On the evening of the second day he was lying in bed with a much clearer notion of who he was, and where he was, and what had happened. At about seven o’clock Lucas entered the room, carrying one of the dining-chairs. He placed it by the bed. A moment later Mr Norrell entered the room and sat upon it.
For some moments Mr Norrell did nothing but stare at the counterpane with an anxious expression. Then he muttered a question.
Childermass did not hear what was said, but he naturally supposed that Mr Norrell must be inquiring about his health, so he began to say that he hoped he would be better in a day or two.
Mr Norrell interrupted him and said again more sharply, “Why were you performing Belasis’s Scopus?”
“What?” asked Childermass.
“Lucas said that you were doing magic,” said Mr Norrell. “I made him describe it to me. Naturally I recognized Belasis’s Scopus.”1 His face grew sharp and suspicious. “Why were you performing it? And – which is even more to the point – where in the world did you learn such a thing? How can I do my work when I am constantly betrayed in this manner? It is astonishing to me that I have achieved any thing at all, when I am surrounded by servants who learn spells behind my back and pupils who set themselves to undo my every accomplishment!”
Childermass gave him a look of mild exasperation. “You taught it to me yourself.”
“I?” cried Mr Norrell, his voice several pitches higher than usual.
“It was before you came to London, in the days when you kept to your library at Hurtfew, when I used to go about the country for you buying up valuable books. You taught me the spell in case I should ever meet with any one who claimed to be a practical magician. You were afraid that there might be another magician who could …”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Norrell, impatiently. “I remember now. But that does not explain why you were performing it in the square yesterday morning.”
“Because there was magic everywhere.”
“Lucas did not notice any thing.”
“It is not part of Lucas’s duties to know when there is magic going on. That falls to me. It was the strangest thing I ever knew. I kept thinking that I was somewhere else entirely. I believe that for a while I was in real danger. I do not understand very well where the place was. It had some curious features – which I will describe to you in a moment – but it was certainly not England. I think it was Faerie. What sort of magic produces such an effect? And where was it coming from? Can it be that that woman was a magician?”
“Which woman?”
“The woman who shot me.”
Mr Norrell made a small sound of irritation. “That bullet affected you more than I supposed,” he said contemptuously. “If she had been a great magician, do you really suppose that you could have thwarted her so easily? There was no magician in the square. Certainly not that woman.”
“Why? Who was she?”
Mr Norrell was silent a moment. Then he said, “Sir Walter Pole’s wife. The woman I brought back from the dead.”
Childermass was silent a moment. “Well, you astonish me!” he said at last. “I can think of several people who have good cause to aim a pistol at your heart, but for the life of me I cannot understand why this woman should be one of them.”
“They tell me she is mad,” said Mr Norrell. “She escaped the people who were set to watch her and came here to kill me – which, as I think you will agree, is proof enough of her madness.” Mr Norrell’s small grey eyes looked away. “After all I am known everywhere as her benefactor.”
Childermass was barely listening to him. “But where did she get the pistol? Sir Walter is a sensible man. It is hard to imagine that he leaves firearms in her way.”
“It was a duelling pistol – one of a pair that belongs to Sir Walter. It is kept in a locked box in a locked writing-desk in his private study. Sir Walter says that until yesterday he would have taken an oath that she knew nothing about it. As to how she contrived to get the key – both keys – that is a mystery to every one.”
“It does not seem much of a mystery to me. Wives, even mad wives, have ways of getting what they want from husbands.”
“But Sir Walter did not have the keys. That is the strange part of it. These pistols were the only firearms in the house and Sir Walter had some natural concerns for the security of his wife and possessions since he is so frequently away from home. The keys were in the keeping of the butler – that tall black man – I dare say you know who I mean. Sir Walter cannot understand how he came to make such a mistake. Sir Walter says he is generally the most reliable and trustworthy fellow in the world. Of course one never really knows what servants are thinking,” continued Mr Norrell blithely, forgetting that he was speaking to one at that moment, “yet it can hardly be supposed that this man bears any grudge against me. I never spoke three words to him in my life. Of course,” he continued, “I could prosecute Lady Pole for trying to kill me. Yesterday I was quite determined upon it. But it has been represented to me by several people that I must consider Sir Walter. Lord Liverpool and Mr Lascelles both say so, and I believe that they are right. Sir Walter has been a good friend to English magic. I should not wish to give Sir Walter any reason to regret that he has been my friend. Sir Walter has given me his solemn oath that she will be put away somewhere in the country where she will see no one and no one will see her.”
Mr Norrell did not trouble to ascertain Childermass’s wishes upon this point. Despite the fact that it was Childermass who was lying upon the bed sick with pain and loss of blood, and that Mr Norrell’s injuries had consisted chiefly of a slight headach and a small cut upon one finger, it was clear to Mr Norrell that he was the more sinned against of the two.
“So what was the magic?” asked Childermass.
