SOME NEW FRIENDS
Days passed, and largely in the glamour of those expeditions which
were to breed in the boy something more than a reconcilement with his
destiny. And indeed, what with vigorous exercise, health, a mighty
appetite and fine weather, Brion was soon in the mind to welcome
solitude, though in a desolate mansion, as a condition as admirable as
any which could have befallen him. He and Clerivault, his constant
companion, were for ever on foot or on horseback, galloping over the
moors, penetrating to town or village, or scrambling over rock and
fell in search, pedantically, of the picturesque. They climbed the
great tors, and swung the famous logging-stone; they explored the
loveliest ravines, and overhung, from the rocky salient guarding Holne
Chase, the waters of one of the fairest rivers in England. They
fished--with small success, and shot--with none, at fowl of sorts,
using for the latter purpose Clerivault’s pistols, which were short
Italian ‘daggs,’ so called, heavy weapons with wheel-locks, and the
last to prove effective against nimble game. Then in the early evening
they would return, fagged and happy, to a great delectable meal,
served up in Phineas cook’s most incomparable manner.
This Phineas, like the true artist he was, never condescended to be
less than himself, though in such minor matters as the gratifying of a
green palate. He had been long with the Judge--who, in the business of
the table, was something of an epicure--and, like the other three
lealties, was sufficiently his devoted henchman to be ready to follow
his fortunes into virtual exile. He was a little long-faced man, with
a pointed scrap of beard, and a serene conceit of himself so equable
as to be impervious to provocation. His hands were very white and
capable, and he habitually wore round his neck the gold chain with
which the Lord Chancellor had decorated him on the occasion of a
famous banquet given by his master to the Benchers of Gray’s Inn. A
cook by profession, he was a genius by intuition, and handled his
tools, as a supreme painter his brushes, with the unerring vision
which in a few touches will give form and distinction to another’s
mediocre design. An ordinary recipe became with him one of those
plagiarisms which transcend their originals. In matters of sauce he
was a rigid purist, holding that selection was the keynote of
efficiency, and greatly abominating those indiscriminate jumbles of
ingredients with which lesser cooks sought to cover up their ignorance
and achieve a chance applause. As every soul was said to have its
affinity in the world, so every dish, in his creed, had its certain
complement, and it was no more right or moral to introduce a fifty
different herbs and other garnishes into the pot, in the hope of the
right one being there, than it would be to furnish a man who wanted a
wife with a harem to seek amongst. Such Apician miscellanies as
‘lovage, coriander, mint, rue, anchovies, pepper, pine-nuts, raisins,
wine, sweet cheese and oil,’ as a relish to boiled goose, he regarded
as enormities, and to be counted only with the filthy potions brewed
by Mrs Harlock and her like; but the cook who aspired to the term
master should aim rather at the perfect sympathy of meat and
seasoning, whereby each, like a loving partner, should prove its own
value by emphasising the virtues of the other. To this end simplicity
was the first and surest of means, combined with a perfect instinct
for the hypostatic union of flavours, and for that psychologic moment
reached by the revolving spit when ‘done to a turn’ was inaudibly
announced from its well-basted burden. There was none could make plain
roast and boiled more delectable than Phineas; as indeed Brion and his
companion had good reason to know. He loved to have a hearty appetite
to operate on, and would stand and expound his views to the boy, much
entertaining that young gentleman, while watching his vigorous
enjoyment of the good things provided for him. He liked the youngster,
as indeed all associated with him came to do, at first for the
master’s sake, but soon enough for his own. He was a prepossessing
stripling, in truth, comely in appearance, but attractive more by
reason of his gentleness and native urbanity than his looks. And at
the same time he had a courageous spirit, to which Phineas loved to
supply the animal fuel. There was no stint of that, at least, at the
Grange. The bills of fare comprised haunch of venison, wild boar’s
cheek, boiled leg of pork, salt buttock of beef (outside cut), sheep’s
head (served with an electuary of unknown composition, but
entertaining honey), oyster of veal, and other such goodly pièces de
resistance. There was a certain ‘Karum’ pie, hoarding in its ambrosial
depths treasure of beccaficoes and savoury jellies, to which Brion was
mightily partial; and fish there was in plenty, turbots and soles and
lobsters from the coasts, and lampreys from the rivers; while, for
game, they had moorland partridges, and knots and godwits and hares.
To enumerate the delicacies would be idle, though mention must be made
of a peculiarly appetising broth with a boned duck floating in it, of
a thoughtful hash of calves’ feet, and of a ragout of cocks’-combs
with savoury balls which had to be eaten to be understood. But these
were kickshaws, and, in Phineas’s philosophy, less illustrative of the
culinary art than the plain joint made beautiful. His crowning
achievement in their respect was a particular cream sauce, which, like
the relish invented by the Marquis de Béchamel, was of that
seductiveness that it could have made a mother-in-law, with all her
bitterness, ‘go down.’
