Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The weather-beaten castle belongs to Madame St. Cyr, but was occupied when we visited it by Mr. Wilton, an Englishman, who was not at home. His housekeeper, however, kindly allowed us to go over the building, and we found the view from the leads of the keep — used, I suspect, as a smoking-room — very charming. Caylus, to sum up, is difficult of access and is not even named in “Murray,” but I can highly recommend it as a quaint example of a mediæval town, such as cannot now be found in England without much searching.

  From it we passed by means of a top-heavy, jingling country coach to St. Anthonin, and so by rail to Albi on the Tarn, Albi of the Albigenses, the unhappy sect whose fate confutes the saying that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the church. About Albi, from which place they took their name, they grew and flourished in the latter half of the twelfth century. But seventy years later, notwithstanding the attempt which their feudal lord, Raymond of Toulouse, made to protect them, they were virtually extinct. Save that they dissented from the Romish Church, their very doctrines are now unknown or to be found only in the writings of their enemies, and their story and fortunes are too often confounded with those of the Waldenses. Simon de Montfort, the father of our Simon de Montfort, took a conspicuous part in the cruel deeds which attended their suppression. At the fall of Beziers, heretic and churchman were put to the sword together. “Slay all — God will know His own,” said the gentle Abbot Arnold. And in a sense wisely: for it is only the man of half measures who fails as a persecutor. To be perfectly ruthless, perfectly thorough in the work, is to be successful also. At any rate at Albi, which, like Cahors, stands among hills, there are no traces of the Albigenses left; not even such a story as rings about the name of Beziers with fire. Rather the great cathedral proclaims Rome’s victory. Built externally of bricks, it is a huge blind oblong with an apsidal end. A swelling base and rounded buttresses add to its heavy appearance. Yet it is very lofty. The monstrous red tower hung about with giddy balconies rises nearly to the height of three hundred feet, while the church itself, the lower part of which has no openings or windows, seems half that height. In a word, the whole is as much a fortress as a cathedral. Lofty flights of steps lead to a raised porch, formed by three arches decorated with carvings lately and successfully restored. Entering the church through this we find the interior a striking sight. In shape it is a vast hall surrounded by chapels in two stories, and with a choir screened off at one end. The interior still remains in the state to which our Puritans objected, the state probably characterized more churches than we now imagine. It is covered from ceiling to floor with frescoes and paintings and scrollwork, some gaudy, some subdued, some good, some bad. The very statues are painted and gilded, and although here and there the effect is garish and unpleasing, I do not agree that the appearance of the whole, as the vast mass of color presents itself to the eyes, broken by the exquisite carvings of the stone screen or a bevy of tinted marbles, is absolutely unharmonious. I found it more pleasing than I expected. And then what would have been the effect of these plain walls in their naked monotony?

  The paintings are mainly of the date of Francis I., say about 1520. Two frescoes of Hell and the Passions, done by Italian artists, cover the west end — cover acres of it as it seems; and in a chapel, among other anachronisms is a notable picture of Christ, in which He is figured in a hat and feather and the dress of a courtier of the time in the midst of Roman soldiers who are kicking Him along. A great store of information as to the dresses and customs of the early part of the sixteenth century is laid up here, to be ransacked by any one who will take the trouble to closely inspect this huge interior. The groups painted upon the walls, groups of people fighting, tourneying, feasting, dancing, dying — ay, and doing many things scarcely adapted to church decoration — are to be counted by thousands; as are the gold stars that stud the bright blue ceiling. There is something suggestive in the portrayal of these things in this place; they seem to tell of a faith which, with all its scandals, abuses, and laxity, was bound up intimately with the life of the people, with their joys as well as their griefs; and so smacked of One who did not consider the price of sparrows as beneath knowledge.

  At any rate we were pleased with these things. The interior of Albi Cathedral may not be in the best taste. It may be meretricious, it may be gilt rather than of gold. But it is curious; it is almost unique; it is a museum in itself; and to an Englishman accustomed to the cold if correct lines of a Gothic church, its warmth and color afford a not unwelcome change.

