once to the defence of
a friend; ‘you do not know how much good he has done!’
‘No; but I do know some of the harm he has done.’ There was a sort
of grim humour in voice and look, as if he were trying to subdue his
bitterness of heart by smiling at the girl’s innocent trustfulness.
‘Harm!—Mr Hadleigh harm anybody! You judge him wrongly: he may look
hard and—and unpleasant; but he has a kind nature, and suffers a great
deal.’
‘He should suffer’ (this more gently now—more like himself, and as if
he spoke in sorrow rather than in anger). ‘But, all the same he has
done harm—cruel, wicked harm.’
‘To whom—to whom?’
‘To me and to your mother.’ A long pause, as if he were drawing breath
for the words which at length he uttered in a faltering whisper: ‘_His_
lies separated us.’
Madge stood mute and pale. She remembered what Aunt Hessy had told her:
how there had come the rumour first, and then the confident assertion
of the treachery of the absent lover—no one able to tell who brought
the news which the loss of his letter in the wreck, and consequently
apparent silence, seemed to confirm. Then all the sad days of hoping—of
faith in the absent, whilst the heart was sickening and growing faint,
as the weeks, the months passed, and the unbroken silence of the loved
one slowly forced the horrible conviction upon her that the news _must_
be true. He—Austin, whom she had prayed not to go away—had gone without
answering that pathetic cry, and had broken his troth.
Poor mother, poor mother! Oh, the agony of it all! Madge could see
it—feel it. She could see the woman in her great sorrow dumbly looking
across the sea, hoping, still hoping that he would come back, until
despair became her master. And now to know that all this misery had
been brought about by a Lie! ... and the speaker of the lie had been
Philip’s father! Two lives wrecked, two hearts broken by a lie. Was it
not the cruelest kind of murder?—the two lives lingering along their
weary way, each believing the other faithless.
She sprang into the present again—it was too horrible. She would not
believe that any man could be so wicked, and least of all Philip’s
father.
‘I will not believe it!’ she exclaimed with a sudden movement of the
hands, as if sweeping the sad visions away from her.
Beecham’s brows lowered, but not frowningly, as he looked long at her
flushed face, and saw that the bright eyes had become brighter still in
the excitement of her indignant repudiation of the charge he made.
‘Do you like the man?’ he asked in a low tone.
The question had never occurred to her before, and in the quick
self-survey which it provoked, she was not prepared to say ‘Yes’ or
‘No.’ In the moment, too, she remembered Uncle Dick’s unexplained
quarrel with Mr Hadleigh on the market-day, and also that Uncle Dick,
who wore his heart upon his sleeve, never much favoured the Master of
Ringsford.
‘He is Philip’s father,’ she answered simply; and in giving the
answer, she felt that it was enough for her. She _must_ like everybody
who belonged to Philip.
‘Is that all?’
‘It is enough,’ she said impatiently.
‘Do not be angry with me; but try to see a little with my eyes. You
will do so when you learn how guilty he is.’
‘I will not hear it!’ and she moved.
‘For Philip’s sake,’ he said softly but firmly, ‘if not for that of
another, who would tell you it was right that you should hear me.’
Madge stood still, her face towards the wall, so that he could not see
her agitation. The bright fire cast the shadow of his profile on the
same wall, and the silhouette, grotesquely exaggerated as the outlines
were, still suggested suffering rather than anger.
‘Do you know that Hadleigh has good reason for enmity towards me?’
‘No; I never knew or thought that he could have reason for enmity
towards any one.’
‘He had towards me.’
‘I believe you are wrong. I am sure of it;’ and she thought that here
might be her opportunity to further Philip’s desire to reconcile them.
‘Should you desire to test what I am about to tell you, say to Hadleigh
that you have been told George Laurence was a friend of Philip’s
mother. He was my friend too. My poor sister was passionate and, like
all passionate people, weak. Hadleigh took her from my friend _for her
money_—a pitiful few hundred pounds. I never liked the man; but I hated
him then, and hated him still more when Laurence, becoming reckless
alike of fortune and life, ruined himself and ... killed himself. But
the crime was Hadleigh’s, and it lies heavy on his soul.’