“Mine, of course!” declared Mr Norrell, angrily. “Who else’s should it be? It was the magic I did to bring her back from the dead. That was what you felt and that is what Belasis’s Scopus revealed. It was early in my career and I dare say there were some irregularities that may have caused it to take an odd turn and …”
“An odd turn?” cried Childermass, hoarsely. He was seized with a fit of coughing. When he had regained his breath, he said, “At every moment I was in danger of being transported to some realm where everything breathed magic. The sky spoke to me! Everything spoke to me! How could that have been?”
Mr Norrell raised an eyebrow. “I do not know. Perhaps you were drunk.”
“And have you ever known me to be drunk in the performance of my duties?” asked Childermass, icily.
Mr Norrell shrugged defensively. “I have not the least idea what you do. It seems to me that you have been a law unto yourself from the first moment you entered my house.”
“But surely the idea is not so strange when considered in the light of ancient English magic,” insisted Childermass. “Have you not told me that Aureates regarded trees, hills, rivers and so on as living creatures with thoughts, memories and desires of their own? The Aureates thought that the whole world habitually worked magic of a sort.”
“Some of the Aureates thought so, yes. It is a belief that they imbibed from their fairy-servants, who attributed some of their own extraordinary magic to their ability to talk to trees and rivers and so forth, and to form friendships and alliances with them. But there is no reason to suppose that they were right. My own magic does not rely upon any such nonsensical ideas.”
“The sky spoke to me,” said Childermass. “If what I saw was true, then …” He paused.
“Then what?” asked Mr Norrell.
In his weakened state Childermass had been thinking aloud. He had meant to say that if what he had seen was true, then everything that Strange and Norrell had ever done was child’s-play and magic was a much stranger and more terrifying thing than any of them had thought of. Strange and Norrell had been merely throwing paper darts about a parlour, while real magic soared and swooped and twisted on great wings in a limitless sky far, far above them.
Curiously, Mr Norrell seemed to guess his thoughts anyway.
“Oh!” he cried in a sudden passion. “Very well! You are there, are you? Then I advise you to go and join Strange and Murray and all the other traitors immediately! I believe you will find that their ideas suit your present frame of mind much better! I am sure that they will be very glad to have you. And you will be able to tell them all my secrets! I dare say they will pay you handsomely for it. I shall be ruined and …”
“Mr Norrell, calm yourself. I have no intention of taking up any new employment. You are the last master I shall ever have.”
There was another short silence which perhaps allowed Mr Norrell time to reflect upon the inappropriateness of quarrelling with the man who had saved his life only yesterday. In a more reasonable tone he said, “I dare say no one has told you yet. Strange’s wife is dead.”
“What?”
“Dead. I had the news from Sir Walter. Apparently she went for a walk in the snow. Most ill-advised. Two days later she was dead.”
Childermass felt cold. The dreary landscape was suddenly very close, just beneath the skin of England. He could almost fancy himself upon the ancient road again …
… and Arabella Strange was on the road ahead of him. Her back was turned towards him and she walked on alone into the chill, grey lands, under the magic-speaking sky …
“I am told,” continued Mr Norrell, quite oblivious to Childermass’s sudden pallor and laboured breathing, “that Lady Pole has been made very unhappy by the death of Mrs Strange. Her distress has been out of all reason. It seems they were friends. I did not know that until now. Had I had known it, I might perhaps have …” He paused and his face worked with some secret emotion. “But it cannot matter now – one of them is mad and the other one is dead. From all that Sir Walter can tell Lady Pole seems to consider me in some way culpable for Mrs Strange’s death.” He paused. Then, in case there should be any doubt about the matter, he added, “Which is nonsense, of course.”
Just then the two eminent physicians whom Mr Norrell had employed to attend Childermass entered the room. They were surprized to see Mr Norrell in the room – surprized and delighted. Their smiling countenances and bowing, bobbing forms said what a very pleasing instance of the great man’s condescension they thought it that he should pay this visit to his servant. They told him that they had rarely seen a household where the master was so careful of the health of his inferiors or where the servants were so attached to their master by ties, less of duty, than of respect and fond regard.
Mr Norrell was at least as susceptible to flattery as most men and he began to think that perhaps he was indeed doing something unusually virtuous. He extended his hand with the intention of patting Childermass’s hand in a friendly and condescending manner. However, upon meeting Childermass’s cold stare, he thought better of it, coughed and left the room.
Childermass watched him go.
All magicians lie and this one more than most, Vinculus had said.
47
“A black lad and a blue fella – that ought to mean summat.”
Late January 1816
Sir Walter Pole’s carriage was travelling along a lonely road in Yorkshire. Stephen Black rode on a white horse at its side.
On either hand empty moors the colour of a bruise stretched up to a dark sky that threatened snow. Grey, misshapen rocks were strewn about, making the landscape appear still more bleak and uncouth. Occasionally a low ray of sunlight would pierce the clouds, illuminating for a moment a white, foaming stream, or striking a pot-hole full of water that would suddenly become as dazzling as a fallen silver penny.
