Cold blows the gale at Hallowtide,
And coldly falls the rain.
The dead man rises from the flood
And seeks his earthly love again,
And seeks his love again.
Well met, well met, my sweetheart true!
How come you to my bed?
Your sighs have drawn me from the sea,
Your tears have raised me from the dead,
Have raised me from the dead.
Oh bitter is the salt, salt sea,
And chill the ocean deep;
But salter yet those endless tears
That nightly break upon my sleep,
That break upon my sleep.
And if my tears can bring you back,
They shall for ever flow!
They hold me from the Port of Heaven,
Where fain, and fain am I to go,
Where fain am I to go.
Ah weep no more, no more for me!
When shall you let me rest?
When acorns fall from the mulberry tree,
And the sun rises up in the West, my dear,
And the sun rises up in the West.
In the little silence which fell, as the last notes died away over the water, Pronto knew that he had escaped ridicule. After a short pause he began to talk briskly in favour of such old songs, saying that they should not be despised, for that Shakespeare often used them. A lively discussion arose as the party returned to the house; all were glad to pass from feelings which had threatened to be too painful. Other old ditties were remembered, heard from nurses and people of that sort; it was agreed that they should be collected and set down before they were quite forgotten.
On his way upstairs, Pronto looked into Ludovic’s room to see how matters stood there and to make his peace, if possible, for having deserted before dinner. Ludovic was playing upon his flute. At the sight of Pronto he waved it angrily, exclaiming:
‘Don’t come here, if you please! I wish never to see you again. You will find a letter from me upon your dressing-table.’
The letter proved to be long and abusive. It accused Pronto of caring for nobody but himself, of using all his friends as stepping-stones, and of hiding the ‘pangs of conscious truth’ which, in his case, could not even be described as struggling.
Ludovic occasionally flew into these rages but they never lasted for long. Pronto went to bed in high good humour. He believed that he had impressed Perceval. He had got himself out of the Dawlish scrape. He had foiled Crockett’s malice. He had pleased Lady Amersham. And he had found an excellent opening for Mary Hawker, – had done more for her in a quarter of an hour than Miles had done in a fortnight. Best of all, he had so much outraged Miles, in doing it, that the wretched fellow was not likely to give any trouble again for a great while.
I recall that evening as a more innocent and respectable man might recall a sensual debauch. Mingled with our shame and remorse, at the memory of any excess, there is always the sense that some other person has been guilty of it.
Not I! Not I! It was Pronto!
Troy Chimneys
BUT I HAD bad dreams that night. I should not now remember this if I had not, next day, recounted one of them to Ludovic, who made me write it down. He is as superstitious upon this subject as any housemaid. He writes down all his own, and any which his friends may mention, believing that some great secret is hidden in our dreams.
I dreamt that I was in the House and about to speak upon some very important subject, but unable to remember what it might be. I sat hoping that I might recall it, when a voice moved the order of the day for going into Committee, and I saw that Henry Dawson had taken the chair. He said: We will now examine some of your reading fellows! I started up, with a sense of extreme urgency, but was embarrassed by Lady Amersham’s basket which I held. As one does, in dreams, I hoped nobody would notice it. I began to speak upon the export of Jesuits’ bark, though I knew that this was not what I had to say. Voices began crying: Who is this man? I told them that I was Prefect of Hall, but was interrupted by a loud crash and by Maria Cotman, who pulled at my sleeve, with a sly smile, and whispered: He is dead! The debate continued amid persistent crashes and other voices echoing: He is dead!
Four years later, when I had totally forgotten this dream, Ludovic sent me a copy of it with the date, jubilantly claiming that it had been prophetic. I cannot agree with him. If a man writes down every dream he has, some can always be found which will fit future events. I was in the House upon the day of Perceval’s death; we had gone into Committee upon the petitions against the Orders in Council, and Stephen was cross-examining a witness, when we heard a report in the lobby, and a whisper went round that ‘somebody was shot,’ followed by a stampede for the door. But I do not believe that the he in my dream was poor Perceval, and the crashes were not shots, but a repeated hammering at my door which eventually woke me.
I started up, supposing the house to be on fire, and called out something, whereat Ludovic rushed into the room, talking very fast and with even less than his usual coherence. I heard sentences like these:
‘… Have never been myself obliged to work for a living and forget that others are not so free … no business to expect my friends to be always at my disposal … particularly ashamed of the expression stepping-stones … could wish that my mother had less power with you … if you can ever forgive me …’
In short, he had come to beg pardon for his letter and to ask very humbly if I would not accompany him to Troy Chimneys.
‘With all the pleasure in the world,’ said I. ‘When do we start? Instantly I suppose?’
It was scarcely daylight, but Ludovic embraced this suggestion with enthusiasm and summoned the unfortunate Mason to bring us breakfast. As we ate, I recounted my dream and he wrote it down.
‘But why,’ said I, ‘should I dream of Maria Cotman? Dawson and the basket are explicable; they have been recently in my mind. But I have not seen her, or thought of her, for years.’