‘Oh, why should you speak so bitterly of what he could neither foresee
nor prevent.’
‘I charged him with the murder,’ Beecham continued, without heeding the
interruption, ‘and he could not answer me like a man. He spoke soft
words, as if I were a boy in a passion; he even attempted to condole
with me for the loss of my friend, until I fled from him, lest my hands
should obey my wish and not my will. But he had his revenge. He made
my sister’s life a torture. She tried to hide it in her letters to me;
but I could read her misery in every line. And then, when he discovered
that I had gone into the wilds of Africa, without any likelihood of
being able to send a message home for many months, he told the lie
which destroyed our hopes.’
‘How do you know that it was he who told it?’ she asked, without moving
and with some fear of the answer.
‘The man he employed to spread the false report confessed to me what
had been done and by whom.’
Madge’s head drooped; there seemed to be no refutation of this proof of
Mr Hadleigh’s guilt possible.
Beecham partly understood that slight movement of the head, and his
voice had become soft again when he resumed:
‘I did not seek to retaliate. She was lost to me, and it did not
much matter what evil influence came between us. I am not seeking to
retaliate now. I would have forgotten the man and the evil he had
wrought, if it had not been for the cry my sister sent to me from her
deathbed. She asked me for some sign that in the future I would try to
help and guide her favourite child, Philip. I gave the pledge, and she
was only able to answer that I had made her happy. I am here to fulfil
that pledge, and it might have been easily done, but for you.’
‘For me!’—Startled, but not looking at him yet.
‘Ay, for you, because I wish to be sure that you will be safe in his
keeping; and to be sure of that, I wish him to prove that he has none
of his father’s nature in him.’
‘Do you still hate his father so much?’ she said distressfully.
‘I have long ceased to feel hatred; but I still distrust him and all
that belongs to him. Now that you know why I stand aside to watch how
Philip bears himself, do you still ask me to release you from your
promise?’
‘I will not betray your confidence,’ she answered mechanically; ‘but
what I ought to do I will do.’
‘I would not desire you to do anything else, my child,’ and all his
gentleness of manner had returned. ‘I will not ask you to say at this
moment whether or not you think I am acting rightly. I ask only that
you will remember whose child you are, and what she was to me, as you
have learned what I was to her. Then you will understand and judge me.’
‘I cannot judge, but I will try to understand.’
Then she turned towards him, and he saw that although she had been
speaking so quietly, her pain had been great.
‘Forgive me, my poor child, for bringing this sorrow to you; but it may
be the means of saving you from a life of misery, or of leading you to
one of happiness.’
There was a subdued element of solemnity in this—it was so calm, so
earnest, that she remained silent. He imagined that he understood; but
he was mistaken. She did not herself yet understand the complicated
emotions which had been stirred within her. She had tried to put away
those sad visions, but could not: the sorrowful face of the mother
was always looking wistfully at her out of the mists. She ought to
have been filled with bitterness by the account of the crime—for crime
it surely was—which had wrought so much mischief, and the proof of
which appeared to be so strong. Instead of that, she felt sorry for Mr
Hadleigh. Here was the reason for the gloom in which he lived—remorse
lay heavily upon him. Here, too, was the reason for all his kindliness
to her, when he was so cold to others. She was sorry for him.
Hope came to her relief, dim at first, but growing brighter as she
reflected. Might there not be some error in the counts against him?
She saw that in thinking of the misfortunes of his friend Laurence,
passion had caused Austin Shield to exaggerate the share Mr Hadleigh
had in bringing them about. Might it not be that in a similar way he
had exaggerated and misapprehended what he had been told by the man
who denounced Mr Hadleigh as the person who had employed him to spread
the fatal lie? Whether or not this should prove to be the case, it was
clear that until Mr Shield’s mind was disabused of the belief that
Philip’s father had been the cause of his sorrow and her mother’s,
there was no possibility of effecting a reconciliation between the two
men. But if all his charges were well founded—what then?... She was
afraid to think of what might be to come after.
