THE HOUSE-STEWARD.
My uncle had had the watch cleaned and repaired for me, so that,
notwithstanding its great age, it was yet capable of a doubtful sort of
service. Its caprices were almost human, but they never impaired the
credit of its possession in the eyes of my school-fellows; rather they
added to the interest of the little machine, inasmuch as no one could
foretell its behaviour under any circumstances. We were far oftener
late now, when we went out for a ramble. Heretofore we had used our
faculties and consulted the sky--now we trusted to the watch, and
indeed acted as if it could regulate the time to our convenience, and
carry us home afterwards. We regarded it, in respect Of time, very much
as some people regard the Bible in respect of eternity. And the
consequences were similar. We made an idol of it, and the idol played
us the usual idol-pranks.
But I think the possession of the sword, in my own eyes too a far
grander thing than the watch, raised me yet higher in the regard of my
companions. We could not be on such intimate terms with the sword, for
one thing, as with the watch. It was in more senses than one beyond our
sphere--a thing to be regarded with awe and reverence. Mr Elder had
most wisely made no objection to my having it in our bed-room; but he
drove two nails into the wall and hung it high above my reach, saying
the time had not come for my handling it. I believe the good man
respected the ancient weapon, and wished to preserve it from such usage
as it might have met with from boys. It was the more a constant
stimulus to my imagination, and I believe insensibly to my moral nature
as well, connecting me in a kind of dim consciousness with foregone
ancestors who had, I took it for granted, done well on the
battle-field. I had the sense of an inherited character to sustain in
the new order of things. But there was more in its influence which I
can hardly define--the inheritance of it even gave birth to a certain
sense of personal dignity.
Although I never thought of visiting Moldwarp Hall again without an
invitation, I took my companions more than once into the woods which
lay about it: thus far I used the right of my acquaintance with the
housekeeper. One day in Spring, I had gone with them to the old narrow
bridge. I was particularly fond of visiting it. We lingered a long time
about Queen Elizabeth’s oak; and by climbing up on each other’s
shoulders, and so gaining some stumps of vanished boughs, had succeeded
in clambering, one after another, into the wilderness of its branches,
where the young buds were now pushing away the withered leaves before
them, as the young generations of men push the older into the grave.
When my turn came, I climbed and climbed until I had reached a great
height in its top.
Then I sat down, holding by the branch over my head, and began to look
about me. Below was an entangled net, as it seemed--a labyrinth of
boughs, branches, twigs, and shoots. If I had fallen I could hardly
have reached the earth. Through this environing mass of lines, I caught
glimpses of the country around--green fields, swelling into hills,
where the fresh foliage was bursting from the trees; and below, the
little stream was pursuing its busy way by a devious but certain path
to its unknown future. Then my eyes turned to the tree-clad ascent on
the opposite side: through the topmost of its trees, shone a golden
spark, a glimmer of yellow fire. It was the vane on the highest tower
of the Hall. A great desire seized me to look on the lordly pile once
more. I descended in haste, and proposed to my companions that we
should climb through the woods, and have a peep at the house. The
eldest, who was in a measure in charge of us--his name was Bardsley,
for Fox was gone--proposed to consult my watch first. Had we known that
the faithless thing had stopped for an hour and a half, and then
resumed its onward course as if nothing had happened, we should not
have delayed our return. As it was, off we scampered for the pack-horse
bridge, which we left behind us only after many frog-leaps over the
obstructing stones at the ends. Then up through the wood we went like
wild creatures, abstaining however from all shouting and mischief,
aware that we were on sufferance only. At length we stood on the verge
of the descent, when to our surprise we saw the sun getting low in the
horizon. Clouds were gathering overhead, and a wailful wind made one
moaning sweep through the trees behind us in the hollow. The sun had
hidden his shape, but not his splendour, in the skirts of the white
clouds which were closing in around him. Spring as it was, I thought I
smelled snow in the air. But the vane which had drawn me shone
brilliant against a darkening cloud, like a golden bird in the sky. We
looked at each other, not in dismay exactly, but with a common feeling
that the elements were gathering against us. The wise way would of
course have been to turn at once and make for home; but the watch had
to be considered. Was the watch right, or was the watch wrong? Its
health and conduct were of the greatest interest to the commonweal.