  At Auch we arrived at night, and found it to be an old-fashioned archiepiscopal city on the summit and southern slope of a precipitous hill. Here we came upon the first traces — a Spanish pedler, a Navarrese bonnet — of that strange borderland between Spain and Western France in which three languages and a dozen patois, French, Spanish, Basque, the Langue d’Oc, the Langue d’Or, and Gascon and Provençal and the tongue of Andorra, and I know not what others, are fighting for the mastery: where two great nations now peaceably march, dividing between them the wild country where the kingdom of Navarre once sat enthroned on hills with the free Basque communities about her. It is a country rich in memories of independence, of strife; of brigandage, of romance; of the free life of the hunter; a land of snow-clad peaks and deep valleys, and rolling, wooded hills full of creatures elsewhere extinct, bears, and izards, and, shall I add, Basques. Here are Roncesvalles and the Bidassoa, Fontarabia and Orthez, San Sebastian and the Isle of Peacocks. Moor and Paladin, Scot and Spaniard, Charlemagne and Wellington, have all passed this way and left deep foot-prints.

  And Auch stands on the verge of this strange country; an old city, but full of energy and with no trace of decay. From the river, flights of wide steps with spacious landings, gay with flowers and fountains, climb the southern face of the hill, which the best road-maker would find impracticable. At the head of these steps and commanding extensive prospects stands the cathedral, a beacon to all the country between it and the skirts of the mountains. The building is fine, but its pride lies in the wood carvings of the unrivalled choir. My guide, an ex-soldier, also pointed out with pride some cymbals presented to the cathedral by the first Napoleon: trophies, so he told me, of the Egyptian campaign.

  We wandered out in the afternoon to the brow of a ridge of hills lying on the far side of the river, and throwing ourselves down upon some heather and bracken — it was a warm and sunny but not very clear day — began to cast speculative glances towards Spain. But while we thought that we were looking southwards our eyes were really turned too much to the east. And presently we discovered this in a strange way. For glancing by chance towards the skyline on our right, we saw, first, a brown autumnal landscape of woods and hills, and beyond this a long, gray cloud, the horizon, as we thought; and above that — ah! what was it we saw above that? A line of silvery peaks, gleaming in a gray, sheeny atmosphere of their own, so pure, so soft, so far above this world of ours, that as the words “The Pyrenees!” broke the first moments of astonished silence, we felt that for once the thing long looked for had passed our expectations! Our hearts fastened upon the distance. The pleasant landscape spread out before us lost its charms. It was homely, it was flat, it was commonplace, it was of the earth earthy, beside the serene beauty of the snowy crests and untrodden wastes that shone and sparkled in that far distance, and anon grew cold and dim as the veil of cloud was drawn before them even while we watched.

  When they were gone, we felt that nothing save the mountains would now satisfy us. We had a craving for them, such as I have sometimes felt for the sea. A sudden conviction that we were wasting our time in a world of small things, while the wonders of the hills lay close at hand, overwhelmed us. We hurried homewards, talking of peaks, and glaciers, and passes, of Cauteret and Gavarnie, Mont Perdu and the Pic du Midi; and packed in the same state of pleasant excitement. The next morning saw us passing through the same country, rich in autumn tints, in leafy bottoms, and rippling streams, which we had seen stretched out before us. And the evening
saw us stand on the famous Place Royale, hard by the castle where Henry of Navarre was born, feasting our eyes on the cold, bright tints of the great mountains, seen sharp and clear above the Jurance hills, and listening to the rushing waters of the Gave. Our Garonne pilgrimage was over.

  SOPHIA

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  “ONE MINUTE!” SHE CRIED.