Still holding her hand, he made a movement towards the door. Then she
spoke:
‘I want you to say again that whilst I keep your secret, you leave me
free to speak to Mr Hadleigh about ... about the things you have told
me.’
‘Yes, if you still doubt me.’
‘I will speak,’ she said deliberately, ‘not because I doubt you, but
because I believe you are mistaken.’
Again that long look of reverent admiration of her trustfulness, and
then:
‘Act as your own heart tells you will be wisest and kindest.’
* * * * *
As he passed down the frozen gravel-path, he met Philip. He was in
no mood for conversation, and saying only ‘Good-evening,’ passed on.
Philip was surprised; although, being wearied himself, he was not sorry
to escape a conversation with one who was a comparative stranger.
‘What is the matter with Mr Beecham?’ he inquired carelessly, when he
entered the oak parlour and, to his delight, found Madge alone.
‘He is distressed about some family affairs,’ she answered after a
little hesitation.
Philip observed the hesitation and, slight as it was, the confusion of
her manner.
‘Oh, something more about that affair in which you are his confidant,
I suppose, and came to you for comfort. Well, I come upon the same
errand—fagged and worried to death. Will you give me a glass of
wine?—Stay, I should prefer a little brandy-and-water.—Thank you.’
He had dropped into an armchair, as if physically tired out. She seated
herself beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
‘You have been disturbed again at the works,’ she said soothingly.
‘Disturbed!—driven to my wits’ end would be more like my present state.
Everything is going wrong. The capital has nearly all disappeared,
without any sign of a return for it, so that it looks as if I should
speedily have to ask Uncle Shield for more.—What has frightened you?’
‘Nothing—it was only a chill—don’t mind it. Have you seen—him?’
‘Came straight from him here. He was rather out of humour, I thought;
and as usual, referred me to his lawyers on almost every point. As to
more capital, he said there would be no difficulty about that, if he
was satisfied that the first money had been prudently invested.’
‘I understood that he was pleased with what you were attempting.’
‘So did I; but it seems to me now as if he was anything but satisfied.
However, he would give me no definite answer or advice. He would think
about it—he would make inquiries, and then see what was to be done. He
is right, of course; and queer as his ways are, he has been kind and
generous. But if he pulls up now, the whole thing will go to smash,
and—to fail, Madge, to fail, when it only requires another strong
effort to make a success!’
‘But you are not to fail, Philip.’
‘At present, things look rather like it. Oh, it will be rare fun for
them all!’ he added bitterly.
‘All?’
‘Yes, everybody who predicted that my scheme was a piece of madness and
must come to grief. That does not matter so much, though, as finding
myself to be a fool. I wish uncle would talk over the matter quietly
with me. I am sure he could help me.... Why, you are shivering. Come
nearer to the fire.’
She moved her chair as he suggested.
‘But how is it that the money is all gone?’
‘It is not exactly gone, but sunk in the buildings and the machinery;
and the disputes with the men have caused a lot of waste. The men are
the real trouble; they can’t get the idea into their heads, somehow;
and even Caleb is turning rusty now. But that is because he is bothered
about Pansy.... Ah, Madge’ (his whole manner changing suddenly as he
grasped her hand and gazed fondly into her eyes); ‘although it will be
a bitter pill to swallow if this scheme falls through—I was so proud of
it, so hopeful of it at the start, and saw such a bright future for it,
and believed it would be such a mighty social lever—although that would
be bitter, I should get over it. I could never get over any trouble
about you, such as that poor chap is in about Pansy.... But that can
never be,’ he concluded impulsively.
For the next few minutes he forgot all about the works, the men, and
the peril in which his Utopia stood, threatening every day to tumble
all to pieces. Madge was glad that his thoughts should be withdrawn for
a space from his worry, and was glad to be able to breathe more freely
herself in thinking only of their love, for those references to his
Uncle Shield troubled her.
‘You are not losing courage altogether, then?’ she said smiling.
‘I shall never lose it altogether so long as you are beside me,
although I may halt at times,’ he answered. ‘There; I am better now.
Don’t let us talk any more to-night about disagreeable things—they
don’t seem half so disagreeable to me as they did when I came in.’