That question must be answered. We looked from the watch to the sun,
and back from the sun to the watch. Steady to all appearance as the
descending sun itself, the hands were trotting and crawling along their
appointed way, with a look of unconscious innocence, in the midst of
their diamond coronet. I volunteered to settle the question: I would
run to the Hall, ring the bell, and ask leave to go as far into the
court as to see the clock on the central tower. The proposition was
applauded. I ran, rang, and being recognized by the portress, was at
once admitted. In a moment I had satisfied myself of the treachery of
my bosom-friend, and was turning to leave the court, when a lattice
opened, and I heard a voice calling my name. It was Mrs Wilson’s. She
beckoned me. I went up under the window.
‘Why don’t you come and see me, Master Cumbermede?’ she said.
‘You didn’t ask me, Mrs Wilson. I should have liked to come very much.’
‘Come in, then, and have tea with me now.’
‘No, thank you,’ I answered. ‘My schoolfellows are waiting for me, and
we are too late already. I only came to see the clock.’
‘Well, you must come soon, then.’
‘I will, Mrs Wilson. Good-night,’ I answered, and away I ran, opened
the wicket for myself, set my foot in the deep shoe-mould, then rushed
down the rough steps and across the grass to my companions.
When they heard what time it was, they turned without a word, and in
less than a minute we were at the bottom of the hill and over the
bridge. The wood followed us with a moan which was gathering to a roar.
Down in the meadow it was growing dark. Before we reached the lodge, it
had begun to rain, and the wind, when we got out upon the road, was
blowing a gale. We were seven miles from home. Happily the wind was in
our back, and, wet to the skin, but not so weary because of the aid of
the wind, we at length reached Aldwick. The sole punishment we had for
being so late--and that was more a precaution than a punishment--was
that we had to go to bed immediately after a hurried tea. To face and
fight the elements is, however, an invaluable lesson in childhood, and
I do not think those parents do well who are over-careful to preserve
all their children from all inclemencies of weather or season.
When the next holiday drew near, I once more requested and obtained
permission to visit Moldwarp Hall. I am now puzzled to understand why
my uncle had not interdicted it, but certainly he had laid no
injunctions upon me in regard thereto. Possibly he had communicated
with Mrs Wilson: I do not know. If he had requested Mr. Elder to
prevent me, I could not have gone. So far, however, must this have been
from being the case that, on the eve of the holiday, Mr Elder said to
me:
‘If Mrs Wilson should ask you to stay all night, you may.’
I suspect he knew more about some things than I did. The notion of
staying all night seemed to me, however, out of the question. Mrs
Wilson could not be expected to entertain me to that extent. I fancy,
though, that she had written to make the request. My schoolfellows
accompanied me as far as the bridge, and there left me. Mrs Wilson
received me with notable warmth, and did propose that I should stay all
night, to which I gladly agreed, more, it must be confessed, from the
attraction of the old house than the love I bore to Mrs Wilson.
‘But what is that you are carrying?’ she asked.
It was my sword. This requires a little explanation.
It was natural enough that on the eve of a second visit, as I hoped, to
the armoury, I should, on going up to bed, lift my eyes with longing
look to my own sword. The thought followed--what a pleasure it would
be to compare it with the other swords in the armoury. If I could only
get it down and smuggle it away with me! It was my own. I believed Mr
Elder would not approve of this, but at the same time he had never told
me not to take it down: he had only hung it too high for any of us to
reach it--almost close to the ceiling, in fact. But a want of
enterprise was not then a fault of mine, and the temptation was great.
So, when my chum was asleep, I rose, and by the remnant of a fading
moon got together the furniture--no easy undertaking when the least
noise would have betrayed me. Fortunately there was a chest of drawers
not far from under the object of my ambition, and I managed by half
inches to move it the few feet necessary. On the top of this I hoisted
the small dressing-table, which, being only of deal, was very light.