Ludovic asked very seriously if any striking passage in my life had been connected with this young lady. I was bound to admit that she had been present when I received a great blow. Then, said he, I might depend upon it another blow was coming; I should soon hear of bad news. He was a little crestfallen when the weeks passed and I did not, and now insists that Maria turned up, four years too early, to warn me of Perceval’s death.
I asked him if he had a Maria Cotman of his own, who foretells disaster. He nodded and presently muttered: Candle snuffers! He explained that, where one particular person or image would be too dreadful, a deputy is sent; he says that Maria Cotman and the candle snuffers are deputies for something much worse. But the instances of his own dreams, which he gave me, do not quite bear him out. It is true that he has often dreamt of candle snuffers before trouble, but I should say that it is always trouble of his own making; he has made a blunder from which ill consequences will ensue. Were he to dream of snuffers, and then be hit by a thunderbolt, I might allow his theories. But, if these ‘deputies’ come to mock at us for our sins and mistakes, they are more comprehensible. Maria Cotman might well grin at me that night at Colesworth.
Within an hour we were off upon our excursion, and had a capital ride over the downs. Ludovic was in spirits, as he always is after one of his black fits, and I was happy enough to be galloping so swiftly through the fine air, in the sunrise.
A little below Caine we came to a rough lane which led us to a ford over the Avon. Ludovic said that this was one of the three lanes of which he had spoken. After crossing the river we went at a walking pace, for the ground was rutted. The lane, pleasantly shaded by trees, ran between flowery banks. Presently we came to the corner of a high stone wall, with a dovecote in the angle.
‘Is this Troy Chimneys?’ I asked, as we rode along beneath the wall.
He said that it was, and I knew at once the kind of house it would be, for I have seen several, in that part of the country, built upon the same plan. To tease Ludovic, I
began to describe it, though we could not see it over the wall, assuring him that I had never been there before, and pretending those supernatural powers with which he was so anxious to endow me.
‘There is a square enclosure,’ I said, ‘a little court in fact. Two sides of it are composed by this high wall, and two by the wings of the house, which is of a greyish brown stone, with a steep pitched roof, and gables for the second-storey windows. It has a square porch and a flagged path leading from that to a white gate in the wall. The enclosure is all grass, very closely shaved, with a fine old mulberry tree.’
‘But this is sorcery!’ cried Ludovic, much excited. ‘You have got it all exactly, except that there is no grass and no mulberry tree. The court is merely a rough farm-yard. But you certainly will have grass, and a mulberry tree, for nothing could suit the place better. Here is your white gate!’
I laughed at him, but was pleased to find how well I had guessed at the house. Opposite the white gate our lane joined two others, one going towards Bath and the other towards Salisbury, the three meeting at a little circular space which would, so Ludovic said, be very useful for turning round a carriage.
Once inside the gate we seemed to be secluded from the world, for the high walls hid all save the foliage of the trees. The principal part of the house faced the gate, and had a square porch, as I had said, with a date, – 1620. This wing was clearly of later date than the other, which ran at right angles and had much smaller windows, set at irregular levels. But the two harmonised very well.
Ludovic had a key and proceeded to unlock the great oaken door in the porch. We passed straight into an immensely long room which ran the whole length of that part of the house. It was lighted by six windows and there were great fireplaces at either end, with stone chimney-hoods. This room was panelled with fine linenfold. I thought it a noble apartment but a trifle sombre. I was better pleased with the two parlours behind it, for they faced east and were full of the morning sunshine. I was immediately struck by a rippling play of light upon the ceilings, made by the sun catching the river below the house.
‘It is set high enough that you need not be afraid of floods,’ said Ludovic. ‘Though the river runs in so near, there is quite a steep slope of grass down to it. We were coming a little way uphill, all the time, in the lane. And as you see, the prospect upon this side is very open. A clear day will give you a fine view over the meadows to the downs. These rooms shall be your parlour and study. The great room in front must be your dining-room; it is something large, but one very large room is a necessity. There are moods when one must have space. And there is a door from it to your kitchens, which will be in the other wing, where you may lodge your servants. These are the stairs, through this door. I don’t like a boxed staircase, but at least it will prevent draughts. There are five or six bed-chambers above. The barns, stables and cart-houses are beyond the kitchen wing, and there is a very pretty cottage. You must look at the orchard; you will like it extremely. There is some good farm land goes with the property; you may let it, or put a man into the cottage to farm it for you.’
I let him chatter, whilst I sat in the window-seat of the larger parlour and watched the slow, liquid play of the sunlight upon the ceiling, with its reminder of the constant current passing below. This particular has always delighted me in Troy Chimneys. I try to go there upon a sunny morning, so that I may see it. The passing of time never presents itself in a more agreeable fashion; I like to think that when I am dead, as long as the house stands, the sun and the water will write these chronicles upon the ceiling, – the same sun, the same river, – only the current gives an illusion of change. I already saw myself living there and beholding it daily. I might some day get the Hawkers into the cottage. William could have the farm, and the stream of time, rolling ever past us, might carry away all that I wished to forget.