  TO

  THE GRACIOUS MEMORY

  OF

  JAMES PAYN

  CHAPTER I

  A LITTLE TOAD

  In the dining-room of a small house on the east side of Arlington Street, which at that period — 1742 — was the Ministerial street, Mr. and Mrs. Northey sat awaiting Sophia. The thin face of the honourable member for Aldbury wore the same look of severity which it had worn a few weeks earlier on the eventful night when he had found himself called upon to break the ties of years and vote in the final division against Sir Robert; his figure, as he sat stiffly expecting his sister-in-law, reflected the attitudes of the four crude portraits of dead Northeys that darkened the walls of the dull little room. Mrs. Northey on the other hand sprawled in her chair with the carelessness of the fine lady fatigued; she yawned, inspected the lace of her negligée, and now held a loose end to the light, and now pondered the number of a lottery ticket. At length, out of patience, she called fretfully to Mr. Northey to ring the bell. Fortunately, Sophia entered at that moment.

  “In time, and no more, miss,” madam cried with temper. Then as the girl came forward timidly, “I’ll tell you what it is,” Mrs. Northey continued, “you’ll wear red before you’re twenty! You have no more colour than a china figure this morning! What’s amiss with you?”

  Sophia, flushing under her brother-in-law’s eyes, pleaded a headache.

  Her sister sniffed. “Eighteen, and the vapours!” she cried scornfully. “Lord, it is very evident raking don’t suit you! But do you sit down now, and answer me, child. What did you say to Sir Hervey last night?”

  “Nothing,” Sophia faltered, her eyes on the floor.

  “Oh, nothing!” Mrs. Northey repeated, mimicking her. “Nothing! And pray, Miss Modesty, what did he say to you?”

  “Nothing; or — or at least, nothing of moment,” Sophia stammered.

  “Of moment! Oh, you know what’s of moment, do you? And whose fault was that, I’d like to know? Tell me that, miss!”

  Sophia, seated stiffly on the chair, her sandalled feet drawn under her, looked downcast and a trifle sullen, but did not answer.

  “I ask, whose fault was that?” Mrs. Northey continued impatiently. “Do you think to sit still all your life, looking at your toes, and waiting for the man to fall into your lap? Hang you for a natural, if you do! It is not that way husbands are got, miss!”

  “I don’t want a husband, ma’am!” Sophia cried, stung at length into speech by her sister’s coarseness.

  “Oh, don’t you?” Mrs. Northey retorted. “Don’t you, Miss Innocence? Let me tell you, I know what you want. You want to make a fool of yourself with that beggarly, grinning, broad-shouldered oaf of an Irishman, that’s always at your skirts! That’s what you want. And he wants your six thousand pounds. Oh, you don’t throw dust into my eyes!” Mrs. Northey continued viciously, “I’ve seen you puling and pining and making Wortley eyes at him these three weeks. Ay, and half the town laughing at you. But I’d have you to know, miss, once for all, we are not going to suffer it!”

  “My life, I thought we agreed that I should explain matters,” Mr. Northey said gently.

  “Oh, go on then!” madam cried, and threw herself back in her seat.

  “Only because I think you go a little too far, my dear,” Mr. Northey said, with a cough of warning; “I am sure that we can count on Sophia’s prudence. You are aware, child,” he continued, directly addressing himself to her, “that your father’s death has imposed on us the — the charge of your person, and the care of your interests. The house at Cuckfield being closed, and your brother wanting three years of full age, your home must necessarily be with us for a time, and we have a right to expect that you will be guided by us in such plans as are broached for your settlement. Now I think I am right in saying,” Mr. Northey continued, in his best House of Commons manner, “that your sister has communicated to you the very advantageous proposal with which my good friend and colleague at Aldbury, Sir Hervey Coke, has honoured us? Ahem! Sophia, that is so, is it not? Be good enough to answer me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia murmured, her eyes glued to the carpet.

  “Very good. In that case I am sure that she has not failed to point out to you also that Sir Hervey is a baronet of an old and respectable family, and possessed of a competent estate. That, in a word, the alliance is everything for which we could look on your behalf.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia whispered.

  “Then, may I ask,” Mr. Northey continued, setting a hand on each knee, and regarding her majestically, “in what respect you find the match not to your taste? If that be so?”