The chest of drawers was large enough to hold my small box beside the
table. I got on the drawers by means of a chair, then by means of the
box I got on the table, and so succeeded in getting down the sword.
Having replaced the furniture, I laid the weapon under my bolster, and
was soon fast asleep. The moment I woke I got up, and before the house
was stirring had deposited the sword in an outbuilding whence I could
easily get it off the premises. Of course my companions knew, and I
told them all my design. Moberly hinted that I ought to have asked Mr
Elder, but his was the sole remark in that direction.
‘It is my sword, Mrs Wilson,’ I answered.
‘How do you come to have a sword?’ she asked. ‘It is hardly a fit
plaything for you.’
I told her how it had been in the house since long before I was born,
and that I had brought it to compare with some of the swords in the
armoury.
‘Very well,’ she answered. ‘I dare say we can manage it; but when Mr
Close is at home it is not very easy to get into the armoury. He’s so
jealous of any one touching his swords and guns!’
‘Who is Mr Close, then?’
‘Mr Close is the house-steward.’
‘But they’re not his, then, are they?’
‘It’s quite enough that he thinks so. He has a fancy for that sort of
thing. I’m sure I don’t see anything so precious in the rusty old
rubbish.’
I suspected that, as the saying is, there was no love lost between Mrs
Wilson and Mr Close. I learned afterwards that he had been chaplain to
a regiment of foot, which, according to rumour, he had had to leave for
some misconduct. This was in the time of the previous owner of Moldwarp
Hall, and nobody now knew the circumstances under which he had become
house-steward--a position in which Sir Giles, when he came to the
property, had retained his services.
‘We are going to have company, and a dance, this evening,’ continued
Mrs Wilson. ‘I hardly know what to do with you, my hands are so full.’
This was not very consistent with her inviting me to stay all night,
and confirms my suspicion that she had made a request to that purport
of Mr. Elder, for otherwise, surely, she would have sent me home.
‘Oh! never mind me, Mrs Wilson,’ I said. ‘If you will let me wander
about the place, I shall be perfectly comfortable.’
‘Yes; but you might get in the way of the family, or the visitors,’ she
said.
‘I’ll take good care of that,’ I returned. ‘Surely there is room in
this huge place without running against any one.’
‘There ought to be,’ she answered.
After a few minutes’ silence, she resumed.
‘We shall have a good many of them staying all night’, but there will
be room for you, I dare say. What would you like to do with yourself
till they begin to come?’
‘I should like to go to the library,’ I answered, thinking, I confess,
of the adjacent armoury as well. ‘Should I be in the way there?’
‘No; I don’t think you would,’ she replied, thoughtfully. ‘It’s not
often any one goes there.’
‘Who takes charge of the books?’ I asked.
‘Oh! books don’t want much taking care of,’ she replied. ‘I have
thought of having them down and dusting the place out, but it would be
such a job! and the dust don’t signify upon old books. They ain’t of
much count in this house. Nobody heeds them.’
‘I wish Sir Giles would let me come and put them in order in the
holidays,’ I said, little knowing how altogether unfit I yet was for
such an undertaking.
‘Ah well! we’ll see. Who knows?’
‘You don’t think he would!’ I exclaimed.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he might. But I thought you were going abroad
soon.’
I had not said anything to her on the subject. I had never had an
opportunity.
‘Who told you that, Mrs Wilson?’
‘Never you mind. A little bird. Now you had better go to the library. I
dare say you won’t hurt anything, for Sir Giles, although he never
looks at the books, would be dreadfully angry if he thought anything
were happening to them.’
‘I’ll take as good care of them as if they were my uncle’s. He used to
let me handle his as much as I liked. I used to mend them up for him.
I’m quite accustomed to books, I assure you, Mrs Wilson.’
‘Come, then; I will show you the way,’ she said.
‘I think I know the way,’ I answered. For I had pondered so much over
the place, and had, I presume, filled so many gaps of recollection with
creations of fancy, that I quite believed I knew my way all about the
house.
‘We shall see,’ she returned with a smile. ‘I will take you the nearest
way, and you shall tell me on your honour if you remember it.’