One might imagine that, with all this gastronomic petting, Brion would
end by thinking too much of his food; but, indeed, in his healthy
young mind, he regarded it only as he regarded sleep, a need of nature
the better for being sound. And that was Phineas’s own view.
‘A dinner remembered,’ said he, ‘is a dinner discredited, and that
forgotten as soon as eaten does best honour to the cook. For it is
honour to be the begetter of generous thoughts, which spring from good
digestion; and a man if he be fed well, and as a proper cook should
desire him, ponders not on that he hath consumed, but rather on the
great visions which arise from his content and satisfaction. Whereas,
should the food itself linger in his mind, it is odds but what he will
presently have cause to wish both it and himself at the devil. All
human functions are tolerable only to the moment when one is conscious
of them: and that is digestion, to which your cook is physician in
trust, as it were, to prevent what the others seek to cure.’
‘Methinks,’ said Brion, ‘the best physician is plainness and
frugality. The Spartans lived on black broth alone, and were brave
soldiers and healthy men.’
‘Anan?’ said Phineas.
‘They were a race,’ answered the boy; and added, with a twinkle:
‘other than that one who, tasting their broth, declared he no longer
wondered over their indifference to death, seeing that this was all
they had to live for. Good Master Angell, too, was wont to say that
Heaven blesses a simple appetite.’
Phineas struck his nose with his forefinger three several times.
‘These Churchmen,’ said he--‘they will dogmatise. What mandate had he
from Heaven to speak for it? I could say that Heaven loves to
encourage good eating; and could give you book for it too.’
‘Give it,’ said Brion.
‘Hast heard of St Patrick,’ answered Phineas--‘the apostle of the
Kerns? Well, God quit him for that--he was a good and holy man, for
all he had his moments of weakness. One came to him on a fast day,
when the sight of two fat pork chops on a platter was too much for his
resolution. But he had no sooner helped himself thereto than, his
conscience smiting him, with a prayer to Heaven for forgiveness he
cast them from him into a pail of water standing by, whereon they were
instantly converted, by God’s grace, into a brace of lusty trout.
Nothing less, look you--no red herrings from Heaven. And what, I would
ask you, of Cana its feast? Was it your black broth Christ changed the
water into? Go to, for your plainness and frugality--and with your
mouth full of my veal pasty!’
Brion laughed: ‘If it had been that to tempt St Patrick!’
He was popular with them all, as said: but with none so much as
Clerivault, who regarded him as his especial trust and intimate, and
was jealous of any fancied encroachment by another on his preserves.
He taught the boy the use of arms, and practised him in sword play,
against the time when he should have a ‘rapier and a baselard with a
sheath of red’ of his own to hang at his side. That was a reminiscence
not unreferred to, you may be sure. Brion, as he grew in confidence
with this comrade, would open his sedate young heart to him, and ever
a little and a little less shyly; until once he ventured on a direct
question:--
‘I have often wondered and wanted to ask you, Clerivault. You remember
that day, so long ago, when we first met?’
‘Ay,’ answered the other curtly, and with a watchful manner, as if he
foresaw what was coming and prepared himself with his guard.
‘You would know of me, would you not,’ said Brion, ‘where Master
Angell lived?’
‘Ay,’ was the short answer again.
‘Yet you had no need to learn.’
‘Had I not? Your reason, an it please you?’
‘Because you knew already; else had Master Angell not asked astonied
what brought you there, and, out of your wont, by day.’
Clerivault made an acrid face.
‘A certain Grecian was heard to remark,’ said he, ‘that he detested a
boon-companion with a memory. Are my sins, then, to find me out, and
in the name of friendship?’
‘So you own you meant to deceive me?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Why, Clerivault?’
‘I will tell you, like an honest man. It was not in his Honour’s then
design to confess your relationship, and I, who acted as his
purse-bearer, judged it advisable to give your sharp infancy no chance
scent to nose on. Wherefore, though I had been there many times
before, I appeared ignorant.’
‘And you came, out of your wont, by day? Why?’
‘These whys are like house-flies. Brush one away and another settles.
I came, if you would know, to bring a message. There’s a simple answer
to a simple question.’
Brion pondered awhile, his clear eyes fixed on the other’s conscious
face.
‘Had the message aught to do, I marvel,’ said he suddenly, ‘with two
that accosted me at the Queen’s passing the next day? They were the
Lord of Leicester for one, and with him a sweet lady.’
Clerivault gave a little gasp, and looked up, and down again.