So, as they were not to talk about disagreeable things, they talked
about themselves. They did remember Caleb and Pansy, however; and Madge
promised to see the latter soon, and endeavour to persuade her to be
kind to her swain.
A NORMAN SEASCAPE.
It was on our way from Paris to the sea that we found out Dives; a
little town, forgotten now, but once, long ago, holding for four short
weeks an urgent place in the foreground of the world’s history. It is a
day’s journey distant from Paris, a long summer day’s journey through
fair France, fairest of all when one reaches green Normandy, rich in
sober old farmhouses, quaint churches, orchards laden with russet fruit
ripening to fill the cider-barrels.
The little station near Dives is set in a desert of sand; one white
road leads this way, another that. Of the modest town itself you
see nothing. Your eye is caught for a moment as you look round you
by the gentle undulation of the hills that rise behind it. On these
slopes, a nameless battle was once fought and won; but the story of
that struggle belongs to the past, and it is the present you have to
do with. At this moment your most urgent need is to secure a seat in
omnibus or supplement; all the world is going seawards, and even French
politeness yields a little before the pressure of necessity; for the
crowd is great and the carriages are small. There is infection in
the gaiety of our fellow holiday-seekers, whose costumes are devised
to hint delicately or more broadly their destination. Their pleasure
is expressed with all the _naïveté_ of childhood; so we too, easily
enough, catch something of their spirit, and watch eagerly for the
first hint of blue on the horizon, for the first crisp, salt breath in
the air. Dives, after its spasmodic revival, falls back into silence,
and is forgotten. We forget it too, and for the next few days the
problem of life at Beuzeval-Houlgate occupies us wholly.
He who first invented Beuzeval must have had a vivid imagination, a
creative genius. What possibilities did he see in that sad reach of
endless sand, in that sadder expanse of sea, as we first saw it under
a gray summer sky? Yet here, almost with the wave of an Aladdin’s
wand, a gay little town sprung into existence—fantastic houses,
pseudo-Swiss châlets, very un-English ‘Cottages Anglais;’ ‘Beach’
hotels, ‘Sea’ hotels, ‘Beautiful Sojourn’ hotels lined the shore,
and Paris came down and took possession. Houlgate and we are really
one, though some barrier, undefinable and not to be grasped by us,
divides us. But Houlgate holds itself proudly aloof from us; Houlgate
leads the fashions; it is dominated by ‘that ogre, gentility;’ its
houses are more fantastic, its costumes more magnificent, its ways
more mysterious. At Beuzeval, one is not genteel, one is natural; it
is a family-life of simplicity and tranquillity, as the guide-book
sets forth in glowing terms. We live in a little house that faces,
and is indeed set low upon the beach. There is a strip of garden
which produces a gay crop of marigolds and sunflowers growing in a
sandy waste—gold against gold. We belong to Mère Jeanne, an ancient
lady, who wears a white cotton night-cap of the tasselled order, and
who is oftenest seen drawing water at the well. Her vessel is of an
antique shape; and she, too, is old. Tradition whispers that she has
seen ninety winters come and go, yet her cheeks are rosy as one of
her Normandy apples. One feels that life moves slowly and death comes
tardily to this sea-village, where the outer world intrudes but once a
year, and then but for one brief autumn month alone.
Bathing is the chief occupation of the day, and it is undertaken with
a seriousness that is less French than British. Nothing can be funnier
than to watch this matter of taking _le bain_. From early morning till
noon, all the world is on the beach. Rows of chairs are brought down
from the bath-house—all gay at this hour with wind-tossed flags—and
are planted firmly in the soft loose sand; here those of us who are
spectators sit and watch the show. A paternal government arranges
everything for its children. Here one goes by rule. So many hours of
the morning and so many hours of the evening must alone be devoted
to the salt bath; such and such a space of the wide beach, carefully
marked off with fluttering standards, must alone be occupied. Thus
bathing is a very social affair; the strip of blue water is for the
moment converted into a _salon_, where all the courtesies of life are
duly observed. On the other side of the silver streak, business of
the same nature is no doubt going on; but French imagination alone
could evolve, French genius devise, the strange and wonderful costumes
appropriate to the occasion.