She led the way, and I followed. Passing down the stone stair and
through several rooms, mostly plain bedrooms, we arrived at a wooden
staircase, of which there were few in the place. We ascended a little
way, crossed one or two rooms more, came out on a small gallery open to
the air, a sort of covered bridge across a gulf in the building,
re-entered, and after crossing other rooms, tapestried, and to my eyes
richly furnished, arrived at the first of those occupied by the
library.
‘Now did you know the way, Wilfrid?’
‘Not in the least,’ I answered. ‘I cannot think how I could have
forgotten it so entirely. I am ashamed of myself.’
‘You have no occasion,’ she returned. ‘You never went that way at all.’
‘Oh, dear me!’ I said; ‘what a place it is! I might lose myself in it
for a week.’
‘You would come out somewhere, if you went on long enough, I dare say.
But you must not leave the library till I come and fetch you. You will
want some dinner before long.’
‘What time do you dine?’ I asked, putting my hand to my watch-pocket.
‘Ah! you’ve got a watch--have you? But indeed, on a day like this, I
dine when I can. You needn’t fear. I will take care of you.’
‘Mayn’t I go into the armoury?’
‘If you don’t mind the risk of meeting Mr Close. But he’s not likely to
be there to-day.’
She left me with fresh injunctions not to stir till she came for me.
But I now felt the place to be so like a rabbit-warren, that I dared
not leave the library, if not for the fear of being lost, then for the
fear of intruding upon some of the family. I soon nestled in a corner,
with books behind, books before, and books all around me. After trying
several spots, like a miner searching for live lodes, and finding
nothing auriferous to my limited capacities and tastes, I at length
struck upon a rich vein, instantly dropped on the floor, and, with my
back against the shelves, was now immersed in ‘The Seven Champions of
Christendom.’ As I read, a ray of light, which had been creeping along
the shelves behind me, leaped upon my page. I looked up. I had not yet
seen the room so light. Nor had I perceived before in what confusion
and with what disrespect the books were heaped upon the shelves. A dim
feeling awoke in me that to restore such a world to order would be like
a work of creation; but I sank again forthwith in the delights of a
feast provided for an imagination which had in general to feed itself.
I had here all the delight of invention without any of its effort.
At length I became aware of some weariness. The sunbeam had vanished,
not only from the page, but from the room. I began to stretch my arms.
As the tension of their muscles relaxed, my hand fell upon the sword
which I had carried with me and laid on the floor by my side. It awoke
another mental nerve. I would go and see the armoury.
I rose, and wandered slowly through room after room of the library,
dragging my sword after me. When I reached the last, there, in the
corner next the outer wall of the house, rose the three stone steps
leading to the little door that communicated with the treasury of
ancient strife. I stood at the foot of the steps irresolute for a
moment, fearful lest my black man, Mr Close, should be within,
polishing his weapons perhaps, and fearful in his wrath. I ascended the
steps, listened at the door, heard nothing, lifted the old,
quaintly-formed latch, peeped in, and entered. There was the whole
collection, abandoned to my eager gaze and eager hands! How long I
stood, taking down weapon after weapon, examining each like an old
book, speculating upon modes of use, and intention of varieties in
form, poring over adornment and mounting, I cannot tell. Historically
the whole was a sealed book; individually I made a thorough
acquaintance with not a few, noting the differences and resemblances
between them and my own, and instead of losing conceit of the latter,
finding more and more reasons for holding it dear and honourable. I was
poising in one hand, with the blade upright in the air--for otherwise I
could scarcely have held it in both--a huge two-handed, double-hilted
sword with serrated double edge, when I heard a step approaching, and
before I had well replaced the sword, a little door in a corner which-I
had scarcely noticed--the third door to the room--opened, and down the
last steps of the narrowest of winding stairs a little man in black
screwed himself into the armoury. I was startled, but not altogether
frightened. I felt myself grasping my own sword somewhat nervously in
my left hand, as I abandoned the great one, and let it fall back with a
clang into its corner.