‘God’s ’slid!’ he exclaimed; and bit his lip. ‘What mad question is
this?’
‘Is it mad?’ said the boy. ‘Well, then, it is mad. Yet there were the
two, riding alone and seeming to look for my master and me, where we
stood, by his directing, apart from the others. And when they espied
us they drew rein, and the lady bade me to put foot in her stirrup;
and she held me, and, as she held, she kissed my lips and whispered if
I was happy.’
Clerivault cleared his throat, yet answered as if something still
obstructed it:--
‘A mere casual impulse, Sir--take my word on’t. Something moved her in
thy baby face: perchance she had lost a child. And, as to this
Leicester, as you call him----’
‘Not I. It was one spake him so, riding back with a message from the
Queen. And the lord was wrathful to be so confessed, and struck the
man with his whip across the face, so that I could have struck him in
his turn.’
Clerivault, with his mouth forming an answer, stared as if petrified.
He had never yet seen such fire in this discreet dove’s eyes, and it
opened his own.
‘In law, hearsay is no evidence,’ he began, muttering; but the dove
stooped upon him with flaming vision:--
‘Do you dare to question my word?’
Clerivault started back.
‘Cry you mercy, Sir! Not for the wide world. I but spoke by instinct
the fashion of the trade. Well, I see that blood will out. I must mind
for the future my p’s and q’s.’
The boy was still incensed. There was, in truth, a little devil of
pride in him, not often to be provoked, but, when it flared,
significant of a thing or two. It was a lesson to Clerivault, in whose
manner thenceforth some little show of patronage was exchanged for a
greater deference.
‘It was the Lord of Leicester, I say,’ said Brion.
‘It was the Lord of Leicester, since you declare it,’ answered the
other, with a downcast look.
‘Why do you not answer my question, then?’
‘What question, please your grace? My memory is consumed in this
fire.’
‘What connection there might be between the message you brought and
the appearance of those two on the road?’
Clerivault’s brow went down and his lower lip up. Desperation was
making him sulky.
‘The message was not mine,’ he said, in a tone of chill civility. ‘As
well ask the conduit what message it bears from the river to the
fountain.’
Brion flung away. He was in a passion, and he had let his passion
defeat his particular purpose. He had meant this question to
Clerivault to serve as prelude to another even more curious and
intimate; and now he could never put it. His pride would prevent him.
But reason soon reasserted itself, and with it came shame that he
could have treated his so faithful henchman and comrade with such
unkindness. And so, no sooner was his heat departed, but he sought out
the poor fellow, and very sweetly asked forgiveness for his rudeness,
saying that the fault was his own to have tempted an abuse of
confidence, and that, in refusing him, Clerivault had not only
vindicated his own honour, but had taught him a lesson in faith which
he would not be quick to forget. All of which he said very feelingly,
but with a stately manner, as though bestowing his own punishment on
himself; but it so wrought on his hearer as quite to overcome him with
emotion.
‘Thou dear soul!’ he cried. ‘If I might seek thy confidence without
hurt to my trust!’
But Brion stayed him, with the action of a young prince.
‘It would hurt my honour more than thy trust. Say no more on it, I
beseech you. I _wish_ no more, and that is enow.’
And they were friends again, but at changed angles; the boy was a
little more the patron and the man the client.
Yet it is never to be supposed that these sober and dignified
relations represented the all of their comradeship. There was another
side to it, which, if less sedate, was infinitely more humorous.
If Clerivault was for one part in three a rational and incorruptible
sobriety, he was for the other two a fantastic braggart, and a liar of
that splendid order which soars easily above the possibilities, and
will not be baulked in its romances for the insignificant reason that
the evidences of their untruth are there for anyone who likes to
consult them. And as to making himself the hero of his own imaginings,
after all, if one _is_ inventing, it would be the merest quixotry to
allot to another the brightest part in one’s extravaganzas. He was, in
fact, exactly as his master had described him, a tridimensional
mixture of gentleman, rhapsodist, and coxcomb, the whole being held
together like a bunch of wind-giddy feathers in a jackanapes’ cap, by
the steadfast jewel of fidelity.
Brion came very early to see into what was in truth a quite lovable
transparency in his comrade, and, while measuring him leniently, to
take a rather wicked pleasure in drawing him out and on, withal with a
due consideration for his feelings. He was careful, for one thing, not
again to offend that super-patriotism which was such a fervid quality
in the dear fantastic--on the principle, possibly, that your convert
is ever your ultra dogmatist. But, however that might be--and
trustworthy evidence on his own part was not to be hoped of Harlequin;
perhaps he himself was ignorant of his origin--love of his England
glowed like a fierce fire in his bosom. He often rhapsodised on the
great vague things he and Brion were destined in good time to
accomplish for their country; he would rant and hyperbolise in mystic
terms, touched with real vision, on her mighty destiny. The boy would
mark him, with a whimsical gravity, and wonder what great place he
supposed Fate had assigned him in her scheme of things. He hardly
appeared the sort of instrument she would choose for carving a way to
new dominion: even, soldierly, Brion had already a secret suspicion
that he was not quite the shrewd swordsman he professed, since he
himself, for all his inexperience, could sometimes better him at the
foils. But certainly he was full of gas; and that might exalt him. The
young rascal delighted to supply the fuel for that expansion.
