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Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald

G >> George MacDonald >> Wilfrid Cumbermede




'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.




CHAPTER XIII.


THE LEADS.

The moment Mrs Wilson was gone, I expected to see Clara peep out from
behind the tapestry in the corner; but as she did not appear, I lifted
it, and looked in. There was nothing behind but a closet almost filled
with books, not upon shelves, but heaped up from floor to ceiling.
There had been just room, and no more, for Clara to stand between the
tapestry and the books. It was of no use attempting to look for her--at
least I said so to myself, for as yet the attraction of an old book was
equal to that of a young girl. Besides, I always enjoyed waiting--up to
a certain point. Therefore I resumed my place on the floor, with the
_Seven Champions_ in one hand, and my chamber-candlestick in the other.

I had for the moment forgotten Clara in the adventures of St. Andrew of
Scotland, when the _silking_ of her frock aroused me. She was at my
side.

'Well, you've had your dinner? Did she give you any dessert?'

'This is my dessert,' I said, holding up the book. 'It's far more
than--'

'Far more than your desert,' she pursued, 'if you prefer it to me.'

'I looked for you first,' I said defensively.

'Where?'

'In the closet there.'

'You didn't think I was going to wait there, did you? Why the very
spiders are hanging dead in their own webs in there. But here's some
dessert for you--if you're as fond of apples as most boys,' she added,
taking a small rosy-cheeked beauty from her pocket.

I accepted it, but somehow did not quite relish being lumped with boys
in that fashion. As I ate it, which I should have felt bound to do even
had it been less acceptable in itself, she resumed--

'Wouldn't you like to see the company arrive? That's what I came for. I
wasn't going to ask Goody Wilson.'

'Yes, I should,' I answered; 'but Mrs Wilson told me to keep here, and
not get in their way.'

'Oh! I'll take care of that. We shan't go near them. I know every
corner of the place--a good deal better than Mrs Wilson. Come along,
Wilfrid--that's your name, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. Am I to call you Clara?'

'Yes, if you are good--that is, if you like. I don't care what you call
me. Come along.'

I followed. She led me into the armoury. A great clang of the bell in
the paved court fell upon our ears.

'Make haste,' she said, and darted to the door at the foot of the
little stair. 'Mind how you go,' she went on. 'The steps are very much
worn. Keep your right shoulder foremost.'

I obeyed her directions, and followed her up the stair. We passed the
door of a room over the armoury, and ascended still, to creep out at
last through a very low door on to the leads of the little square
tower. Here we could on the one side look into every corner of the
paved court, and on the other, across the roof of the hall, could see
about half of the high court, as they called it, into which the
carriages drove; and from this post of vantage, we watched the arrival
of a good many parties. I thought the ladies tripping across the paved
court, with their gay dresses lighting up the Spring twilight, and
their sweet voices rippling its almost pensive silence, suited the time
and the place much better than the carriages dashing into the other
court, fine as they looked with their well-kept horses and their
servants in gay liveries. The sun was down, and the moon was
rising--near the full, but there was too much light in the sky to let
her make much of herself yet. It was one of those Spring evenings which
you could not tell from an Autumn one except for a certain something in
the air appealing to an undefined sense--rather that of smell than any
other. There were green buds and not withering leaves in it--life and
not death; and the voices of the gathering guests were of the season,
and pleasant to the soul. Of course Nature did not then affect me so
definitely as to make me give forms of thought to her influences. It is
now first that I turn them into shapes and words.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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