‘By the powers!’ exclaimed Mr Close, revealing himself an Irishman at
once in the surprise of my presence, ‘and whom have we here?’
I felt my voice tremble a little as I replied,
‘Mrs Wilson allowed me to come, sir. I assure you I have not been
hurting anything.’
‘Who’s to tell that? Mrs Wilson has no business to let any one come
here. This is my quarters. There--you’ve got one in your hand now!
You’ve left finger-marks on the blade, I’ll be bound. Give it me.’
He stretched out his hand. I drew back.
‘This one is mine,’ I said.
‘Ho, ho, young gentleman! So you’re a collector--are you? Already too!
Nothing like beginning in time. Let me look at the thing, though.’
He was a little man, as I have said, dressed in black, with a frock
coat and a deep white neckcloth. His face would have been vulgar,
especially as his nose was a traitor to his mouth, revealing in its hue
the proclivities of its owner, but for a certain look of the
connoisseur which went far to redeem it. The hand which he stretched
out to take my weapon, was small and delicate--like a woman’s indeed.
His speech was that of a gentleman. I handed him the sword at once.
He had scarcely glanced at it when a strange look passed over his
countenance. He tried to draw it, failed, and looking all along the
sheath, saw its condition. Then his eyes flashed. He turned from me
abruptly, and went up the stair he had descended. I waited anxiously
for what seemed to me half an hour: I dare say it was not more than ten
minutes. At last I heard him revolving on his axis down the corkscrew
staircase. He entered and handed me my sword, saying--
‘There! I can’t get it out of the sheath. It’s in a horrid state of
rust. Where did you fall in with it?’
I told him all I knew about it. If he did not seem exactly interested,
he certainly behaved with some oddity. When I told him what my
grandmother had said about some battle in which an ancestor had worn
it, his arm rose with a jerk, and the motions of his face, especially
of his mouth, which appeared to be eating its own teeth, were for a
moment grotesque. When I had finished, he said, with indifferent tone,
but eager face--
‘Well, it’s a rusty old thing, but I like old weapons. I’ll give you a
bran new officer’s sword, as bright as a mirror, for it--I will. There
now! Is it a bargain?’
‘I could not part with it, sir--not for the best sword in the country,’
I answered. ‘You see it has been so long in our family.’
‘Hm! hm! you’re quite right, my boy. I wouldn’t if I were you. But as I
see you know how to set a right value on such a weapon, you may stay
and look at mine as long as you like. Only if you take any of them from
their sheaths, you must be very careful how you put them in again.
Don’t use any force. If there is any one you can’t manage easily, just
lay it on the window-sill, and I will attend to it. Mind you don’t
handle--I mean touch--the blades at all. There would be no end of
rust-spots before morning.’
I was full of gratitude for the confidence he placed in me.
‘I can’t stop now to tell you about them all, but I will--some day.’
So saying he disappeared once more up the little staircase, leaving me
like Aladdin in the jewel-forest. I had not been alone more than half
an hour or so, however, when he returned, and taking down a dagger,
said abruptly,
‘There, that is the dagger with which Lord Harry Rolleston’--I think
that was the name, but knowing nothing of the family or its history, I
could not keep the names separate--‘stabbed his brother Gilbert. And
there is--’
He took down one after another, and with every one he associated some
fact--or fancy perhaps, for I suspect now that he invented not a few of
his incidents.
‘They have always been fond of weapons in this house,’ he said. ‘There
now is one with the strangest story! It’s in print--I can show it you
in print in the library there. It had the reputation of being a magic
sword--’
‘Like King Arthur’s Excalibur?’ I asked, for I had read a good deal of
the history of Prince Arthur.
‘Just so,’ said Mr Close. ‘Well, that sword had been in the family for
many years--I may say centuries. One day it disappeared, and there was
a great outcry. A lackey had been discharged for some cause or other,
and it was believed he had taken it. But before they found him, the
sword was in its place upon the wall. Afterwards the man confessed that
he had taken it, out of revenge, for he knew how it was prized. But in
the middle of the next night, as he slept in a roadside inn, a figure
dressed in ancient armour had entered the room, taken up the sword, and
gone away with it. I dare say it was all nonsense. His heart had failed
him when he found he was followed, and he had contrived by the help of
some fellow-servant to restore it. But there are very queer stories
about old weapons--swords in particular. I must go now,’ he concluded,
‘for we have company to-night, and I have a good many things to see
to.’