‘Clerivault,’ he said once, ‘it would seem that my Uncle, from what he
let fall to me, holds you in great esteem.’
He could venture on so much, while remembering the Judge’s warning. He
would have liked to hear Clerivault’s own version of the dramatic
happenings which had first outlawed, then inlawed him, so to speak, on
the principle, one might assume, of setting a thief to catch a thief;
but he could not admit a knowledge of the facts without betraying the
great man’s confidence.
The other smoothed his chin, with an ineffably complacent expression.
‘Ha!’ said he. ‘He might admit he has reason.’
‘I know,’ said the boy, nodding his head soberly. ‘It is not every
man’s good fortune to be gifted with a paragon.’
‘Nathless I would not grudge it him,’ said Clerivault; ‘for in truth
no man deserves it better, or could more appreciate its moral and
corporeal value. Yet was it good fortune, as thou sayest, to light on
this fallen star, hung never in the constellation of the scales, but
shed like a glittering gem from Mars his fiery breast. I had not been
a lawyer but for love of one man.’
‘He found you fallen, you say, Clerivault? How?’
‘No matter. Kings fall: I have Kings’ blood in my veins, ha! He who
hath commanded knows how to serve. I have served and do serve like a
King. To the greater light the lesser is but a shadow; and yet it is a
light. I am myself, Kingly; and yet I am no King. But when all men
shall be Kings and all Kings men, then shall the world open its eyes
and see the Millennium. And in the meantime I serve, Kingly.’
Brion opened _his_ eyes to this astonishing rodomontade. Laughter
quivered in him, though he dared not yield to it.
‘In what way Kingly?’ said he.
‘As one who leads, Sir,’ answered Clerivault, ‘while feigning but to
follow.’
‘And do you lead my Uncle, while so feigning?’
‘Soft, in your ear, now! Gray’s Inn might tell a tale.’
‘Gray’s Inn?’
‘Ha! You know not. ’Twas there we had our dwelling--no chambers nobler
or more noted; and he who occupied them a fitting brilliant to such
setting. Ancient, barrister, bencher--he had stood to reach the
highest honour, that of duplex reader, but that sour Fortune tripped
him. He shone, Sir; and, if like the carbuncle, which, being exposed
to the sun, and thereafter set in darkness, repays the light it
borrows, still--he shone. I say no more.’
He need not. The implication was plain to demonstration.
‘Wert thou the sun, Clerivault,’ said Brion, with a little gasp, ‘that
made this carbuncle so to shine?’
The paragon coughed.
‘No sun, Sir, by your favour--I know my limitations--yet mayhap with
some power to illuminate. He might consult me--I do not say--there
have been judgments passed for his, which--but it ill becomes a man to
praise his own wares. You have never heard speak of our “mootings”?’
‘No. What were they?’
‘Disputations, Sir, convened in the Great Hall to argue moot points of
law. There would be a counterfeit case stated, and counsel appointed
to represent both plaintiff and defendant. Then was the cream of legal
subtleness displayed, and not least in the devising of new theses for
discussion. I could tell of one that possessed a happy adroitness in
such contrivings, though he might not appear in person to claim the
credit of his own inventions. But, like the puppet-master who, himself
unseen, pulls the strings that set his dolls a-dancing, he was the
known originator of some debates most admired in their subjects. So
with our masques and revels, wherein, were some great fresh device
apparent, one would be named for its certain author who shall not be
named by me. No, not rack nor the strappado should wring divulgement
from these lips.’
So he would ‘gas,’ in the modern term, and to the infinite tickling of
his young hearer, who, nevertheless, found his affection for the queer
creature increased rather than diminished by this knowledge of his
weakness. Ingenuous vanity is ever the most forgivable.
In the meantime the days went on, and passed into weeks, and still the
master of the house delayed to appear. Brion wondered, and would
sometimes put his wonder into words, seeking the reason of Clerivault.
But it was so apparent that the man either knew of none, or, if he
knew, meant to keep his own counsel in the matter, that soon the boy
desisted, and resolved philosophically upon making the best of the
situation as he found it, and leaving all conjecture for present
content. And that was the wise course to take, however sudden the turn
which brought it to an end.