Here is a lady habited in scarlet, dainty shoes and stockings to match,
and a bewitching cap (none of your hideous oilskin) with falling
lace and telling little bows of ribbon. Here another, clad in pale
blue, with a becoming hat tied under her chin, and many bangles on
her wrists. The shoes alone are a marvel. How do all these intricate
knots and lacings, these glancing buckles, survive the rough and
sportive usage of the waves? Who but our Gallic sisters could imagine
those delicate blendings of dark blue and silver, crimson and brown,
those strange stripes and æsthetic olives and drabs? The costume of
the gentlemen is necessarily less varied, though here and there one
notices an eccentric harlequin, easily distinguishable among the
crowd; and again, what Englishman would dream of taking his morning
dip with a ruff round his neck, a silken girdle, and a hat to save his
complexion from the sun? Two amiable persons dressed in imitation of
the British tar, obligingly spend the greater part of the day in the
sea. Their business it is to conduct timid ladies from the beach and to
assist them in their bath. The braver spirits allow themselves to be
plunged under the brine, the more fearful are content to be sprinkled
delicately from a tin basin. There is also a rower, whose little boat,
furnished with life-saving appliances, plies up and down among the
crowd, lest one more venturesome than his neighbours should pass beyond
his depth; an almost impossible event, as one might say, seeing with
what fondness even the boldest swimmer clings to the shore.
Danger on these summer waters seems a remote contingency. Here is
neither ‘bar that thunders’ nor ‘shale that rings.’ It is for the
most part a lazy sea, infinitely blue, that comes softly, almost
caressingly, shorewards. At first, one is struck with the absence
of life which it presents—the human element uncounted. There is no
pier, and boating as a pastime is unknown. Occasionally, a fleet of
brown-sheeted fishing-smacks rides out from the little port of Dives,
each sail slowly unfurled, making a spot of warm colour when the sun
shines on the canvas; now and then there is a gleam of white wings
on the far horizon. But the glory of the place is its limitless,
uninterrupted sea, shore, and sky—endless reaches of golden sand,
endless plains of blue water. With so liberal a space of heaven and
of ocean, you have naturally room for many subtle effects, countless
shades and blendings of colour, most evanescent coming and going of
light and shadow. To the left, gay little Cabourg, all big hotels
and Parisian finery, runs out to meet the sea; farther still, Luc is
outlined against the sky. To the right are the cliffs at Havre, pink
at sunset; their position marked when dusk has fallen by the glow of
the revolving light. Beyond, _là bas_—that ‘indifferent, supercilious’
French _là bas_—an ‘elsewhere’ of little importance, lies unseen
England. When the sun has set, dipping its fireball in haste to cool
itself in the waters, there comes sometimes an illusive effect as
of land, dim, far off, indistinct; but it is cloud-land, not our
sea-island.
The sunsets are a thing to marvel at, never two nights alike. ‘C’est
adorable!’ as our old Norman waiting-woman said, with a fervent
pressure of the hands, as she looked with us on ‘the crimson splendour
when the day had waned.’ Sometimes it is a lingering glory, the
rose-light on the pools fading slowly, as if loath to go; sometimes the
spectacle is more quickly over, and almost ‘with one stride comes the
dark;’ then swiftly in their appointed order the familiar stars. Now
and again, it is a great storm—a blue-black sea and an inky sky, rent
too frequently by the zigzags of the lightning. There is always the
charm of change and novelty; the piquancy of the unexpected.
After the serious business of the bath is over, the lunch-hour has
arrived. Being as it were one family, we all take our meals at
the same time. Later in the afternoon, Houlgate rides and drives,
elegant landaus, carriages with linen umbrellas suspended over them,
donkey-carts driven by beautiful young ladies in beautiful Paris gowns.