So saying he left me. I remained a long time in the armoury, and then
returned to the library, where I seated myself in the same corner as
before, and went on with my reading--lost in pleasure.
All at once I became aware that the light was thickening, and that I
was very hungry. At the same moment I heard a slight rustle in the
room, and looked round, expecting to see Mrs Wilson come to fetch me.
But there stood Miss Clara--not now in white, however, but in a black
silk frock. She had grown since I saw her last, and was prettier than
ever. She started when she saw me.
‘You here!’ she exclaimed, as if we had known each other all our lives.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Reading,’ I answered, and rose from the floor, replacing the book as I
rose. ‘I thought you were Mrs Wilson come to fetch me.’
‘Is she coming here?’
‘Yes. She told me not to leave the library till she came for me.’
‘Then I must get out of the way.’
‘Why so, Miss Clara?’ I asked.
‘I don’t mean her to know I am here. If you tell, I shall think you the
meanest--’
‘Don’t trouble yourself to find your punishment before you’ve found
your crime,’ I said, thinking of my own processes of invention. What a
little prig I must have been!
‘Very well, I will trust you,’ she returned, holding out her hand.--‘I
didn’t give it you to keep, though,’ she added, finding that, with more
of country manners than tenderness, I fear, I retained it in my boyish
grasp.
I felt awkward at once, and let it go.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now, when do you expect Mrs. Wilson?’
‘I don’t know at all. She said she would fetch me for dinner. There she
comes, I do believe.’
Clara turned her head like a startled forest creature that wants to
listen, but does not know in what direction, and moved her feet as if
she were about to fly.
‘Come back after dinner,’ she said: ‘you had better!’ and darting to
the other side of the room, lifted a piece of hanging tapestry, and
vanished just in time, for Mrs Wilson’s first words crossed her last.
‘My dear boy--Master Cumbermede, I should say, I am sorry I have not
been able to get to you sooner. One thing after another has kept me on
my legs till I’m ready to drop. The cook is as tiresome as cooks only
can be. But come along; I’ve got a mouthful of dinner for you at last,
and a few minutes to eat my share of it with you, I hope.’
I followed without a word, feeling a little guilty, but only towards
Mrs Wilson, not towards myself, if my reader will acknowledge the
difference--for I did not feel that I ought to betray Miss Clara. We
returned as we came; and certainly whatever temper the cook might be
in, there was nothing amiss with the dinner. Had there been, however, I
was far too hungry to find fault with it.
‘Well, how have you enjoyed yourself, Master Wilfrid? Not very much, I
am afraid. But really I could not help it,’ said Mrs Wilson.
‘I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more,’ I answered. ‘If you will allow
me, I’ll go back to the library as soon as I’ve done my dinner.’
‘But it’s almost dark there now.’
‘You wouldn’t mind letting me have a candle, Mrs Wilson?’
‘A candle, child! It would be of no use. The place wouldn’t light up
with twenty candles.’
‘But I don’t want it lighted up. I could read by one candle as well as
by twenty.’
‘Very well. You shall do as you like. Only be careful, for the old
house is as dry as tinder, and if you were to set fire to anything, we
should be all in a blaze in a moment.’
‘I will be careful, Mrs Wilson. You may trust me. Indeed you may.’
She hurried me a little over my dinner. The bell in the court rang
loudly.
‘There’s some of them already! That must be the Simmonses. They’re
always early, and they always come to that gate--I suppose because they
haven’t a carriage of their own, and don’t like to drive into the high
court in a chaise from the George and Pudding.’
‘I’ve quite done, ma’am: may I go now?’
‘Wait till I get you a candle.’
She took one from a press in the room, lighted it, led me once more to
the library, and there left me with a fresh injunction not to be
peeping out and getting in the way of the visitors.