They came to a crossroads. The coachman halted the horses and stared gloomily at the place where, in his opinion, the fingerpost ought to have been.
“There are no milestones,” said Stephen, “nothing to say where any of these roads might lead to.”
“Always supposing they go anywhere at all,” said the coachman, “which I am beginning to doubt.” He took a snuff-box from his pocket and inhaled a large pinch of it.
The footman who sat on the box beside the coachman (and who was by far the coldest and most miserable of the three) comprehensively cursed Yorkshire, all Yorkshiremen and all Yorkshire roads.
“We ought to be travelling north or north-east, I think,” said Stephen. “But I have got a little turned around on this moor. Do you have any idea which way is north?”
The coachman, to whom this question was addressed, said that all the directions looked pretty northern to him.
The footman gave a short, uncheerful laugh.
Finding that his companions were of no help, Stephen did what he always did under such circumstances; he took the whole charge of the journey upon himself. He instructed the coachman to take one road, while he took another. “If I have success, I will come and find you, or send a messenger. If you have success, deliver your charge and do not worry about me.”
Stephen rode along, looking doubtfully at all the lanes and tracks he came to. Once he met with another lone rider and asked for directions, but the man proved to be a stranger to the moor like himself and had never heard of the place Stephen mentioned.
He came at last to a narrow lane that wound between two walls, built – as is the custom in that part of England – of dry stones without any mortar. He turned down the lane. On either hand a row of bare winter trees followed the line of the walls. As the first flakes of snow floated down he crossed a narrow packhorse bridge and entered a village of dour stone cottages and tumbledown walls. It was very quiet. There was scarcely more than a handful of buildings and he quickly found the one he sought. It was a long, low hall with a paved courtyard in front of it. He surveyed the low roofs, the old-fashioned casements and the moss-covered stones with an air of the deepest dissatisfaction. “Halloo!” he called. “Is there any one there?”
The snow began to fall thicker and faster. From somewhere at the side of the house two manservants came running. They were neatly and cleanly dressed, but their nervous expressions and clumsy air made Stephen wince, and wish that he had had the training of them.
For their part they stared to see a black man upon a milk-white mare in their yard. The braver of the two bobbed a sort of half-bow.
“Is this Starecross Hall?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, sir,” said the courageous servant.
“I am here on business for Sir Walter Pole. Go and fetch your master.”
The man ran off. A moment later the front door opened and a thin, dark person appeared.
“You are the madhouse-keeper?” inquired Stephen. “You are John Segundus?”
“Yes, indeed!” cried Mr Segundus. “Welcome! Welcome!”
Stephen dismounted and threw the reins to the servant. “This place is the very devil to find! We have been driving about this infernal moor for an hour. Can you send a man to bring her ladyship’s carriage here? They took the road to the left of this one at the crossroads two miles back.”
“Of course. At once,” Mr Segundus assured him. “I am sorry you have had difficulties. The house is, as you see, extremely secluded, but that is one of the reasons that it suits Sir Walter. His lady is well, I hope?”
“Her ladyship is very much fatigued by the journey.”
“Everything is ready for her reception. At least …” Mr Segundus led the way inside. “I am aware that it must be very different from what she is accustomed to …”
At the end of a short stone passage they came to a room which was a pleasant contrast with the bleak and sombre surroundings. It spoke nothing but comfort and welcome. It had been fitted up with paintings and pretty furniture, with soft carpets and cheerfully glowing lamps. There were footstools for her ladyship’s feet if she felt weary, screens to protect her from a draught if she felt cold, and books to amuse her, should she wish to read.
“
Is it not suitable?” asked Mr Segundus, anxiously. “I see by your face that it is not.”
Stephen opened his mouth to tell Mr Segundus that what he saw was quite different. He saw what her ladyship would see when she entered the room. Chairs, paintings and lamps were all quite ghostly. Behind them lay the far more substantial and solid forms of Lost-hope’s bleak, grey halls and staircases.
But it was no use trying to explain any of this. The words would have changed as he spoke them; they would have turned into some nonsense about beer brewed from anger and longings for revenge; or girls whose tears turned to opals and pearls when the moon waxed and whose footprints filled with blood when the moon waned. So he contented himself with saying, “No, no. It is perfectly satisfactory. Her ladyship requires nothing more.”
To many people this might have seemed a little cool – especially if they had worked as hard as Mr Segundus – but Mr Segundus made no objection. “So this is the lady whom Mr Norrell brought back from the dead?” he said.
“Yes,” said Stephen.
“The single act upon which the whole restoration of English magic is founded!”
“Yes,” said Stephen.
“And yet she tried to kill him! It is a very strange business altogether! Very strange!”
Stephen said nothing. These were not, in his opinion, fit subjects for the madhouse-keeper to ponder on; and it was most unlikely that he would hit upon the truth of the matter if he did.
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 61