Beuzeval braves the dust, and looks on respectfully at the show; but
Beuzeval does not drive much. It takes its little folks to the beach
and helps them to build sand-castles. It goes off in bands armed with
forks to the exciting chase of the _équilles_. These little fish of
the eel tribe, which are savoury eating, burrow in the sand at low
tide, and it requires some skill to capture them. Whole families go
out shrimping too, looking not unpicturesque as, set against the light
on the far sea-margin, they push their nets before them. One afternoon
we watched two bearded men amuse themselves for hours with flying a
pink kite. Their gesticulations were lively, and their excitement
great, when at last it sailed bravely before the breeze. We are very
easily amused here; for the most part, we are content to look about us,
hospitable to all stray impressions. At such times, one is tempted to
the idlest speculations. Why, for instance, are all the draught-horses
white? Is it that the blue sheep-skin collar may have the advantage
of contrast? Why, in a land of green pastures, where kine abound, is
milk at a ransom price, and butter not always eatable? Why, again, in
spite of our simplicity, our _vie de famille_, is it necessary to one’s
well-being here to have an inexhaustible Fortunatus’s purse? But these
things are mysteries; let us cease to meddle with them, and follow
Houlgate wider afield, on foot, if you will, to little Dives, too long
neglected—Dives, which sends its placid river to swell the sea, but
lingers inland itself, hardly on the roughest day within sound of the
waves.
It was at Dives that Duke William of Normandy and his host waited for
the south wind, that fair wind that was to carry them to England. The
harbour, choked now with the shifting sand, and sheltering nothing
larger than a fishing-smack—held the fleet which some have numbered
in thousands; gallant ships for which Normandy’s noblest forest trees
were sacrificed during that long summer of preparation. Finest of them
all, riding most proudly on the waves, was William’s own _Mora_, the
gift of his Matilda. At its prow there was carved in gold the image
of a boy ‘blowing on an ivory horn pointing towards England.’ ‘Stark’
Duke William thus symbolised his conquest before ever he set foot on
that alien shore. On the gentle slopes above the little town, where the
cattle feed, the great army encamped itself, waiting for that fair wind
that never came. Four weeks they lingered, long enough to associate
the seaport inseparably with the Conqueror’s name; and brave stories
are chronicled of the order he kept among his fierce Gauls, and how
the worthy people of Dives learned to look on the strangers without
distrust—almost with indifference; to till their fields, to tend their
flocks, to gather in the harvest, as if no nation’s fate hung on the
caprice of a breeze. Four weeks of this, and then that great company
melted away almost with the suddenness of a certain Assyrian host of
old—a west wind blew gently—not the longed-for south; but the ships,
weary of inaction, spread their wings, and flew away to St Valery,
where a narrower band of blue separated them from the desired English
haven. And the village folks were left once more to the vast quietude
of their country life.
There is an old church, rebuilt since English Edward destroyed it, a
noble specimen of Norman architecture, and there they keep recorded on
marble the names of the knights who sailed on that famous expedition
from the port hard by. The church has its legend, too, of a wondrous
effigy of our Lord found by the fishermen who launched their nets in
these waters. It bore the print of nails in the hands and feet; but
the cross to which it had been fastened was awanting. The village
folks gave it reverent sanctuary, and devout hands busied themselves
in fashioning a crucifix; but no crucifix—let the workman be ever so
skilful—could be made to fit the carven Christ. This one was too short,
that too long. Clearly the miracle had been but half wrought; the cross
must be sought where the image had already been found. In faith, the
fishermen cast their nets again and again into the deep. At last, after
long patience on their part, the sea gave up what it had previously
denied. The long-lost cross was found; and with the figure nailed to it
once more, the sacred symbol was borne to its resting-place. A great
feast-day that, for Dives; but only the memory of it lingers. The
treasure has vanished, and nothing save a curious picture representing
the miracle remains to witness to the event. It hangs in the transept,
and there are many who linger to look at it. The outside of this grand
building pleased us well; it stands secure and free, with open spaces
about it, green woods behind, and the blue sky of France above. A
stone’s-throw off there is the market, which is nothing but a wide and
deep overhanging roof, supported on pillars of carved wood. Here the
sturdy peasants of this white-cotton-night-cap country sell the cheeses
that smell so evilly and taste so well.