We went through a door, from the smaller parlour, to the slope of grass down to the river. Ludovic said first that this must be shaven. Then he changed his mind. I must let it grow and plant flowers in it, daffodils and snake-bells.
Suddenly he turned and faced me:
‘Admit that you could be very happy here and that you are wretched as you are.’
‘My dear Ludovic! I could not afford to buy this house.’
He began to speak and checked himself. I knew that he had been about to offer me the money and then, recollecting his insults of the previous day, doubted the delicacy of such a suggestion.
‘Besides,’ said I, ‘the man I mean to put into the cottage will not be available, I fear, for some years yet.’
‘But you may not get another chance for such a house. And soon you will not want it, if you go on as you do.’
I knew what he meant, and felt the truth of it.
‘If I thought,’ he said, ‘that you were happy … if I thought your heart to be in a political career … I blame myself that I ever brought you to Brailsford. There is a blight upon it, I think. And I cannot endure to hear people call you Pronto!’
I started. It was the first time I had heard him use that name. I said that I was not called so at Brailsford.
‘No. But it is my fault that you live among people who do.’
‘You are mistaken. I was extremely ambitious, even at school. And it is all very well for you, Ludovic, who were born at the top of the hill, to censure ambition. What would you have me do? I am not, I think, without talent and ability. Am I not to exert myself? Am I to spend my whole life at the bottom?’
He shook his head and declared dolefully that it was the wrong hill, but he was unable to indicate a better. Later, when we were inspecting the orchard, he resumed the argument:
‘But your passions? Your passions?’
This he pronounced in so shrill a voice that I nearly laughed. I knew what he meant, – that our principal exertions should always be inspired by some passion. I agree with him, if, among the passions, may be included such propensities as Henry Dawson’s enthusiasm for open timber heads.
I told him that I had none. Then, remembering my recent gallopings over Devonshire, I qualified that by saying:
‘Only one thing in the world has power to transport me; the spectacle of tyranny and the sufferings of helpless people.’
At that he gave a kind of groan and said that I had better buy a desert island.
‘Helpless! Helpless!’ he cried. ‘That indeed is insupportable. If you feel it to be so, you must seclude yourself, as I do. What could be more secluded than this spot?’
As we rode homewards he attacked me again:
‘I cannot conceive how you come to prefer my mother’s guidance to yours.’
‘My mother,’ I replied, ‘is too good for this world. She can’t give one advice. She believes that we shall always act rightly if we feel as we ought. If I were to purchase Troy Chimneys, for example, she would merely ask what feelings prompted me to do it.’
‘The pursuit of happiness! Sure she cannot censure that!’
‘I fancy she might. She would call it an escape from feeling. She believes that our feelings should rule us, and that our search in life must be for a duty which we are happy to fulfil.’
‘I never observed so austere a strain in her.’
‘No. All you see, all that anyone sees, is the Paradise made by one angel upon earth. Her goodness seems to be so easy and natural that one is scarcely aware of the inflexible principles upon which it is based.’
This mystified him. He knows nothing of moral principles. He grew up among people who had none, and was not enough of a philosopher to have discovered them for himself.
I had actually a sum put by sufficient for the purchase of Troy Chimneys, though such an outlay would leave me very short. Before leaving Colesworth I bought the house, – exactly why, I cannot tell, except that I wanted it very much, and felt that such a deed might count as a challenge to Pronto. But he made no objection. It has turned out to be a good investment and ‘property in Wiltshire’ sounds well.
I fo
und an excellent tenant, almost at once, who took it upon a ten years’ lease, with the understanding that I might wish to live there myself at the end of that period. I have spent a good deal, since then, upon various improvements. Dr. King, my tenant, is a middle-aged clergyman and he keeps a little school there. Half a dozen lads, too delicate for a public school, board with him. They live very happily, I think, for Mrs. King is an excellent woman and cares for them like a mother. Poor Ned would never have caught the ringworm in the Kings’ establishment. I go there often and I like to see these rosy lads about the house.
King has been of the greatest assistance to me in my improvements. Between us we have put the front court into grass, and have planted a mulberry tree, which comes on very well. But we have never got snake-bells to grow upon the river slope.
For some years I cherished my project of getting the Hawkers into the cottage, but I don’t think now that it would answer, even if they were willing to come. William has done very well in the Navy; I have had several cheerful letters from him. He seems to have become entirely the sailor, and I suspect that he is a good deal altered. He has made the best of his lot with a vengeance. I daresay that he gets little time for reading. He writes that he would like to remain in the Navy, were it not for the separation from Mary. As it is, he does not despair of taking her to America some day, though he has been very busy fighting the Americans since 1812. ‘We sail under the Jack and they under the Stars and Stripes,’ he wrote to me once, ‘so what else can we do, when the gentlemen at home bid us send one another to the bottom? They tell us the cause is just. But That’s more than we know, as the soldier says in King Henry the Fifth.’ This is the only occasion upon which he has quoted anything out of a book, when writing to me.
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