  The young girl slid her foot to and fro, and for a moment did not answer. Then, “I — I do not wish to marry him,” she said, in a low voice.

  “You do not wish?” Mrs. Northey cried, unable to contain herself longer. “You do not wish? And why, pray?”

  “He’s — he’s as old as Methuselah!” the girl answered with a sudden spirit of resentment; and she moved her foot more quickly to and fro.

  “As old as Methuselah?” Mr. Northey answered, staring at her in unfeigned astonishment; and then, in a tone of triumphant refutation, he continued, “Why, child, what are you dreaming of? He is only thirty-four! and I am thirty-six.”

  “Well, at any rate, he is old enough — he is nearly old enough to be my father!” Sophia muttered rebelliously.

  Mrs. Northey could no longer sit by and hear herself flouted. She knew very well what was intended. She was twenty-nine, Sophia’s senior by eleven years, and she felt the imputation that bounded harmlessly off her husband’s unconsciousness. “You little toad!” she cried. “Do you think I do not know what you mean? I tell you, miss, you would smart for it, if I were your mother! Thirty-four, indeed; and you call him as old as Methuselah! Oh, thank you for nothing, ma’am! I understand you.”

  “He’s twice as old as I am!” Sophia whimpered, bending before the storm. And in truth to eighteen thirty-four seems elderly; if not old.

  “You! You’re a baby!” Mrs. Northey retorted, her face red with passion. “How any man of sense can look at you or want you passes me! But he does, and if you think we are going to sit by and see our plans thwarted by a chit of a girl of your years, you are mistaken, miss. Sir Hervey’s vote, joined to the two county votes which my lord commands, and to Mr. Northey’s seat, will gain my lord a step in the peerage; and when Coke is married to you, his vote will be ours. As for you, you white-faced puling thing, I should like to know who you are that you should not be glad of a good match when it is offered you? It is a very small thing to do for your family.”

  “For your family!” Sophia involuntarily exclaimed; the next moment she could have bitten off her tongue.

  Fortunately a glance from Mr. Northey, who prided himself on his diplomacy, stayed the outburst that was on his wife’s lips. “Allow me, my dear,” he said. “And do you listen to me, Sophia. Apart
from his age, a ridiculous objection which could only come into the mind of a schoolgirl, is there anything else you have to urge against Sir Hervey?”

  “He’s as — as grave as death!” Sophia murmured tearfully.

  Mr. Northey shrugged his shoulders. “Is that all?” he said.

  “Yes, but — but — —”

  “But what? But what, Sophia?” Mr. Northey repeated, with a fine show of fairness. “I suppose you allow him to be in other respects a suitable match?”

  “Yes, but — I do not wish to marry him, sir. That is all.”

  “In that,” Mr. Northey said firmly, “you must be guided by us. We have your interests at heart, your best interests. And — and that should be enough for you.”

  Sophia did not answer, but the manner in which she closed her lips, and kept her gaze fixed steadfastly on the floor, was far from boding acquiescence. Every feature indeed of her pale face — which only a mass of dark brown hair and a pair of the most brilliant and eloquent eyes redeemed from the commonplace — expressed a settled determination. Mrs. Northey, who knew something of her sister’s disposition, which was also that of the family in general, discerned this, and could restrain herself no longer.

  “You naughty girl!” she cried, with something approaching fury. “Do you think that I don’t know what is at the bottom of this? Do you think I don’t know that you are pining and sulking for that hulking Irish rogue that’s the laughing-stock of every company his great feet enter? Lord, miss, by your leave I’d have you to know we are neither fools nor blind. I’ve seen your sighings and oglings, your pinings and sinkings. And so has the town. Ay, you may blush” — in truth, Sophia’s cheeks were dyed scarlet— “my naughty madam! Blush you should, that can fancy a raw-boned, uncouth Teague a fine woman would be ashamed to have for a footman. But you shan’t have him. You may trust me for that, as long as there are bars and bolts in this house, miss.”